Helen did not reply for a while, and then she asked: "And you think,
David, that our life justifies itself no matter how much suffering
may be in it?"

"I think, dearest," was his reply, "that the soul's life is
struggle, and that the soul's life is sacred; and that to be right,
to struggle to be right, is not only life's purpose, but also life's
reward; and that each instant of such righteousness is its own
warrant, tho the man be swept out of existence in the next." Then
David stopped, and when he went on it was in a lower voice. "Dear
Helen," he said, "after I have told you what I feel I deserve in
life, you can understand my not wishing to talk lightly about such
things as suffering. Just now, as I sit here at my ease, and in fact
all through my poor life, I have felt about such sacred words as
duty and righteousness that it would be just as well if they did not
ever pass my lips. But there have come to me one or two times, dear,
when I dared a little of the labor of things, and drank a drop or
two of the wine of the spirit; and those times have lived to haunt
me and make me at least not a happy man in my unearned ease. There
come to me still just once in a while hours when I get sight of the
gleam, hours that make me loathe all that in my hours of comfort I
loved; and there comes over me then a kind of Titanic rage, that I
should go down a beaten soul because I have not the iron strength of
will to lash my own self to life, and tear out of my own heart a
little of what power is in it. At such times, Helen, I find just
this one wish in my mind,--that God would send to me, cost what it
might, some of the fearful experience that rouses a man's soul
within him, and makes him live his life in spite of all his dullness
and his fear."

David had not finished, but he halted, because he saw a strange look
upon the girl's face. She did not answer him at once, but sat gazing
at him; and then she said in a very grave voice, "David, I do not
like to hear such words as that from you."

"What words, dearest?"

"Do you mean actually that it sometimes seems to you wrong to live
happily with me as you have?"

David laid his hand quietly upon hers, watching for a minute her
anxious countenance. Then he said in a low voice: "You ought not to
ask me about such things, dear, or blame me for them. Sometimes I
have to face the very cruel thought that I ought not ever to have
linked my fate to one so sweet and gentle as you, because what I
ought to be doing in the world to win a right conscience is
something so hard and so stern that it would mean that I could never
be really happy all my life."

David was about to go on, but he stopped again because of Helen's
look of displeasure. "David," she whispered, "that is the most
unloving thing that I have ever heard from you!"

"And you must blame me, dear, because of it?" he asked.

"I suppose," Helen answered, "that you would misunderstand me as
long as I chose to let you. Do you not suppose that I too have a
conscience,--do you suppose that I want any happiness it is wrong
for us to take, or that I would not dare to go anywhere that your
duty took you? And do you suppose that anything could be so painful
to me as to know that you do not trust me, that you are afraid to
live your life, and do what is your duty, before me?"

David bent down suddenly and pressed a kiss upon the girl's
forehead. "Precious little heart," he whispered, "those words are
very beautiful."

"I did not say them because they were beautiful," answered Helen
gravely; "I said them because I meant them, and because I wanted you
to take them in earnest. I want to know what it is that you and I
ought to be doing, instead of enjoying our lives; and after you have
told me what it is I can tell you one thing--that I shall not be
happy again in my life until it is done."

David watched her thoughtfully a while before he answered, because
he saw that she was very much in earnest. Then he said sadly,
"Dearest Helen, perhaps the reason that I have never been able all
through my life to satisfy my soul is the pitiful fact that I have
not the strength to dare any of the work of other men; I have had
always to chafe under the fact that I must choose between nourishing
my poor body, or ceasing to live. I have learned that all my
power--and more too, as it sometimes seemed,--was needed to bear
bravely the dreadful trials that God has sent to me."

Helen paled slightly; she felt his hand trembling upon hers, and she
remembered his illness at her aunt's, about which she had never had
the courage to speak to him. "And so, dear heart," he went on
slowly, "let us only be sure that we are keeping our lives pure and
strong, that we are living in the presence of high thoughts and
keeping the mastery of ourselves, and saying and really meaning that
we live for something unselfish; so that if duty and danger come, we
shall not prove cowards, and if suffering comes we should not give
way and lose our faith. Does that please you, dear Helen?"

The girl pressed his hand silently in hers. After a while he went on
still more solemnly: "Some time," he said, "I meant to talk to you
about just that, dearest, to tell you how stern and how watchful we
ought to be. It is very sad to me to see what happens when the great
and fearful realities of life disclose themselves to good and kind
people who have been living without any thought of such things. I
feel that it is very wrong to live so, that if we wished to be right
we would hold the high truths before us, no matter how much labor it
cost."

"What truths do you mean?" asked Helen earnestly; and he answered
her: "For one, the very fearful fact of which I have just been
talking--that you and I are two bubbles that meet for an instant
upon the whirling stream of time. Suppose, sweetheart, that I were
to tell you that I do not think you and I would be living our lives
truly, until we were quite sure that we could bear to be parted
forever without losing our faith in God's righteousness?"

Helen turned quite white, and clutched the other's hands in hers;
she had not once thought of actually applying what he had said to
her. "David! David!" she cried, "No!"

The man smiled gently as he brushed back the hair from her forehead
and gazed into her eyes. "And when you asked for sternness, dear,"
he said, "was it that you did not know what the word meant? Life is
real, dear Helen, and the effort it demands is real effort."

