Part 7

“Well, so I will, if you behave well. Now, tell me truly, have you no idea where they keep the silver? I know they have a large quantity of it.”

Helen reluctantly admitted, that, although she did not know, she could form an idea.

“Where?” asked Armstrong, eagerly.

“In the pantry, at the west corner of the house.”

“Humph! And do they lock the door at night?”

“Yes; but the key remains in the lock.”

“So far, so good. Does any one sleep in the lower part of the house?”

“No one.”

“Better still.”

A moment afterwards, Armstrong added, a new thought striking him,—

“I have not seen any dog near the house. Do they keep any?”

“No.”

“That is lucky. A determined dog is sometimes a troublesome customer. I recollect, one night, Dick Hargrave and I had planned a little expedition of this kind, when it was all broken up by a cursed bull-dog, who rushed out upon us as if he would tear us to pieces; and, to tell the truth, he did tear Dick’s coat off his back.”

Helen listened in dismay; for it revealed to her what she had not known,—that her uncle had been implicated in affairs of a similar kind before. It will be remembered that Armstrong, in proposing to her to co-operate with him, had used the pretext that Mr. Gregory had cheated him, and that he was resolved to repay himself. This, Helen had believed at the time; but his present unguarded remarks led her to entertain strong doubts of its truth. Her strong natural dislike for the duplicity and treachery required at her hands determined her, in spite of her habitual timidity and fear of her companion, to venture a remonstrance. This, however, she delayed till he should make a specific demand upon her.

He resumed: “I don’t know but there’s a pretty good chance of success. To-night is Tuesday night. I can’t very well get ready before Friday. On that night, you must contrive, in some manner,—taking care to incur no suspicion,—to come down stairs and unlock the front door. I shall be on hand at one o’clock. Be very particular about the time; for what I do must be done quickly.”

“But, uncle, wouldn’t that be robbery?”

“Robbery! Didn’t I tell you that old Gregory had cheated me out of more than the sum I shall take?”

“But they have treated me kindly; and it makes me feel ashamed to know that I am trying to injure them, uncle”——

“Don’t call me uncle again! I’m no uncle of yours,” said Armstrong, roughly. Noticing the child’s look of surprise, he added, “There, the murder is out! I had intended to treat you as a niece; but you don’t deserve it. It is time to talk to you in a different strain. I declare to you, Helen, that, unless you comply with my command, I will make you repent it most bitterly. Do you hear?”

“Yes,” said Helen, terrified no less by his looks than his words.

“Then take care that you remember: Friday night, at one. And now, as we understand each other, that is all that is necessary.”

They returned to the house in silence. Armstrong, with a hypocritical whine, thanked Mrs. Gregory for her kindness to his dear grand-daughter, who, he was glad to find, seemed so contented and happy in her new position.

“You will pardon an old man’s tears,” said he, drawing his hand across his eyes; “but she is all that is left to me now.”

“What a good old man!” thought Mrs. Gregory, as she hastened to assure him that whatever she could do to add to the comfort of his grand-daughter would cheerfully be done.

As for Helen, she was astonished and confused at what she had discovered. She had always been led to believe that Armstrong was her uncle, and had more than once reproached herself for the dislike she could not help entertaining for him. Now he had himself disclaimed the relationship; and Helen was left to conjecture fruitlessly who and what she was.

IV.

We must carry the reader back some nine or ten years. In front of a pleasant country residence, a child of three years sat on the grass, plucking the flowers that grew at her feet, and then tossing them from her. Ever and anon she would utter a cry of childish delight, as a gaudily-painted butterfly flew past her, and would stretch out her little hands to arrest its flight; but the wanderer of the air found no difficulty in eluding the tiny hands of the child.

At length, as if weary of her pastime, she rose from her grassy seat, and tottled towards the open gate, out of which she passed, and strayed along the path by the roadside, pausing where fancy prompted. Her disappearance had not been noted by those in the house, partly because their attention was occupied by a tall, swarthy woman, with fierce black eyes, who was at that moment asking, or rather demanding, alms of the mistress of the house.

