Just as it needed a trained eye to discern the possibilities of beauty possessed by Helen, so it required some loving knowledge of young natures to divine the latent good in her. Resentful, passionate, and wayward, she was also deeply affectionate, and her passionate outbreaks were followed by passionate repentance, a repentance that she expressed, however, only to her father, and, as the months went by, rarely even to him; for although his manner towards her was always kind and even loving, she knew, with the unerring instinct of childhood, that his affection was already to a certain extent alienated from her. She did not blame him for this. In her loyal little heart he still reigned supreme, as a being absolutely perfect and noble. It was on her stepmother's unconscious head that all the vials of Helen's wrath were poured. More or less cowed into outward submission, and half broken-spirited by her monotonous life, she hated Mrs. Desmond with a hatred that bade fair to poison her whole nature. To succeed in visibly annoying her stepmother, to bring an angry cloud over her calm face, was a positive pleasure to Helen. Mrs. Desmond had been accustomed to a well-ordered household, and any domestic disturbance was extremely annoying to her. Helen soon discovered this, and although she was supposed not to speak to any member of the household, with the exception of the maid, she delighted in surreptitious visits to the kitchen, and in setting the servants by the ears. Then, again, noises of any kind were Mrs. Desmond's abhorrence. Helen would purposely bang doors, tap with her feet on the floor, even scrape a knife on her plate at luncheon, and feel more than repaid for the sharp reproof which she drew upon herself by watching her stepmother's agonized expression whilst the torture was in progress. That these things were done purposely Mrs. Desmond did not guess, any more than she imagined that the passionate manifestations of affection for her father in which Helen occasionally indulged, were evidences of real love.
As a fact, there was something antagonistic between Mrs. Desmond's rather cold nature and Helen's ardent disposition. Only love and patience could have knit these two together. Mrs. Desmond's theory that a young girl should be treated as an irresponsible being, and forced into the same mould that had successfully moulded former generations if she was to turn out a "nice" woman, was fatal in this instance. The same want of comprehension of the meaning of real education overshadowed Helen's studies. Although, in the orthodox sense of the word, Helen's education had been sadly neglected, she was by no means ignorant. She had seen and observed much; had read, and read intelligently, books that most girls of her age would unhesitatingly pronounce "dry;" while for music she had a genuine talent. This last gift, however, did not help her much under the system of tuition adopted for her. Ordered, for instance, to practise her scales for an hour each day, without receiving any explanation as to the usefulness of such practice, the girl naturally regarded scale-playing as a fresh device for annoying her. Consequently her playing during her early morning practice soon became one of Mrs. Desmond's chief tortures, for each jarring note penetrated through the thin partitions of a London house, and, reaching that unhappy lady's ears, robbed her of her comfortable morning nap. Far too conscientious to put an end to the nuisance for consciously selfish motives, and too lacking in musical taste herself to discern Helen's real talent, she suffered as silently as she could; not so silently, however, but that Helen perceived the annoyance which she caused, and which she took care should continue unabated. But here, as in so many other instances, poor Helen's weapons were turned against herself. Being taken by her father to an afternoon concert, an impromptu pleasure indulged in during a blissful day when her stepmother was away, she was seized with a vehement desire to learn to play the violin. Her father, who fancied that his little girl had been looking pale lately, and who was pleased with the prospect of giving her so innocent a pleasure, consented, and quite after the manner of old times, the concert over, they went off together and purchased a violin, which Helen insisted on carrying home herself.
The afternoon had been so delightful, and had sped so quickly, that they had both forgotten the time, and that Mrs. Desmond was to return home at six o'clock. It was nearly seven when their cab brought them to their own door.
"Yes, Mrs. Desmond had returned an hour ago and was in the drawing-room," the servant said in answer to the colonel's rather nervous questioning. A cloud fell upon Helen as she entered the warm, well-lighted hall; but she clasped her violin tightly and followed her father upstairs.
Mrs. Desmond rose from a low chair as her husband entered the drawing-room. She was dressed in a pretty tea-gown, that well became her tall, slight figure. Soft lace was arranged on her head, and the shaded red light played on her diamond rings. She looked the very embodiment of delicately-nurtured, serene, English womanhood, and so the colonel thought as his eyes fell upon her. "What has kept you? I have been anxious about you," she said, addressing him in a gently-reproachful voice. "You must be cold and tired. Come and sit by the fire, and I will ring for tea."
"My dear," returned her husband, coming forward and kissing her, "how glad I am to see you back! The house seems like home again. As for tea, the truth is, Helen and I—well, we have been having a little fun on our own account. Come here, Helen, and tell your mother what we have been doing. We sent Miss Walker about her business, didn't we? And then—."
The colonel paused, and Mrs. Desmond then perceived Helen standing half-timidly, half-defiantly near the door.
"You there, Helen!" she said coldly. "How often am I to tell you that I will not have you come into the drawing-room with your walking clothes on! Go and take them off at once. When I was a child—."
"It is really my fault this time, wife," put in the colonel, who dreaded a scene with Helen, and who had, besides, begun to grow a little weary of his wife's reminiscences of her childhood.
"Nonsense!" returned Mrs. Desmond with quite unusual asperity. "Helen knows my rules. She is quite old enough to understand that her duty is to conform to them, and stay!"—as Helen was turning away abruptly—"don't go while I am speaking. Have you learned your lessons for to-morrow?"