The girl did not half hear these last words; she was still staring
at her husband. "Listen to me, David," she said at last, still
holding his hand tightly in hers, her voice almost a whisper; "I
could bear anything for you, David, I know that I could bear
_anything_; I could really die for you, I say that with all my
soul,--that was what I was thinking of when you spoke of death. But
David, if you were to be taken from me,--if you were to be taken
from me--" and she stopped, unable to find a word more.

"Perhaps it will be just as well not to tell me, dear heart," he
said to her, gently.

"David," she went on more strenuously yet, "listen to me--you must
not ever ask me to think of that! Do you hear me? For, oh, it cannot
be true, it cannot be true, David, that you could be taken from me
forever! What would I have left to live for?"

"Would you not have the great wonderful God?" asked the other
gently--"the God who made me and all that was lovable in me, and
made you, and would demand that you worship him?" But Helen only
shook her head once more and answered, "It could not be true,
David,--no, no!" Then she added in a faint voice, "What would be the
use of my having lived?"

The man bent forward and kissed her again, and kissed away a little
of the frightened, anxious look upon her face. "My dear," he said
with a gentle smile, "perhaps I was wrong to trouble you with such
fearful things after all. Let me tell you instead a thought that
once came to my mind, and that has stayed there as the one I should
like to call the most beautiful of all my life; it may help to
answer that question of yours about the use of having lived. Men
love life so much, Helen dear, that they cannot ever have enough of
it, and to keep it and build it up they make what we call the arts;
this thought of mine is about one of them, about music, the art that
you and I love most. For all the others have been derived from
things external, but music was made out of nothing, and exists but
for its one great purpose, and therefore is the most spiritual of
all of them. I like to say that it is time made beautiful, and so a
shadow picture of the soul; it is this, because it can picture
different degrees of speed and of power, because it can breathe and
throb, can sweep and soar, can yearn and pray,--because, in short,
everything that happens in the heart can happen in music, so that we
may lose ourselves in it and actually live its life, or so that a
great genius can not merely tell us about himself, but can make all
the best hours of his soul actually a part of our own. This thought
that I said was beautiful came to me from noticing how perfectly the
art was one with that which it represented; so that we may say not
only that music is life, but that life is music. Music exists
because it is beautiful, dear Helen, and because it brings an
instant of the joy of beauty to our hearts, and for no other reason
whatever; it may be music of happiness or of sorrow, of achievement
or only of hope, but so long as it is beautiful it is right, and it
makes no difference, either, that it cost much labor of men, or that
when it is gone it is gone forever. And dearest, suppose that the
music not only was beautiful, but knew that it was beautiful; that
it was not only the motion of the air, but also the joy of our
hearts; might it not then be its own excuse, just one strain of it
that rose in the darkness, and quivered and died away again
forever?"

When David had spoken thus he stopped and sat still for a while,
gazing at his wife; then seeing the anxious look still in possession
of her face, he rose suddenly by way of ending their talk.
"Dearest," he said, smiling, "it is wrong of me, perhaps, to worry
you about such very fearful things as those; let us go in, and find
something to do that is useful, and not trouble ourselves with them
any more."






CHAPTER II





  "O Freude, habe Acht!
    Sprich leise,
  Dass nicht der Schmerz erwacht!"

It was late on the afternoon of the day that Helen's father had left
for home, and David was going into the village with some letters to
mail. Helen was not feeling very well herself and could not go, but
she insisted upon his going, for she watched over his exercise and
other matters of health with scrupulous care. She had wrapped him up
in a heavy overcoat, and was kneeling beside his chair with her arms
about him.

"Tell me, dear," she asked him, for the third or fourth time, "are
you sure this will be enough to keep you warm?--for the nights are
so very cold, you know; I do not like you to come back alone
anyway."

"I don't think you would be much of a protection against danger,"
laughed David.

"But it will be dark when you get back, dear."

"It will only be about dusk," was the reply; "I don't mind that."

Helen gazed at him wistfully for a minute, and then she went on: "Do
you not know what is the matter with me, David? You frightened me
to-day, and I cannot forget what you said. Each time that it comes
to my mind it makes me shudder. Why should you say such fearful
things to me?"

"I am very sorry," said the other, gently.

"You simply must not talk to me so!" cried the girl; "if you do you
will make me so that I cannot bear to leave you for an instant. For
those thoughts make my love for you simply desperate, David; I cry
out to myself that I never have loved you enough, never told you
enough!" And then she added pleadingly, "But oh, you know that I
love you, do you not, dear? Tell me."

"Yes, I know it," said the other gently, taking her in his arms and
kissing her.

"Come back soon," Helen went on, "and I will tell you once more how
much I do; and then we can be happy again, and I won't be afraid any
more. Please let me be happy, won't you, David?"

"Yes, love, I will," said the man with a smile. "I do not think that
I was wise ever to trouble you."

Helen was silent for a while, then as a sudden thought occurred to
her she added: "David, I meant to tell you something--do you know if
those horrible thoughts keep haunting me, it is just this that they
will make me do; you said that God was very good, and so I was
thinking that I would show him how very much I love you, how I could
really never get along without you, and how I care for nothing else
in the world. It seems to me to be such a little thing, that we
should only just want to love; and truly, that is all I do want,--I
would not mind anything else in the world,--I would go away from
this little house and live in any poor place, and do all the work,
and never care about anything else at all, if I just might have you.
That is really true, David, and I wish that you would know it, and
that God would know it, and not expect me to think of such dreadful
things as you talk of."

