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She repeated the prayers which from childhood she
had been used to say. Page 58.
CHARITY HELSTONE.
A Tale.
BY
MRS. CAREY BROCK,
AUTHOR OF "MARGARET'S SECRET," "WORKING AND WAITING.”
PHILADELPIIIA:
ALFRED MARTIEN,
No. 1214 CHESTNUT STREET,
1872.
8128782
ос
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
A BIRTH AND A DEATH....
5
CHAPTER II.
CHILDHOOD
17
CHAPTER III.
GOING TO SCHOOL.....
31
CHAPTER IV.
NEW COMPANIONS...
51
CHAPTER V.
A SUDDEN DISCOVERY..
61
*
CHAPTER VI.
A LETTER ANSWERED.
76
CHAPTER VII.
THE FAMILY RECORDS
87
CHAPTER VIII.
A SERMON AND ITS INFLUENCE
............... 102
CHAPTER IX.
NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
113
CHAPTER X.
TRIALS
129
CHAPTER XI.
OVERCOMING...
....
145
931774
iv
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XII.
P.GE
SELF-RESTRAINT
155
CHAPTER XIII.
A SOLEMN SERVICE ......
165
CHAPTER XIV.
AT HOME AGAIN
174
CHAPTER XV.
A RESCUE......
183
CHAPTER XVI.
A CROSS-EXAMINATION
195
CHAPTER XVII.
A.STORY OF A LIFE...
208
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE STORY CONTINUED...
227
CHAPTER XIX.
A PROPOSAL…….
249
CHAPTER XX.
CONFIRMATION OF THE TALE……………
266
CHAPTER XXI.
TWO YEARS LATER
278
CHAPTER XXII.
DEATH-BURIAL..
200
CHAPTER XXIII.
CONCLUSION
308
CHARITY HELSTONE.
CHAPTER I.
A BIRTH AND A DEATH.
STRANGE child was Charity Helstone, and
a somewhat strange lady was Charity's god-
mother, who had not a little to do with the
early training and discipline of Charity's
character. Not that Mrs. Dorothy Helstone, or,
as she was generally called, "Aunt Dorothy," had
ever endeavored to train or discipline her strange
little godchild. No! "Aunt Dorothy" was one of
those characters who never seem to attempt to do
anything, yet who, by some happy chance or other,
are perpetually succeeding in accomplishing things,
which, attempted by any one else, would probably
have proved signal failures.
Aunt Dorothy was a middle-aged lady when first
she came to live in the village of Arlington, and
that was five-and-twenty years ago. There were
deep lines in her face then, and they were all
5
6
CHARITY HELSTONE.
wrinkles now. There was a firm, compressed look
about the benevolent mouth, which told the
thoughtful observer that it had not spent all its
strength in smiling, though it was so skilful at
that art. There was a grave, fixed expression in
the deep set eyes, which told tales of tears that had
never been seen. There was a slight nervous
tremor in the quiet voice, a peculiar manner of
folding the hands together, which all betokened
that Aunt Dorothy's life had not always flowed in
the same quiet stream in which it had gone since
she came first to Arlington.
Few remembered her first coming. Mrs. Dorothy
had grown to be as well known a person as the
Rector himself. He himself would call her his
curate, whilst his good wife often thanked the
special providence which had sent a friend like.
Mrs. Dorothy into the village, to do all the work
there which her own kind heart would have led
her to do herself, had not the charge of eight little
children in her own home rendered it impossible
for her to be very active out of it.
It was to these eight little children that Mrs.
Dorothy owed her title of "Aunt Dorothy." The
Rector's children had been the first to bestow it
upon her, and truly no veritable aunt could have
better deserved the title at their hands. If their
books were shabby, and mamma had no time to
mend them, they carried them up to the Ivy Cot-
tage, and brought them home all neatly stitched
and covered with nice brown calico by Aunt Doro
A BIRTH AND A DEATH.
7
:
thy's skilful fingers. If any amongst them were
ill, and Aunt Dorothy came down to the Rectory
and found the overworked mother pale and worn
with a disturbed night, the result would surely be
that next night, when the little voice asked for
water, it was Aunt Dorothy's hand that supplied it;
whilst a kind voice told them that they must try
and be patient, and not cry or disturb their dear
mamma, who was sleeping in the next room.
Wherever help was wanted, there was Aunt Doro-
thy; night or day, no one was ever afraid to knock
at her cottage-door and solicit aid, be the person
who knocked who they might, or the hour midday
or midnight.
Doubtless it was to this fact that Aunt Dorothy
owed the possession of her strange little child,
Charity Helstone. For seven years ago, in the
darkest hour of one of the darkest nights that the
month of January could show, a loud knocking
had been heard at Aunt Dorothy's door. Old
Betsy, the one servant who had come to Arlington
with Mrs. Dorothy, and had lived with her ever
since, had been the first to hear it, and starting up,
had thrown open the window and inquired "who in
the world was knocking there at that unearthly
hour?".
To Betsy's surprise, the voice that answered was
a familiar one, and no more formidable one than
that of good Mistress Bryce, who kept the village
inn just round the corner; the nearest house it was,
indeed, to Aunt Dorothy's cottage.
8
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"It's I, Betsy," was the answer. "I, Martha
Bryce; and you must come up to my house, quick
as you can get your clothes on, for I believe there's
a young woman dying there; and though I've sent
for the doctor, it will be ever such a time before he
can be down, and there's no one in the house but
Bryce and me and Hester, and we want help, if
ever creatures did. So come as quick as you can,
and let your good mistress come along with you.
For, as my husband said, 'Get Mrs. Dorothy, get
Mrs. Dorothy; she's a host in herself, and she'll be
sick-nurse, and doctor, and parson all in one.""
Now old Betsy was one of those people who are
never known to be quiet, except when other people
would be in a fuss. Morning, noon, and night, old
Betsy was always in a fuss, and a decided annoy-
ance this was to her quiet mistress; but let some-
thing happen which would put most people into a
fever, and Betsy was as composed as possible: Thus
it was now. When Mrs. Bryce's sharp knocking
first roused her she started up, and on hearing it
repeated so rapidly she felt at once something
serious was the matter, and opened her window
with as composed a manner as though such nightly
disturbances were the most usual occurrences in the
world.
"I'll come at once," she said, on hearing what
was wanted of her; "but I'll not disturb my mis-
tress. She was up nearly all last night with the
baby at the Rectory, and she'll sleep in her bed
this blessed night, as sure as my name's Betsy;
A BIRTH AND A DEATH.
9
and don't you be routing her out of it by any more
noise."
And thus saying, old Betsy shut down the win-
dow, and began to hurry on her clothes, saying to
herself, as she did so-for talking to herself was
one of Betsy's pet peculiarities-"I dare say the
woman's no more dying than I am; these people
always cry wolf before they're hurt; and as for my
mistress, I believe they think her public property."
•
And thus saying, Betsy opened her bedroom door;
and was preparing to descend the stairs very slowly
and noiselessly, when, to her great annoyance,
another door was opened opposite to hers, and an-
other figure prepared to do the same. A very dif-
ferent figure from her own. The villagers used to
say sometimes, that never was there a greater con-
trast than Mrs. Dorothy Helstone and her maid
Betsy. And they said rightly. Not only were they
different in appearance, for Mrs. Dorothy was tall
and dignified in figure, with a calm, placid face, and
deep-set, earnest blue eyes; but they were yet more
different in manner. For if Betsy was never known
to be still, Mrs. Dorothy never seemed to be agitated.
Her step was always soft, her voice always low.
The only signs of outward agitation, even the watch-
ful eye of her good friend the Rector had ever
observed in her, were an occasional heightening of
the color in her pale cheeks, and a nervous move-
ment of the hands, which she had a peculiar way of
crossing on her lap, especially when deeply inter-
ested in anything.
:
10
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Betsy, on seeing her mistress, began a string of
regretful and reproachful exclamations, which Mrs.
Dorothy cut short by warning her that there was no
time, perhaps, to lose; and herself unfastening the
front-door, and passing out into the dark street. A
few minutes' walk, during which Betsy never ceased
speaking, and her mistress did not utter one word,
brought them to Bryce's house. Bryce was standing
at the door himself, with a face that silenced even
Betsy's tongue. He did not speak either, but
pointed with his hand to the door at the top of the
stairs, and Mrs. Dorothy and Betsy obeyed the
signal.
Mrs. Dorothy expected, from the man's manner,
to meet death within; but on opening the door, her
eyes fell on a living face, yet with an unmistakable
look upon it that told her at once life would hold
but short possession there. A very young woman lay
evidently dying, and apparently unconscious, whilst
good Mrs. Bryce stood beside the bed, wiping from
the pale forehead the cold perspiration that was
rapidly gathering there. At a little distance stood
Hester Bryce, the innkeeper's only daughter, and in
her arms a little new-born baby. No one spoke; but
Mrs. Bryce turned her eyes from the dying woman
to Mrs. Dorothy, as much as to say, that it was too
late to think of doing anything now. "She's just
passing," she said; and at the word, Mrs. Dorothy
drew near the bed, and kneeling down she prayed
aloud, in a low, yet distinct voice.
Whether the woman had been conscious before,
A BIRTH AND A DEATH.
11
but had not cared to speak, or whether it was only
now that she regained consciousness, they never
knew; but as Mrs. Dorothy prayed, she turned her
eyes, which from being now set in a face from which
almost all the flesh and every shade of color had
departed, looked unearthly in their largeness, full on
Mrs. Dorothy's face; and it was evident from the
expression in them that she was perfectly sensible.
Mrs. Dorothy rose from her knees and stood by the
bedside. The young woman never took her eyes off
her. Mrs. Dorothy spoke in a low voice, asked her
if she knew how ill she was; if her mind was at
peace. There was no answer.
"Bring the baby, Hester," said Mrs. Bryce;
"that may rouse her. She has never spoken since
its birth," she said, turning to Mrs. Dorothy; "she
just seemed passing away without care or thought
of anything." Mrs. Dorothy took the little thing,
and laid it gently by the mother's side, and then the
large eyes were removed from Mrs. Dorothy's face
and fixed upon the child. But the expression in
them changed, and was troubled, melancholy, in-
stead of, as it had been, piteous and appealing.
"What is it?" she asked; "a boy?"
“No,” said Mrs. Bryce, "it's a little girl."
"Thank God!" she said: "O, thank God !”
No one dared ask why; and even Mrs. Dorothy
was doubtful what to say or do, when the poor
woman again turned her eyes to her and said,
"Pray! pray again!" And Mrs. Dorothy prayed a
few earnest words, that "unfeigned repentance might
12
CHARITY HELSTONE.
be given for all the errors of a past life, with stead-
fast faith in the Lord Jesus, so that all sins might be
done away by God's mercy, and pardon sealed in
heaven."
The eyes brightened while this prayer was being
offered, and when Mrs. Dorothy again paused the
woman said, with heightened color, and a degree of
strength and excitement in the voice which made
them doubtful whether consciousness was not again
leaving her-
"Thank you, thank you! I like that prayer.
It's a long while since I've been to church; but I
haven't lost my Bible. It's at home, now. But
when shall I be there again? And the baby! ah!
let the baby have that book !”
Then, with brightened color and an eager voice,
she fixed her eyes full on Mrs. Dorothy, and said,
"Those whom God hath joined together let not man
put asunder.' I knew I should die when this time
should come. You'll find the sentence marked plain
enough. And there's another sentence marked. It
isn't marked there, but it's written on my heart-I
wish I could write it on my baby's-Those whom
God hath set asunder let not man put together.'
Yes," she repeated, "Those whom God hath put
asunder let not man join together." These were
the last words she uttered, or rather, the last con-
nected sentence. She sank back, apparently ex-
hausted with the effort, and all further attempts to
rouse her were in vain.
Bending over her, Mrs. Dorrthy caught some
A BIRTH AND A DEATH.
13
faintly muttered words about "
errors past," and
"pardon;" but all was indistinct; and a few minutes
later, Mrs. Dorothy, old Betsy, Mrs. Bryce, and her
daughter Hester, stood around the bed on which lay
a pale, dead young mother, and a little, living, sleep-
ing infant. Whose property was it? What was to
be done with it? No one knew aught of the mother,
save that she had come there that night, and im-
plored them to take her in "for pity's sake." There
was no paper about her; no mark even on anything
she wore, save the initials, "C. H.," to show what
was her name. Mrs. Bryce said she had inquired
her name, but the woman had refused to tell; and
only said she should soon have none-and a good
thing, too. She had become too ill to be questioned
almost immediately after her arrival; and the only
other question Mrs. Bryce had been able to induce
her to answer was, when she had asked "what would
become of the child?" and she had replied, "God
would take care of it-certainly she had no one in
this world whom she could send it to. But there
was a God above, and she left it to Him."
It was whilst Mrs. Bryce was saying this that old
Betsy first observed how ill her mistress had be-
come. Mrs. Dorothy, generally so calm, was
shaking now from head to foot. She tried to com-
pose herself, and made no objection when Betsy
led her out of the room; and Mrs. Bryce follow-
ing, made her lie down on the sofa in the parlor,
and covered her with blankets, for her very teeth
were chattering, and she was shivering all over.
V
14
CHARITY HELSTONE.
66
But when the doctor shortly after arrived, and
found the patient he had come five miles to see
had passed beyond all human skill, and Mrs.
Bryce wished Mrs. Dorothy to see him, she posi-
tively refused to do so, saying he could do her no
good. And Betsy, anxious as she always was
about her mistress, did not second Mrs. Bryce's re-
quest. 'It was a nervous attack," she said; "and
would pass off. Her mistress had had them be-
fore, but not for a long time." No; for it had
been a long time since anything had so shaken.
Mrs. Dorothy's whole nervous system as had the
scene which had just taken place. A trying, har-
rowing scene it would have been to any one; but
to Mrs. Dorothy it seemed something personal, and
old Betsy, though she said nothing, seemed quite
to understand that it should be so. She attempted
no word of comfort, ready as she generally was
with her words; but, after having covered her up
warmly on good Mrs. Bryce's best parlor sofa, she
left her alone for some time, and would allow no
one to go near the room; saying, in reply to Mrs.
Bryce's repeated declaration, that "it was a down-
right sin to leave any one by herself who had been
as ill as Mrs. Dorothy;" that "she knew her mis-
tress better than they did." Which was evidently
true; for on Betsy's going to the room about an
hour afterwards she found Mrs. Dorothy, looking
paler and more worn than usual, certainly, but
perfectly composed and quiet. Betsy never in-
quired how she felt, but merely announced that the
A BIRTH AND A DEATH.
15
kitchen kettle was boiling, and she would bring her
some tea directly. And Mrs. Dorothy said, "Thank
you, Betsy; but this is not the time to be thinking
first of me. Where is that poor baby?"
"Hester has it, ma'am ; and Mrs. Bryce has
dressed it up all comfortable in the clothes the
mother had ready in a parcel; there were plenty
of them, and all of the very best. It's plain the
poor creature was of the better class."
"I saw that from her appearance," replied Mrs.
Dorothy; "her hands were too white to have ever
known much work."
"They were thin enough," said Betsy. "Did
you observe, ma'am, how large the wedding-ring
was? By-the-by, I must speak to Mrs. Bryce
about the ring being kept safe."
I have it here, Betsy," said Mrs. Dorothy. “I
drew it from her finger when I found that it was
falling from the cold hand, for which it had grown,
as you see, so much too large. We will not talk
now of it, or of her, but as soon as it is light let
Mr. Saville be sent for. And now I will go to
the room, Betsy; whatever remains to be done for
that poor creature, it is for us to do it. And the
child
""
"She left it to God, poor thing!" said Betsy.
"And has not God given it in charge to us?"
said Mrs. Dorothy; and shall we not receive
it from him, and in his grace do our duty by it?"
Thus it was that Mrs. Dorothy Helstone came to
adopt as her own a little nameless orphan.
16
CHARITY HELSTONE.
The following Sunday a christening interrupted
the course of the service, and old Betsy, with a
baby in her arms-a sight never before seen-
approached the font, followed by Mrs. Dorothy
and the Rector's wife. They, with the Rector,
were the sponsors, and on Mrs. Dorothy's being
desired to name the child, she pronounced the
words "Charity Helstone."
As she had said to Mrs. Saville the evening
before, "Helstone" might be a help to her in
other days, and might make the title of "Aunt
Dorothy," by which she should teach her to call
her, come more natural; and "H." was one of the
initial letters on the mother's linen.
"C. H." was
marked there, and "C. H." alone marked that
grave where the young mother now lay, with the
date of her death, and the words, "His compas-
sions fail not."
"Let the other initial, then, be for Charity,"
Mrs. Dorothy had said, "and they would seek
God's grace to train the child in such a way that
her character and conduct might be in accordance
with those virtues, the greatest of which was
charity." So the baby was named Charity, and by
no other name did either "Aunt Dorothy" or
Betsy ever call her. 'Cherrie," indeed, was her
own abbreviation of it, and "Cherrie" she was
generally called by others.
"6
CHILDHOOD.
17
CHAPTER IL
CHILDHOOD.
EVEN years old to-day, Miss Charity!" said
Betsy to her little charge, as she drew near
her cot, evidently with the intention of "get-
ting her up," as she called it. "This is your
birthday, Miss; and you'll like to be up before Aunt
Dorothy comes out of her room, won't yon ?”
"No, I won't!" was the reply. "I'll like to stop
here till Aunt Dorothy comes in; and nobody's
going to touch me but her on my birthday."
66
"O, but, Miss,” expostulated Betsy, whose one
idea of managing the child was by what she termed
coming round her;" a system which she persisted
in pursuing, though both Mrs. Dorothy's counsel
and her own experience were forever telling her
that it was the very worst in the world. "O, but,
Miss, you know Aunt Dorothy's ill. She went to
bed very ill last night, and I felt sure you'd like to
be a very good girl this morning, and be up and
dressed without any trouble at all-on your birth-
day, too, when you're seven years old. Come, my
dear, put on your shoes and stockings, and be a good
girl, just to please me: don't you wish to please
me?"
H
2
18
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"No, I don't!" exclaimed Charity, throwing at
the same time the shoes and stockings which Betsy
had presented to her to the other end of the room.
"No, indeed, I don't want to please you, for I hate
you!"
"Miss Charity!" said Betsy, in extreme astonish-
ment; for, though she was accustomed to such
assurances with regard to Charity's feelings towards
her, when those feelings were roused by anger, it
was something quite new to hear such a declaration
from her charge the first thing in the morning,
before she had done anything whatever to displease
her. "What! hate me? old Betsy, who am so
good to you!"
"Good to me!" exclaimed Charity. "Indeed
you're not good to me. You're wicked, that's what
you are; and it's right to hate you, for we ought to
hate liars; and you're a liar."
"Me a liar?" exclaimed Betsy. "You wicked,
wicked child! I'll tell your aunt, Miss Charity,
that I will, the very moment she comes out of her
room. Nice news for me to have to tell her, the
very first thing, on your birthday! But I shall tell
her, and what will she say then?"
"Aunt
"She'll say it's true," replied the child.
Dorothy doesn't tell lies; if she did, I wouldn't love
her. But you do, Betsy: you're a liar, and you
shan't dress me to-day. I never mean to let you
dress me again, and I wish you'd go away. I won't
get up with you there! I won't get up till Aunt
Dorothy comes."
CHILDHOOD.
19
This being Charity's resolution, old Betsy knew
perfectly well that, child as she was, she would ad-
here to it; therefore, leaving the shoes and stock-
ings where Charity had thrown them, at the further
end of the room, she went down stairs to get the
hot water to carry to her mistress. Whilst the
water was pouring from the copper into the can,
Betsy stood beside it with the most troubled of
faces, talking to herself according to her usual
fashion. "Well, if ever there was such a child!
Ah! we little know what's in store for us. I did
think my poor dear mistress would have had peace
for the rest of her days. I did believe this village,
where she'd found such a quiet haven after stormy
days, would have been a peaceful resting-place for
the rest of her life; but now the house is upside
down with this child, and we're all up on end with
her from morning to night. Ah! this very day it
was, seven years ago, that Martha Bryce came knock-
ing us all out of our beds, and we went down the
street, little thinking what was going to happen;
and came back with a baby; and since then, what
with one thing and another, we've had more trouble
than we'd had in all the eighteen years that had
gone before. What with the Irish nurse my mis-
tress got for the baby, and that worried my life out
before the child could speak or walk; and what with
the trouble the child has given me since I got Mrs.
Dorothy to get rid of the creature, and let me take
care of her myself, it's been something awful. My
mistress is always saying the child came to us from
20
CHARITY HELSTONE.
heaven. I can't say I see much signs of it at pre-
sent. I'm sure the kingdom of heaven isn't of such
as she, or it's a different place, indeed, from what
we're accustomed to think of it."
And thus saying, the can being full, and it never
being Betsy's custom to waste a moment, even under
the most painful of circumstances, she set off to her
mistress's room and opened the window-shutters,
feeling the most sincere regret at having to begin
the day with a fresh account of Charity's misde-
meanors.
"It's Miss Charity's birthday, Betsy," said Mrs.
Dorothy; "we must make it a happy day for her,
if we can.'
""
"Yes, ma'am, if we can," replied Betsy; "but
there doesn't seem much chance of it. Miss Charity's
in one of her tantrums, ma'am. I don't know when
I've seen her so bad; she won't get up-
"Won't get up, Betsy! and why not?"
""
"She's says, ma'am, I'm a liar!-her very word,
ma'am! Where she learns such I can't think, con-
sidering how very careful you've been over her ever
since she could speak, and never allowing her to mix
with any common children, but keeping her con-
stantly under your own eye. It's my opinion,
maʼam, she must have imbibed some of the ways
and principles of that Irish woman we had for a wet-
It is, indeed."
nurse.
Mrs. Dorothy, concerned as she was at this fresh
trouble between Betsy and Charity, could scarcely
help smiling at the pertinacity with which Retsy
CHILDHOOD.
21
would constantly refer Charity's evil ways and
doings to the wet-nurse, who had been for nearly
two years the object of Betsy's deepest aversion.
"Poor Kate O'Donnell !" said Mrs. Dorothy,
gently, "I'm afraid she has a good deal laid to her
charge in your opinion, Betsy. But, surely, we
need none of us feel any difficulty in accounting
either for our own wrong actions or those of others;
at least, not if we know anything of our own
hearts. We can find evil enough there-can we
not?-which we are quite aware in our own con-
sciences was imbibed from no nurse whatever, but
originated entirely with ourselves."
"Well, ma'am, that's true, and no denying of
it," replied Betsy: "yet surely, ma'am, there's
something about Miss Charity unlike other chil-
dren-leastways it's to be hoped there is, for the
sake of them as have large families. Just think
now, ma'am, if all the children at the Rectory
were like ours. I don't believe there'd be a scrap
of their mother left-no, I don't !"
"I'm afraid, Betsy, Miss Charity is a sad worry
to you," said Mrs. Dorothy.
"The most worry she gives me, ma'am, is in
thinking of the trouble she gives you. If it was
only for myself I wouldn't so much mind; but I
can't bear to be for ever troubling you, ma'am,
with tales of her naughtiness, and so I told her
this morning. I told her I could not bear to have
to come and complain of her the first thing in the
morning on her birthday, too."
22
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"But what was it all about, Betsy?"
"That's just what I can't say, ma'am: not a
word can I get out of her but that I'm a liar, and
she won't have anything to say to me, and does not
mean to get up till you go to her, ma'am !"
"Well, then, Betsy, the only thing is just to
leave her alone till I'm ready to go to her, and
no doubt she will soon tell me what is the matter."
Which proved to be the case, for no sooner had
she opened the door of the little room adjoining
Betsy's, where Charity slept, than the child started
up; and no sooner had Mrs. Dorothy approached
near enough to the bed to allow of her doing so,
than she threw her arms around her neck, exclaim-
ing-
"O, Aunt Dorothy, kiss me on my birthday!
I'm not going to be naughty-indeed I'm not.
Only I won't let Betsy dress me, because she told
me a lie last night; and I hate people who are
liars. She often tells lies, Aunt Dorothy, and
last night she told me a great big one, I only
found it out when I came to bed, and I made up
my mind I wouldn't speak to Betsy all to-day-no,
and not for a long time. I did, Aunt Dorothy;
indeed I did!"
:
"I dare say you did, Charity," replied Mrs.
Dorothy "little girls often make up their minds
to do a great many things which are neither wise
nor right."
"But it's right to hate liars!" said Charity.
"That is a very ugly word, Charity."
CHILDHOOD.
23
"It's in the Bible," said Charity, "and you
made me learn it one day, Aunt Dorothy, and told
me how it said there that the liars would never
go into heaven. I wish you'd make Betsy learn it
too."
Betsy never tells me untruths," said Mrs.
Dorothy.
"No, I know she doesn't; but she tells them to
me, and that's quite as bad. You know, Aunt
Dorothy, you couldn't say it wasn't a lie that day
she took me to have my tooth out when you were
ill, and she told me the man was going to put
something in my mouth that would take all the
pain away, and wouldn't hurt. I wouldn't have
minded the pain a bit, or even cried, if she'd told
me what was coming; but I wouldn't be cheated
like that-and that was a lie."
"That was a long time ago, Charity," said Mrs.
Dorothy, "and you have been very loving to Betsy
since then."
"Yes, till last night, when she told me another
lie. I'll tell you about it, Aunt Dorothy, and
then you shall say whether it wasn't even worse
than the other. You know my doll that Edward
gave me, and I wouldn't let any one but myself
touch it, because he gave it to me
well, Betsy
broke it."
"Broke your doll, Charity?"
•
"Yes, and never told me. I found it out, Aunt
Dorothy, and I'll tell you how, Last night, when
I went to read with you, I put my doll to bed, just
24
CHARITY HELSTONE.
as I always do; and don't you rememoer, Aunt
Dorothy, when we were reading, we heard a noise
in my bedroom ?”
Mrs. Dorothy did remember, and said so.
"That was when Betsy broke my doll. I know
it was.
I asked her, when she was putting me to
bed, what made that noise, and she said she was
hanging the bell on the shutter and she let it fall;
but she never told me it fell into my doll's cradle
and broke it."
"My dear Charity," said Mrs. Dorothy, "who
told you that it did so ?”
"No one told me, Aunt Dorothy; I found it
out: I always find out lies, and I always shall.
And Betsy asked you to let her go out in the
evening, after I was in bed; and she went to Mrs.
Ellis' and bought that other doll that was so like
mine-don't you remember, Aunt Dorothy, I didn't
know which to choose when Edward took me to
the shop? Betsy bought that doll, and put it into
the cradle instead of mine, and she rumpled up
the hair to make it look as if it was not quite new;
and this morning, when I woke, I took it in my
bed, and only that I found it out, I should have
kissed it just as if it had been my own darling doll
that Edward gave me a week ago. And then, if I
had found out afterwards that it wasn't my doll.
Aunt Dorothy, it was a shame, and it was a lie—
now wasn't it?"
a
Betsy did not mean it to be either a shame or a
lie, Charity," said Mrs. Dorothy; "she thought it
CHILDHOOD.
25
would make you very unhappy to know that
your new doll had been broken, and as she
knew that there was another almost exactly
like it at Mrs. Ellis', she hoped to replace it
without your having the pain of knowing that
yours was broken-if, indeed, all you suppose is
correct."
“O, it's all true, Aunt Dorothy! The moment
I found out it wasn't my doll I knew all about it,
and why Betsy looked so strange when I asked her
what made that noise while we were reading, and
why she had begged you to let her go out for half
an hour, though it was raining so hard. It was a
shame."
'Betsy did it in kindness to you."
"Then I don't think it was kindness, Aunt Doro-
thy. I hate being cheated. I never will be cheated.
If Betsy had told me she'd broken my doll. . well,
of course, I'd have been very sorry; but if I'd seen
she was sorry too, I'd have tried not even to cry to
vex her more when it wasn't her fault-of course I
would; but to go and tell me a lie, and perhaps let
me always go on loving that doll because it was the
very doll that Edward gave me, when he had never
given it to me at all, and it wasn't even the same
doll that I had promised him always to keep while
he was away in his ship—O, it was a lie!”
Aunt Dorothy could only say again that Betsy
had not meant it as such.
<<
'Well, Aunt Dorothy, you can't say it was true.
You wouldn't have done it-now would you?'
26
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Charity's large blue eyes were fixed full on Mrs.
Dorothy's face, and she knew that there was no
avoiding a question so put.
"No, Charity," she said, "I would not; but
Betsy does not see the thing in the same way as
you do. She is afraid of vexing you, and also,
Charity, of putting you into one of your passions,
which disturb the whole house, and often make me
very ill. You know, Charity, I was very ill last
night, and it has not been very pleasant for me to
be troubled as I have been this morning, especially
when it is your birthday, and I thought we were
going to have a happy day."
"I couldn't help it, Aunt Dorothy; no, I couldn't
bear for Betsy to be helping me to dress, when I
knew how she'd been cheating me."
"Charity," said Mrs. Dorothy, gravely, "you
shall begin to dress yourself to-day. You are seven
years old, and it is quite time, and I will stay here
with you; but we will not talk any more about
Betsy or the broken doll, only, when we go into my
room to say our prayer, I will give you the text
which I had chosen for your birthday."
Mrs. Dorothy was so grave that Charity attempted
no reply, but dressed herself so quietly and skil
fully that Mrs. Dorothy would have wondered to
see her, had she not known that it seemed only
necessary to tell Charity what to do, and she her-
self would find ways and means of doing it. She
followed Mrs. Dorothy into her room, and knelt
quietly by her side while she offered an earnest
CHILDHOOD.
27
birthday prayer for the orphan child whom God
had entrusted to her care, and she remained per-
fectly quiet unt.1 Aunt Dorothy said, "Here is a
birthday text for you-Charity suffereth long,
and is kind.' Ah! when will that be said of my
little Charity?"
Then, throwing her arms around her neck, the
child hugged and kissed her, exclaiming as she
did so-
"Aunt Dorothy, I will try and be patient, and
be kind to Betsy, and I'll go and pick up the
doll."
"Pick up what doll, Charity'?"
"The doll Betsy bought, and tried to cheat me
with. I threw it out of the window, Aunt Dorothy,
into the yard, that she might see it when she went
to feed the chickens, and know that it wasn't any
use to try and cheat me. But I know I was in a
great passion, and if you wish it, Aunt Dorothy, I'll
go and pick it up.”
"No, Charity, I will go myself; and you shall
stay here and ask yourself whether you think this
has been a good way for a little girl to begin her
birthday a little girl whose name is Charity, and
whose godmother gave her that name in the hope
that her character and conduct might be worthy
of it."
On reaching the bottom of the stairs Mrs. Doro-
thy was greeted by old Betsy, who, standing at the
open bark-door, was gazing with uplifted hands
into the yard. "There, ma'am, you can see for
28
CHARITY HELSTONE.
yourself the sort of a child we've got to deal with.
Just look there!" And, looking where Betsy
pointed, Mrs. Dorothy saw the shattered and scat-
tered remains of a wax-doll. "She must have
dashed it out of the window, ma'am; and got out
of bed to do it, too! though it is freezing cold.
No; there never was such a child! there doesn't
seem to be any good in her.”
"I beg your pardon, Betsy," said Mrs. Dorothy,
gravely. "Charity, like the rest of us, has her
good points as well as her bad ones. And if she
has shown some very wrong feelings this morning,
as she certainly has, I can see right ones at work,
even in the very temper she has displayed about
this unfortunate doll."
Betsy shrugged her shoulders in a way that said,
as plainly as any words could, that her mistress was
infatuated about the child. Mrs. Dorothy remarked
the action, and replied to what she knew was passing
in her servant's mind-"No, Betsy, I do not spoil
Charity; neither am I blind to her faults. Perhaps
I see them even more plainly than you do; perhaps
they grieve me even more than they grieve you.
The child is passionate to a degree, and has no self-
control whatever. Poor lamb! she is young yet,
and we learn our lessons slowly in this life; but she
has a very loving heart, and a keen sense of truth.
If she had not been so fond of her little companion
and playfellow, she would not have valued his part-
ing present as she did; and it is the truthfulness of
her character that makes her resent so keenly any
CHILDHOOD.
29
thing like pretence or deceit. You know, Betsy,
this has always been the great difficulty between
you and Charity; you try to deceive the child, and
she cannot bear deceit. She has never been able
to bear it, and she never will. I only wish, Betsy,
you would cease to think of trying to use it with
her. To say nothing of its being wrong, it is un-
wise-most unwise."
Mrs. Dorothy was not pleased, and Betsy saw it.
She did not answer a single word; but brought a
broom, and was just about to sweep up the remains
of the doll, when Charity rushed up to her, and
trying to snatch the broom from her hand ex-
claimed-"I'm going to pick it up myself, Betsy,
every bit of it. I won't let you do it. Aunt
Dorothy says it was wrong to throw it out of the
window, and I know it was. I did it in a passion,
and it's wicked to go in passions. But it was
because you told me a lie, Betsy, and I can't bear
lies. If you'd never tell me any more lies I
wouldn't get into such passions. I know I
wouldn't. But I'm sorry I vexed Aunt Dorothy
on my birthday, and I'm sorry I called you bad
names."
"Never mind that now, Miss Charity," said
Betsy, only too glad to see any prospect of sun-
shine again through the clouds; "never mind that
now, Miss Charity. And don't you be going out in
the cold after that unhappy doll. I'll pick it up,
and we'll have a nice breakfast after all. There's
a cake in the oven, Miss Charity--a beautiful
30.
CHARITY HELSTONE,
plum cake I made myself yesterday, because it
would be your birthday to-day."
"What do I care about cakes, Betsy ?" ex-
claimed Charity; "I'll pick up that doll myself."
And running into the yard before any one could
stop her, she swept together the pieces with her
little hands and putting them all into her apron,
ran into the parlor, where her aunt had already
gone. "There's the broken doll, Aunt Dorothy;
and I'm sorry I broke it. I'll try to be a better
girl; I will, indeed, because I know it makes you
unhappy; and I love you very, very much!"
And throwing her arms around Mrs. Dorothy's
neck, she hugged and kissed her until her god-
mother was fairly out of breath.
GOING TO SCHOOL.
31
CHAPTER III.
SCHOOL.
GOING TO SCH
IGHT more years have passed, and again we
meet Charity Helstone in the very spot where
last we left her, in the same old-fashioned
parlor in Aunt Dorothy's cottage, and with
the same Aunt Dorothy sitting, now as then, in
her carved arm-chair in the chimney corner.
Tears, too, are in Aunt Dorothy's eyes now, as
they were then; and evidently Charity, with in-
creasing years, has not outgrown all her troubles;
for the expression of her face is as sad now as it
was on that day eight years ago, when, after
destroying Betsy's newly purchased doll, she
knelt by her aunt in the parlor, with many pro-
testations of regret for the past, and promises
of amendment for the future. How many times
had not such confessions and such resolutions
been made during the course of the eight years
that had passed over Charity since we parted from
her; then a rosy, laughing, giddy child of seven,
to meet her again now, a tall girl, in her fifteenth
year.
We left her in great trouble, but we seem to find
her in still greater; for her face is disfigured with
32
CHARITY HELSTONE.
crying, which, judging from its traces, must have
been her chief occupation during the night that
has just passed; whilst Aunt Dorothy looks more
pale and worn herself than even eight years of
time would seem altogether to account for; and
the good maid Betsy, standing in the hall, looks
yet more distressed now than she did then. For
the sight on which she is gazing is a much more
painful one to Betsy's loving eyes than even the
sight that morning had been of the shattered doll,
with which she had so skilfully plotted to
deceive her little charge; and which well laid
plan Charity had so speedily overthrown and
punished.
Far rather would Betsy be now spending her
sighs on the same or similar sights than on the pile
of boxes heaped up this morning in the tidy hall,
evidently waiting to be carried away from the
house. Betsy seemed but little altered during the
years that had worked so great a change in
Charity. There was the same bright sparkle in
the round black eyes; the same settled red color
in the well-dried cheeks, which Charity used
laughingly to tell her were just like well-preserved
apples; the same tidy figure, in neat black gown
and print apron; and the same old way of talking
to herself when there was no one else to whom she
could talk.
"I wish to goodness he'd come, then!" she said,
opening the front-door to look down the street, and
then shutting it hastily again as the rush of cold
1
GOING TO SCHOOL.
33
wind blew in. "I wish he'd come, if he is to come,
and take the things away. And I wish it was half-
past nine o'clock, and they'd done their talk in the
parlor, and the child was fairly off. When once a
tooth is to come out. . . . well, the sooner it's out
the better. My mistress thinks she's doing wisely
in sending her to school. It's my opinion she'd
have done better to keep her at home. She's a bit
too high-spirited, I own; but that's a fault that
mends itself. It was only yesterday, when the
miller was in here with the bill, and Miss Charity
wouldn't go out of the kitchen for my bidding,
though she knew she was forbidden to stay in it,
because she happened to hear him telling me of the
accident his little Bessie had had with the mill-
wing knocking her over; she would stop and hear
all about it, until her aunt came to look for her
herself; but after she'd gone, when I made an ex-
cuse like to the miller for her being so high-spirited,
and said it wasn't a bit of good for me to speak to
her, for she was one of those who would have her
way; well, he only laughed, and said 'she was a
mighty fine young lady to look at; and we'd good
reason to be proud of her, for it was every one that
said what a pretty creature she was, and so clever
to talk to, and so good to the poor. If she was a
bit self-willed, why, that would right itself with
time.' Those were his words, and I repeated them
to my mistress, word for werd, last night; for Miller
Brown is one of her great favorites: she often says
he's as good and sensible a man as there is in the
3
34
CHARITY HELSTONE.
parish, and I hoped it might make an impression
like on her to hear what he thought about our
young lady; but it seemed to make no difference át
all. I waited to tell her till I went to put out her
candle, which I know is just the best time for saying
a word to my mistress that maybe she'll think
over; but all the answer she made was, 'Miller
Brown's colt wanted a hand to teach her and
train her to the work she had to do. But for the
training and teaching she has had, Betsy, she
would not now be of the use she is to him.' I
longed to say more, but my mistress just said,
"Now, good-night, Betsy, for I am very weary, and
my mind is full,' and so I had to come away. But
it's my opinion, that between the trouble Mrs.
Dorothy takes herself, and all the child learns up
at the Rectory, we need not have sent her away
from home just yet. As for me, I know my mis-
tress thinks I'm the great cause of all the child
does wrong, and that, so far as Miss Charity's con-
cerned, I'm nothing but an old fool. And I believe
she's not far wrong; for she's just the plague of my
life at home. And yet it breaks my heart to stand
here staring at these boxes, and think they're going
from here, and she going along with them. And
here's the man to fetch them!" And, admitting
the porter into the house, Betsy turned the force of
her words and feelings upon him, and gave him so
many injunctions as to where he was to take the
boxes, and how he was to carry them, and which
might be turned upside down, and which might not
GOING TO SCHOOL.
35
on any account whatever, that the poor man was
glad to get over his work as speedily as possible,
and set off with his truck down the frosty street.
Betsy watched him till he had turned the corner,
and then, retreating into the kitchen, sat down by
the fire-a thing she had never, perhaps, been seen
to do before five o'clock in the afternoon at earliest,
when every cup and pan had been put into its
proper place, and nothing was to be seen about but
Betsy's tidy little workbox on the well-scrubbed
deal-table-and shed the first tears that had fallen
for years. For Betsy was not given to crying.
Her joys and sorrows alike found their vent in
words, not tears. But she cried now, long and
sadly, and made no attempt to do anything else
whilst waiting for the Rectory carriage, that was to
come at half-past nine to take her young lady away
to school.
But while poor Betsy was thinking so much of
Charity, Charity was thinking very little of poor
Betsy. All her thoughts were engrossed with her
Aunt Dorothy, as, sitting on her accustomed place
on a stool at her feet, she laid her head on her
aunt's knee, and announced her intention of being
miserable at school.
(C
Then, Charity," said Mrs. Dorothy, "I shall be
miserable, too; I can never be happy unless I feel
that you are so also."
"But how can any one be happy at school?" ex-
claimed Charity, raising her head and looking at
her aunt, with the fire of her bright eyes shining
36
CHARITY HELSTONE.
through the tears that were still in them. O, how
often I've pitied those poor girls at Miss Somer's
here, walking two-and-two along the streets, like the
convicts we saw that day we went to Portsmouth!
And Miss Somer's girls are better off than I shall
be, for they do get into the fields, and see the blue
sky, and breathe the fresh air, even though it is
after the fashion of prisoners; but I, shut up in a
horrid town, perambulating through nasty streets,
with some girl as a companion that I shall be sure
to hate, just because she's forced upon me; and
obliged, I dare say, to keep my mouth shut, unless
I wish to open it to talk in a strange tongue, which
I shall hate, because I'm ordered to do it. I shall
never have a word to say if I'm made to say it, and
have to put my thoughts into a foreign grammar
and dictionary before I can utter them! Aunt
Dorothy, how can I be happy ?"
Charity, my child," said Mrs. Dorothy, "you
can be anything you choose to be anything you
make up your mind that you will be. Yours is a
decided character; you have a strong will."
"Yes, I know I have," said Charity, in her in-
genuous way. "I often wish I hadn't, for I am
sure it's given trouble enough to me, and every-
body else. But one can't make one's self happy by
willing it."
"Can't one, Charity?" said Aunt Dorothy. "I
should have thought it was one of the very things
that one could do."
"Aunt Dorothy!" exclaimed Charity; "why,
GOING TO SCHOOL.
37
are you not always saying that happiness is just
what people can't secure for themselves? Did you
not say only last night, when we were coming
home from church "--and Charity's tone was lower
and more reverent as she spoke-"did you not
say only then, Aunt Dorothy, that you liked
Mr. Saville's sermon so much, because it showed
so plainly that people could not make themselves
happy?"
Ab, Charity!" replied Mrs. Dorothy, "we were
speaking then of a higher happiness-even of that
blessed peace which none can ever taste until they
find it in Jesus, and without the possession of which
there must always-always be a blank in the
heart; since God, when He created the heart, made
a place in it for that peace of conscience which man
lost when he sinned, and can never feel again until
he repents and believes. Ah, yes! there is no true
happiness without this peace. But we were not
speaking just now of this highest happiness, but of
being happy in the common acceptation of that
much-abused word; for instance, you are happy at
home, Charity; if you were asked, you would say
very readily that you are happy here with me and
our good Betsy, and in the village, and with your
young friends at the Rectory."
"Happy, Aunt Dorothy! yes, indeed I am
happy; happy, happy! I never wish to be happier.
That is just why I am so miserable at the thought
of going away," and Charity burst into tears.
And yet," said Aunt Dorothy, passing her thin
38
CHARITY HELSTONE.
hands caressingly over the young head; "yet my
darling child knows nothing of the true happiness
which Jesus gives; the day has not come yet for
her to feel the want of it; but it will surely come,
for it comes to all, sooner or later, and often it
comes very early to those who have heads to think
and hearts to feel as you do, Charity-the day when
there is a deep gulf in the soul; a gulf so deep,
that only Jesus, the Infinite Jesus, can fill it; but
that day has not come yet for you, Charity. But
till my child needs this happiness I am afraid she
will not seek it. I was not speaking of such joy
or peace, but only of that cheerful contentment
which has been yours, Charity, at home; and which,
if you so choose, can be yours also at school."
"At school, Aunt Dorothy! in prison, with a lot
of strange companions whom I shall be sure to
hate, because they will be new!-and I hate any-
thing new-and with a gaoler of a governess over
me, whom I have never seen but once, instead of
my dear old aunt, whom I have loved all my life!"
And there were such kisses pressed on her god-
mother's hands as well-nigh overcame Mrs. Doro-
thy's resolute composure.
"The school need not be a prison, Charity, or the
girls hateful, or the governess a gaoler. They will
only be so if you make them so. We make our
circumstances; circumstances do not make us; at
least, not if we have any strength of character or
any real principle. And surely, Charity, you
would not wish me to torment myself with the
GOING TO SCHOOL.
39
thought that you, who are capable of so much
effort, are resolved now not to make any for my
sake, out of regard for me-my wishes for you-
my plans for your good?"
"Aunt Dorothy," said Charity, "what can I do?"
6
'Only, Charity, make up your mind to what must
be; set your will, so to speak, against your will;
resolve that you will subdue circumstances, not
that circumstances shall subdue you. I would add,
Charity, pray that it may be so; but you do not
yet feel your need of prayer; and a character like
yours will never truly pray until it does. You do
not care to ask for what you do not feel you want.
You told me that last night, when I spoke to you
about continuing to pray at school."
"I said I would always say my prayers, Aunt
Dorothy; even if the other girls who sleep with me
don't say theirs, I will."
"Because I wish it, Charity; because you know
it would make me yet more unhappy about you if
you did not. God grant, that ere long there may
be another and a better motive. But until the
higher motive is given, it is well to act by the
lower; and I have this one comfort about you,
Charity, that I believe that what you promise you
will perform. You have given me trouble, Charity,
often; for you have been headstrong, self-willed,
even disobedient; but thank God you have never
yet deceived me. I am not conscious that you
have ever told me a falsehood."
"No, Aunt Dorothy!" exclaimed Charity, vehe
40
CHARITY HELSTONE.
mently; "I never have; I hate lies! I will never
tell a lie-no never, so long as I live-not if it
were to save my life!"
(6
Hush, Charity!" said Mrs. Dorothy, gently;
“none can say what they may do Say that you
trust you never may-that you hope you never
may."
CC
No, Aunt Dorothy! I will say that I never will,
that I know I never shall. For it is just what I
hate most. One can't help doing other wrong
things. It's so hard to do always what one's told,
and to go only where one's allowed to go, and not
to answer again when one's scolded, especially
when it's as unjust as it can be that one should be
scolded at all; but it's so mean to tell a lie. I
can't think how any one can be so mean. I would
rather-yes, I would a great deal rather be going
away to school as I am now, than have told a lie
that day about our going to Towton, as Ellen did.
I can't think now how she could tell such a lie;
I wonder it didn't choke her. I told her so yester-
day, and Edward said I was quite right to be so
angry with her, and that he didn't mind girls, or
boys either, being high-spirited, or self-willed, but
that he hated people who told lies; they were
always great cowards, and he cordially hated
cowards."
Edward is a great oracle in your eyes, Charity,"
said Mrs. Dorothy.
Which is more than he is in yours, Aunt Doro-
thy," replied "Charity, quickly. "I don't think
1
GOING TO SCHOOL.
41
you like him at all since he has been home this
time from sea, or think at all well of him.'
Mrs. Dorothy smiled, in spite of her present
sadness, at the warmth with which Charity spoke.
"I think, Charity," she said, "in your crusade
against untruth, you sometimes forget its near
relationship to exaggeration, which you certainly
do not hold in the same abhorrence."
"O, one can't help what you call exaggerating,
-Aunt Dorothy, especially when one speaks fast, and
of something that's very much on one's mind. Be-
sides, I really do think you don't like Edward as
you used to do, or believe that there's any good at
all in him."
"Then," said Aunt Dorothy, "you think quite
wrongly, my child, as you very often do: for I
love Edward very much; and much as I love all
the Savilles, I must always love him more than
any of the others. And I think, too, there is a
great deal of good in him-a great deal, which
often makes me thank God and take courage.
Edward is affectionate, truthful, brave."
"Just what I like so much," interrupted
Charity.
"And just what I like so much too, Charity,"
continued Mrs. Dorothy. "But to be affectionate,
truthful, and brave, is not every thing."
"No; and you mean that Edward is proud, and
conceited, and likes his own way, and is obstinate,
and self-willed-very like me, Aunt Dorothy,"
again interrupted Charity.
42
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"And therefore, Charity," said Mrs. Dorothy,
"not always the best companion for you, or
certainly the best adviser. But look, here is this
very Edward!" And Charity jumped up from
her place at her aunt's feet, just in time to receive
a fine youth some two or three years older than
herself, who burst into the house, leaving the front-
door wide open behind him, and the marks of a
muddy pair of boots all along Betsy's newly-swept
passage.
Such an entrance made a sudden change in
every one's feelings and thoughts. Betsy ceased
her meditations by the kitchen fire, and came out
into the passage to shut the front-door, declaring as
she did so, that "she believed it was just because
Master Edward was at home that her mistress had
been so bad with the rheumatism: he left that
door open every time he came through it, and that
was on an average three or four times a day. She
didn't wonder Mrs. Dorothy said there was no keep-
ing Miss Charity regular at her lessons, with him
bursting in and out, whether he was asked to come
or not, and not minding a word any one said to
him!" And then Betsy retreated again into the
kitchen to get a damp duster, and wipe off the
stains the dirty boots had left on the bright-
patterned floor-cloth.
Meanwhile, Edward himself, "bursting," as
Betsy appropriately styled his manner of entrance,
into the little parlor, and falling over the footstool
which Charity had just vacated, almost into Mrs.
GOING TO SCHOOL.
43
Dorothy's lap, in his eagerness, greeted her with a
hearty kiss.
"You have nearly thrown Aunt Dorothy out of
her chair, Edward," said Charity.
"Well, it's your fault if I have, Cherrie," he re-
plied, "for leaving these horrid stumbling blocks
in one's way. I am sure you lay a snare for a fel-
low's feet, if ever any one did; for I never come
into this house but I fall over some of your foot-
stools. I suppose it's because you're always get-
ting into some fresh disgrace or other that I always
find you on the penitential stool. Well, when we
get you back from this fine-lady school, no doubt
you'll have grown too wise to get into disgrace any
more, and too old to sit on a stool at Aunt Doro-
thy's feet-eh, Cherrie ?"
"I'm afraid I shall never be too wise to get into
trouble, Edward," Charity replied, with a very
forced smile, "and I'm sure I shall never be too old
to sit at Aunt Dorothy's feet. I wished you had
not come to take away the little time I have for
sitting there now."
"Well, that's polite, I must say; and affectionate
too-isn't it, Aunt Dorothy? considering that she's
going away for six months in about five minutes,
and that I shall have gone away for nearly as
many years before she comes back. I don't think
she need grudge me five minutes of her company—
do you, Aunt Dorothy? Anyhow, Cherrie, you'll
have to put up with it, and to say good-by to Aunt
Dorothy, and come along with me, for my father is
44
CHARITY HELSTONE.
waiting for you around the corner by Bryce's
house; the streets are so slippery he was afraid to
drive up here, so he sent me to bring you. And
he told me to tell you, Aunt Dorothy, he would
come and see you after we got back from the
station. Now make haste, Cherrie, and get ready,
or you'll be late for the train."
"Put on your things, my child," said Mrs. Doro-
thy. "Give them to her, Edward-there they are
on that chair-her jacket and hat.”
"Come on then, Cherrie," said Edward; and
helping her into the warm cloth jacket, which old
Betsy's care had placed right in front of the fire,
with a gentleness which seemed somewhat inconsis-
tent with some of his former proceedings, he held
the hat in his hand and looked out of the window
whilst Charity gave Aunt Dorothy a parting kiss.
Edward's presence, however, seemed an effectual
hindrance to any last word she might have wished
to say, for she did not speak a word, but hurried
away into the passage to look for Betsy, who, how-
ever, was nowhere to be seen. Edward gave her
such a shout as might have summoned her, not
only from the most distant part of the house, but
from the furthest end of the long street; but
there was no response. "O, come along, Cherrie,
do!" he exclaimed, or we're sure to be late for
the train. There's no use calling her any more."
Well, I'm coming, Edward, only I must say
one word more to Aunt Dorothy. I won't be a
moment, if you'll stop here-do wait here, just one
"C
GOING TO SCHOOL.
45
moment." And rushing back into the little parlor,
where she found her sitting with her face resting
on both her hands, Charity threw herself on her
knees before her, pulled the hands down from the
tearful face, and covered them with passionate
kisses, exclaiming as she did so-
"O, Aunt Dorothy, I am so sorry I've been such
a wicked girl. I am so sorry I ever went to Towton,
or ever did anything to vex you. I love you, and
I'll never vex you again in all my life. I'm glad
to go to school since you wish it, and I'll be happy
there to please you, and work so hard. I'll be the
very best girl in all the school. You shall see if
I'm not. O, Aunt Dorothy, say that you love me,
and forgive me!"
But Mrs. Dorothy could say nothing, only press
her lips fervently on the child's head, and whisper
"Go, Charity, go! and God bless you, my poor,
dear child!"
"Cherrie, are you coming?" shouted Edward, and
at the sound of his approaching step Charity bounded
to her feet, and was half-way down the street, with
Edward at her side, before she well knew where she
was.
Edward drew her arm in his, and hastened on
without speaking either, till they had turned the
corner by Bryce's house, and could see the carriage
winding its way slowly up the steep hill in front of
them.
Then he slackened his pace and said--" We're in
plenty of time, Cherrie. My father's driving him-
46
CHARITY HELSTONE.
self, and he sees us; but he doesn't seem in any
hurry. I say, Cherrie," he added, "I can't help
feeling it's partly my fault that you're going away.'
"How your fault, Edward? Aunt Dorothy has.
been saying for months that she saw the time was
coming when she must send me to school."
(6
Well, but I don't think it would have come so
soon if we hadn't gone to Towton that day. How
angry Mrs. Dorothy was, to be sure!"
"I think, Edward, she was more unhappy than
angry."
"Well, unhappy then. Do you mean, Cherry,
that she had actually forbidden you to go?"
"She said," replied Charity, "when Betsy asked
her in the morning, and told her I particularly
wished to see horsemanship, because I had such a
love for horses, that it was no place for me, and she
wondered how Betsy could propose such a thing.
You know I told you so at the time, Edward. I
told you just what she had said."
Yes; and I believe it was all my fault. It was
I persuaded you, saying it was a very different thing
to go to a circus with me, your elder brother, to take
care of you, or to go with a servant like Betsy. It
was every bit my fault."
'No it wasn't, Edward. If it was any one's fault
except mine, it was more Ellen's."
Ellen's!" said Edward; "why, I am sure Nell
did her best to keep us all from going! I'oor Nell!
why we pretty near forced her to go with us. I am
sure she did her best to keep us back."
GOING TO SCHOOL.
47
"Yes," said Charity, "just in that way that always
makes me more determined to do a thing: first
preaching up about its being wrong and wicked, and
we should be unhappy afterwards, in that stupid,
weak way of hers-if she really thought it was so
wrong and wicked, why did she come with us after-
wards?—and then saying we ought to be afraid of
going, as if I would keep back from anything just
from fear! I tell you what, Edward, when I keep
from doing wrong things, it won't be because I'm
afraid of doing them. If I'm a good girl at school,
as I mean to be, it won't be because I'm afraid, as
Ellen is of being a wicked one.”
"Poor Nell!" said Edward; "you're not partial
to her."
You'd have laughed
"No," said Charity, "I'm not, because she's such
a coward. And then people praise her, and she's
considered a pattern! I've laughed many times to
hear that poor deluded Miss Danvers talk of the
difference between her and me.
too, Edward, if you'd been there. She used to take
up Ellen's conduct-book on a Saturday evening and
say, 'Now just see the difference, Miss Helstone,
between your marks and Ellen's." And then she
would tell your mother she was afraid I did not im-
prove at all; but Miss Ellen was all she could wish
-all Miss Danvers could wish, indeed, because she
has not sense to see, nor a heart to care for anything
beyond the surface; and so long as the outside of
the platter is clean, she won't take the trouble even
to look underneath to see what that may be like.
48
CHARITY HELSTONE.
If the sepulchre is only white outside, what does
she, or the like of her, care for the dead men's bones
within ?"
"You are hard upon poor Nell," said Edward,
who, fond as he was of Charity, did not quite like
to hear his sister thus dealt with.
"No, I'm not," said Charity; "I was scarcely
thinking of Ellen. I'm hard on Miss Danvers, if
you like, and on those who are like her, which I
think is the greater part of the world."
"You don't see much of the world here, Cherrie,
to be able to form so decided a judgment," replied
Edward. 'I don't suppose you've come across
more than some half-hundred of people during the
course of your long life in this large village of
ours.
""
"How you do take one up, Edward!" said
Charity, pettishly. "I believe the people one knows
are a pretty fair sample of those one doesn't know.
Isn't it said that the heart of man answereth to man,
just as the face answers to itself in the water?"
"I did not think you were as well read in your
Bible, Cherrie, as you seem to be. That is your
second quotation from it during this short walk.”
"Well, what if it is ?" exclaimed Cherrie. Then,
after a moment's pause, during which Edward was
thinking within himself that Cherrie's departure
from home seemed to be effecting some most unde-
sirable change in her usually bright temper, she
added "I tell you what, Edward; I believe it's
pretty much with books as it is with people--there
GOING TO SCHOOL.
49
are not many that speak the truth, or make things
out as they really are. And I believe the Bible is
the one book that does speak the truth, just as Aunt
Dorothy is the one person that does."
"Which is very complimentary to everybody
else," replied Edward. "You're a strange giri,
Cherrie!"
"Am I?" replied Cherrie: "well, so people seem
to think; though I'm sure I can't see what people
see strange in me, unless it is that I do speak the
truth."
"Well," said Edward, "we haven't time to discuss
the question now, Cherrie; for look, my father's
waiting for us at the top of the hill, and he'll be
wondering what we two can always find to talk
about."
"No, he won't!" said Charity; "I should think
he knew by this time that you and I had always
plenty to say to each other. You're about the only
person I do care to talk to, Edward-I mean, to
have long chats with-except Aunt Dorothy and
the miller."
"Well," said Edward, and his light, cheerful
manner barely concealed an undertone of deep sad-
ness; "well, Cherrie, the miller-poor old fellow!
-will have you all to himself when you come
home in six months' time. I shall be far enough
away then, and by the time I come back, some
years hence, I must expect to find you and every-
thing else changed."
"Then," said Charity, "you expect wrong. I
:
4
50
CHARITY HELSTONE.
can't say what other things or other people may do,
but as far as I am concerned, Edward, I shall
never change. When I like people once, I like
them always. If I didn't, then I should never
have really liked them at all."
But just at that moment the young people
reached the top of the hill, and after receiving a
somewhat mild reprimand from the good Rector,
on keeping him waiting as usual, they set off at a
brisk pace for thẻ station.
NEW COMPANIONS.
CHAPTER IV.
NEW COMPANIONS.
N the evening of the same day, a group of
girls might have been seen standing around a
wide fire-place in a long school-room, warm-
ing their hands in turn; and as they did so,
chatting together at a speed which seems peculiar
to school-girls' tongues.
A most diverse group they were, as is usually the
case,—some tall, some short; some fair, some dark;
some with grave, earnest faces, which told that the
young brain was already engaged in its own busy
work, and the young heart had its own feelings
hidden away out of sight. Others, and perhaps
these were the greater number, with that listless
indifference of countenance which said that,
although for the moment they were roused to inter-
est in the subject under discussion, the interest
would pass away with the moment. One name
was frequently repeated, the name of "Charity
Helstone," as the girls discussed, as school-girls
will, the appearance, manners, dress, and voice of
the new companion who had that day joined them,
and speculated concerning what her antecedents
might have been, and what were her capabilities.
52
CHARITY HELSTONE.

