Part 8 (1/2)
I must not here forget to state, that, though only eighteen, Helen had experienced other troubles than those which now bowed her down; and they were such as the youthful mind ever feels most keenly. She had, with the sanction of her parents, been engaged to Edward Cranston; he was himself considered unexceptionable, and the match was thought a very eligible one; he was five years Helen's senior, and had just entered the practice of the law, with every prospect of being called to the bar. He was first attracted by her beauty and afterwards won by her amiable and pleasing manner. Idolized by his own family, where she first met him, and unremitting in his attention to herself, she soon felt attached, and, confidingly, plighted her troth, and all seemed the _couleur de rose_. His stay was some time prolonged, but he had, at length, to leave; it was a hard struggle to him to part from her; and he did not do so without many promises of fidelity. To see him leave her, was the first trial she knew. The pang was severe; but his devotion was such, that she doubted not his faith, and most indignantly would she have repudiated the idea that his love for her could lessen; but his disposition was naturally volatile, and once away from her, and within the blandishments of other beauty, he could not resist its power. He became enslaved by the fascinations of another, and poor Helen was almost forgotten. Painfully did the conviction force itself upon her, as his letters became first, less frequent, and then less affectionate. Love is generally quicksighted; but Helen's own heart was so pure, and so devoted, that it was hard to believe she was no longer beloved. Hers was, indeed, a delicate position. She noticed the alteration in Edward Cranston's style of writing, and fancied it proceeded from any cause but diminution of regard for her; that, she thought, could not be possible; but soon, alas! did she learn, the (to her) sad truth, that her affianced lover was devoted to another, a most beautiful girl, residing in the same town, and it was said, they were engaged, and too true were the reports, which the following letter confirmed.
”MY DEAR HELEN,
”How shall I write, or where find words to express all I desire to say. Shall I commence by hoping that absence has led you to regard me with less affection, or shall I honestly say, I no longer love you as you deserve to be loved, and that I am no longer worthy your affection. It costs me much to say this; but you would not wish me to deceive you; you would not wish me to go perjured from the altar with you. I most earnestly hope, nay, I feel sure, you will not regret that I have discovered this mistake ere too late for the peace of both. I have opened my heart and most bitterly do I regret its delinquency; but our affections are involuntary, and not under our control. Till the last two months, I believed mine to be inviolably yours. I know I am betrothed to you, and, if you require it, am bound, in honour, to fulfil my engagement; but I will ask you, ought I to do so, feeling I no longer love you as I ought? Is it not more really honourable to lay myself open and leave the matter to your decision? If we are united, three individuals are miserable for life; but it shall rest with you, oh, my excellent Helen; forgive and pity
”Your still affectionate,
”EDWARD.”
What a blow was this to her warm and sanguine heart! What a return to love, so trustingly bestowed! She uttered not one reproach in her reply, but merely released him from every promise, and wished him every happiness.
She had, from the tenor of all his late letters, had a presentiment of coming evil; but she could hardly, till that cruel one, just given to the reader, realize its full extent; but the young do, and must feel keenly in these matters,--females in particular,--and, if right-minded, their all is embarked, and, if founded on esteem, the affections are not given by halves; and I firmly believe the author, who says, ”Man is the creature of ambition and interest; his nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song, piped between the intervals, But a woman's whole life is a history of her affections; the heart is _her world_; it is there, her ambition strives for empire; it is there, her avarice seeks for treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventures, and embarks her all in the traffic of affection, and, if s.h.i.+pwrecked, unless she be strongly supported by religious principles, it is a complete bankruptcy of her happiness.”
But let the young remember, there is often in these disappointments, so hard to meet, the most wholesome and salutary chastenings. How very many happy wives can look back with thankfulness and grat.i.tude, to the all directing hand of providence, that, by a blasting of their seemingly fair prospects, they are directed to happier fate, than their own inexperience would lead them. How often does their Heavenly Father manifest his care, by leading them from the shoals and rocks of misery, which are oft times hidden, not only from themselves, but even from the anxious eye of parental vigilance.
When Helen had paid the funeral expenses and some trifling debts, she found she had but a small sum left. It was now her all for the present support of three individuals; and for the future? poor girl! did she think of that? it did indeed cross her mind; but she suppressed the murmuring sigh that arose; and her beloved mother's precepts were remembered, and her injunctions, that in every trial, she would cling to her G.o.d for help. And truly, and wonderfully was this lone girl supported; and almost superhuman were the efforts she was enabled to make. Fortunately, much manual labour was saved by the faithful servant, Nancy, whom no entreaties could force to quit. She insisted on accompanying the children of her beloved mistress to their new home. She, therefore, went with the waggon, and the next day, Mr.
Montgomery drove the three young ones to their destination. They were to spend the first night with Mrs. Cameron, whom Helen found the counterpart of her worthy brother. Less refined in manner, it is true, and with few advantages of education, but she had much common sense, and a most benevolent disposition, and was able to judge most sensibly of things pa.s.sing around her. Greatly prepossessed by all she had heard of Helen, she received her with the warmth of an old friend.