As David gazed into her deep, earnest eyes he pressed her to him
with a sudden burst of emotion. "You have me now, dearest," he
whispered, "and oh, I shall trust the God who gave me this precious
heart!"--He kissed her once more in fervent love, and kissed her
again and again until the clouds had left her face. She leaned back
and gazed at him, and was radiant with delight again. "Oh--oh--oh!"
she cried. "David, it only makes me more full of wonder at the real
truth! For it is the truth, David, it is the truth--that you are all
mine! It is so wonderful, and it makes me so happy,--I seem to lose
myself more in the thought every day!"

"You can never lose yourself too much, little sweetheart," David
whispered; "let us trust to love, and let it grow all that it will.
Helen, I never knew what it was to live until I met you,--never knew
how life could be so full and rich and happy. And never, never will
I be able to tell you how much I love you, dearest soul."

"Oh, but I believe you without being told!" she said, laughing. "Do
you know, I could make myself quite mad just with saying over to
myself that you love me all that I could ever wish you to love me,
all that I could imagine you loving me! Isn't that true, David?"

"Yes, that is true," the man replied.

"But you don't know what a wonderful imagination I have," laughed
the girl, "and how hungry for your love I am." And she clasped him
to her passionately and cried, "David, you can make me too happy to
live with that thought! I shall have to think about it all the time
that you are gone, and when you come back I shall be so wonderfully
excited,--oh--oh, David!"

Then she laughed eagerly and sprang up. "You must not stay any
longer," she exclaimed, "because it is getting late; only hurry
back, because I can do nothing but wait for you." And so she led him
to the door, and kissed him again, and then watched him as he
started up the road. He turned and looked at her, as she leaned
against the railing of the porch, with the glory of the sunset
falling upon her hair; she made a radiant picture, for her cheeks
were still flushed, and her bosom still heaving with the glory of
the thought she had promised to keep. There was so much of her love
in the look which she kept upon David that it took some resolution
to go on. and leave her.

As for Helen, she watched him until he had quite disappeared in the
forest, after which she turned and gazed across the lake at the gold
and crimson mountains. But all the time she was still thinking the
thought of David's love; the wonder of it was still upon her face,
and it seemed to lift her form; until at last she stretched wide her
arms, and leaned back her head, and drank a deep draft of the
evening air, whispering aloud, "Oh, I do not dare to be as happy as
I can!" And she clasped her arms upon her bosom and laughed a wild
laugh of joy.

Later on, because it was cold, she turned and went into the house,
singing a song to herself as she moved. As she went to the piano and
sat down she saw upon the rack the little springtime song of Grieg's
that was the first thing she had ever heard upon David's violin; she
played a few bars of it to herself, and then she stopped and sat
still, lost in the memory which it brought to her mind of the night
when she had sat at the window and listened to it, just after seeing
Arthur for the last time. "And to think that it was only four or
five months ago!" she whispered to herself. "And how wretched I
was!"

"I do not believe I could ever be so unhappy again," she went on
after a while, "I know that I could not, while I have David!" after
which her thoughts came back into the old, old course of joy. When
she looked at the music again the memory of her grief was gone, and
she read in it all of her own love-glory. She played it through
again, and afterwards sat quite still, until the twilight had begun
to gather in the room.

Helen then rose and lit the lamp, and the fire in the open
fire-place; she glanced at the clock and saw that more than a
quarter of an hour had passed, and she said to herself that it could
not be more than that time again before David was back.

"I should go out and meet him if I were feeling quite strong," she
added as she went to the door and looked out; then she exclaimed
suddenly: "But oh, I know how I can please him better!" And the girl
went to the table where some of her books were lying, and sat down
and began very diligently studying, glancing every half minute at
the clock and at the door. "I shall be too busy even to hear him!"
she said, with a sudden burst of glee; and quite delighted with the
effect that would produce she listened eagerly every time she
fancied she heard a step, and then fixed her eyes upon the book, and
put on a look of most complete absorption.

Unfortunately for Helen's plan, however, each time it proved to be a
false alarm; and so the fifteen minutes passed completely, and then
five, and five again. The girl had quite given up studying by that
time, and was gazing at the clock, and listening to its ticking, and
wondering very much indeed. At last when more than three-quarters of
an hour had passed since David had left, she got up and went to the
door once more to listen; as she did not hear anything she went out
on the piazza, and finally to the road. All about her was veiled in
shadow, which her eyes strove in vain to pierce; and so growing
still more impatient she raised her voice and called, "David,
David!" and then stood and listened to the rustling of the leaves
and the faint lapping of the water on the shore.

"That is very strange," Helen thought, growing very anxious indeed;
"it is fearfully strange! What in the world can have happened?" And
she called again, with no more result that before; until with a
sudden resolution she turned and passed quickly into the house, and
flinging a wrap about her, came out and started down the road.
Occasionally she raised her voice and shouted David's name, but
still she got no reply, and her anxiety soon changed into alarm, and
she was hurrying along, almost in a run. In this way she climbed the
long ascent which the road made from the lake shore; and when she
had reached the top of it she gathered her breath and shouted once
more, louder and more excitedly than ever.

