Charity Helstone. A tale ... Third thousand

Chapter I

ItfjMjM STRANGE child was Charity Helstone, and Wswl$z) somewhat a strange lady was Charity's l^^^l godmother, who had had not a little to do with the early training and discipline of Charity's charaeter. Not that Mrs. Dorothy Helstone, or, as she was generally called, ' Aunt Dorothy,' had ever endeavoured to train or discipline her strange little godchild. No ! ' Aunt Dorothy ' was one of those characters who never seem to attempt to do anything, yet who, by some happy chance or other, are perpetually succeeding in accomplishing things, which, attempted by any one else, would probably have proved signal failures. A certain well-known miller in the village, who was about the most intelligent man in it, but, un fortunately, somewhat ' free ' as he called it, both in B his religious opinions and in his style of life, and, consequently, an object of very great solicitude to his clergyman, had actually given up his ' free opinions ' and his evil habits for ever, and become one of the most regular attendants at church, and one of the most steady men in the neighbourhood, since Mrs. Dorothy Helstone had entered into friendship with him.

No one knew how Mrs. Dorothy had set about the reformation. When he was questioned on the subject, he said he did not know himself. When she was questioned, she said precisely the same thing. All she had to tell about it was that, ' some how, it went against her very heart to see any one breaking God's law like that, and so she told him.' And all he could tell was that, ' somehow, Mrs. Dorothy Helstone, she corned down to his cottage, and . . . well . . . she was that persuading in her talk, she won him over.' And many another besides the miller had very much the same story to tell about Mrs. Dorothy. Young girls, who seemed careless of all besides their bonnets and their faces, had laid aside their follies and taken up their Bibles at Aunt Dorothy's entreaty. Young men, who turned a deaf ear to their Rector's warnings or their employers' threats, had been coaxed from the ale-house and drawn to the church by Aunt Dorothy's persuasions.

And little children, whom the parish schoolmaster had declared past all bearing and beyond all mending, had, somehow or other, learned, under Aunt Dorothy's influence, to sit quietly on their stools, refrain from mischief, and apply their eyes and their understandings to their books and samplers. That Mrs. Dorothy Helstone was a rich and rare blessing to the parish in which, for the last five-and twenty years, she had been living, was an acknowledged fact. She herself seemed the person least aware of it ; and yet, she herself sometimes allowed that it was so. When any one spoke to her of those over whom she had exercised such a strange and blessed influence, she would bend her head and say, ' The Lord be praised ! It is all His doing. To Him be all the glory ! ' When any one asked her how it was that she always seemed to succeed where others failed, she always had the same answer. 'That's just what I don't understand,' she would say : ' I don't mean that I can't understand why I should succeed, for that seems to me quite natural.

If I want a blessing, I ask for it, and I have it. It 's the Lord's promise that it should be so, and I always find that He keeps His word. It seems to me, that if others don't get what they want, it 's because they don't ask, or else, as the Bible says, "they ask amiss." But for my part, the experience of my life has all gone to prove that those who ask obtain ; and it 's a blessed experience — a very blessed experience. My life has been a happy one — thank God, a very happy one.' Many in the village had heard Aunt Dorothy speak thus of her own experience and her own life ; but no one had ever heard her say more than this concerning her past life. Where it had been spent, or in what its happiness had consisted, was unknown to all. Aunt Dorothy was a middle-aged lady when first she came to live in the village of Arlington, and that was five-and-twenty years ago.

There were deep lines in her face then, and they were all wrinkles now. There was a firm, compressed look about the benevolent mouth, which told the thoughtful observer that it had not spent all its strength in smiling, though it was so skilful at that art. There was a grave, fixed expression in the deep-set eyes, which told tales of tears that had never been seen. There was a shght nervous tremor in the quiet voice, a peculiar manner of folding the hands together, which all betokened that Aunt Dorothy's life had not always flowed in the same quiet stream in which it had gone since she came first to Arlington. Few remembered her first coming. To most of the inhabitants of the place it seemed as if Aunt Dorothy had always lived amongst them, and always been very much what she was now. But amongst the few who remembered her first coming: was the Rector of the parish, and well did he also remember the words she had said to him on the very first evening he had called upon her. ' My life has been a very sad one,' she said, quietly ; ' so sad, that I can never now speak of its trials without necessity.

But I can thank God for every one of them. And my life is not yet over. God has work for me to do, I know ; and I feel that He has been preparing me for it. I have come to settle here, because this place is full to me of early association, and early association gives strength and vigour to the shattered nerves ; so does distance from the scenes in which we have suffered; and so, still more, does work — work for God : for all other work, to those who have drunk deeply of life's sorrowful cup, all other work is weariness of both spirit and flesh. If you will give me work to do for God, I will seek in His strength to do it.' These had been Mrs. Dorothy Helstone's words to the Rector on that first evening of their acquaintance, and during the five-and-twenty years which that acquaintance had now lasted, the whole of Mrs. Doro thy's life had been in accordance with them.

