Helen answered him, in a faint voice, "It is not that, Mr. Harrison;
it is,--it is,--"

"What, Miss Davis?"

"It has been but a day! I have had no time to know you--to love
you."

And Helen stopped, afraid at the words she herself was using; for
she knew that for the first time in her life she had stooped to a
sham and a lie. Her whole soul was ablaze with longing just then,
with longing for the power and the happiness which this man held out
to her; and she meant to take him, she had no longer a thought of
resistance. It was all the world which offered itself to her, and
she meant to clasp it to her--to lose herself quite utterly and
forget herself in it, and she was already drunk with the thought.
Therefore she could not but shudder as she heard the word "love"
upon her lips, and knew that she had used it because she wished to
make a show of hesitation.

"I did not need but one day, Miss Davis," went on the other
pleadingly, "to know that I loved you--to know that I no longer set
any value on the things that I had struggled all my life to win; for
you are perfect, Miss Davis. You are so far beyond me that I have
scarcely the courage to ask you what I do. But I _must_ ask you, and
know my fate."

He stopped again and gazed at her; and Helen looked at him wildly,
and then turned away once more, trembling. She wished that he would
only continue still longer, for the word was upon her lips, and yet
it was horror for her to utter it, because she felt she ought not to
yield so soon,--because she wanted some delay; she sought for some
word that would be an evasion, that would make him urge her more
strongly; she wished to be wooed and made to surrender, and yet she
could find no pretext.

"Answer me, Miss Davis!" exclaimed the other, passionately.

"What--what do you wish me to say?" asked Helen faintly.

"I wish you to tell me that you will be my wife; I wish you to take
me for what I can give you for your happiness and your glory. I ask
nothing else, I make no terms; if you will do it, it will make me
the happiest man in the world. There is nothing else that I care for
in life."

And then as the girl still stood, flushed and shuddering, hovering
upon the verge, he took her hand in his and begged her to reply.
"You must not keep me in suspense!" he exclaimed. "You must tell
me,--tell me."

And Helen, almost sinking, answered him "Yes!" It was such a faint
word that she scarcely heard it herself, but the other heard it, and
trembling with delight, he caught her in his arms and pressed a
burning kiss upon her cheek.

The effect surprised him; for the fire which had burned Helen and
inflamed her cheeks had been ambition, and ambition alone. It was
the man's money that she wanted and she was stirred with no less
horror than ever at the thought of the price to be paid; therefore
the touch of his rough mustache upon her cheek acted upon her as an
electric contact, and all the shame in her nature burst into flame.
She tore herself loose with almost a scream. "No, no!" she cried.
"Stop!"

Mr. Harrison gazed at her in astonishment for a moment, scarcely
able to find a word to say. "Miss Davis," he protested, "Helen--what
is the matter?"

"You had no right to do that!" she cried, trembling with anger.

"Helen!" protested the other, "have you not just promised to be my
wife?" And the words made the girl turn white and drop her eyes in
fear.

"Yes, yes," she panted helplessly, "but you should not--it is too
soon!" The other stood watching her, perhaps divining a little of
the cause of her agitation, and feeling, at any rate, that he could
be satisfied for the present with his success. He answered, very
humbly, "Perhaps you are right; I am very sorry for offending you,"
and stood silently waiting until the girl's emotions had subsided a
little, and she had looked at him again. "You will pardon me?" he
asked.

"Yes, yes," she said, weakly, "only--"

"And you will not forget the promise you have made me?"

"No," she answered, and then she gazed anxiously toward the door.
"Let us go," she said imploringly; "it is all so hard for me to
realize, and I feel so very faint."

The two went slowly down the hallway, Mr. Harrison not even
venturing to offer her his arm; outside they stood for a minute upon
the high steps, Helen leaning against a pillar and breathing very
hard. She dared not raise her eyes to the man beside her.

"You wish to go now?" he asked, gently.

"Yes, please," she replied, "I think so; it is very late."

Helen scarcely knew what happened during the drive home, for she
passed it in a half-dazed condition, almost overwhelmed by what she
had done. She answered mechanically to all Mr. Harrison's remarks
about his arrangements of the house and his plans elsewhere, but all
reference to his wealth seemed powerless to waken in her a trace of
the exultation that had swept her away before, while every allusion
to their personal relationship was like the touch of fire. Her
companion seemed to divine the fact, and again he begged her
anxiously not to forget the promise she had given. Helen answered
faintly that she would not; but the words were hard for her to say
and it was an infinite relief to her to see Oakdale again, and to
feel that the strain would soon be over, for the time at any rate.

"I shall stay somewhere in the neighborhood," said Mr. Harrison.
"You will let me see you often, Helen, will you not?"

"Yes," answered Helen, mechanically.

"I will come to-morrow," said the other, "and take you driving if
you like; I promised to go back and lunch with your aunt to-day, as
I thought I was to return to the city." In a moment more the
carriage stopped in front of Helen's home, and the girl, without
waiting for anyone to assist her, leaped out and with a hasty word
of parting, ran into the house. She heard the horses trotting away,
and then the door closed behind her, and she stood in the dark,
silent hallway. She saw no one, and after gazing about her for a
moment she stole into her little music-room and flung herself down
upon the couch, where she lay with her head buried in her hands.

It was a long time afterwards when she glanced up again; she was
trembling all over, and her face was white.