This time she heard the expected reply, and found that David was
only a few rods ahead of her. "What is the matter?" she called to
him, and as he answered that it was nothing, but to come to him, she
ran on more alarmed than ever.

There was just light enough for her to see that David was bending
down; and then as she got very near she saw that on the ground in
front of him was lying a dark, shadowy form. As Helen cried out
again to know what was the matter, her husband said, "Do not be
frightened, dear; it is only some poor woman that I have found here
by the roadside."

"A woman!" the girl echoed in wonder, at the same time giving a gasp
of relief at the discovery that her husband was not in trouble.
"Where in the world can she have come from, David?"

"I do not know," he answered, "but she probably wandered off the
main road. It is some poor, wretched creature, Helen; she has been
drinking, and is quite helpless."

And Helen stood still in horror, while David arose and came to her.
"You are out of breath, dear," he exclaimed, "why did you come so
fast?"

"Oh, I was so frightened!" the girl panted. "I cannot tell you,
David, what happens in my heart whenever I think of your coming to
any harm. It was dreadful, for I knew something serious must be the
matter."

David put his arm about her and kissed her to quiet her fears; then
he said, "You ought not to have come out, dear; but be calm now, for
there is nothing to worry you, only we must take care of this poor
woman. It is such a sad sight, Helen; I wish that you had not come
here."

"What were you going to do?" asked the girl, forgetting herself
quickly in her sympathy.

"I meant to come down and tell you," was David's reply; "and then go
back to town and get someone to come and take her away."

"But, David, you can never get back over that rough road in the
darkness!" exclaimed Helen in alarm; "it is too far for you to walk,
even in the daytime--I will not let you do it, you must not!"

"But dear, this poor creature cannot be left here; it will be a
bitter cold night, and she might die."

Helen was silent for a moment in thought, and then she said in a
low, trembling voice: "David, there is only one thing to do."

"What is that, dear?" asked the other.

"We will have to take her home with us."

"Do you know what you are saying?" asked the other with a start;
"that would be a fearful thing to do, Helen."

"I cannot help it," she replied, "it is the only thing. And it would
be wicked not to be willing to do that, because she is a woman."

"She is in a fearful way, dear," said the other, hesitatingly; "and
to ask you to take care of her--"

"I would do anything sooner than let you take that walk in such
darkness as this!" was the girl's reply; and with that statement she
silenced all of his objections.

And so at last David pressed her hand, and whispered, "Very well,
dear, God will bless you for it." Then for a while the two stood in
silence, until Helen asked, "Do you think that we can carry her,
poor creature?"

"We may try it," the other replied; and Helen went and knelt by the
prostrate figure. The woman was muttering to herself, but she seemed
to be quite dazed, and not to know what was going on about her.
Helen did not hesitate any longer, but bent over and strove to lift
her; the woman was fortunately of a slight build, and seemed to be
very thin, so that with David's help it was easy to raise her to her
feet. It was a fearful task none the less, for the poor wretch was
foul with the mud in which she had been lying, and her wet hair was
streaming over her shoulders; as Helen strove to lift her up the
head sunk over upon her, but the girl bit her lips together grimly.
She put her arm about the woman's waist, and David did the same on
the other side, and so the three started, stumbling slowly along in
the darkness.

"Are you sure that it is not too much for you?" David asked; "we can
stop whenever you like, Helen."

"No, let us go on," the girl said; "she has almost no weight, and we
must not leave her out here in the cold. Her hands are almost frozen
now."

They soon made their way on down to where the lights of the little
cottage shone through the trees. David could not but shrink back as
he thought of taking their wretched burden into their little home,
but he heard the woman groan feebly, and he was ashamed of his
thought. Nothing more was said until they had climbed the steps, not
without difficulty, and had deposited their burden upon the floor of
the sitting room; after which David rose and sank back into a chair,
for the strain had been a heavy one for him.

Helen also sprang up as she gazed at the figure; the woman was foul
with every misery that disease and sin can bring upon a human
creature, her clothing torn to shreds and her face swollen and
stained. She was half delirious, and clawing about her with her
shrunken, quivering hands, so that Helen exclaimed in horror: "Oh
God, that is the most dreadful sight I have ever seen in my life!"

"Come away," said the other, raising himself from the chair; "it is
not right that you should look at such things."

But with Helen it was only a moment before her pity had overcome
every other emotion; she knelt down by the stranger and took one of
the cold hands and began chafing it. "Poor, poor woman!" she
exclaimed; "oh, what misery you must have suffered! David, what can
a woman do to be punished like this? It is fearful!"

It was a strange picture which the two made at that moment, the
woman in her cruel misery, and the girl in her pure and noble
beauty. But Helen had no more thought of shrinking, for all her soul
had gone out to the unfortunate stranger, and she kept on trying to
bring her back to consciousness. "Oh, David," she said, "what can we
do to help her? It is too much that any human being should be like
this,--she would have died if we had not found her." And then as the
other opened her eyes and struggled to lift herself, Helen caught an
incoherent word and said, "I think she is thirsty, David; get some
water and perhaps that will help her. We must find some way to
comfort her, for this is too horrible to be. And perhaps it is not
her fault, you know,--who knows but perhaps some man may have been
the cause of it all? Is it not dreadful to think of, David?"