“We are not in the habit,” said the latter, “of giving money; but whatever food you may require will be cheerfully given.”

“I don’t want any food,” said the woman, abruptly. “You talk as if victuals was the only thing one could need. I have had something to eat already. I want money, I tell you.”

“Then why don’t you work for it?” asked the lady, somewhat offended at the boldness of her speech.

“Because I don’t see why I should work my life out while others are living in plenty. There are plenty of fine ladies who wouldn’t lift their fingers if it was to save a life. Am I not as good as they? Why, then, should they fare any better than I?”

“That I do not pretend to say. I only know that he is most happy who strives to content himself with that station in which the Almighty has placed him.”

“Oh! it is all very well for those to talk of being contented who have every thing to make them so. Very praiseworthy it is, to be sure!” said the woman, laughing scornfully.

The violence of her language increased to such an extent, that Mrs. Gregory—for it was she—found it necessary to order her to leave the house. She did so, but not without many imprecations. As she strode along with hasty steps, she espied by the roadside a little girl, holding in her hand a flower that she had just plucked.

“Isn’t it _pitty_?” said the child, holding it up.

A thought struck the woman, and she arrested her steps.

“Where do you live, little girl?” she asked, softening her voice as much as practicable, so as not to alarm the child.

“I live there,” said the little girl, pointing to the house the woman had just quitted.

“Yes, yes,” muttered the latter to herself; “you’re the child of that proud lady that refused me what I asked. Perhaps she may repent it.”

“Would you like to go with me?” she asked, turning once more to the child. “I will show you where there are flowers a great deal prettier.”

“Yes,” said the unsuspecting child, gaining her feet, and placing her hand in the woman’s.

Was there no magic in the soft touch of that little hand that could turn away that bad woman from her wicked purpose?

Alas! when the heart becomes familiar with crime, all the gentler parts of the nature become hard and callous.

“Would you like to have me take you in my arms, and then we should get there quicker?” said the woman, who knew it would not do to accommodate herself to the child’s slow pace.

The latter made no resistance; and, with the little girl in her arms, the woman walked swiftly along. She soon turned aside from the street, for fear of attracting a degree of observation,—which, under present circumstances, would be embarrassing to her,—and took her way, by a less frequented road, to the city.

The child soon became restless, and wished to go home. The woman assured her that she was carrying her there. Before long, the regular motion of walking acted as a sedative upon the child, and she fell asleep. Her bearer made the most of this opportunity, and walked with quickened steps towards her haunt—for home she had none—in the great city, which she had already entered. Some whom she met gazed with curious eyes at the woman and her burden, and could not help noting the contrast between the two in dress: but no one felt called upon to interfere; and so she reached her destination.

The next day saw Helen—for this the woman discovered to be the child’s name—stripped of her tasteful attire, and clothed in a ragged and dirty dress, suited to the company into which she had fallen. At the same time, her abundant curls were cut off close to her head, principally to render more difficult the chance of recognition.

The woman found Helen of essential service in her line. Though disfigured by her uncouth dress and the loss of her curls, her beauty was sufficiently striking to draw many a coin from compassionate strangers, which would not otherwise have been obtained. This little episode completed, we resume the main thread of our narrative.

V.

Notwithstanding the kind treatment which Helen received in her new home, she did not seem happy. Although the companions among which she had been thrown had not been of a nature to give her very elevated ideas of moral rectitude, something within told her that the act required of her would be one of the basest ingratitude. The more she thought of it, the more her heart recoiled from it. Yet so accustomed was she to obey the man Armstrong without question,—not so much from affection as from fear and a sense of duty,—that she had hardly admitted to herself the possibility of refusing to comply with his demands. Now, however, that he had himself confessed that no relationship existed between them, the force of the latter consideration was not a little weakened; and, as fear decreases in the absence of those who inspire it, she began now to consider in what way she could contrive to avoid it.