"In Heaven's name, how can I have done it?" she whispered hoarsely,
to herself. "How can I have done it? And what _am_ I to do now?"

Nur wer der Minne Macht ent-sagt, nur wer der Liebe Lust verjagt






CHAPTER VII





  "Wie kommt's, dass du so traurig bist,
    Da alles froh erscheint?
  Man sieht dir's an den Augen an,
    Gewiss, du hast geweint."

Helen might have spent the afternoon in that situation, tormenting
herself with the doubts and fears that filled her mind, had it not
been for the fact that her presence was discovered by Elizabeth, the
servant, who came in to clean the room. The latter of course was
astonished to see her, but Helen was in no mood to vouchsafe
explanations.

"Just leave me alone," she said. "I do not feel very well. And don't
tell father I am here yet."

"Your father, Miss Helen!" exclaimed the woman; "didn't you get his
letter?"

"What letter?" And then poor Helen was made aware of another
trouble.

"Mr. Davis wrote Mrs. Roberts last night," answered the servant.
"He's gone away."

"Away!" cried the girl. "Where to?"

"To New York." Then the woman went on to explain that Mr. Davis had
been invited to take the place of a friend who was ill, and had left
Oakdale for a week. Helen understood that the letter must have
reached her aunt after her own departure.

"Dear me!" the girl exclaimed, "How unfortunate! I don't want to
stay here alone."

But afterwards it flashed over her that if she did she might be able
to have a week of quiet to regain her self-possession. "Mr. Harrison
couldn't expect to visit me if I were alone," she thought. "But
then, I suppose he could, too," she added hastily, "if I am engaged
to him! And I could never stand that!"

"Miss Helen," said the servant, who had been standing and watching
her anxiously, "you look very ill; is anything the matter?"

"Nothing," Helen answered, "only I want to rest. Leave me alone,
please, Elizabeth."

"Are you going to stay?" the other asked; "I must fix up your room."

"I'll have to stay," said Helen. "There's nothing else to do."

"Have you had lunch yet?"

"No, but I don't want any; just let me be, please."

Helen expected the woman to protest, but she did not. She turned
away, and the girl sank back upon the couch and covered her face
again.

"Everything has gone wrong!" she groaned to herself, "I know I shall
die of despair; I don't want to be here all alone with Mr. Harrison
coming here. Dear me, I wish I had never seen him!"

And Helen's nervous impatience grew upon her, until she could stand
it no more, and she sprang up and began pacing swiftly up and down
the room; she was still doing that when she heard a step in the hall
and saw the faithful servant in the doorway with a tray of luncheon.
Elizabeth asked no questions about matters that did not concern her,
but she regarded this as her province, and she would pay no
attention to Helen's protests. "You'll be ill if you don't eat," she
vowed; "you look paler than I ever saw you."

And so the girl sat down to attempt to please her, Elizabeth
standing by and talking to her in the meantime; but Helen was so
wrapped up in her own thoughts that she scarcely heard a word--until
the woman chanced to ask one question: "Did you hear about Mr.
Arthur?"

And Helen gazed up at her. "Hear about him?" she said, "hear what
about him?"

"He's very ill," said Elizabeth. Helen gave a start.

"Ill!" she gasped.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I thought you must know; Mr. Davis was over
to see him yesterday."

"What is the matter?"

"The doctor said he must have been fearfully run down, and he was
out in the storm and caught a cold; and he's been in a very bad way,
delirious and unconscious by turns for two or three days."

Helen was staring at the servant in a dumb fright. "Tell me,
Elizabeth," she cried, scarcely able to say the words, "he is not
dangerously ill?"

"The danger is over now," the other answered, "so the doctor said,
or else Mr. Davis would never have left; but he's in a bad way and
it may be some time before he's up again."

Perhaps it was the girl's overwrought condition that made her more
easily alarmed just then, for she was trembling all over as she
heard those words. She had forgotten Arthur almost entirely during
the past two days, and he came back to her at that moment as another
thorn in her conscience.

"Mr. Davis said he wrote you to go and see him," went on the
servant; "shall you, Miss Helen?"

"I--I don't know," said Helen faintly, "I'll see."

As a matter of fact, she knew that she almost certainly would _not_
go to see Arthur after what had just passed; even to have him find
out about it was something of which she simply could not think. She
felt dread enough at having to tell her father of what had occurred
with Mr. Harrison, and to see Arthur, even though he did not know
about it, she knew was not in her power.

"Perhaps I ought not to have told you about it until after you had
had your lunch; you are not eating anything, Miss Helen."

"I don't want anything," said Helen, mournfully; "take it now,
please, Elizabeth, and please do not trouble me any more. I have a
great deal to worry me."

When the woman had left the room, Helen shut the door and then sat
down on a chair, staring blankly before her; there was a mirror just
across the room, and her own image caught her eye, startling her by
its pale and haggard look.

"Dear me, it's dreadful!" she cried aloud, springing up. "Why _did_
I let people trouble me in this way? I can't help Arthur, and I
couldn't have helped him in the beginning. It's every bit of it his
own fault, and I don't see why I should let it make me ill. And it's
the same with the other thing; I could have been happy without all
that wealth if I'd never seen it, and now I know I'll never be happy
again,--oh, I know it!"

And Helen began once more pacing up and down.

"I never was this way before in my life," she cried with increasing
vexation, "and I won't have it!"