So the girl went on; her back was turned to her husband, and she was
engrossed in her task of mercy, and did not see what he was doing.
She did not see that he had started forward in his chair and was
staring at the woman; she did not see him leaning forward, farther
and farther, with a strange look upon his face. But there was
something she did see at last, as the woman lifted herself again and
stared first at Helen's own pitying face, and then vaguely about the
room, and last of all gazing at David. Suddenly she stretched out
her arms to him and strove to rise, with a wild cry that made Helen
leap back in consternation:--"David! It's David!"

And at the same instant David sprang up with what was almost a
scream of horror; he reeled and staggered backwards against the
wall, clutching with his hands at his forehead, his face a ghastly,
ashen gray; and as Helen sprang up and ran towards him, he sank down
upon his knees with a moan, gazing up into the air with a look of
agony upon his face. "My God! My God!" he gasped; "it is my Mary!"

And Helen sank down beside him, clutching him by the arm, and
staring at him in terror. "David, David!" she whispered, in a hoarse
voice. But the man seemed not to hear her, so overwhelmed was he by
his own emotion. "It is Mary," he cried out again,--"it is my
Mary!--oh God, have mercy upon my soul!" And then a shudder passed
over him, and he buried his face in his arms and fell down upon the
floor, with Helen, almost paralyzed with fright, still clinging to
him.

In the meantime the woman had still been stretching out her
trembling arms to him, crying his name again and again; as she sank
back exhausted the man started up and rushed toward her, clutching
her by the hand, and exclaiming frantically, "Mary, Mary, it is
I--speak to me!" But the other's delirium seemed to have returned,
and she only stared at him blankly. At last David staggered to his
feet and began pacing wildly up and down, hiding his face in his
hands, and crying helplessly, "Oh, God, that this should come to me
now! Oh, how can I bear it--oh, Mary, Mary!"

He sank down upon the sofa again and burst into fearful sobbing;
Helen, who had still been kneeling where he left her, rushed toward
him and flung her arms about him, crying out, "David, David, what is
the matter? David, you will kill me; what is it?"

And he started and stared at her wildly, clutching her arm. "Helen,"
he gasped, "listen to me! I ruined that woman! Do you hear me?--do
you hear me? It was I who betrayed her--I who made her what she is!
_I--I!_ Oh, leave me,--leave me alone--oh, what can I do?"

Then as the girl still clung to him, sobbing his name in terror, the
man went on, half beside himself with his grief, "Oh, think of
it--oh, how can I bear to know it and live? Twenty-three years ago,
--and it comes back to curse me now! And all these years I have been
living and forgetting it--and been happy, and talking of my
goodness--oh God, and this fearful madness upon the earth! And I
made it--I--and _she_ has had to pay for it! Oh, look at her, Helen,
look at her--think that that foulness is mine! She was
beautiful,--she was pure,--and she might have been happy, she would
have been good, but for me! Oh God in heaven, where can I hide
myself, what can I do?"

Helen was still clutching at his arm, crying to him, "David, spare
me!" He flung her off in a mad frenzy, holding her at arm's length,
and staring at her with a fearful light in his eyes. "Girl, girl!"
he cried, "do you know who I am--do you know what I have done? This
girl was like you once, and I made her love me--made her love me
with the sacred fire that God had given me, made her love me as I
made _you_ love me! And she was beautiful like you--she was younger
than you, and as happy as you! And she trusted me as you trusted me,
she gave herself to me as you did, and I took her, and promised her
my love--and now look at her! Can you wish to be near me, can you
wish to see me? Oh, Helen, I cannot bear myself--oh, leave me, I
must die!"

He sank down once more, weeping, all his form shaking with his
grief; Helen flung her arms about his neck again, but the man seemed
to forget her presence. "Oh, think where that woman has been," he
moaned; "think what she has seen, and done, and suffered--and what
she is! Was there ever such a wreck of womanhood, ever such a curse
upon earth? And, oh, for the years that she has lived in her fearful
sin, and I have been happy--great God, what can I do for those
years,--how can I live and gaze upon this crime of mine? I, who
sought for beauty, to have made this madness; and it comes now to
curse me, now, when it is too late; when the life is wrecked,--when
it is gone forever!"

David's voice had sunk into a moan; and then suddenly he heard the
woman crying out, and he staggered to his feet. She was sitting up
again, her arms stretched out; David caught her in his own, gazing
into her face and crying, "Mary, Mary! Look at me! Here I am--I am
David, the David you loved."

He stopped, gasping for breath, and the woman cried in a faint
voice, "Water, water!" David turned and called to Helen, and the
poor girl, tho scarcely able to stand, ran to get a glass of it;
another thought came to the man in the meantime, and he turned to
the other with a sudden cry. "If there were a child!" he gasped, "a
child of mine somewhere in the world, alone and helpless!" He stared
into the woman's eyes imploringly.

She was gazing at him, choking and trying to speak; she seemed to be
making an effort to understand him, and as David repeated his
agonizing question she gave a sign of assent, causing a still wilder
look to cross the man's face. He called to her again to tell him
where; but the woman seemed to be sinking back into her raving, and
she only gasped faintly again for water.

