Part 13

To this attempt at consolation Helen made no reply; but that night--and it was a wild and a wet one--she left her mother's house, stealing out while she slept; and, when morning came, she had not returned, and no one knew whither she had gone. Days, weeks, and months passed away, and still Helen Gardenstone came not, nor was any trace of her discovered; but it came at length to be generally believed that the poor deluded and distracted girl had terminated her miseries by committing suicide--that she had buried her sorrows in the waters of the Molendinar--the name of the stream or river that ran through the village, and which had many deep pools both below and above it.

These were, indeed, actually searched for her body, but to no purpose; though this was accounted for by the circumstance of the river's having been much swollen at the time of Helen's disappearance, by several previous days' rain. The body, then, was conjectured to have been carried down to the sea.

The report of Helen's sudden disappearance, together with rumours of the supposed catastrophe which it involved, soon reached young Wellwood; and, libertine as he was, the appalling intelligence plunged him into the deepest distress. When first informed of it, he grew deadly pale, and would fain have disbelieved the horrid tale, which made him virtually and morally, though not legally, poor Helen's murderer. But, when he found he could no longer doubt the truth of the rumour, remorse and contrition seized him, and, for some days thereafter, he confined himself to his room on pretence of sudden indisposition, to conceal the distraction of his mind, which wholly unfitted him to mingle in society.

The vision of Helen, invested with all the personal beauty and mental innocence in which she had first met his sight, appeared before him during the feverish reveries of the day, and in the disturbed slumbers of the night. Anon, the scene would change, and the dead form of the victim of his lawless passion would stand before him, bearing all the horrid marks of the peculiar death she had died--her face rigid and ghastly pale--her wet dishevelled hair hanging wildly around it; and her clothes drenched with the waters in which her miseries had been terminated. Such were the harrowing pictures which the disturbed imagination and guilty soul of young Wellwood summoned before his mental eye, to madden and distract him. In time, however, these dreadful visions began to abate, both in frequency and force, and he was gradually enabled to take his place again in society; but a settled melancholy was now visible on his countenance--for the fatal catastrophe of poor Helen's death, though latterly less vividly present to him than at first, still pressed upon his spirits with a weight and constancy that produced a very marked change on his general demeanour.

Soon after the period to which we have now brought our story, Wellwood proceeded to the place of his destination abroad, to occupy the official situation which his father's influence had procured for him. Here he remained for two years, when some business connected with the duties of his appointment called him to London. One of the first persons on whom he called, on his arrival in the metropolis, was a gentleman of the name of Middleton--a young man of fortune, and of excessively dissipated habits, whom he had known at Oxford, and who had been the companion of all his debaucheries (and they were frequent and deep) during his residence at that seat of learning. In this last respect young Wellwood was now somewhat improved; but it was otherwise with his old friend, who still pursued, with unabated vigour and unsated appetite, the wild career of dissipation in which Wellwood had so far accompanied him. The renewal of their acquaintance on this occasion terminated in the renewal of the scenes at Oxford; and, led on by his companion, Harry largely indulged in all the fashionable excesses of the capital. These excesses, however, even with all the outrageous mirth and jollity with which they were associated, could not restore to him the peace of mind he had lost, nor even banish from his countenance that expression of melancholy to which it had now become habituated, and which did not escape his friend Middleton, who frequently urged him to tell him the cause of it; but for some time Wellwood evaded the inquiry. At length, however, the secret was wrung from him.

"I say, now, Harry," said Middleton to him one evening, as they sat together over a bottle of wine, "won't you tell us how you came by that Puritanical face of yours. It's not the one you used to wear at Oxford, I'll be sworn, and where you have picked it up I can't imagine; but it certainly does become you amazingly. That melancholy gives you quite a sentimental air. Couldn't you help me to a touch of it? I think it would improve me vastly."

"Middleton," replied Wellwood, gravely, "I wish you may never have such cause as I have, both to look and to think seriously; and, in order that you may judge for yourself whether I have not good reason, I _will_ now inform you of the cause of that melancholy which has so frequently attracted your notice, and has so much excited your curiosity." Having said this, Wellwood proceeded to tell his friend of the dismal story of Helen Gardenstone; and, when he had concluded, "Worlds on worlds," he exclaimed, energetically, "would I give, Middleton, were I possessed of them, to restore that sweet unfortunate girl again to life; and these, ten times told, would I part with, to be relieved of the guilt of having wronged her."

To the melancholy tale of Helen's death, and to the repentant exclamations with which it was wound up, Middleton replied with a loud laugh.

