"Farewell, my child," said he, to Helen, "fear not for the future, for it is a merciful and loving God who lays his rod upon you; and though the clouds of darkness loom heavily around you, with Him nothing is impossible; and He could, in one moment, disperse them, if it were better for you. May you be purified by the affliction He sends. Good night, once more, and remember that not a sparrow falls to the ground unheeded by Him who made it."
How was it that this feeble child of affliction, went to bed that night in some degree composed? For every earthly hope seemed blighted. Her parents, one by one were re–called; her little patrimony taken away; and she and the little ones left almost friendless. Was it to make her the better feel where she could and must place her sole dependance? Doubtless it was. Oh! ye happy sons and daughters of prosperity, do you read this description, which many an afflicted one is now realizing, with apathy? Do ye regard it as an over–wrought scene of trial? Believe me it is no such thing. While you are surrounded by every earthly comfort, I will say by every earthly luxury; lolling, perhaps, on your sofas, or in your easy chairs, your cup filled to overflowing with every blessing, hundreds of your fellow creatures, young as you, are suffering privations, you hardly like to think of, but which they, alas! have to bear.
Helen rose early, refreshed by a long sleep, brought on by many nights of broken rest. She kissed the tears off her sleeping brother and sister's cheeks, and having recommended herself and them to God, proceeded to commence the arduous duties that now devolved on her. When Mr. Montgomery came, he found her doing that which he was about to suggest, viz., preparing for an immediate sale of the furniture, by taking an inventory, while the faithful servant was busily employed cleaning the house, for which a tenant was luckily found. The two young ones were doing their best to aid their sister. Mr. Montgomery wished them sent to the vicarage, but Helen would not hear of it till the day of, or after the sale. Well has it been said, that God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb; and so did she find it; for on applying, through Mr. Montgomery, to a neighbouring auctioneer, he, gratuitously, attended, and did all in his power to dispose of the things to advantage. Mr. Willoughby had taken the house on coming into possession of the property and furnished it throughout, so that being in good order, most of the furniture fetched a fair price. The day after Mrs. Willoughby died Mr. Montgomery had written to a sister of his, who lived twenty miles off, to enquire for a small house, should there be such in her neighbourhood. She sent word there was a cottage in the suburbs, which she thought would just suit, and, therefore, had taken it for one year certain, it being a very moderate rent. Although greater part of the things sold, had obtained a fair price, there were several useful articles that would have gone for little, and but for the good clergyman, have been completely sacrificed, these he bought in; among them was a large carpet and the piano; he thought they might, if the money were needed, be privately and more advantageously disposed of. The funeral expenses were, comparatively, small; for although Helen desired to pay every respect to her mother's memory, Mr. Montgomery convinced her it was an imperative duty on her, to avoid unnecessary expenditure, as she knew not what calls might yet be made on her resources. It next became a consideration how the things reserved from the sale, could be got, with the least expense, to their new place of residence; but Nancy who was present said there was a distant relative of hers, a farmer, who volunteered to take them in his large waggon, which he said, by starting at midnight, could be accomplished in one day, and as it was anything but a busy time, he could do it with little loss; added to which, he expressed himself right glad to be able to serve a young lady, who, with her mother, had been so uncommonly kind to his only parent, during a long illness. When did a good action ever lose its reward? Helen thankfully accepted Mr. Montgomery's kind offer of taking the young ones to stay with him till she was settled in their new abode, but Henry would not hear of it; he insisted on remaining with his sister and doing all he could to help her. So that not liking to leave Fanny alone, it was agreed they both should accompany her. She was not sorry for this, as she thought the bustle and novelty would divert their minds from their sorrow; for herself, so much was required of her, both to think and to do, that she had no time to dwell on the desolation of her position.
I must not here forget to state, that, though only eighteen, Helen had experienced other troubles than those which now bowed her down; and they were such as the youthful mind ever feels most keenly. She had, with the sanction of her parents, been engaged to Edward Cranston; he was himself considered unexceptionable, and the match was thought a very eligible one; he was five years Helen's senior, and had just entered the practice of the law, with every prospect of being called to the bar. He was first attracted by her beauty and afterwards won by her amiable and pleasing manner. Idolized by his own family, where she first met him, and unremitting in his attention to herself, she soon felt attached, and, confidingly, plighted her troth, and all seemed the couleur de rose. His stay was some time prolonged, but he had, at length, to leave; it was a hard struggle to him to part from her; and he did not do so without many promises of fidelity. To see him leave her, was the first trial she knew. The pang was severe; but his devotion was such, that she doubted not his faith, and most indignantly would she have repudiated the idea that his love for her could lessen; but his disposition was naturally volatile, and once away from her, and within the blandishments of other beauty, he could not resist its power. He became enslaved by the fascinations of another, and poor Helen was almost forgotten. Painfully did the conviction force itself upon her, as his letters became first, less frequent, and then less affectionate. Love is generally quicksighted; but Helen's own heart was so pure, and so devoted, that it was hard to believe she was no longer beloved. Hers was, indeed, a delicate position. She noticed the alteration in Edward Cranston's style of writing, and fancied it proceeded from any cause but diminution of regard for her; that, she thought, could not be possible; but soon, alas! did she learn, the (to her) sad truth, that her affianced lover was devoted to another, a most beautiful girl, residing in the same town, and it was said, they were engaged, and too true were the reports, which the following letter confirmed.
"My Dear Helen,
"How shall I write, or where find words to express all I desire to say. Shall I commence by hoping that absence has led you to regard me with less affection, or shall I honestly say, I no longer love you as you deserve to be loved, and that I am no longer worthy your affection. It costs me much to say this; but you would not wish me to deceive you; you would not wish me to go perjured from the altar with you. I most earnestly hope, nay, I feel sure, you will not regret that I have discovered this mistake ere too late for the peace of both. I have opened my heart and most bitterly do I regret its delinquency; but our affections are involuntary, and not under our control. Till the last two months, I believed mine to be inviolably yours. I know I am betrothed to you, and, if you require it, am bound, in honour, to fulfil my engagement; but I will ask you, ought I to do so, feeling I no longer love you as I ought? Is it not more really honourable to lay myself open and leave the matter to your decision? If we are united, three individuals are miserable for life; but it shall rest with you, oh, my excellent Helen; forgive and pity
"Your still affectionate,
"Edward."
What a blow was this to her warm and sanguine heart! What a return to love, so trustingly bestowed! She uttered not one reproach in her reply, but merely released him from every promise, and wished him every happiness.
She had, from the tenor of all his late letters, had a presentiment of coming evil; but she could hardly, till that cruel one, just given to the reader, realize its full extent; but the young do, and must feel keenly in these matters,—females in particular,—and, if right–minded, their all is embarked, and, if founded on esteem, the affections are not given by halves; and I firmly believe the author, who says, "Man is the creature of ambition and interest; his nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song, piped between the intervals, But a woman's whole life is a history of her affections; the heart is her world ; it is there, her ambition strives for empire; it is there, her avarice seeks for treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventures, and embarks her all in the traffic of affection, and, if shipwrecked, unless she be strongly supported by religious principles, it is a complete bankruptcy of her happiness."