Spring did not fulfil its early promise that year. Those few warm days were followed by long weeks of bitter east wind, during which the tender green leaves grew dark and shrivelled, whilst even the daffodils and primroses that were hawked about the streets had a pinched, careworn look, as though their whole existence had been a struggle.

It almost seemed as though the east wind had penetrated inside the comfortable house in Bloomsbury Square, and had poisoned that tranquil atmosphere. Helen was no longer the only discordant element there. Mrs. Desmond, whose calm boast it had always hitherto been that she never allowed herself to be influenced by weather, suddenly developed mysterious pains in her head which her doctor declared to be neuralgia.

"The result of worry, I suppose?" suggested Mrs. Desmond with a mental reference to Helen.

"No doubt, no doubt," he returned indifferently, for he could not imagine that this patient's worries were very serious ones; "no doubt. Ladies will worry, you know. You want tone, plenty of strong nourishment, and a change in the wind, that will soon set you up."

The good doctor sighed a little as he walked down-stairs. It was so easy to order good nourishment for the mistress of this luxurious house where there was such absolute certainty that he would be obeyed. There were other houses distant not five minutes' walk, where the very words were a mockery. Suddenly he stopped. An idea had occurred to him, and he ran back.

"By the way," he said, re-opening the drawing-room door, "I am just going on to see a poor woman who is suffering much in the same way as yourself. She keeps herself and six children by her needle, poor soul. A few glasses of port wine—"

"Really, doctor," interrupted Mrs. Desmond, "I am sick of giving. It is nothing but give, give nowadays. Why do these poor people have so many children? And, besides, there is always the workhouse. Really I have nothing to give just now."

The doctor turned away shrugging his shoulders, and nearly tumbled over Helen, who, on her way down-stairs, had stopped and overheard the foregoing conversation.

"Hullo! young lady," he cried, "what is the matter with you? Has the east wind been upsetting you too?"

"Oh, no!" returned Helen, "I only—"

"Only what?"

"Do let me come down into the hall with you."

"Run on, I'm coming."

"Oh!" cried Helen as they reached the hall, drawing the doctor out of earshot of the waiting servant, "I have been watching for you all the morning. Do you know that my father is ill?"

"He hasn't sent for me."

"No, because he doesn't want to worry—mamma"—Helen jerked the word out—"now that she is ill herself. But all the same he is very bad. He was in the school-room with me last evening, and he nearly fainted. You must, please, see him."

"Is he in the house now?"

Helen nodded. "I can't stop a moment, Miss Walker is waiting for me. But"—turning very red and fumbling in her pocket—"father gave me a new half-crown last evening. It is no good to me; they won't let me spend it. Please give it to that poor woman."

"That I will, child, and see your father too, and—"

But the doctor's further words were lost. Helen had already disappeared, and before he had time to discover Colonel Desmond's whereabouts she had meekly submitted to Miss Walker's sharp reproof for her lengthened absence, and was deep in the intricacies of a long division sum.

Helen's sharp eyes had not deceived her with regard to her father's condition. He believed himself that he had never recovered from the effects of a chill contracted during that sad search for his little daughter. Anxious to spare her as much as possible, he had said little of his own sensations at the time. His wife's growing irritability and her evident suffering had kept him silent later, and he was sitting alone in his smoking-room planning a flight to a warmer climate whenever he could summon sufficient energy for the journey, when Dr. Russell found him and ordered him off to bed at once. Mrs. Desmond, dozing comfortably on her sofa, was considerably surprised to see the doctor re-enter the drawing-room a second time unbidden.

"Why, dear me!" she exclaimed anxiously, "I thought that you had gone long ago. Am I worse? Are you keeping anything from me? Don't be afraid to tell me my real state. I—"

"Don't be alarmed. It is nothing about yourself that I have to say. It regards your husband."

"My husband!"

The doctor, a little irritated, had spoken abruptly. Mrs. Desmond was really frightened. She forgot that she was an invalid, and started up.

"Yes, he is very ill. I have ordered him to go to bed. You had better send for a trained nurse. In the meanwhile, give me pen and ink and I will write a prescription, which you had better have made up at once."

"Oh, doctor!" cried Mrs. Desmond, trying to calm herself, "tell me at once what is the matter. I had no idea he was ill."

"No; but your little girl had. I met her on the stairs and she begged me to see her father."

"Helen!"

