"Would that account for his illness?"
"I don't know about accounting for it entirely. He is thoroughly out of health, I believe. Of course a chill might have finished him off."
"He did have a chill, a very severe chill, about a fortnight ago," said Mrs. Desmond slowly, whilst an almost cruel expression flitted over her face.
"Well, then, I ought to have been sent for at once," returned the doctor, taking up his hat and gloves; and adding a few directions and promising to call again that evening, he departed.
It was quite true. Colonel Desmond was very ill indeed. The weeks went on; spring, real spring, came at last, but it brought no gladness to the anxious watchers in Bloomsbury Square, for whose eyes the overshadowing of the dark angel's wing blotted out the sunshine.
No comfort that love could devise or that money could purchase was lacking to ease the colonel's sufferings. His nurses were the most skilful that could be procured, and his wife was scarcely ever absent from his side, and always eager to anticipate his wishes—all his wishes, indeed, with one exception. Often in his hours of unconsciousness Helen's name would pass his lips; often when he lay conscious, but too weak to speak, his eyes would wander round the room wistfully as if in search of something. But if Mrs. Desmond understood his meaning she made no sign of doing so, and Helen's aching heart was left without even such consolation as she might have derived from this knowledge. Poor Helen! she had a hard time to go through. Her daily routine was in no way altered because of this awful sorrow that was hanging over her. Mrs. Desmond, who had not spoken to her stepdaughter since the day of the colonel's seizure, had sent the girl a message to say that lessons and the ordinary school-room routine were to go on as usual. If Helen desired to testify her sorrow for her part in this terrible affair, her only possible means of doing so was by the most absolute obedience. The last part of this message might have been enigmatical to Helen had she sat down to think it over. As a matter of fact she did not. She only realized that these days of sorrow and anxiety were to be lightened by no happiness of service rendered, that submission to the daily round of irksome lessons was the only token she could give of her longing desire to help her father. Helen did not submit to this at once. With passionate words of entreaty on her lips she went to seek her stepmother. Mrs. Desmond was resting; but something in her maid's manner warned Helen that entreaty would be useless. After this the girl had a hard battle with herself. First she determined to rebel, to force her way into her father's room and refuse to leave his side. She even remained for a few minutes outside his door, watching for an opportunity to enter. It opened and some one came out. Helen pressed forward, but the sound of a low moan arrested her step. That sound touched her generous heart and changed the current of her thoughts. Her father was ill and suffering, and to witness a scene between herself and his wife would distress him, would be bad for him. The very idea made Helen ashamed of herself. She turned resolutely away, her mind made up. She would obey. It was all she could do for him. Like a little heroine this girl kept the pledge she had made to herself. During the long, weary days that followed not one word of repining escaped her lips. Even Miss Walker could find nothing to complain of when the imperfect lessons were relearned so patiently, and the pale face, with its large anxious eyes, fixed itself so intently upon the allotted tasks. It was only at night, when everyone excepting those who watched in the sick-room was in bed and all was still, that Helen, looking like a little ghost, would steal down-stairs, and stationing herself on the mat outside her father's room, with her ear pressed against the door, would wait for hours listening for every sound that could be heard from within. Thus she would often remain feeling amply rewarded if she did but catch a sound of her father's voice, until pale dawn and a faint movement overhead warned her that she must return to her room or risk discovery.
At last there came a day—a languid spring day—when a more than ordinary sense of gloom seemed to oppress the now cheerless house. Martha, the maid, said but little in answer to Helen's eager inquiries; but she sighed incessantly during breakfast, and when the young lady pushed away her plate of porridge untasted, spoke of chastisements which might not improbably befall her in the near future. To these remarks Helen paid but little heed, although she was conscious that Martha's sighs were re-echoed by the other servants as they went about their work languidly, making observations to one another in penetrating whispers, throwing looks of pitiful meaning at Helen herself as, a wan, dejected little figure, she passed up and down stairs.
All this the girl saw and noted; but she said nothing, dreading, perhaps, what she might hear. Miss Walker arrived as usual, but even she seemed in no great hurry to begin lessons; and she made no remarks about her pupil's imperfectly-mastered tasks, but put the lesson-books down quickly with a sigh of relief. It was the day for French verbs, too. "J'ai, Tu as, Il—. How does it go?" thought Helen in despair. Was she going to be stupid just on this day when Miss Walker's forbearance left her no excuse? She must remember. How does it go? "J'ai, Tu—." Worse and worse. And, yes, that was Dr. Russell's footstep in the hall.
"Oh, Miss Walker! dear Miss Walker! let me go for one moment and speak to the doctor."
Before Helen knew what she was doing she had burst into tears, and Miss Walker was actually holding her hand and trying to comfort her, and telling her that her father was indeed very, very ill, but that there was no need to despair.