"Such a name!" exclaimed one girl; "how
could my people in their senses ve a child such a
namas Charity! One would thick she had been
found on a door-step, or taken out a hospital;
and I'm sure she looks as miserable as if he hadn't
a friend or a penny in the world."
And as proud as if she had a fortune at com
mand, and had been accustomed to be monarch of
all she surve replied another. "I can't say
much for your discernment, Ellinor, if you thin
this girl looks like a charity-child, whatever her
name may be For my part I think she looks
more like a queen.


>>
The greater number of the girls agreed with
this latter opinion, and Ellinor Temple replied,
in somewhat a discomfitted manner, that she
'had not said that she looked humble, only that
she looked miserable-as if she had not a friend
in the world."
“Or perhaps,” added a third speaker, "as if she
had some very dear friend whom it had made her
very unhappy to leave: may not that be it ?"
The voice that asked this question was so low
and gentle, that it might been thought it would
have had small chance of making itself heard
amidst the buzz of loud and eager talkers,
especially as the speaker stood behind the other
girls, at a little distance from the fire, round
which most of them were crowding. Yet, at the
sound of Helen Anstruther's gentle voice the girls
stopped their loud talking for an instant, as if any-
NEW COMPANIONS.
53
thing Helen said ought surely to be listened to, and
one of them replie
"I dare say she has, poor thing! and perhaps
she has never been to school before. I know I was
wretched enough the first day I came. But it's
very different now, when one has old friends to re-
tusio as well as to leave. I'm sure I wouldn't be
hed on the poor girl, though she does look so
miserable. She isn't meeting old friends in her
Companions, as the rest of us are.


66
Well, then, let us try to make her feel that
she is going to make new ones," replied Helen,
gaily. "She will be back in a few minutes. Shall
we clear a place for her by the fire? It must
have been cold work travelling by the night-train
this weather. She lives, no doubt, some distance,
to arrive so late.”
Several of the girls moved back from the fire at
Helen's words, and as they did so, Ellinor Temple
pushed forward a little girl, who was really almost
too small to be seen amongst such a crowd of larger
ones, saying, in her rapid way,
'Why! fancy your stopping up till these hours,
little Alice! Miss Mowbray must have forgotten
you in her anxiety about the new girl's not getting
lost or frost-bitten before she arrived, or she would
never have left you up till nine o'clock. And you
must be frozen yourself out there, with everybody
between you and the fire."
"No I'm not, Ellinor," replied the child. "I've
been sitting on Helen's lap, and she has rubbed my

54
CHARITY HELSTONE.
hands till they're quite warm. I tried to get by
the fire, only there was no room for me; but
Helen said she'd warm my hands by rubbing them,
and that was better for my chilblains. And Miss
Mowbray told me I was to sit up till the now
girl came, that she might see us altogether when
she arrived. And here she is coming-isn't she,
Helen ?"
"Yes, dear," said Helen; "and you are opening
your little sleepy eyes to stare at her. I do pity a
new girl arriving amongst so many strangers. It is
such trying work."
Certainly, Charity Helstone loooked as if she found
it so, for as she entered the room with Miss Mowbray
she scarcely raised her eyes. Had her old friend the
miller seen her then, he would not have known her
again, and Edward would not have been quite cer-
tain whether to laugh or cry at the demure face
which Charity presented to her companion, and the
low voice with which she replied to Miss Mowbray,
and said, in answer to her question, "whether she
would like to come down to the parlor with her
now, or remain in the school-room till the supper-
bell rang," that "she thought she would rather stay
in the school-room, if she might."

"Then," said
Mowbray, "I will introduce
you to Helen Am nuther, who is the eldest of our
party now, and leave her to introduce you to your
other new comparatomst
Helen Anstruther came forward, and Charity
shook hands with her, with an evident effort at so-
I
NEW COMPANIONS.
55
ciability, and thanked the girls when they asked,
as Miss Mowbray left the room, "if she had not
found the journey very cold," and made room for
her by the fire. But Charity had never been ac-
customed to strangers; she scarcely knew, indeed,
what it was to see a face or hear a voice with which
she had not been familiar from childhood; and a
strange inability to speak now took possession of her,
which was really shyness, though it looked to most
of the girls more like pride or coldness. A most
uncomfortable five minutes followed; when the
silence was broken by Ellinor Temple's saying, that
"this time Miss Mowbray had surely forgotten little
Alice, for she was certain she never meant her to
sit up for supper."
"No," said Helen Anstruther; "it is my fault.
Miss Mowbray told me she was to go to bed after
Miss Helstone had arrived. Come, Alice, dear,
make haste and wish good-night; there will be time
still for me to go up with you. Miss Mowbray said
supper would not be ready for a quarter of an
hour."
The child went round the little circle, wishing
good-night to one after another, until she came to
Charity, when she stopped doubtfully, and looked
at Helen, as if asking her insinuations as to what
she ought to do.
"Will you not wish Miss Hoone good-night,
too?" said Helen; and le girl held out her

hand.
"Will you not give me a kiss, too?" said Charity;
56
CHARITY HELSTONE.
and the child put up her face at once. It was a
sweet. little face, with bright blue eyes and rosy lips,
and at sight of it the first warm feeling that Charity's
heart had known that dreary day passed across it.
"You must not call me Miss Helstone," she said :
"my name is Charity, but they call me Cherrie:
you must call me Cherrie, too."
"What a funny name!" exclaimed the child.
"Isn't it a funny name, Helen?-like a cherry!"
and she laughed merrily.
Helen looked rather grave, and several of the
elder girls made her reproving signs. But to their
surprise Charity laughed too, and gave the child
another kiss, saying,
"Yes, it is a funny name; and you are a good
little thing to say what you think about it. Now
mind you don't forget it and always call me by it."
"Yes, I will," said the child, quickly; it's a very
pretty name, and I like it. Don't you, Helen ?”
"I think Miss Helstone will think you a very
funny little girl, Alice," said Helen. "Now come
to bed, or you'll have to go without me."
'O! I won't do that," said Alice, quickly, "be-
cause I am afraid to go along the passage.
"" And
she put her hand in Helen's, to be led away; look-
ing back, however, when she came to the door, with
the most wakeful of blue eyes, and saying, in the
most roguish of voices,-"Good-night, everybody!
Good-night, Cherrie!"
“What a dear little thing!" said Cha :ity; "and
what a pretty child! How old is she?"
1
!

NEW COMPANIONS.
57
"Only six," said Ellinor: "and she's been sadly
spoiled. Helen Anstruther does the best she can
for her, but there's no taming her spirits."
•
S
to
"So much the better, I should think," said
Charity. "I suppose Miss Austruther is her sister ?"
"O, no!" replied Ellinor. The child's name is
Rhodes-Alice Rhodes; and she's an only child—a
niece of Miss Mowbray's. Her father is a planter
in the West Indies, and he's a widower. The
mother died when this little creature was born, and
she's been running wild among the sugar-caness
the negroes till now, when he has sent her
Miss Mowbray to be educated. Miss Mowbray never
takes such little things as she is; but the child's
mother was her only sister, and she is her aunt, and
so she has made an exception in favor of her, and
that is how we come to have the queer little crea-
ture amongst all of us big girls. She's a terrible
nuisance to every one but Helen Anstruther, who
seems as fond of her as though she were her own
sister; though why she should be I can't make
out."
"I should think," said Charity, shortly, "it was
not difficult to be fond of such a dear little soul as
that, with those eyes, and that rosy mouth, and that
sweet little voice."
Ellinor laughed, and two or three of the girls
joined in the laugh. "Wait a little," she said,
"till you find the blue eyes peering into everything
they have no business to see, and the rosy mouth
and sweet voice uttering all sorts of impertinences;

ඒ
58
CHARITY HELSTONE.
and then, perhaps, Miss Helstone, you'll change
your mind about little Miss Alice."
But just at this moment the return of Helen
Anstruther interrupted the conversation, and a large
bell in the hall making itself heard almost imme-
diately afterwards, the girls went down together to
supper, Helen showing Charity the way to the long
dining-room.
To her great regret, Charity discovered that
Ellinor Temple, for whom she had at once formed
a dislike, was to share her room, and not Helen An-
struther, as she had hoped it might be. Ellinor was
inclined to be very conversational as they were un-
dressing, but Charity had relapsed into more than
her former reserve and silence, and the conversation
being all on one side soon fell to the ground. It
did not end, however, before Ellinor had given
Charity certain pieces of information which she
had heard and understood, though without appear-
ing to pay much attention to them. From her
Charity learned that Helen Anstruther was con-
sidered the good girl of the school-that she was
high in favor with Miss Mowbray-that Miss Mow-
bray was awfully strict and particular, but very
just, and kind enough when everything went right
-that the German governess "cheat" and a
"humbug," and she did not know how Miss Mow-
bray could put up with here-that old Mrs. Mow-
bray was the most cross, disagreeable old lady it
was possible to see, and hard upon every one ex-
cept little Alice Rhodes, whom she spoiled out-
•

1
NEW COMPANIONS.
59
·
rageously, and that it was quite absurd to see the
amount of respect which Miss Mowbray expected
the girls to pay to her old mother-that the
lessons were very hard, and the masters, most of
them, very cross; and that the only nice lessons
were the music and dancing when they went to
classes, and saw something of the world outside.
From all Ellinor said, Charity saw plainly that
she could scarcely have met with a companion less
congenial to her taste, and she longed ardently for
her own little bedroom at home, and for the com-
panionship of her dear Aunt Dorothy.
Ellinor Temple went to rest without reading,
after a few hurried moments of kneeling by her
bedside, whilst Charity could not help wondering
whether she could possibly have had time to repeat
the Lord's Prayer. Charity took her little Bible
from her travelling bag and read the usual chapter
-a happier feeling coming over as she did so, and
remembered that Aunt Dorothy would read the
same chapter that same evening. Then she knelt
reverently, and repeated the prayers which, from
childhood, she had been used to say.
Ellinor marked it all; and the next day informed
the girls in the schoolroom that she believed the
new girl would out to be as religious as Helen
Anstruther herself.
Some one repeated the remark
to Helen, and a thankful feeling rose in Helen's
heart as she heard that there was to be now some
one besides herself in the school who felt the value
of prayer, and loved to read the words of her God.
60
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Helen felt drawn to Charity at once, and longed
for some opportunity of entering into more intimate
conversation with her; but Charity remained quiet
and silent, and did not appear desirous of making
friends with any one.
At length, however, the opportunity seemed to
present itself. Helen had been sent one morning
by Miss Mowbray to desire Charity to go and speak
to her, in the half-hour between breakfast and
lessons. Charity was not in the school-room; and,
on seeking her in her own room, Helen found her,
with her Bible open before her, reading. She
delivered Miss Mowbray's message, then could not
refrain from adding, as she cast her eyes on the open
Bible, "It is a great help and comfort-is it not?
—especially when one is away from all one's own,
and has nowhere else to go to." Charity looked at
her with her large, truthful eyes, and said, quietly,
"I dare say it is to you; I can't say I find it so."
Helen looked astonished.
"But you love your Bible?" she said; “you read
it every day?"
"No," said Charity, "I do not love it. I read it
because I promised Aunt Dorothy I would; other-
wise I shouldn't read it." And, passing quietly by
Helen, she ran down the stairs to Miss Mowbray's
sitting-room.
1
རྞ་
A SUDDEN DISCOVERY.
61
CHAPTER V.
A SUDDEN DISCOVERY,
COME months had passed away, and Charity
Helstone was fully settled at school, and as
happy there as she had made up her mind she
would be. Miss Mowbray was all that Mrs.
Dorothy had supposed her to be when she intrusted
Charity to her charge; and several of the girls,
Helen Anstruther especially, loved her dearly.
But it was not Charity's way to love, either very
frequently or very quickly, or, indeed, to attach
herself to any one, unless there were some peculiar
attraction to draw her either in the way of mind,
person, or circumstance. A peculiarly lovely face
would attract her attention at once, even at church,
so that it was with difficulty that she could with-
draw her eyes from it; whilst her busy mind would
be wondering who such a face could belong to, and
imagining the home, the friends, the circumstances
connected with it. Or a very superior mind had
power to attract her, and she would listen for hours
to conversation which excited and interested her,
and feel drawn to one who had such power to rouse
and warm the soul of another. Whilst early associa-
tion exercised its influence over her as strongly as
62
CHARITY HELSTONE.
it does over most of us, and she loved Betsy and the
miller, and Mr. and Mrs. Saville, and the rest of
the family at the Rectory-all of them, indeed, ex-
cept Edward, whom she loved because she loved
him-not so much for anything in themselves, or
for anything they had ever been to her, but be-
cause she had known them all her life, and their
faces, voices, and ways, were bound up with every
early habit and action of her own life-so bound
up, that they could never be separated from it.
But Miss Mowbray neither fascinated her by her
beauty nor attracted her by her brilliancy, nor was
she in any way connected with her early associa-
tions. She was only, therefore, in Charity's eyes, a
kind, clever, excellent governess, whom she had
met for the first time in her life a few months since,
and from whom she would part very willingly a
few months hence. Helen Anstruther's devotion
seemed to her somewhat absurd, as Helen had not
been very long at school, and therefore so strong
an affection seemed strange to Charity. But it
was no business of hers, and she made no remark
upon it.
The midsummer holidays drew near, and Charity
was almost as much a stranger at school as she had
been on her first arrival there, and none of the girls
seemed able to make her out. Miss Mowbray her-
self could not tell what to make of her quiet ways,
and steady attention to her studies, and careful
observance of every rule of the school; for she had
been prepared by Mr. Saville, who had come up to
"
2.

A SUDDEN DISCOVERY.
63*
London to make the necessary arrangements for
placing Charity with her, for a very different charge
and a very different conduct.
Mr. Saville had described her as possessing a sin-
gularly unbroken spirit, and as having been, un-
happily, but too little accustomed to anything like
either discipline or regularity; but the oldest and
best trained of her pupils did not pay more scrupu-
lous attention to rules and regulations than did
Charity Helstone, and that from the very first.
Mr. Saville had pronounced her to be impulsive,
self-willed, and passionate, but Miss Mowbray
found her calm, most willing to listen to all that
was told her, and apparently caring too little about
everything to excite herself about anything. Mr.
Saville had also declared that she was most warm-
hearted and affectionate,, but she appeared indiffer-.
ent to every one except the child Alice, who, from
the first day, seemed to have excited an interest in
her, which was daily increasing and strengthening.
That first night, when at length Ellinor Temple's
voice had ceased, and Charity laid her tired head on
her pillow, and the events of the long day passed
uninvited across her mind, the only one of the
many new faces she had seen which had stamped
its image on her mind was the laughing, dimpled
countenance of little Alice Rhodes, and the only
voice that had repeated its echoes on her tired ear
was the merry tone of the saucy child, as she looked
back from the door, and wished her good-night.
And next morning, when she awoke to the unplea-
64
CHARITY HELSTONE.
sant consciousness that she must go down-stairs and
meet a number of strange faces, to whom she was
nothing, and who were just nothing to her, it was
with a feeling of satisfaction that she recollected little
Alice's sweet face, and recalled the clear, truthful
tones of the child's voice-a poor little thing, too,
who had no mother, and whose father was many
long miles away; an untamed, joyous little crea-
ture, who must feel like an imprisoned bird in that
dull school. Charity's heart, cold as it felt to
everything else, warmed to the little Creole, and it
was in her defence that she first showed the girls
of Miss Mowbray's school, as Ellinor Temple after-
wards expressed it, "the real sort of stuff she was
· made of."
But this was not until after the midsummer holi-
days had come and gone. Very pleasant holidays
had they been, yet was Charity not unwilling to re-
turn to school, and the advantages she was enjoying
there, albeit she felt the same dislike to Ellinor
which that talkative young lady had from the first
inspired in her mind.
It was on a pleasant afternoon, a few weeks after
Charity Helstone's return to school, that the girls
were all assembled, as usual, in the school-room
after dinner, amusing themselves as best they liked
in the half-hour before lessons. Helen Anstruther
writing, some few working, others reading, but the
greater part chatting and doing nothing. Little
Alice was standing close to the open window by
Charity's side, who was reading quietly and taking
A SUDDEN DISCOVERY.
65
little notice of what was going on, either within or
without the room, until she, as well as the other
girls, were suddenly aroused by little Alice's calling
out, with all the strength her small lungs were capa-
ble of exerting, "Stop thief! stop thief!" As
Alice's eyes were turned toward the garden over
which the window looked, every one else turned
their eyes in the same direction also; but no one
was to be seen there but Fraulein, the German
governess, who was the object of general dislike to
the greater number of them. She, too, heard
Alice's cry, and laying down the basket which she
was filling with gooseberries, she was evidently
about to inquire into the cause of such an unusual
alarm, when little Alice called out again, louder
than before, "Stop thieves !"
"Miss Alice Rhodes!" exclaimed the poor little
German woman, speaking in the worst possible
English in her excitement, "Miss Alice Rhodes!
if any one have stolen you anything you may com-
plain to Miss Mowbray; but you are not to call
out 'Stop thief!' like that, for all the neighborhood
to think we are a set of thieves."
"I'm speaking to you, Fraulein," exclaimed the
saucy child, as gravely as possible.
"To me, Miss Alice Rhodes! what dare you mean
by that?"
"Yes, Fraulein, to you. I say 'Stop thief!' to
you, for stealing Miss Mowbray's gooseberries."
"Miss Alice Rhodes, you pay for this!" ex-
claimed the angry governess, drawing nearer to the
5
66
CHARITY HELSTONE.
window and raising her voice at each step, until
Miss Mowbray herself, disturbed by the noise, came
into the school-room to inquire into the cause of it.
She was answered by a shower of words from poor
Fraulein, who, entering the school-room through
the open window at the same moment as Miss Mow-
bray came into it by the door, poured forth her
complaints against little Alice Rhodes.
"She was
the most wicked, the most impertinent of children-
she would not stay in that house to be insulted by
every badly behaved child that came into it-she
had accused her of stealing--she had called her a
thief!"
Miss Mowbray looked at Alice, who stood by
Charity's side, the heightened color in her cheeks
and the extreme quiet of her manner showing that
she felt a little fear as to what the result of her
conduct might be, though a certain twinkling in
her blue eyes showed that she was amused as well
as uneasy. But she attempted no denial of Frau-
lein's accusation, and Miss Mowbray, turning to
Helen Anstruther, said, "Helen, what is all this
about?"
(C
Really, ma'am," said Helen, who, like the
others, had risen from her desk when Miss Mow-
bray came into the room, "really I don't know. I
was writing over here, when I heard Alice calling
out 'Stop thief!' but I thought she was playing,
talking to the bees, or the birds, until I heard
Fraulein answering her. I had not an idea till
then that she was speaking to Fraulein.”
A SUDDEN DISCOVERY.
67
"Nor was she, probably," said Miss Mowbray,
quietly, and with a sign of her hand silencing
the excited governess, who was about to pour
forth a fresh volley of words. "Who saw what
happened?" she asked. "What was the child
playing at?"
A hope of escaping punishment had arisen in
little Alice's mind, when she saw the view which
Miss Mowbray was inclined to take of the matter;
but it died out again, as Charity came forward and
said,
"I saw the whole, ma'am; but Alice was not
playing at anything."
"Then what was she doing?" asked Miss Mow-
bray.
"She was watching Fraulein gathering the goose-
berries," replied Charity.
"Well!" exclaimed Fraulein, "and, Miss Mow-
bray, did she not ask me, in the presence of all
the young ladies, to gather the gooseberries? Did
she not say once, when we arose from the table-
Fraulein, will you do me the favor to gather me a
basket of the ripest gooseberries?' I ask, did she
not?"
She stopped to draw breath, and Charity con-
tinued, as quietly as though she had not been inter-
rupted,
"Alice was here, ma'am, in the window with me,
and she had just asked me whether I had heard
you desire Fraulein to eat three gooseberries for
every one she put in the basket ?”
68
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"Which was an exceedingly impertinent re-
mark," said Miss Mowbray, "and one which you.
ought to have known you should not have en-
couraged the child to make.”
"I thought," said Charity, her quick temper
rising at the reproof, the first she had received since
she came to school, "I thought, ma'am, that it was a
very true one."
And little Alice, gathering courage from Charity's
example, burst forth vehemently,-"You know,
Aunt Mary, you told me the other day, when I was
in the garden, that I mustn't touch your fruit with-
out your leave. You know you said you would
call it stealing." And the excited child burst out
crying.
"We will talk of this elsewhere," said Miss
Mowbray. "Helen, take Alice to her room until
I can attend to her. Fraulein, you will speak with me
in my study?" And she left the room, the little
German lady following her; not, however, without
casting a withering glance at Charity.
•
"She won't forget the good turn you've done
her," exclaimed one or two of the girls "she'll find
some way of paying you off."
"Will she?" said Charity, quietly: "I'm sure
she's quite welcome" And, resuming her book,
she continued her reading in the window-seat.
The girls were right. Fraulein did not forget
the turn Charity had done her, and from that day
she sought in every possible way to annoy her.
But Charity Helstone seemed quite beyond the
A SUDDEN DISCOVERY.
69
reach of annoyance. She had wrapped herself
around in such an impenetrable case of quiet in-
difference, that all Fraulein's efforts failed to take
the smallest effect. Her exercises were always
wrong, her compositions never gave satisfaction.
Charity corrected the exercises and rewrote the
compositions with the most unfailing good-humor,
or rather, with the most perfect absence of ill-
humor. The other girls hated Fraulein, and were
constantly getting into trouble for insubordination
or impertinence towards her. But Charity, whom
she seemed steadily to seek to provoke, was unpro-
vokable. Ellinor Temple had asked her one day
"whether she did not think Fraulein the most pro-
voking person on earth," and Charity had quietly
replied, "she really had not thought about it...
yes, she did seem very disagreeable; but, so far as
she was concerned, it was all one to her; she did
not care about it."
Ellinor repeated these words to her companions,
adding, "Do you know, I don't think she cares for
anything."
"No, that she doesn't," replied another girl. "I
think she's the most haughty, selfish, disagreeable
girl in the world. She's been here more than six
months, and we don't know her a bit better than we
did the day she came. I can't make her out, and I
wish she were gone."
To which there was a general assent from every
one but Helen Anstruther, to whom Ellinor Tem-
ple consequently addressed herself, asking her
70
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"whether she liked her, whether she understood
her better than they did?"
"No, indeed," said Helen, "I do not understand
her at all; but I'm sure she has a great deal in her.
I don't think any one ever had such eyes who had
not a heart as well: perhaps, when she knows us all
better, she may warm towards us. Miss Mowbray
thinks she is painfully shy."
"Shy!" replied Ellinor, "when she stands up as
she does before Miss Mowbray to say her lessons,
and speaks out as she does sometimes! Just see
how she comes into a room, or walks up the aisle
in church !"
"I think," said Helen, "she's proud as well as
shy, and that when people are both very proud and
very shy it gives them just that manner she has.
Miss Mowbray was saying the other day, that what
makes some people seem so strange, and prevents
one's being able to make them out, as we call it, is
just from their having different qualities in their
character, which are opposite to one another, and
act independently of each other perhaps at the very
same time."
"O," said Ellinor, "you use such fine words,
Helen, there's no understanding what you mean!"
Helen laughed. "I didn't mean to use fine
words, Ellinor; I only repeated what Miss Mow-
bray said to me. It seemed very clear, and it
helped me to understand Charity better than I did
before. I think her shyness keeps her back from
making friends with us, and her pride makes her
A SUDDEN DISCOVERY.
71
determined that we shall not think her shy, and
gives her that haughty manner."
"O," said one of the girls, "that's just like you,
Helen; covering up everybody's faults with some
excuse or other! For my part, I think her shyness
is just ill-temper, and nothing else; and as for her
pride, it ought to be taken out of her; and Fraulein
says she never means to rest till she has found some
way of taking her down."
"I think," said Helen, the color rising in her
cheek, "that Fraulein ought to-be ashamed of her-
self for saying so. I'm sure if Miss Mowbray
knew how she behaved to Miss Helstone, she would
be very seriously angry."
"Well," said one of the girls, "you'd better tell
her, since you're so intimate with her."
66
I'm not at all sure," Helen replied, quickly,
"that I ought not to do so." And she left the
room.
"She's an odd compound herself," said Ellinor,
as the door closed. "See how angry she is now!
and how angry she always gets when Fraulein goes
on trying to provoke Charity Helstone! and yet, if
you were to teaze her, or do anything to annoy her,
she would be as meek as a lamb. Did you see how
she flushed up about Charity ?"
"Because she thinks it a shame for Fraulein to
teaze her as she does," exclaimed little Alice
Rhodes, who, having been punished for her im
pertinence to the German governess, was quite will-
ing now to put her word in. "Helen is good and
72
CHARITY HELSTONE.
-
kind, and she thinks it very wicked to be as cruel
to any one as Fraulein is to Miss Helstone. Helen
was ready to cry yesterday about it, and when I
asked her if it did not make very angry, she said,
'Yes, she couldn't help being angry when she saw
any one unkindly treated.' And she said, too,
that she thought such things ought to make one
angry, only that one must remember the verse in
the Bible that said, 'Be ye angry, and sin not.'
That is what Helen said, and I think she's very
good and kind, and Fraulein's very cruel and
wicked."
At that moment Fraulein, entering the room,
caught the sound of her own name, and hastily in-
quired "who was talking of her, and what they
were saying?" No one liked to bring little Alice
into fresh trouble with the irritable little lady, and
some one of the girls tried to turn off the matter by
saying that "it was nothing; they had only said
that Fraulein did not like Miss Helstone."
"Like Miss Helstone!" exclaimed Fraulein.
"No, indeed! she should very much wish to know
who would like Miss Helstone-a proud, disagreea-
ble girl like that, who cares no more for what you
do or say, than if she were a rock in the sea that
just let the waves dash over it, and then look just
like the same it did before-quite unmoved--as
much as to say to the waves, 'You give yourselves
a great deal of trouble, but you hurt not me once;'
that provoked her more than anything-to find
fault and reprove, and no notice taken-no, not
/
A SUDDEN DISCOVERY.
73
more than to lay a little cane on the back of the
rhinoceros. That was just like Miss Helstone; no
more moving her than the rock in the sea-no more
making her feel than the rhinoceros. She never
saw such pride-and for what? Who was she,
that she should give herself such airs? Fraulein
did not know, and she did not believe any one knew.
For she had asked Miss Mowbray who Miss Hel-
stone was, and she could not tell her. There was
some secret, she saw that. Miss Mowbray did not
like that question. She asked who Miss Helstone's
parents were, and she could get no answer. Miss
Mowbray tried to turn off the question, but Frau-
lein would not be turned off. She put it again, and
then Miss Mowbray drew herself up, and look
grand, and say she does not see that it concerns any
one to inquire into the family affairs of the young
ladies. That was quite enough; she could see very
well there was something better kept secret; she
doubt very much whether any one knew, in that
school, who are Miss Charity's parents: perhaps
Miss Charity, proud as she is, may not know that
one thing herself."
But at that moment a general consternation fell
on every one; for, standing in the doorway, was
Charity herself. That she had heard Fraulein's last
words was evident enough from the ashy paleness of
her countenance; but what impression it had made
upon her it would have been impossible to say.
She uttered no word, but stood for a second or two
in the open doorway, pale as death; no color re-
74
CHARITY HELSTONE.
maining even in her lips, but as motionless as the
rock to which Fraulein had compared her. For
an instant she seemed doubtful whether to enter
the room or not. Then, coming steadily forward
with a firm step, she approached the book-case, ran
her eye along the shelves till she found the book
she wanted, took it down, and left the room with it.
No one spoke till she was out of sight and
hearing; then every one began to reproach the
other. Fraulein accused Ellinor, and Ellinor
upbraided little Alice; and Fraulein went into a
passion, and Alice sobbed; and there was a general
commotion in the schoolroom, which was only sub-
dued by the dressing-bell ringing for tea, and
every one feeling the necessity of recovering self-
control before they should again meet Miss Mow-
bray, and yet more, Charity Helstone.
Meanwhile, Charity herself went quietly to her
room; her knees were trembling in a strange way,
and she felt as if the weather had changed sud-
denly back to winter from the bright summer day
it had been before, she felt so cold as she opened
her desk and sat down to write. But there was no
time to lose. It wanted but ten minutes to tea-
time; and if her letter was not put into the plate
before tea it would not go by that day's post. There
was not a moment to spare. She wrote as hur-
riedly as she could but in her own clear, decided
writing
"MY DEAR AUNT DOROTHY,-Who were my
A SUDDEN DISCOVERY.
75
parents-my father and my mother? how were
they connected with you? You remember my
asking you to tell me all about them once, when we
were coming home from the church-yard and your
saying you could not then, but you would some
day. I saw it made you unhappy to be asked, and
I thought it was because you loved my mother so
very much that it grieved you to talk of her, and I
did not like to grieve you. But now, Aunt Doro-
thy, I must know all-everything-by return of
post.
Your loving,
CHARITY."
She was about to sign herself "niece," as usual,
but something prevented her adding the latter epi-
thet, and she omitted the "Helstone." Then, seal-
ing and stamping her letter with a firm hand,
though a very pale face, she ran down stairs just as
the bell for tea rang, and put it into the plate on
the hall-table as she passed into the dining-room.
Miss Mowbray was crossing the hall at the moment,
and remarked, as they all sat down to tea, "I
thought, Charity, you told me you were not going
to write letters to-day; you said you were too busy
preparing your composition for M. Perrot, and were
looking for a book to help you not a quarter of an
hour ago?" Charity looked up, and saw that
Fraulein's eyes were fixed upon her. A slight
flush passed over her face, but she replied very
quietly, "Yes; but I changed my mind afterwards,
and wrote to my aunt.
76
CHARITY HELSTONE.
CHAPTER VI.
A LETTER ANSWERED.