She clenched her hands angrily, struggling within herself to shake
off what was tormenting her. But she might as well have tried to
shake off a mountain from her shoulders; hers had been none of the
stern experience that gives power and command to the character, and
of the kind of energy that she needed she had none, and not even a
thought of it. She tried only to forget her troubles in some of her
old pleasures, and when she found that she could not read, and that
the music she tried to play sounded hollow and meaningless, she
could only fling herself down upon the sofa with a moan. There,
realizing her own impotence, she sank into dull despair, unable any
longer to realize the difficulties which troubled her, and with only
one certainty in her mind--that she was more lost and helpless than
she had ever thought it possible for her to be.

Time is not a thing of much consequence under such circumstances,
and it was a couple of hours before Helen was aroused. She heard a
carriage stop at the door, and sprang up in alarm, with the thought
that it might be Mr. Harrison. But as she stood trembling in the
middle of the room she heard a voice inquiring for her, and
recognized it as that of her aunt; a moment later Mrs. Roberts
rushed into the room, and catching sight of Helen, flung her arms
eagerly about her.

"My dear girl," she cried, "Mr. Harrison has just told me about what
has happened!" And then as she read her niece's state of mind in her
countenance, she added, "I expected to find you rejoicing, Helen;
what is the matter?"

In point of fact the woman had known pretty well just how she would
find Helen, and having no idea of leaving her to her own tormenting
fancies, she had driven over the moment she had finished her lunch.
"I received your father's letter," she said, without waiting for
Helen to answer her, "so I came right over to take you back."

"To take me back!" echoed Helen.

"Yes, my dear; you don't suppose I mean to leave you here all alone
by yourself, do you? And especially at such a time as this, when Mr.
Harrison wants to see you?"

"But, Aunt Polly," protested Helen, "I don't want to see him!"

"Don't want to see him? Why, my dear girl, you have promised to be
his wife!"

Mrs. Roberts saw Helen shudder slightly, and so she went on quickly,
"He is going to stay at the hotel in the village; you won't find it
the same as being in the house with him. But I do assure you, child,
there never was a man more madly in love than he is."

"But, Auntie, dear, that Mr. Howard, too!" protested Helen,
trembling.

"He will not interfere with you, for he never makes any noise; and
you'll not know he's there. Of course, you won't play the piano, but
you can do anything else you choose. And Mr. Harrison will probably
take you driving every day." Then seeing how agitated Helen was, her
aunt put her arms around her again, and led her to the sofa. "Come,
Helen," she said," I don't blame you for being nervous. I know just
how you feel, my dear."

"Oh, Aunt Polly!" moaned the girl. "I am so wretched!"

"I know," laughed Aunt Polly; "it's the idea of having to marry him,
I suppose; I felt the very same way when I was in your place. But
you'll find that wears off very quickly; you'll get used to seeing
him. And besides, you know that you've _got_ to marry him, if you
want any of the other happiness!"

And Mrs. Roberts stopped and gazed about her. "Think, for instance,
my dear," she went on, "of having to be content with this dingy
little room, after having seen that magnificent place of his! Do you
know, Helen, dear, that I really envy you; and it seems quite
ridiculous to come over here and find you moping around. One would
think you were a hermit and did not care anything about life."

"I do care about it," said the other, "and I love beautiful things
and all; but, Aunt Polly, I can't help thinking it's dreadful to
have to marry."

"Come and learn to like Mr. Harrison," said the other, cheerfully.
"Helen, you are really too weak to ruin your peace of mind in this
way; for you could see if you chose that all your troubles are of
your own making, and that if you were really determined to be happy,
you could do it. Why don't you, dear?"

"I don't know," protested the girl, faintly; "perhaps I am weak, but
I can't help it."

"Of course not," laughed the other, "if you spend your afternoons
shut up in a half-dark room like this. When you come with me you
won't be able to do that way; and I tell you you'll find there's
nothing like having social duties and an appearance to maintain in
the world to keep one cheerful. If you didn't have me at your elbow
I really believe you'd go all to pieces."

"I fear I should," said the girl; but she could not help laughing as
she allowed herself to be led upstairs, and to have the dust bathed
from her face and the wrinkles smoothed from her brow. In the
meantime her diplomatic aunt was unobtrusively dropping as many
hints as she could think of to stir Helen to a sense of the fact
that she had suddenly become a person of consequence; and whether it
was these hints or merely the reaction natural to Helen, it is
certain that she was much calmer when she went down to the carriage,
and much more disposed to resign herself to meeting Mr. Harrison
again. And Mrs. Roberts was correspondingly glad that she had been
foreseeing enough to come and carry her away; she had great
confidence in her ability to keep Helen from foolish worrying, and
to interest her in the great future that was before her.

"And then it's just as well that she should be at my house where she
can find the comfort that she loves," she reflected. "I can see that
she learns to love it more every day."

The great thing, of course, was to keep her ambition as much awake
as possible, and so during the drive home Mrs. Roberts' conversation
was of the excitement which the announcement of Helen's engagement
would create in the social world, and of the brilliant triumph which
the rest of her life would be, and of the vast preparations which
she was to make for it. The trousseau soon came in for mention then;
and what woman could have been indifferent to a trousseau, even for
a marriage which she dreaded? After that the conversation was no
longer a task, for Helen's animation never failed to build itself up
when it was once awake; she was so pleased and eager that the drive
was over before she knew it, and before she had had time for even
one unpleasant thought about meeting Mr. Harrison.