Circumstances occurred before the dreaded Friday night which served to hasten her decision. On the day previous, while roaming through the fields with Ellen and Frank Gregory, in jumping hastily from a stone wall, her foot turned, and her ankle was severely sprained. The pain was so violent that she nearly fainted, and was quite unable to make her way to the house, which was some quarter of a mile distant. The children were exceedingly frightened, and, returning in breathless haste, gave an immediate alarm.

Two men were speedily obtained, who, constructing a soft litter, conveyed Helen to the house, without occasioning her much additional pain. A physician was at once summoned. Meanwhile, Helen was put to bed, where she received every attention. Mrs. Gregory had a warm heart, which suffering in any form was sure to reach; and, had Helen been her own child, she could not have been more tenderly cared for.

The physician decided that it was nothing very serious; though he recommended, as a necessary precaution, that the injured member should not be used for a fortnight or more, lest inflammation might ensue.

Helen did not hear him pronounce this sentence. When, however, she was informed of it by Mrs. Gregory, after his departure, her mind at once reverted to the fact that it would be an insuperable obstacle to her performing the part assigned her. Actuated by the relief which the thought brought to her, and without thinking of the manner in which it would be construed, she involuntarily exclaimed,—

“Oh! I am so glad!”

“Glad!” exclaimed Mrs. Gregory, in astonishment. “What can you mean? You surely cannot mean that you are glad you will be confined to the house by sickness?”

Helen was embarrassed. She knew she could not explain herself without telling all; and that she had not yet determined upon. At length she said,—

“Because it will prevent me from doing something that I did not want to do.”

“But why did you not want to do it?” asked Mrs. Gregory.

“Because I do not think it would have been right.”

“Then why would you have done it at all, even if you had been well enough, if it was wrong?” asked Mrs. Gregory, more puzzled than ever.

“Because I was afraid to refuse,” said Helen, in a low tone.

“It was nothing that I required of you, I am sure,” said her mistress.

“No.”

“It surely could not be that your grandfather would require of you any thing improper?”

Helen was silent.

“Then it is so. My dear child,” pursued the lady, kindly, “I have lived longer than you, and naturally have more knowledge of the world. I need not say that I have every disposition to befriend you, not only for your own sake, but for the sake of my own little Helen, who, had she remained to me, would have been about your age. Will you not, then, confide in me so far as to inform me what it was that your grandfather required of you?”

Helen considered a moment, and then, with a rapidity of decision which sometimes comes after long and anxious thought, decided to communicate every thing.

“I will tell you every thing,” she said, “if you will promise that no harm shall come to the man who brought me here.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Will you promise?” asked Helen, anxiously.

“Yes, Helen,” said Mrs. Gregory: “though I cannot conceive what is to be the nature of your revelation, I will promise that no harm shall befall your grandfather.”

“You are so good and kind,” said the child, “that I can trust to what you say. Then I will tell you, first of all, that the one who came with me is not my grandfather.”

“Not your grandfather?” echoed Mrs. Gregory, in surprise.

“No. He is not even an old man. He only dressed himself up so when he came here.”

“And what made him do that?”

“Because he thought you would pity him, and be more ready to take me.”

“Is he any relation to you?”

“I thought he was my uncle,” returned Helen, “until he came here last time. Then he told me that he was no relation.”

“Where are your relations?”

“I don’t know,” said Helen, thoughtfully. “I suppose I must have had some once; but I can’t remember any thing about them. I have lived with my—I mean Mr. Armstrong, ever since I can recollect.”

“And what was it he wanted you to do? Why was he so anxious to have you come here?”

“Because⸺ You mustn’t blame me,” said Helen, earnestly, lifting her eyes to Mrs. Gregory’s face; “for it made me very unhappy to think of doing it. But he wanted me to leave the door open to-morrow night, so that he could get in and carry off the silver.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Mrs. Gregory. “And he wished to implicate you in such a crime?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Helen. “He told me that was what he wanted me to come here for; and then I didn’t want to come at all. But he threatened me if I did not. Then, when he was here last time, I tried to persuade him to give up his design; but he wouldn’t listen to me, and I didn’t dare to say any thing more.”