RS. DOROTHY was seated in her arm-chair
by the window the next afternoon, and Mr.
Saville was sitting with her. It was a lovely
day, and the window was open. Mrs. Doro-
thy loved to hear the birds sing, and feel the fresh
breezes blow in upon her. It all reminded her so
much of Charity, who was so fond of sunshine and
summer, and the free, happy, out-door life they
brought with them. She and Mr. Saville had been
talking of Charity, and Mrs. Dorothy was conse-
quently in her most cheerful spirits; for to talk of
Charity was, to her, just what talking of those we
love best to those who love them also, and ap-
preciate our love for them, is to most of us— -life
and strength. And the news from Charity con-
tinued so good-there had been such a charming
letter from her only two days ago-such a pleasant
account of her from Miss Mowbray the very day
before, that Mrs. Dorothy had much to tell Mr.
Saville about their common godchild, when their
conversation was interrupted by the unexpected
sound of the postman's knock.
It was evidently as unexpected to Betsy in the
A LETTER ANSWERED.
77
kitchen as it was to her 1istress in the parlor; for,
though Mr. Saville had gone himself to open the
door on Mrs. Dorothy's exclaiming, with evident
anxiety, "A letter to-day! I trust the child isn't
ill-that there's nothing the matter!" Betsy
had reached the door before him; and it was
from her hands that Mr. Saville received the note
Charity had penned so hurriedly the day before.
"From our young lady, sir," she said, in the quiet
way in which Betsy was never known to speak,
save when there was some agitating feeling at work
within, which she was conscious must be kept down
by external force. "From our young lady, sir;
and we heard on Monday-and she seldom writes
more than once a-week!"
Well, Betsy, she writes herself," said the Rec-
tor, "so she is not ill. She has some question to
ask, no doubt; but your mistress will tell us."
And he carried the letter into the parlor.
Yes, indeed, Charity had a question to ask.
And how was that question to be answered? Mrs.
Dorothy put the letter into Mr. Saville's hands,
and they both sat very long, anxiously discussing
the matter; not, however, without Betsy's impa-
tience having brought her into the parlor to in-
quire if Miss Charity was ill. "No, not ill-quite
well," Mrs. Dorothy said; and that was a relief to
Betsy. She saw that there was trouble from her
mistress's face and voice, but that did not much
surprise her. Betsy's only surprise had been that
the trouble had not come before. She was fully
78
CHARITY HELSTONE.
prepared to hear now that there had been some
outbreak with the music master, or the French
master, since her return, and that, perhaps, Miss
Charity was to be dismissed from school; and
Betsy returned to her work with the comfortable
feeling, that if this were the case they would,
at least, have the great satisfaction of having
their darling, Miss Charity Helstone, back again
with them.
Meanwhile Mrs. Dorothy and Mr. Saville con-
sidered and reconsidered what answer must be sent
to Charity "by return of post."
"I wish we had taken your advice," said Mr.
Saville, "and told her the whole truth before she
left. I feel very much to blame for having pre-
vented your doing so."
"There is no use in lamenting the past," said
Mrs. Dorothy, softly. "You gave me such advice as
seemed best to you, and it was my own decision to
adopt it; though I have always found that with
Charity simple truth, however painful, is what she
can best endure."
"I wonder," said Mr. Saville, "that she had not
mooted this question long before, and insisted on
discovering the truth."
But
"She would have done so," replied Mrs. Dorothy,
"had her mind ever been disturbed about it.
it never has been. Charity, you know, has such a
truthful nature. She is not at all a child to suspect
evil, or imagine things different from what they
appear to be."
A LETTER ANSWERED.
79
((
"No," sail Mr. Saville; we have often remarked
how very simple she was. It seemed almost strange
to see so much simplicity, combined with such ex-
treme discernment and quickness of perception."
"I think," said Mrs. Dorothy, "it arises from the
truthfulness of her character. She is so true her-
self, that she does not imagine anything or anybody
not to be what they seem. Though, let her trust in
a person be once shaken, I think nothing will restore
it. And then, she is not in the least inquisitive.”
"Which is also strange," said Mr. Saville, “con-
sidering how very thoughtful she is. Besides, on a
subject so nearly concerning herself, poor child!
extreme interest could scarcely be considered as
curiosity."
"No," replied Mrs. Dorothy; "and she was very
anxious. She used frequently to make remarks, as
I have told you, which showed that her mind was
at work on the subject, and that one evening to
which she alludes in her letter, when we were on our
way home from church, she asked me to tell her all
about her mother. I was very much agitated at
the time, and told her it must not be then-at some
other time I would do so; and it was, you see, from
making me ill, that she
regard to me, from fear of
said no more then, and she never again alluded to
the subject."
"She might have learned the truth from Betsy,"
said Mr. Saville.
"O," replied Mrs. Dorothy, "you do not know
Charity. She is far too proud ever to inquire from
80
CHARITY HELSTONE.
CC
Betsy anything I had not told her, especially any-
thing concerning herself. Indeed, I doubt whether,
anxious as she now is to discover the truth, she
would seek, or perhaps even accept information,
from any one but me—even from you, Mr. Saville."
Then," he replied, "it would, perhaps, be use-
less for me to propose, as I was just about to do,
that I should go up to London myself this evening,
and give her the information she requires more
cautiously than, perhaps, it could be conveyed in a
letter."
Mrs. Dorothy leant her head on her hands and
thought—may-be, prayed-silently and earnestly.
Then she said, "No, thank you, dear, kind friend;
I may be wrong, but I think it will be best to write.
Charity has written to me. She will expect an
answer from me. The simplest way of acting, I do
believe, will always be the best way for that child.
I will write, as she says, by return of post."
"Then," said Mr. Saville, "I will leave you to do
So. I think, as you say, that you understand our
godchild best: indeed, experience has proved that
it is so."
He left her with the assurance, that if he could
not help her with his advice, he would with his
prayers; and Mrs. Dorothy rang the bell for Betsy.
66
'My writing-case, Betsy," she said; "I must
write to Miss Charity by to-day's post."
"Write to Miss Charity by to-day's post!" ex-
claimed Betsy. "Why, ma'am, you wrote only
yesterday, and it just kills you to write letters two
A LETTER ANSWERED.
81.
days running! You won't have a bit of strength
left in you to-night, ma'am-that you won't!"
"Perhaps not," replied Mrs. Dorothy, with a faint
smile; "I think it very likely I shall not: but I
must write to Miss Charity to-day."
Ma'am," said Betsy, looking her mistress full in
the face, with such an intensity of sympathy and in-
terest in her countenance that it excluded the possi-
bility of disrespect-" Ma'am, there's trouble!"
"Only this," said Mrs. Dorothy, giving her faith-
ful old servant at once the confidence she deserved.
"Only this, Betsy, which must have come sooner or
later. Miss Charity has written to me, begging to
know at once every particular concerning herself."
"And you're not a-going to tell her?" exclaimed
Betsy, forgetting all the dread of agitating her mis-
tress in her excitement; "you're surely not a-going
to tell her, ma'am?"
"Yes, I am," said Mrs. Dorothy, gently. "I
think, Betsy, we both of us know, that when Miss
Charity's mind is set on a thing, the only way of
quieting her is to let her have it. How often you
have tried to convince me of this, Betsy, when I
have refused to give Miss Charity something she
was determined to have!"
"Yes," said Betsy, "I know I've often begged
that the child might have her way, because I knew
she would go on clamoring till she'd got it. But to
satisfy her in this, ma'am, it goes against my very
heart to think of it. Miss Charity's so proud, ma'am.
The young ladies at Huntley Tower, when they're
6
82
CHARITY HELSTONE.
down here, though they be duke's daughters, and
their papa, folks say, high in the Queen's council,
don't hold their heads as high as she does-no, nor
come into church with the same air. Miss Charity's
a deal prouder than any one of them, ma'am, and
it's
my belief, that if any one wished to give her a
death-blow like, one couldn't set about it better than
by telling her she's just nobody that we know of,
that she hasn't got any name at all that we can be
sure of. You'll forgive old Betsy for speaking out
so plain."
"You are quite right, Betsy, to say what you
think," said Mrs. Dorothy, and her voice was quite
calm, though Betsy's excitement had set her whole
frame trembling, and her hands were moving nerv-
ously in her lap. "You love Miss Charity, I know,
almost as much as I do myself. But I think,
Betsy, I have generally been the best judge of what
the child could and could not bear. You remem-
ber all you said when first I determined on sending
her to school."
Well, yes, ma'am, that's true," replied Betsy;
"I never did think she would have gone away to
school, or behaved as she has done there. I thought
that she'd have clamored to stay at home till she'd
driven you nearly wild, and that if she had been
forced to go to school, for certain she would have
run away as soon as she got there. Yes, I know
I've been greatly mistaken in the way she would
take that trouble."
"And we must hope, Betsy, you will be mistaken
A. LETTER ANSWERED.
83
again now," said Mrs. Dorothy. "Charity will
suffer terribly, I believe; we must hope that it will
not be in vain. But Miss Charity is not the char-
acter to be crushed by any sorrow, however great.
She will rise to any necessity when she feels that it
is a necessity. Any how, Betsy, we can but act ac-
cording to what seems best. One comfort is—it is
the greatest poor, weak mortals can know-that
we have a Father in heaven who can overrule all
for good. So give me my desk, Betsy, and leave
me alone."
Betsy arranged the writing-desk, and left the
room without saying another word. But when she
returned to the kitchen she began setting the tea-
tray ready, polishing the bright tea-pot, rubbing the
japanned tray, and dusting the shining cups with
an energy which might have told any one who was
at all experienced in Betsy's character that her
thoughts were busy within, even if she had not
indulged in a constant running strain of soliloquy.
The clock struck six, and, punctual to the mo-
ment, Betsy carried the tea into the parlor; the
letter lay upon the table, and Betsy took it into the
hall and put it into the bag without any further
word about it. She looked so downcast, however,
as she arranged the tea-things, and set the hissing
kettle on the fire before making Mrs. Dorothy's
tea, that the old lady said, "God has often been
better to us than our fears, Betsy."
"I trust He may be so now, ma'am," replied
Betsy. "for my heart's gone down that low about
84
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Miss Charity, I believe I haven't felt as I do now-
no, not since the old days, near half a century ago
when I was in the workhouse, ma'am, and would
watch my legs and arms to see if they were growing,
and count up the months that must pass before I'd
be big enough and strong enough to be allowed to
work for myself, and have done for ever with the
bread of charity, which used, so to speak, to grit
against my teeth, and go nigh to choke me.”
Charity has never eaten that bread, Betsy: she
has been nourished with the food of affection from
her cradle. No child was ever more truly, ten-
derly loved."
"Well, then, and that's true, ma'am," replied
Betsy; "no child, I know well enough-no, not the
duke's little ladies at Huntley Tower, ever had
more love or care. But there's a different feel in
the love we've a right to and any other."
(C
'Betsy," said Mrs. Dorothy, "did you not tell
me once, that the trials of your early years had
been, through God's mercy, the blessing of your
after life?"
"Yes, ma'am, and so it was; for I had that
proud spirit that may be no other trial would have
subdued, and it's just this that makes me feel so
much for Miss Charity, as I said this afternoon. It
will be her pride that will make her suffer, ma'am,
as I know very well."
"And cannot God do as much for her as He did
for you, Betsy?" said Mrs. Dorothy, gravely. "We
will not talk any more about it, for it is of no use.
A LETTER ANSWERED.
85
But we will both think of Miss Charity, and we
will both pray."
That night when she went, as usual, to put out
Mrs. Dorothy's candle and prepare the night-lamp,
her mistress said to her-
((
Betsy, you remember that little poem you
were always so fond of hearing Miss Charity re-
peat ?"
"You mean, ma'am, 'The Master has come over
Jordan? Yes, indeed, I remember. She had a
many fine pieces she could say, but never one I
liked as much as I did that. I often think I hear
her sweet voice now, saying it to me of a Sunday
evening, and telling, in her pretty way, of the
mother's carrying the children-little Rachel, and
Samuel, and John, and the baby Esther-over the
hills of Judah, and along by the vine-rows green,
for the Lord to look upon."
"And you remember, Betsy," said the old lady,
"that mother's answer to the father, when he strove
to dissuade her from her purpose?"
"Yes, ma'am, I believe I could repeat the words,
though 'tis some time now since they've come into
my mind." And Betsy repeated the verse.
"Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan ;
I feel such a burden of care,
If I carry it to the Master
Perhaps I shall leave it there.
If He lay His band on the children
My heart will be lighter, I know;
For a blessing for ever and ever
Will follow them as they go."
86
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"I have been lying here thinking of those words,
Betsy," continued Mrs. Dorothy, cheerfully, "and
my own heart has grown lighter in doing so; that
is why I would remind you of them, too. For re-
member, we need not say with that poor woman,
'If I carry it to the Master, perhaps I shall leave it
there.' No, if we feel a burden of care, we may
say boldly, 'If I carry it to the Master, I know I
shall leave it there.' Our dear Lord is nearer to us,
Betsy, than He was when He crossed the Jordan,
and the people thronged to Him to be healed with
a touch of His finger. Let us carry our dear child
to the Lord, and lay her at His feet; she will be
safe enough there."
THE FAMILY RECORDS.
87
CHAPTER VII.
THE FAMILY RECORDS.
HE letters reached Miss Mowbray's house
between seven and eight in the morning, but
it was not usual with her to give them to the
girls until after family prayers, when they all
gathered around the breakfast-table. They could
be procured earlier, however, in any case of
necessity. Charity remembered, that only a fort-
night before Helen Anstruther had gone to Miss
Mowbray's room one evening, to ask her whether
she would not allow her to have her letters next day
as soon as the postman arrived, as she was expecting
news of her brother's examination, and wished
much to know whether he had passed before com-
ing downstairs, and her request had been immedi-
ately granted. And this was no special favor to
Helen; for Charity recollected also that, when she
first came to school, one of the girls was anxious
about a sister who was ill, and Miss Mowbray used
to send her her letter from home every morning as
soon as it arrived. She knew she had only to tell
Miss Mowbray that she was anxious for a letter
from her Aunt Dorothy, and she could receive it in
private.
88
CHARITY HELSTONE.
But she would not do so. She felt almost sure
that her aunt would write, as she had so earnestly
requested her to do, by return of post, and Charity
resolved to abide and endure whatever the day's
news might bring. She would neither dread it be-
fore it came, nor shrink from it when it arrived.
A sudden blow, Charity knew, would sometimes
take her off her equilibrium, and many an angry
word, many a passionate tear, had she shed on the
impulse of the moment, which her pride had led
her afterwards bitterly to regret. But only let her
be prepared for a thing, and there was nothing she
could not meet. So she dressed as quietly as usual,
and joined in conversation with Ellinor Temple
with an ease and apparent interest which made
that young lady remark afterwards, that "really
Charity Helstone was growing quite agreeable."
On coming into the dining-room, her eye fell on the
pile of letters lying by the side of Miss Mowbray's
plate, and at once she recognized amongst them
the large, upright characters of her Aunt Doro-
thy's peculiar writing. But she felt rather than
saw that Fraulein was watching her, and she
passed to her place without any external sign of
discomposure.
2
"Another letter from your aunt, my dear," said
Miss Mowbray, as she handed the letter to Charity,
whose place was next to her's at the breakfast-
table. "I hope she is not ill. You heard from
her yesterday, did you not? and she does not gen-
erally write more than once a week."
THE FAMILY RECORDS.
89
This remark attracted towards Charity the atten-
tion of one or two of the girls who were sitting at
that end of the table, and were not engaged with
letters of their own, and Charity's quick eyes did.
not fail to perceive that Ellinor Temple, who was
one of them, turned crimson. She had made up
her mind, on hearing Miss Mowbray's remark, that
the letter which Charity had so suddenly despatched
to her aunt two evenings before had been, as she
had told Fraulein, to complain of the treatment
she had received, and now this was doubtless the
answer. She, therefore, waited with beating heart
and flushed face whilst Charity broke the seal of
her letter, and then replied to Miss Mowbray's re-
peated question, that her aunt seemed quite well.
Ellinor remarked also, that the letter was a long
one; that Charity did not read it, though she made
, a sort of pretence of doing so,-indeed, Ellinor be-
lieved she had not turned over the first page. Nor
lrad she. That preliminary page had told Charity
that the tidings she might expect to learn concern-
ing herself might be such as she had best read with
no eyes upon her, and folding up the letter she put
it into her pocket. Had she been alone that morn-
ing, she could not have eaten a morsel; but Ellinor
Temple was sitting exactly opposite to her, so she
ate her breakfast as usual. The Scripture-class
followed. Once Miss Mowbray said, "My dear
Charity, I do not think you are attending," but
after that observation Charity answered every ques-
tion with her usual correctness, and read every text
90
CHARITY HELSTONE.
and reference that came to her turn in her usual
clear, decided voice.
Then followed the hour's recreation before morn-
ing lessons. Charity went to her room, and Ellinor,
burning as she was with desire to follow her, did
not dare to do so. To her surprise, a quarter of an
hour later she saw Charity playing in the garden
with little Alice Rhodes.
"Look!" she said to Fraulein, "there she is,
romping in the garden! There can't be any great
news in her letter. Look at her running races
with Alice, and tossing the child up in the air
when she catches her! There can't be anything in
her letter."
"Not to trouble her, perhaps," replied Fraulein.
"But suppose her old aunt, who, Miss Mowbray
say, love her so much, like all old maids do love
everything, dogs, or cats, or children, or whatever
they fix their heart upon, without any reason; sup-
pose the old lady, she writes to tell her she means
not once to leave her longer in a place where she
receives insult, that may not trouble Miss Helstone
much-that may
very
may make her run faster up and
down the garden, perhaps, or toss the little Alice
very high in the air, like she is doing at this
moment; we grow very strong and active in the
body when we hear something that we find pleasing
to the mind. But when Miss Mowbray, she send
for me to her study, and say in her grave voice,
which always mean, 'Now this is my last intention,
and it is no use to argue against it; I have done
THE FAMILY RECORDS.
91
;
the argument in my own mind, and I mean all
what I say;'-when she say to me in that voice,
'Fraulein, you insult my pupils, you may return
to Germany,' and I lose my good home and I
have no place to go to, for the sake of Miss Charity
Helstone, that may be no trouble to her indeed,
but it may be one very large trouble to me."
Poor Fraulein! how it would have lightened her
heart could she have known that a quarter of an
hour before Charity had put on her hat, and run
desperately down stairs to play and jump with lit-
tle Alice, she had been standing in her bedroom,
the door locked, and her aunt's letter in her hand,
with such a wretchedly anxious face as, happily,
few girls of Charity's age are ever seen to wear.
She read the first page again, and she meditated
reading the letter through; but then she remein-
bered that in three quarters of an hour she must be
at her Grecian History class; that if she failed
there it would be the subject of remark, for she
stood first, and was sure of the prize. And after the
history lesson she must go to her drawing, and she
would not for worlds have an unsteady hand there,
with Ellinor Temple sitting next to her and marking
every stroke of her pencil. Then would come
dinner, and after dinner the walk, when, Fraulein
herself, or Ellinor might be her companion. And
after the walk, an hour's arithmetic and an hour's
French before tea. And after tea, reading and work-
ing, and then supper and prayers, and Ellinor Temple
for her companion in her bedroom afterwards.
92
CHARITY HELSTONE.
No; that day and the next would be all too busy
for her to be able to read that letter. She would
lock it up till Saturday. Then there would be a
half-holiday, and on half-holidays Charity was
always many hours alone. It was one of her gravest
offences with many of the girls, now that the weather
was warm enough to allow of her sitting in ber
bedroom, that she generally spent all her holiday
hours there.
So the letter was locked up, and Charity was as
active and diligent in all her lessons as ever. Only
Miss Mowbray remarked at dinner on the second
day that she looked ill. And one or two of the
girls said that certainly Charity Helstone was, as
Ellinor had said, "growing more sociable; she had
talked more during the last two days than she
generally did in a month." Even Fraulein, after
watching her narrowly, came to the pleasant conclu-
sion that she was not likely to get into any trouble
on Miss Helstone's account, and by Saturday after-
noon she had ceased to think much about it.
On that day it rained heavily-one steady down-
pour; so, to Charity's relief, there was no talk of
going out, and she could retire to her bedroom im-
mediately after dinner, with almost the certainty
of being able to remain undisturbed there till tea.
No one took any notice of her doing so, for it
was her usual custom; but as she left the room she
heard, with satisfaction, Ellinor Temple consent to
play a game of battledore with another girl in the
hall, and little Alice Rhodes present a petition to
THE FAMILY RECORDS.
93
Helen Anstruther to "be allowed to stop with her
all the afternoon," which was favorably received.
Therefore Charity went to her room, locked her
door, and sat down to her letter in perfect quiet.
She read it once. She read it twice.
She read it twice. She read it
three times. At first the words seemed all to dance
before her eyes, and to have no meaning at all in
them. The idea of her not being really Aunt
Dorothy's niece had never entered her mind. The
Rectory children called her "Aunt" without any
right to do so, save that of affection and early
habit. Charity had never thought it strange of
them, or implying any idea of untruth. Every one
knew that Mrs. Dorothy was not their aunt, and
that they only termed her so because they did not
know what else to call her: probably they had
caught it up from Charity herself, from associating
so much with one who was, as she believed, Aunt
Dorothy's own true, real niece, and had a right to
call her "Aunt," in which she allowed her little
companions to join. But that she should not be
her niece at all, not have more right to the title
than Ellen Saville had-not have, indeed, any
right to it at all!—the first feeling that came into
Charity's mind as she realized this first, and com-
paratively very small portion of her trouble, was
that it was a "shame-a wicked, wicked shame!"
And had she given vent to her feelings, she could
at that moment have found it in her heart to apply
to Mrs. Dorothy some such epithets as she had occa-
sionally, in times of passion, applied to Betsy. For
94
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Charity's was a character in which, when once pas
sion was strongly aroused, it raised its voice sc
loudly as for the time to silence every other. Love,
gratitude, respect, fled before her present indignant.
resentment; and instead of recognizing all that
had been done for her, Charity felt as though she had
been cruelly ill-treated.
What could she do? what should she do? This
was the first question that obtained any definite at-
tention in her mind. To remain at school seemed
impossible. Doubtless Miss Mowbray, and many
others, were acquainted with her humiliating cir-
cumstances, though she herself had been kept in such
cruel ignorance of them. Fraulein evidently knew
all about her, or she would not have dared to insult
her. Perhaps Miss Danvers had known also, and
that was one reason why she had always sought to
exalt Ellen Saville and depreciate her. Perhaps
even the Rectory children knew; and if so, how
ridiculous she must often have appeared in their
eyes when, in her childhood's days, she had boasted
of things as belonging to her, to which it now
appeared she had never had the smallest right!
✓
And then there flashed across her mind the re-
membrance of one day in particular, when she and
Ellen, who were never very good friends at the best-
of times, had had one of their most desperate quar-
rels. Charity had been amusing herself in the attic,
where all sorts of relics of past days-family pictures
too faded to appear on the walls, and old books too
shabby to be placed on the bookshelves-were stored
THE FAMILY RECORDS.
95
away; and in so doing, she had come upon an old
book entitled "Family Records," drawn up by some
defunct member of the Helstone family, and con-
taining an account of various Helstones of ancient
times, who had distinguished themselves in various
ways; together with a genealogy, taken from the
Heralds' Office, which traced the family back to
very early days, and proved that it was one of the
best and oldest that could be gloried in.
The attic was ever Charity's favorite place of re-
sort, for its contents were all old; and in this lay
one great charm. And they were for the most part
extremely undefined, and in this lay another; for she
could invest them with any ideas and facts which
her fertile imagination chose to invent; and often
she would come down from her hiding-place, with
her little brain so full of the romantic stories she
had been connecting with the venerable old lady
with a high cap and ruffles, or the young maiden
standing on the top of a flight of marble steps, that
she would find it utterly impossible to commit to
memory the dates of the most remarkable battles in
English history, or the simplest rules of syntax in
English grammar. But that morning on which she
discovered the old book of "Family Records" had
been a most delightful one. To read of heroes, not
of her own imagining, but of heroes who had existed
in her own family, and whose blood was actually at
that moment flowing in her veins, brightened the
sparkle in her bright eyes, raised the color in her
rosy cheeks, and quickened the pulses in her ardent
96
CHARITY HELSTONE.
little frame. The book was prefaced with the
words-
"I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me."
And, child as she still was, Charity could fully enter
into the feeling that was in Shakespeare's mind when
he wrote them.
Full of her "Family Records," Charity came
down stairs at the call of the breakfast-bell with a
radiant face; happily, Betsy was the first person
with whom she came into collision-or perhaps we
should rather say, unhappily; for had she poured
out her mind on the subject to Mrs. Dorothy, she
might have earlier seen the mistake she was making
in bringing up the child in a belief concerning her-
self which was incorrect, and might have discovered
earlier that to breathe in a false atmosphere can
never be healthy for the moral lungs of any one
created with a thirst for truth.
But Betsy was waiting at the bottom of the stairs,
knowing from experience that, after Charity had
been spending a couple of hours in the dusty old
attic, amongst the old books and boxes, she would be
in no condition to present herself at Mrs. Dorothy's
breakfast-table. And while Betsy obliged her to
brush her hair and wash her hands, Charity, in the
fulness of her heart, informed her of the discovery
she had made in these "Family Records" of the
Helstone family, and said she longed to ask Aunt
Dorothy all about them.
THE FAMILY RECORDS.
97
"My dear," said Betsy, at once realizing the diffi-
culty Mrs. Dorothy would be in when she found
Charity thus laying claim to bygone ancestors who
had never belonged to her, "my dear, you must not
mention that book to your aunt."
"And why not?" asked Charity.
Betsy thought about for a reason, and was not
long in finding one. "My dear," she said, "do you
remember how ill your aunt was not a month ago,
when she fainted, and had that shivering fit, and we
thought she was going to die?"
"Of course I do!" replied Charity, impatiently;
"but what has that got to with it?"
"Shall I tell you what made her so ill?” said
Betsy. "It was only because in turning over an old
desk, she came upon a paper that had been written
years ago, and she couldn't stand the sight of it.
That old paper brought on one of my mistress's at-
tacks. She used to have them often in years gone
by, Miss Charity; and many's the time I've thought
she'd die in one of them. But she rarely has them
now-sometimes, not for years. It seems there's
but one thing now that can bring them upon her,
and that is when the past comes up suddenly again
without her being prepared to meet it.”
Well, but," said Charity, whose quickness of
perception often baffled poor Betsy's powers of per-
suasion, "well, but, Betsy, I suppose that paper was
something Aunt Dorothy had written herself, or that
somebody had written to her. She couldn't mind
hearing about the people in that book. They died
7
98
CHARITY HELSTONE.
ages ago. Aunt Dorothy never knew one of them.
And she can't care much about them, or the book
either, to have left it all this time up in the attic
with all the rubbish; amongst those pictures of
people she says she never saw, which were left to
her mother by an old bachelor cousin, who died be-
fore she was born. I don't believe she knows the
book is there."
Betsy was puzzled; for she could never have
brought herself to utter a deliberate falsehood, how-
ever she might fail in perceiving that her equivoca-
tions were really such.
"Miss Charity," she said, after an instant's hesi-
tation, "it's my belief, that if you say a word to
your aunt about that book, the consequence will be
that she'll be more upset, may be, than she was
that day. So if you go talking about it when I've
warned you not, remember it will be your fault if
you make your aunt as ill as she was the other
night. You know how she was then."
7
Yes, Charity did know; for she had never ex-
pected her godmother to live through the fainting
fit, which had alarmed even Betsy, though she had
kept saying she had seen her mistress in as bad,
and worse. Charity did not in the least see how
the mention of that old book could possibly pro-
duce the same effect on Mrs. Dorothy, or, indeed,
any effect at all; but Betsy was so positive that
she dared not run any risk on the matter, and
therefore, by a violent effort of self-control, sat
through breakfast without mentioning the matter.
THE FAMILY RECORDS.
99
But no sooner did she find herself in the Hectory
schoolroom with Ellen Saville, than out of the
abundance of her heart her mouth began to talk,
and whilst the two girls were getting their books
ready, and waiting for Miss Danvers to join them,
Charity gave Ellen such a grand account of former
Helstones, and questioned her so closely concerning
former Savilles, that the poor girl's brain, which
always found enough to do to meet whatever fact
might be at the moment before it, was fairly be-
wildered. She could only tell Charity that she
knew nothing about any other Savilles, except her
grandpapa, who was a gentleman-farmer in York-
shire, and died five years ago; but she would ask
mamma, and tell her in the afternoon.
Accordingly in the afternoon, when they met
again for their lessons, Charity recommenced the
subject; and it was on hearing that Mrs. Saville
had replied to Ellen's question by saying that she
was too much occupied then to attend to it, but
that Mr. Saville had said Charity had much better
be minding her lessons and her duties than med-
dling in these matters, that the quarrel had arisen;
Charity having triumphed over Ellen till Ellen
cried, and the noise having brought Edward to set
them both to rights, Charity remembered that he
had turned off the subject laughingly, and gone
away repeating the lines,
"When Adam delved, and Eve span,
Where was then the gentleman?"
100
CHARITY HELSTONE.
At the time she had thought he applied it to his
own case, and she had felt true pity for those who
could not carry their acquaintance with their own
family beyond their grandfather. But now, as
memory recalled that scene, she felt sure that Ed-
ward knew all about her birth, and she reflected
how ridiculous she must have made herself in his
eyes on that, and many other occasions. Yes,
what must Edward think of her? How differ-
ently, indeed, she now felt towards him! a wide
gulf seemed suddenly to have opened between
them. Hitherto she had considered herself as his
sister, and more than his sister; for Ellen, with
her want of mind and her narrow feelings, would
never, Charity had often thought to herself, been
the near and dear companion to him which she had
ever been, and as she had imagined, until to-day,
ever would be. But now a sudden separation
seemed made between her and Edward. He was
amongst those who owned a name and a home; she
had neither. The bread she ate was the bread of
charity; the clothes she wore were the clothes of
charity. It was a dreadful, a hateful position; she
could not remain in it. The irons were even now
entering into her soul, and she felt that she must
shake them off: but how to do so?
Long did Charity remain, her head bent over her
desk, her hot brow pressed between her hands,
whilst her tearless eyes ached and burned in their
sockets, as she turned over, again and again, in her
mind what she could do. To live all her life in
THE FAMILY RECORDA.
101
་
idle independence at Mrs. Dorothy's, and inherit
the property which had belonged to her, was a
course which others might have chalked out for
her, but which she herself would never stoop to
accept. Rather would she beg her daily bread, for
in so doing she would have but one evil to endure
-that of humiliation; whilst in living upon Mrs.
Dorothy's charity she would be breathing air as
false as it was humbling. She was not Miss
Charity Helstone; she was not Mrs. Dorothy's
only surviving relation, or the heir to her property.
She was an unfortunate foundling, belonging to no
one in particular, but born to the poverty, shame,
and sorrow, which, because they were her own, the
only heritage which she could possess, she would
far rather endure than be dependent upon any one,
however kind or generous.
The tea-bell roused Charity from her three-hours'
reflections, and the sight of her own livid face, as
she smoothed her hair at the glass, reminded her
how great an effort she must needs make, if the
misery she had suffered during those hours in her
solitary room was not to pass to the knowledge of
those without.
102
CHARITY HELSTONE..
CHAPTER VIII.
A SERMON AND ITS INFLUENCE.
vague was Charity's answer to Mrs. Dorothy's
letter, that neither her aunt nor Mr. Saville
had known what to make of it. One thing,
however, soon became clear, and this was con-
solation enough to satisfy Betsy's anxieties, at all
events. Charity had no intention of running away
from school, to hide herself in some unknown corner
of the world. On the contrary, whilst not alluding
to the letter beyond acknowledging it, and thank-
ing Mrs. Dorothy for complying at once with her
request, Charity continued to write on the subject
of her various studies with greater interest than
ever; whilst Miss Mowbray's letters confirmed the
impression that she was working zealously, and
making very rapid progress. "There was every-
thing in her conduct to give satisfaction. She was
the favorite pupil with all the masters, who were
constantly upholding her as an example of industry
and perseverance to her companions: the only thing
Miss Mowbray had to regret was, that she was not
as great a favorite with these same companions;
but doubtless it was her nature to be reticent and
reserve, though it was not the character which Mr.
A SERMON AND ITS INFLUENCE
103
'
Saville had led her to expect she should find in
her." Nor was it, Mrs. Dorothy remarked to Mr.
Saville, Charity's natural character. Ardent, en-
thusiastic, and unreserved at home, why should she
have become so altered at school? Mr. Saville
could only reply, that he thought shyness at first
had led to Charity's making this impression-shy-
ness, and being utterly unaccustomed to strangers.
He would not have added any further reason, but
Mrs. Dorothy herself remarked-"Yes, she was
always very shy with strangers; but I dare say she
would have grown sociable in time, if it had not
been for my letter. I believe that may be weighing
on her mind all this while, though she will not allow
us to see that it is so-from pride, perhaps. Charity
is so very proud, or else she fears making me un-
happy."
"Well," replied Mr. Saville, "Christmas will soon
be here now, and then we shall have her at home
again, and be able to judge for ourselves. It is a
comfort, as you say, that your good Betsy's fears
have not been fulfilled, and that the effect of this
news upon Charity's mind should evidently have
been to lead her to devote herself more diligently
than ever to the duty before her."
Yes, Charity was indeed more devoted than ever
to her studies; for the motive now influencing her
exertions was far stronger than that which had in-
spired her before. And do not we all work in pro-
portion to the propelling power within? Hitherto,
Charity had studied to please her Aunt Dorothy,
104
CHARITY HELSTONE.
and because she had promised to do her best, and
longed for the approving smile and the words of
commendation which would be her reward when she
should return for the Christmas vacation to her
happy little home. But now, day and night, she
was urged forward with the one desire that had
taken possession of her energetic mind and strong
will the desire of becoming learned enough, and
accomplished enough, to earn her own living as a
governess—yes, and such a governess that it should
be no charity, no favor, on the part of any parents
to engage her services for their children; the benefit
should be on their side; and those through whom
she should receive the means of existence should
feel, whilst rendering them to her, that they were
far more indebted to her for what they received.
than she could be for what they gave.
With this motive at work within, Charity studied
diligently, and carefully kept aloof from making
friends; and the efforts of her will prevented her
heart from feeling the trouble as it would otherwise
have done. Her time and mind were too fully oc-
cupied to allow of her being miserable. And she
had a power within her which, until now, she never
knew that she possessed-the power of resolutely
turning from that which it pained her to see; of
pushing, as it were, the painful subjects down into
the depths of her mind, somewhere out of present
sight, and covering them over with a crust of activity
* and occupation, which kept them in their place.
But as time went on the work grew easier. It
A SERMON AND ITS INFLUENCE - 105
became a habit with Charity to answer questions
with apparent interest, which she had really scarcely
heard, and could not have repeated five minutes
afterwards. She could play now quite merrily with
little Alice; not wildly as when the trouble was
fresh, but cheerfully running races with her as
formerly; even telling her stories—but all mechani-
cally. There was no heart in anything she did;
as how can there ever be, when between the inner
life and the outward world there is a bitter secret?
Charity was studious, diligent, respectful to her
superiors, kind to those around her; but she was
not herself, and all felt that there was something
wanting.
The one thought that made itself most trouble-
some, was the thought of the approaching Christmas
holidays. Charity was fully resolved not to return
to Arlington; but how to broach the subject with
Mrs. Dorothy she did not quite see. For she dreaded
the effect which such an agitating piece of news
might have upon her. Yet to go back to Arlington
she could not, and would not. Some of Miss Mow-
bray's pupils, whose parents were in India, were to
remain at school, and she would stay with them,
and sedulously carry on her studies. But she
would neither go back to Arlington to occupy the
false position she had formerly held there, nor would
she go back to have the truth disclosed, and bear
the humiliation that would follow.
Some months had passed since Charity's letter to
Mrs. Dorothy had been written and answered, when
106
CHARITY HELSTONE.
a day came, memorable day, which was to work a
greater fermentation in Charity's mind than had
been made even by the arrival of that letter, and
the reflections of the long hours spent over it on the
Saturday following.
One of Charity's chief interests at school-per-
haps, indeed, her greatest pleasure was going to
church, and listening to Mr. Morton's sermons.
Not that she cared at all more for heavenly things
now than she had done six months ago, when Mrs.
Dorothy had said truly that the day had not come
for Charity to need religion, and that until it did,
she feared she would not seek it. Charity had sent
Mrs. Dorothy flowing descriptions of Mr. Morton's
sermons ever since she had been at school, generally
concluding, however, with the same words, "As I
say, dear Aunt Dorothy, you would delight in him
because he is so good, and I delight in him because
he is so clever."
The day came, however, when one of Mr. Mor-
ton's sermons fell on Charity's heart as none other
had ever done before; and that, not because it was
so clever that her attention was arrested and her
mind riveted by his usual power of reasoning and
charm of expression, for it was a singularly simple.
sermon, addressed to little children, and for their
sakes clothed in simplest words. But the subject
of the sermon—the very text, as he gave it out in
his peculiarly deep voice, which, in the fervor of its
tone, had struck Charity the first day she heard it
as unlike any other she had ever heard before-the
A SERMON AND ITS INFLUENCE.
107
very text, as it fell upon her ear, did not pass
thence, as usual, only into the brain, but went
beyond-down, down into the heart: "Leave thy
fatherless children; I will preserve them alive."
The sermon was in favor of the large foundling
hospital close at hand, and it was addressed partly
to those whose help was sought for these little ones,
partly to the little ones themselves, who sat around
the communion rails. Charity had often seen them
there before, a little company of white-capped,
white-tippeted maidens, but till now she had never
associated their feelings with her own; but as the
words of that sermon sounded in her ears a sort of
sacred sisterhood seemed to form itself within her
heart, and a very blessed sisterhood it would be if
all that Mr. Morton said to them and of them were
indeed true. For he represented their situation,
not as one of peculiar misery, but of peculiar bless-
ing and of special promise, would they but believe
the promise and avail themselves of the blessing.
"True it is," he told them, "that in this life the
desolation of orphanhood is great; so great, that
when the prophet was in sore distress at the sight
of Jerusalem's miseries-in such distress, that his
heart was turned within him and his eyes ran down
with water, he could find no more significant ex-
pression to serve as a type of the people of Zion in
their affliction, than that 'they were orphans and
fatherless.' Yet, attached to the desolation is the
great blessing, the sorrow and the joy, the darkness
and the light, side by side. For these fatherless
}
108
CHARITY HELSTONE.
ones are those who are especially entreated to find
mercy in God. Others have earthly fathers to
watch over them; and protect them in houses made
with clay. A father of the fatherless is God in
his holy habitation.' The cause of the fatherless is
his cause, which he has bound himself to protect,
and plead for himself. He is their keeper; they
have but to cry to him, and he has given his own
word that he will surely hear their cry. And if
they have God for a father, what else can they
need? All the fulness of their affection may be
given to him, and he will receive it and value it,
for the heart of his children is what he seeks to
possess. All the service of their lives may be
given to him, and he will receive it at their hands.
They might have-many amongst them had-no
name on earth to call their own, but this would be
but for a very short time if they were the children
of God. He would himself write a new name for
them above, and soon, in the glory of knowing and
possessing that name, the passing sorrow or shame
of earth would vanish like a cloud, and be no more
remembered.
"Esther had neither father nor mother-more-
over, she was beautiful, and the very circumstances
of her career were full of danger and temptation;
yet was she not one of the fatherless children,
who, being left to God, found in him all the sup-
port, all the guidance, all the strength she needed.
Was there not enough in the simple story of that
captive maiden's life to raise the most drooping
A SERMON AND ITS INFLUENCE.
-109
heart, and to prove to the understanding of every
orphan child there present that they need not
let their hands hang, or their hearts fail them,
because they have not fathers or mothers, or friends
or fortunes, like others,-no, all they have to do
is to turn to Him, the sunshine of whose love is
extended over all, but rests with special brightness
where the clouds of earth have gathered thickest,
that it may make the greater display of its power
by dispersing them all. The golden sceptre of
God's favor, so willingly extended to every sup-
pliant who ventures in faith to draw near his
throne, will, as it were, ever be extended, with a
smile of special sweetness, to the desolate and the
orphaned. All the fullness of his mercy and pro-
tection is promised to the fatherless."
Such words fell on Charity's soul that day with
strange power. It seemed as though Mr. Morton
must have read her heart, and must have known
some of the thoughts that of late had been weighing
so heavily there.
No sooner had the girls left the church than, the
sermon seemed to pass from the minds of almost
every one amongst them. Helen Anstruther,
indeed, was grave and thoughtful, as she generally
was; but evidently the sermon had made but little
impression even on her, for on one of the other
girls saying that she had quite forgotten they were
going to have a charity sermon, and, asking her if
she had remembered, she had replied,
"O, yes! I reollected it very well, for I felt so
:
110
CHARITY HELSTONE.
sorry last Sunday when it was given out. It's
very wrong, I know, for charity sermons must be
preached, to get money for good objects; but I
always feel so sorry when Mr. Morton has to preach
one. He does preach such beautiful sermons; but,
somehow, he never seems to preach half as well
when he is tied down to any particular subject.
To-day, for instance, he was not a bit like himself-
was he?" she added, appealing to Charity, who,
Helen had long since remarked, paid much greater
attention to Mr. Morton's sermons than most of the
girls did.
The color mounted to Charity's face. "I'm sure
I don't know," she said: "I thought the sermon a
very good one."
Her manner was so peculiar, that Helen, and the
other girls were struck by it. Helen's kind heart
led her at once to regret the remark she had made,
without at the moment remembering the strong sus-
picion that existed in the school concerning Charity,
for she feared her inadvertent words had given
pain; and asking Charity to let her be her compan-
ion in the homeward walk, she sought to pay her
every attention, for which Charity felt anything but
grateful.
Fraulein and Ellinor Temple, between whom a
curious friendship had lately arisen, had also re-
marked the peculiarity of Charity's manner, the
hightened color and the cold, restrained reply, and
it all went to confirm their impressions, and, it must
be confessed, their wishes. Not having felt any
A SERMON AND ITS INFLUENCE.
111
inconvenient results from their former insolent treat-
ment of Charity, as at one time they feared might
have been the case, and being strengthened in their
dislike of her by the cool indifference with which she
treated them, it afforded the spiteful little governess.
and the silly girl whom she had lately selected as
her special favorite, and who, in consequence, was
never now heard to say a single word against Frau-
lein, but was, on the contrary, always ready to fight
her battles-it afforded these two real satisfaction
to suppose that their suspicions were correct, and
Charity was doubtless some unfortunate foundling,
rescued from poverty and shame by the mistaken
kindness of good Mrs. Dorothy Helstone.
As Helen and Charity followed Miss Mowbray
and her mother down the street which led from the
church to their house, Fraulein took Ellinor's arm
and followed them, and as they did so, Charity dis-
tinctly heard Fraulein say-" Miss Ellinor Temple,
my dear, we have not made no mistake once: you
see how red our young lady grows. It is no wonder
that young lady has no manners, and cannot behave
herself like other polite young ladies. You have
one proverb here in England; Miss Mowbray say
one day there is great vulgarity in it, but I think
there is likewise the truth-"What is bred in the
bone, that come out in the flesh.' I think we can
see the truth of that without needing to go one hun-
dred mile off."
Every word of this speech Helen distinctly heard,
and she was afraid to look at Charity, who, she felt
112
CHARITY IIELSTONE.
sure, must have heard also; indeed, Helen thought
that Fraulein must surely have intended her to do
so. And Charity had heard and understood, but at
that moment Mr. Morton's words were so present to
her mind that it seemed to have no power to enter-
tain any other ideas.
NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
113
CHAPTER IX.
NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
R. MORTON'S address to the girls-for there
were only girls present, and in that large dis-
trict a vast number of these were assembled
on the following morning as candidates for
the communion-Mr. Morton's address was very
short, and yet more simple than his sermon had been
on the previous day. He remembered, that though
the number of young creatures before him included
many from the highest walks of life, yet was it for
the most part composed of the poor and uneducated,
and his words were such as all could understand.
A few solemn words were said on the nature of a
vow in God's sight. The truth was strongly brought
before those young minds, that although but little
is said in holy writ concerning the necessity or the
advisability of making vows-though the very great-
est freedom of conscience is allowed, and would
almost appear to be advised in this matter-yet is
very much said, and strongly said too, on the neces-
sity of keeping every vow ever made before the
great God of heaven and earth, whether it has been
made in the fervor of gratitude, in the impulse of
feel in the fear of death, or in the agony of dis-

114
CHARITY HELSTONE.
tress. Better, the wise man tells us, is it not to vow,
than not to pay that which one has vowed; for God
hath no pleasure in fools, and that which has once
been vowed He will surely require. It may be no
sin to forbear to yow; but Scripture shows us very
plainly that it is an undoubted sin not to keep and
perform that which has gone out from the lips, or
even to be slack in paying that which has been pro-
mised with the mouth. When the children of earth
vow, the God of heaven hears and remembers; nor
can they with impunity break the oath with which
they have bound their soul, or afterwards decline to
do according to all that has proceeded out of their
mouth.
Thus, with simple, yet solemn words of exhorta-
tion and warning, did the good clergyman that
morning set before his young hearers the import-
ance of that service into which they sought to enter;
and then, with a few words of blossing, he went into
the vestry, and himself received the name of each
young girl, as one by one they followed him there
to give it. It seemed but the work of a moment,
and when Charity's turn came, she had rogained
the courage which at first she feared would altogether
fail her, and went forward to the interview with a
stranger more bravely than she had expected to do.
Her name was asked and given-"Charity Hel-
stone." But before proceeding to the next question,
and asking how old she was, which the girls who
had returned assured her was the only other ques-
tion the clergyman put to each, Mr. Morton made a
NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
115
most decided pause. A look of increased thought-
fulness was apparent even in his deeply thoughtful
face. He glanced at the name on the list before
him, then looked at Charity, -"Helstone!" he
said; "your name is Helstone?”
The warm blood rushed into Charity's face, and
crimsoned it to the very temples; accustomed as she
was to the name, her right to it naturally escaped
her thoughts, unless some circumstance brought it
forward. This was the case now, and as the clergy-
man, who attributed her manner solely to the timi
dity which he saw was natural to her, repeated the
words, yet more kindly than before, but evidently
with some meaning in doing so,
"You say your
name is Helstone ?" she trembled with emotion, and
had some difficulty in commanding her voice suffici-
ently to say, "I cannot tell; I do not know: they
call me Charity Helstone."
once.
There was a mystery about it, Mr. Morton saw at
A deeper feeling than timidity had brought
that smarting blood into the burning cheeks, and
caused the young voice to tremble with deep emo-
tion. He greatly regretted the pain he had so unin-
tentionally occasioned, but he felt that any words of
his now would probably increase rather than soften
it; the opportunity for tenderness and sympathy
would be better afforded later in their intercourse.
He looked again at the name, still wet on his paper,
so that Charity might be relieved by having his eyes
removed from her, and said, "Charity is a lovely
name to own. I sometimes ask my young people to
116
CFNUITY HELSTONE.
I
select some portion of Holy Scripture for their spe
cial study; you could scarcely have a greener spot
of pasture to feed your young soul upon than the
lovely explanation and amplification of your own
name in the 13th chapte of the First Epistle of
St. Paul to the Corinthians." And shaking hands
kindly with Charity he took leave of
She had certainly been twice as long in the
vestry as any of the other girls-a circumstance
which Ellinor Temple and not failed to remark,
and which greatly excited her curiosity, ready as
it always was to be excited on the smallest possible
occasion.
·
No sooner had Charity returned home than she
went into the garden, to be out of the way of all
eyes in general, and Ellinor Temple's eyes in par-
ticular, and there she meditated on the short but
strange interview that had taken place between
herself and Mr. Morton. She remembered the
expression of his face, the tone of his voice, and
she felt surethat the name of Helstone was familiar
to him; but where he had heard it, or what he
knew concang it, how gladly would Charity
have known and yet how impossible would it
be for her ever to ruire!
It was a pity that Charity could not have been
at that moment in Mr. Morton's drawing-room,
when this part of the mystery of her life would
have been very simply explained. On his return
to his own home, Mr. Morton's first inquiry to
his wife as whether she remembered young


NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
117
Mrs. Helstone, in whom they had both ocen so
deeply interested so many long years ago?"
"Remember her!" replied Ms. Mortor.: "of
course I remember her, and all connected with her,
as well as if it had happened yesterday. O,
Arthur, have you heard anything more of her,
or of him ??
Mr. Morton answered very quietly, yet in a tone,
the gravity of which bespoke quite as deep an
interest in the matter as did his wife's eager excite-
ment. "I think," he said." I have just parted with
her child; indeed, I do not think so, for I feel quite
sure."
I
"O, Arthur! how do you know? how did you
find it out? Tell me everything, for I have longed
to know if the forlorn child lived, what would
become of it? How marvellous it is how things
come to light after so long a time! Do tell me
all about it!”
"There is very little to tell," he replied; "noth-
ing, indeed: though one day I earnestly hope
we may discover more; for, like you, I have often
longed to know what could have on the end

But all I now know
of that poor young creature.
is merely this, that amongst the children to-day
there was a young girl whose appearance struck
me the very first moment I saw her. I felt sure
I had seen her somewhere before though where
I could not remember--her face and figure were
perfectly familiar to me."
"A poor girl, of course? said Mrs Morton.