"And is this all?" he cried out. "Is this the cause of that most lachrymose countenance of yours, Harry? Shame, shame, man! I thought you were a fellow of more spirit, a man of more mettle, than to be affected by such a very trifling affair as that. Why, how the deuce could you help the silly wench drowning herself? You did not push her into the water. Tuts, man! fill up your glass, and think no more of it; and now, 'pon my soul, Harry," he continued, "that I know the cause of your dismal phiz, and find it to be a matter of moonshine, I'll cut you for ever, if you don't, after this night, hold up your head, and look like a man. There, fill up," he said, pushing the bottle, from which he had just helped himself largely, towards his companion, who, without making any remark on what had just been addressed to him, seized it with avidity, and, as if in desperation, poured out and swallowed an entire tumbler of the liquor it contained.

We need not follow out the scene. The night terminated, as it usually did with those boon companions, in a deep debauch; but it was ultimately marked by an event for which the reader will be as little prepared as Wellwood was. On returning to his lodgings, accompanied by Middleton, who slept at the same hotel, at an early hour of the morning--and a bitterly cold and snowy one it was, for it was the depth of winter--the two friends, as they came shouting and bawling along, under the influence of the wine they had drunk, were attracted by seeing four or five persons gathered together on the street, and evidently surrounding some object of interest.

"I say, Harry, let's see what this is?" said Middleton; "perhaps we may knock some sport out of it."

"Why, I don't mind," replied the former; "but doubtless it's some drunken or starving wretch, enjoying the cool night air."

"Why, what's the matter here?" said Middleton, bustling into the middle of the assemblage, followed by Wellwood.

"Vy, it's a young voman and a child as is a-starving, and has never a home to go to," said one of the bystanders. And such, indeed, was the truth.

A miserable being--not, however, in her attire, which, though bespeaking poverty, was yet clean, whole, and even decent--was seen sitting on the steps of a stair, seemingly in the last stage of exhaustion, with a child, a boy of about two years of age, closely wrapped up in her cloak, and strained to her bosom, to protect it from the piercing cold of the night.

"My good woman," said Middleton, stooping down close to her--for even he was affected by the piteous sight--"where are you from?"

"I'm frae Scotland, sir," was the reply, in a voice of singular sweetness, but evidently enfeebled by suffering.

Wellwood caught in an instant the dialect of his native land; and he did not hear it without emotion--neither were the soft musical tones of the voice lost upon him. They resembled, strongly resembled, those of one whom he dared not even think of; and these circumstances combined, instantly excited in him a deep interest in the unhappy being before him. He now also approached her, and, taking her kindly by the hand, was about to address her in soothing language, looking at the same time closely to her face, when, without saying what he intended, or indeed saying anything, he slowly raised himself again from the stooping posture to which he had had recourse, his face as pale as death, and trembling violently in every limb. In the next instant, he staggered as if he would have fallen. Middleton ran to support him, and, thinking he had been seized with some sudden illness, slowly led him to the distance of a few paces from the persons assembled round the destitute female.

"What's the matter? what's the matter, Harry?" said the former, on their getting out of hearing of any one. "My troth, but you do look ill, Wellwood!"

"_That_," replied the latter, in a sepulchral voice, and with a look that increased the alarm of his companion--"_that_," he said, pointing to the spot where the unhappy woman sat, and without noticing Middleton's inquiry, "is no being of flesh and blood. It is a vexed spirit, Middleton, come to haunt me for the injuries I did it when in the body--come to destroy my peace, and to realise the horrid dreams of my guilt. It is--it is, Middleton"--and he gasped for breath as he spoke--"the spirit of Helen Gardenstone."

"Nay, that I'll be sworn it isn't," replied his friend, who now thought he had gone deranged. "It's a _bona fide_ human being, I warrant you, Harry, and I'll bring you proof of that directly." Saying this, he ran to the object of his friend's terror, and inquired her name. She gave it. Middleton was confounded--he hastened back to Wellwood, and, as he approached him, "By Heaven, Harry!" he said, "you are so far right--the woman's name is really Helen Gardenstone."

Regardless of the situation in which he was, and equally so of those who might witness the strong expression of feeling which he meditated, Wellwood instantly dropped on his knees, and, in one brief sentence of mingled piety and joy, thanked God that he was not altogether the guilty wretch that he had conceived himself to be; for he now felt assured that, whatever might have been the train of circumstances that had led to this singular occurrence, the person whom he had thus found a houseless and destitute wanderer on the streets of the metropolis was, indeed, no other than Helen Gardenstone.