The word escaped from Mrs. Desmond almost involuntarily. She turned very white, and rose immediately to find pen and ink as desired. "What a cold, impassive woman!" thought the doctor as he watched her deliberate movements. How could he guess the storm that was raging in her heart, the bitterness against Helen that was poisoning her whole nature. And yet here Helen had been right and she had been wrong. It had seemed sometimes to her lately in her distorted mind as though her hitherto tranquil existence were resolving itself into an ignoble struggle between this insignificant child and herself for Colonel Desmond's affection, a love that, as husband and father, she failed to understand could have been given to them both in full measure. Since the night when she had realized how deep a hold Helen had on her father's affections, her own feelings towards her husband had suffered a change. Accustomed for many years, by reason of her wealth and a certain charm which she possessed, to be treated as a person of the first consideration in her own circle, she could not brook the idea that a chit like Helen should, as she chose to phrase it, rival her in her husband's love.

And now Helen's quick eyes had caught what hers had failed to see. Were they both going to lose him? Was it a judgment?

Not a hint of what was passing in her mind betrayed itself in Mrs. Desmond's face as she waited until the doctor had finished writing, and then said:

"You have not yet told me what it is that is the matter with my husband?"

"My dear madam, it is extremely difficult to say off-hand. He is in a high state of fever. Looks like rheumatic fever at present. Has he had a sudden chill?"

"A chill?"

"Yes; a sudden exposure of any kind?"

"Would that account for his illness?"

"I don't know about accounting for it entirely. He is thoroughly out of health, I believe. Of course a chill might have finished him off."

"He did have a chill, a very severe chill, about a fortnight ago," said Mrs. Desmond slowly, whilst an almost cruel expression flitted over her face.

"Well, then, I ought to have been sent for at once," returned the doctor, taking up his hat and gloves; and adding a few directions and promising to call again that evening, he departed.

It was quite true. Colonel Desmond was very ill indeed. The weeks went on; spring, real spring, came at last, but it brought no gladness to the anxious watchers in Bloomsbury Square, for whose eyes the overshadowing of the dark angel's wing blotted out the sunshine.

No comfort that love could devise or that money could purchase was lacking to ease the colonel's sufferings. His nurses were the most skilful that could be procured, and his wife was scarcely ever absent from his side, and always eager to anticipate his wishes—all his wishes, indeed, with one exception. Often in his hours of unconsciousness Helen's name would pass his lips; often when he lay conscious, but too weak to speak, his eyes would wander round the room wistfully as if in search of something. But if Mrs. Desmond understood his meaning she made no sign of doing so, and Helen's aching heart was left without even such consolation as she might have derived from this knowledge. Poor Helen! she had a hard time to go through. Her daily routine was in no way altered because of this awful sorrow that was hanging over her. Mrs. Desmond, who had not spoken to her stepdaughter since the day of the colonel's seizure, had sent the girl a message to say that lessons and the ordinary school-room routine were to go on as usual. If Helen desired to testify her sorrow for her part in this terrible affair, her only possible means of doing so was by the most absolute obedience. The last part of this message might have been enigmatical to Helen had she sat down to think it over. As a matter of fact she did not. She only realized that these days of sorrow and anxiety were to be lightened by no happiness of service rendered, that submission to the daily round of irksome lessons was the only token she could give of her longing desire to help her father. Helen did not submit to this at once. With passionate words of entreaty on her lips she went to seek her stepmother. Mrs. Desmond was resting; but something in her maid's manner warned Helen that entreaty would be useless. After this the girl had a hard battle with herself. First she determined to rebel, to force her way into her father's room and refuse to leave his side. She even remained for a few minutes outside his door, watching for an opportunity to enter. It opened and some one came out. Helen pressed forward, but the sound of a low moan arrested her step. That sound touched her generous heart and changed the current of her thoughts. Her father was ill and suffering, and to witness a scene between herself and his wife would distress him, would be bad for him. The very idea made Helen ashamed of herself. She turned resolutely away, her mind made up. She would obey. It was all she could do for him. Like a little heroine this girl kept the pledge she had made to herself. During the long, weary days that followed not one word of repining escaped her lips. Even Miss Walker could find nothing to complain of when the imperfect lessons were relearned so patiently, and the pale face, with its large anxious eyes, fixed itself so intently upon the allotted tasks. It was only at night, when everyone excepting those who watched in the sick-room was in bed and all was still, that Helen, looking like a little ghost, would steal down-stairs, and stationing herself on the mat outside her father's room, with her ear pressed against the door, would wait for hours listening for every sound that could be heard from within. Thus she would often remain feeling amply rewarded if she did but catch a sound of her father's voice, until pale dawn and a faint movement overhead warned her that she must return to her room or risk discovery.