At first the Rector supplied her with work, but for a very long time now work had seemed to supply itself. Mrs. Dorothy had grown to be as well-known a per son as the Rector himself. He himself would call her his curate, whilst his good wife often thanked the special Providence which had sent a friend like Mrs. Dorothy into the village, to do all the work there which her own kind heart would have led her to do herself, had not the charge of eight little children in her own home rendered it impossible for her to be very active out of it. It was to these eight little children that Mrs. Dorothy owed her title of ' Aunt Dorothy.' The Rector's children had been the first to bestow it upon her, and truly no veritable aunt could have better deserved the title at their hands. If their books were shabby and mamma had no time to mend them, they carried them up to the Ivy Cottage, and brought them home all neatly stitched and covered with nice brown calico by Aunt Dorothy's skilful fingers.

If any amongst them were ill, and Aunt Dorothy came down to the Rectory and found the over-worked mother pale and worn with a disturbed night, the result would surely be that next night, when the little voice asked for water, it was Aunt Dorothy's hand that supplied it ; whilst a kind voice told them that they must try and be patient, and not cry or disturb their dear mamma, who was sleeping in the next room. Wherever help was wanted, there was Aunt Dorothy ; night or day, no one was ever afraid to knock at her cottage-door and solicit aid, be the person who knocked who they might, or the hour midday or midnight. Doubtless it was to this fact that Aunt Dorothy owed the possession of her strange little godchild, Charity Helstone. For seven years ago, in the darkest hour of one of the darkest nights that the month of January could show, a loud knocking had been heard at Aunt Dorothy's door.

Old Betsy, the one servant who had come to Arlington with Mrs. Dorothy, and had lived with her ever since, had been the first to hear it, and starting up, had thrown open the window and inquired 'who in the world was knocking there at that unearthly hour ? ' To Betsy's surprise, the voice that answered was a familiar one, and no more formidable an one than that of good Mistress Bryce, who kept the village inn just round the corner : the nearest house it was, indeed, to Aunt Dorothy's cottage. ' It 's I, Betsy,' was the answer. ' I, Martha Bryce ; and you must come up to my house quick as you can get your clothes on, for I believe there 's a young woman dying there : and though I 've sent for the doctor, it will be ever such a time before he can be down, and there 's no one in the house but Bryce and me and Hester, and we want help, if ever creatures did.

So come as quick as you can, and let your good mistress come along with you. For, as my husband said, " Get Mrs. Dorothy, get Mrs. Dorothy ; she 's a host in herself, and she '11 be sick-nurse, and doctor, and parson all in one." ' Now old Betsy was one of those people who are never known to be quiet except when other people would be in a fuss. Morning, noon, and night, old Betsy was always in a fuss, and a decided annoyance this was to her quiet mistress ; but let something happen which would put most people into a fever, and Betsy was as composed as possible. Thus it was now. When Mrs. Bryce's sharp knocking first roused her she started up, and on hearing it repeated so rapidly she felt at once something serious was the matter, and opened her window with as composed a manner as though such nightly disturbances were the most usual occurrences in the world. ' I '11 come at once,' she said, on hearing what was wanted of her ; ' but I '11 not disturb my mistress.

She was up nearly all last night with the baby at the Rectory, and she '11 sleep in her bed this blessed night, as sure as my name 's Betsy ; and don't you be routing her out of it by any more noise.' And thus saying, old Betsy shut down the CHARTTY HELSTONE. window, and began to hurry on her clothes, saying to herself, as she did so — for talking to herself was one of Betsy's pet peculiarities — ' I dare say the woman's no more dying than I am; these people always cry wolf before they're hurt : and as for my mistress, I believe they think her public property — something that belongs to the parish, and that they have a right to wake her up out of her sleep, or call her off from her meals, whenever they 've a mind to do so. It 's a good thing for her, God bless her ! that she's got old Betsy to look after her, or I do be lieve there wouldn't be a bit of flesh left on her bones.

But I'm not going to wake her out of her sleep to-night — anyhow, not till I see for myself whether there 's any need to do so. The house is not so far off but that she can be fetched quickly enough if she's wanted.' And thus saying, Betsy opened her bedroom door ; and was preparing to descend the stairs very slowly and noiselessly, when, to her great annoyance, another door was opened opposite to hers, and another figure prepared to do the same. A very different figure from her own. The villagers used to say sometimes, that never was there a greater con trast than Mrs. Dorothy Helstone and her maid Betsy. And they said rightly. Not only were they different in appearance, for Mrs. Dorothy was tall and dignified in figure, with a calm, placid face, and deep-set, earnest blue eyes ; but they were yet more different in manner.

