Like Another Helen

by Sydney C. Grier

“My duty remains the same, sir.”

“Very well, madam. To-morrow night—no, the night after. To-morrow the Nabob has ordered a great fight of wild beasts for the diversion of the Court—two nights hence, I’ll offer the Nabob an entertainment at this house, and Clarissa will assist me in providing it. That is, unless I should receive a message from her to-morrow. After that, ’twill be too late.”

Oh, how I prayed last night, Amelia, that it would please Heaven to give the lie to this man’s jeers by permitting me to expire before morning! But morning is come, and I still live.

June ye 8th.

I can’t tell how the hot hours of yesterday passed, my dear friend. I was too wretched to write, even had I found anything to make known to you. I roamed restless through the apartments here, or sat crouched in a corner, murmuring that God had cast me off and left me helpless before the cruelty of my enemies. At night, as I tossed upon my bed unable to sleep, there came to me a thought, but whether from a good or evil source I can’t pretend to guess. Does my Amelia remember a sentence that our good Rector at home once cited in describing the character of the excellent and devout Athanasius? It pleased us so much that when we were writing out our recollections of the sermon the next day we were so bold as to ask the Rector to give it to us exactly, that we might copy it into our commonplace-books, and he told us it was wrote by the Judicious Hooker. Comparing the situation of Athanasius with that of his adversaries, this learned author spoke of the uncertainty that existed “which of the two in the end would prevail; the side which had all, or else the part which had no friend but God and death, the one a defender of his innocency, the other a finisher of his troubles.”

“Alas!” I cried, as the words returned into my mind, “but what of me, since God will neither defend my innocency, nor permit death to finish my troubles?”

“Why,” said a voice in my mind, “seek death, since death won’t come to you.”

The notion was plausible enough, and I had soon formed a plan. From a certain spot on the varanda I had often observed that ’twould not be difficult to climb upon the roof of the garden-house, which is fantastically ornamented with a cupola and many small towers. There, I determined, would I conceal myself before the Nabob’s arrival, and perhaps it might please Heaven to keep my persecutors from looking for me in that place. If so, well; but if not, there was the tank, washing the very walls of the pavilion, and to plunge myself into the water from such a height could scarce fail to bring me the death I sought. Do you blame me, Amelia? Then I hope you may always continue to do so, for that will show that my dear girl has never found herself in my desperate situation.

This frightful resolution taken, I fell asleep, and (such is the effect of coming to a decision, however shocking) was able in the morning to contemplate my affairs with something more of coolness and composure than yesterday. Misery and I were banished early from the pavilion into the house, for the mollies were busy setting rows of small earthen lamps everywhere in the gardens, in readiness to illuminate them at night in the Indian style, while other men were preparing a feast in the garden-house—all seeming as though they made ready for my execution. This was the thought in my mind when, passing up the stairs with Misery, I catched sight through the window of the man in a Tartar dress whom I saw two days ago in attendance upon the English prisoner. He had some fruit in his hand that he seemed to have bought from a street-hawker, and entering into the house facing this one, he shut the door upon himself. Oh, how this sight rekindled the hopes that I had persuaded myself were all extinct! How I blamed myself that I had not kept watch at the window more constantly, and so discovered that the man frequented, or perhaps inhabited, that house, or even, it might be, that ’twas there the prisoner was confined, for then I might have prepared some means to catch their attention. A written paper might not tell anything of my history to the Tartar, but finding strange characters upon it he would questionless take it and inquire of the prisoner what they could signify. Then I remembered that although the man was gone into the house, ’twas not necessary he should remain there always. He might come out at any moment. Misery had left me, and I ran to my writing materials, intending to prepare a small billet that I might push through the grating. But even as I laid hands on the pen and ink, I recollected the promise I had made to Sinzaun not to use in endeavouring to escape the writing implements with which he had furnished me. Here was a dilemma indeed. “Sinzaun has proved himself unworthy of credit and of the remorse you experienced towards him,” said that voice which had spoken to me in the night. “Nay, but that makes no difference in my duty,” said I. “But sure you never thought to prevent yourself escaping when you gave the promise,” said the voice. “If promises were to be kept only when they were easy, and broke whenever we found them press hardly upon us, they would be fine things!” said I. “Will you perish on a point of honour?” says the voice. “Not if I can be saved otherwise,” said I, taking the handkerchief from my pocket. In my hussy I had a needle threaded with the purple silk I had used for sewing at my petticoat, and before Misery returned I had worked roughly on the cambrick, close to my cypher in the corner, the words “Save. Quick.” If Sinzaun’s words were true, and my history as well known as he declared, I thought the prisoner would be at no loss to perceive who it was that demanded his aid. How he was to help me I did not know, but at least this one hope of safety should not be lost.

Misery departing again before very long, I broke off a loose piece of stone from the wall, and tied it in the handkerchief, lest it should flutter in the air as I threw it out, and then flying to the window tried to thrust the little bundle through the grating, intending to hold it by one corner until the Tartar appeared again. But the holes were too small to permit it to pass through, and as I tried in turn to break the stone smaller and to force the grating aside, I saw the man come out of the opposite house and begin to lock the door behind him. The sight drove me to desperation. With my scissors I began to chip out the mortar that held the grating in its place, and when both the points broke off I picked at it with my nails. The blood ran down my fingers as I worked, but just as the Tartar was turning away from his door the edge of the grating moved. I had not thought I was so strong, but I twisted it aside far enough to thrust the handkerchief through. It rolled down the window-ledge, then struck against some inequality or projection, and stopped. I thought I should have screamed, for the man was now out of sight, having crossed the street to gain the shade cast by our wall, but I forced my hand through the gap I had made, and succeeded in giving the tiresome missive a push that sent it safely over the edge. I could not tell whether it had reached the proper person, but I had enough to do to pull the grating back to its place and hide the traces of my doings before Misery came back. I was bathed in sweat and trembling with fright, and my wounded hands alone would have betrayed me had my Abigail’s sharp eyes catched sight of ’em, but I was able to huddle them up in my gown, pretending that I was tired after my wakeful night, and desired to rest, and so threw myself upon my couch and waited.