When Helen brought it they poured it down her throat, and then David
repeated his question once more; but he gave a groan as he saw that
it was all in vain; the wild raving had begun again, and the woman
only stared at him blankly, until at last the wretched man, quite
overcome, sank down at her side and buried his head upon her
shrunken bosom and cried like a child, poor Helen in the meantime
clinging to him still.

It was only when David had quite worn himself out that he seemed to
hear her pleading voice; then he looked at her, and for the first
time through his own grief caught sight of hers. There was such a
look of helpless woe upon Helen's face that he put out his hand to
her and whispered faintly, "Oh, poor little girl, what have _you_
done that you should suffer so?" As Helen drew closer to him,
clinging to his hand in fright, he went on, "Can you ever forgive me
for this horror--forgive me that I dared to forget it, that I dared
to marry you?"

The girl's answer was a faint moan, "David, David, have mercy on
me!" He gazed at her for a moment, reading still more of her
suffering.

"Helen," he asked, "you see what has come upon me--can you ask me
not to be wretched, can you ask me still to live? What can I do for
such a crime,--when I look at this wreck of a soul, what comfort can
I hope to find?" And the girl, her heart bursting with grief, could
only clasp his hands in hers and gaze into his eyes; there was no
word she could think of to say to him, and so for a long time the
two remained in silence, David again fixing his eyes upon the woman,
who seemed to be sinking into a kind of stupor.

When he looked up once more it was because Helen was whispering in
his ear, a new thought having come to her, "David, perhaps _I_ might
be able to help you yet."

The man replied in a faint, gasping voice, "Help me? How?" And the
girl answered, "Come with me," and rose weakly to her feet, half
lifting him also. He gazed at the woman and saw that she was lying
still, and then he did as Helen asked. She led him gently into the
other room, away from the fearful sight, and the two sat down, David
limp and helpless, so that he could only sink down in her arms with
a groan. "Poor, poor David," she whispered, in a voice of infinite
pity; "oh, my poor David!"

"Then you do not scorn me, Helen?" the man asked in a faint,
trembling voice, and went on pleading with her, in words so abject
and so wretched that they wrung the girl's heart more than ever.

"David, how can you speak to me so?" she cried, "you who are all my
life?" And then she added with swift intensity, "Listen to me,
David, it cannot be so bad as that, I know it! Will you not tell me,
David? Tell me all, so that I may help you!" So she went on pleading
with him gently, until at last the man spoke again, in faltering
words.

"Helen," he said, "I was only a boy; God knows that is one excuse,
if it is the only one. I was only seventeen, and she was no more."

"Who was she, David?" the girl asked.

"She lived in a village across the mountains from here, near where
our home used to be. She was a farmer's daughter, and she was
beautiful--oh, to think that that woman was once a beautiful girl,
and innocent and pure! But we were young, we loved each other, and
we had no one to warn us; it was so long ago that it seems like a
dream to me now, but we sinned, and I took her for mine; then I went
home to tell my father, to tell him that she was my wife, and that I
must marry her. And oh, God, she was a farmer's daughter, and I was
a rich man's son, and the cursed world knows nothing of human souls!
And I must not marry her--I found all the world in arms against
it---"

"And you let yourself be persuaded?" asked the girl, in a faint
whisper.

"Persuaded?" echoed David, his voice shaking; "who would have
thought of persuading a mad boy? I let myself be commanded and
frightened into submission, and carried away. And then five or six
miserable months passed away and I got a letter from her, and she
was with child, and she was ruined forever,--she prayed to me in
words that have haunted me night and day all my life, to come to her
and keep my promise."

And David stopped and gave a groan; the other whispered, "You could
not go?"

"I went," he answered; "I borrowed money, begged it from one of my
father's servants, and ran away and went up there; and oh, I was two
days too late!"

"Too late?" exclaimed Helen wonderingly.

"Yes, yes," was the hoarse reply, "for she was a weak and helpless
girl, and scorned of all the world; and her parents had turned her
away, and she was gone, no one knew where. Helen, from that day to
this I have never seen her, nor ever heard of her; and now she comes
to curse me,--to curse my soul forever. And it is more than I can
bear, more than I can bear!"

David sank down again, crying out, "It is too much, it is too much!"
But then suddenly he caught his wife's hand in his and stared up at
her, exclaiming, "And she said there was a child, Helen! Somewhere
in the world there is another soul suffering for this sin of mine!
Oh, somehow we must find out about that--something must be done, I
could not have two such fearful things to know of. We must find out,
we must find out!"

As the man stopped and stared wildly about him he heard the woman's
voice again, and sprang up; but Helen, terrified at his suffering,
caught him by the arm, whispering, "No, no, David, let me go in, I
can take care of her." And she forced her husband down on the sofa
once more, and then ran into the next room. She found the woman
again struggling to raise herself upon her trembling arms, staring
about her and calling out incoherently. Helen rushed to her and took
her hands in hers, trying to soothe her again.

But the woman staggered to her feet, oblivious of everything about
her. "Where is he? Where is he?" she gasped hoarsely; "he will come
back!" She began calling David's name, and a moment later, as Helen
tried to keep her quiet, she tore her hands loose and rushed blindly
across the room, shrieking louder yet, "David, where are you? Don't
you know me, David?"