At last there came a day—a languid spring day—when a more than ordinary sense of gloom seemed to oppress the now cheerless house. Martha, the maid, said but little in answer to Helen's eager inquiries; but she sighed incessantly during breakfast, and when the young lady pushed away her plate of porridge untasted, spoke of chastisements which might not improbably befall her in the near future. To these remarks Helen paid but little heed, although she was conscious that Martha's sighs were re-echoed by the other servants as they went about their work languidly, making observations to one another in penetrating whispers, throwing looks of pitiful meaning at Helen herself as, a wan, dejected little figure, she passed up and down stairs.

All this the girl saw and noted; but she said nothing, dreading, perhaps, what she might hear. Miss Walker arrived as usual, but even she seemed in no great hurry to begin lessons; and she made no remarks about her pupil's imperfectly-mastered tasks, but put the lesson-books down quickly with a sigh of relief. It was the day for French verbs, too. "J'ai, Tu as, Il—. How does it go?" thought Helen in despair. Was she going to be stupid just on this day when Miss Walker's forbearance left her no excuse? She must remember. How does it go? "J'ai, Tu—." Worse and worse. And, yes, that was Dr. Russell's footstep in the hall.

"Oh, Miss Walker! dear Miss Walker! let me go for one moment and speak to the doctor."

Before Helen knew what she was doing she had burst into tears, and Miss Walker was actually holding her hand and trying to comfort her, and telling her that her father was indeed very, very ill, but that there was no need to despair.

How that day went by Helen, looking back afterwards, never quite knew. There were no more lessons, and Miss Walker appeared in quite a new light, never once finding fault with her pupil, but actually trying to amuse her and to draw her from her sad thoughts. Helen tried to feel grateful, although not very successfully. In the first place, it was difficult to dissociate Miss Walker from perpetual fault-finding, and in the second place, although the girl dreaded being left alone, she was in no mood to be amused. She was in fact entirely preoccupied with one question—how to see her father; for see him she must, she told herself.

The day wore on. Miss Walker lingered an hour longer than her accustomed time, and then, secretly attributing her pupil's irresponsiveness and reserve to want of feeling, she took her departure. On the door-steps she met Dr. Russell.

"Well, doctor, what news?" she asked.

The doctor shook his head.

"I cannot tell," he answered. "If his strength holds out twenty-four hours longer he may pull through yet. But—"

"Poor Mrs. Desmond!" sighed Miss Walker. "How terrible for her if she is left with that unruly child!"

Dr. Russell looked sharply at his companion, and opened his lips to speak, but feeling probably in no mood for conversation, he changed his mind and, lifting his hat, walked into the house.

Helen, meanwhile, had learnt that her stepmother was resting, and, pacing up and down outside her door, was waiting until she heard Mrs. Desmond moving within, to enter and make a passionate appeal to be allowed to see her father. Terrible temptations assailed the poor child as she walked up and down the landing, all her senses on the alert to catch every sound. She heard Dr. Russell enter the sick-room and leave it. Surely he would not refuse her permission to creep in and take one look at that dear face. The doctor's footsteps died away, and silence followed. Again she thought how easy it would be to walk in. Once inside the sick-room the rest would be simple enough, for no one would dare to make a disturbance there. But Helen had her own code of honour. She had declared to herself that she would obey her stepmother implicitly during this sad time, and she would not break her word even to herself.

At last, just as the long spring twilight was fading into darkness, Helen distinctly heard Mrs. Desmond moving. Impulsive as ever, and forgetting that people when just aroused from sleep are not particularly approachable, she flew to the door, at which she knocked vigorously.

"Come in," cried Mrs. Desmond, and Helen entered.

Strange as it may appear these two had never met since the very commencement of the colonel's illness. This separation had by no means mitigated the peculiar bitterness of feeling that existed in Mrs. Desmond's heart against her stepdaughter. In her eyes Helen was the author of this terrible calamity that threatened her, and the girl's offence was heightened in her eyes by the fact that she, and not Mrs. Desmond, had first discovered the colonel's illness. Worn out with the long strain of nursing, her state of mind with regard to Helen had become more than ever morbid, and she shrank from even a passing allusion to her. As for Helen, the efforts she had made over herself during the past weeks, the sincere sorrow she had experienced for the pain that her waywardness had caused her father, had softened her whole nature. She no longer regarded Mrs. Desmond as an antagonist against whom she was justified in waging perpetual warfare, and she had told herself that, if her father was restored to her, her stepmother should have her loyal obedience. Thus determined, and relieved from the daily fret of Mrs. Desmond's constant rebukes, the bitterness had died out of Helen's heart; and now something in the elder woman's worn, aged appearance touched the girl's generous nature. Moved by a sort of pity, and by a sudden realization of their common anxiety, she forgot even her desire to see her father in a longing to help this sad-looking lady who, dressed in a white wrapper scarcely whiter than her face, which bore a half-frightened, half-bewildered expression, stood in the middle of the room with upraised hands as though dreading some sudden shock. Her eyes fell upon Helen. Her hands dropped and her face darkened. There was a second's silence, while the girl looked appealingly at her stepmother, her fingers twitching nervously.