It proved not to be a difficult task after all, for Mr. Harrison was
quiet and dignified, and even a little reserved, as Helen thought,
so that it occurred to her that perhaps he was offended at the
vehemence with which she had repelled him. She did not know, but it
seemed to her that perhaps it might have been his right to embrace
her after she had promised to marry him; the thought made her
shudder, yet she felt sure that if she had asked her aunt she would
have learned that she was very much in the wrong indeed. Helen's
conscience was very restless just at that time, and it was pleasant
to be able to lull it by being a little more gracious and kind to
her ardent lover. The latter of course responded joyfully, so that
the remainder of the afternoon passed quite pleasantly.

When Mr. Roberts arrived and had been acquainted with the tidings,
he of course sought the first opportunity to see the girl, and to
congratulate her upon her wonderful fortune. Helen had always found
in her uncle a grave, business-like person, who treated her with
indifference, and therefore inspired her with awe; it was not a
little stirring to her vanity to find that she was now a person of
sufficient consequence to reverse the relation. This fact did yet a
little more to make her realize the vastness of her sudden conquest,
and so throughout dinner she was almost as exulting in her own heart
as she had been at the same time on the previous day.

Her animation mounted throughout the evening, for Mr. Harrison and
her aunt talked of the future--of endless trips abroad, and of
palatial houses and royal entertainments at home--until the girl was
completely dazed. Afterwards, when she and Mr. Harrison were left
alone, Helen fascinated her companion as completely as ever, and was
radiant herself, and rejoicing. As if to cap the climax, Mr.
Harrison broached the subject of a trip to New York, to see if she
could find anything at the various picture dealers to suit her music
room, and also of a visit to Fairview to meet an architect and
discuss her plan there.

The girl went up to her room just as completely full of exultation
as she had been upon the night before, yet more comfortable in the
conviction that there would be no repetition of that night's worry.
Yet even as the thought occurred to her, it made her tremble; and as
if some fiend had arranged it especially for her torment, as she
passed down the hall a nurse came silently out of one of the rooms,
and through the half open doorway Helen fancied that she heard a low
moan. She shuddered and darted into her own room and locked the
door; yet that did not exclude the image of the sufferer, or keep it
from suggesting a train of thought that plunged the girl into
misery. It made her think of Arthur, and of the haggard look that
had been upon his face when he left her; and all Helen's angry
assertions that it was not her fault could not keep her from
tormenting herself after that. Always the fact was before her that
however sick he might be, even dying, she could never bear to see
him again, and so Arthur became the embodiment of her awakening
conscience.

The result was that the girl slept very little that night, spending
half of it in fact alternately sitting in a chair and pacing the
room in agitation, striving in vain to find some gleam of light to
guide her out of the mazes in which she was lost. The gray dawn
found her tossing feverishly about upon her pillow, yearning for the
time when she had been happy, and upbraiding herself for having been
drawn into her present trouble.

When she arose later on, she was more pale and wearied than she had
been upon the morning before; then she had at least possessed a
resolution, while this time she was only helpless and despairing.
Thus her aunt found her when she came in to greet her, and the
dismay of the worthy matron may be imagined.

However, being an indefatigable little body, she set bravely to work
again; first of all, by rebuking the girl for her weakness she
managed to rouse her to effort once more, and then by urging the
necessity of seeing people and of hiding her weakness, she managed
to obtain at last a semblance of cheerfulness. In the meantime Mrs.
Roberts was helping her to dress and to remove all traces of her
unhappiness, so that when Helen descended to breakfast she had
received her first lesson in one of the chief tasks of the social
regime:

  "Full many in the silent night
    Have wept their grief away;
  And in the morn you fancy
    Their hearts were ever gay."

And Helen played her part so well that Mrs. Roberts was much
encouraged, and beamed upon her across the table. As a, matter of
fact, because her natural happiness was not all crushed, and because
playing a part was not easy to the girl, she was very soon
interested in the various plans that were being discussed. When Mr.
Harrison called later on and proposed a drive, she accepted with
genuine pleasure.

To be sure, she found it a trifle less thrilling than on the day
before, for the novelty was gone; but that fact did not cause her
much worry. In all her anticipations of the pleasure before her, it
had occurred to her as little as it occurs to others in her
situation to investigate the laws of the senses through which the
pleasure is to be obtained. There is a whole moral philosophy to be
extracted from the little word "ennui" by those who know; but Helen
was not of the knowing. She believed that when she was tired of the
horses she could delight herself with her beautiful house, and that
when she was tired of the house she could have a new one. All her
life she had been deriving ecstasy from beautiful things, from
dresses, and flowers, and books, and music, and pictures; and of
course it was only necessary to have an infinite quantity of such
things in order to be infinitely happy. The way to have the infinite
quantity was to marry Mr. Harrison, or at any rate that was Helen's
view, and she was becoming more and more irritated because it did
not work well in practice, and more and more convinced that her aunt
must be right in blaming her weakness.