118
CHARITY HELSTONE,
"C
'Indeed, no," he replied, "just the contrary; a
lady in every respect; as aristocratic a looking
girl as you could see anywhere; very tall and
slight, with singularly fair hair, and a remarkable
pair of large blue eyes with black lashes-the sort
of face which must strike one's attention even
amongst such a number, and with one's mind
as occupied as mine was to-day. It was a peculiar
countenance altogether; yet what riveted my atten-
tion was its being so strangely familiar. I felt
quite bewildered till she gave me her name, 'Hel-
stone,' and then at once I was transported back all
those years to that little parlor in Duke street, and
again I saw before me that lovely young woman,
whose appearance we used to say contrasted so
strangely with the wretched lodging in which
we found her. It is the very same face—that
lovely oval with delicate features; the eyes, the
hair, the figure-I could see no difference; and
had I remembered that it was to Mrs. Helstone
that my mind had been thus recalled before the
child gave me her name, I should have felt certain
it was her daughter that stood before me, even
without this additional proof. It certainly is a
disadvantage to be so shortsighted," he added;
"for, otherwise, I must have remarked that face
even amongst such a crowded troop as Miss Mow-
bray's young ladies."
"Whom you say you never can tell one from
another, dressed as they are nearly all alike,".
replied his wife. Well, I am sure I should have
(C
A
NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
119
1
remarked any one who resembled Mrs. Helstone if
I sat within sight of Miss Mowbray's pews. I have
never seen any one whom I thought as pretty as she
was; and O, what interest we took in her! Do
you remember how miserable I was when she went
away so suddenly, and how much I thought of her
when our child was born, knowing that hers must
have been born just at the same time?"
"Which it was," said Mr. Morton.
next January,' she said."
"And her name?" asked Mrs. Morton.
66
"Sixteen
Charity," he replied; "and to me that is so
strange."
"How much I should like to know!" exclaimed
Mrs. Morton. (C
Arthur, we must know. We must
see her have her here. You say she is quite a
lady in appearance; but of course she must be
that, or she would not be at Miss Mowbray's, she
is so very particular."
"The most fastidious could not but be satisfied
with Miss Helstone," Mr. Morton replied, "so far
as appearance, manner, and voice go; which are,
of course all I have to judge from. She seems
perfectly unconscious of her own extreme beauty,
and has a very lovely, modest manner. What
distresses me is, that I am afraid I showed plainly
the surprise I felt at the sound of her name, and
this seemed to distress her. She could, indeed,
scarcely command her voice sufficiently to reply
o me."

to
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Morton; "perhaps there
120
CHARITY HELSTONE.
is some sad end to the story, even more sad than all
we knew. I wonder whether the husband ever
found his wife, and whether they are still alive, or
what became of him? We must find out all we
can, Arthur. I should so like to see the child, and
be kind to her. Can we not ask her here ?”
"I am thinking of it," he said: “I believe I am
as interested in her as you can be; but this is not a
thing one can enter into without caution.
"Of which you have so much, and I so little,"
said his wife.
"Just so,” he replied. "I dare say you would
like to send for this pretty young creature on the
spot, and set her down amongst our own young ones,
and perhaps have her father appearing here again a
little later in the drama. I think, that till we know
what has become of him, or what she has to do with
him, we had better be careful. Mr. Helstone was
not exactly the man you would like to introduce
into your family circle, even out of sympathy for
his lovely daughter; for his daughter I am con-
vinced this sweet-looking girl is."
"O no!" exclaimed his wife; "I trust we shall
never see him again, for he was a wretched man."
"As wretched as could be then," said Mr. Morton;
"but he may be very different now.
Sixteen years
is a long time ago, and God may have done great
things since then. Certainly, whoever has had the
bringing up of this young lady must have been
most careful to do so well. It is a very mysterious
'business, and we cannot take any steps in the mat-
NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
121
ter until I have made further inquiries. In a thing
of this kind it would certainly not be wise to follow
the impulses of one's heart."
Meanwhile, Charity returned from the garden,
and went into her bedroom to prepare for tea. El-
linor Temple had taken off her things, and hurried
to the schoolroom to talk over the events of the after-
noon, the most important of which, in her mind,
appeared to be the unaccountable length of time
which Mr. Morton had detained Charity. Why
should he have kept her at least twice as long as any
of the other girls?
This question being, in Ellinor's opinion, worthy
of deeper consideration than any other that had
been brought before her mind by anything she had
heard that day, she sought out Fraulein, in order to
receive the benefit of her assistance; and the two re-
tired into the window-seat, to employ part of the
holiday given for the occasion in discussing it.
Charity, quite unconscious of the interest she was
exciting below, was thankful to have her room to
herself, for the dressing-bell had summoned her from
the quiet of the garden, and she shrank from the
half-hour of schoolroom chat before tea. She had
thought and thought over Mr. Morton's words and
manner, but she could come to no conclusion con-
cerning them, so she had dismissed the subject from
her mind with the resolve that she would think no
more about it. There were other things she must
think of, and this would but distract her attention;
the sermon yesterday-the short address to-day,
122
CHARITY HELSTONE.
every word of which had taken root in her mind,
until Mr. Morton's words to herself had temporarily
dislodged them by the excitement they had occasi-
oned there.
But now she must think-there was a feeling
within which compelled her to do so; and, leaning
her head against the table, she asked herself again
and again whether she was one of those who dared to
take upon herself these vows. Certainly, were she
obliged to do so now, she should at once withdraw.
But there were several weeks before her, and during
that time it was possible-Mr. Morton had said so—
that some great change might be effected. Charity
earnestly desired that this might be the case with
her, for, during the last few months, she had grown
weary
of her life; she, too, who had once been so
happy, so lighthearted, with nothing to depress her,
and everything to encourage her.
Now, one feeling had taken possession of her whole
mind-that she was a foundling, with no one belong-
ing to her whom she had any right to look to for
help, counsel, protection, and, above all, love! un-
less, indeed, it were this great Father in heaven,
who might be, Mr. Morton had said, as much her
Father as the Father of any one else.
She raised her eyes to the sky, then looking so
blue and bright overhead, and she thought how
happy it must be to be somewhere up there, away
from all the troubles of life. But it all seemed very
dreamy and unreal, and, taught as she had been
from her infancy in all the truths of the gospel, she
NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
123
seemed that day to know as little about them as
though she had never heard of them. There was a
longing, a desire in her heart—a longing for rest, a
desire for happiness; but how to find either one or
the other she did not seem to know.
Her eyes fell on the Bible she had laid down on
entering the room, and, remembering Mr. Morton's
words, she took it up and turned to the chapter he
had spoken of, the 13th chapter of the First Epistle
to the Corinthians. Charity had learned the chap-
ter as a child with her godmother, and Mrs. Dorothy
was in the habit of frequently alluding to it in refer-
ence to her name, but it had never made much im-
pression on her. Nor did it do so now; she read it
through, but, notwithstanding Mr. Morton's words,
the pasture did not seem very green or tempting,
and, with a heavy sigh from her heavy heart, she
closed the book, and began to brush her hair in
readiness for tea; the thought that dwelt principally
upon her mind was, "What could Mr. Morton's
manner have meant?" And that night Charity
never closed her eyes, but was perpetually asking
herself the same question, to which her imagination
could supply no satisfactory answer.
But the impression Mr. Morton's sermon had made
was far too real and deep to allow this thought long
to remain the most prominent one. Her mind fully
aroused to perceive and feel what it must be to be
the child of the great Father of the fatherless, her
one desire became to be able to claim Him as her
Father; to be able to look on heaven as her inherit-
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CHARITY HELSTONE.
ance;
to be able to take to herself the glorious new
name of which Mr. Morton had spoken. But as this
desire increased in intensity there arose also a feel-
ing of utter helplessness, of entire inability to reach
this great Father in heaven.
Often and often did poor Charity rise from her
bed during those nights, and carry her heavy heart
up and down her room by the light of the pale, cold,
unsympathizing moon, while Ellinor slept soundly.
Often and often during those wretched, sleepless
hours, did Job's words escape from her lips-"0
that I knew where I might find Him!"
This time her misery was too great to be altogether
concealed, and many noticed, though none could ac-
count for, the change that had come over Charity
Helstone. It was, of course, the more remarkable
just at this time, when, in the prospect of a speedy
sight of home, school-girls generally look their
brightest and laugh their merriest. Plenty of mer-
riment was there in Miss Mowbray's schoolroom
during those days. More than once, even during
lesson-time, were young heads to be seen bent closely
together over the same desk, while young voices
carried on earnest whispering talk, brought suddenly
to an untimely end by Fraulein's sour exclamation,
"So, Miss Annie! so, Miss Alice! you talk once-
you get one bad mark; of that you may make your-
self easy!" But Charity's voice was silent, and
Charity's countenance was clouded.. And those who
watched her made their own remarks, and drew their
own conclusions, Fraulein's and Elinor's minds
NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
125
being especially active on the subject. Little Alice
asked Helen more than once what she thought could
be the matter with Cherrie; and even Miss Mowbray
grew so troubled at the cloud on the young brow,
that one night, on Charity's coming to her for the
accustomed good-night kiss, she gently detained her,
to ask in kind, winning tones, "if she were quite
well." . For one instant the lip trembled, but her
natural proud reserve coming at once to her aid,
Charity answered, in the coldest and most con-
strained of voices, "Quite well, thank you, ma'am."
For a moment Miss Mowbray felt annoyed, for
she was not accustomed to meet with such a chilling
reply to a kind inquiry, but the feeling of annoy-
ance quickly passed from that well-regulated mind,
and gave way to one of most sincere pity for the
child whose real and better self seemed wrapped in
such an impenetrable icy covering. And in her
prayers that night the little orphan was specially
remembered, for clearly did Miss Mowbray see that
a nature like Charity's would lay itself open to God
alone, and that only under the constraining power
of the Holy Spirit.
One feeling, however, made itself clearly felt, and
that was, that it was her duty to go home. Charity
discarded as wrong and sinful, the thought of asking
leave to remain at school; she would go to Arling-
ton, and there endure all that might be awaiting her.
But she would not say a word on the hateful subject
to Mrs. Dorothy. Nor did she. But no sooner
had she returned home, than both Mrs. Dorothy
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CHARITY HELSTONE.
and Betsy perceived that there was something at
work within their darling's heart. The waters were
troubled beneath, and that not slightly, though the
child's strength of will was sufficient to check their
rising. Mrs. Dorothy saw the change, felt it, and
said nothing. Betsy saw it, and said a great deal,
both to herself and to her mistress. "She knew how
it would be; she saw plain enough what was at work.
in her young lady's mind.'
But God is good, and Charity's fretting was not
to be of long continuance; perhaps it was not likely
it should be, when so many were praying that it
might come speedily to an end. When two or three
are agreed to ask the same thing in the dear Master's
name, have we not his own promise that it shall be
granted? and surely a more faithful "two or three "
were never united in one common desire than Mrs.
Dorothy, old Betsy, and Mr. Saville, who had also
remarked the change in the once light-hearted little
girl.
One Sunday, shortly before her return to school,
the longed-for rest came to Charity, the “due time”
when the burden was to fall from her shoulders at
the foot of the cross. That Sunday morning, when
Mr. Saville gave out his text, the words fastened
themselves with strange power on her mind, "Blessed
be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
which according to his abundant mercy hath begot-
ten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection
of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance
incorruptible and undefiled, and that fadeth not
1
NEW THOUGHTS AND PURPOSES.
127
away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by
the power of God through faith unto salvation."
And as Mr. Saville showed how sinners could alone
approach God the Father, even through God the son;
how, because he was the Father of our Lord Jesus
Christ, he must, according to his own word of pro-
mise, become the Father of all who come to him in
Jesus, the one appointed way;-as Mr. Saville
showed all this, rays of light and hope darted into
the mind of the earnest young listener. Her large
blue eyes were riveted on his face as he quoted the
words of the Lord Jesus himself, "No man cometh
unto the Father but by me;" and after dwelling
earnestly on the love of that Saviour, who had laid
down his own sacred life to make atonement for the
sins of the world, and thus reconcile lost sinners to
an offended God, passed on to notice the blessings
secured to man by the death and resurrection of
Him who was "the way :" among them the " inheri-
tance," spoken of in this same blessed word of
promise, as reserved in heaven for those who should
become the children of God "by faith in Christ
Jesus."
On her way home from church that day Charity
did not speak one word. Mrs. Dorothy was not
thère, and Betsy could not help remarking that Cha-
rity left the church before she did, and seemed pur-
posely to hurry homewards. Once locked in her
own room, Charity poured forth her heart in a long
tearful prayer, which in its full, fresh reality, was
like the uprising of the tender herbs, stretching their
128
CHARITY HELSTONE.
green heads towards the sun after the rain had fallen
upon their parched dryness.
The few remaining days of the vacation passed,
and Charity's heart was too full, and her ideas, as
yet, too undeveloped, to allow of their being ex-
pressed even to dear Aunt Dorothy; so that, although
her brow cleared into more than its former light, and
her smile brightened into more than its old warmth,
no word on the subject passed her lips. But she re-
turned to school after the holidays, when she hoped
she would receive all the teaching she required
from dear, good Mr. Morton. Nor was she disap-
pointed.
TRIALS.
129
CHAPTER X.
TRIALS.
'WO months later and Charity Helstone might
have been seen once more in her bedroom at
school, again employed in the very common-
place occupation of brushing her brown hair in
readiness for tea; but with such an altered expres-
sion of countenance, that those who had seen her
listening that last Sunday to Mr. Morton's sermon,
or standing next day in the little vestry, could scarce-
ly have believed that the same girl stood before
them now.
And was it the same? for if the same, whence this
great difference? It seemed the same, and yet not
the same.
And as it seemed, so indeed it was. For
the soft brown hair, which now she brushed out in
all its glossy thickness, and then, dividing into
several curls, twisted around her finger and let fall
in rings, each one of which seemed to catch the
slanting light of the setting sun, and sparkle brightly
in response, looked then as it did now: and so did
the delicate, regular features of the small oval face:
but in the eyes, which were then so grave and sad,
now dwelt a placid, peaceful light; and on the brow,
then so unduly anxious for one so young, now rested
9
130
CHARITY HELSTONE.
a soft repose; whilst around the thoughtful mouth
there played a satisfied smile of sweet content, as
though it had been opened once to ask some mighty
question which lay beneath, burdening the heart,
and had received an answer which in itself solved all
other questions, and left it at liberty, in future, to
spend all its energy in words of love and happiness,
without needing again to shape its sweet form into
unhappy or restless utterances.
A great change had passed, indeed, over Charity
Helstone, and she seemed conscious of it herself
conscious, and yet most unconscious. Her heart felt
light within her, though at this moment there were
thoughts passing through it which might have been
a weight; but that underneath them all there was a
knowledge which acted as a buoy in bearing them
up, and keeping them from even touching, much less
pressing upon, the springs of the heart's life-the
knowledge that all things were working together for
good in her young life.
That there was more behind she knew, for she
saw glimpses of God's providential dealings yet on
the horizon, and felt, though she could not see, that
there was a beyond even to that; and that when she
had reached that horizon, others would extend them-
selves yet farther on, and so on and on, perhaps,
through all eternity: for of God's understanding
there is no searching out, no reaching to the limits
of his wisdom or his mercy.
God is not the "very present" God to all that
he had become to our little Charity. Truly had Mr.
TRIALS.
131
Morton said, that a very great change might, through
God's grace be wrought in many a young heart, be-
tween the day when he spoke the warning words
and the day when the vow should be taken, the
solemnity of which he sought to impress upon their
minds. That such a change had been wrought in
Charity, none who had seen her then, and who saw
her now, could have doubted. For then the face
was heavy with care, and now it actually shone.
with brightness; every movement told of a heart at
rest, as she stood there with her pretty face and
figure light and bright with gladness. An open
book lay before her on the dressing-table, from
which she was apparently learning, for her eyes
wandered constantly from the glass to its pages, and
her lips moved as if repeating the words they met
there.
The first bell rang, and Charity closed the book
and ran down stairs. There was yet half an hour be-
fore tea, and she might have remained longer in her
room, but she wished to speak to Helen Anstruther.
Helen was not there, however, and Charity would
have returned to her room; for Ellinor Temple and
her now constant companion, Fraulein, being, with
little Alice Rhodes, the only other occupants of the
schoolroom, there was not much temptation to
remain. But at sight of her, little Alice threw
down the playthings which she was amusing herself
with in one window-seat, while Fraulein and Ellinor
talked whisperingly in another, and running up to
Charity she begged her to relate a story.
132
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Charity's quick eyes had seen the look which the
two friends had fixed on her as she came in: some-
thing seemed to tell her that they had been speaking
of her, and that was why they paused so suddenly
upon her entrance, and gladly would she have re-
turned to the solitude of her own room, since the
rules of the school did not allow of her seeking Helen
in her's, or of taking little Alice back with her, to
tell her in peace the story she desired to hear. But
just as she was disentangling little Alice's arms from
her neck, and was about to say that she must let her
go now, and she should have a story another day,
the words she had just seen upon the page she had
closed shone again before her, and said within her
heart, "Charity suffereth long, and is kind." And
a voice within-it scarcely seemed her own, and yet
it surely was her own, only it was as yet a new voice,
and she was not fully accustomed to the tone of it!
a voice within replied, "And I am Charity: it is my.
name- -it is to be my nature; and I must suffer long
and be kind-be kind now to little Alice."
So, taking the child upon her lap, she sat down in
the window-seat, and was thinking what story she
should tell her, when the child's arms were thrown
more tightly than before around her neck, and she
said,
You are so good to
Charity was a good
"O Charity, I do love you!
me. They said just now that
name for you, and suited you better than any other;
and I think so too, for Miss Mowbray told me to-day
at my lesson that charity meant love, and I'm sure
TRIALS.
133
I love you, and everybody ought to love you. But
they don't," she added, with a deprecating glance
across the room to the other window-seat; "they
don't. I think they hate you; and I know why, too.
It's because they're jealous-they're jealous that
Mr. Morton likes you so much, and most of all,
that you are going to drink tea there to morrow.”
The words were meant to be a whisper; but Alice
Rhodes' whispers were of a nature to reach any ear
within any part of the room in which they were
uttered; and Alice Rhodes' impetuous volubility was
such that it was useless to attempt to check the pro-
gress of any communication when once it was fairly
started. Charity did, indeed, now lay her hand
upon the child's lips, with the words-softly spoken
words-"Hush! hush, Alice! you must not talk
like that! you must not repeat anything that is said
of me, or of any one."
But Alice's loud whisper had hushed the occupants
of the next window-seat into such intense silence,
that every word, both of the child's communication
and of Charity's reply, was distinctly heard. Frau-
lein was speechless with confusion; but it took a
good deal to disconcert Ellinor, and she at once
replied,
"O, pray don't check her, Miss Helstone; she's
perfectly welcome to repeat anything she's heard us
say. I'm sure I, for one, haven't said anything I
feel at all ashamed of."
"Then I'm sure, Ellinor," exclaimed the child,
"you ought to feel ashamed; for you've been saying
134
CHARITY HELSTONE.
very wicked things. You said Charity was no bet-
ter than the little children that sat round the com-
munion-table, and that it was because Mr. Morton
was so fond of the poor foundlings that he had taken
such a fancy to her: that's what you said, and you
know you did."
The hot blood rushed to Charity's cheek and brow,
and seemed as suddenly to depart from Ellinor's.
The latter evidently knew not what to say, and for a
moment no one spoke. Then Charity's voice was
heard, very trembling with emotion, yet quite dis-
tinct, as in tones struggling with tears, nervousness,
and courage, she turned to little Alice, and said
aloud,
Never mind, Alice; people may say what they
like, and we must not let it make us feel angry.
What those young ladies say is quite true: I am
not any better off than those little children you see
on Sundays. For they have not any father or
mother, and no more have I; and they have no
home really of their own, and many among them
do not even know their name; and all this is just
like me. But God, you know, has given them kind
friends, and so he has given me dear, good friends,
and I must be thankful to him, and love him for all
that he has given to me. You asked me for a story,
little Alice, and I will tell you one which is quite
true: There was a very lovely lady once, who was
going on a journey, and she was taken very ill, and
died in a house where no one knew who she was or
anything about her, and she left one little tiny baby.
TRIALS.
135
loved it very much,
And the little baby
once she used to be
And there was a gocd lady in that place, who took
the little baby and brought it up as her own, and
called it by her own name, and
just as if it was her own child.
grew up to be a big girl, and
unhappy because she had no dear papa and mamma
like most of the children around her; but after-
wards God taught her that he was her Father, and
that he had arranged and ordered everything just
as was best for her; and you know, little Alice, no
one who knows that can ever be very unhappy.
For to have God for one's Father makes one hap-
py, if one has nothing else to do so. And this lit-
tle girl grew quite happy, and was very thankful,
though she had no parents and no home to which
she had a right, and nothing that she could call her
own, except the gold wedding-ring which was on
her poor mother's finger, and which she always
wears on her's."
"O, Cherrie!" exclaimed the child, "you are that
little baby! You wear a gold ring upon your finger.
I know you are that little baby. And is your aunt
the good lady who brought you up?"
"Yes," said Charity. "Her name is Mrs. Dorothy
Helstone, Alice; but I call her ' Aunt Dorothy,' be-
cause she is just like a dear aunt to me, and takes
as much care of me as your aunt does of you. One
day, you know, you are to come and see her in her
pretty house at Arlington."
"O, I shall love her very much," said Alice,
“because she has been good to you. And one day,
136
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Cherrie-one day, I'm sure you'll find out that you
are some grand lady. It's just like the story about
the fairy princess in my book, and you know they
thought she was some poor man's child, and she
turned out to be a great princess. And you're just
like her to look at, because you are so beautiful;
you've got such lovely hair, and such lovely eyes. M.
Perrot said the other day you were not a bit like the
other young ladies—yes, he did say so to Miss Mow-
bray, after you had gone out of the room; and he
said you walked like a queen. And I know you're
much grander than all the rest of us, and I dare say
that's why they're jealous of you.”
Again Charity's hand was laid upon the impetuous
little lips, but this time no interruption arose from
the window-seat. Its two astonished occupants had
remained as motionless there as though Charity's
little simple story had turned them into stone; and
it was only on Miss Mowbray's entering the room,
which was a signal for the second bell to be rung,
that they seemed to find strength to move and draw
near the table.
Charity did so likewise, but her heart was beating
so violently that she felt quite sick, and before the
tea was over there was a sudden commotion amongst
the girls, and to every one's surprise it was dis-
covered that Charity Helstone had fainted. She was
taken to her own room and compelled to go to bed,
and though she begged to be left alone, it was de-
cided that some one must stay with her, and at her
own request that some one was Helen Anstruther.
TRIALS.
137
The two girls had liked each other from the first,.
but since their return a strong friendship had arisen
between them. Little Alice Rhodes never kept any-
thing that was on her mind long, without making
Helen a sharer in it, and during the half-hour that
had passed while Miss Mowbray was herself assist-
ing Charity to bed, and the other girls discussing
her sudden illness in the schoolroom, she had drawn
her friend Helen aside, and told her all that had
happened before tea, and how certain she was that
Fraulein and Ellinor Temple had made Charity ill.
So that it was with a heart very full of sympathy
that Helen took her seat at Charity's bedside, and
asked her how she felt.
"I am not ill," said Charity, "and I can't think
what made me faint. I was not feeling well when
we sat down to tea, my heart was beating so vio-
lently; but I did not wish any one to perceive it,
so I forced myself to eat."
CC
Then," said Helen, "I do not. wonder that you
fainted. "I'm afraid," she added, "that Fraulein
had said something to vex you. Do you know,
Fraulein is very much on my conscience?"
"Why?" said Charity.
"Because I'm sure Miss Mowbray has no idea
what sort of a person she really is, or she would not
keep her here, and I think we ought to let her
know; I think I ought, being the eldest here. She
is very rude to you, though I can't see why she
should be."
I think," said Charity, "it's only because Ellinor
138
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Temple does not like me, and she is so intimate with
Ellinor."
"But why should Ellinor dislike you?" said
Helen.
"That is my own fault," said Charity. "I believe
I took a dislike to her when I first came to school,
and I showed it. I used to take so little trouble to
hide what I felt or thought; I had been spoiled at
home, and I have always been so selfish and wilful.
O, Helen! how thankful I feel to have gone to
Mr. Morton's classes; everything looks so different
now from what it did then. And he is so kind to
me!"
"Yes," said Helen, "you are favored, certainly.
Ellinor says you are going to drink tea there again
to-morrow evening. It is not often that any one is
asked to drink tea there; and Ellinor says, he called
himself to ask Miss Mowbray to allow you to come.
She was practising in the drawing-room when he
came in, and she heard him say so. Do you know I
think this helped to make her angry, for we all
think so much of Mr. Morton."
"He is so kind-so very kind!" said Charity.
"I have never seen any one so kind."
"But he does not generally make much of young
people-or of any one, indeed," replied Helen; "that
is why the girls call him 'the Shunammite's pro-
phet.' You must have heard Ellinor Temple give
him that name?"
"Yes," said Charity; "she did so to-day when we
came in from the class: but I could not imagine why."
TRIALS.
139
"It is very wrong," said Helen; "but that is the
name he generally goes by amongst the giddy ones
here, and I believe it was Ellinor herself who first
gave it to him. You know what is said of the Shu-
nammite, that she built a little chamber for Elisha
on the wall, and set for him there a bed, and a table,
and a stool, and a candlestick, so that when he passed
by he might turn in thither. Ellinor says, that if
any one wishes to show attention to Mr. Morton,
they would have to set about in it the same way, for
that he is much too holy a man to be expected to
mix with other people; that, she is sure, he only
needs the barest necessaries of life; and that it would
be much better to keep him in a little chamber on
the wall than to have him with the family. I don't
think it right of her to turn things into a joke, but I
do think Mr. Morton seems somewhere a long way
off from us; and it seems strange that you should
have been asked there so often, and have grown so
intimate with them."
"Mr. Morton is a long way off from us," said
Charity; "at least, he is so good that he seems so.
And I don't think he makes very much of any oue
in particular."
"No," said Helen; "I like that in him so very
much. Some clergymen seem to be placed on pedes-
tals to be admired and adored, and to be perpetually
at the mercy of those amongst their admirers who
like to waste his time by pouring all their domestic
or personal trials and temptations into his ear. Cer-
tainly Mr. Morton is not like that."
140
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Charity smiled. "How strange that you should
say so to-day!" she said, "when it was only yester-
day that Mrs. Morton was telling me, that though
Mr. Morton was so deeply interested in all his
young people, he always sought to make them
feel that he was not so much a personal friend
as a pastoral guide, and would rather check than
invite particular confidences."
"But," said Helen, "so much of the difficulty
of life arises from one's own peculiar circum-
stances or personal feelings, it seems difficult to
imagine how one can receive guidance without these
being fully understood."
"Mr. Morton thinks," said Charity, "that all
general principles bear upon all particular circum-
stances."
"Did he say that to you?" said Helen.
(6
"Yes," replied Charity; "and I have been think-
ing very much all these last days how true his
words were. For I have never told Mr. Morton
anything about my troubles here, or, indeed, spoken
to him at all of the things which of late have
weighed heaviest upon my mind. I could not
do so, if I wished even, for I should be a great
deal too shy; and yet, if I had told him every-
thing, every little circumstance, all he has said to
me could not have been more exactly what I seemed
to want. I was thinking so only this evening,
Helen, when, as you say, Ellinor did wound me
dreadfully; so sharply, that it was all I could do
to keep in what I felt But just before I had come
A
TRIALS.
141
down stairs I had been learning some verses Mr.
Morton had marked for me, which, he said, were
suitable references to that sentence in the 13th
of the First of Corinthians, which he has made
me select as my special portion for study these
weeks."
He often does that," said Helen: "he did so
with me last year. I went through the Beatitudes.
But I suppose he gave you this on account of your
name being Charity."
"Yes," said Charity; "and I am sure I am very
grateful to Aunt Dorothy for giving me such a
name, much as I used to dislike it once, if I owe to
it all the teaching that Mr. Morton has given to
me about it. No, indeed, Helen, I don't think we
need tell all our circumstances, or, perhaps, any of
them, to our friends in order to receive instruction
or teaching."
"Unless," said Helen, "one was in some particu-
lar difficulty or temptation, when it would be
impossible, perhaps, for any one to give us the best
advice unless they knew the details."
.
"O, of course," replied Charity; "that is very
different: then one would have to remember a
sentence of Miss Edgeworth's, which Aunt Dorothy
used often to quote to me, when she said I gave her
half-confidences and expected from her whole
advice, which she never would give. She said that
Miss Edgeworth's words were sound truth-- Always
tell your physician, or your lawyer, or your friend,
the whole truth, of he is either a fool or a knave
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CHARITY HELSTONE.
if he prescribes for you or gives you advice.' I
can see that it must be so in any difficult things,
any case of conscience,' as Aunt Dorothy would
say; but not in such conversations as Mr. Morton
has with us. I think, then, to enter on our own
circumstances would be a hindrance rather than
a help."
"And so do I," said Helen; at least, I'm sure it
would be so to me. My mind would be in such a
turmoil of personal feeling, and excitement, and
nervousness, that I don't think the teaching poured
upon it while it was in that condition would find
any resting-place. When the teaching was over, I
think the excitement and the instruction would all
have passed off together."
"That's just what I think, too, Helen," replied
Charity. "Whilst Mr. Morton never seems to
agitate or excite one, and his words go down deep
into the heart, and seem to meet with every hidden
circumstance they find there. I believe he tries
to set one's heart right; feeling that when the
springs of that are in order it will go just as well,
and direct us just as surely, at one hour of our
lives as at another, by day or night, or in shade or
sunshine, as the case may be."
"Yes," said Helen; "get the machinery right,
and you may weave all sorts of textures and colors,
coarse or fine, bright or dark, with the same facility.
Well, I believe that is true, and that a great deal
of precious time is lost in picking and unpicking
one's circumstances or one's character, because we
TRIALS.
143
find that things don't go right, and think the fault
must lie in the web and the woof, when all the
time the machinery is the thing at fault."
"The poor, proud, self-willed heart!" said Charity,
"that is just what Mr. Morton says. If I could only
remember all he told me to-day on that one line-
'Charity suffereth long, and is kind,' it seems to me
as if I could never feel angry again with any single
living creature."
"Well, Cherrie, you seem to have remembered it
to-day," said Helen.
Charity smiled.
"It was very fresh in my mind then, Helen, and
sometimes the passing away of my impressions seems
to be in proportion to their strength. What I feel
most deeply at the time seems often to pass away
most quickly."
"I suppose that is when one's natural feeling has
been a good deal excited," said Helen. "But I do
think, Cherrie, your forbearance to-night made
some impression on Ellinor; as for Fraulein,
nothing appears to touch her, but Ellinor really
seemed sorry when you fainted, and very anxious
for Miss Mowbray to come back and tell us how
you were. I was so glad she said I was to come
and sit with you, for I used to be so lonely here,
but since I have had you I have been so happy."
"Since Mr. Morton has had me, you ought to
say," replied Charity; "for I am sure the first
half-year I was no comfort to you or any one
else."
144
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"Shall we not say then," said Helen, tenderly,
"since Jesus has had you?"
"Or," replied Charity, quickly, "since I have
had Jesus. It seems as if He were always offering
Himself to every one, and all depended upon
whether one would receive Him or not."
Thus the two friends talked happily together, and
when the prayer-bell summoned Helen away from
her, Charity could not regret anything that had
passed that day. It had all brought forth good-
the talk with Mr. Morton, the happy learning
of the texts on charity in her own quiet chamber,
the scene in the schoolroom immediately after-
wards, which had led to her telling Alice the story
concerning herself, and the fainting-fit at tea, which
had led to such an unusually long talk with her
friend Helen.
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145
CHAPTER XI.
OVERCOMING.
HERE had been some doubt as to whether
Charity was to be considered well enough to
attend the class at Mr. Morton's house the
next day, but she begged so earnestly to be
allowed to go, and seemed so perfectly to have
recovered from her yesterday's attack, that Miss
Mowbray gave permission, and with a happy heart
she took her place in the cab with Ellinor Temple
and another girl.
The thought had more than once crossed Charity's
mind that Ellinor did not seem to take much in-
terest, or receive much benefit from the classes, but
she always turned away from it; for who was
she, that she should judge another? and besides,
could not the same God, who had done so much
for her in such a very little time, do just as much
for Ellinor in yet less time? But it made her
sad to see Ellinor's utter thoughtlessness, and she
was always very silent on her way to and from the
class, for she could not and would not have joined
in remarks on the dresses of the passers-by, or the
gay things hanging in the shop-windows.
But to-day she especially wished not to appear
10
146
CHARITY HELSTONE.
unamiable, lest Ellinor should think her mind was
dwelling on what had taken place yesterday; and
she sought to enter into conversation by asking
Ellinor some question on the subject on which Mr
Morton had spoken to them all the previous day,
before talking in private to each, as he did daily
during this week. But, unfortunately, Ellinor was
not able to supply the information which Charity
sought, for the very simple reason that the text
which had passed from Charity's memory had
never even entered Ellinor's ears; and feeling
provoked at this she answered sharply, that “if
Charity wished to note down all that had been
said the day before, she would have a good oppor-
tunity of cross-questioning Mr. Morton himself on
the subject, since she was going to drink tea there
again." Annie Danvers, however, supplied the
text, and added her opinion to Ellinor's remark,
that "it must be very nice to go so often to Mr.
Morton's. She had spent one evening there after
her illness, and it was so pleasant, it reminded
her of her own home in Scotland, which she only
saw once a year, and where she was so happy with
her own parents and her young brothers. The
Mortons seemed such a happy family party.
Yes, the Mortons were, indeed, a happy family
party. Charity thought so that evening, as, after
the class, Mr. Morton took her to the drawing-
room, where his wife and the young ones were
assembled, one and all engaged in some happy
occupation. Eleven of them in all there were,