As Helen turned she saw that her husband had heard the cries and
come to the doorway again; but it was all in vain, for the woman,
though she looked at him, knew him no more; it was to a phantom of
her own brain that she was calling, in the meantime pacing up and
down, her voice rising higher and higher. She was reeling this way
and that, and Helen, frightened at her violence, strove to restrain
her, only to be flung off as if she had been a child; the woman
rushed on, groping about her blindly and crying still, "David! Tell
me where is David!"

Then as David and Helen stood watching her in helpless misery her
delirious mood changed, and she clutched her hands over her bosom,
and shuddered, and moaned to herself, "It is cold, oh, it is cold!"
Afterwards she burst into frantic sobbing, that choked her and shook
all her frame; and again into wild peals of laughter; and then last
of all she stopped and sprang back, staring in front of her with her
whole face a picture of agonizing fright; she gave one wild scream
after another and staggered and sank down at last upon the floor.
"Oh, it is he, it is he!" she cried, her voice sinking into a
shudder; "oh, spare me,--why should you beat me? Oh God, have
mercy--have mercy!" Her cries rose again into a shriek that made
Helen's blood run cold; she looked in terror at her husband, and saw
that his face was white; in the meantime the wretched woman had
flung herself down prostrate upon the floor, where she lay groveling
and writhing.

That again, however, was only for a minute or two; she staggered up
once more and rushed blindly across the room, crying, "I cannot bear
it, I cannot bear it! Oh, what have I done?" Then suddenly as she
flung up her arms imploringly and staggered blindly on, she lurched
forward and fell, striking her head against the corner of the table.

Helen started forward with a cry of alarm, but before she had taken
half a dozen steps the woman had raised herself to her feet once
more, and was staring at her, blinded by the blood which poured from
a cut in her forehead. Her clothing was torn half from her, and her
tangled hair streamed from her shoulders; she was a ghastly sight to
behold, as, delirious with terror, she began once more rushing this
way and that about the room. The two who watched her were powerless
to help her, and could only drink in the horror of it all and
shudder, as with each minute the poor creature became more frantic
and more desperate. All the while it was evident that her strength
was fast leaving her; she staggered more and more, and at last she
sank down upon her knees. She strove to rise again and found that
she could not, but lurched and fell upon the floor; as she turned
over and Helen saw her face, the sight was too much for the girl's
self-control, and she buried her face in her hands and broke into
frantic sobbing.

David in the meantime was crouching in the doorway, his gaze fixed
upon the woman; he did not seem even to notice Helen's outburst, so
lost was all his soul in the other sight. Fie saw that the
stranger's convulsive efforts were weakening, and he staggered
forward with a cry, and flung himself forward down on his knees
beside her. "Mary, Mary!" he called; but she did not heed him, tho
he clasped her hands and shook her, gazing into her face
imploringly. Her eyes were fixed upon him, but it was with a vacant
stare; and then suddenly he started back with a cry of horror--
"Great God, she is dying!"

The woman made a sudden fearful effort to lift herself, struggling
and gasping, her face distorted with fierce agony; as it failed she
sank back, and lay panting hard for breath; then a shudder passed
over her, and while David still stared, transfixed, a hoarse rattle
came from her throat, and her features became suddenly set in their
dreadful passion. In a moment more all was still; and David buried
his face in his hands and sank down upon the corpse, without even a
moan.

Afterwards, for a full minute there was not a sound in the room;
Helen's sobbing had ceased, she had looked up and sat staring at the
two figures,--until at last, with a sudden start of fright she
sprang up and crept silently toward them. She glanced once at the
woman's body, and then bent over David; as she felt that his heart
was still beating, she caught him to her bosom, and knelt thus in
terror, staring first into his white and tortured features, and then
at the body on the floor.

Finally, however, she nerved herself, and tho she was trembling and
exhausted, staggered to her feet with her burden; holding it tightly
in her arms she went step by step, slowly and in silence out of the
room. When she had passed into the next one she shut the door and,
sinking down upon the sofa, lifted David's broken figure beside her
and locked it in her arms and was still. Thus she sat without a
sound or a motion, her heart within her torn with fear and pain, all
through the long hours of that night; when the cold, white dawn came
up, she was still pressing him to her bosom, sobbing and whispering
faintly, "Oh, David! Oh, my poor, poor David!"

  Hast du im Venusburg geweilt, So bist nun
  ewig du verdammt!






CHAPTER III





"Then said I, 'Woe is me! For I am undone;... for mine
eyes have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts.'"

David'S servant drove out early upon the following morning to tell
him of a strange woman who had been asking for him in the village;
they sent the man back for a doctor, and it was found that the poor
creature was really dead.

They wished to take the body away, but David would not have it; and
so, late in the afternoon, a grave was dug by the lake-shore near
the little cottage, and what was left of Mary was buried there.
David was too exhausted to leave the house, and Helen would not stir
from his side, so the two sat in silence until the ceremony was
over, and the men had gone. The servant went with them, because the
girl said they wished to be alone; and then the house settled down
to its usual quietness,--a quietness that frightened Helen now.

For when she looked at her husband her heart scarcely beat for her
terror; he was ghastly white, and his lips were trembling, and
though he had not shed a tear all the day, there was a look of
mournful despair on his face that told more fearfully than any words
how utterly the soul within him was beaten and crushed. All that day
he had been so, and as Helen remembered the man that had been before
so strong and eager and brare, her whole soul stood still with awe;
yet as before she could do nothing but cling to him, and gaze at him
with bursting heart.