In the meantime, being in the open air and among all the things that
she loved, she was bound to rejoice once more; and rejoice she did,
not even allowing herself to be hindered by Mr. Harrison's too
obvious failures to comprehend her best remarks. Helen argued that
she was not engaged to the man because of his cleverness, and that
when she had come to the infinite happiness towards which she was
traveling so fast, she would have inspiration enough for two. She
had enough for the present to keep them both happy throughout the
drive, and when she returned she found that some of the neighbors
had driven over to see her, and to increase her excitement by their
congratulations. The Machiavellian Aunt Polly had told the news to
several friends on the day before, knowing full well that it would
spread during the night, and that Helen would have her first taste
of triumph the next day.

And so it continued, and exactly as on the night before, the
feverish excitement swept Helen on until the bedtime hour arrived.
Then she went up into her room alone, to wrestle with the same
dreadful specter as before.

The story of that day was the story of all that followed; Helen was
destined to find that she might sweep herself away upon the wings of
her ambition as often as she chose, and revel all she pleased in the
thought of Mr. Harrison's wealth; but when the excitement was over,
and she came to be all alone, she could think only of the one
dreadful fact of the necessity of marrying him. She was paying a
Faustus price for her happiness; and in the night time the price
stared at her, and turned all her happiness to misery.

A state of mind such as this was so alien to Helen that it would
have been strange indeed if she had sunk into it without protest and
rebellion; as day after day passed, and the misery continued, her
dissatisfaction with everything about her built itself into a
climax; more and more plainly she was coming to see the widening of
the gulf between the phantom she was pursuing and the place, where
she stood. Finally there came one day, nearly a week after her
engagement, when Helen was so exhausted and so wretched that she had
made up her mind to remain in her room, and had withstood all her
aunt's attempts to dissuade her. She had passed the morning in bed,
between equally vain attempts to become interested in a book and to
make up for the sleep she had missed during the night, and was just
about giving up both in despair when the maid entered to say that
Elizabeth wished to see her. Helen gave a start, for she knew that
something must be wrong; when the woman entered she asked
breathlessly what it was.

"It's about Mr. Arthur," was the hurried reply, and Helen turned
paler than ever, and clutched the bedclothing in her trembling
hands.

"What is it?" she cried.

"Why you know, Miss Helen," said Elizabeth, "your father wrote me to
go and see him whenever I could, and I've just come from there this
morning."

"And how is he?"

"He looked dreadful, but he had gotten up to-day, and he was sitting
by the window when I came in. He was hardly a shadow of himself."

Helen was trembling. "You have not been to see him?" asked the
woman.

"No," said Helen, faintly, "I--" and then she stopped.

"Why not?" Elizabeth inquired anxiously.

"He did not ask for me, did he?" asked the girl, scarcely able to
utter the words.

"No," said the woman, "but you know, everybody told me you were
engaged to a rich man--"

And Helen started forwrard with a cry. "Elizabeth!" she gasped,
"you--you didn't---!"

"Yes," said the other, "I told him." And then seeing the girl's look
of terror, she stopped short. Helen stared at her for fully half a
minute without uttering a word; and then the woman went on, slowly,
"It was very dreadful, Miss Helen; he went almost crazy, and I was
so frightened that I didn't know what I should do. Please tell me
what is the matter."

Helen was still gazing dumbly at the woman, seeming not to have
heard the last question. "I--I can't tell you," she said, when it
was repeated again; "you ought not to have told him, Elizabeth."

"Miss Helen," cried the woman, anxiously, "you _must_ do something!
For I am sure that I know what is the matter; he loves you, and you
must know it, too. And it will certainly kill him; weak as he was,
he rushed out of the house, and I could not find him anywhere. Miss
Helen, you _must_ go and see him!"

The girl sat with the same look of helpless fright upon her face,
and with her hands clenched tightly between her knees; the other
went on talking hurriedly, but Helen scarcely heard anything after
that; her mind was too full of its own thoughts. It was several
minutes more before she even noticed that the woman was still
insisting that she must go to see Artheur. "Please leave me now!"
she cried wildly; "please leave me! I cannot explain anything,--I
want to be alone!" And when the door was shut she became once more
dumb and motionless, staring blankly ahead of her, a helpless victim
of her own wretched thoughts.

"That is the end of it," she groaned to herself; "oh, that is the
end of it!"

Winkt dir nicht hold die hehre Burg?






CHAPTER VIII





  Thou would'st be happy,
  Endlessly happy,
  Or endlessly wretched.

Helen was quite powerless to do anything whatever after that last
piece of misfortune; it seemed as if she could have remained just
where she was for hours, shuddering at the sight of what was
happening, yet utterly helpless before it. The world was taking a
very serious aspect indeed to the bright and laughing girl, who had
thought of it as the home of birds and flowers; yet she knew not
what to make of the change, or how she was to blame for it, and she
could only sit still and tremble. She was in the same position and
the same state of mind when her aunt entered the room some minutes
later.

Mrs. Roberts stood watching her silently, and then as Helen turned
her gaze of pleading misery upon her, she came forward and sat down
in a chair by the bedside, and fixed her keen eyes upon the girl.

"Oh, Aunt Polly!" cried Helen; "what am I to do? I am so wretched!"

"I have just been talking to Elizabeth," said Mrs. Roberts, with
some sternness, "and she's been telling you about Arthur--is that
what is the matter with you, Helen?"

"Yes," was the trembling response, "what can I do?"

"Tell me, Helen, in the first place," demanded the other. "When you
saw Arthur that day in the woods, what did you do? Did you make him
any promises?"