The Mortons were a happy family. Page 145.
OVERCOMING.
147
yet in that bright, orderly home, each seemed
to find his own special place and work; and whilst
all were united in a most harmonious whole, each
seemed to retain his or her own special individu-
ality in a manner which greatly charmed Charity's
mind, for it was new to her. At Arlington Rectory
it was very different, and dearly as she loved the
Savilles, one and all, from kind Mr. Saville hin-
self, down to the last round-faced baby in the cra
dle, Charity's clear-judging mind could not but
perceive that there was a vast difference between
the party of eleven in Arlington Rectory and
the same party in St. John's Wood, and that the
advantage lay with the latter.
The atmosphere of one home might be, and
doubtless was, as holy as the other. With the
parents faith, love, prayer dwelt, no doubt, as
permanently. But at St. John's Wood the spirit
of order reigned and discipline was maintained,
and when Charity marked the effect of just the
influence of this one difference upon the children,
she could not but wish that it could be so at
Arlington: it would be so good for all the children
there, it would have been so good for Edward in
particular. Charity wished sometimes that her
dear old friends at Arlington could have made
acquaintance with her new friends at St. John's
Wood, and that Mr. Saville might have learned
from Mr. Morton that it was wise and well for
fathers, sometimes, to leave the old divines to sleep
on the shelves for an hour or two, whilst they
148
CHARITY HELSTONE.
brought their eyes, ears, and hearts into the draw-
ing-room and schoolroom, and allowed their minds
to dwell upon the young ones there; whilst dear,
indulgent Mrs. Saville might have learned from
Mrs. Morton, that if mothers win their children's
hearts and confidences by tenderness, and gentle-
ness, and patience, and long forbearance, to keep
the hearts they win there must be firmness too, and
the young will must never learn to feel itself the
strongest.
܀
Impulsive, ardent, youthful as she herself was,
Mrs. Morton never forgot that she was the mother of
that family, and amidst the tones of love, indulgence,
sympathy, there always mingled one of consistent
firmness, which the children felt, and which had its
influence upon them. That home had a peculiar
fascination for a mind like Charity's, which had a
very strong vein of practical good sense running.
through the imagination that pervaded it. Her
evenings at St. John's Wood were her great delight,
and as she watched the system of family training in
that large household, the only check to her enjoy-
ment of it arose from the regret that it had not been
thus at Arlington; for had it been so, might not
Edward Saville have been all that Charles and Har-
court Morton were? Charity's faithful heart clung
as fondly as ever to Edward; no other boy would
ever be so dear to her. But Charity's judgment
was not of that nature which is blinded by feeling;
but if she loved Edward she admired the Mortons,
and was ready to attribute all his faults, and all
OVERCOMING.
149
their virtues to the very different training they had
received.
Later in the evening Mrs. Morton remarked that a
grave look had taken the place of the smile, and
that Charity had laid down her work, and was gazing
at the various little groups in the room with large
thoughtful eyes, which, when they had that sad ex-
pression in them, always reminded Mrs. Morton of
another pair of sad eyes, long years ago, in Duke
Street.
"You are tired, Charity ?" she said.
At the word Charity started from her reverie,
and said “O no, she was only thinking," and went
on with her work.
Mr. Morton was playing chess with Harcourt;
but the little incident was not lost upon him; the
children used to say nothing ever was lost upon
papa; and when they sat down to tea, and Charity
was beside him, and all busied in helping themselves
and one another, he said quietly,
'Harcourt is fond of offering you a penny for
your thoughts, Charity, when you are in one of your
grave moods. You do not often look quite as grave
as you did this evening, when Mrs. Morton roused
you by asking if you were tired. Shall I offer you a
price for your thoughts, or will you make me a
sharer in them without ?"
The blood rushed so quickly into Charity's fair
face that Mr. Morton regretted having alluded to
the subject, and would have turned it off into another
channel; but Charity, replied at once.
150
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"I was thinking," she said-" perhaps it was very
wrong-but I was thinking how delightful it must
be for Minnie to have a home and parents, and
such dear brothers and sisters. But I know such
thoughts are not right."
·
"We must
"They are very natural," he said.
not expect that they should not exist." And he said
no more, for Charity's eyes had a brimming softness,
which looked as though a word would make them
overflow. But later in the evening, when Charity
had quite recovered her composure, and was sitting
quietly a little apart, resting from a merry game of
romps with the youngest of the eleven, whom Minnie
had just carried off to bed, he laid his hand upon
her head and said gravely, "Charity envieth not."
It had been their subject at that day's class, and
had entered then into Charity's head. And now
these three little words seemed to find their way,
straight down into her heart.
The servant who came to bring Charity from St.
John's Wood that evening was sent back, and Mr.
Morton walked home with her himself.
No sooner
had she entered the schoolroom than she saw that
something was wrong there. Helen Anstruther was
writing a letter at the table, but with a perplexed,
distressed look, which said, either that the letter was
an unpleasant one to write, or that it was not at that
moment the chief subject of her attention. Annie
Danvers and another girl were playing draughts
very quietly, and looked as though they had just
been very suddenly frightened, and had not recov
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151
ered the shock. Ellinor Temple was the only other
girl in the room, and she looked simply in a very
bad temper. On Charity's coming in, Helen laid
down her pen, as though glad to have an excuse for
doing so, and began questioning her as to whether
she had not had a very pleasant evening; to which
Charity replied by giving her an account of the very
pleasant evening they had had, and Annie Danvers
ceased playing draughts to chime in with enthusi-
astic remarks of her own, admiration of the Mortons,
and all connected with them having been her one
great enthusiasm ever since a severe illness she had
had some months ago, when Mr. Morton's kindness
to her, and some pleasant intercourse she had had
with the family, had kindled within her a romantic
devotion, which was very natural to a simple, affec-
tionate, yet somewhat sentimental nature like her's.
"Don't you remember drinking tea there with nie,
Ellinor," she asked, "and how much we enjoyed
ourselves? I was sorry to get quite well and strong
again, because one doesn't generally get asked there
without some special reason. Miss Mowbray says
they have so many people they must ask in their
large parish. You know we have never gone there
since; and I only went then because I was ill; and
you only went, Ellinor, because I was too poorly to
go alone. Why, you've been there ever so many
times! Doesn't it make you quite proud?"
Charity laughed. "They are very kind to me,
certainly, though I often wonder why they should
be so."
152
CHARITY HELSTONE.
A most provoking smile curled Ellinor's lip. The
look on her face was most expressive. To Charity it
just seemed to say, "Don't you know why? Why it's
just because you're a poor foundling, and the found-
lings are known to be Mr. Morton's special delight,
his pet proteges; and Mrs. Morton's heart goes out
to everything that is poor and wretched; and that's
the reason, Charity Helstone, why you are such a
welcome guest in St. John's Wood, at least, that's
what I think about it, and what I'd say too, only I'm
afraid to do so."
All this that one look of Ellinor Temple's seemed
to Charity to imply, and her spirit rose in indig-
nation within her; but remembering words she had
heard only that day, that "Charity thinketh no evil,"
she checked the thought as it arose. But it was not
only Charity who was struck by the contemptuous
curl of Ellinor's upper lip. Helen Anstruther saw it
plainly enough, and coloring with that indignation,
which is to be checked when we ourselves are the
subject of it, yet becomes lawful, and even righteous,
when it is called forth for another, she said quietly,
but very markedly,
"We all feel how wise Mr. Morton.is-we all
know how carefully he brings up his children.
Minnie has no companions of her own age, all the
boys come between her and her little sisters; if he
and Mrs. Morton wish her to form a friendship with
you, Charity, and that is why they ask you so often
to the Rectory, I can't say I, for one, wonder at it."
Charity blushed, and Ellinor crimsoned, for she
OVERCOMING.
153
was cute enough to know that Helen's speech was
not in reality addressed either to Annie or Charity,
but simply to herself, in answer to that one scornful
smile.
"Really," she said, "Miss Helstone is very fortu-
nate to have such admirers within and without. For
my part, I should not have thought it was good taste
to pay such compliments to people before their face."
I never pay compliments," said Helen, quietly;
"I merely say what I think."
"Which it is not always usual to do in the pre-
sence of people,” replied Ellinor, losing her temper
and her judgment together. "It might have the
appearance of flattery, you know, Miss Anstruther;
or it might tend to engender vanity, which you, who
are so good, ought surely to seek to avoid."
"Miss Helstone knows I am not given to flattery,"
replied Helen, restraining herself by an effort from
smiling; "and as to vanity, she is not likely to be
made vain by anything I may say to her, consider-
ing what Miss Mowbray has just said of her to us,
and which she herself would have heard if she had
been here then, and will hear to-morrow. It seems,
Charity, you have more marks than any of us on
almost every subject this year, and are pretty sure
of the prize. But there's the prayer-bell! Come,
we must not wait an instant, for Miss Mowbray has
put off prayers already a quarter of an hour, on
account of Mr. Morton's message that if you might
stay a few minutes longer he would walk home with
you himself. You certainly are, as Annie says, a
154
CHARITY HELSTONE.
favored individual." And drawing Charity's arm
within hers, she hurried her downstairs.
That night, to her surprise, she found that little
Alice Rhodes had taken Ellinor Temple's place as
her bedroom companion. The child was fast asleep
when she reached her room, so that there was no
opportunity to make inquiries from her as to why
this change had been effected. But that it was a
very pleasant change for her, Charity felt at once.
And that there was something connected with it
which made it just the reverse to Ellinor, she felt
also, when that young lady came to the room a few
minutes afterwards to get something, and retired
with such an expression of sullen resentment that
Charity did not venture upon a word with her.
Something had happened during her absence, but
what she could not imagine. Helen's words re-
turned to her mind, and with satisfaction she reflected
that, whatever had gone wrong during her absence,
she herself could have had no share in it. On the
contrary, Helen's words seemed to imply that some-
thing must have happened to raise her in Miss Mow-
bray's good opinion, since it was but seldom that
she expressed such commendation of any one as
Helen had repeated to her that evening. And how
pleasant a walk home she had had! She did not
wonder that the girls were disposed to be a little
jealous of the favor shown to her.
And every feeling of triumph or self-exaltation
vanished as Charity lay down her head upon her pil
low, and fell asleep with humble, happy gratefulness.
C
t
SELF-RESTRAINT.
155
CHAPTER XII.
SELF-RESTRAINT.
HE next morning, the first news that Charity
learned from her little companion was, that
there had been some great "fuss" the evening
before. The child did not know what, but it
was all about Fraulein; and Helen Anstruther and
Ellinor Temple had been concerned in it, for they
had been closeted for a long time in the study with
Miss Mowbray and Fraulein; but all the result that
little Alice knew was, that she had been sent to
sleep in Charity's room, while a bed had been pre-
pared for Ellinor in Miss Mowbray's dressing-room.
“And as for Fraulein," the child added, "do you
know, I think she's going to be sent away, from
something I heard Miss Mowbray say: she and
Helen had such a long talk last night, and I'm sure
they said something about its being much better
that she should go away. Perhaps she's going to-
day, Cherrie! O, don't I hope she is!"
This hope of little Alice's was further confirmed
when, on coming downstairs, they saw two large
boxes standing in the hall, and on entering the
schoolroom found that Fraulein was not there as
usual, but that Miss Mowbray was reading in her
156
CHARITY HELSTONE.
arm-chair, while the girls looked over their lessons
in the half-hour before breakfast. Another circum.
stance was not lost upon Charity; and that was, that
Ellinor Temple's appearance had not been improved
by her night's rest in Miss Mowbray's dressing-room.
She looked, as one of the girls said afterwards, "like
all the Furies;" and Helen had remarked that,
sullen as her face had been before Charity came
into the room, it darkened very considerably after
that event.
Miss Mowbray's presence, however, maintained
the most perfect outward composure, whatever
storms might be passing within; and breakfast,
prayers, and the reading of the psalms and lessons,
passed as quietly-more quietly, indeed, than usual:
for, of course, if the mind is occupied with thoughts
within which may not find utterance, there will be
perfect stillness from its not engaging in anything
that is passing without. Before rising from the
table, however, Miss Mowbray spoke, addressing
herself to Charity—
"You were not here last night, my dear," she said,
or you would have heard then what I now repeat
for your sake: that I have finished looking over the
marks in the different books, and that you have the
advantage over any of the others. Ellinor has
almost as many, her music giving her so large a
number; otherwise," she added, turning to Ellinor
and speaking very gravely, "otherwise, as I told.
you last night, Charity's marks would be much
greater than yours, for you are very deficient in
SELF-RESTRAINT.
157
some subjects, history and composition especially.
But your music marks and...," she continued,
with a little hesitation, "and your German marks,
run up the number of your marks greatly, and bring
them very nearly on a par with Charity's, whose
number of marks is almost equal in every subject.
And this is just what pleases me so much in your
book, Charity; you have not given your time only
to that which pleases you or for which you have a
special taste; but you have worked steadily at every-
thing that has engaged your attention, and that ever
since you came to us, though of late with even in-
creased zeal. It is seldom that any mark-book has
given me so much pleasure as yours did yesterday.
It now remains only to see which writes the best
theme, and what marks you have from your French
and drawing masters, for me to decide which will
receive the prize for general proficiency in all sub-
jects; which, I believe, is the prize which you all
most covet, because it is so much the most valuable,
though, as you know, it is not a very great favorite
of mine."
"Miss Mowbray always ends up with that re-
mark," said one of the girls, as Miss Mowbray left
the room. I believe she isn't a bit grateful to
that old uncle of hers, but rather owes him a grudge,
for leaving five pounds every year to be given to
the girl in her school who should do best in every
subject at her Easter examinations. Such a funny
old man he was! I remember him so well the first
day I came to school; he died six months after, and
158.
CHARITY IIELSTONE.
I was always so glad I'd seen him. He used to
dine here every Saturday-a little wrinkled old mar
with white hair and large gold spectacles; and he
always asked us all around, 'Well, and how's the
French? and how's the German? and how's the
music? and how are you?' and he actually left it
in his will that this prize should be given as long
as the school lasted. Do you know, I overheard
Miss Mowbray say one day to Mr.. Morton that it
was very kindly meant, and so she must and did feel
grateful for the feeling that prompted it; but that
if her uncle had understood as much about education
as she did, he would have left that legacy out of
his will, or have arranged it in some other way!"
"Well, we're glad enough to get the prize, any-
how," said Annie Danvers; "at least those are who
do get it: which, of course, I know I never shall,
not having Charity's talents, which make her do
well in everything she turns her mind to; or any
one particular gift, like music, as you have, Ellinor,
which runs up your marks in one thing, even though
you can't do so well in others."
This speech, not being especially agreeable to
Ellinor's feelings, so considerably darkened the dark
look on the brow, that a good-natured girl present,
who saw the gathering clouds, and who dreaded a
"schoolroom storm" above all things, sought to
avert it by saying,
"Music and German, Annie, Miss Mowbray said.
And I'm sure one must be clever to get on in Ger-
man, for I never can learn it; it's to me so difficult."
SELF-RESTK AINT.
159
"O, as for German," said Annie, saucily, "I don't
think much of the German marks, when it's Frau-
lein that gives them. We know how particular she
is in putting them down correctly, and I think Miss
Mowbray seems to have found that out at last, for
she didn't seem to think very much of these same
German marks. And, you see, we've heard nothing
of Fraulein this morning. I told you there was a
grand fuss last night, and that something would
come of it; though Helen wouldn't tell us what
Miss Mowbray wanted when she kept her so long in
the study. I only hope we may never see Fraulein
again, with her deceitful, underhand ways. I'm
sure she would be no loss, at least not to most of
us."
"Come, come," said Helen, "it's very wrong and
very foolish to talk like this, when we're all so busy,
too. I'm going to write my theme, and I should
advise you, Charity, to get on with yours this
morning."
Yes, Charity had intended doing so; but when
she took her desk she felt as if the morning's events
had driven all her thoughts away. She wished Miss
Mowbray had not told them anything about the
marks before the examinations were finished. It
made one nervous to feel one had so good a chance.
She could not write a word with all this running in
her mind; and taking her hat, she went into the
garden to breathe the air of the fresh spring morn-
ing. It seemed to bring back to her all strength of
body and mind, and she was returning to the house,
160
CHARITY HELSTONE.
feeling quite light and bright, when just as she came
into the garden-door, the green-baize door leading
into the hall was opened, and she saw Fraulein
come out of Miss Mowbray's study and go out of
the front-door into a cab waiting for her.
It would be a piece of news to communicate
to the girls, who, being in the schoolroom at the
back of the house, would know nothing of Frau-
lien's exit from it. But Charity was not given to
news-telling at any time, and this piece of news she
felt no inclination whatever to communicate.
she took her place at her desk, and, in a way which
surprised even herself, wrote her theme with singu-
lar ease, though her mind had been so preoccupied
up to the very moment of her commencing it.
So
She read her theme over, and felt it was very
fairly done. Her own sense told her that Ellinor
was not likely to do better. It had occupied
nearly all the morning, and she went to her room
to get ready for dinner. There lay her little Testa-
ment open at the usual page, and as her eye fell
upon the words, "Seeketh not her own," Charity
prayed that they might find place in her heart
also. Mr. Morton had said, that it was the very
secret of religion; and was it not the secret of -
happiness also?
Dinner over, the girls gathered in groups in the
schoolroom, for the morning sunshine had been
succeeded by an afternoon of fastly-falling rain,
and there could be no walk that day. Charity's
face was bright with the brightness from within,
SELF-RESTRAINT.
161
and one of the girls remarking how bright it was,
said, "You're very cheerful to-day, Cherrie; and
no wonder, if you know what Alice has just been
telling us, that Fraulein has gone away, never to
come back any more. You and she were never
very good friends, and, really, lately she has seemed
to hate you. I should think you were heartily
glad to get rid of her; just as glad, Ellinor, as you
must be sorry, who were such a great friend of
her's. Pray can you enlighten us as to the cause
of her sudden disappearance? for our curiosity
is greatly excited on the subject."
Ellinor looked up from the book she was holding
in her hand, but not, it was evident, attempting to
read. “I think," she said--it was the first word
she had been heard to say that day, for not even
the morning's conversation about the marks had
elicited a word from her,-"I think you had better
ask Miss Helstone that question. It seems to me
Fraulein's enemies have had more to do with her
going away than her friends. Some people care
little what means they take to get rid of anything
that troubles themselves."
Charity's quick temper prompted an angry refu-
tation of the implied insult, but her eyes had been
but lately removed from that little book on the
dressing-table. Was it not one of the special
characteristics of that charity, whose nature she
was so earnestly seeking to possess, that it was
not easily provoked? She waited but a minute or
two before she answered, but that minute or two
11
162
CHARITY HELSTONE.
were quite enough for the color in the cheek to
have subsided, the heart to have grown calm, and
the voice to be under control as she replied, "You
say I am to be asked, Ellinor, and you look as
though I had something to do with Fraulein's
going away. If you think so, you are quite mis-
taken. I know Fraulein did not like me, as
Annie said just now, we were never very great
friends; and sometimes I used to think her unkind:
but I have never made any complaint of her, even
to Helen."
And going to her desk she took out her theme,
and began copying it out fair without another
word. She was half through her work, when
a message reached her that Mrs. Morton wished
to speak to her in the drawing-room for one mo-
ment.
"She must be quick, please," the servant said.
"Mrs. Morton was in such a hurry, she had not
wished to come in, as she could not stay an in-
stant."
Quickly running down-stairs, Charity left her
paper on the desk on the little table in the end-
window, her own accustomed place, Ellinor Temple
working near it, the other girls around the table.
She returned five minutes after to find it gone.
"My paper!" she said; "where is it ?”
Ellinor rose at once, and inquired, “What
paper?"
"The paper that I was copying," said Charity,
"I left it on the table, and it is gone!"
1
SELF-RESTRAINT:
163
"O, Ellinor!" exclaimed Helen, rising from her
own desk, and coming forward to the window, "how
could you open that window with a paper on the
desk, and the wind blowing like that. Of course it
must have been blown into the street. I hope
it was not of consequence, Cherrie; for I very
much doubt your ever seeing it again. Why, when
Ellinor insisted on having the window open for a
minute to let in the fresh air, we all remonstrated,
saying we should be blown away; and so we very
nearly were. Your papers have gone on a journey
over the neighboring chimney-tops, Cherrie. I hope
it doesn't matter. What were they?"
Only my theme," said Charity, quietly.
"What, not the rough copy and all!" exclaimed
Helen.
"Yes," said Charity. "I left it altogether on
the desk when I ran down in such a hurry to speak
to Mrs. Morton. I never dreamt of any one open-
ing the window in such weather as this; especially,"
she added, "when they must have seen there were
papers on the desk." But the words on the page
up-stairs returning again to her mind she checked
herself, and said no more, for she felt that she was
growing hot.
"Really" said Ellinor, pettishly, "one can't be
expected to look all around to see what mischief
one may possibly do before one moves to do any-
thing. The room was so hot one could scarcely
breathe. I said I was going to open the window, and
no one made any remark about Charity's papers."
་
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CHARITY HELSTONE.
“Because no one could see from here that Charity
had left her papers loose on her desk."
"And why should I see it either?" said Ellinor.
A voice at the end of the table said something
about none being so blind as those who didn't wish
to see. And Ellinor crimsoned with anger, and
was about to make an indignant retort, when Helen
interfered, and insisted upon silence.
"Miss Mowbray has given me the charge of the
schoolroom this afternoon," she said, "and I will
not hear another word about it. All who have seen
what has happened may draw their own conclusions;
but I won't have any disputing about it. Charity's
papers have been lost, that's certain; and it's equally
certain that Miss Mowbray will not allow her to lose
anything by it. Either time will be given to write
the theme over again, or it will not count at all in
making up the prizes. We may feel very sure of
that. And now, if you please, we will all go on with
our work.".
A SOLEMN SERVICE.
165
CHAPTER XIII.
A SOLEMN SERVICE.
T length came the day of the communion, and
Charity stood in her room ready prepared for
church, with the sunshine of spring without,
and more than the sunshine of spring within.
Brightly did the rays of the sun shine upon her
brown curls, and make them dance in light from
beneath the simple little white cap. Yet more
brightly did the rays of the true Light of Life shine
into her young heart, and fill it with warmth and
gladness. It seemed to Charity the very happiest
day she had ever known, and she looked so beaming
as she came out of her room to join the other girls
in Miss Mowbray's study, that that lady said to
herself, she had never really understood all the
beauty that lay in Charity's face until then.
The service was over. Charity, in the presence of
God and that large congregation, had renewed the
solemn promise and vow that had been made in her
name at her baptism; she had ratified and confirmed
the same in her own person. There was no need for
her to feel downcast and disheartened at the pros-
pect of the arduous work before her, for had she not
acknowledged that her help was to be in the name
>
166
CHARITY HELSTONE.
of the Lord, who had made heaven and earth? and
had she not received the assurance that the Lord,
blessed for ever, world without end, would be with
her, and with her spirit; and that her prayer should
go up unto Him, and be heard by Him, the almighty
and ever living God, who had vouchsafed to perform
the greatest of all His great works upon her, and,
giving unto her the forgiveness of sins, regenerate
her by water and the Holy Ghost? Would He not
continue the work which He himself had begun,
and strengthen her with the Holy Ghost the Com-
forter, daily increasing in her the manifold gifts of
grace, and filling her with the spirit of wisdom and
understanding, the spirit of counsel and strength,
the spirit of knowledge and true godliness; in short,
with the spirit of His holy fear, then and forever?
Defended by the Lord's heavenly grace, would not
she continue His forever, and daily increase in His
Holy Spirit more and more until she came to His
everlasting kingdom? Charity believed that she
would, for God had promised. What He had pro-
mised, that she felt He would perform, and she
must not suffer her spirit to feel unbelief or fear.
It was the Almighty God alone who could make
any one either to will or to do those things that are
good and acceptable unto His Divine Majesty.
Strengthened by such prayers, fully assured by
such promises, Charity rose from her knees, with a
heart alike heavy with grateful love, and light with
eager hope and ardent zeal. As she trod down the
aisle, Mr. Morton's eye rested upon her with a look
A SOLEMN SERVICE.
167
of deeper interest and thankfulness than upon any
other of his young charges. The blessing of God
Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,
which had just been pronounced upon those young
heads, seemed to have rested in a special measure
upon Charity's. It appeared as though she herself
was aware of it, and the feeling gave light to her
countenance and elasticity to her very step. Never
had Charity's bright face looked to Mr. Morton so
bright as it did that day, when he stopped to shake
hands with her at the church door.
"You go home to-morrow," he said, "and we shall
not see you this evening, I hear ?”
! "
No," she replied, "I do not think I ought to be
away the last evening, and I have said good-by to
Mrs. Morton; but only for a very little while."
On his return home, Mr. Morton entered the
drawing-room with a letter in his hand, and said to
his wife-"It is as well, perhaps, that your little
friend does not come to you this evening; at all
events, you would not have had the satisfaction of
telling her that she is not the first of her name in
whom you have taken a deep interest. I have heard
from Mr. Saville."
"And what does he say?" asked Mrs. Morton,
cagerly.
66
'Very little, and that little not very satisfactory,"
replied her husband. "At least, it does not in any
way clear the mystery connected with these Hel-
stones, who have thus come across our path twice in
such a strange way-such a very strange way, that
168
CHARITY HELSTONE.
I cannot but believe that He who ordered the first
acquaintance ordered also the second, and that there
is an intended connection between the two, which we
shall yet see, though we cannot quite do so now."
"But what does this Arlington clergyman say?"
interrupted Mrs. Morton.
"Well, the most important point in his letter,"
replied her husband, "is, that he confirms the infor-
mation which we had ourselves gathered pretty cor-
rectly from Miss Mowbray's hints; and confirms it,
too, in a way which leaves no doubt whatever in my
mind-not that I had any before, but still it makes
the thing plain-that this pretty little Charity is our
pretty Mrs. Helstone's only child. As we know, she
left this one bitter day in January, sixteen years ago.
As we now find, she arrived that same night at a
little inn at Arlington, and there gave birth to this
poor child. It seems the people of the inn sent for
Mrs. Dorothy Helstone, an elderly lady who had
lived many years in the village, and who appears to
be the good fairy of the place; and this lady then
and there adopted the child, which she has ever since
- brought up as her own."
"And her name is Helstone?" exclaimed Mrs.
Morton. "But there must have been some relation
ship!"
"That is the most extraordinary part of the busi-
ness," said Mr. Morton. "It does not appear that
there is any-at least, Mr. Saville tells me that the
old lady herself evidently had no idea of there being
any; that she had never, in their many conversations
A SOLEMN SERVICE.
169
about the child, and their many conjectures as to
who her parents could be, given him the smallest
reason to suppose that she could, by any possibility,
be connected with herself."
"But she must be!" said Mrs. Morton, eagerly.
"There is, evidently, some secret with which this
good clergyman is not acquainted. We must find
out what it is. We shall have to do so, perhaps,
from the old lady herself."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Morton, this will not be so
easily managed. Mysteries are not always cleared
quite so quickly as people-women especially-
would desire that they should be. I do not for a
moment doubt that there is some connection between
this child and her so-called aunt. But I do not
believe that either of them can have any idea that
such is the case. Charity, we know, has not. Nor
do I think, after reading this letter, that Mrs. Dor-
othy can have, either."
'But if we could tell her all we know," said Mrs.
Morton, "perhaps she might be very thankful; per-
haps it might be the clue to some labyrinth in her
own story-the unravelling of some perplexity in
her own path."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Morton; "but one cannot
act upon a perhaps. And the difficulty is just this,
that Mr. Saville tells me this lady's health is in a
most precarious condition, and that the medical men
say, that everything depends upon nothing being
said or done which may occasion the slightest agita-
tion. It seems that she is subjet to nervous attacks
170
CHARITY HELSTONE.
HEL
of a very serious character, which are brought on
generally by mental agitation. Also you will see
that the old servant, the same 'old Betsy' of whom
we have heard a good deal from Charity, has been
consulted on the propriety or the possibility of her
mistress being questioned with regard to the Helstone.
family, and that all the satisfaction obtained from
her was an earnest entreaty that no one would
think of mentioning the name of Helstone to her
mistress; unless, indeed, they wished to kill her.'
Though, as you will see, this old Betsy herself has
not any knowledge of any one of that name now
living."
And he handed the letter to his wife.
"What can be done?" she asked
"Nothing more now, that I can see," he replied.
"If this mystery is to be cleared, the end of it will
come, no doubt, like all other things, in due time.
Meanwhile we must wait patiently, and you will see
now the propriety of our having said nothing at all
on the subject to Charity."
"I think," said Mrs. Morton, "it would have
been a comfort to her to feel that we had known
and loved her mother, and that she was such a sweet,
lovely loveable creature."
"But you must remember," said Mr. Morton, "that
we cannot tell her we knew her mother, without at
the same time telling her that we knew her father.
And what could we say of him which it would be
pleasing for her to hear? You may be sure that all
this has been very wisely ordered. And though I
A SOLEMN SERVICE.
171
confess that I shall be very glad to know what is
the connection between Charity and Aunt Dorothy,
and very glad on her account to prove that there is
a connection, I have lived to see that God's time
being always the best, our wisdom consists in waiting
for it."
Both Mrs. Dorothy and Mr. Saville now knew all
the story of Charity's young mind. Charity had
written it all to Aunt Dorothy, pouring out her very
heart in a long, long letter, which told all;—the
humiliation she had undergone on receiving Mrs.
Dorothy's letter-the passionate struggle that fol-
lowed in her mind-the wonderful effect of Mr. Mor-
ton's sermon—the earnest longing to be a child of
the great Father in heaven which those words
awakened—the vain attempt to find Him, until Mr.
Saville's sermon that last Sunday had opened to her
the one new and living Way-the full acceptance
her soul had found at the feet of that compassion-
ate Saviour, and all the blessing and teaching.
which she had since received through Mr. Morton's
classes.
An hour after Mrs. Dorothy had received that
letter, she might have been seen still sitting with it
in her hands, a look of deep joy upon her aged counte-
nance; such deep joy, that for some time it had
seemed unutterable, until at length she might have
been heard to say, in a voice tremulous in its ear-
nestness, "I love the Lord, because he hath heard
my voice and my supplication."
Then, sumraoning Betsy, she despatched a message
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CHARITY HELSTONE.
for Mr. Saville; and gratefully and joyfully did
those two devoted Christians acknowledge together
the wonderful goodness of the Lord. Mr. Saville
dwelling thankfully on the special mercy the Lord
had vouchsafed to himself, in allowing words of his
to bring in the first ray of light into the mind that
had been awakened to a sense of its darkness by
the faithful teaching of her London friend.
That same night was the happy news told to the
faithful Betsy by her mistress, and hardly had the
tremulous tone of Mrs. Dorothy's voice died away,
when Betsy burst forth in broken, tearful ejacula-
tions of wondering thankfulness. "Well, to be
sure!" she cried; "and the Lord's ways they are
wonderful, and past finding out. Just to think
that this trouble, which I'd have given all I possess
in the world to keep away from Miss Charity,
should have been the very road which the Lord
had himself marked out to bring the dear lamb
into the Shepherd's blessed fold!' Well then,
ma'am," continued Betsy, "I won't be after dis-
trusting the Lord again, if I know it, as long as I'm
in the body. Sure enough he has his reasons for
every mortal thing he does; and how could I ever
think as he was a-going to let everything go contrary
like to Miss Charity without making it up to her!
And now, true enough, she'll have a good friend
with her as long as she walks this vale of tears,
and won't never feel the lonesomeness of heart I
used to feel in the workhouse, before I learnt as
there was a God above as had given me all I had.”
A SOLEMN SERVICE.
173
And Betsy took her departure to the kitchen,
saying to herself several times as she bustled about,
putting all away for the night, "Well, to be sure!
'tis enough to make one drop tears, that 'tis!"
Thus with thankful, happy hearts, did Mrs.
Dorothy, Mr. Saville, and Betsy look forward to
soon having their child again with them.
174
CHARITY HELSTONE.
•
CHAPTER XIV.
ATH
AT HOME AGAIN.
HE farewell to her London friends was not to
be for so short a time as Charity had im-
agined; a few days, she expected, would again
see her in St. John's Wood; but before that
time had passed, Mrs. Dorothy, who had accompa-
nied Charity to church, and, may be, gone beyond
the powers of the failing flesh in the eager, thank-
ful outpourings of the spirit, had been taken so
very ill on that very evening, that all thought of
Charity's return that week was given up. The illness,
it was hoped, would prove but a passing one; but
weeks went by before Mrs. Dorothy left her room,
and when, at length, they had the joy of seeing her
do so, her health, always very shattered, seemed to
have given way so much, that it was decided that
Charity should not return to school at all. It was
her duty to remain with her aunt, and devote her-
self to her; and it was her happiness also, for,
dearly as Charity had loved the old lady in the days
of her childhood, she clung to her now with an
affection which, while it retained all the warmth
and self-forgetfulness of youth, had acquired all the
intensity and consciousness of matured years:
AT HOME AGAIN.
175
moreover, all the wonderful union which those
feel whose hearts are joined in the best of bonds.
Charity was young to leave school, but her edu-
cation would not be neglected at Arlington. Miss
Danvers had taken her departure, and a very supe-
rior governess was engaged for Ellen Saville, in
whose instructions Charity was to share. Mrs.
Dorothy would give her lessons also from the first
masters in the neighboring town, and Ellen should
go with her and share the benefit. She would be
a pleasant companion for Charity, and Charity
would make better progress than she could do if
she were to study alone.
All these arrangements were of Mrs. Dorothy's
making, and when she laid her plans before Mr.
Saville, for his concurrence and approval, begging
that a finishing governess might be engaged for
Ellen, and that she might be allowed to defray the
additional expense, it was solely for the sake of
Charity that the request was made. Nothing was
said of the benefit which such an arrangement
would secure to Ellen, who was now preparing to
complete her own education in order that she
might turn her talents to account as a governess—
a course rendered necessary by Edward's extrava-
gant follies, which had now been for several years
a continual drain on his poor father's purse. The
evident benefit to Ellen did not seem to enter Mrs.
Dorothy's mind; or if it did, she did not show
that it did. The request was made as a personal
favor to herself, for Charity's sake.
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CHARITY HELSTONE.
Six months passed-a year passed-two years, and
Charity had grown almost into womanhood, without
any one seeming to have any idea that she was any-
thing still but a child: indeed, her aunt often told
her that she grew younger in mind as she grew older
in years, for as time added inches to her height, it
seemed also to add brightness to her cheek, light to
her eye, and simplicity to her manner. Mrs. Dorothy
was as proud of her as the fondest mother could have
been of her own and only born. She and Betsy
would watch her every movement with delight, and
talk of her for hours together; and the two years
that passed after Charity's return to Arlington were
amongst the very happiest of good Mrs. Dorothy's
life-certainly the very happiest that she had known
for thirty years. The little home had never been
more bright, and though Mrs. Dorothy was now
unable to leave it, even to go into the garden, it
never seemed dull to her so long as Charity's bright
face was coming in and going out amongst the birds,
and the flowers, and the books.
What happy days those were! Often in later
years did Charity look back upon that peaceful time,
and own that that spot of life had been very soft and
green. The pleasant morning spent in little house-
hold cares never seemed wearisome to Charity, be-
cause they were for Aunt Dorothy's comfort. She
made the cleverest little housekeeper that ever was
seen, for it was Charity's way to throw her whole
mind into whatever occupied her for the moment.
Old Betsy had said truly, that no child in its
AT HOME AGAIN.
177
cradle ever cried as that child did; she had nursed
many in her day, in and out of the workhouse, but
she had never had her cap torn off her head, or her
collars crumpled into pieces about her neck, in the
vigorous way in which little Miss Charity would set
about it when once she was in a passion. When she
was in a rage, it was a thorough rage; when she
laughed, which she did sometimes for no reason at
all but because she was so happy, she could not help
it; her peals of clear, ringing laughter were so merry,
that others could not keep from laughing, too, for
very sympathy. When she found a book that inter-
ested her, the little figure would be bent well-nigh
double over it, and the large eyes riveted upon its
pages, while she was utterly and entirely uncon-
scious of everything that was passing around her.
Either she would not do a thing at all, or she would
do it with all her might.
That had always been her way, and it was so now.
She did not seem to be conscious of it; there was no
effort in it. Charity was one of those who did no-
thing with an effort, but everything with a will; as
if the self she ruled came gladly to the work, and
had no need to be driven up with the whip and spur.
And Betsy was not far wrong when she described
her young mistress's housekeeping to her friend the
miller, and told him that, if he could only see it,
he'd say with her that it was the prettiest thing in
the world.
"There's never a cloud on her pretty face," she
said to him one day, as Charity left the kitchen, after
12
178
CHARITY HELSTONE.
ordering a sack of flour, with as much grace and
courtesy as though the miller had been a nobleman,
and his white cap the order of the Garter; "there's
never a cloud on her pretty face. As you see her
now, so you see her always; morning, noon, and
night, she's always the same-a bit of sunshine wher-
ever she goes. If I'd nought else to do in life but
watch her and her pretty ways, I wouldn't find it
dull. And that's about all my poor mistress has left
on earth to do, and I believe she's satisfied, and don't
want for anything beyond Miss Charity. She says to
me sometimes, 'Miss Charity's a very good house-
keeper, Betsy?' 'Yes, ma'am,' I'll say, 'it seems to
me she's good at anything she puts her dear little
mind and her pretty little hand to do.' 'That's just
it, Betsy,' she'll say in answer. And then she'll
go
on to tell me how she is as elever at books, and all
them sciences people are so much given to in these
days, as she is in everything else. My mistress says,
it's just as casy for Miss Charity to put down the
ideas that are in her clever little head upon paper,
as it is for her to set down the house-keeping accounts.
in the books, and that she does one as well as the
other. The masters over at Burleigh say it's just a
pleasure to teach her; and the governess up at the
Rectory, who, they say, is the cleverest lady that
ever was educated, you should hear what she has to
say about our young lady. And then, Mr. Brown,
as you said just now, she's so pretty-spoken: no airs
or graces; no thinking of herself, one may say, at
all. That's what I love most in her. God bless her?
AT HOME AGAIN.
179
she'll come down here in the morning in her plain
cotton frock, and she'll give all her orders in as
pretty a way as can be, just as though it would be
very polite in me if I'd be pleased to do them all.”
"Just so, Mrs. Betsy," at length interrupted the
miller, "and I was going to say a word on this very
subject; only, when once you begin about Miss
Charity, there's no stopping you, as you say yourself.
Not that I can ever hear too much of her, for the
matter of that, for she's been a prime favorite of
mine ever since she was as high as your table there;
and all you say is only just the fulfilling of what I
told you many times in years gone by-that the
metal was good, and you'd find it would prove so.
And so it has. Well, she would have her head once
upon a time, and she had it: and now it's been as I
said, she's got the same spirit in her yet: but it's
taught and trained, and she's a thorough-bred-
that's just the truth. And you mark my words,
and see if, come what will, the spirit that she's got
in her don't keep her up and make her run till she
drops: which is you know, Mrs. Betsy, the nature
of them creatures as are thorough-bred. But what
I was going to say, only I was waiting for room to
put it in, is, that the eldest son of my lord duke, as
you call him, is coming down himself to put the
place to rights; and they say--I had it from some
of his own people-that the family's going to live
here mostly in the winter times, because the second
son is lately married, and his father has made over
the other place to him: which, I believe, the young
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CHARITY HELSTONE.
ladies don't like at all, because it's much gayer than
this. But this place is much the best property, and
it's all going to be put in order for the eldest son,
who is to be here next week. And a fine gentle-
man he is, and grandly thought of in parliament,
where he does all he can for the poor. If all one
hears is true, it will be a lucky day for Arlington
when he comes down to see about the property."
"And is he married, too?" asked Betsy.
"No; nor yet going to be," replied the miller;
so you see, Mrs. Betsy, it's a fine chance for your
young lady. You say she ought to be a queen; but
since she can't quite be that, I suppose you'd be
satisfied in seeing her my Lady Huntley-eh ?”
And the miller laughed a laugh with something
in its tone of which Betsy did not quite approve.
"I don't see what there is to laugh at, Mr.
Brown," she said: "it's my belief our young lady's
good enough for any lord in Christendom, even
though he should be the prime minister, and sit at
the queen's right hand. That's just my opinion."
"No doubt it is, Mrs. Betsy," replied the good-
natured miller; "and it's mine too. I had no inten-
tion of hinting otherwise. I agree with you that
Miss Charity's more than good enough to be my
Lady Huntley; and why shouldn't she be so, too,
one day ?”
And the miller ended his long parley with his
friend Betsy, or rather, her long parley with him,
by wishing her a good afternoon and riding home-
wards. Betsy watched him and his pony wending
AT HOME AGAIN.
181
their way up the hill. But, at this moment, Miss
Charity entered. She had just come from the Rec-
tory, and as she stood there in her black silk dress,
with the neat white collar and cuffs, her plain jacket
setting forth to advantage the graceful line of her
slight figure, and her bright brown hair falling still
in the clustering curls of childhood from under her
black hat and feather, old Betsy's lively imagina-
tion represented her standing just as she now stood,
only with Lord Huntley at her side; and the picture
was pleasant to her mind. She felt that he or any
one else might so stand, and be satisfied.
"Well, Miss Charity," she said, "and so you've
come from the Rectory! It seems to me it was
most time you'd finished your lessons, my dear."
"O, not yet, Betsy," said Charity. "I'm in no
hurry to be made a woman of, I can assure you."
"Well, but, my dear, one can't be a child
always."
"No," said Charity, "unfortunately; therefore
the next best thing is to be a child as long as one
can."
((
Somehow, Miss Charity, "I think you'll always
be a child in some things; you'll always be light-
hearted, I do believe."
"I'm feeling very light-hearted to-day, Betsy, at
all events; for I've just heard a very good piece of
news, and one that I know will please Aunt Dorothy
as much as it seems to please Mr. Saville."
"And what may that be, Miss Charity?" said
Betsy, feeling that the miller had been beforehand
tot
182
CHARITY HELSTONE.
with Charity, but not wishing to mar her pleasure
in communicating a piece of good news by saying so.
"Why, Betsy, all the Huntley Tower property is
going to be restored, and the family are coming to
live here again! It's quite true, for Lord Huntley
has written himself to Mr. Saville, and told him all
about it, and Mr. Saville says it will be just the
making of the place. The castle is going to be all
repaired, and the gardens laid out freshly. And the
cottages on the estate are to be all put in order; and
Mr. Saville says there will be work for all the people
round about, to say nothing of the advantage it will
be to have a resident landlord, and such a landlord
as he says Lord Huntley will be. For he's such a
good man-very clever, and as good as he is clever.
I must go and tell Aunt Dorothy, for she'll brighten
up at such news. It seems as if it was to be a bless-
ing to everybody."
And Charity passed on to the sitting-room, leav-
ing Betsy to add with renewed vigor a few more
stones to the castle she was building. The only
further remark she made to Charity was to say, as
she was leaving the hall-
"Miss Charity, my dear, I really think you ought
to be leaving off them long curls, and doing your
hair some other way."
"Well, I really think I might do that, Betsy,"
said Charity, laughing; "for even Mr. Saville makes
fun of my long hair. But whatever made you think
of that just now?”
Betsy could have told her, but did not.
A RESCUE.
183
CHAPTER XV.
A RESCUE.
HE summer passed and the winter came, and
six months later, though it scarcely seemed
six weeks, so quickly had that time flown
amidst the many changes that had marked it,
the ground lay covered with snow, and the ice in
Arlington Pond was thicker than it had been seen
for years.
The time had flown quickly, because every one
had been so much occupied; but it seemed long to
look back upon, for so much had been done. The
winter was more severe than could be remembered
"within the memory of the oldest inhabitant," and
yet "the oldest inhabitant" could not remember a
time when winter's trials had been so little felt.
The wind howled piteously around the walls of the
eottages, but did not pierce through; for Lord
Huntley had seen that every cottage in the village
was weather-tight. The hail and rain beat unmerci-
fully upon the roofs, but not a drop found entrance
in the little rooms beneath; for Lord Huntley had
seen that not a slate or a thatch wanted repair.
Old men and women cowered over the grate, but
they did not murmur as they did so; for Lord
184
CHARITY HELSTONE.
te
Huntley had furnished the coals, and they were
plentiful and burned brightly. Little children
wound their way to school with blue cheeks and
red little noses, but yet feeling warm and merry
within; for Lord Huntley had provided the linsey
cloak and woollen jacket which each boy or girl
rejoiced in. Working men came in from the day's
labor with appetites sharpened by the intense cold,
but ready to do credit to the hot soup which Lord
Huntley had placed it in the power of every indus-
trious wife to provide for them.
The landlord's heart and purse had come to the
help of the good Rector's head and experience; and
the Arlington poor were spending the pleasantest
winter they had known for many a long year, in
spite of the very remarkable cold that prevailed
everywhere.
Even in old Betsy's warm kitchen it was cold to-
day, and though she had made up the parlor fire
only half-an-hour before, she thought it must need
replenishing; and accordingly, coal-scuttle in hand,
paid it and her mistress a visit of inspection. The
old lady was sitting in her arm-chair, watching the
bright coals, and, for all we know, building as plea-
sant castles among them as Betsy had ever built up
in the air amongst the turrets of Huntley Tower;
for she started when her old servant opened the
door, and seemed as though suddenly aroused from
a reverie. Not an unpleasant one, however, as
Betsy satisfied herself by one quick glance at her
mistress's well-known countenance. The brow,
A RESCUE.
185
wrinkled by age, was not, however, now drawn to-
gether over the eyes. There was no nervous twitch-
ing of the mouth. The hands were not pressing one
another in a sort of nervous sympathy in the lap,
but lay quietly resting, with the knitting-needles
still within the fingers.
"Why, Betsy, there was no need of coals," she
said; "you've only just made up the fire."
"Yes, ma'am, that's true," said Betsy; "but it's
terrible cold, and I thought Miss Charity would
need to find a good blaze when she came back from
her frolic."
Betsy had not quite courage to confess that
another motive, besides replenishing the fire, had
brought her to the parlor at that moment-even the
hope that her mistress might say something to her
on the subject of the visitor whom she had just
shown out of the front door. But since Mrs. Doro-
thy did not begin the subject, as Betsy had hoped
he would, Betsy would do so herself.
<<
My Lord Huntley will have been sorry not to
find my young lady at home, ma'am," she said, as
she swept up the hearth very carefully, and not
with too much speed.
"Lord Huntley did not come to see Miss Charity,
Betsy," said Mrs. Dorothy.
"But he inquired, ma'am, if she were within,"
responded Betsy. And seeing that the old lady's
countenance did not wear the expression which
always told her, without the need of words, that it
was well not to pursue a matter further, the old ser
186
CHARITY HELSTONE.
•
vant took courage to say, "My lord asked for you,
maʼam, and said it would be a favor if you could
give him only a few minutes' conversation on
business; and then, nia'am, he inquired, whether
Miss Charity, or 'Miss Helstone,' as he calls her
always, though no one else seems able to find the
way to do so-whether Miss Helstone were at home
also. And I did think, ma'am, he seemed some-
what disappointed when I said, 'No, she was not;
nor wouldn't be all the afternoon.' His countenance
seemed to fall like, as though he'd have been better
pleased to hear that he was going to have a sight
of her pretty face when he got inside the parlor."
Mrs. Dorothy smiled. "Very likely, indeed,
Betsy," she said. "There are not many young men
in the world, I suppose, who wouldn't rather see a
pretty young lady like Miss Charity than a poor old
woman like me.”
"Lor, ma'am, that's not what I meant at all!"
exclaimed Betsy. "That's not my Lord Huntley,
ma'am For the matter of that, I know he isn't a
bit like other young men. It's my belief, now, he'd
a great deal rather be sitting here with you, ma'am,
than with half the young ladies you could give him.
He's that sort of gentleman, that somehow he seems
to walk along the road wrapped up in his great
thoughts and plans; and I believe all the ladies in
England might just walk past him without his so
much as knowing they were there. But when it
comes to be a matter as to whether Miss Charity is
there or not... well, ma'am, I believe he do know,
A RESCUE.
187
·
and he do care. I've thought so many times before,
but the look on his face to-day made me just set
down the matter for sure in my mind. He'd got
his business, no doubt, ma'am-he's full of business,
and all of a sort worth attending to, which is more
than can be said of the business of most young
gentlemen of his age: but he'd room for other
thoughts besides in his mind this day. There was
a bit of pleasure at the back of the business, and
I was sorry enough to be the means of driving
it away by telling him my young lady was not at
home."
•
Lord Huntley and Miss Charity have many
interests in common," said Mrs. Dorothy, the
discouraging tone now just tinging her voice; "they
are both engaged heart and soul in their work
amongst the poor, and there is no stronger bond
of union than that of doing good together."
Betsy put the finishing stroke to her hearth by
sweeping up the two or three tiny coals that had
fallen whilst she had been speaking, and disap-
peared. But when she got back into the kitchen,
she relieved her mind by saying the rest of what
remained upon it to herself. "No doubt, that's
just the truth. They've got a good many interests
in common now, and it's my belief they'll soon
have a good many more. I don't know what my
mistress means by saying, 'There's no stronger bond
of union than that of doing good together.' It's a
strong enough bond, no doubt: my Lord Huntley
and Miss Charity seem to find it so, anyhow. But
188
CHARITY HELSTONE.
་
I should have said there were one or two ways of
making the bond stronger still, if I'd been asked.
Not that I know much about such things myself—
thank the Lord and my ugly face, as I've said
many times. But my mistress, she ought to know
something about it-to her cost, poor thing! And.
my Lord Huntley, my name's not Betsy if he thinks
there couldn't be a stronger bond of union between
him and our pretty lady than that of visiting the
poor and doing good amongst them. Unless I'm
very much mistaken, it won't have been for noth-
ing that I told him my young lady had gone down
to skate on the Huntley Pond with the young ladies
and gentlemen from the Rectory."
Betsy was not mistaken. To the Huntley Pond
Lord Huntley took his way at once. And there
amidst the groups which were gathered either on
the banks of the pond or on the ice itself, he was
not too absorbed in his "great thoughts and plans,"
as Betsy termed them, quickly to discover which
was the particular group he sought, and which the
particular figure in that group which at once be-
came to him all the group together.
Having found what he wanted, he seemed, how-
ever, contented to approach no nearer to it; on the
contrary, as soon as he had drawn near enough to
the pond clearly to discern "the young ladies and
gentlemen from the Rectory," and in the midst.
of them the tall, slight figure of "my young lady
herself," he withdrew to a greater distance, and
walked up and down a particular piece of ground
•
A RESCUE.
189
&
there, apparently so buried in meditation that more
than one passer-by who took off his hat or made
her bow to him, as the case might be, arrived at a
conclusion which might have been expressed in old
Betsy's very words, "Lord Huntley was too much
absorbed in his own thoughts to take notice of
what was passing around him; the fairest face
in the United Kingdom might have passed him,
and he would not have seen that it was fair-he
was wrapped up in his own thoughts."
Not so completely wrapped up, however, but
that a sharp and sudden cry from the ice reached
his ears almost before any others. Not so com-
pletely wrapped up, but that he saw at half a
glance, indeed without any glance at all, towards
the spot where one group was skating, in gay
rivalry each of the other's skill, which was the
figure that had disappeared from it. Not so com-
pletely wrapped up but that, although he was
further from the scene of the accident than any
other spectator of it, he was the first to reach the
spot, and that with such marvellous speed that, be-
fore the brave young boys had time to take the
plunge, which any one of them would have risked,
Lord Huntley had freed himself from his heavy
cloak and under-coat, and had plunged beneath
the cold, dark water. Nothing was to be seen,
at least nothing to the outward eye; but Lord
Huntley saw-saw with a vividness which made
every nerve in his body quiver with the most in-
tense actual pain, a slight form shivering in a
190
CHARITY HELSTONE.
death-agony; two fragile arms beating the pitiless
waters in a fierce struggle for victory and life
features, every line of which he knew by heart,
convulsed with terror;-all this Lord Huntley saw,
or seemed to see: those who marked the look upon
his face, and never afterwards forgot it, could
scarcely believe that he did not really see it. The
cry she gave could not, they said, have reached his
ears at the distance where he stood. They told
him afterwards it must have been the united cry
of all who saw the accident that startled him from
his meditative walk, and brought him in an instant
to the spot.
It might have been so; he did not contradict
them: but to him it always seemed as if the piteous
cry for help which Charity had uttered when she
sank had reached his very soul. For that loud
cry of many eager, terror-stricken voices, if heard
was forgotten as soon as heard. But that one piti-
ful cry in that dear, well-known voice, "O, help
me! help me!" it sounded in his heart, and kept
repeating itself there as he too struggled beneath
the water. While above, the ice was being broken
up on all sides, and anxious faces were bending for-
wards with ever-increasing paleness, as more than
one came foward to help with their best efforts.
At length, the first and strongest effort was
crowned with that success for which hearts had
prayed that, until that morning, had never framed
a prayer. Charity Helstone's pale, dripping form
was born to the shore in Lord Huntley's arms. He
A RESCUE.
191
A strength not his.
would resign her to no one.
own—a strength that seemed beyond all that was
possible to nature, was in him. He ordered one of
the young Savilles, almost imperatively, to bring
the carriage from Huntley Tower, and see that
a bed was laid in it. He desired another to get
his horse at once from Mrs. Bryce's little inn-a
favorite horse he was known never to allow any
one to mount but himself and ride off instantly
for the doctor.'
All these orders he gave without consulting even
Mr. Saville, who, however, himself set off to Ivy
Cottage, to break the tidings of the accident as
gently as possible to Mrs. Dorothy, and prepare her
for the sight of Charity's pale countenance and
lifeless form. He felt thankful that Ivy Cottage
was as near as any other house, and that, therefore,
Charity might as well be carried there as elsewhere,
for he knew what agony of mind it would have been
to Mrs. Dorothy to have had her darling, for all
she knew, dying in some cottage, and she herself
unable to go to her. Indeed, he doubted whether
anything could have kept the old lady from her
niece under such circumstances, or which would
have been likely to injure her most-the effort of
leaving the home which she had not quitted for
months, or the intense agony of remaining in it
with every thought and imagination actively inter-
ested elsewhere.
But Ivy Cottage was one of the nearest houses to
Huntley Pond. Therefore to Ivy Cottage she was
192
CHARITY HELSTONE.
carried, and the strong arms that bore her, inspired
with far more than their usual strength by the
anxious hearts that beat within their owners' breasts,
had well-nigh reached their destination before the
Huntley Tower carriage met them, just in time to
bear the precious burden up the steep hill that led ·
to Mrs. Dorothy's residence.
Mr. Saville and old Betsy were waiting at the
door-Betsy as calm and self-possessed as those who
knew her best would have expected her to be. Just
within the hall stood Mrs. Dorothy, and even in that
moment of intense excitement it struck more than
one of those present how much paler a pale face
could become under agitation. It might have been
said of Mrs. Dorothy that she was at all times " as
pale as pale could be," yet now the hue of her aged
cheeks had whitened by many degrees; yet she had
lost none of her usual composure, and it was she
who gave all the orders, and herself followed to the
bedroom-Charity's own room-where every needed
preparation had, in that short time, been made by
those few hands.
But all efforts for long seemed in vain, Charity
lay still as death, and after every attempt at restora-
tion had been made which either Mrs. Dorothy's or
Mr. Saville's skill could suggest, there was no sign
of returning animation.
It was at this moment that Edward Saville, with
a hardiness and strength of will which Lord Hunt-
ley admired and envied, left the group of anxious
watchers and waiters in the parlor, and found his
A RESCUE.
193
way into the room where Charity lay. In an instant
he had stretched forward, and was breathing, with
all the force of his strong, healthy lungs, into the
pale, parted mouth. Again and again was the
warm respiration, into which his very soul seemed
poured, forced into the lungs, which to all appear-
ance had ceased their action forever, until at length
there was a sigh-faint, indeed, but still a sigh; at
sound of which new strength seemed to enter
Edward's soul, and again he poured forth the warm
living breath which was to bring back life more
precious, better worth preserving than his own.
And then, for the first time, Betsy spoke. "See!"
she cried; "see! she moves her finger!" It was
true. There was a nervous twitching of the little
finger-then of the hand-of both hands. The sighs
were louder, and soon became gasps-eager, panting
gasps for the dear breath of life. Mr. Saville laid
his hand again upon the heart, and instead of the
despairing look with which till now he had done
so, pronounced that he could feel it beating. Every
effort was redoubled, till at length the faint return-
ing spark of life had been nourished into a steady,
though somewhat feeble flame.
Before the doctor had arrived the power of swal-
lowing had returned, and all he did was to order hot
wine and water; likewise to desire that the patient.
should be kept very warm and very quiet, and to
pronounce that all danger was over and that life
was safe.
“And almost a miracle, too," he added, on return-
13
4
CHARITY HELSTONE.
· 194
ing to the parlor, "if, as you say, the young lady
had been nearly a quarter of an hour in the water.
We owe it to you, young man," he said, 'turning to -
Edward; "you have saved her life."
"No," he said, "it was Lord Huntley who diá
that. Would that I had been on the spot when she
fell in! Then none could have taken the plunge
before me."
And, saying that he would soon return to see how
Charity was, he was the first to leave the house.
A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
195
CHAPTER XVI.
A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
ERY rapid was Charity's recovery. She had,
as the doctor said, every thing in her favor-
youth, health, strength, a cheerful buoyancy
of constitution, and all the care that the most
devoted attention could secure to her. A fortnight
after the accident and she lay on the sofa in the
pretty parlor, a little pale and somewhat weak, but
otherwise well. The room looked very bright and
gay; on each table stood lovely bouquets: it would
have surprised any one to see such a wealth of rare
exotics in that humble little parlor, had they not
known that every day Lord Huntley himself brought
the loveliest choice his hot-houses could supply.
Old Betsy's face had grown quite radiant since
the accident, and it was with a most triumphant
look that she would usher my lord in the parlor
when he called, or, if she had orders to deny him,
bring in herself the messages, and the lovely baskets
of fruit and flowers he had left for Charity. This
triumphant look on Betsy's face was not lost on
Mrs. Dorothy, if it was on Charity. But it did not
seem to find any response there, and this Betsy was
quick enough to remark. Lord Huntley's daily
196
CHARITY HELSTONE.
visits-Lord Huntley's marked attention, so differ-
ent from anything which the most extreme polite-
ness or the deepest interest could have excited, did
not seem to afford Mrs. Dorothy by any means the
same delight that it afforded old Betsy. On the
contrary, there was a troubled look on Mrs. Doro-
thy's countenance which Betsy could not under-
stand.
"It was no wonder her lady should dread the
very sound of marriage," she would say to herself;
"but she could not, in the very nature of things,
suppose she was going to keep that sweet flower of
hers to herself all her life, without any one's wanting
to lay their finger on it. Her mistress might have
the sense to know, that it had only to show its pretty
head for a many to be wanting to gather it, and
therefore she would have thought, that when a
young man such as my Lord Huntley showed such
evident signs of wanting to transplant it to his home,
she might have made him more welcome than she
did, instead of, on the contrary, seeming rather
disconcerted like at the sight of him." Only the
day before yesterday, when she told her mistress
that he was riding up the street, she had said, quite
put out like—" Lord Huntley again! why, he comes
every day!" And when Betsy had replied, which
for the life of her she could not help doing, Miss
Charity not being there, "Why, yes, ma'am, it seems
to me that's what he means to do;" she was sure
she had heard her mistress say to herself as she left
the room to open the door to him, "I'm afraid so."
A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
197
What there was to be afraid of Betsy could not
quite make out. It might have helped her to a
conclusion could she have overheard the conversa-
tion that took place that evening in the little parlor
between Mrs. Dorothy and her adopted child.
It was evening and there would be no more visit-
ors that day. There had been enough, and too
many, both for Charity's returning and Mrs. Doro-
thy's failing strength, and both one and the other
looked somewhat exhausted as Betsy cleared away
the tea-things, made up the fire, and left them to
what they called their "best hour," the quiet time
before evening prayers, when Mrs. Dorothy always
rested for an hour in her large arm-chair, with her
feet on her footstool. Before the accident this stool
was always Charity's seat, but now she lay on the
couch on the opposite side of the fire; a book was
in her hand, from which she had been reading aloud
to the old lady; but the "best hour" almost always
ended by the book being laid aside whilst they
talked pleasantly together.
To-night, however, though the reading had ceased
almost as soon as it had begun, for Charity's voice
was weak, conversation did not at once begin. Mrs.
Dorothy lay back in her arm-chair, and looked,
Charity thought, very worn. She had, no doubt,
seen too many visitors that afternoon, and she had
been growing weak of late. Charity did not like
to think that there had been a change in Aunt
Dorothy since her accident, and yet she could not
shut her eyes to the fact that her aunt's voice was
=
198
CHARITY HELSTONE.
many degrees weaker, her cheeks many degrees
more shrunk and pale, and her step many degrees
more feeble, than they had been only one fortnight
before. She was greatly changed since that day