“You said, Helen,” remarked Mrs. Gregory, “that you never knew about your relations. Can’t you remember any thing that happened when you was a little child?”

“No,” said Helen, “not much; but I think I must have lived in the country once, though I can’t remember when. There was an old woman, very cross, that I used to be with before Mr. Armstrong took me. She used to beat me sometimes.”

“How did she look?” said the lady, feeling a strange interest—for which she found it difficult to account—in the child’s story.

“She was very tall; and she used to look at me—oh! so fiercely!”

“And is there nothing, no little keepsake, that you have, to remind you of those childish days?”

“Yes,” said Helen, “there was one. It was an ivory ring that I have always carried around with me. The tall woman tried to take it away from me one day; but I cried so that she let me keep it.”

“Have you got it with you?” asked Mrs. Gregory, in great agitation.

“Yes,” said Helen, surprised at the strange effect this communication appeared to have upon her mistress. “I always carry it in the pocket of my dress.”

Mrs. Gregory, with trembling hands, sought the receptacle indicated, and drew out an ivory ring, on which were inscribed the letters “H. G.” Without a word, she sprang to the bed, clasped the bewildered Helen to her bosom, and exclaimed, tearfully,—

“It is as I thought! You are my child!—my long-lost Helen!”

When her emotion had in some measure subsided, she made Helen acquainted with the circumstances mentioned in the previous chapter, and also informed her that the ring, which had served as the happy means of restoring a long-lost child to her parent, was the gift of a brother of hers, who had inscribed upon it “H. G.,” as the initials of Helen’s name, and that the child had it with her on the day of her disappearance.

The happiness of Helen in being restored to her mother, and the joy of the children on ascertaining that the one whom they had learned to love so well, already, was their own sister, may better be imagined than described.

One leaf remains to be added to this chronicle. It relates to Armstrong, hitherto the guardian of Helen. Although the latter had received at his hands so little for which she had occasion to be thankful, she could not reconcile herself to the idea of his being imprisoned. We cannot look with indifference upon the punishment of one with whom we have been intimately associated, however well deserved it may be.

As Armstrong had no intimation of the check which his projects had received, and as he was convinced that Helen’s fear of him would lead her to carry out his commands, he stealthily approached the house the following evening, as he had intended. The door had been purposely left unlocked; but, in the room adjoining, four stout men had been stationed, who at once seized upon the unsuspecting burglar, and, in spite of his violent struggles, bound him. Thus secured, Mr. Gregory, who was one of the four, explained to him in what manner his crime had been defeated, and added,—

“Although you have been detected in crime, and richly deserve the penalty which the offended law affixes to it, I have been induced by Helen to afford you a chance of escaping. I will furnish you a ticket entitling you to a passage in the next California steamer, and will not reveal your guilty attempt, if you will engage to leave the country immediately. Should you fail to go, I shall feel released from the promise I have made to Helen, and at once cause you to be arrested.”

It is needless to say that Armstrong at once accepted these terms; and the next steamer bound to the Pacific bore him a passenger.

As for Helen, the cloud which shadowed her earlier years has quite disappeared; and in the affection of the home circle, to which her many good qualities endear her, she finds all that can make life pleasant and agreeable.

GERALDINE.

When the summer, crowned with blossoms, Robes with beauty all the trees, And, with pérfumed breath and fragrant, Loads the idly-floating breeze, Then, with cheerful steps and airy, O’er the fields with flowers upspringing, Comes our pleasant household fairy, Fragrant blossoms round her flinging, While the birds that haunt the tree-tops Pause to listen to her singing. Ever cheerful, ever smiling, Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden; And her sunny presence gladdens Hearts with deepest sorrow laden. Very few there are, I ween, Quite as fair as Geraldine.