"No, Auntie."

"Did you hold out any hopes to him? Did you say anything to him at
all about love?"

"I--I told him it was impossible," said Helen, eagerly, clutching at
that little crumb of comfort.

"Then in Heaven's name, child," cried the other in amazement, "what
is the matter with you? If Arthur chooses to carry on in this
fashion, why in the world should you punish yourself in this
horrible way? What is the matter with you, Helen? Are you
responsible to him for your marriage? I don't know which is the most
absurd, the boy's behavior, or your worrying about it."

"But, Auntie," stammered the girl, "he is so ill--he might die!"

"Die, bosh!" exclaimed Mrs. Roberts; "he frightened Elizabeth by his
ravings; it is the most absurd nonsense,--he a penniless
school-teacher, and the Lord only knows what besides! I only wish
I'd been there to talk to him, for I don't think he'd have
frightened me! What in the world do you suppose he wants, anyway? Is
he mad enough to expect you to marry him?"

"I don't know, Aunt Polly," said Helen, weakly.

"I'd never have believed that Arthur could be capable of anything so
preposterous as this behavior," vowed Mrs. Roberts; "and then to
come up here and find you wearing yourself to a skeleton about it!"

"It isn't only that, Auntie," protested Helen, "there is so much
else; I am miserable!"

"Yes," said the other, grimly; "I see it as well as you, and there's
just about as much reason in any of it as in the matter of Arthur."
Then Mrs. Roberts moved her chair nearer, and after gazing at Helen
for a moment, began again. "I've been meaning to say something to
you, and it might just as well be said now. For all this matter is
coming to a climax, Helen; it can't go on this way very much longer,
for you'll kill yourself. It's got to be settled one way or the
other, once and for all." And Mrs. Roberts stopped and took a deep
breath, preparing for one more struggle; Helen still gazed at her
helplessly.

"I'm not going to say anything more about Arthur," declared the
woman; "if you choose to torment yourself about such absurdities, I
can't help it. Arthur's behavior is not the least your fault, and
you know it; but all the other trouble is your fault, and there's
nobody else to blame. For the question is just as simple as the day,
Helen, and you must see it and decide it; you've got to choose
between one of two things, either to marry Mr. Harrison or to give
him up; and there's no excuse for your hesitating and tormenting
yourself one day longer."

Then the indomitable woman set to work at her old task of conjuring
up before the girl's eyes all the allurements that had so often made
her heart throb; she, pictured Fairview and all its luxuries, and
the admiration and power that must be hers when she was mistress of
it; and she mentioned every other source of pleasure that she knew
would stir Helen's eager thirst. After having hammered away at that
theme until she saw signs of the effect she desired, she turned to
the other side of the picture.

"Helen," she demanded, "is it really possible for you to think of
giving up these things and going back to live in that miserable
little house at Oakdale? Can you not see that you would be simply
burying yourself alive? You might just as well be as ugly as those
horrible Nelson girls across the way. Helen, you _know_ you belong
to a different station in life than those people! You know you have
a right to some of the beautiful things in the world, and you know
that after this vision of everything perfect that you have seen, you
can never possibly be happy in your ignorant girlish way again. You
have promised Mr. Harrison to marry him, and made him go to all the
expense that he has; and you've told everybody you know, and all the
world is talking about your triumph; and you've had Mr. Roberts go
to all the trouble he has about your trousseau,--surely, Helen, you
cannot dream of changing your mind and giving all this up. It is
ridiculous to talk about it."

"I don't want to give it up," protested the girl, moaning, "but, oh,
I can't--"

"I know!" exclaimed the other. "I've heard all that a thousand
times. Don't you see, Helen, that you've simply _got_ to marry him!
There is no other possibility to think of, and all of your weakness
is that you don't perceive that fact, and make up your mind to it.
Just see how absurd you are, to make yourself ill in this way."

"But I can't help it, Auntie, indeed I can't!"

"You could help it if you wanted to," vowed the other. "I am quite
disgusted with you. I have told you a thousand times that this is
all an imaginary terror that you are conjuring up for yourself, to
ruin your health and happiness. When you have married him you will
see that it's just as I tell you, and you'll laugh at yourself for
feeling as you did."

"But it's in the, meantime, Aunt Polly--it's having to think about
it that frightens me."

"Well, let me tell you one thing," said Mrs. Roberts; "if I found
that I couldn't cure myself of such weakness as this, sooner than
let it ruin my life and make everyone about me wretched, I'd settle
the matter right now and forever; I'd marry him within a week,
Helen!" And the resolute little woman clenched her hands grimly.
"Yes, I would," she exclaimed, "and if I found I hadn't strength
enough to hold my resolution, I'd marry him to-morrow, and there'd
be an end to it!"

"You don't realize, Helen, how you treat Mr. Harrison," she went on,
as the girl shuddered; "and how patient he is. You'd not find many
men like him in that respect, my dear. For he's madly in love with
you, and you treat him as coldly as if he were a stranger. I can see
that, for I watch you, and I can see how it offends him. You have
promised to be his wife, Helen, and yet you behave in this
ridiculous way. You are making yourself ill, and you look years
older every day, yet you make not the least attempt to conquer
yourself."