But at last when the hours had passed and not a move had been made,
she asked him faintly, "David, is there no hope? Is it to be like
this always?"

The man raised his eyes and gazed at her helplessly. "Helen," he
said, his voice sounding hollow and strange, "what can you ask of
me? How can I bear to look about me again, how can I think of
living? Oh, that night of horror! Helen, it burns my brain--it
tortures my soul--it will drive me mad!" He buried his face in his
hands again, shaking with emotion. "Oh, I cannot ever forget it," he
whispered hoarsely; "it must haunt me, haunt me until I die! I must
know that after all my years of struggle it was this that I made, it
is this that stands for my life--and it is over, and gone from me
forever and finished! Oh, God, was there ever such a horror flashed
upon a guilty soul--ever such fiendish torture for a man to bear?
And Helen, there was a child, too--think how that thought must goad
me--a child of mine, and I cannot ever aid it--it must suffer for
its mother's shame. And think, if it were a woman, Helen--this
madness must go on, and go on forever! Oh, where am I to hide me;
and what can I do?"

There came no tears, but only a fearful sobbing; poor Helen
whispered frantically, "David, it was not your fault, you could not
help it--surely you cannot be to blame for all this."

He did not answer her, but after a long silence he went on in a
deep, low voice, "Helen, she was so beautiful! She has lived in my
thoughts all these years as the figure that I used to see, so bright
and so happy; I used to hear her singing in church, and the music
was a kind of madness to me, because I knew that she loved me. And
her home was a little farm-house, half buried in great trees, and I
used to see her there with her flowers. Now--oh, think of her
now--think of her life of shame and agony--think of her turned away
from her home, and from all she loved in the world,--deserted and
scorned, and helpless--think of her with child, and of the agony of
her degradation! What must she not have suffered to be as she was
last night--oh, are there tears enough in the world to pay for such
a curse, for that twenty years' burden of wretchedness and sin? And
she was beaten--oh, she was beaten--Mary, my poor, poor Mary! And to
die in such horror, in drunkenness and madness! And now she is gone,
and it is over; and oh, why should I live, what can I do?"

His voice dropped into a moan, and then again there was a long
silence. At last Helen whispered, in a weak, trembling voice,
"David, you have still love; can that be nothing to you?"

"I have no right to love," he groaned, "no right to love, and I
never had any. For oh, all my life this vision has haunted me--I
knew that nothing but death could have saved her from shame! Yes,
and I knew, too, that some day I must find her. I have carried the
terror of that in my heart all these years. Yet I dared to take your
love, and dared to fly from my sin; and then there comes this
thunderbolt--oh, merciful heaven, it is too much to bear, too much
to bear!" He sank down again; poor Helen could find no word of
comfort, no utterance of her own bursting heart except the same
frantic clasp of her love.

So the day went by over that shattered life; and each hour the man's
despair grew more black, his grief and misery more hopeless. The
girl watched him and followed him about as if she had been a child,
but she could get him to take no food, and to divert his mind to
anything else she dared not even try. He would sit for hours
writhing in his torment, and then again he would spring up and pace
the room in agitation, though he was too weak to bear that very
long. Afterwards the long night came on, and all through it he lay
tossing and moaning, sometimes shuddering in a kind of paroxysm of
grief,--Helen, though she was weary and almost fainting, watching
thro the whole night, her heart wild with her dread.

And so the morning came, and another day of misery; and in the midst
of it David flung himself down upon the sofa and buried his face in
his arms and cried out, "Oh God, my God, I cannot stand it, I cannot
stand it! Oh, let me die! I dare not lift my head--there is no hope
for me--there is no life for me--I dare not pray! It is more than I
can bear--I am beaten, I am lost forever!" And Helen fell down upon
her knees beside him, and tore away his hands from his face and
stared at him frantically, exclaiming, "David, it is too cruel! Oh,
have mercy upon me, David, if you love me!"

He stopped and gazed long and earnestly into her face, and a look of
infinite pity came into his eyes; at last he whispered, in a low
voice, "Poor, poor little Helen; oh, Helen, God help you, what can I
do?" He paused and afterwards went on tremblingly, "What have you
done that you should suffer like this? You are right that it is too
cruel--it is another curse that I have to bear! For I knew that I
was born to suffering--I knew that my life was broken and dying--and
yet I dared to take yours into it! And now, what can I do to save
you, Helen; can you not see that I dare not live?"

"David, it is you who are killing yourself," the girl moaned in
answer. He did not reply, but there came a long, long silence, in
which he seemed to be sinking still deeper; and when he went on it
was in a shuddering voice that made Helen's heart stop. "Oh, it is
no use," he gasped, "it is no use! Listen, Helen, there was another
secret that I kept from you, because it was too fearful; but I can
keep it no more, I can fight no more!"

He stopped; the girl had clutched his arm, and was staring into his
face, whispering his name hoarsely. At last he went on in his cruel
despair, "I knew this years ago, too, and I knew that I was bringing
it upon you--the misery of this wretched, dying body. Oh, it
hurts--it hurts now!" And he put his hand over his heart, as a look
of pain came into his face. "It cannot stand much more, my heart,"
he panted; "the time must come--they told me it would come years
ago! And then--and then--"