when Charity left her knitting in her parlor, and
went off gaily to enjoy an afternoon skating on the
Huntley Pond; and this thought made Charity
resolve to take as much care of her as possible, and
keep her from over-fatigue. She must not see so
many visitors another day. There had been too
many this afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Saville had
called; Edward had come, as he generally did, in
the twilight, and remained until Betsy had brought
in the tea. Lord Huntley had been there for so
long in the afternoon, and Mrs. Dorothy had talked
a great deal too much to him about the poor people.
It must not happen again.
Charity had just arrived at this conclusion when,
as though some similar thoughts were passing in her
aunt's mind, the old lady said abruptly,
"Lord Huntley has been here every day this
week, my dear."
"Yes," said Charity: "I was just thinking about
it."
"Were you, my dear?" said Aunt Dorothy, in a
tone which showed the interest inspired in her mind
by this very simple piece of information;
you, my dear? and what were you thinking?"
((
"That his visits fatigued you, dear aunt; that we
must not allow him to come so often. You can't tell
him, perhaps, but I can give him a hint that you
.:
A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
199
are not strong, and not equal to seeing many
visitors."
Mrs. Dorothy's countenance lost the look it had
acquired. "I was not thinking of myself," she said.
"Lord Huntley's visits are not to me, Charity."
"To you and to me, too, I suppose, Aunt Doro-
thy," said Charity.
He does not give me his lovely flowers, Charity,"
continued Mrs. Dorothy; "and though I am grow-
ing old and feeble, it is not concern for my health
that brings him here: his anxiety is all for you."
"He has been so anxious that I should recover
from my accident," said Charity. "He is so very,
very kind !"
"You do not think he will come so often when
you are well, Charity ?" asked Mrs. Dorothy. There
was something peculiar in the old lady's manner
which Charity felt, but did not understand.
"Aunt Dorothy!" she said, fixing her large,
childlike, blue eyes on her aunt, with the same won-
dering look on them which Mrs. Dorothy had always
been so fond of, "Aunt Dorothy, what do you
mean ?"
"I only wanted to know, Charity, whether you
thought Lord Huntley would come to see us as often
when you get well as he does now?”
"I should think not, Aunt Dorothy: he comes to
see how I am getting on."
"And it is anxiety about your health brings him
here-nothing else?"
"And I suppose because he likes to come, Aunt
200
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Dorothy," said Charity, the blue eyes never chang-
ing in their wide open-look of simplicity. "I think
Lord Huntley likes you and me very much, Aunt
Dorothy don't you?"
If Charity had been on her footstool at Aunt
Dorothy's seat, the withered hands would have been
laid very caressingly on the child's head. As she
was not, it was only by the tone of her voice, the
loving, tender, almost pitying tone, that one could
have seen how the child's simplicity touched the old
lady, how it went to her very heart to be obliged
to say one word which might open Charity's eyes to
the reality of the life before her. It seemed such a
pity to let in any of this world's light upon a mind
which was so happy in its utter simplicity. For
Charity's sake she was most unwilling to do so, but
for Lord Huntley's sake it must be done. Mrs.
Dorothy had seen plainly enough that day, that if
she did not open Charity's eyes to the truth he soon
would. She hesitated a minute or two, and then
she said,
I think, Charity, Lord Huntley is very fond of
you; I think it will depend on you whether he con-
tinues these visits or not. You are nearly well
now; he will soon have no reason for coming daily."
Then, Aunt Dorothy, you may be sure he will
not come so often," said Charity.
No, Charity, I am not at all sure of that. Lord
Huntley likes coming here. No doubt he will con-
tinue his visits, if he thinks they are pleasant to you
also."
1
A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
201
"They are very pleasant, Aunt Dorothy," she
said. "I like Lord Huntley very much indeed.
No one can help liking him-he is so good; so
very, very good-and so kind: he is kind to every
one, but so very kind to me."
"That you would be glad to see him every day of
your life?" said Mrs. Dorothy, quietly.
"O, I don't know about that," replied Charity,
quickly, "I like to see him very much, especially
now, when I cannot get out; and he brings me just
the news I am longing to hear, about my poor
people. But if I were well-no; then I don't think.
I should care about seeing him so often. It would
be an interruption, Aunt Dorothy wouldn't it?
I don't think that one would care about daily visits
from any one when one was quite well and strong,
and able to go about; unless," she added, "it were
from some one that one knew very, very well, and
loved very much, like Mr. and Mrs. Saville, or
Edward. They don't seem like visitors."
Why not?" asked Mrs. Dorothy.
"O, because one is so intimate with them; they
seem like a part of one's own self, and one goes on
just as one would if they were not there. But if
Lord Huntley were to come here every day of the
year to see me, I should never feel like that with
him."
"Why not?" again asked Mrs. Dorothy.
"Because he is a stranger to me, Aunt Dorothy."
"Not quite a stranger, Charity," said Mrs. Doro
thy; "you have known him for many months now,
202
CHARITY HELSTONE.
and you must remember, my dear child, he saved
your life—”
"It was Edward saved my life," interrupted Cha-
rity. "I always like to think so."
"My child," said Mrs. Dorothy; and but for the
darkness Charity might have perceived the shadow
that crossed the old lady's face: "my child, Edward
brought back the sinking powers of the life which,
through God's mercy, Lord Huntley had saved.
But you owe your life to Lord Huntley: we must
never forget that.”
"I never wish to do so, Aunt Dorothy; I would
be grateful to him all my life."
"Only," said Mrs. Dorothy, "you would not wish
to show your gratitude by allowing him to spend
every afternoon with you."
She spoke lightly, but the words had a heavy
sound behind.
No," said Charity, laughing now quite gayly,
that I should not like."
"Then I think, my dear, we must, as you say,
give him a little hint about not coming quite so
often, now that you are getting better. I will do it
to-morrow; he said he was coming again then."
+
"O, Aunt Dorothy, let me do it. It will come
best from me."
"No," said Aunt Dorothy, "I think not, Charity.
Old women must have their way. And now, I shall
ring for Betsy; it is time for both of us to go to bed."
The next day it so happened-or was it so
arranged?-that Mrs. Saville's usual daily visit to
?
A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
203
Charity was paid before that young lady had left
her bedroom to come into the parlor, and that Mrs.
Saville and Charity were still talking there when.
Lord Huntley was ushered into the sitting-room,
where Mrs. Dorothy sat alone. That she was not
there also did not seem to afford any disappointment
whatever to Charity; though, after Betsy had come
into her room and announced the fact of Lord Hunt-
ley's arrival in the parlor, she turned from other
subjects to tell Mrs. Saville that "Aunt Dorothy
meant to give him a hint not to come quite so often ;"
adding, "I wanted to do it myself, and I thought I
could have managed it quite as easily, for dear
Aunt Dorothy has been so weak and poorly lately,
I really think it does her harm to see people, stran-
gers especially; and somehow, I always fancy she is
nervous, and not quite at her ease with Lord Hunt-
ley. I would rather have spoken to him myself,
because I should be so very sorry for him to be the
least bit vexed. He has been so very, very kind to
me, and I like him so very much. It almost seems
wrong of me, though not to like him even more than
I do, when he risked his life to save mine. Do you
know, Mrs. Saville, I've been calling myself bad
names this morning for even allowing myself to feel
that it will be a little bit of a relief to me when he
does not come every afternoon." And Charity's
blue eyes looked straight into Mrs. Saville's, who
returned the look with a loving, motherly kiss.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Dorothy in the parlor was
making but poor work of it with Lord Huntley.
X
204
CHARITY HELSTONE.
For Lord Huntley, though he was some ten years
older than Charity, and had received, as Betsy
boasted, "the finest education money could give,"
and had all the experience of life that would be
gained by public schools, having a private tutor,
going to the University, travelling on the Continent,
and being a member of Parliament, proved in this
little matter as simple as Charity herself, and was so
dull at comprehending any of Mrs. Dorothy's hints,
that at length she had to tell him plainly how grate-
ful she was for all that he had done for her niece,
who was, indeed, to her as her own child, her very
darling child; she owed that precious life to him,
and never could she feel grateful enough to him for
that great benefit and all his subsequent kindness;
but
But here Lord Huntley interrupted her. He was
a man of few words; Mrs. Dorothy had heard people
say that they did not believe it was in Lord Hunt-
ley's nature to express himself strongly on any sub-
ject. But Mrs. Dorothy could never have said so
after listening to the fervent manner in which, in
few, but powerful words, he poured forth the feel-
ings of his heart on the subject of Charity, adding
that he had but been waiting till Charity should
have recovered from her illness to say all to her
which he now said to Mrs. Dorothy. It was in
vain that Mrs. Dorothy sought to check him; Lord
Huntley would have his say.
"You will not speak to her, my lord ?" said Mrs.
Dorothy, gravely; "you would find her quite unpre-
A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
205
pared. God knows," she added, fervently, "God
knows, Lord Huntley, how gladly I would give my
child, my darling, my only one, into your keeping.
I am very old, and very weak. My days, I feel,
are numbered. Could I see my Charity safe in the
care of such a man as you are, I should go down to
my grave in peace. I should feel as if the life you
had saved once, were perhaps rescued from worse
destruction than even those cold waters would have
brought to her. But I would not have you speak
to her as you have spoken to me, for I do not think
the child's mind is prepared for it. Later, perhaps;
but not now. You will not speak to her yet?”
But Lord Huntley would not promise. His
mind was made up; and if Lord Huntley had a
fault, it was, perhaps, obstinacy, a too inflexible
will where once he had arranged his plans, and
thought he saw his way clearly.
Before many days had passed he had spoken to
Charity, and received her answer. She had gone
for her first walk, and had met Lord Huntley.
How many a walk he had taken up and down that
street in expectation of this event it does not behove
us to inquire. Mrs. Saville was with Charity; but
Lord Huntley had made a third in the walk, and
he had offered to see Charity home from the Rectory,
and Mrs. Saville had left them to return together.
When Charity came in, even old Betsy saw that
there was something more the matter with her than
the fatigue of the walk, and ere Charity had been
many minutes in the parlor, all that had happened
206
CHARITY HELSTONE.
in that last quarter of an hour had been sobbed into
her god-mother's lap; sobbed forth as freely and as
fully as ever had been the story of her early griev-
ances, of her misdemeanors,. or her repentance.
The old lady soothed and petted her; she rang
the bell, and made the wondering, troubled Betsy
take her young lady's walking-things off, and lay
her on the sofa, and bring her some tea.
But no
rest could Charity get that evening. She would.
hot stay upon the sofa; she was happy nowhere but
at her aunt's feet; and there, at length, she sat
quietly, whilst Mrs. Dorothy talked to her of all the
happiness that might be hers if she could learn to
love such a man as Lord Huntley. At the words
"learn to love" Charity started up, the old fire of
childhood in her eyes.
"It is just that, Aunt Dorothy," she said; "I
should have to learn to love him, and that is a
lesson I can never learn. O, Aunt Dorothy! that
was just what made me say I could not marry him.
I know he is a good man, and would make me a
good husband, and I know he would be kind to you,
and that it would be delightful for me to have a
lovely home for you to live in, and to be able to do
just as much for my poor people as I should like.
I felt all that while he was talking. But, O, Aunt
Dorothy, it would be dreadful to be married and
not to like to be always with one's husband-to
feel that there was some one else one would rather
be with than to be with him.”
"Should you feel that way with Lord Huntley ?"
A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
207
"Yes, Aunt Dorothy, I know I should; for, even
now, I like so much better to be with Edward."
"Edward is like a brother to you, Charity," said
Mrs. Dorothy, with an inward prayer that he might
never be like anything else.
Yes, Aunt Dorothy, just like a dear brother.
But he is not my brother; and if I were married, I
don't suppose Lord Huntley would think he were:
nor, indeed, should I wish him to be.”
(C
No, my child; no, of course not," said Aunt
Dorothy, sadly.
Betsy came
And no more was said that night.
to insist upon her mistress going to bed. Mrs. Doro-
thy insisted upon Charity's going too. And each,
to please the other, went; though, as neither of
them closed their eyes, it might have been better
if each had followed their own inclinations and
remained where they were: for then, at all events,
some of those weary hours would have been re-
lieved by converse and by sympathy.
208
CHARITY HELSTONE.
CHAPTER XVII.
A STORY OF A LIFE.
GREAT change had that visit of Lord Hunt-
ley's, and his subsequent conversation with
Charity, made at Ivy Cottage, and among its
inhabitants. A gloom seemed to have fallen
upon every one. Old Betsy had her own mis-
givings as soon as she perceived that Lord Hunt-
ley's daily visits ceased, and she gave herself and
her mistress no rest until, by persevering, yet re-
spectful importunity for it was remarkable to see
how, in the dignity of Mrs. Dorothy's character,
and the right-mindedness which marked Betsy's,
familiarity never even approached contempt-she
had obtained the information she desired, or rather,
we should say, dreaded, and discovered that Lord
Huntley and Miss Charity were never likely to
be what it was her dearest wish on earth to see
them.
It was not to be expected that Betsy should
receive this news without some signs of the real
sorrow she felt.
The only castle in the air she had ever been
known to build had come down with a crash, and
A STORY OF A LIFE.
209
Betsy's face bore marks of the trouble of mind its
ruins occasioned her.
Charity's bright face, too, had grown very
thoughtful; the large blue eyes were clear and
truthful as ever, but there was a deeper look in
them than Mrs. Dorothy had ever remarked before
that melancholy evening when she and Charity had
talked so long together. Some of the happy,
thoughtless mirth of Charity's childhood had
certainly been washed away with the tears that
she had shed that night over Lord Huntley's disap-
pointment. It was so painful to grieve others-so
much worse than being grieved one's self.
Aunt Dorothy knew and felt this, and her own
face and voice assumed a graver look and tone, and
she leaned more heavily upon her gold-headed
stick, and her weakness became more evident every
day. Whilst day by day another fear pressed more
and more painfully on Aunt Dorothy's heart, as
day by day she marked other signs-signs which
she knew too well, and from the very first indica-
tion of which she shrank, and quivered as though a
finger had been laid upon some old wound within,
which made it open and bleed afresh.
Nor were these signs lost on Betsy; she marked
them too, and recognized them well, though nearly
half a century had passed since last she had noted
them. It was not without drawing her own conclu-
sions that Betsy noted, that whilst the lovely hot-
house flowers Lord Huntley had brought day by
day had been left for her to tend so long as they
14
210
CHARITY HELSTONE.
lived, and when they had withered for her to throw
away, the one winter-rose that Edward Saville
brought was kept in Charity's own little room
whilst it lived, and Betsy never saw it afterwards,
till one day she found Charity reading her Bible, and
saw amongst the leaves a dried flower, which she
felt rather than knew was the same. Betsy longed
to take it out and put it in the kitchen fire. It
would have given her the truest pleasure to watch
it crackling and consuming there.
But she said nothing to Mrs. Dorothy, for she
was not sure as yet whether her mistress perceived
anything amiss, and she was ill enough already-
what was the use of troubling her too soon? Be-
sides, what could be done? "If Miss Charity had
been silly enough to refuse such a man as my Lord
Huntley... well, there was no doubt she'd be
silly enough to accept such a man as Mr. Edward
Saville. When young folks were bent on self-de-
struction, it was pretty much the same with them
as with the moths-they'd never let be till they'd
burnt themselves up alive: she'd seen that once
before, and now, no doubt, she must make up her
mind to see it again. And what if it did break
her heart outright, and her mistress's too? Well,
they were soon going to where the broken hearts
would be healed."
It was thus that Betsy communed with herself
in the kitchen, while in the bedroom above, where
Mrs. Dorothy had remained all day-for it had
been a bad day with her, and she had not left her
A STORY OF A LIFE.
211
room-the old lady lay back on her pillows, whilst
Charity told her all-every word that Edward
Saville had said to her that day, and all-every
word that she had said to him in return.
There was a pause, broken only by some sobs,
which found their way from poor little Charity's
over-laden heart, and then the old lady said-
"One hour, Charity, my child! my dear, dear
child! leave me for one hour and then come to me
again, and you shall hear a tale from my lips."
"A tale, Aunt Dorothy !" exclaimed Charity; "a
story! Of what?”
"Of my life, Charity. Come to me in an hour,
and you shall hear all that your aunt can say on this
subject."
One hour later, when the last rays of daylight
were dying out one by one, and leaving the quiet.
bedroom in a strange dimness, Charity took her seat
by the old lady's bedside, and listened to the words
that came from the pale lips-came soft and low,
for there was but little strength left in Mrs. Doro-
thy's voice; yet quite composedly and collectedly,
for when once a heart that has suffered deeply
resolves to tell the story of its suffering, the effort
by which it does so is not perceived by others. The
reluctance has been struggled with and overcome
out of sight, and before-hand.
Charity was evidently agitated, her little hands
shook, and the roses that to Betsy's and every one
else's delight returning health had begun to paint
anew in delicate colors upon her soft cheeks, had
212
CHARITY HELSTONE.
vanished for the day. But Mrs. Dorothy was no
paler than usual, and her voice scarcely could be
said to have an additional tremor in it, as she said
quietly, taking within her own the trembling little
hand that Charity laid upon the coverlid:
"You must not expect me to tell you the story of
my poor life in many words, Charity, my child; for,
indeed, I have little power to do so: nor can I see.
much of it myself, standing as I now do at this dis-
tance from it, save the chief events or periods that
stand out from all the rest in strong relief.
"My childhood I remember well-indeed that is
the time which, as a whole, I remember best; and it
was the happiest childhood that ever mortal was
blessed with. I cannot remember even one passing
shadow ever crossing the clear sky of that bright
period, nor do I believe there was one. My father
and mother were very wealthy, and I was their only
child. They were devoted one to the other, and
both to me, and though I had no companions of my
own age, I never had a wish for any, or had a lonely
moment. My mother-you know her picture well,
Charity, and it is the image of her-was a grave,
earnest-minded woman, with far-reaching thoughts,
and she was my instructress, and made learning
such a pleasant thing to me that I never knew what
it was to mourn over a lesson. On the contrary, I
always looked forward to the hour when I should
carry my books to the pretty dressing-room which
adjoined my mother's bedroom, for I knew it would
be a time of delightful interest to me; and often,
A STORY OF A LIFE.
213
when the lessons were over, I would beg to remain
longer, whilst my mother told me some interesting
story connected with the many objects of interest in
that room; for it was filled with curiosities and
relics from other countries, all sent or brought home
to her by my father. He was a naval officer, as
you know, Charity, and they had been engaged
seven years, nearly all of which time he had been
on active service, and my mother waiting and watch-
ing anxiously at home; so that it is not surprising
that they should have loved and valued each other
as dearly as they did, or clung thus fondly to me,
their only child. My mother would tell me long
stories of those years of separation, and I loved to
listen to her, and loved her dearly, tenderly.
'And yet I think I loved my father yet more-
my noble, brave, lovely, tender-hearted father!
Never did I hear one harsh word from his lips. No
one who knew him had ever seen a frown on his
brow, or heard him raise his voice, which was so
peculiar in its deep, manly, earnest tones.
And yet
it seemed only necessary that he should speak, to be
instantly obeyed. It was so in our large household,
and on the estate. He saw to everything himself,
and I used to ride with him on my pony, and glory,
child as I was, in the love and respect which I saw
he everywhere excited. And our faithful old man-
servant, who had accompanied him through all his
services, would tell me that it had been just the
same thing on board ship. He never raised his
voice, but his word was law; he had no need to
214
CHARITY IFELSTONE.
punish, yet there was no one who kept those under
him in better discipline.
"But I will not talk of him now, Charity, though
I could talk for hours of all he was in himself, and
of all he was to me. My mother had an anxious,
thoughtful mind. My father was all practical life
and sunshine; and I remember well how, when I
was still a child, I used to think it the prettiest thing
in the world to see him forcing my mother into
cheerfulness. Every anxious thought of hers, that
showed itself like a small cloud in the domestic sky,
the sunshine of his character seemed to meet and
disperse. So that all was bright, all joyful. Life
was one long holiday. My mother was my teacher,
my counsellor; my father was my companion and
play-fellow. I carried all my joys to him; I forced
him to share in all my occupations, and he seemed
to enjoy them to the full as much as I did. His
great idea was love: no one was ever to be unkind,
no one was ever to speak harshly of a fellow-creature,
no one was ever to bear malice.
"Our old servant, Allen, used to tell a story of
him which was characteristic. There had been
some great quarrel between two officers in the station
where they were, and my father happened to pass
one of these officers one day, as he was standing in
a group of friends, detailing the injuries he had
received, and inveighing against his enemy. Just
as my father and Allen passed, the officer exclaimed,
in a tone of revenge, 'I will never forgive him!-
no, never!' He was almost a stranger to my father,
1
A STORY OF A LIFE.
215
who had only just joined the station, but words like
these seemed to enter his heart, and going up to the
officer he laid his hand upon his arm, implored him
not to allow such a fearful resolve to remain regis-
tered above; nor would he leave him until he had
persuaded him to retract it.
"I used to think we never could have lived with-
out my father-certainly that my mother could not,
for his bright, buoyant character, seemed the cork-
jacket which surrounded her more desponding na-
ture, and kept it always up. And yet I have some-
times thought, that had some kind of sorrow come
had he seen me in trouble or disgrace-that my
father could have borne it perhaps even less bravely
than my mother did. It was the every-day cares of
life that had no power to annoy him. Had a great
grief come, I can believe that it might have washed
away the elasticity of his character, and that he
would have been crushed altogether. And I am
thankful that he did not live to see the clouds
gather over his darling's life.
С6
I told you that we were rich, Charity; but on
my father's death the greater part of his fortune
was to go to his nephew, who was in the army, and
was abroad with his regiment. I had never seen
this only cousin ; and I well remember the day when
my father received a letter from him, saying that
he had sold out of the army, and would be on his
homeward way before this news reached us. He
would come, he said, to us at once; for he had no
other friends left, and he looked upon Briersley as
>
216
CHARITY HELSTONE.
his home. I remember my mother looked more
grave than I had ever seen her before, and that as
she put forth one objection after another to my
cousin's coming to us, I was surprised to see that
my father did not, as was his usual habit, combat
her objections with his ready hospitality: but in-
stead of reflecting the sunshine of his feelings upon
her, appeared to catch the gloom of her's. I had
been feeling delighted at the idea of having a guest
at Briersley, especially one bearing our own name,
and I asked my mother why she did not seem to
wish that my cousin should come. She would have
hesitated about answering, but my father, who never
kept anything from me that it was in his power to
communicate, and who used often to say that 'the
less mystery the better policy,' replied to my ques-
tion at once, saying that this cousin of mine, Roland
Helstone, had been but a wild young fellow in his
youth; that he had been left an orphan when quite
a child, and brought up by his mother's relations,
who had indulged him in every whim, until he had
grown to be insufferably conceited, overbearing,
and extravagant; and that finally he had insisted
on going into the army, and had exchanged into a
regiment in America that he might have a share in
the fighting that was going on there. I recollect
saying that I supposed then he was brave, if he had
no other good quality, and that my mother replied,
'she did not call it bravery, for she believed his
desire of fighting arose not from any wish to serve
his king or country, and leave a glorious name
:
A STORY OF A LIFE.
217
behind him, but merely from an innate brute force
of character, which made resistance a pleasure to
him; for, though he had plenty of courage, she had
never known him kind to anything or anybody,
even to one of the animals on the place, and that a
really brave man was always tender.' And I recol-
lect that my father reproved her in his gentle way,
and said, 'It was not right to think worse of the
young fellow than perhaps he deserved, and certain-
ly his name had been honorably mentioned in the
account of almost every engagement that had taken
place, though private news might not have been so
satisfactory.'
(C
After that time there were frequent conversa-
tions about my cousin Roland, and whether or not
it would be advisable to receive him at Briersley;
my mother being always very decided in her opin-
ions and expressions that he ought not to be allowed
to come to us, and my father never seeming to get
beyond the conclusion that after all, he was the son
of his dead brother; and though the young man.
had, no doubt, been very wild and extravagant,
and somewhat wanting in respect and submission,
his campaign might have done him much good."'
Thus matters went on, and the question of my cousin's
coming to us or not, was still much on all our minds,
and as undecided as ever, when he settled it himself
by appearing one day in our quiet break fast-parlor,
just as we had finished breakfast, and were prepar-
ing to read the morning psalms, according to our
usual custom."
218
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Mrs. Dorothy paused; and Charity, interested as
she had now become, entreated her to tell her no
more. But Mrs. Dorothy assured her that she only
ceased speaking because her voice was weary, not
from any inability to speak of what was to follow;
and refused Charity's next request also, which was
that she should say no more then, but tell her the
rest another day.
"No, Charity, no," she said; "you shall hear all.
I will tell you all, and all at a time. It does not
hurt me to do so, and my child need not distress her-
self. As I speak of things now to you this evening,
it does not seem to me as though I spoke of myself,
but of some one else whose story it was my duty to
tell you to-night, since it may be the means of keep-
ing you back from the same precipice. You shall
hear all, Charity-at least, all that it is necessary
to tell.
"Roland Helstone, as I say, appeared that morn-
ing quite unexpectedly in our pleasant breakfast
parlor, and that day is vivid in my memory still.
I fancy I see us all now, just as we were then: my
mother sitting at the top of the table with the break-
fast things before her, and her Bible in her hand;
my father at her right hand, adjusting his spec-
tacles, whilst I was leaning over him to find the
place. A lovely morning it was, too, with the
window open, the birds singing gayly in the trees
without, though the logs of wood were crackling
brightly also in the grate within. There was no
sound of wheels or bell to announce, as usual, the
A STORY OF A LIFE.
219
approach of a visitor long before the arrival, and
give us time to prepare for the reception. There
was just the sound of a hurried, heavy step, outside,
which I had scarcely time to think could not be
Allen's, when the door opened quickly, and a
young man came in; tall, very, very handsome-
O, how handsome he looked then!--and with a
military air of command about him such as I never
saw before or since.
"My mother did not know him in the least, and
looked bewildered, and half frightened. But my
father had no sooner seen him than he rose hastily
from his seat, whilst the spectacles he had just put
on fell upon the ground, as he held out his hand,
exclaiming, Roland Helstone! my brother's son,
and the very image of his dead father! It is well
you wrote, my boy; for had you come upon me in
this way without my knowing you were in England,
I should have thought. ... yes, I'm not supersti-
tious, but I believe I should have thought it was a
vision of your father, as he was thirty years ago
this very month, when he and I parted on St.
Katharine's Dock. I stood on board my ship and
watched him standing on the quay to see the last
of me; and he looked-yes, in every limb and
feature he looked just as you look now.
It was my
last sight of him on earth-at least, I thought so
till now; but I see him again-it is Roland!' And
as he shook my cousin's hand and held it between
both his own, I saw my father moved in a way I
had never seen before. The tears forced their way
0
i
220
CHARITY HELSTONE.
into his eyes and coursed each other swiftly down
his sunburnt cheeks. My cousin laughed gayly.
'Of course it is Roland,' he said: 'and much
obliged I am to you, uncle, for your hearty wel
come. I hope,' he added, turning to my mother,
'I hope my good aunt is equally glad to see me.'
"His turning to my mother made me do so also,
and O, I shall never, no, never forget the look on
her face that day. She was as pale as death, lips
and all; and I, who had never seen my mother
overcome before, saw that she trembled from head
to foot. She was ever the most courteous of English
gentlewomen; my father used laughingly to tell
her sometimes that her extreme politeness bordered
on formality; but that day all power of even feign-
ing a welcome seemed taken from her. She took
my cousin's extended hand, but I am sure that her
own must have been as cold and as like death
as the hue upon her cheek; and I do not think she
could have returned the shake, had she striven to
do so. 'Yes,' she said, apparently quite involun-
tarily, yes, it is Roland,again.' I can remember
now the sound of those words. Looking back upon
them, I have often felt as if my mother, when she
uttered them, must have felt upon her the shadow
of what was to come. I stood a quiet spectator of
the strange and sudden scene. But I guessed then
what I afterwards learned was the truth. No one
had ever told me anything about my Uncle Roland;
I had scarcely ever heard more of him than his
name: but I felt that day that there must have
A STORY OF A LIFE.
221
been two sides to the picture which the remem-
brance of my uncle presented to the mind—an
earlier one, probably, of youth, and beauty, and
innocence, and perhaps a later one of sin and
misery; and that, whilst my father's eyes were
riveted upon the former, the latter stood as vividly
before my mother's. And as with the father, so
with the son. The image before my father was onẹ
of beauty and vigor. His eyes rested upon it with
a feeling of satisfaction. My mother, on the con-
trary, looked not at what she saw, but she felt
instinctively that there was a reverse to that pic-
ture, and she trembled.
Charity, I cannot tell you much of the months
that followed. Indeed, I scarcely remember much
that happened during that summer: I only know
that it was, or rather seemed to be, the happiest of
any I had ever known; it was unlike any that had
gone before, and O, most unlike any that have
come after. The only drawback to the delight
of those days was the dark cloud that rested on
my mother's brow, the desponding tone that had
stolen into her voice, and which not even my
father's brightness-for he was bright-could dis-
pel. Charming as my father always was in my
eyes, I had never seen him in as bright a light as I
saw him that summer. Roland's knowledge of the
world, his acquaintance with countries in which
he had himself spent many years, his military
experience, the engagements he had seen, all these
things were a delight to my father, and cheerful as
ت
222
CHARITY HELSTONE.
་
our home had always been, it had never been as
cheerful as it was that summer.
"As I say, Charity, the depressed state of my
dear mother's spirits was the only passing shadow
across that sunny path. Once I spoke to my
father on the subject, but he only said, 'Dorothy,
my darling, there are few women like your mother;
indeed, I have never seen such a woman, and I
doubt if there is another such to be found any-
where; but so long as there's a bit of mortality
about flesh and blood, I suppose it must stop short
of perfection, and I believe just the one thing that
keeps your mother back from being fairly perfect
is, that where she takes a prejudice she can't get
over it. It's the only fault I've ever seen in your
mother, Dorothy; so let us be thankful for any-
thing that helps to keep her amongst us. She has
taken a prejudice against your cousin Roland. It
will be difficult to overcome it; for where your
mother feels, she feels very strongly. But we
must do our best to convince her that she is
mistaken.'
"This was an easy command for me to follow,
but all my powers of persuasion seemed to fail, and
my mother's gravity remained unmoved by all our
mirth and merry-making. At length, just as the
bright tints of summer were changing into autumn's
hues, my mother fell ill of a fever, and a great
change came over us all. It was not, the doctor
said, a dangerous illness-he never thought it very
serious; but it was a long, wearying illness, week
1
A STORY OF A LIFE.
223
after week passing whilst we watched the different
crises of the malady. For a long time she was
quite deaf, and light troubled her greatly. The
room was kept darkened, and my father and I took
the nursing by turns; Roland being the companion.
and comfort of the one whose turn it was to seek
relaxation and refreshment without, while the
other watched within. We used to ride out on
alternate days, my dear father and I, for neither of
us would have consented to leave the house unless
the other had remained in it.
"Roland rode with my father one day, and, of
course, the next he rode with me, it being my
father's turn to stay at home. And thus I learned
to depend on him more and more. He told me
stories such as I had never heard or read before, for
my life had been given more to out-door amusements
than to much acquaintance with books, and I had
read few, if any, more exciting than the volumes of
history, travel, or science, which were to be found
on my dear good mother's carefully-arranged book-
shelves. Of novels or romances I knew nothing,
and almost as little of poetry. But Roland's stories
were all romance and poetry to me. I listened to
them by the hour. They fired my imagination,
warmed my blood, excited every pulse of thought
or feeling. My father would often come out to
meet me as we returned from our ride, and as he
helped me to alight he would tap me on the check
and say, No need to fear lest the long nursing
should hurt me while I could boast such a bloom
224
CHARITY HELSTONE.
1
as that, and that he thought the rides with Roland
did me more good than those with him: we young
folks could gallop faster, and he was growing an
old man.' Ah! that dear father did not guess how
much more the heightened color in my cheek told
of mental than of physical excitement.
"At length the time came when I lived for Ro-
land, thought of him, dreamed of him; when even
my dear father, my early, kind, loving companion,
and my mother, my good, devoted mother on her
sick-bed, were figures in the background-quite in
the back ground, and at that time but dim and indis-
tinct. Whilst the one figure of Roland Helstone
occupied all the foreground-all, all.”
Mrs. Dorothy paused, and Charity, who had been
listening-listening so intently that she did not lose
a single word—burst into tears.
"O, Aunt Dorothy," she said, "you loved him!
you loved him as I love Edward!”
"Yes, Charity," said Aunt Dorothy, emphati-
cally; "I loved Roland as you love Edward. Peo-
ple call it love; I called it so myself."
"It is love!" said Charity. And as Mrs. Dorothy
made no reply, she turned the affirmation into an
interrogative form,-"O, Aunt Dorothy, is it not
love?"
"I should not call it so now, Charity, for love is
of God. And the love which God gives, inspires,
allows, brings no sin-no misery. But it was a
strong, devoted, powerful, passionate, idolatrous at-
tachment."
A STORY OF A LIFE.
225
"And it ended?" exclaimed Charity.
An evident tremor passed through Mrs. Dorothy's
frame, but she had begun to answer Charity's eager,
almost imperative question. "It ended, Charity,
as such attachments do often, do generally end-as
it is in their nature they should end."
But at that moment there was a knock at the
door, and before time had been given for it to be
answered, the door was opened, and Betsy appeared.
Mrs. Dorothy, ma'am-Miss Charity, my dear,
this really must not be! My mistress will kill her- ´
self if she talks any more. You've been in here
more than an hour, my dear-more than an hour
by the clock in the kitchen, which I've been watch-
ing till my eyes ache, and my heart too, knowing
how my mistress will be to-morrow if she exerts her-
self like this to-day. I've been up to the door a
dozen times at least, and would have come in long
ago, only my mistress said she was not to be dis-
turbed on any account. But there! I could not for
the life of me have kept away any longer. Miss
Charity, my dear, you'll say good-night, and come
away with me now, there's a dear young lady. And
I'll get my mistress comfortable for the night,
though I don't believe she'll sleep one blessed wink
after exciting herself to talk like this. Just look at
the bright spot in her cheek! That comes from
weakness, and my mistress is fairly done up. Now
go, my dear; say good-night, and go."
Neither Mrs. Dorothy nor Charity offered any re-
sistance to Betsy's authority. Mrs. Dorothy, indeed,
15
226
CHARITY HELSTONE.
was fairly exhausted, though she would probably
have wound herself up to the effort, and concluded
the story she desired to tell, had it not been thus
interrupted. And Charity, though deeply, in-
tensely interested, felt it a relief to have a conversa-
tion concluded which she saw was straining every
nerve her Aunt Dorothy possessed. She leaned over
the bed to kiss the old lady, lovingly, tenderly; and
as she did so Mrs. Dorothy whispered, "You shall
hear the rest to-morrow. Meanwhile, you will not
see Edward ?”
"Aunt Dorothy !" exclaimed Charity, "have I
not promised ?"
THE STORY CONTINUED.
227
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE STORY CONTINUED.
T KILLS you to talk as you did last night," said
Charity," as Mrs. Dorothy called her to her
bedside, and bade her resume the seat where she
had spent such an interesting hour on the pre-
vious evening. "I am sure it kills you, Aunt
Dorothy; you look so pale and ill to-day.”
And I am ill, Charity; but I have more to say:
and I must speak, and you must listen. If your life
is to be blighted, if your happiness in this world is
to be shattered beyond all power of recovery, and
your very soul's salvation perilled, at least it shall
not be for want of warning from one who knows—
yes, Charity, who knows all that is involved in a
fall from that precipice on the very brink of which
you are now treading-yes, treading with your eyes
fixed on the flowers beneath your feet, whilst you
cannot or will not raise them to look at the danger,
the misery, that lies but one step in front of you.
Charity, you said truly yesterday, that as you now
love Edward Saville so I once loved Roland Hel-
stone-obstinately, blindly, passionately, with a
devotion that sprang from youthful ardor, from
excited feeling, from the admiration kindled within
me by the charms of his personal attractions, and
228
CHARITY HELSTONE.
the powerful fascination of his mind, manner, and
talents, but wanting, utterly wanting in that rever-
ent respect and that well founded faith and trust
which, unless a woman feels, and knows she can.
feel for a man, she is worse than mad to marry him.
But, as you say, I loved Roland as you love El-
ward; and as you would marry Edward, so I would,
and did, marry Roland."
"And your parents, Aunt Dorothy ?" said Charity;
"your mother, what did she say?"
66
Ah, Charity! had my mother been amongst us
then, I believe things might have been checked be-
fore they had reached a point which placed them
beyond the power of check from any human hand.
But my mother lay many weeks in her sick-room,
and when she recovered, when she was well enough
to listen to news, the first thing we had to tell her
was that I was the promised wife of Roland Hel-
stone; that my father had given his consent—a
willing one, even, for my cousin had wound himself
around my trusting father's warm, loving, unsuspi-
cious heart. We were engaged, my mother was
told, and only waiting her perfect recovery to be
married. To this hour, Charity, I remember my
mother's face, and the expression of hopeless misery
that fell upon it. But she attempted no remon-
strance-not a word. It would have been useless to
have made any, and my mother, seeing this, was
not one to waste her words or efforts.
"The first time she entered the church, from
which she had been absent for several months, was
!
THE STORY CONTINUEL).
229
to be present at my marriage. She was so pale, so
motionless, so intensely grave, that I remember the
resolution with which I forced myself, as it were, to
believe that her looks arose from her illness, not
from anxiety on my account. And I felt glad that
the people around should think so also. The sim-
ple villagers who crowded to the church to see the
Squire's young lady married, knew how near death
the Squire's wife had been; and I was glad to think
they did, for otherwise what conclusion would they
have drawn from that pale face, trembling step, and
smileless countenance? It was a lovely day, late in
autumn, when the retreating summer, which had
for some weeks been out of sight, seemed to turn
back to give us one of those last looks before disap-
pearing, which come so pleasantly upon us just
because we know they are the last. The birds sang
gayly in welcome of such a day, the flowers shone
brightly, and the clearness of the blue sky added to
the gay tone of our pretty village bells, as they rang
forth their merry peals. To all these pleasant
sounds I gave diligent heed, Charity, with that
singular power which we possess over our own hearts,
when our will is resolutely bent in one direction,
while I just as firmly turned away from the word
of warning which even then was whispering within,
would I but have bent my ear to listen."
"But, Aunt Dorothy," interrupted Charity, "I
do not see that you were so wrong. Your father
liked your cousin and your marriage, and there
was no real ground for your mother's prejudices."
230
CHARITY HELSTONE:
"Charity," replied Mrs. Dorothy, "it was not my
father's consent that ought to have satisfied me,
neither was it my mother's prejudices that should
have withheld me. Within my own heart there
was a knowledge-a knowledge which God Himself
had given me, and from which I could not turn
without turning also from Him who gave it, and
that knowledge should have kept me back from
ever thinking of Roland Helstone as my husband."
"But, dear Aunt Dorothy," again urged Charity,
"I thought you told me that you were not religious
when you were young. I thought you said once
that it was trouble and sorrow that brought you to
God."
"And I said truly, Charity, my child," replied
Mrs. Dorothy. "I never sought the bread and
water of life until I had tasted to the full of the
wormwood and the gall. No, Charity, there was
no real religion within me at that time. But there
was a knowledge of right and wrong; there was a
light shining, though it was in a dark place, and
scarcely sufficed to show me men even as trees walk-
ing. Still, the light was there. I can scarcely
imagine any child brought up by my dear, thought-
ful, earnest-minded mother, having grown to
womanhood without it."
/
"Then your mother was pious, Aunt Dorothy?"
"Truly so, Charity, according to the light she
then possessed. For we had no Mr. Saville in our
village, Charity; perhaps there were not then twenty
villages in England that had. The clergy in our
THE STORY CONTINUED.
231
day and in our neighborhood thought it no harm
to follow the hounds, to sit late over their wine, to
join in all the somewhat coarse merriment of their
neighbors. My mother had very few religious
advantages, Charity; but had she possessed them,
hers was a heart richly to have benefited by them.
But she had all she really needed in the Bible she
loved so well, and she had faithfully instructed me
in that holy word. She had taught me, Charity,
that life should be a preparation for death; that
our existence in this world must come to an end;
that our souls would live forever in eternity; and
that, whether they lived in happiness or misery
must depend upon the state in which they were
found at death.
"All this I knew and believed. And I knew too
that Roland, if he knew it, did not believe it. I
remember feeling shocked, on the first Sunday that
he spent with us, by his reading the newspaper in
the afternoon when my mother and father were
taking their after-dinner nap, and we were left
alone; and every Sunday he did the same. Before
my mother he never did so, for he looked upon her,
with reason, as a very devout woman, and he
respected her feelings. But he never seemed to
consider that I cared at all for religion. What
reason, indeed, had he for supposing so? He never
put on the semblance of anything like regard for
religion when we were alone; and though these
ways distressed me at first, I never told him so,
and at length I grew accustomed to them. Before
232
CHARITY HELSTONE.
our marriage he always accompanied me to
church."
"And afterwards, Aunt Dorothy?" asked
Charity; and her voice had a tone of anxious
interest, which told of something even stronger
within than sympathy in the sad story of her
aunt's suffering life.
"Afterwards, Charity? Ah! it is just of that
'afterwards' that even now I can scarcely speak.
And yet it is just of that afterwards' that I must
speak, it would warn you, my child. For as surely
as it came to me, so it will come to you. Charity,
you think now, that if you marry Edward Saville
he will be a different man when he is your husband
from what he is now. You say to yourself that
he is wild, thoughtless, irreligious now-careless
of his interests for this world even, and utterly
indifferent to anything and everything that may,
and you know does, lie beyond this passing life.
But
you think that he loves you; that his affection
for you, and yours for him, will work wonders;
that his parents' prayers and my prayers-perhaps
even your prayers, Charity-will all be heard; and
that, when once Edward Saville is your husband,
he will be an altered character-a changed man,
and you will be happy. He tells you so, your own
heart tells you so that poor, little, wilful, igno-
rant, blinded heart, which is so ready to work its
own ruin; and you, Charity, you believe that it
will be so ?"
Charity's head was laid upon the old lady's
THE STORY CONTINUED.
233
pillow, and the sobs were coming fast from her
agitated heart; but amidst them all she found
'breath to answer,
So.”
66
Yes, I do believe it; I do think it will be
Then, Charity," replied Mrs. Dorothy, and her
words were so unlike in their whole tone and tenor
to the usual calm diffidence with which she was wont
to speak, that they entered deeply into the inmost
recesses of Charity's soul, and fell there like
a prophetic warning from another world, "then,
Charity, it will not-no, it will not be so: do not
hope it, or expect it, for it will not be."
Aunt Dorothy!" exclaimed Charity, starting
up, with more of the pride and fire of her child-
hood in her eyes and voice than Mrs. Dorothy had
seen since her return from school, “how can you
say so? You do not know! Have you not taught
me yourself that God can do anything?"
The excitement of Charity's manner inspired the
old lady with perfect composure, though five minutes
before she had been on the point of pausing in her
story, from want of physical power to proceed with
it. She held out her hands for the hand which
Charity, in her agitation, had withdrawn from them,
and taking it gently again, she stroked it caress-
ingly, and said, "Listen to me, my child; listen,
as you may, perhaps, wish to have done when I
am, as very soon I shall surely be, lying by your
poor mother's side in the churchyard, and there is
no longer power to warn or to hearken. Charity,
234
CHARITY HELSTONE.
you say truly, God is a sovereign. He is a great
and an Almighty King. He does according to his
will in the army of heaven, and among the inhabi-
tants of the earth.
None can control him. None
can counsel him. None can stay his hand, or say
unto him, 'What doest thou?' All this I have
learned, Charity; and learned not only in the
teaching of his word, but in the far deeper teaching
of his dealings. But, Charity, I have learned too,
that just because God is a sovereign, and a great
sovereign, therefore must he maintain the greatness
of his own character and his own laws; and if
those laws of his-those warnings and those threat-
enings, are slighted and broken, is it not the very
sovereignty of God to which you, in your igno-
rance, would look for mercy, which is engaged in
your punishment? Charity, my child, it is so, and
I have found it so."
Charity was silent, and Mrs. Dorothy continued.
"I remember, Charity, a remark Mr. Saville made
to me only a few days since, which has fastened
itself on my mind, no doubt because as it entered
it found an anchor there in the deep experience of
my own life. 'Moses,' he said, 'could not pray
himself into the land of Canaan, after once his
own conduct had caused God to declare that he
should not enter it. And why could he not?
Because God's governmental holiness had to be
maintained.' My child, it is worse than folly, it is
sin, to run into danger and temptation with the
delusive hope that God's sovereignty will be en-
THE STORY CONTINUED.
235
gaged in rescuing us. It may be shown so. There
are no limits to control God's grace. But, so far
as we can judge of his words and works, his sove-
reignty is engaged on the other side. I speak as,
perhaps, only those can speak, who have felt it so."
"You were miserable, Aunt Dorothy!" exclaimed
Charity. Then hastily checking herself, she added,
"Forgive me, dear Aunt Dorothy! I did not mean
to ask you. I do not want you to tell me anything
that it must make you wretched to talk about. But
I am so unhappy myself, I scarcely knew what I
was asking."
"But I mean to tell you, Charity," said Mrs.
Dorothy. "It was just that I might tell you of this
'afterwards' that followed me, and which, I believe,
will just as surely follow you, that I called you here
to-night. I cannot tell you in detail, my child;
that, indeed, would kill me, as you say. Indeed,
through God's mercy, the details are all buried
with the 'dead past,' and were I to attempt to dig
them up they would but distress you, and could do
no good. But this, Charity, remains; that such a
sinful marriage as mine was, brings misery: not,
indeed, always such misery as it brought to me, but
misery."
Again Charity's face was raised, and Mrs. Doro-
thy remarked its expression, and knew the thought
that prompted it.
"Not always, Charity," she repeated, "such
misery as it brought to me; for different characters
need different chastisement, and the wise Parent
236
CHARITY HELSTONE.
above never errs in laying upon each the exact
amount which each requires-always, we know, the
very least which will suffice to effect the desired
end, for He doth not afflict willingly. But mine
was a nature that required severe reproof, for it
would have passed by slighter. And, Charity,
so is yours. The thought of all my lengthened
suffering makes me shudder, as I think that just
such a life as I led for years might be in store for
you, even though the one last crushing blow should
be spared. And even though the blow that laid me
low would never fall on you, doubtless there are
many others quite as crushing in their effects.
Listen, Charity, and I will tell you what has never
yet passed my lips, and which, once told to you this
night, will never again be heard by mortal ear.
"After my marriage we went to America. It
was a very unexpected trial to me and to my
parents, for though my cousin had often spoken to
us of some little property he possessed in that
country, he had never said a word about the neces-
sity of his returning to see after it, and we could not
understand why such a necessity should exist after
we were married: for my father was wealthy, and
was willing to give us any money needful to settle
whatever difficulties the possession of this property
or the parting with it might involve. But my
cousin was firm in declaring that he must go him-
self, and that it was my duty to go with him; and
between my love for him and my unwillingness to
part with him, and my desire to travel and see for
THE STORY CONTINUED.
237
myself some of the sights which he had so often
described to me, he had no difficulty in bringing
my inclinations to agree with his wishes. My
father's opposition, though very strong at first, was
soon overcome. He had been such a traveller him-
self, that he thought less of distance or of danger
than most people did in those days. At first he,
could not bear the idea of parting with me; but
when once the matter was decided, his buoyant,
cheerful mind, led him to make the best of it, and
he was constantly assuring my mother that after
all, since I would no longer be with them, they
would scarcely feel the separation more if the win-
ter were passed in America, than they would have
done had we yielded to his wish and spent it in
Ireland, looking after some property there which
belonged to my father, but which, like Briersley,
would hereafter be my cousin's. Moreover, he told
my mother it would be an advantage to me to
travel, and would supply a deficiency which there
had doubtless been in my education, from their
never having been able to part with me.
But nothing my father could say had any power
to remove my mother's feelings on the subject. She
opposed our going to the very last. My father ac-
companied us to London, and saw us embark; but
my mother could not be persuaded to do so, and
when I gave her my last kiss, her parting 'God
bless you, Dora, my only one! God protect you !'
was uttered in such a voice that I have often felt
since as if the sorrow that came after might have
*
238
CHARITY HELSTONE,
been a severe shock, but could have been no sur-
prise; but from the first she seemed to have been
prepared for it. My father saw us on board ship,
and we left him waving his handkerchief to us from
the shore. That was my last sight of him, and,
thank God, no shadow fell across his path deeper
than the disappointment which I know my prolonged
absence must cause him. For we had gone to
America with the intention of remaining the winter,
and two years passed, and we were still there; my
parents continually writing to persuade us to come
back, my cousin as constantly making arrangements
which postponed our doing so."
"And you were happy then, Aunt Dorothy ?"
asked Charity.
Mrs. Dorothy answered very calmly, "Happiness,
Charity, even earthly happiness, remained at Briers-
ley—at least, it did not come with me to America.
It hovered about me during the first weeks of my
marriage-never, indeed, assuming a very solid or
satisfying shape, but flitting over me in the form of
excitement, and pleasure, and amusement; but long
before the first three months of married life were
over every dream of delight had disappeared. The
reality stood before me, a reality of misery, mortifica-
tion, and remorse. I accepted my fate, and resolved,
having, as I then realized, no other resource, to make
the best of it."
"And your parents, Aunt Dorothy ?"
"They never knew what I was suffering. The
thought of what that trial would be, especially to
THE STORY CONTINUED.
239
It
my mother, made me careful in concealing every-
thing which would give them uneasiness. It was
of my mother I thought most, yet I almost think
she would have borne up under the grief better than
my father. He had such a singularly loving,
susceptible heart; once wounded in its most sensitive
part, I do not think he would ever have rallied.
Thank God he never knew. Two years after I had
left home the tidings reached me of his death.
was almost, I believe, a source of relief to me to
know that his sudden illness was caused by a shock
received in a fall from his horse, for had it been
otherwise I might have tormented myself with think-
ing that he had pined for me, his former companion
and delight, and had fretted at my long absence,
for which he had been so wholly unprepared; and
I might have reproached myself for not having
yielded to his often proffered entreaties and returned
alone to visit Briersley, if my cousin could not be
prevailed upon to return with me."
"And would your husband have allowed you to
do so?" asked Charity.
CC
My cousin," replied Mrs. Dorothy, who, as
Charity could not help remarking, never once used
the word "husband"-" my cousin often wished me
to return for a time, at all events: but I never
could be persuaded to leave him. He often left me
for weeks together, sometimes even for months, and
often I had scarcely money enough to live upon.
I, too, who had never till then known what it was to
have one wish ungratified !"
240
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"But your parents, Aunt Dorothy," said Charity,
they would have supplied you with any amount
of money?"
"Yes, Charity, had I chosen to own to them that
I was in need of it. But I was too unwilling to
cause them pain; too much attached still to my
cousin too proud, perhaps to confess, even to
them, my wretchedness and humiliation. My father
made me a very handsome allowance. It was paid
quarterly, to my cousin, and when the money was
due it generally found him at home; or rather, I
should say, with me. For, Charity, our house was
not his home. Aunt Dorothy will bring her child
to this last point in her sad life, and then, Charity,
my child, you must seek your room, and, I hope,
your God, and leave me to the quiet of my own
room and the support of my God; for when once
this point is reached I shall have no strength for
more, and must be left alone. For my home,
Charity, was not Roland's. I had often wondered
where he could go when he left me; where those
weeks and months were passed, and how he could
spend so much money. But I had never suspected
the dreadful truth-who could have suspected it?
—until it burst upon me one awful day. I had
been alone for many weeks-alone in my dreary
lodging; and I had received no news of Roland,
save one letter which he had written soon after he
first left me, saying that he was going far up the
country, and would be absent on business some time.
My health was very delicate just then, and I felt
THE STORY CONTINUED.
241
more depressed by his continued absence than I had
ever been before. At length my money was all
gone, and in my difficulty I tried to earn some, and
painted flowers, which I endeavored to sell to the
stationers' shops in the town. Weak and ill as I
then was, I would walk five miles to the town, and
go from shop to shop seeking to dispose of my paint-
ings; but I never thought once of writing home to
my parents, or of leaving America and finding my
way somehow to Briersley.
"At last the day, the fatal day came. I had
determined on selling some of my things to procure
money, and with this object in view I was turning
over a closet in my room, when I came upon a cash-
box which had once belonged to my father, but
which my cousin had so much admired at Briersley
that my father had given it to him. It was of Japan
workmanship, and had a secret lock with a very
curious key, such as no workman in England could
ever have either constructed or picked. My father
had brought it home in some of his voyages, and
used to keep his money in it, and he had given it
one day to Roland; but, somehow, I never remem-
bered having seen it from that day to this, and its
very existence had passed from my mind until I
suddenly came upon it in this closet. It was a very
massive box with heavy gold clasps, and a great
deal of very curious carving about it, and the
thought struck me at once that I could probably
obtain a very good sum for it, if I carried it to the
town. It was locked, and my cousin, of course,
*
18
242
CHARITY HELSTONE.
had the key; but I had a duplicate key of my owr
somewhere in my little dressing-case. I had never
thought of this key since my marriage, and my cou-
sin did not know that I possessed it, for I had
never had occasion to think of the cash-box since
my father had given it to him. But when it was
my father's he kept one key and I the other, and
many and many a time had he sent me to that box
to get money or papers for him.
"Scarcely thinking what I was doing, I ran up-
stairs and got my key, and opened the box which I
had never set eyes upon since last I had seen it in
the little breakfast-parlor at Briersley. It was full
of letters-all, as I saw, directed to my cousin-
all in the same hand-a lady's hand, which I had
never seen before. I never stopped to reflect for an
instant; but I opened one after the other, and read
-yes, read and understood, though my head was
swimming, and my hands shook so violently
that I could scarcely hold the paper. But I
read and understood, and at once realized my posi-
tion. I know now where Roland was, where the
money went. The letters were from a lady signing her-
self Catherine Helstone,' and writing to her husband,
and of her children-his children. Yes. And she
was his wife, and they were his children. These
letters told me that, plainly enough. When Roland
Helstone came to Briersley three years before, he
left a wife and family in the woods of America."
"But, Aunt Dorothy, you were married to him?"
interrupted Charity.
THE STORY CONTINUED.
243
I went to him that
my own, was given
He never
"I had thought so, Charity. Before God, I was
his wife; but he had never been my husband, and
now, even in my own sight, I was no longer his wife.
That was the first idea I fully comprehended. And
at once my course was taken. That very day I left
the lodging. There was one person in the neighbor-
ing town on whom I felt I could rely. He was the
clergyman of one of the churches there, and though
I had never spoken to him, I had often, in days
past, attended his church, and I knew he was a good
man, with a holy heart of love.
night, Charity; strength, not
me to go to him, and to tell him enough of my story
to elicit all his sympathy and aid. I did not tell
him my name, and he did not ask it.
seemed to doubt my word in anything. It was his
own proposal that he should lend me money to re-
turn to England at once, and he insisted upon my
doing so as a first-class passenger, and also that I
should remain at his house for the two days that
must pass before the next ship sailed. The long
walk into the town, added to the shock of the morn-
ing, had made me very ill, and I dreaded lest I
should be prevented going on board. But the kind
care of that good man and his wife seemed to put
new strength into me; and when the morning for
the ship's sailing arrived, I had in a measure
recovered my strength. He saw me into my berth
himself, and, as I learned afterwards, secured for
me the captain's attention and respect; and it was
with extreme difficulty-it was only, indeed, on my
244
CHARITY HEI STONE.
insisting upon it as a personal favor to myself, and
a comfort to my poor agitated mind-that I could
prevail upon him to let me leave with him a valu-
able ring, which had been given to me by my dear
father on the day of my engagement. His wife
made me promise that I would let them know of
my arrival in my own home, should it please God
to bring me safely there; adding, in her true woman's
consideration for my feelings, that there would be
no need to sign any name-initials would be enough:
those which were on the ring I had left with her
husband, and which had the letters 'D. H.' set in
brilliants.
"When she left me, her tears flowed freely. I
wished mine could have done the same, but every
drop that it would have relieved me to shed seemed
frozen somewhere in my brain, and pressing upon it.
I could not thank them as I longed to do; but I
remember that I strove to return his warm grasp
with my cold hands, and that the tears which her
parting kiss left upon my rigid cheek seemed to
refresh it, like drops of God's rain upon parched
and withered ground. I only found out how much
she had felt and thought for me after she had left
when, on opening a box which she and the good
clergyman had prepared for me as a provision for
the voyage, I found, amidst many other things, an
assortment of little baby-clothes, and a gentle lov-
ing note from the giver, saying that, though I had
not told her so, she could not help fearing that I
might need these things before I reached my own
THE STORY CONTINUED.
245
dear home, and reminding me in a few earnest
words of the great Father above, whose love was
extended to all the works of His creation; but whose
heart went forth in special favor and protection.
towards those who, but for Him, would be fatherless.
Her words were very precious, and, Charity, her
gift remained carefully treasured by me for many
years, until I had need to use it for one of whom
we are not speaking now."
"You mean for me, Aunt Dorothy !" exclaimed
Charity.
"Yes, Charity: you were the first to wear those
little garments which love, Christian love and pity,
had so carefully prepared, and gratitude had so
carefully treasured. For myself I had no need of
them, or, at least, but one amongst all those little
articles had I any need to use. My kind friend's
fears were not realized. The winds were favorable,
for He who holdeth them in His hand continued
His loving-kindness towards me, and we had a short
and prosperous voyage. One night I remained in
London, for I would not risk the shock my sudden
arrival at Briersley would have been to my mother,
then a widow of three months' sorrowing. I told
her very little; only enough to prepare her for see-
ing me. It was sufficient for her to know that I
was returning in sorrow-that I had left Roland
for ever. The truth would be better told when I
was with her; and her grief and horror would be
tempered by the sight of me, and by the knowledge
that, at least, I was safe and with her.
:
246
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"The next day I returned to Briersley, and that
evening, Charity, a little baby was born; but through
God's mercy, as I have never ceased to remember,
not born to live and die, but to die and live again in
a world where none are fatherless-none suffer shame
or sorrow. The child-my child, was dying when
it was born; they placed it in my arms; for a few
short seconds its little cheek rested on my breast,
and then it grew very cold, and they insisted on
taking it away. My mother herself had dressed it
in one of the little white robes that I had brought
with me, and I did not fail to write word that in
that little dress its body was laid to rest, whilst the
happy, ransomed soul winged its way to heaven,
scarcely touching this sad earth as it passed
by. The clergyman had been sent for, and a
name was given-the name of 'Henry,' so loved
and honored by me because it had been my father's.
It was my mother's doing, but had I been able
to be consulted it would have been my own wish
also."
'O, Aunt Dorothy !" exclaimed Charity, "how
marvellous it seems that you should ever have
recovered!'
"Nature is very strong, Charity, when God does
not withdraw His upholding hand; and I had now
everything to help me-youth, and health, and the
tenderest care and nursing, and, best of all, an object
still left to me in life. For my dear mother, who,
Allen told me, had been pining away ever since my
father's death, seemed to take new life and strength
THE STORY CONTINUED.
247
on my return. Her one desire was to cheer me; to
forget her own trials, in order that she might soothe
and comfort me. Mine was to do the same for her
sake. Thus we lived for one another, until, uncon-
sciously, time came to aid with its unfailing help,
and the griefs which we had so resolutely been keep-
ing out of one another's sight gradually passed in a
measure from our own. We left Briersley at once,
and lived for many years in London, near my
mother's relations, and after her death I came
here."
"And Briersley ?" asked Charity, "and . . . .
and ...
""
"And Roland," replied Mrs. Dorothy, calmly.
"Briersley was to let at first, Charity, and it
passed from our sight, my mother at once resigning
the life-interest she had in it. Since then it has
been sold, and has changed its name. It was not
long in Roland's possession; indeed, it was not for
very long that anything belonged to him. Not
many years passed before we heard of his death
from that same clergyman, who, though he never
seemed to do so, must have known more about
him and me than I supposed. And, Charity, God's
mercies are very great; he died humble and re-
pentant. It had been my never-ceasing prayer,
and it was granted. And now, Charity, go, my
child, go; the story of Aunt Dorothy's life has
never been told till now. But it has been told
to you this evening, Charity. If, after hearing
it, you can make shipwreck of your life's happiness
*
248
CHARITY HELSTONE.
by joining your destiny with one whom you may
indeed love, but whom you have no reason either
to revere or to trust, then my effort has been
in vain, and God has not seen fit to answer my
prayer."
A PROPOSAL.
249
CHAPTER XIX,
A PROPOSAL.

