She was beginning, moreover, to agree with Berkeley that it was not wise to undertake to build a castle; a simple log-house would be much better. Already her father was involved in fresh trouble on account of this folly. Yet, even after selling his wine, and she her jewels, there was still money owing; and only one tower was finished.
Evelyn, on the contrary, had praised the undertaking, and told Sir Henry that as soon as the edifice was completed he would make a fine painting of it. Thus from musing over days gone by—the happy days in England, when her dear, prudent mother was living, who always had urged economy—and the sad present, tears came to Helen’s eyes, while the chamber grew darker and darker, until she could no longer distinguish Queen Henrietta Maria’s face looking down upon her from the wall. By and by she groped her way to her harpsichord, and began to play a mournful tune which was in harmony with the shadows and her own thoughts.
“Well, really, child!” exclaimed Sir Henry, entering presently with a light, “as if this abode were not cheerless enough with only you and me to inhabit it, you must needs give me melancholy music.”
Quick Helen changed the air and struck up something full of life and gladness, “A Carol to the Sun” ’twas called; and when he asked where she had got this delightful music—for it was new to him—and she answered, “From Evelyn,” her father seemed much pleased. “But, child,” he said, “why do you hesitate so long about accepting Sir Charles? Is it because Berkeley is courting you too? Why, one has a title and is of gentle blood; the other is a plebeian, and I hope will make his visits less frequent in future. I spoke sharply to Berkeley to-day—did I not?—and if he comes again I’ll speak more sharply still.”
Seeing that Helen made no response, Sir Henry continued: “Why, the fellow actually had the impudence to advise me not to go on with this castle, which I intend to make the finest structure in the colony. But Evelyn has better taste; blood tells in everything, and he agrees with me that Lord Baltimore will be highly gratified when it is finished, and will write to the king about it.”
“Well, there is indeed a magnificent view from the top of the tower,” observed Helen timidly. Then, plucking up a little courage, “But, father,” she added, “think of the money it will cost; think of the future.”
“A view! A magnificent view!” cried Sir Henry. “God-a-Mercy! is that all you have to say in praise of this tower? A magnificent view! Would you have the portrait of our gracious queen hanging in a log-cabin? And that suit of armor which your ancestor wore at Agincourt, which bears upon it the dents of a battle-axe—would you wish to see it in a log-cabin? Child, you are not worthy of your name.” Then, after a pause, during which he strode excitedly back and forth, Sir Henry continued: “As for money, I never trouble my head about money. But when you bid me think of the future—well, I have indeed bitter thoughts when I allow my mind to dwell on the future.”
This was true enough. Helen’s father was no longer young. Helen had not yet chosen a husband; would he live to see a male descendant of his house? “Oh! it wrings my heart,” he murmured half aloud—and his daughter heard the lament—“it wrings my heart to think of the old stock dying out.” After giving vent to his sorrow even by tears, the old gentleman bade Helen commence the usual evening reading. And let us here observe that the only book he cared for was Don Quixote, which Helen read to him in the original; for he had been in Spain and had taught her Spanish. Accordingly, she opened the volume—’twas the third time she had gone through it—and began to read in a loud, clear voice, while Sir Henry sat with his back towards her and his eyes resting on the ancient suit of armor, whence they never strayed, except for a moment to glance at the portrait of the queen.
Helen had found Don Quixote quite entertaining the first time she had perused it; but now the interest was all gone, and only the dread of offending her father kept her from often pausing and nodding her head. But this she durst not do; and so on and on she read through five chapters, without so much as lifting her eyes off the page, after which Sir Henry told her to put the volume aside, then withdrew in what for him was a very genial humor.
The night which closed this summer day was a restless one for Helen Lee. She lay awake several hours listening to a whip-poor-will perched on a tree by her window. She got thinking about her father, whom, despite his acerbity of temper, she dearly loved; she thought of the rash way he was squandering his means, and said to herself: “Dear mother was right: in order to save ourselves from utter ruin we should live as economically as possible. But, alas! he will not do it, and we may be forced ere long to sell our new home here, as we did our old home in England.” And when at length she fell asleep, these mournful thoughts followed her in a dream.