So she went on, and Helen began to feel more and more that she was
doing a very great wrong indeed. Mrs. Roberts' sharp questioning
finally drew from her the story of her reception of Mr. Harrison's
one kiss, and Helen was made to seem quite ridiculous and even rude
in her own eyes; her aunt lectured her with such unaccustomed
sternness that she was completely frightened, and came to look upon
her action as the cause of all the rest of her misery.

"It's precisely on that account that you still regard him as a
stranger," Mrs. Roberts vowed; "of course he makes no more advances,
and you might go on forever in that way." Helen promised that the
next time she was alone with Mr. Harrison she would apologize for
her rudeness, and treat him in a different manner.

"I wish," Mrs. Roberts went on, "that I could only make you see as
plainly as I see, Helen, how very absurd your conduct is. Day by day
you are filling your mind with the thought of the triumph that is to
be yours, so that it takes hold of you and becomes all your life to
you; and all the time you know that to possess it there is one thing
which you have got to do. And instead of realizing the fact and
reconciling yourself to it, you sit down and torment yourself as if
you were a creature without reason or will. Can you not see that you
must be wretched?"

"Yes, I see," said Helen, weakly.

"You see it, but you make no effort to do anything else! You make me
almost give you up in despair. You will not see that this weakness
has only to be conquered once, and that then your life can be
happy!"

"But, Auntie, dear," exclaimed Helen, "it is so hard!"

"Anything in life would be hard for a person who had no more
resolution than you," responded the other. "Because you know nothing
about the world, you fancy you are doing something very unusual and
dreadful; but I assure you it's what every girl has to do when she
marries in society. And there's no one of them but would laugh at
your behavior; you just give Mr. Harrison up, and see how long it
would be before somebody else would take him! Oh, child, how I wish
I could give you a little of my energy; you would go to the life
that is before you in a very different way, I promise you! For
really the only way that you can have any happiness in the world is
to be strong and take it, and if you once had a purpose and some
determination you would feel like a different person. Make up your
mind what you wish to do, Helen, and go and do it, and take hold of
yourself and master yourself, and show what you are made of!"

Aunt Polly was quite sublime as she delivered that little exordium;
and to the girl, anxious as she was for her old strength and
happiness, the words were like music. They made her blood flow
again, and there was a light in her eyes.

"Oh, Auntie," she said, "I'll try to."

"Try!" echoed the other, "what comes of all your trying? You have
been reveling for a week in visions of what is to be yours; and that
ought surely to have been enough time for you to make up your mind;
and yet every time that I find you alone, all your resolution is
gone; you simply have no strength, Helen!"

"Oh, I will have it!" cried the girl; "I don't mean to do this way
any more; I never saw it so plainly."

"You see it now, because I'm talking to you, and you always do see
it then. But I should think the very terror of what you have
suffered would serve as a motive, and make you quite desperate. Can
you not see that your very safety depends upon your taking this
resolution and keeping it, and not letting go of it, no matter what
happens? From what I've seen of you, Helen, I know that if you do
not summon all your energies together, and fling aside every purpose
but this, and act upon it _now_, while you feel it so keenly, you
will surely fail. For anybody can withstand a temptation for a
while, when his mind is made up; all the trouble is in keeping it
made up for a long time. I tell you if I found I was losing, sooner
than surrender I would do anything, absolutely anything!"

Mrs. Roberts had many more words of that heroic kind; she was a
vigorous little body, and she was quite on fire with enthusiasm just
then, and with zeal for the consummation of the great triumph.
Perhaps there is no occupation of men quite without its poetry, and
even a society leader may attain to the sublime in her devotion to
life as she sees it. Besides that the over-zealous woman was exalted
to eloquence just then by a feeling that she was nearer her goal
than ever before, and that she had only to spur Helen on and keep
her in her present glow to clinch the matter; for the girl was very
much excited indeed, and showed both by what she said and by the
change in her behavior that she was determined to have an end to her
own wretchedness and to conquer her shrinking from her future
husband at any cost. During all the time that she was dressing, her
aunt was stirring her resolution with the same appeal, so that Helen
felt that she had never seen her course so clearly before, or had so
much resolution to follow it. She spread out her arms and drank deep
breaths of relief because she was free from her misery, and knew how
to keep so; and at the same time, because she still felt tremblings
of fear, she clenched her hands in grim earnestness. When she was
ready to descend she was flushed and trembling with excitement, and
quite full of her resolution. "She won't have to go very far," Mrs.
Roberts mused, "for the man is madly in love with her."

"I want you to look as beautiful as you can, dear," she said aloud,
by way of changing the subject; "besides Mr. Harrison, there'll be
another visitor at lunch to-day."

"A stranger?" echoed Helen.

"You remember, dear, when I told you of Mr. Howard I spoke of a
third person who was coming--Lieutenant Maynard?"

"Oh, yes," said the girl; "is he here?"

"Just until the late train this evening," answered the other. "He
got his leave as he expected, but of course he didn't want to come
while Mr. Howard was so ill."

Helen remembered with a start having heard someone say that Mr.
Howard was better. "Auntie," she cried, "he won't be at lunch, will
he? I don't want to see him."

"He won't, dear," was the reply; "the doctor said he could leave his
room to-day, but it will be afterwards, when you have gone driving
with Mr. Harrison."

"And will he leave soon?" asked Helen, shuddering; the mention of
the invalid's name had instantly brought to her mind the thought of
Arthur.

