Strange as it may appear these two had never met since the very commencement of the colonel's illness. This separation had by no means mitigated the peculiar bitterness of feeling that existed in Mrs. Desmond's heart against her stepdaughter. In her eyes Helen was the author of this terrible calamity that threatened her, and the girl's offence was heightened in her eyes by the fact that she, and not Mrs. Desmond, had first discovered the colonel's illness. Worn out with the long strain of nursing, her state of mind with regard to Helen had become more than ever morbid, and she shrank from even a passing allusion to her. As for Helen, the efforts she had made over herself during the past weeks, the sincere sorrow she had experienced for the pain that her waywardness had caused her father, had softened her whole nature. She no longer regarded Mrs. Desmond as an antagonist against whom she was justified in waging perpetual warfare, and she had told herself that, if her father was restored to her, her stepmother should have her loyal obedience. Thus determined, and relieved from the daily fret of Mrs. Desmond's constant rebukes, the bitterness had died out of Helen's heart; and now something in the elder woman's worn, aged appearance touched the girl's generous nature. Moved by a sort of pity, and by a sudden realization of their common anxiety, she forgot even her desire to see her father in a longing to help this sad-looking lady who, dressed in a white wrapper scarcely whiter than her face, which bore a half-frightened, half-bewildered expression, stood in the middle of the room with upraised hands as though dreading some sudden shock. Her eyes fell upon Helen. Her hands dropped and her face darkened. There was a second's silence, while the girl looked appealingly at her stepmother, her fingers twitching nervously.
"What do you want, Helen?" asked Mrs. Desmond at last, commanding her voice with difficulty, for not only had the sudden knocking really alarmed her, but she particularly disliked being found in dishabille.
"I'm so sorry, I do so wish I could help you!" broke from the impulsive girl.
"Sorry! did you come to tell me this?"
"No, not exactly—but—"
"I am glad of that. Sorrow is shown by acts, not words. I did not send for you, and you have chosen to break upon the rest I so sorely need, at a time, too, when—" Mrs. Desmond's voice shook, and once more pity quenched Helen's rising resentment.
"Oh! you don't know how sorry I am for you," she cried, as, running forward, she seized her stepmother's hand, and looked imploringly into her face.
For a moment Mrs. Desmond allowed her hand to remain passively in Helen's. There was something pleasant after all in the touch of those warm strong young fingers; something that spoke of warmth, of comfort, almost of support to this cold-natured woman who was feeling all her hopes crumbling about her, who was face to face with mortal sorrow and pain for the first time in her smooth easy life. One gentle hand-pressure, one caressing movement, and the chasm that divided these two might have been bridged over. But it was not to be. The remembrance of Helen's past waywardness, and of the terrible results of the poor child's foolish escapade, swept over her, obliterating more kindly feelings. She withdrew her hand coldly, and moved away a few paces. Helen, thrown back upon herself, felt her better feelings die within her, and grew half-ashamed of her uncalled-for exhibition of tenderness.
"I only came to ask you to allow me to see my father," she said, speaking unconsciously in those sullen tones that she had cultivated in old days, because she knew that they annoyed her stepmother. "I am sorry if I disturbed you, but I thought I heard you moving before I knocked."
"That I can scarcely believe, Helen," returned Mrs. Desmond, now completely master of herself. "However, whether you did or not matters little. As to your father, he is too ill to see anybody."