Where could she hide her head? she asked herself--where cover her shame?--where conceal herself from the eyes of all men?--who would help?--who would assist her?--who would speak one word of comfort, of consolation, of sympathy? None, none. From the sympathy of the virtuous and the good she had cut herself off for ever! Was she to associate with the abandoned and profligate?--was evil to become her good?--was moral death to bring her mere mortal life? Ah, no! she would sooner die, she thought, a thousand-fold sooner die; and she abhorred herself for her weakness past, more than many who think themselves virtuous, would abhor themselves for actual crime.
"Why should I stay here?" she asked herself at length. "I am an outcast--a beggar; my father and mother in the grave; my uncle's face I dare not see; I have no one to seek--I have no road to choose; the wide world is before me; I must trust myself to fate;" and rising up, with the feeling of desolate despair taking possession of her once more, she followed the path before her, then turned into another, then wandered along a third, and thus went on for nearly an hour-and-a-half, with several of the country people who passed her, turning round to gaze in surprise at so fair and delicate a creature straying abroad, with a vacant air and tear-stained countenance, at so early an hour of the morning.
At length she felt weary; and with listless indifference to all that might befal her, she seated herself on a stone, at the foot of a wooden cross, which had been erected by some pious hand beneath a high tree-covered bank, down which the snow, now melting under the first warmth of spring, was slipping from time to time in large masses, or sending forth a thousand small streams, which rendered the road almost like the bed of a river.
Poor Helen heeded it not, however; she took no notice of the cold and the wet. The bodily discomforts that she suffered had but little effect upon her; and, if she perceived them at all, they came but as things which recalled to her mind more forcibly the hopeless desolation of her situation. Thus, after a few minutes' rest and thought, she once more bent down her beautiful head upon her two fair hands, and wept long and bitterly.
While she was thus sadly occupied, the sound of a horse's feet striking the plashy ground at a quick pace came down the lane. She gave it no attention, and the horseman dashed passed her, apparently without noticing her. It was not so, however; and about a hundred yards farther on he pulled in his rein, and turned back again. In another minute he was by her side; and she heard a kind and good-humoured voice exclaim, "What is the matter, young lady, has any one injured you?"
Helen de la Tremblade looked up, and beheld in the person who addressed her a man of a frank and open countenance. He was dressed in a brown suit of a plain rough cloth, and seemed to be a substantial countryman of about forty years of age, though his beard and moustache was somewhat grey. There was a look of pleasant and intelligent interest on his face, which might have brought back some hope to her cold heart, for it spoke of sympathy; but she replied in a sad and bitter tone, "Alas, I have injured myself," bursting into a fresh gush of tears as the words of self-reproach passed her lips.
The man gazed at her for a moment in silence, seemingly puzzled by the contrast between her dress and her apparent situation. At length he exclaimed, "Parbleu! you cannot stay here, my poor girl. You seem a young thing, and well nurtured; what can have brought you into this state?"
"My own fault, as well as the cruelty of others," answered Helen de la Tremblade.
"Well, we all have faults," replied the man, "God forgive us for them! and as for the cruelty of others, we are none of us good enough to afford to be severe, especially when errors are freely acknowledged. But tell me, can I do anything to help you? I have little time; but I cannot find in my heart to see a fair young thing like you left to perish by the road-side."
"Oh!" cried Helen starting up; "if you would but give me shelter for a single night, till I can think, till I can give my mind some order, you might save me from destruction. Doubtless," she added, seeing him pause as if in hesitation, "doubtless you have a home not far off; doubtless you have wife and children,---daughters perhaps; and should you hear my prayer, be sure God will bless and protect them, if ever they fall into misery like me. I am not intentionally wicked, indeed; weak I may be: nay, weak I am, but not vicious; no, not vicious, whatever you may think."