ITHDRAWING to her room, and locking
herself into it, Charity sat down on the.
floor, her usual habit when greatly touched
or excited, and leaning her. aching head
against the little iron bedstead in which she had
always slept from a child, and in which she per-
sisted in sleeping still, the troubled thoughts passed
quickly through her bewildered brain, not one
amongst them remaining long enough in it to form
either a purpose or an action.
Half an hour had passed thus when there was a
knock at the door, and in answer to her hastily-
given assurance that no one could come in, Betsy's
voice informed her that "Mr. Edward Saville was
in the parlor, and particularly wished to see her."
Charity started to her feet and unlocked the door.
Betsy remarked the agitated face and the tear-
stained eyes instantly, although not seeming even
to look at her young lady, and said, quietly,-
"I'd better tell Mr. Edward you can't see him,
Miss Charity; you've got a headache, I know. I'll
just tell him so, and send him away."
250
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"No, Betsy, no! I will go down: I want
to speak to him. Are the candles lighted in the
parlor ?"
"No, Miss; the fire was burning bright enough;
for I didn't think you'd be spending all the evening
up in my mistress's room, talking; which, it strikes
me, is about as bad for you as it is for her; and I
kept up the fire, but I waited to light the candles
till you should come down. I'll go and light them
now, Miss Charity, and tell Mr. Edward you are
coming."
"No, Betsy," said Charity, quickly, "don't
light them, and don't disturb me. I want to
speak quietly to Mr. Edward. I'm going down
now."
"But you'll just smooth your hair, my dear,"
said Betsy, somewhat imploringly; "and if I
were you, Miss Charity, I'd wash my face a bit.
You don't look like yourself to-night, my dear;
you see, you've been too long up-stairs, and when
one gets talking like that, one forgets sometimes
that one isn't very smart."
And Betsy set down the candle she held in her
hand on the looking-glass. Charity cast a glance
at her pale face and dishevelled curls, and in
obedience to Betsy's request, passed the brush over
her hair in a listless way, and bathed her burning
eyes in fresh water; then, without another word,
ran down-stairs to the parlor. Edward stood by
the fire, and she went straight up to him and
holding out her hand, said,-
`A PROPOSAL.
251
"Good-bye, Edward: you're going away next
week but as far as I am concerned, let it be good-
bye now. I'd rather say it this evening and have
it over, than go on seeing you every day and have
to say it at last."
"But why say it at all, Cherrie ?" he exclaimed.
"Part we must for a time, I know; for I must not
dream of marriage, or, rather, I must dream of it;
it will be for some time my one thought by day
and dream by night: but I must be content to
wait to carry the delicious dream into reality till I
can afford to keep a wife, as such a wife as you,
Cherrie, ought to be kept. But why ever say
good-bye to me, since you can keep me just as
closely in your heart when I am away as when
I am near; and more closely, too, Cherrie? You
and I must never say good-bye to each other: why
should we?"
Because we must, Edward," she said, calmly,
her face growing more and more pale. "Edward,
I cannot-dare not marry you."
"And why not?" he asked, impetuously, almost
angrily. "Did you not own to me only yesterday
that you loved me with something different from a
sister's love? When I told you of all that Huntley
had told me, and how he had said that he believed
one reason why he could not win your heart was
because it already belonged to another, and that
other was myself; when I urged you to tell me if
his supposition was true, you would not own that it
was so: but you would not deny it, and your silence
252
CHARITY HELSTONE.
1
led me to suppose that Huntley was right, that my
dearest wishes were likely to be realized, and that
our early, happy affection had ripened in your
heart as well as in mine something even stronger
than its child-hold's force, though I am sure that
it was pretty strong. Only yesterday, Cherrie, we
were sitting happily in this room together, and you
seemed as unwilling that I should leave as I was
to go, and now you talk of saying good-bye to me
forever! But I know what it is: Aunt Dorothy
has been talking to you. This is her doing; she
hates me, I believe, and would gladly make you
hate me too; and she has been putting some of her
sanctimonious ideas into your pretty head, which is
half too full of them already."
"O, Edward!" exclaimed Charity, "pray don't
talk like that! Aunt Dorothy is good-O, so good!
and kind too! We have both of us great reason
to love her, and be grateful to her."
"Great reason, indeed!" interrupted Edward.
"I have, especially, when she sets you against me,
and blights every hope of happiness I have. I
thought she would do it if she could; she told me
as much on Sunday."
"O, Edward!" was again all that Charity could
answer.
"Yes, she did!" he replied, speaking in the loud,
eager tone, which always frightened Charity, and,
somehow made Edward seem less dear to her than
he usually was. "Yes, Cherrie, she did; not in so
many words certainly, but that was the pith of what
A PROPOSAL.
253
she said. She sugared it over with fine speeches,
and good advice, and a lot of loving expressions
towards my father and mother and myself: but take
away the coating she covered it with, and the inside
came just to this-that I was a wild young fellow,
without any fixed character or principles, and that
the less you had to say to me the better. Now,
Heaven knows, I don't want to pretend to be any
better than I am; that's not my way and never
shall be. I know I don't care much for religion-
perhaps they gave me too much of it when I was
young; I had a surfeit of good things then, I believe,
and may-be that's one reason why such things seem
stale to me, and I can't pretend to have the relish
for them that some folks have. Anyhow, I know I
haven't been able to take the delight in church-going
and psalm-singing that the rest of my family seem
to do. But I love to go to church with you,
Cherrie; the pleasure of having you at my side will
be quite enough to make me willing to go there
every Sunday, and twice a Sunday, too, if you
like; to say nothing of how gladly I shall do any-
thing that pleases you. And as for the psalm-
singing they're so much addicted to at home. . .
well, I own I used to find it dull work with
only Miss Danvers and Ellen's voices to listen
to; but since you've come home, Cherrie, there's 'no
one listens more attentively to the Sunday singing,
or enjoys it more than I do; and O, Cherrie, if I
had you for my wife to sing to me on Sunday
evenings, don't you suppose I should find more
2
254
CHARITY HELSTONE.
-
happiness by your side listening to you than in
gossipping the time away with some other young
fellows as careless as myself? No fear of my not
keeping the Sabbath, as Aunt Dorothy calls it,
properly, if you were keeping it with me.
And as
for extravagance-for Aunt Dorothy told me that,
with my extravagant habits, it was madness to
think of marriage-I suppose I can change my
habits when I've a motive strong enough to make
me do so."
The thought flashed across Charity's mind at this
moment of all Edward knew of the poverty in his
own home, and as he spoke of no motive strong
enough to lead him to a little economy and self-
denial, she remembered, if he did not, the thin worn
face of his mother, toiling incessantly from morn-
ing to night to assist in the care and teaching of
the little ones at home. But she said nothing; in-
deed she never could find much to say when Edward
talked; and he continued,
((
'Only give me a motive for economy, and I shall
be as saving as Mrs. Dorothy herself. Don't you
think it will be pure enjoyment to save money in-
stead of spending it, when I know that the money I
save is all to be spent one day on your sweet face,
instead of on my good-for-nothing self? I don't
want to be a hypocrite, or make out that I've been
steadier in past days than I have been. I know I
have given my father trouble, and spent more money
than I ought to have done. I know I haven't
always had the best of characters, or kept the best
A PROPOSAL.
255
of company. But let bye-gones be bye-gones. If
I'd loved you, Cherrie, seven years ago as I love
you now, my life would have been a very different
one. I did love you always, ever since I can remem-
ber how happily we used to play together; and you
never worried me as Ellen did, but were always my
favorite and friend. But I was a boy, then—a child.
It was very different. Ah, Cherrie! if I had known
then how I should feel now, I should have led a
different life. But I was young, and I got into bad
company; and then I had not courage to tell my
father, and things went wrong, and I know there's
a great deal to regret. But now, Cherrie, now that
my one thought is of you-ny one desire to please
you-to work for you to be worthy of you-do
you not see for yourself Cherrie, you must see,
that I shall be an altered man-an altered man, I
Say!"
The words fell heavily on Cherrie's heart. She
seemed to have heard them before. Something
within bore witness to their fallacy, and she
answered, "It needs a stronger motive than any
earthly love to make such a change. Aunt Dorothy
says so, and I believe her."
The mention of her name was unfortunate. Ed-
ward stamped his foot impatiently on the floor.
"Aunt Dorothy again!" he said. "Have you no
will, no feeling, no words of your own? Cherrie, you
loved me yesterday! Cherrie, you know you loved
me yesterday, and I know it too: do you not love
me now?"
256
CHARITY HELSTONE.
And Edward laid his hand upon her arm, and
fixed his eyes on hers.
Charity burst into tears. "I loved you yesterday,
Edward," she said, "just as I love you to-day-just
as I always have loved you, and always shall. But
you say truly; yesterday had you stayed a little
longer, my promise might have been given. Yes-
terday I would have promised to be your wife, and
to-day I cannot.”
"And if yesterday, why not to-day?" he asked.
His look which had such power over her, was
turned away from her now, and fixed moodily upon
the floor; there was a coldness in his tone which cut
Charity to the heart, but if it chilled it strengthened
her also.
"Because," she said, "yesterday I thought of
what you wished, Edward, and-and of what I
should wish, of enjoyment and happiness in this life;
and now I am thinking of what is right-of what
will bring happiness in another life."
"In short," Edward interrupted, "Aunt Dorothy's
last sermon is fresh in your mind. Perhaps,
Cherrie, if I go away now and come again to-morrow,
the impression may have passed away, and you may
be a little more like your dear old self. Come,
Cherrie," he added, recovering his temper, and
resuming his own warm, winning manner, "come,
Cherrie, don't let us both make shipwreck of our
happiness in this world, for the sake of the straight-
laced scruples of a saint, who, having one of her
own fect in the grave, looks upon things in general
A PROPOSAL.
257
in what you may call a somewhat one-sided view,
and cannot be supposed either to understand or
sympathize with young people like ourselves. As
I say, don't let us make shipwreck of our best hopes,
and sacrifice our best feelings and interests, to a
passing impression, however powerful it may seem."
Again the words fell familiarly on Charity's ear.
Edward's own voice seemed again repeating Aunt
Dorothy's warnings. The very weapon he sought to
use, turned, by a power stronger than his own,
against himself. "Not make shipwreck of her best
hopes!" "Not sacrifice her best feelings and inter-
ests to a passing impression, however powerful it
might seem!" Just what Aunt Dorothy had so
earnestly begged her to remember, whilst she
strengthened her entreaty with the experience of
her own life.
Cherrie," continued Edward, "you see the truth
of all I say; you do not really wish to follow her
advice, and cast me off. Only think that, when
once you have spoken the word, it will be too late
to retract. My ship sails next week. It is to be a
new life for me. I shall sail in a new vessel, with a
new captain, to a new world; and if you will only
throw off the influence of others, and be your own
dear self, and act for yourself, as I know, as I can
see you wish to act, then, Cherrie, I shall sail too
with new hopes, new principles, a new object,—in
short, as I said before, a new man."
He paused for an instant, but Charity did not
answer, and he continued,—
17
258
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"But the word that you speak to-day, it will be
too late to retract to-morrow, Cherrie. Think-re-
flect."
The sobs choked Charity's voice, but it was firm
enough for Edward to understand as she answered,-
I have thought, I have reflected, Edward. I love
you very much. What Lord Huntley said is quite
true. I never thought of being married to you, or to
any one else, till he spoke to me on the subject.
But when he talked to me on that day, O, Edward,
then I did feel he wasn't like you, that I could
never like to be with him half as much as I like to
be with you, or tell out my heart to him as I can to
you. I know he is very good, and noble, and I like
and respect him very much. But I felt that day
that he never could be such a dear companion to
me as you are; that I should always like you best,
and love best to be with you, and so I could not
marry him."
"Just so, Cherrie!" Edward interrupted. "Hunt-
ley said so to me, and I felt that he was not mis-
taken. You are a right-minded, noble-hearted girl,
Cherrie, and so you would not marry where you did
not love. Almost any other girl but you would
have been tempted by the offer of such a man as
Huntley, and such a position as he would have been
able to give you. But rank, talent, wealth, what
are these things compared with affection? You
refused Huntley because you had a heart, Cherrie;
and knowing the value of that heart, you would not
sacrifice it to any earthly ambition or prospects
A PROPOSAL.
259
whatever you would not crucify your better nature
to your lower one, and cease to be a woman, a true,
pure-minded, loving woman, with her heart beating
freely within her, that you might become a lady
with a coronet pressing upon her head. Cherrie, I
honor and respect you, and love you ten thousand
times better, if possible, than I did before, for the
motive that led you to refuse Lord Huntley. Cher-
rie, you must be blind if you do not see, that just
the very reason which led you to refuse Huntley
should-ought-must lead you to accept me.
let your heart, your true, loving, woman's heart,.
speak to you then. Vanity, ambition, all the lower
passions of the mind, must have spoken also, and
many a woman would have listened to them, and
been led by them to sacrifice herself. But in you,
Cherrie, the heart, the true, warm heart, spoke
out louder still, and you listened, and were saved.
Let that same heart speak now, and I know, I feel
that I shall be satisfied with its answer."
You
It almost seemed that, as Edward spoke so eagerly,
vehemently, passionately, Charity's own heart made
an attempt to second and strengthen his words, for
she pressed her hand upon it as though she would
control its powerful workings by a physical effort,
whilst she answered,—
"No, Edward, I dare not-I will not let my heart.
speak now. You are right. It did speak then, and,
thank God, I listened to it; for I felt that its teach-
ing then was true and pure. But now, Edward, I
hear a truer, purer voice than that of my own heart
260
CHARITY HELSTONE.
It is the voice of my soul. If Aunt Dorothy has
had anything to do in this, it has only been because
God has allowed her, in His mercy has made her to
be so.
For all she may have said to me, my own
soul had told me before. I am very weak, Edward,
only a very weak beginner in the right path, and I
dare not hinder my progress by joining my steps
with one who is not even attempting to walk in the
same direction. I should not lead you right, but
you would lead me wrong. I know it would be so
—I feel it would. God gave me strength to turn a
deaf ear to every lower thought some time ago, and
listen to the voice of my own heart. He will do so
now, and will strengthen me. He is strengthening
me to turn a deaf ear to my own voice that I may
hear His. I could not sacrifice the feelings of my
heart. I could not crucify my own will and wish
for any earthly gain or prospect. But for heavenly
hopes for my soul's good-I believe, I am sure,
God will give me strength. O, Edward! do not
tempt me, for I am very weak.”
And at that moment the door opened, and Mr.
Saville came in. For an instant he stood in the
doorway, apparently hesitating whether to enter or
retire. Then he came forward into the room,
without, however, appearing to notice Charity. In
an instant she had disappeared, and a moment after
was locked into her bedroom, in the very position.
in which she had been summoned by Betsy an hour
before to her interview with Edward Saville-on
the floor by the side of her little bed, her burning
A PROPOSAL.
261
head leaning against the cold iron, and her hands
pressed tightly together. But then there had been
no settled thought, and no definite purpose within
her perplexed and troubled brain; now, though her
head ached violently, though she felt sick, dizzy,
bewildered, and very, very unhappy, one thought
within assumed a definite shape, and her mind
rested upon it, or rather returned perpetually to it
from its various tossings to and fro. There was a
promise to God's children in His word that no temp-
tation should happen to them greater than they
were able to bear; or, that, with the temptation,
He would make a way of escape. God was faithful,
and He had fulfilled His word. If the spirit was
willing, the flesh was weak; and Charity's was
fast failing when Mr. Saville had so unexpectedly
opened the door in search of Edward. It was no
chance act, though it was to recall him to the Rec-
tory that he might see a friend who had, "by chance,"
arrived that evening. Charity had begged Ed-
ward not to tempt her. He certainly would not
have hearkened. But God did, and Mr. Saville's
entrance was the way of escape.
Meanwhile, Edward, on being thus interrupted,
looked as he felt, thoroughly annoyed and irritated ;
and on hearing why his father had thus suddenly
come to bring him, refused to return to his home,
and declared he had no wish to see that friend or
any other he had lost the only friend in the world
he cared to possess. He accompanied his father to
the Rectory, however, and after spending a very
262
CHARITY HELSTONE.
miserable evening there, announced his intention of
returning to London with his friend the next morn-
ing, and remaining there until the ship should sail
in the course of the following week. His mother
remonstrated, and Ellen implored, and the younger
ones entreated; but his father said nothing. After-
wards, when he and his wife were left alone, he said
quietly to her," Edward has proposed to Charity,
my love, and she has refused him ;" and he told
her of the conversation he had been the means of
interrupting.
"O, Edward, and I thought she seemed so devoted
to him!" was the reply of the tender mother; “and
with her affection to steady him, he might have
been a different character."
((
"Might
Mr. Saville smiled, a very grave smile.
have been!" he said. Ah, how many a fair young
bark has gone down into hopeless misery, and
been lost forever, by striking upon the rock of what
might be !"
"But surely," urged the wife, "affection is very
powerful-such strong affection as Edward seems to
have for Charity? You do not suppose that he has
no heart, Edward? You surely think that he loves
her?"
"You will think me very harsh," replied Mr.
Saville, "if I say that he loves her as much as a
man can love, who loves himself better than any
other object in the world. He admires her very
much, certainly-no man but must do so, for one
rarely sees beauty such as hers, and he has set his
A PROPOSAL.
263
heart on making her his wife; and where Edward's
will is once fairly involved, it would be very difficult
to decide between strength of resolution and strength
of affection."
"But," said Mrs. Saville, "you think she loves
him?"
"Yes, I do," replied her husband; "and I am
inclined to believe, too, in the report that has gone
about in the neighborhood, that she has refused
Lord Huntley for his sake. Few people seem to
credit it; perhaps it is scarcely to be expected thạt
they should, since I do not suppose there are ten
young women in the county who would not sacrifice
anything and everything they possess to make such
a marriage. But I have thought a good deal about
it, and I have come to the conclusion that Huntley
must have proposed to her, otherwise I cannot
account for his conduct. Lord Huntley is not the
man to pay any girl such attentions as he paid to
Charity, and then suddenly draw off and cease them
altogether. He is the most honorable, high princi-
pled, and, I really believe, Christian young man
I have ever met with; and I feel sure he would not
behave so to any girl, least of all to one in Charity's
position."
"It seems strange that she should have refused
him," said Mrs. Saville, "for he is, as you say, so
superior to other young men; his energy and devo-
tion in doing good to the poor are as great as his
talents. It seems curious to think of such a man not
being able to win the heart of a child like Charity."
C
264
CHARITY HELST ONE.
"Unless the heart were not hers to give," said
Mr. Saville; "which is another reason for my believ-
ing that she does love our poor boy, and, therefore,
could not listen to Huntley. But for this, I believe
that a heart like Charity's, so warm and true, and
so thoroughly simple and unsophisticated, would
have been very speedily and very strongly attached
to a man like Huntley, who has in himself every-
thing to secure love and trust.”
"And what a position it would have been for
her, poor child!" said Mrs. Saville.
"Such a
husband-such a fortune--such means of doing
good! Certainly things do sometimes seem to
go very contrary to what one would imagine
best."
"Seem to go contrary," said her husband,
gravely; "but, thank God, never do so. The
straightest-seeming things are often those which,
in the end, prove to have been the most perverse.
The crookedest turnings are often found all to
lead to the right end: our smoothest walking,
at the last, often proves to be over the stones
which were roughest to our feet at one time,
when, so to speak, they each stood up under them,
sharp and separate, while at God's command,
we stepped from one to another. But let those
same stones be fitted one into another by God's
hand, and polished into shape and smoothness
by our submission, and I think we shall find them
a very solid and a very safe, even a very easy,
support for our feet.”
A PROPOSAL.
265
"We must hope so," said Mrs. Saville; "but
some of these stones pierce one pretty sharply
now. Edward is a perpetual thorn in my side,
and I had thought this desired marriage of his
would have been the means of removing it."
'Say, rather," replied her husband, "that it
would have been the means of planting it in
Charity's side also. I cannot myself see that
any other result would have been produced, and,
therefore, I cannot but feel thankful that Charity
should have refused him, as I feel sure she has
done."
Thus did Mr. and Mrs. Saville talk together
that evening, while Edward flung his things into
his portmanteau in preparation for the morning's
journey to London, and Charity sat still on the
floor, with her head 'eaning on the iron bed-
stead.
266
CHARITY HELSTONE.
CHAPTER XX.
CONFIRMATION OF THE TALE.
'HE little remaining daylight had long given
place to the dark clouds of night, when
Charity was roused from her position by
some one knocking at the door, and opening
it before she had time either to grant or refuse
admittance. Of course it was Betsy, who, setting
down the candle out of sight of Charity, who, she
saw, could not stand the light so suddenly intro-
duced into that dark chamber, began such a series.
of remonstrances as might have been expected
from her, and carried them on the more violently
because she thought that Charity would not wish
her to know either of the two facts of which she
felt, in reality, quite as certain as though she
had been present at both the conversations, of
which she had not heard one single word.
Betsy knew perfectly that Mrs. Dorothy had
been telling her the story of her life; or, at all
events, the sketch of some scenes in it. Otherwise,
she would never have been in the state in which
she had found her on going to her room a short
time after Charity had left it. And Betsy felt
equally certain that Charity had that evening
CONFIRMATION OF THE TALE.
267
parted from Edward Saville with different words,
and in a manner which differed greatly from that
in which they had parted on any other evening.
Otherwise, he would not have slammed the parlor
door after him in that fashion, utterly regardless
of the old lady in her sick-room just above; nor
would he have spoken to his father in the passage
in the impatient tone which had fallen upon
Betsy's ear as she sat at her solitary supper in
the quiet kitchen.
CC
Well, these are pretty doings, to be sure!" was
Betsy's conclusion. "My mistress trying to hasten
the few days she's got to spend on earth, by talk-
ing away the little breath she has left, in direct
disobedience to the doctor's orders that she should
keep perfectly quiet; and Miss Charity crying
the pretty blue out of her dear eyes, and the
bright color out of her sweet cheeks, for the
sake, as I do believe, of that good-for-nothing
young scamp, Mr. Edward, that I haven't got
the smallest patience with-no, nor never had!
The coolness of men is wonderful, to be sure!
and makes me thankful that I never had anything
to do with them. There was that handsume
young fellow that must needs come across the
Atlantic, years ago, to fetch our dear little lady's
heart and break it! Well, he's dead and gone,
and many's the time I've prayed I might have
the good God's grace to think upon his memory
without cursing it, especially as they say he died
repenting of his sins. I thought I'd come to
t
268
CHARITY HELSTONE.
think of him in a right sort of way at length; but
this last month the old feelings seem all to rise
up again at the sight of Mr. Edward's face, and
the sound of his voice, coming troubling round
here after our pretty flower-for all the world
just as Mr. Roland used to do at Briersley!
I've thought many times that it was a good
thing for him, and for me too, that he had
leave to come and go without asking me to let
him in and out. It's my opinion, if I'd the
opening of our front door to him, he'd have
seen pretty sharp that, so far as I was concerned,
he was no welcome visitor here; and I'd have
shut it after him pretty much as he did himself
this evening: unless, indeed, I hadn't done it
out of respect for my poor lady's nerves, which
he never seems to think of—not he, though he did
have that long talk with her last Sunday, and
must have seen that she had scarcely any strength
left in her body. But I dare say he didn't see
it; the like of him don't seem to see anything
but just what concerns themselves. There, I've
no patience with them! I wish there'd never
come another near us, unless it were such s
my Lord Huntley: but there isn't many such,
and now he never comes near the place. Folks
seem to have found out that he came after Miss
Charity, and that she must have given him a
hint not to come any more, or he'd never have
dropped off so sudden: but the miller, he says
that's a piece of folly he'd find it hard to believe
CONFIRMATION OF THE TALE.
269
of our young lady, and I don't wonder he says
So.
""
But, so far as this young Mr. Saville is con-
cerned, she shall not throw herself away upon
him, if old Betsy can help it; for another thing
the miller told me was, that he had shown what
sort he was like in the village already, though
he hadn't been here but three months, and it was
a thousand pities such a pretty young lady as
ours should be left to walk about so much alone
as she is now. And there, again! it's pretty
much the old story over again. But anyhow I
believe Master Edward's gone off to-night with
something he doesn't like, and it won't be my
fault if ever he gets anything in this house he
does like."
And Betsy ended her long soliloquy by taking a
bedroom-candlestick and setting forth to see after
her mistresses, old and young. Her first visit was
to Charity, for she had administered a soothing
draught to Mrs. Dorothy an hour before, and
knew that she would find her pretty much as
she had left her then. But Charity's appearance
altogether took her by surprise. She had been
prepared for a pale face, and eyes more deeply
stained with tears even than they had been in
the earlier part of the evening. But a change,
for which she was altogether unprepared, seemed
to have passed over her young mistress, who, so
far as Betsy could judge in the uncertain light,
looked ten years older.
*
270
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"Miss Charity," she said, "I've come to help
you to go to bed, my dear; you don't know,
perhaps, it has struck ten."
Charity did not know, and, now that Betsy had
told her, did not seem to care anything about time.
So Betsy tried another tack, which seemed more
successful.
"Your aunt has been very ill, Miss Charity,"
she said.
At once Charity was all attention, and eager to
go to her.
"No, my dear," said Betsy, "she's best left
quiet. She's taken one of the soothing draughts,
and you know it isn't good to disturb her while it's
taking its quieting effect on the nerves. I'll be
going in by-and-by to see after her and light
the lamp, and I'll bring you word how she is.
Meantime, my dear, do you get to bed. My lady
was but fifteen, Miss Charity, when I went to live
with her first; as I've told you, I dare say, many
times."
Yes: Charity had heard this one fact from
Betsy's lips many times before, but hitherto it
had never afforded her much interest. Until
now, all she had known of Mrs. Dorothy's history
was that she had been rich, that her parents had
been rich, but that the money had been lost to
them in some way, and only a sufficient portion
of it left to enable Mrs. Dorothy to live as
quietly and economically as she was now doing,
and had done ever since Charity had known her.
CONFIRMATION OF THE TALE.
271
She had no relations that she knew of in the world,
and having, as Charity had always supposed, never
married, she had formed no near connections, and
seemed to have no closer or more devoted friend
than Betsy the faithful maid, whom, as Betsy her-
self had often told her, Mrs. Dorothy had per-
suaded her father to take out of the workhouse
and into her service. This much concerning her
aunt's life Charity knew, and it had seemed to
her very ordinary and somewhat uninteresting.
But now a new light had shone on everything
connected with Mrs. Dorothy, and in reply to
Betsy's allusions to the past, she said, quickly,-
"O, Betsy, you knew dear Aunt Dorothy
when she was only fifteen, and you have known
her ever since you have lived with her at Briers-
ley?"
"Yes, Miss; and I've lived with her ever since:
we've spent our two lives together-all except the
earliest steps in it, and just one gap afterwards,
when, for a time, I was not with her. God knows,
I wish I had been !"
"You mean when she was in America?" said
Charity.
3
"I thought so!" replied Betsy. "My lady has
been telling you somewhat of her own story,
and it's been too much for both of you. I knew
how it was when she rang her bell, and I found
her with her teeth chattering so that you could
hear them almost before you opened the door,
and her poor, hin frame shaking and shiver-
272
CHARITY HELSTONE.
ing for all the world as though she had an
ague fit.
>
"She has suffered !' said Charity; the thought
crossing her mind how light was even the pain she
was herself then enduring, compared with Aunt
Dorothy's heavy, heavy sorrow. "O, Betsy, how
she has suffered! I don't wonder you love her
as you do. I wonder you didn't go with her
to America: and what a comfort you would have
been to her!"
"I wished enough to go, Miss; and my young
lady she wished it too. But he prevented it. He
was clever enough to manage that, and anything
else he'd fixed his bad mind upon. He had my old
master's ear, and he made him believe that it was
no use at all to take a young girl like me out to
that country: he said I should be sure to marry as
soon as I set foot there, and that would be a very
bad thing for me. He was only going, as he assured
my master in his hypocritical way, for the winter;
and since our young lady could not take her lady's
maid with her, who had been in earlier years her
nurse, because it was impossible that she should
leave Mrs. Helstone who had been so ill, it would
be best for him, he said, to engage an experienced
servant in London to attend on my young mistress
during the voyage. But he knew what he was
about-trust him for that! He wrote my mistress
word that they had found just the person they
wanted, and she might feel quite easy. Just the
person he wanted, he ought to have said. We found
CONFIRMATION OF THE TALE.
273
out afterwards, that he had engaged the services of
a young woman who was going out in the same ship
to some situation in America, and who was to wait
on Miss Dora on the voyage and leave her when
the ship arrived in port. It was just like him! part
and parcel of the cool, calculating way in which he
carried out all his plans."
"But," said Charity, "did not Aunt Dorothy beg
that you might go with her? She is so fond of you,
Betsy."
"Yes, Miss, now, after thirty years of living to-
gether; but the love was all on one side then, Miss.
Miss Dora was fond of me, and good to me, as she
was to everything; but it was just the love that
came from pity. She used to visit the workhouse
with her dear mamma every week, for my old mis-
tress had trained her from her earliest years in her
own ways of piety and charity. They came
regularly every week to the house, and whilst Mrs.
Helstone was reading to the poor creatures in the
sick-wards, Miss Dora she would have a class of
children in the workroom. Ah, Miss Charity! I
think I see her now, and never-no, never could
my words tell you what she was like in those days.
She just seemed like an angel of loveliness coming
into our poor place from another world. But if I
were to begin to talk of that time I could talk for
hours, and you must be going to bed, my dear."
"But I like to hear you talk, Betsy; I do indeed,
for my mind is full of Aunt Dorothy. And it's
troubled, too, about other things. Stop here a little
18
274
CHARITY HELSTONE.
and tell me about Aunt Dorothy: my head aches,
and it does me good."
"Well then, my dear,' said Betsy, "you get ready
for bed, and I'll stop a bit. There's your dressing-
gown-now get your hair down, and let me brush it
for you. My fingers ought to be accustomed to
them long curls, for I've had enough to do with
them in other days; though it's a good bit now
since I've felt how smooth and thick they were."
And assisting Charity to change the merino dress.
for the white dressing-gown, Betsy tenderly loosened
the velvet band that fastened the long brown curls,
and began to brush them as gently as she used to do
in bygone days. "My lady had just such curls
when she was young," she said, "only they were
many shades fairer; not brown like these, my dear
-which are just the color of the nuts we used to
gather-but with a golden hue upon them, Miss
Charity, for all the world like the color of your
bright birds' feathers. I never saw hair of that
color anywhere else than on her pretty head, and I
think it helped to give her that angel look she had
—that, and the large blue eyes and delicate skin,
and the faint color in her cheeks, which was never
more than pink when she was with us at Briersley,
and every shade of which had gone, when she
returned from America."
"And you have always lived with her ever since,
Betsy?" said Charity. "Tell me, was it a long, long
time before she recovered her spirits? Do you
think she ever forgot him? I wonder whether she
CONFIRMATION OF THE TALE.
275
ever heard anything about his other wife and the
children? I think she must have thought a great
deal about them."
•
"She did a deal more than think of them, my
dear, as I know; better, perhaps, than she thinks I
do. You see, Miss, trouble like ours draws the
hearts of a household together, when those that rule
and those that serve feel the blow alike. And after
the shadow fell on my young lady... well, it seemed
as though my old mistress and I entered the cloud
together; and she would often talk to me of her-
master, too, being dead, and she having no one to
speak to but me. It was Mrs. Helstone that told
me that he was dead; they had a letter from a clergy-
man in America to say so. Miss Dora, she never
named him to me in all her life, and I believe she
never did even to her dear mamma, without there
was real necessity to do so.
came, I observed, that when I
But after that news
carried the letters to
Miss Dora's writing
the post there was often one in
to some 'Reverend' in America; and, thought I to
myself, that's the clergyman that wrote about his
death, and Miss Dora she's going now to find out
about the wife and children.' And very soon I
knew how right I had guessed, for the letter to the
clergyman stopped, and instead of them there were
constant letters to a Mrs. Helstone, and often these
would be registered letters, and I knew there was
money inside, and knew too why my sweet lady
dressed so plain, and where the money went. Those
letters went on for years, Miss Charity; but they've
276
CHARITY HELSTONE.
stopped now, and very glad I am of it. I think the
mother must have died, Miss, for the letters to her
ceased all at once, and there were others to some of
the family for some time afterwards. But not for a
very long time now. It's years since I've seen any-
thing of the sort. It's no curiosity that has made
me take notice of all this.
It's just because my mis-
tress is the one interest of my life, and all that
touches her touches me pretty near as close. I used
to remark, too, Miss Charity, how often she would
have one of her attacks after one of those letters had
gone out or come in... But now, my dear, you're
pretty near ready for bed. I'll see after my lady
and then come back to take away your light."
Betsy's report of her mistress was, that she felt
sure she would have a good night; Betsy had her-
self done her best to secure this being the case, by
just saying, as she raked out the fire and lighted the
lamp-"I think, ma'am, there's been some difference
of opinion between our young lady and Mr. Edward
this evening. He went away very disappointed
like; and from a few words he said to his papa in
the passage-loud enough, ma'am, for me to hear
him in the kitchen-it's my belief he'll come here
no more. Miss Charity's been having quite a long
talk with me, ma'am, while I've brushed her hair;
for, you see, I thought it would not do to have her
vexing her dear heart over any words she might
have had with Mr. Edward. She wanted to come
into your room to-night, ma'am, but I told her you
had been poorly, and it would be best to leave you
CONFIRMATION OF THE TALE.
277
quiet, and she has gone to-bed. I'm going now to
fetch her candle."
"That is right, Betsy," said Mrs. Dorothy, gently;
"it was best to leave me quiet. But take her my
dear love, Betsy, and my blessing."
Betsy carried the message very faithfully; and
when she had tucked her former charge and present
darling into her little bed she could not help adding,
"And with your aunt's blessing, Miss Charity,
which is worth a great deal, take mine, too; which
is not worth much, I know, save that it comes from
a loving heart, and love, they say, makes all things
of value."
And when Charity fell asleep that night, which
after a time she did, if her dreams were somewhat
troubled and bewildered, tha very diversity took
away from their painfulness. For self and Edward
were not the only figures that returned in night
visions to her imagination. She dreamed also of
Aunt Dorothy as a golden-haired, light-hearted girl,
and again as a grave, earnest woman, with bowed
figure, pale face, and white hairs--of Roland Hel-
stone-of the widow and the children- and of dear,
faithful Betsy.
278
CHARITY HELSTONE.
CHAPTER XXI.
TWO YEARS LATER.
WO years passed away, and Mrs. Dorothy
Helstone, who had seemed so near death at
one time, appeared to have had granted t. her,
like Hezekiah of old, a fresh lease of life.
Whether anxiety of mind had been the chief cause
of her sudden failure of strength two winters before,
and that, on the anxiety being removed, her health
of itself began to recover, or what the cause of the
sudden change was, they did not quite know. But
certain it was, that after Edward Saville had taken
his departure, not to return for several years-after
Charity's cheeks had begun to recover their former
healthy hue, and her step to grow light, and her
voice mirthful again-after Lord Huntley had left
the temporary charge of his newly-arranged estates
in the hands of a steward almost as wise and good
as himself, and gone abroad for a year-certain it
was that, after all these changes had been effected,
Mrs. Dorothy was daily observed, as Betsy said, to
be "picking up her strength again;" and two such
happy years were spent at Ivy Cottage as do not,
we believe, often fall to the lot of our fellow-crea-
tures in this life, where such times of resting are,
TWO YEARS LATER.
279
we know, intended but to be green pastures in the
desert still waters, where pilgrims who have
buffeted in rough waves before, and will soon, per-
haps, have to meet yet more stormy billows, are
allowed to stay for a while, to sing praises for past
deliverance.
Betsy never remembered a happier time than
those two years which she and Mrs. Dorothy and
Miss Charity spent together, when, as she said,
"without were no fightings, and within were no
fears." The miller was still her chief friend and
confidant, for Betsy, like most of us, was given to
strange contradictions and inconsistencies, both of
character and conduct; and whilst forever inveigh-
ing against "the men," and pronouncing them to
be, as a race, the embodiment of all that was selfish,
and heartless, and tyrannical, she had never been.
known to admit a female friend either into her
kitchen or her confidence, whilst the miller was a
welcome visitor any day, and almost every day.
To him Betsy would repeat, on an average about
four nights a-week, the story of all the trouble of
mind she had gone through that winter.
"Never did she go through such a time before,”
she would say.
"Other times, one trouble would
come, and when that was gone, another: but that
winter everything seemed to come together: there
were verses in the Bible which she had never under-
stood before, that had had a light upon them in her
mind ever since-such as when David talked of all
the waves and billows going over him at once, and
280
CHARITY HELSTONE.
one deep calling unto another. It had seemed just
like that, and her mind had been like Noah's poor
dove, that could not find any rest for the sole of its
foot anywhere. There was Mrs. Dorothy like to
die; and Miss Charity all but carried off, first by
drowning, and then by Mr. Edward-which, for
her part, she should have thought the worse fate of
the two; and poor Lord Huntley, that was as good
as gold, and made of sterling stuff, head and heart,
right through to the very core of him, gone off from
the very place where it seemed as though the Lord
had sent him to be a blessing to all who came across
him. Well, one comfort was he was back again
now, and Miss Charity and he very good friends,
and there was no saying what mightn't come of it
yet. Her mistress had told her, many times since
then, that no good ever came of building castles in
the air; and certainly she'd begun to think so too,
when the only one she ever built came tumbling
down about her ears: but she wasn't so sure but
what the scattered stones were coming together
again now. Well, she'd just leave them alone, and
not seek to put her hand on them again. She'd
heard say the Lord wasn't fond of having His
people meddling in the affairs of His providence,
and that oftentimes, even when He meant to give
them a good thing, and may be had got it a-prepar-
ing for them, if He saw them putting their foolish
fingers to the work, and making themselves too
busy about it, He would just throw the whole thing
down, even though He should mean all the while
TWO YEARS LATER.
281
to build it up again when they'd learnt the lesson
of leaving the Lord to do His own work in His own
way, and keeping themselves quiet, meanwhile, at
the bit of business fixed for them. Joseph was to
sit on a throne, and wear a royal robe and a gold
chain, but he had to go through the pit and the
prison. Moses was to lead the people and be their
ruler, but he must keep Jethro's sheep till the right
time came.
David began his life at court by play-
ing the harp before King Saul, and very nearly got
killed by a spear cast from the very throne on which
it was promised he should sit one day. The Lord
had His own ways of bringing about things, and
there was no more use in trying to hasten them
than there would be in seeking to prevent them."
Q
Thus would Betsy talk by the hour in the
kitchen, whilst Mrs. Dorothy and Charity held
just as pleasant communion in the parlor. The
cottage was not quite such as it used to be, for
a few additions had been made. Now that they
were no longer new, Charity had grown to look
upon them as improvements, but at first it had
gone to her heart to see a stone of the old place
touched; and she would have had yet greater
difficulty in reconciling herself to the change,
had it not been made for an object which lay
very near Charity's heart-in order that there
might be room in the cottage to receive her friend,
Minnie Morton. Charity had never been able
to summon courage to leave her home even for
a day, to visit her friends in London; so that
-282
CHARITY HELSTONE.
Mrs. Dorothy had planned that Minnie should
come and spend the summer with them, and
a very pleasant summer it had been. Mr. Morton
had brought her to Arlington himself, and had
come down for her; Mrs. Dorothy had soon formed.
a warm friendship with one whom she already
knew so well through Charity, and to whom Charity
owed so much.
When Mr. Morton returned to London, it was
to tell his wife that her long-cherished wish was
gratified, for the good clergyman had, with the
peculiar skill and tact which belonged to his
character, soon found an opportunity of telling
Mrs. Dorothy all that he knew of the name of
Helstone. And it was a relief to him to have
done so, for he felt with his wife that the infor-
mation, such as it was, might, perhaps, prove
of use to Charity in future days, though he had
not wished to force the communication upon Mrs.
Dorothy, against Mr. Saville's and Betsy's wishes,
having learned, a good way back in his own
experience, the lesson which Betsy had reached
at length, that "to everything there is a season,
and a time to every purpose.'
""
Mrs. Morton was eager to know all that her hus-
band had to tell, and disappointed to find how
little that all was. He had prepared Mrs. Doro-
thy's mind very gently, he said, for hearing that
he had met with Helstones before he knew either
Charity or herself; since it was evident, from
what he learnt from Mr. Saville, that that name