When the autumn,—nut-brown autumn,— With its wealth of golden sheaves, Lends a new flush to the apples Peeping from the orchard leaves, Forth unto the sunny harvest Rides she in the farmer’s wain, Who, with busy hand and tireless, Gathers in the golden grain; And she cheers his pleasant labor With a gay, unstudied strain. Ever cheerful, ever smiling, Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden; And her sunny presence gladdens Hearts with deepest sorrow laden. Ah! there can be none, I ween, Quite so fair as Geraldine.

THE CHRISTMAS GIFT.

Heavily, heavily fell the snow, covering the dark-brown earth, already hardened by the frost, with a pure white covering. As the rain falls alike upon the just and upon the unjust; so, too, the snow, God’s kindred messenger, knows no distinction of persons,—visiting all alike, forgetting none, and passing by none.

In one of the principal streets of New York stood a boy of some twelve years. His clothing was poor, and too scanty to afford a sufficient protection against the inclemency of the season. Through the visor of his cap, which had become detached in the middle, having a connection only at the two extremities, might be seen his rich brown hair. Notwithstanding the drawback of his coarse and ill-fitting attire, it was evident that he possessed a more than ordinary share of boyish beauty. But just at present his brow is overcast with a shade of anxiety; and his frame trembles with the cold, from which he is so insufficiently shielded.

It is a handsome street, that in which he is standing. On either side he beholds the residences of those on whom Fortune has showered her favors. Bright lights gleam from the parlor windows, and shouts of mirth and laughter ring out upon the night.

All is joy and brightness and festivity within those palace-homes. The snow-flakes fall idly against the window-panes. They cannot chill the hearts within, nor place a bar upon their enjoyment; for this is Christmas Eve, long awaited, at length arrived. Christmas Eve, around which so many youthful anticipations cluster, has enjoyments peculiarly its own, over which the elements, however boisterous, have no control. Yet, to some, Christmas Eve brings more sorrow than enjoyment,—serving only to heighten the contrast between present poverty and discomfort and past affluence.

But all this time we have left our little hero shivering in the street.

Cold and uncomfortable as he was, as well as anxious in mind,—for he had lost his way, and knew not how to find it again,—he could not help forgetting his situation, for the time, in witnessing the scene which met his eye, as, for a moment, he stood in front of a handsome residence on the south side of the street. The curtains were drawn aside; so that, by supporting himself on the railing, he had an unobstructed view of the scene within.

It was a spacious parlor, furnished in a style elegant, but not ostentatious. In the centre of the apartment was a Christmas-tree, brilliant with tapers, which were gleaming from every branch and twig. Gifts of various kinds were hung upon the tree, around which were gathered a group of three children, respectively of eight, six, and four years. The eldest was a winsome fairy, with sparkling eyes and dancing feet. The others were boys, who were making the most of this rare opportunity of sitting up after nine o’clock. At a little distance stood Mr. Dinsmoor and his wife, gazing with unalloyed enjoyment at the happiness of their children.

While Lizzie was indulging in expressions of delight at the superb wax doll which St. Nicholas had so generously provided, her attention was for a moment drawn to the window, through which she distinctly saw the figure of our hero, who, as we have said, had in his eagerness raised himself upon the railing outside, in order to obtain a better view. She uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Why, mother! there’s a boy looking in at the window! Just look at him!”

Mrs. Dinsmoor looked in the direction indicated, and saw the little boy, without his perceiving that attention had been drawn towards him.

“Some poor boy,” she remarked to her husband, in a compassionate tone, “who loses for a moment the sensation of his own discomfort in witnessing our happiness. See how eagerly he looks at the tree! which no doubt appears like something marvellous to him.”

“Why can’t you let him come in?” asked Lizzie, eagerly. “He must be very cold out there, with the snow-flakes falling upon him. Perhaps he would like to have a nearer view of our tree.”

“Very well and kindly thought of, my little girl,” said Mr. Dinsmoor, placing his hand for a moment upon her clustering locks. “I will follow your suggestion; but I must do it carefully, or he may be frightened, and run away before he knows what are our intentions.”