"What do you want, Helen?" asked Mrs. Desmond at last, commanding her voice with difficulty, for not only had the sudden knocking really alarmed her, but she particularly disliked being found in dishabille.

"I'm so sorry, I do so wish I could help you!" broke from the impulsive girl.

"Sorry! did you come to tell me this?"

"No, not exactly—but—"

"I am glad of that. Sorrow is shown by acts, not words. I did not send for you, and you have chosen to break upon the rest I so sorely need, at a time, too, when—" Mrs. Desmond's voice shook, and once more pity quenched Helen's rising resentment.

"Oh! you don't know how sorry I am for you," she cried, as, running forward, she seized her stepmother's hand, and looked imploringly into her face.

For a moment Mrs. Desmond allowed her hand to remain passively in Helen's. There was something pleasant after all in the touch of those warm strong young fingers; something that spoke of warmth, of comfort, almost of support to this cold-natured woman who was feeling all her hopes crumbling about her, who was face to face with mortal sorrow and pain for the first time in her smooth easy life. One gentle hand-pressure, one caressing movement, and the chasm that divided these two might have been bridged over. But it was not to be. The remembrance of Helen's past waywardness, and of the terrible results of the poor child's foolish escapade, swept over her, obliterating more kindly feelings. She withdrew her hand coldly, and moved away a few paces. Helen, thrown back upon herself, felt her better feelings die within her, and grew half-ashamed of her uncalled-for exhibition of tenderness.

"I only came to ask you to allow me to see my father," she said, speaking unconsciously in those sullen tones that she had cultivated in old days, because she knew that they annoyed her stepmother. "I am sorry if I disturbed you, but I thought I heard you moving before I knocked."

"That I can scarcely believe, Helen," returned Mrs. Desmond, now completely master of herself. "However, whether you did or not matters little. As to your father, he is too ill to see anybody."

"He can't be too ill to see me," returned Helen desperately, her wrath rising at the notion that she, her father's child, should be classed with "anybody" as though she were a stranger. "I should not disturb him. When he had fever in India—"

Poor Helen! as usual, she had struck the wrong chord, for Mrs. Desmond could not endure any allusion to those old Indian days in which she had had no part.

"Spare me these discussions, Helen," she interrupted sharply. "It is all very well to profess so much affection for your father. Remember that but for you he would not be lying as he is now."

"But for me!"

"Yes. Dr. Russell says that he contracted his illness that evening when, distressed as he was by your disgraceful behaviour, he followed you and brought you home."

"Dr. Russell says so?"

"Yes."

"And if—if—"

"If we lose him, do you mean? In that case, Helen, you will need no words of mine, I should think, to point out the terrible consequences of giving way to temper."

To do Mrs. Desmond justice, she scarcely realized the full meaning of her words. She was not deliberately cruel, but even upon an occasion such as this she could not forget her creed with regard to young people, or let slip the opportunity of pointing a moral. Helen heard her, but said nothing. The girl stood quite still, her hands clasped, her face white and rigid, and her eyes unnaturally distended. She was trying to think; trying to take in the awful fact that it was her deed that had brought this illness upon her father. Was it true, or was she dreaming? she asked herself as all sorts of curious fancies, fancies quite distinct from this absorbing sorrow, rushed through her brain, and the pattern of the wallpaper took fantastic shapes, and the china ornaments on the chimney-piece stood out with curious distinctness, whilst a small ivory figure on the dressing-table seemed suddenly to take life and to force itself upon her attention.

Most people have experienced, at one time or another, the curious power that inanimate objects acquire over a brain half-paralysed by some sudden shock. To Helen the sensation was entirely a new one, and her voice sounded strange and far-away in her own ears when, hearing Martha's step on the landing outside, she said:

"If my father asks for me will you send for me?"

"Yes," returned Mrs. Desmond more gently. She had been touched, almost in spite of herself, at the girl's silence, and by the strained look on her face, and she half-repented of having gone so far.

But the softening came too late, and was lost on Helen, who turned away, and who did not even see Martha's indignant look when she discovered that her mistress had been disturbed.