Lumini
Mrs. Helstone was a mere child. Page 282.
TWO YEARS LATER.
283
had power to arouse within her the strongest
and most painful emotions. She had begged to
be told all that he himself knew, and he had told
her all; how that, when first he entered upon
his ministerial work as a curate in a crowded part
of London, he found two young persons of the
name of Helstone living in a wretched lodging,
in a small street in the district committed to his
charge, a young man of about two or three and
twenty, who might or might not have been a
gentleman he always himself believed that by
birth he was such, but that want of education,
and still more, want of principle, had lowered
him from the position which otherwise he might
have occupied and a young woman, his wife,
who was most evidently and undoubtedly a lady-
a lady by birth, by appearance, by mind: "such
a lady," Mr. Morton said, emphatically, "as your
sweet Charity-the same, indeed, in feature, in
mind, in voice, and manner, only that she was
far younger-younger even than Charity was on
the day I first saw her in the vestry of my church.
Mrs. Helstone was a mere child, as ignorant as a
baby of the world and its wicked ways, and living
only from hour to hour at the will of her hus-
band.
"I told her," continued Mr. Morton, "as little
as I could of him, since there was no good to
tell; but she seemed to seize at once the idea of
the wretched sort of gambling, wild, reckless life
he led, and fully to understand how the misery
284
CHARITY HELSTONE.
of her existence in one year did the work of ten
in the young wife's looks and health. And then
I told her how suddenly our acquaintance with
them had come to an end, and how, one day, when
you had gone to see the poor young wife, with
your heart, as usual, full of loving sympathy,
since there were circumstances in that poor crea-
ture's condition which aided in attracting you
most powerfully to her at that time, you had found
her gone-fled-none knew where, on a cold, biting
day in January, with the snow upon the ground,
and a piercing east wind finding its way into one's
very bones."
"And what did she say?" asked Mrs. Morton.
"Nothing, just at first," replied her husband,
"poor old lady! She covered her face with her.
hands, and the first words I heard her say were to
herself rather than to me; something about its
seeming as though there were truth in Betsy's
words, and that the same misfortune reproduced
itself from one generation to another. But after a
little while she recovered her composure completely
-you have never seen anything more dignified
than that old lady's perfect self-possession-and
then she told me there had once been a family
of that name, cousins of hers, in America, in whom
she had been deeply interested, and that so long
as the mother lived she had kept up her connection
with them; but that, on her death, the family had
become dispersed, and, one by one, had ceased
correspondence with her. One son, the eldest,
TWO YEARS LATER.
285
had run away from home when quite a youth,
and had never been heard of since. This evidently
was the man whom we had known in London-
Roland Helstone; and Charity was no doubt his
child. And having said this, she begged me
to call her maid, and leave her; which I did,
almost regretting that I had ever spoken a word.
to her on the subject; feeling as if, perhaps, Mr.
Saville had been wiser than myself, and it would
have been better never to have mentioned it to her.
For, though she never lost her self-command
throughout the interview, when she begged me
to leave her I could see there were stormy feelings
at work underneath that calm exterior; and the
next day she could not leave her room, and I
heard that she had been very ill in the night.
She sent for me to wish her good-bye, and I think
she must have gathered something of what I was
feeling from my face, for she said, "There is
nothing to regret. You would not have been
suffered to tell what you did if it had not been
much, much for the best that you should do so.'
And then she added-'If my maid has told you
that I have been ill, you must not let that trouble
you. I often have these attacks-it matters very
little whether I have one more or less; besides,
I am very old, and very near the grave. And
it has done me more good than harm to have
talked with you yesterday. Charity was dear to
me before. I had thought, as dear as she could
be, but she is yet dearer now.""
286
CHARITY HELSTONE.
LSTONE
"And she told you nothing of her own con-
nection with these Helstones ?" asked Mrs. Morton.
"Nothing."
"And did she mean to tell Charity all that you
told her?"
"She did not say so," replied her husband.
"You know now all that passed between us."
Mrs. Morton could have wished that it had been
more satisfactory. And it was a great satisfaction
to her mind when, some time afterwards, she
learned that Mrs. Dorothy had told Charity, and
had told her at once. That same evening, when
Charity came to read the Bible as usual, before
parting for the night, and after reading put her
arms around her aunt's neck, and kissed her long
and lovingly, she felt Mrs. Dorothy's arms close
around her with a strength which almost startled
her, while a voice, which at first the frightened
girl feared must be that of fever, said, "Charity,
my child! my own precious child! you are no
nameless orphan-you are as much a Helstone
as I am myself. None can ever say my darling
is nameless, and has no claim but that of charity
on all that will soon be hers. It is all yours,
my child; not from ìove alone, but in law-by
very right--house and property, all that I have
are yours?"
At first Charity could only think that weakness
had produced delirium; but scarcely had she
raised herself from her aunt's arms, and gazed
upon the calm features, the quiet, steady eye, than
TWO YEARS LATER.
287
she felt there was no fever there. "Aunt Dorothy!
dear Aunt Dorothy! what do you mean?"
And in the same room, and at the same hour,
with the shades of evening gathering fast around
them, Aunt Dorothy told her another story; not
so long as that which she had related two years
before, but, to Charity, quite as intensely inter-
resting--or, perhaps, more so. And thus you
see, my child, you are Charity Helstone. Who
shall say that God did not lead your dear young
mother here that He did not summon me from.
my bed that night to receive her last sigh, and
hear her last words-that He did not, as my eyes
fell upon the 'C. H.' marked upon her soft, white
linen, at once suggest the right name to adopt-
the right course to pursue? Who shall say that
God did not himself order everything that hap-
pened then, and before, and since ?"
"He did, Aunt Dorothy! He did!" cried
Charity, in much agitation.
"Of course He did!" replied Mrs. Dorothy.
"We talk of God's works being wonderful. They
are, indeed! But now we see but a part; in heaven
we shall see the whole. Then, Charity, will be
the time for full understanding, and for full admi-
ration. Charity, your prayer is heard. You have
both name and home. My name and home are
just as much yours as mine."
"But 0, Aunt Dorothy! my poor, young
mother! And my poor, poor father! O, what
a world of strange trouble it is !"
1
288
CHARITY HELSTONE.
"Your dear mother is in heaven, Charity," said
Mrs. Dorothy. "None who saw her die could
ever doubt that. I have always felt that months
of sorrow and discipline had doubtless prepared
the way for the reception of that 'pardon and
that peace,' which evidently came to her so fully
in her last moments, and brought such a bright
glow over her dying features. Your mother,
Charity, is among the redeemed in heaven. There
is a text upon her grave which says, "His compas-
sions fail not." Let us cling to that thought when
we remember your father. I feel I have a chain
of mercy in my hands,-a chain of rich, providen-
tial goodness, wrought by God himself. There are
some links missing still. We shall have them yet;
if not now, in heaven."
"O, Aunt Dorothy," exclaimed Charity, "I will
pray-pray-pray!"
"Yes, my child. I have been doing that a long,
long time; and, one by one, the prayers are all
coming back in blessings. Now kiss me again, and
go away to bed. But before you send Betsy to me,
tell her what I have told you. It is due to her
that she should know first, what others must know
soon, that you are my own. But tell her not to
speak to me to-night; for I am weary, and must
rest."
Betsy's excitement knew no bounds. In her first
joy of hearing that Charity was no nameless orphan
-that, if not "a fairy princess in disguise," as little
Alice Rhodes, now a girl of sixteen, and a frequent
TWO YEARS LATER.
289
visitor at Ivy Cottage, still persisted in calling her,
she was what Betsy considered still better-a real
true-born Helstone. In her joy at hearing this,
Betsy for the time forgot that she had his blood in
her veins, that she was his grandchild. She did
not realize this fact, happily, until some time after-
wards, when Charity had gone away to bed; and
then she comforted herself with the reflection that
there was not a grain of him, or the like of him, in
her-not a look, or a tone, or a turn: which was
true.
Who that fair young mother could have been
Betsy longed to know. Very lovely she was, as she
remembered; and Miss Charity was, no doubt, the
image of her in her loveliest days. Ah! it was the
way of such as he to choose the fairest flower! She
had seen that twice already-one had got the
flower, and one hadn't, thank God! And this was
the same old story coming up for the third time.
Well, she would like to know who the mother was.
If Miss Alice were here, she'd say at once that she
had been the "fairy princess," and prove her point
that way. As for the father, Betsy's one great
desire was that she might never set her eyes on him;
that, wherever he might wander, or whatever his
fate might be, he might never find his way to
Arlington.
We shall see later which of the two found best
acceptance in the ears of Him whose "compassions
fail not"-Betsy's emphatic wish, or Charity's fer-
vent prayer.
19
290
CHARITY HLLSTONE.
CHAPTER XXII.
DEATH--BURIAL.
}
NLY three months later, and in that same
dear old bedroom of Mrs. Dorothy's, which
so many, many events had rendered a place
of almost holy interest and love to Charity, a
scene was passing which was to sct the seal of
sacredness firmly and fixedly upon it forever.
On that same bed where Charity had sobbed
forth so many of her passionate, childish sorrows—
where she had leaned her head to listen to the story
of dear Aunt Dorothy's life, and to as much of the
story of her own as she or any one else knew-on
that same bed that dear Aunt Dorothy now lay
dying. Charity repeated the word to herself many
times-"Dying!" The doctors said so-Aunt Doro-
thy said so they all said so. It must be true.
Charity knew that it was true, yet she could not
realize it, and there was nothing in that scene to
help her to do so.
Mrs. Dorothy lay on her pillows as peacefully as
though she were but resting from the fatigues of the
day, about to take a quiet sleep, from which she
would be up again to-morrow. There was no suffer-
DEATH-BURIAL.
291
ing in her face-no indication, even, of a passing
pain. But those who knew, said that gradually the
action of that holy, loving heart, was growing
weaker; that slowly, but steadily and very surely,
the flame of life was waning fainter: they even said
that the end was near, and might be at any moment.
Yet, all through the day, one and another came
gently into the room and up to the bedside, and
there was always strength in the hand for a soft
pressure of farewell, and in the voice for a loving
word of parting and encouragement, as each and all.
afterwards gratefully remembered.
Thus hour after hour passed in that long day,
and there was no change until the evening, when
Mr. Saville's face told that the end was drawing
nearer. For some time he had been watching
carefully that dear pulse; and the others, they
watched his face, and seeing in its changes the
changes that he felt in the hand he held so tenderly,
they knew without a word when the great change
was drawing closer. All knelt around the bed,
while he, still never leaving go the hand in his,
commended the soul of that dear one into the hands
of Almighty God, as into the hands of its faithful
Creator and most merciful Saviour. The faces of
most amongst the anxious watchers were hidden
from sight-perhaps to hide the tears which all had
been restraining until now, but which the first sound
of an outspoken word caused to flow.
But Charity knelt upright, and never took her
eyes off her aunt's face.
How could she, when each
292
CHARITY HELSTONE.
look, for all she knew, might be the last in life? The
dying gaze her own young mother had fixed upon
those same features long years ago, was not more
intense than was the gaze of Charity now; her
whole soul was in it. She alone, perhaps, marked
the earnest expression that passed over the dying
face as the prayer was offered, that "whatsoever
defilements the soul might have contracted in the
midst of this miserable and naughty world, through
the lusts of the flesh or the wiles of Satan, might
be completely purged and done away by the wash-
ing of the blood of the Immaculate Lamb, that was
slain to take away the sins of the world, so that it
might be presented pure and without spot before
God." Charity felt, that in that moment Briersley
and Roland Helstone were not forgotten. The
thought of Edward Saville rose vividly within her
own heart, and with all her soul she joined in the
concluding words of that solemn prayer.
Scarcely had the sound of the last Amen died
out in the quiet room, when Mrs. Dorothy uttered
the word "Charity," and they saw from the look
upon her face that sight was failing. Mr. Saville
took Charity's hand and placed it in her aunt's. She
herself closed the other upon it, and said,
Charity, my treasure, my joy! I am going now
to where I shall see it all, and soon we shall both
see it together. The time is short at longest. Mine
has been a long life, and I feel that now.
Soon we
shall both know and see all. I do see all now!"
And, indeed, she seemed to do so; for as her eyes
DEATH-BURIAL.
293
closed, such an expression of unearthly rapture fell
upon the aged face, that Betsy always afterwards.
asserted that she knew heaven had opened to her
mistress's vision before the soul had fully passed
away from earth-an opinion which no one who
had seen her die was ever heard to contradict.
:
A week later, and the dear body was laid in the
quiet churchyard, on just such an autumn day as
seemed of all days most to accord with Charity's
feelings. Never before had Charity been present at
a funeral service, and as she followed the remains of
her one earthly stay her feelings were beyond tears
-almost beyond feeling; it seemed to her as though
her heart was too full to be able to feel all that it
held and almost mechanically, Charity's step kept
pace with the other mourners by her side, whilst
her very heart seemed beating to the same measured
tread, and to have no power to beat to any other
movement. Some amidst the many who followed
likewise--for all the village had come forth to pay
that last token of respect to one known and beloved
by all-some amongst them whispered to each other
that "Miss Charity was strangely calm;" others
said that "it was no good sign to see such quiet
grief: if the feeling did not make its way out, we
all knew how much sorer it pressed within." Even
Betsy felt uncomfortable as she glanced from under
her own dark hood, through her own fast-falling
tears, at Charity's calm face and steady walk, and
said to herself that "she would rather have seen
her sobbing; it was not at all natural to the child
294
CHARITY HELSTONE.
to present that appearance-there would be an out-
burst at the grave, she much feared.”
But no; for ere they reached the grave a sound
fell on Charity's ear, and found its answer in her
heart, which was indeed as the rising of the sun of
Righteousness with healing in his wings, "I am the
Resurrection and the Life." These words met Cha-
rity's desolation when it reached the churchyard
gate, and changed it into life and hope. Once
inside the quiet pew, where so often she had knelt
by Aunt Dorothy's side, she hid her head and wept
soft, soothing tears. Then, standing by the grave,
she calmly, happily, thankfully saw the earthly
frame, which had so often shivered and shaken
under the many shocks of this world's sufferings,
lowered for its last, long, quiet sleep, knowing that
it would be but a sleep-a sinless, sorrowless sleep;
and that at the general resurrection in the last day
that corruptible would put on incorruption, and
that mortal put on immortality, and death be
swallowed up in victory. Charity also heard a
voice from heaven, saying unto her, "Write, Blessed
are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth:
Even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their
labors."
She and Betsy returned to the dear, desolate
home together. They neither of them spoke along
the road. But when they had come within the cot-
tage, and Betsy had closed the door, Charity threw
her arms around the faithful creature's neck and
sobbed like a child,
DEATH-BURIAL.
295
Just then the bells of Arlington church broke
forth into a peal of joyous ringing. They had been
ringing thus all day, at intervals, between the toll-
ing for Aunt Dorothy's funeral. A gay wedding
had taken place that morning at St. George's,
Hanover Square, and Lord Huntley had sent down
word the day before that the bells of Arlington
church should ring all day. There was some
thought of letting him know that it was the day
fixed for Mrs. Dorothy's funeral, when he himself
would have been the first to say his order must not
be carried out. But Charity had not wished him
to be told. Nor to her that day had there been
any thing of discord in the changing sounds that
fell upon her ears from time to time. The tolling
bell sobbed out her earthly mourning for the dear
friend whose loss she wept, while her soul joined in
the thankful chorus of joyful sound, which seemed
to her to be ringing forth in triumphant honor of
all that soul had gained in heaven.
That night, when Charity at length laid her
weary, aching head upon the pillow, her last thought
was not of desolation or of loneliness. Mrs. Doro-
thy was gone, but such a life as hers had left its
record behind it. Through faith and patience-
much faith, and long patience-she had inherited
the promises. Her work was done, and she rested
from her labors. Charity's work remained yet, and
it was "to follow."
Next morning, when she came down to the home
which was now, alas! her own, and only her own,
»
296
CHARITY HELSTONE.
her face was not sad, or her step heavy. For
within her heart were the words she had been re-
peating to herself before she left her room-words
which must now be carried out lovingly, patiently,
perseveringly throughout her daily life :
"Then pass, ye mourners, cheerily on
Through prayer, unto the tomb;
Still, as ye watch life's falling leaf,
Gathering from every loss and grief
Hope of new spring and endless home.
"Then cheerly to your work again,
With hearts new braced and set
To run, untired, love's blessed race,
As meet for those who, face to face,
Over the grave their Lord have met.”
It was found that Charity was left so well pro-
vided for as to be almost rich. She herself had
never imagined how comfortable an income Mrs.
Dorothy possessed, for even she had never known
how much good she did, nor to how many. Be-
nevolent and liberal as Mrs. Dorothy Helstone
had been known to be, it was only after her death
that the extent of her liberality came to be at
all known. Fresh stories of her bounty discovered
themselves day by day; one pensioner after
another, who had lived upon her purse for years,
came to be known, during the next few weeks.
Charity no longer wondered how Aunt Dorothy
could have managed to spend the income which
had now passed into her own hands-feeble hands,
DEATH-BURIAL.
297
indeed, they seemed to be to carry on so good a
work; but Charity knew whose strength was to be
made perfect in weakness, and never doubted but
that God's blessing would be all she needed. Only
she did wish sometimes that Aunt Dorothy had
lived just a few years longer-just till she was
a little older, and better able to walk by herself.
But even this wish had soon altogether ceased,
for Mrs. Dorothy had not been sleeping in the
churchyard three short months when an event
happened which more than told Charity why the
good and tender Master, whom her dear aunt
served, had removed His faithful servant at that
time.
It was evening-Charity's usual time for visiting
Aunt Dorothy's grave, and she had gone to pay
her daily visit there; thinking as she did so, that
soon she must give up the practice of coming at
the same hour when first the dear remains had
been laid there, for the evenings were growing too
short for her to be out so late. Even now, it was
so dark that she almost regretted having declined
Betsy's offer to accompany her: for, amongst other
remains of childhood, Charity still retained her
old dread of the dark; and to this hour when the
objects that met her sight assumed the dim, in-
distinct outline of twilight, there was always a
painful struggle between common sense and imagi-
nation before her mind could look upon them
as the trees or stones her reason told her they
were, rather than as the ghostly creatures her fancy
298
CHARITY HELSTONE.
made her feel they might be. Therefore she
hastened her steps, as she perceived how very
rapidly the night was closing in, and hurried to
the churchyard, and to the dear grave where she
would stay but a minute this evening, and which
she would not have visited at all but for that
extreme unwillingness which all feel to omit for
the first time any token of love or loyalty which
has been long and regularly rendered.
But Charity's visit to the grave was not to be
paid that evening, for as she drew near she per-
ceived that some one was there before her. The
tall figure of a man stood between her and the
white stone which marked the resting-place of her
mother and her godmother, where, till now, she had
never seen a living soul; and, startled at the
sudden and most unexpected sight, Charity turned
and fled. How she reached home she never knew,
for her knees were trembling beneath her, and her
heart beating violently; and when she came into
the kitchen, Betsy, who was never known to let
fall anything, frightened at her ghastly appearance,
dropped the cup and saucer she was about to
place upon the table, as she exclaimed,
"The Lord have mercy on us, Miss Charity!
what is the matter now?"
"O, nothing, Betsy," replied Charity, with a
faint attempt at a smile, and such pale cheeks and
lips that Betsy went to the dresser to pour out
some cold water for her young mistress. “O,
nothing, Betsy; only I've been so startled."
DEATH-BURIAL.
299
"So I see," said Betsy. "And who's dared to
startle you? I felt uneasy like at your being out
so late, though I did think you were as safe outside
your house as inside of it in this place, where all
know and love you, like as if you were their own.
Who's dared to frighten you, my lamb?"
"No one, Betsy; it's my own fault for being so
silly: I'm so easily frightened, you know. It seems
strange, considering how brave I am about some
things, but other things take away my very breath
with terror; and when I came to our dear grave'
to-night, Betsy, I was so startled at seeing a man
there!"
"Well!" exclaimed Betsy, "no doubt it was
one of our own working-men-one of them as
loved our dear one so well, and had gone to pay
his respects to her grave after his day's work!"
"O no, Betsy!" interrupted Charity, "it was no
working-man; it was a gentleman-at least, it was
some one dressed in black. I can't say more, for I
scarcely caught sight of him before I ran away,
being as foolish as I am."
"Then it was Mr. Saville himself, Miss," replied
Betsy; "for there's no other dresses like that
on week days in the whole place. O, Miss Charity!
they will laugh at you for being afraid of Mr.
Saville !"
(C
Betsy," said Charity, "it wasn't Mr. Saville;
it was a tall, tall man-some one I'm sure I never
saw before."
Betsy went to shut and lock the front-door.
300
CHARITY HELSTONE.
1
"Miss Charity," she said, on her return, "it's
my belief you're just mistaken. You're short-
sighted, you know, Miss; and perhaps you were a
bit frightened before you got into the church yard,
and I dare say you didn't quite know what you did
see: for you know, Miss, it couldn't have been any
one but some of our own people-unless indeed it
was the clerk."
"No," Charity said, "it wasn't the clerk, and it
wasn't Mr. Saville." And having said this, she
said very little more on the subject; but all the
evening she felt ill and uncomfortable," the effects
of the shock she had given herself by her own
imaginings," Betsy kept saying, continually, in
plain words to herself in the kitchen, and in a
rather more modified form to her young mistress
in the parlor.
But people are not to be scolded out of their
belief, any more than they can be scolded into
belief, and when Charity lay down to rest that night
she knew very well, that though she was, very
unfortunately, short-sighted, and at times very
foolishly imaginative, the tall figure she had seen
at her godmother's grave that evening had been
neither the creation of her short sight nor of her
imagination. And Betsy, in spite of the last
reasonable words of good advice she had given her
mistress, looked carefully to every bolt and bar
before she went up to bed, and after lying awake
for hours, turning over Charity's strange story in
her mind, at length fell asleep with the half-mut-
DEATH-BURIAL.
301
tered ejaculation, "The Lord of mercy grant it
isn't he!"
Early the next morning Betsy appeared within
the parlor, where Charity sat quietly reading the
Bible before breakfast, her face almost as pale now
as Charity's had been the night before, and said,
"Miss Charity, my dear!"
"Well, Betsy, what?" said Charity, at once
catching the look of Betsy's face.
I think, my dear, that what you said last night
was true, Miss, and there might have been a gentle-
man in the churchyard."
Yes, Betsy, I know there was. But what makes
you say so now? Have you seen him ?”
Betsy's knees trembled so violently she could
scarcely stand-indeed, she could not stand, and
dropped into a seat; but the look upon Charity's
face was such, that it would have put words into
any one's mouth.
Yes, Miss, I have! When I went for the milk-
Miss-he was coming out of Mrs. Bryce's-he slept
there last night, it seems-and he's gone now to
the Rectory."
Betsy!" said Charity; "O, dear Betsy!" and
she put both her little trembling hands into her old
nurse's ; was it my father?"
"The dear Lord have mercy upon you, my lamb!”
exclaimed the old woman. "How should I tell?
You know, my precious, I never set my eyes on
your father."
"No, Betsy; but you've seen others," said Cha-
302
CHARITY HELSTONE.
rity, imploringly. "Was there anything to remind
you? Was he like?"
"So like, my dear," said Betsy, who had learnt
now for herself the lesson Mrs. Dorothy used to try
so hard to teach her, that the whole truth was the
only thing for Charity: "so like, my darling,
that when I set my eyes upon him I should have
dropped down where I stood, only that Martha Bryce
she held me up. She came along home here with
me, and never left till I told her I would come in
here to you; and then she said you'd take good
care of me, and she could see it was a passing faint-
ness; and she went home, thank God, for we don't
want no strangers here, my lamb."
"Then it is my father!" said Charity, "and God
has heard my prayer. O, Betsy! Betsy! he will
come here!" And she burst into violent, almost
hysterical weeping.
God have mercy on us all, to be sure!" exclaimed
the distracted Betsy, her own faintness proving
very passing indeed in her concern for her young
mistress, whom she laid upon the sofa whilst she
went to fetch some of the medicines, which had not
been touched since last she had used them for her
mistress, on the day that Mr. Morton had talked
with her. As she did so, she looked up and down
the street, and reflected with satisfaction that she
had locked the door after Mrs. Bryce went out.
Betsy need not have made herself so uneasy.
Charity soon recovered her composure, and the first
visitor that morning was no one more formidable
DEATH-BURIAL.
303
than Mr. Saville. Betsy had left the whole work
of the house that day to the girl Phœbe, who came
in for two hours every morning to help, and had
done nothing herself but watch her mistress and
the windows; without appearing, however, to be
watching either one or the other. Charity herself
had never once looked out of the window, but had
spent the morning in going from one room to
another, occasionally locking herself into her own
room, but soon, coming out again, as Betsy knew,
lest she should be uneasy about her; and passing
the anxious time by moving constantly about--often,
as Betsy did not fail to remark, leaning over the
large Bible which stood open on Mrs. Dorothy's
dressing-table, and reading from it, with her head
-it ached dreadfully, Betsy could see-resting on
her hands. At length, Betsy came quietly up to
her, and said-
"Mr. Saville is coming down the street, Miss,
quite alone."
"He's coming to tell us, Betsy," Charity said,
receiving the information as composedly as it was
given. "Show him into the parlor."
Betsy did so; but first she said to him-
"Miss Charity's been very poorly this morning,
sir."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Saville. "And what has
made her so ?"
And Betsy told him all that had passed. He
could not reprove her, for he felt that this step, like
every other in the course of this strange story, had
x
304
CHARITY HELSTONE.
no doubt been ordered by Him who, knowing that
Charity's first tears would be best shed on the faith-
ful breast that had cherished her from childhood,
had led Betsy's footsteps that morning to Martha
Bryce's cottage, just as the tall stranger was stand-
ing at the door, being shown the way to the Rectory.
All Mr. Saville had to tell was soon told, when
once he found that the news he brought was known
to Charity. He had, indeed, nothing to say himself,
but merely came to break the tidings to Charity,
and support her with his counsel and sympathy,
while she read a letter from Mr. Morton.
That letter, though written by the hand of her
dear friend in London, came to Charity from God.
It told her how Mr. Helstone, whom they had not
seen for so many, many years, had come to them,
returned from long journeying in foreign lands,
broken in health but renewed in soul; a humbled,
contrite penitent. He came to seek the wife whom
all those years he had thought to be dwelling in
her own father's house, to which he had believed
her to have returned when she left him. Having
discovered the mistake under which he had labored
so long, he had sought information concerning her
from Mr. Morton, or, in the absence of that, he
sought for comfort for his own remorseful, sorrow-
stricken soul. Both of these Mr. Morton hoped he
had found; the hand of our good God, he said,
was so manifestly upon the whole matter, that he
had no fears but that Charity would receive in rich
abundance all the strength and grace she would
DEATH-BURIAL.
305
require under such exciting circumstances, but
they hoped she would soon write, as they should be
very anxious to hear.
Charity did write soon, and we think we can
scarcely close this chapter of her life better than
by imagining ourselves in Mr. Morton's study
a fortnight later, when, calling his wife to him,
he said, "Listen to this, my dear, and see if God
does not, indeed, answer prayer in a way which
startles our own souls; because our faith, however
strong, being mingled with the workings of our
poor, weak flesh, we wonder when we find within
our hands the very blessings which we had impor-
tuned our God to give us. Listen to this letter
of Charity's. I would have written before,'
she says, 'to you and dear Mrs. Morton, but
at first I had no strength to do so, no power
for anything, but just being with my father and
listening to him. I could not, it seemed, even
pray. But I am sure I praised God, although
perhaps not just in words; for, somehow, when
I tried to put my thanksgivings into a form
they would mount up, as it were, above my head,
so that I could not quite lay hold of them as
I should have wished to do, and arrange them
as seemed most fitting: but they were always
there, I never lost sight of them; and God must
have seen them, too. And, O, dear Mr. Morton,
what cause I have for thankfulness! My father
is so good to me-so loving and so tender. At
times he is very sad, and when I look most like
.20
306
CHARITY HE STONE.
my mother he will turn away his head, and lean
against the mantelpiece, and ery so bitterly it
almost breaks my heart to see him; but at other
times we are happy-very quiet: we both have
had so much to make us so; but happy-more
really happy, I think, than I have ever been
before; so much happier than I ever expected
to be after dear Aunt Dorothy's death. The
thing most upon my mind now, and what I want
you and Mrs. Morton to pray about for me, is,
that I shall, perhaps, have to go away, all by
myself, to see my mother's relations. My father
tells me he told you about his having met my
dear mother first on board the ship where they
were fellow-passengers, and how she left her
father for his sake, and how he believed she
had returned home when she left him, from the
note left for him saying she had gone where
she knew she would be welcome. Ah, that was
to dear Aunt Dorothy! My father says he had
never thought of her going there, but he had
told my mother about the mysterious lady who
had been such a friend to them when they were
in America. He thinks she must have read some
of Aunt Dorothy's old letters to him when he
was a boy, and if so, I don't wonder she found
her way to Arlington. Any one in distress would
have felt there was a heart waiting with its wel-
come there. So it was no chance that brought her
(and me) to dear Aunt Dorothy. Not that we any
of us ever thought it was, only it makes me happy
DEATH-BURIAL.
307
to think that dear mamma meant me to be Aunt
Dorothy's child; and though she had no strength
to say the words to Aunt Dorothy in her dying
hour, God heard the words in her heart, and
whispered them into Aunt Dorothy's. But my
father never had any other thought than that
she had returned to her own home, and had been
received there. He went there, you know, first
on his return to England; and as you know,
my grandfather will not see him: but now he
writes that I am to go to him, only that he is
never to hear my name-I mean my father's name:
but, perhaps, if I go he will change. God has
given us so much, I feel as if He could and would
give us everything we pray for, if only we wait His
time.'
308
CHARITY HELSTONE.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CONCLUSION.
URING the five quiet, peaceful years just
passed away, there had been as few changes
at Ivy Cottage as perhaps it is possible for
there to be anywhere in this shifting, changing
life. It seemed as though all the exciting events
in Charity Helstone's life had been fixed for the
first chapters of it, and those chapters over, the
rest was to flow on in a quiet, even stream of
undisturbed peace. Very soon after her father's
return there had been one most remarkable change,
which was felt as such, not only by Charity herself,
but by the whole village; but since then, until
now, there had been no change at all. That
remarkable event had been the marriage of old Betsy
to the miller, which took place shortly after the
marriage of his youngest daughter, who, up to
that time had kept house for him-just six months
after Mr. Helstone's return.
How much the latter event had to do with
the miller's obtaining Betsy's consent to the union
it is perhaps as well not to inquire. Betsy had
never been heard to say one word in the village
against her young lady's father; indeed, we doubt
CONCLUSION.
309
whether she could have found one word to say,
so gentle, so kind, so truly Christian, and con-
siderate was Mr. Helstone's conduct to all and
everybody. But after her marriage she had con-
fessed to the miller-who, man-like, had betrayed
her confidence to his daughter-who, woman-like,
had circulated it amongst all the neighbors-that
"she didn't believe as ever she would have made
such a fool of herself as to marry at her time
of life, or to marry at all, but that she had never
felt altogether like herself in the house since.
Mr. Helstone came into it. Not but what he
was the best of gentlemen, but that somehow a
tall man about the house with all that black
moustache and beard made her feel queer like.
She was used to Mrs. Dorothy and to Miss Charity,
but she wasn't used to any one else in the house,
and that had gone a long way towards gaining
her consent to the miller's request that she should
be the second Mrs. Brown." To her dying day
Betsy never alluded to her marriage without
making an apology for it, the more public one
being always that the "miller told her all he
wanted was some one to keep the place in order,
and have a bit of conversation' when he came
in."
If these were all his requirements, no one could
say but that they must have been gratified to his
heart's desire, and beyond. Not a house in the
village could compare to Betsy's in order and
smartness; and morning, noon, and night, we know
310
CHARITY HELSTONE.
}
the "bit of conversation" can never have been
wanting.
Mr. Helstone and Charity were returning one
day from visiting Mrs. Dorothy's grave. A perfect
garden that grave was, kept by the loving hand of
Charity, who looked upon the dust of her who slept
beneath, not in the light of decay, but as sacred seed
of everlasting life, and treasured it with holy love.
Every day she paid her daily visit there, and to-day
her father had gone with her. On their return
they met the postman, who gave them a letter: for
Charity it was, and told her of her grandfather's
death-the old, old grandfather, whom she had
visited twice every year since her father's return,
but who had never consented to see her father, and
who would never allow her to be called by the
name of Helstone.
Very painful had these visits been to Charity,
for the old man dwelt alone, and seemed to have no
relations to care for him, or for whom he cared;
whether he had loved his own pretty daughter
much or not Charity could never discover, but she
could not fancy him loving anything very much,
his manner was so cold and stern to every one-
almost so even to her, though she was, and he said
so himself, the image of her mother.
There was a picture of that dear mother in her
grandfather's hall, and Charity would stand for
hours gazing at it in admiration of its beauty, never
'magining that at the same age her own was quite
as perfect: not, perhaps, as reflected to her in her
CONCLUSION.
311
glass, but as seen by others, who watched the vary-
ing play of her bright countenance and the dancing
light of her blue eyes. An old servant still re-
mained at her grandfather's who had been her
mother's nurse before she accompanied her father in
the journey to America, from which he never
brought her home, and from her Charity heard.
more concerning her mother than she could ever
gather from her taciturn grandfather himself.
From her she learned that this young mother had
been an only child. "Very pretty indeed, she was,
and guileless as a baby all her life," the old woman
would say; "so simple and docile, too, one might
have made anything of her, but there was never
anything done to teach her and train her: her
mother had died when she was a baby, and master
he didn't care for children, and felt just what they
said most folks did feel when they wanted a boy
and got a girl-he took little notice of her at all,
and never seemed to care about giving her much
education; till at length he went on business to
America. He meant, he said, to put her to school
on her return; but, as you know, Miss, he came
back without her. People said he ought to have
had her back and forgiven her, considering how
little he had ever done to make the home pleasant
to her, and how natural like it was for a poor, pret-
ty young thing like that, to have her heart stolen
away out of her. I dare say, Miss, she made sure
her papa would forgive her, and have her and her
young
husband here very soon: but he would never
312
CHARITY HELSTONE.
hear her name mentioned. Many letters came, but
he put them one and all in the fire, and has never
alluded to the subject all these years, till he gave me
his orders about your coming, and how you were to
be received."
This much Charity gathered from the old nurse,
and now that she knew her grandfather, she did not
wonder that her father had won away her mother's
heart; nor that her mother, in her sorrow and fear,
should have sought Aunt Dorothy, but never ven-
tured back to Burfield Hall.
Now, however, it was discovered that Burfield
Hall, and the considerable funded property which
would have been her mother's, had been left to her
with one condition only, that her father was
never to enjoy any portion of it. Should she die
unmarried, it might be left to any one she chose
except to him.
Within a very few weeks Burfield Hall was sold.
Charity never would have left Arlington, unless
some strong duty had called her away, and Burfield
would have been an unknown and painful home to
her. So the place was parted with, and after much
thought and prayer, and many consultations on the
subject with her dear friends, Mr. Morton and Mr.
Saville, it was decided that Charity, since she could
no longer, as one of the richest women in that
county, or most other counties, live at Ivy Cottage,
should purchase the estate of Huntley Tower, which
Lord Huntley had for some time been wishing to
sell, could he find a purchaser who would carry on
CONCLUSION.
313
the work he had begun amongst the tenantry. He
had now a little family growing up around him,
and having lately inherited by his brother's death
the other family estate, he wished much to part
with this one, which he had never made his place
of residence since he left it some years before.
So the matter was settled to the satisfaction of all
parties. Ivy Cottage was considered by strangers
as a lovely lodge belonging to the Huntley Tower
estate; such a "gem of a cottage," that they really
did not wonder the lady of Huntley Tower spent so
many hours there with her books, and work, and
writing. To Charity it was home. She could not
write as well, or read as well, or teach her poor
people as well, anywhere else. She delighted to
make Huntley Tower as delightful a home to her.
father as she could; he was the superintendent of
everything that went on there, and no house in the
neighborhood was more deservedly praised for its
perfect keeping and extensive liberality. But to
Charity, Ivy Cottage and the churchyard were the
most cherished places in Arlington parish.
Not long after this great change in Charity's life
another event happened, which, people said, had its
effect upon her, judging from her looks, and that
was Edward Saville's death. The news came to his
parents in a letter from the captain of his ship, and
when Mr. Saville brought that letter to her, Charity
knew what tidings he had to tell before he spoke a
word. His life had been a wild one, and his death
was premature; but they trusted there was hope in
314
CHARITY HELSTONE.
his end. Mr. Saville read to her his last words,
which the captain had repeated for his parents' com-
fort-words of penitence and hope. Then he paused,
but Charity begged him to continue; and seeing
that he could not do so, herself took the letter
from his hand and read the closing words, which
were," And give my love to Charity, and tell her
I see now it was well we did not marry. I should
not have made her happy: men who have lived as
I have, rarely find happiness in domestic life-per-
haps, they have no right to expect it."
"Mrs. Charity Helstone," as in time she came to
be called, often gave rise to much speculating
wonder amongst strangers. That one so rich, and
so singularly beautiful, should pass the whole of a
long life in quiet bliss amongst the Huntley Tower
turrets, seemed very extraordinary to those who,
not knowing anything of the beginning of her life,
naturally could not understand the end. But to
those who had known the beginning, the end seemed
very natural, simple, and beautiful. Charity never
married, though she had twice so nearly been on the
point of doing so. Her mother's prayer had been
heard, and her mother's words engraven on her
heart," What God hath set asunder let not man
join together." The union with Lord Huntley
would have been a union of hand, in which the
heart would have had no share, and, therefore, God
had set her and him asunder. The union with
Edward would have been one both of hand and
heart, but the soul-the immortal soul, must have
CONCLUSION.
315
been set apart, therefore were they two also set
asunder by God. And what God had set asunder,
Charity had not dared to put together.
She was very rich, and never was more good done
with wealth. Alice Rhodes declared to the last,
that she had always known her dear Charity would.
turn out to be a "fairy princess" at the end, and
would point to the Huntley Hospital and the Hunt-
ley Almshouses, and the lovely new church at
Arlington, to prove the truth of her words. Five
days out of the seven in every week, and that at
the lowest calculation, the "bit of conversation" in
the miller's comfortable cottage turned on the
various good works which "Miss Charity's" liberal
hand and heart led her to effect in Arlington parish,
and for the good of the dear Arlington people.
How Mr. Morton and Mr. Saville managed to
educate and put out in life so many sons and daugh-
ters, with so much advantage to their children and
so little difficulty to themselves, would, and did,
puzzle many who were not acquainted with the se-
cret, that both these clergymen had a good friend in
a maiden lady whose name and nature alike were
CHARITY!

་
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UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA
812B782 OC
Brock, Frances Elizabeth Georgiana Bayne
Charity Helstone : a tale / by Carey Bro
3 1951 002 120 834 T
WILSON
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