“Do you mean to stay here, papa?” said Helen. It is dreadful to sit at table with any one and not to speak. She could not bear it; if he would not say anything to her, she must talk to him.
“It does not look a very interesting place, you mean? No picture-galleries or fine things to see. That is a pity; but if you do not object to it too much, it suits me to stay here for a little while.”
“I do not object at all, papa,” said poor Helen, ready to cry, “only—only——” She looked at him with wistful eyes.
“Only what? If you don’t object to me and everything about me, you should try not to look as if you did. Understand, once for all, that I understand my own motives and you don’t. And I don’t mean to be forced to explain by any one, much less my own child.”
“Papa,” said Janey, “you souldn’t be cross. You dave me a slap last night, but I never was cross. I did not look like this,” and she covered her innocent forehead with the most portentous of frowns. “I forgave you,” said the child, mastering the “g” with an effort, and looking up at him with a countenance clear as the day, not like the troubled face of Helen. The man was more touched than words could say. He caught her up in his arms.
“Yes, my little darling,” he said, “I did; God forgive me! I gave this dear little cheek a tap. I may have done other things as wrong, but none that I regretted so much. But you forgive your poor old father, Janey? I would not hurt you, my pet, not a hair of your pretty head, for the world.”
“I knew you would be sorry, papa,” said the little girl, with the air of a little queen. Then she lifted up her tiny forefinger, with serious yet mischievous warning, “But you sould never be cross,” she said.
How different was Helen’s state from the innocent, tender play of the child! She sat immovable and looked on at this pretty scene, seeing her father’s countenance change, the hard lines melt, a tender light come over it. He kissed his little Janey with a kind of reverential passion. “I will try, my little love,” he said, as humble as a child. And while he kissed her half weeping, and she clung with both her little arms round his neck, Helen felt herself rigid as stone. She could not be touched even by that which was most pathetic in this little episode—the real emotion of the man whose conscience was certainly not void of greater offences, yet whose heart melted at the pretty majesty of his child’s reproof, her innocent counsel and authority. Helen sat and looked on like some one entirely outside, a world apart from this tender union. She did not share the emotion of it, nor the sweetness. Her heart seemed made of lead; her eyes were dry as summer dust. She turned away from them, not to see the innocent rapture of the father and child. The bare little salle à manger, with its long table thinly covered; the bare board; the windows with their close white curtains; the all-prevailing odour of soup and cigars; the clashing of the ostler’s pails outside; the high-pitched voices; the language only half comprehensible,—made up a scene for her which she never forgot. Their strange meal was over—a dozen unknown dishes—and they had been left with a plate of fruit on the table and a bottle of vin du pays, which Helen thought so sour. She was wearied to death, but she no longer felt that devouring desire to lie down and go to sleep. The pain had roused her; it seemed to her for the moment as if she could never sleep again.
Then she went up-stairs to the little bare bedroom above, where two white beds stood side by side, two windows with the same white, closely fixed curtains, a carpetless, curtainless room, with everything as bare and wooden, as clean and white, as could be desired. She had to open the new trunk and take out all their new things, which did not belong to her, which belonged to a fugitive, the daughter of a man who had fled from his own country and home in disguise, and at the dead of night. It seemed to her that she could never tolerate this livery of shame, or think of it save with a burning as of disgrace upon her countenance. Perhaps it was partly because she was so worn out that she took everything so tragically. She went out afterwards to see the town, following her father, who led little Janey by the hand, delighted by all her demands. The little girl prattled without ceasing, asking questions about everything. “Why are they such little soldiers?” she said; “they are like the little men in my Swiss village; and why have they dot red trousers instead of red coats? Is it with walking in the enemy’s blood, papa? like the Bible,” said Janey.
“Hush, hush! there cannot be anything like that in the Bible, Janey.”