"Go to bed quietly, Helen, and you shall have news of your father in the morning," called out Mrs. Desmond, still relenting.

But Helen paid no heed. To-morrow, that was hours and hours hence. What might not happen between now and then? This had been her doing and she might not even go to her father; might not even hold his hand or look into his face. Perhaps it was right. She deserved it all, and more, far more than that or any other punishment that could be inflicted upon her. Locking herself into her little dark room, she flung herself upon the bed and tried to think. Hours went by, and still she lay there, while all her short life passed in review before her. The happy Indian days, the return to England, her first parting with her father, and then his marriage. Poor Helen! the enormity of her anger and resentment, of her whole behaviour, in fact, since that fatal day, appeared now to her in an even exaggerated light. And then that last crowning sin that had borne such bitter consequences. That Mrs. Desmond's statement had been exaggerated never once occurred to Helen. She fully believed that she, and she only, was answerable for her father's illness, that if he died she it was who would have killed him. Many things, unnoticed at the time, recurred to her now in confirmation of this belief; whisperings and averted looks amongst the servants, subtle inuendoes of Martha's, and Mrs. Desmond's undisguised aversion. Yes, it was true. Oh, to think that her sin could have brought such terrible retribution! What would Cousin Mary say? And yet, although Helen fancied she could almost see Cousin Mary's grave, pained look, that kind friend was the only human being for whose companionship the girl craved through the long hours of that terrible night. Very long the hours were, and very slowly they went by as the poor child lay between sleeping and waking, always with the one idea present with her; listening for every sound, but feeling unworthy even to creep down and lie outside the sick-room door.

Pale dawn came at last. Helen lay and watched its coming until gradually a numbness crept over her, and presently, worn out with her long vigil, her eyes closed, and she slept. Ten minutes later a light tap came at the door. The girl started up. Had she overslept herself? No; the room was still nearly dark. What could the summons mean?

Still dressed, just as she had first thrown herself on the bed, pale and heavy-eyed, with trembling fingers she opened the door. One of the night nurses stood outside. Helen caught her breath, while the nurse started a little at this sad-faced apparition.

"Don't be frightened, child," said the latter kindly, putting her hand on the girl's arm. "Your father is better. He has slept for three hours, and is now conscious, and he has asked for you."

It was lucky that the nurse had hold of Helen's arm, for, strung up as she was, the good news almost overcame her, and she staggered forward. But the necessity for self-command soon restored her to herself. A few minutes later she was kneeling by her father's side—such a changed father!—with her cheek pressed against his hand. On the other side stood Mrs. Desmond, bending over him. He opened his eyes, and they rested tenderly, lingeringly on Helen; then feebly taking his wife's hand he placed it in Helen's. After this, exhausted by the effort, he closed his eyes again, while an expression of contentment flitted over his face. He had given these two to one another. Whatever happened to him, surely Helen would be cared for now; his wife would learn to understand her for his sake.

Dimly Helen understood her father, and inwardly she registered a passionate vow of loyalty to his wishes. For the second time her clinging fingers closed round her stepmother's irresponsive hand. Mrs. Desmond made no movement. She accepted the charge, but she obstinately withheld the love that might have made that charge an easy one. The little wan figure creeping into the darkened room had had no power to move her. But the meeting between father and daughter, the quiet content that had come to her husband with Helen's presence and that all her tenderness had failed to produce, these things she noted with jealous eyes, and they gave a fresh impulse to her morbid feelings with regard to her stepdaughter. Even here, by the sick-bed, Helen was first. Colonel Desmond's first conscious request had been to see his child. The scene did not last long. Mrs. Desmond quickly, almost impatiently, motioned to Helen to go, and Helen obeyed unhesitatingly. Henceforward she told herself, as in the glad morning light she knelt in prayer for her father, there must be no more disobedience. If this awful shadow might pass away, if the consequences of her sin might be averted, her whole life should be spent in trying to redeem her fault. Pledges we often make, how lightly! But our little Helen was made of sterner stuff. Wilful and wayward as she was, there was a strain of that fibre in her, possibly an inheritance from some martyred Irish ancestor, from which saints and martyrs have been made. That, and the few following days of alternating hope and fear, were an ordeal which left a mark upon her never to be afterwards effaced. When, one morning, Dr. Russell himself came to her and told her that her father was out of danger, she received the news gravely, almost solemnly, for in the midst of her joy and thankfulness she could not forget that she had been, in a certain sense, taken at her word, and that her life was henceforth consecrated to the fulfilment of the promises she had made in her hour of distress.