Little Henry soon became an especial favourite; he was delighted with the change, and the natural buoyancy of his disposition, soon led him to forget past sorrows; the farm yard, the garden, the promised fis.h.i.+ng from the neighbouring trout stream, were all novelties that enchanted him. Nancy was up early, and with the aid of Mrs. Cameron's servant, had got nearly everything into the different rooms, ere that lady and Helen could get there. The cottage was very small, but nature had done much for the situation, which was indeed beautiful. There was a small bed room off Helen's that was exactly the thing for Henry, and a back one, which Nancy took for granted would be hers, and had, accordingly, put all her things in it.
Everything was soon nicely arranged, and but little had to be bought.
Mrs. Cameron sent a great many things from her house that, she said, were superfluous, causing much extra trouble to keep in order. This, Helen knew, was only intended to lessen the sense of obligation.
Naturally active in her habits, she soon made the little place comfortable, and while she thought how different it was, to what she had been used to, she also remembered how much better it was, far better than she could expect under existing circ.u.mstances.
Her next consideration was the possibility of getting something to do for their support before their little money was expended. She consulted with Mrs. Cameron, as to the probability of obtaining needlework, at which she was very expert; though she feared the confinement might injure her health, of which, it behoved, her to take especial care, for the sake of little f.a.n.n.y and Henry. However, if any could be obtained, at once, she resolved to take it, till she could fix on something else; and early the next day Mrs. Cameron called to say, Mrs. Sherman, the Doctor's wife, would have some ready, if Miss Willoughby would call at three in the afternoon. Helen's pride rose, and her heart beat high; was she to go for it herself? She, for the moment, revolted at the idea; but principle soon came to her aid, and she accused herself of want of moral courage.
”What!” said she to Mrs. Cameron, ”has it pleased G.o.d to place me in a position, at which I dare to murmur? oh, my dear friend, what would my beloved mother say, could she witness my foolish struggle between principle and pride. Were it not for my good, should I be called on to do it?”
”No, my dear girl; and that Being who sees principle triumph, will reward it. Go then, my child; you see and feel what you ought to do, therefore, act up to it. It is only when the right path is rugged, there is any merit in walking in it.”
”You are right, my excellent friend; may G.o.d direct this rebellious heart of mine. Oh, how unlike am I to that dear departed one, who,----” here she burst into tears. Mrs. Cameron now rose to go, and Helen promised to call after she had been to Mrs. Sherman's.
In the afternoon, she dressed herself to go for the work. Her deep mourning added, if possible, to her lady-like appearance. When in health, she was extremely lovely; but it was a beauty, one can hardly describe, since it arose not from regularity of feature. Suffice it to say, she found Mrs. Sherman alone, who received her, not only kindly, but with a degree of feeling and respect, that is rarely accorded those, whom adversity has depressed. She apologized for not having sent the work, and said, that indisposition, alone, induced her to trouble Helen to call for the directions as to making the s.h.i.+rts, about which the doctor was very particular. While pointing out how they were to be done, a little girl, about eleven, burst into the room, and threw herself on the sofa. On her mother desiring her to leave, she cried out in a wayward tone, ”No, I shan't, I want to stay here, because I like it, and I will, too; papa would let me if he was at home, and if you turn me out, I'll tell him, so I will.”
”Susan, my child, you must, indeed you must leave me, I want to speak to Miss Willoughby alone.”
”Oh, yes, I know you do; you don't want me to hear you tell her how to make papa's s.h.i.+rts.”
”Fie! my dear, how can you act thus perversely,” said Mrs. Sherman, as she forcibly led her to the door, which had no sooner closed on the petulant child, than she apologized, with much feeling, and seemed greatly mortified at this _contre temps_ of her little girl. ”In fact, my dear Miss Willoughby,” she said, ”she is, with several others, running almost wild, for want of a good school in the place.”
”Oh, madam!” cried Helen, in almost breathless haste, ”do you say a school is wanted here? oh, tell me, would they think me too young, if I were deemed capable, which I feel I am; for my beloved mother spared no pains in grounding me thoroughly in the essential points, and, for accomplishments, I have had the best masters.”
”Indeed!” said Mrs. Sherman, ”could you undertake to impart the rudiments of music?”
”I am sure I could,” said Helen, blus.h.i.+ng as she spoke, at the idea of having, thus, to praise herself, ”for when I left off learning, I could play anything off at sight.”
”If that be the case, I can easily get you a few pupils to commence with, but how will you manage for a room?”
”Oh,” replied the enthusiastic girl, cheered by these opening prospects, ”there is a room at the back of our parlour, which, being so large, I did not care to furnish, it would make an admirable school room.”
”It is, indeed, a lucky thought, my dear Miss Willoughby, and may be, not only of benefit to yourself, but to the inhabitants of the place; that is, if you are capable and attentive.”