On recovering a little from the tumultuous feelings which had at first overwhelmed him, Wellwood's next thought was how to succour the unfortunate girl and _his_ child, as he had no doubt it was. The first idea which occurred to him on this point was to have Helen instantly conveyed to his hotel--and on this idea he subsequently acted; but, thinking the present neither a fit time nor place to discover himself to her, or to give her an opportunity of recognising him, he deputed the task to his friend Middleton, who readily undertook it, whilst he himself kept aloof. On reaching the inn, Wellwood retired to his own apartment, while Middleton saw to the comforts of his unfortunate charge. These provided for, he rejoined his friend, whom he found wrapped in profound meditation, with his elbow resting on a table.

"Well, Harry," he said, on entering the apartment, "this is a devilish queer affair, an't it? But, in the name of all that's perplexing, what do you propose doing now?"

"I'll tell you all about that in the morning, Middleton," replied Wellwood, gravely, "after I shall have slept on it. In the meantime, I thank you for your attention to the poor girl."

"Faith, to tell you a truth, Harry," rejoined Middleton, "I would have done as much, and a great deal more, too, on her own account, let alone yours; for she's certainly as pretty a girl as ever I clapped eye upon. A gentle, beautiful creature 'tis, Harry. But what the deuce are you to do with her, again say I."

"Why, I have not quite made up my mind on that subject," said Wellwood; "but I'll think of it, and we'll see what the morning brings forth."

Saying this, he retired to his own sleeping-apartment, where he spent half the night in thinking what should be his next proceeding with regard to Helen; and the result of his cogitations on this subject was a resolution of a very extraordinary kind.

On the following morning, when he and Middleton met--

"Well, Harry," said the latter, "what's to be done now? What has been the result of your night's reflections regarding Helen? What do you now propose doing with her?"

"I propose to marry her, Middleton," replied Wellwood, gravely. "It is the least thing I can do in reparation of the injury I have done her--the misery and scorn I have entailed on her; and besides, Middleton," he went on, "I should be perjured in the face of Heaven if I did not, for I swore a sacred and binding oath that I should make her mine; and it was by trusting to that oath that poor Helen fell."

"Ha! ha!--a particular good joke, Harry," exclaimed Middleton; "and----"

"No joke whatever, Middleton," said Wellwood, interrupting him; "I am in serious earnest. I will do the girl the only justice now in my power. I will do what my heart and my conscience tell me is right in this matter, and defy the sneers of a selfish and censorious world. On this I am firmly determined, let the consequences be what they may. My mind is made up, Middleton."

"You're mad, Harry," said the latter, now becoming serious in his turn, on seeing that his friend was really in earnest--"absolutely and absurdly mad."

"It may be so, Middleton," replied Wellwood, calmly. "That is a point I will not dispute with you; but I am nevertheless firmly resolved to do what I have said. I will take my poor little boy to my bosom, and his mother shall become lady of Wellwood. It is all the reparation I can make her, and it shall be made. Will you assist me in going through with this romantic business, Middleton?" he added, smiling.

"Why, Harry," replied the latter, "I certainly should not like to desert you in a time of need; but----"

"No buts, Middleton," interrupted his friend. "Will you, or will you not?"

"Why, then, if you _are_ resolved, Harry, on this desperate, and, I must call it, singularly absurd step, I will," rejoined Middleton. "But what will your father say to it?"

"Why, from him, certainly, my marriage must, far a time, at any rate, be concealed; but of this more afterwards. In the meantime, will you go to Helen, and tell her that an old acquaintance desires to see her; and conduct her hither?"

Middleton readily undertook the mission, and departed to execute it. In a minute afterwards he returned, leading in Helen by the hand. On seeing Wellwood, she uttered a piercing shriek, and fainted in the arms of Middleton, her little boy clinging to her in all the terror of childish affright. Wellwood rushed to her assistance, and, in the tenderest and most soothing language he could command, endeavoured to restore her to consciousness. This of itself gradually returned, and a scene followed which we will not attempt to describe. Wellwood, pressing Helen to his bosom, told the bewildered but delighted girl that it was his intention to repair the injury he had done her, by offering her his hand. He next flew to his boy, took him up in his arms, bathed him with his tears, and bestowed upon him, while he caressed him, every tender epithet he could think of.

Our story is now coming naturally to a close; and we will not prolong it by any unnecessary or extraneous details. In three days after this, Helen--having been previously provided with everything suitable to the rank in life to which she was thus suddenly and most unexpectedly promoted from the lowest depths of wretchedness and destitution--became the wife of Henry Edington, Esq. of Wellwood. In three days more, Mr Edington received intelligence of his father's sudden demise, which rendered it necessary that he should proceed instantly to Wellwood. In this journey his wife and child accompanied him; and the next appearance of Helen Gardenstone in her native village was in a splendid carriage, as the lady of Wellwood, in which character she subsequently acquired an extensive reputation for benevolence, and for the practice of every social virtue. Helen, in short, became an exemplary wife, and conferred on her husband, who continued to regard her with unabated affection till the day of his death, all the happiness of which the marriage state is capable.