"He will leave to-morrow, I presume; he probably knows he has caused
us trouble enough," answered Mrs. Roberts; and then reading Helen's
thought, and seeing a sign upon her face of the old worry, she made
haste to lead her down the stairs.

Helen found Mr. Harrison in conversation with a tall,
distinguished-looking man in naval uniform, to whom she was
introduced by her aunt; the girl saw that the officer admired her,
which was only another stimulant to her energies, so that she was at
her cleverest during the meal that followed. She accepted the
invitation of Mr. Harrison to go with him to Fairview during the
afternoon, and after having been in her room all the morning, she
was looking forward to the drive with no little pleasure, as
also--to the meeting with the architect whom Mr. Harrison said would
be there.

It seemed once as if the plan were to be interrupted, and as if her
excitement and resolution were to come to naught, for a telegram
arrived for Mr. Harrison, and he announced that he was called away
to New York upon some business. But as it proved, this was only
another circumstance to urge her on in carrying out her defiant
resolution, for Mr. Harrison added that he would not have to leave
until the evening, and her aunt gazed at the girl significantly, to
remind her of how little time there was. Helen felt her heart give a
sudden leap, and felt a disagreeable trembling seize upon her; her
animation became more feverish yet in consequence.

After the luncheon, when she ran up for her hat and gloves, her aunt
followed her, but Helen shook her off with a laughing assurance that
everything would be all right, and then ran out into the hallway;
she did not go on, however, for something that she saw caused her to
spring quickly back, and turn pale.

"What is it?" whispered her aunt, as Helen put her finger to her
lips.

"It's _he!_" replied the girl, shuddering; "wait!"

"He" was the unfortunate invalid, who was passing down the hallway
upon the arm of Lieutenant Maynard; Helen shook her head at all her
aunt's laughing protests, and could not be induced to leave the room
until the two had passed on; then she ran down, and leaving the
house by another door, sprang into the carriage with Mr. Harrison
and was whirled away, waving a laughing good-by to her aunt.

The fresh air and the swift motion soon completed the reaction from
Helen's morning unhappiness; and as generally happened when she was
much excited, her imagination carried her away in one of her wild
flights of joy, so that her companion was as much lost as ever in
admiration and delight. Helen told him countless stories, and made
countless half-comprehended witticisms, and darted a great many
mischievous glances which were comprehended much better; when they
had passed within the gates of Fairview, being on private land she
felt even less need of restraint, and sang "Dich, theure Halle,
gruss' ich wieder!" and laughed at her own cleverness quite as much
as if her companion had understood it all.

After that it was a new delight to discover that work was
progressing rapidly upon the trimming of the forest and the turning
of the grass-grown road into a broad avenue; likewise the "hay crop"
was in, and the lawn plowed and raked and ready for grass seed, and
the undesirable part of the old furniture carted away,--all of which
things Helen knew had been done according to her commands. And
scarcely had all this been appreciated properly before the architect
arrived; Helen was pleased with him because for one thing he was
evidently very much impressed by her beauty, and for another because
he entered so understandingly into all her ideas. He and the girl
spent a couple of the happiest hours in discussing the details of
the wonderful music room, a thing which seemed to her more full of
delightful possibilities than any other in all her radiant future;
it was a sort of a child's dream to her, with a fairy godmother to
make it real, and her imagination ran riot in a vision of banks of
flowers, and of paintings of all things that embody the joys of
music, the "shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses." At night the
whole was to be illuminated in such a way as to give these
verisimilitude, and in the daytime it would be no less beautiful,
because it was to be almost all glass upon two sides. Helen was
rejoiced that the architect realized the importance of the fact that
"a music room ought to be out of doors;" and then as she made the
further welcome discovery that the moon would shine into it, she
vowed eagerly that there would be no lights at all in her music room
at those times. Afterwards she told a funny story of how Schumann
had been wont to improvise under such circumstances, until his
next-door neighbor was so struck by the romance of it that he
proceeded to imitate it, and to play somebody or other's technical
studies whenever the moon rose; at which narrative Helen and the
architect laughed very heartily, and Mr. Harrison with them, though
he would not have known the difference between a technical study and
the "Moonlight Sonata."

Altogether, Helen was about as happy as ever throughout that
afternoon, tho one who watched her closely might have thought there
was something nervous about her animation, especially later on, when
the talk with the architect was nearing its end; Helen's eyes had
once or twice wandered uneasily about the room, and when finally the
man rose to leave, she asked him with a sudden desperate resolution
to look over the rest of the rooms and see what he thought of her
suggestions. The latter expressed himself as pleased to oblige her,
but he would probably have been somewhat chagrined had he known how
little Helen really attended to his remarks; her mind was in a
whirl, and all that he said sounded distant and vague; her one wish
was that he might stay and give her time to think.

But Helen found the uselessness of shrinking, and the time came at
last when she saw to her despair that there was no more to say, and
that the man must go. In a few minutes more he was actually gone,
and she was left all alone in the great house with Mr. Harrison.

The two went back into the dining room, where Mr. Harrison stood
leaning his hand upon the table, and Helen stood in front of him,
her lips trembling. Twice she made a faint attempt to speak, and
then she turned and began pacing up and down the room in agitation.
Mr. Harrison was watching her, seeing that there was something on
her mind, and also that her emotion made her more beautiful and more
disturbing to him than ever.