THE SURGEON'S TALES.

THE CASE OF EVIDENCE.

The following narrative was given to me by the executors of Miss Ballingal, whom I attended for a short time previous to her death:--

I shall not now, I hope, be long upon the face of this earth. It is sinful to wish to die; but, when the spirit is weary of the trials of this evil world, and the body broken, and the bones stricken to their dried marrow with pains, surely a poor mortal may indulge the wish, that God's time of release may not be postponed beyond the power of bearing the weight of life. My years, if mentioned, would not, perhaps, appear to be many; but _age_, in the sense in which I take it, cannot be calculated by circumvolutions of the sun. There is an age of the spirit independently of that of the body; and to calculate that, we must have a measure of the effects of misfortune, and pain, and injury, on nerves toned in all the keys that rise in gradation, from the sensations of creatures a little above the brutes, to the sensibilities of individuals a little lower than the angels. In this view, I am indeed aged as the sons of Levi; for my soul, like the people of Pharaoh, has been smitten with boils and blains, by the poisoned bite of the serpent tongue of civilisation. The spirit of the Indian under his plantain-tree, lives till the body is sick of it; and with a mistaken humanity, he is exposed in the desert, that the wants of the flesh may kill the spirit that yearns to live, and to rejoice again in the return of the seasons, with their fruits and flowers; but the spirit of civilised man or woman is often dead long before the mortal tenement exhibits any decay; for, though spotted fever and limping palsy have passed on, and touched not the flesh, the spirit has been visited by plagues a thousand times more deadly, that rise from the refinements of civilised life. It is these that have made me aged, and weary of remaining longer here; and I am not doubtful that, when I record what I have suffered from two causes--first, my own--yes, I affirm it--my own goodness; and, secondly, the evils inherent in the state of society in which we live--every one will acknowledge that I have little more to wait for on this side of time, and that the sooner I am dissolved, the better it may be for myself, and those who sympathise in griefs that death alone can alleviate.

Brought up in the manse of C----, by a pious father, the clergyman of the parish, a learned man--and by a mother, a woman of many virtues, who wished her daughter to be as good as herself--I enjoyed all the advantages of breeding and education; which, if turned to good account, make the ornaments of society. I cannot, and never will, admit that these advantages were lost upon me, though they have tended to make me miserable. I was accounted fair; and I believe that my beauty--a gift so much valued--has had also a share, and no inconsiderable one, in the production of the peculiar evils under which I have suffered, and still suffer. I was--what none knew so well as myself--sensitive to a degree bordering on diseased irritability; but my sensitiveness was of that higher kind, which, courting and receiving impressions and impulses from virtuous thoughts and elevated feelings, tends to elevate rather than depress. The fine culture I received from my father, co-operating with my refined sensibilities, produced in me the most exquisitely minute perceptions of moral good and evil; so that I came to have the same delicate feeling of the graceful or the distorted in morals, that some _born_ musicians are said to possess in regard to the tones of harmony in the world of sounds. This is not self-praise--it is truth wrung out of me; for, though possessed of many qualities which might have nourished vanity, the disrelish I ever felt of the exhibitions of a vain spirit in others would have been effectual in quelling my own, even if I had had any to quell, which assuredly I never had. I believe that the strong view in which morals were presented to me by the precepts of my father, would have operated to the production of a fine and healthy effect in one formed for the busy world; but in me, who seemed to have been formed with a connate, aspen-like, trembling sensitiveness of the traces of good and evil, his instructions, continued from day to day, and enforced by the power of his own example and that of my sainted mother, tended to give my original perceptions so strong and holy a sanction, that, at a very early period, I had become a kind of worshipper of good. Virtue has a lovely aspect to all, even to those who tremble at her beauty, from the contrast of their own ugliness; religion has the power of making her more beautiful; and systems of morals, clothed in fine language, are effective in training many hearts to a high love of this emanation from God. But I was, and I am yet, different from any individual whose moral perceptions are merely strengthened by these aids. I do not know if I make myself intelligible, but I myself feel the distinction I wish to impress: morals were to me that species of passion which in many exhibits itself only more perceptibly in regard to some other object--such as poetry, painting, sculpture, or music--with perhaps this difference, that while these natural _illuminati_ are merely annoyed by an exhibition of distortion, I was pained--sorely, miserably pained--by vice, in whatever form it was exhibited to me. I was not contented with the ordinary appearances of purity. The jealousy-offering was ever in my hand; and I was always sighing to see it waving before the goddess, and offered upon the altar of virtue. I looked upon the individual in whom the "water that causes the curse" became bitter, as a creature who was rotten, and had become a curse among the people.