For if Betsy was never known to be still, Mrs. Dorothy never seemed to be agitated. Her step was always soft, her voice always low. The only signs of outward agitation, even the watchful eye of her good friend the Rector had ever observed in her, were an occasional heightening of the colour in her pale cheeks, and a nervous move ment of the hands, which she had a peculiar way of crossing on her lap, especially when deeply interested in anything. But these were trifling indications indeed, and passed, for the most part, unobserved. Most of the people who knew her would have declared that, happen what might, Mrs. Dorothy was always the same ; ready to enter into all that was going on around her, with the same kindness of heart, willingness of hand, and reality of interest, but herself seeming as though nothing had power either to depress or exhilarate her.

Betsy, on seeing her mistress, began a string of regretful and reproachful exclamations, which Mrs. Dorothy cut short by warning her that there was no time, perhaps, to lose ; and herself unfasten ing the front-door, and passing out into the dark street. A few minutes' walk, during which Betsy never ceased speaking, and her mistress did not utter one word, brought them to Bryce's house. Bryce was standing at the door himself, with a face that silenced even Betsy's tongue. He did not speak either, but pointed with his hand to the door at the top of the stairs, and Mrs. Dorothy and Betsy obeyed the signal. Mrs. Dorothy expected, from the man's manner, to meet death within ; but on opening the door, her eyes fell on a living face, yet with an unmistakeable look upon it that told her at once life would hold but short possession there.

A very young woman lay evidently dying, and apparently unconscious, whilst good Mrs. Bryce stood beside the bed, wiping from the pale forehead the cold perspiration that was rapidly gathering there. At a little distance stood Hester Bryce, the innkeeper's only daughter, and in her arms a little new-born baby. No one spoke ; but Mrs. Bryce turned her eyes from the dying woman to Mrs. Dorothy, as much as to say, that it was too late to think of doing anything now. ' She 's just passing,' she said ; and at the word Mrs. Dorothy drew near the bed, and kneeling down she prayed aloud, in a low, yet distinct voice. Whether the woman had been conscious before, but had not cared to speak, or whether it was only now that she regained consciousness, they never knew ; but as Mrs. Dorothy prayed, she turned her eyes, which from being now set in a face from which almost all the flesh and every shade of colour had departed, looked unearthly in their largeness, full on Mrs. Dorothy's face ; and it was evident from the expression in them that she was perfectly sensible.

Mrs. Dorothy rose from her knees and stood by the bedside. The young woman never took her eyes off her. Mrs. Dorothy spoke in a low voice, asked her if she knew how ill she was ; if her mind was at at peace. There was no answer. 'Bring the baby, Hester,' said Mrs. Bryce ; 'that may rouse her. She has never spoken since its birth,' she said, turning to Mrs. Dorothy ; ' she just seemed passing away without care or thought of any thing.' Mrs. Dorothy took the little thing, and laid it gently by the mother's side, and then the large eyes were removed from Mrs. Dorothy's face and fixed upon the child. But the expression in them changed, and was troubled, melancholy, instead of, as it had been, piteous and appealing. ' What is it ? ' she asked ; ' a boy ? ' 'No,' said Mrs. Bryce, 'it's a little girl.' ' Thank God ! ' she said : ' oh, thank God ! ' No one dared ask why ; and even Mrs. Dorothy was doubtful what to say or do, when the poor woman again turned her eyes to her and said, ' Pray ! pray again ! ' And Mrs. Dorothy prayed a few earnest words, that ' unfeigned repentance might be given for all the errors of a past life, with steadfast faith in the Lord Jesus, so that all sins might be done away by God's mercy, and pardon sealed in heaven.' The eyes brightened whilst this prayer was being offered, and when Mrs. Dorothy again paused the woman said, with heightened colour, and a degree of strength and excitement in the voice which made them doubtful whether consciousness was not again leaving her, — ' Thank you, thank you !

I like that prayer. They read it over my mother — my poor, poor mother ! I never forgot it. I 've looked it out in the Prayer-book since, and read about repenting of errors past, and getting a pardon. It 's a long while since I've been to church; but I haven't lost my Bible nor my Prayer-book. They're safely at home, now. But when shall I be there again ? And the baby ! ah ! let the baby have the books — the Bible and the Prayer-book.' Then, with brightened colour and an eager voice, she fixed her eyes full on Mrs. Dorothy, and said, 'The Prayer-book has got the mark stdl at the Marriage Service. I know that service by heart. You'll find a line marked under that sentence, " Those whom God hath joined together let not man put asunder." Let the baby have the book. I knew I should die when this time should come.

You'll find the sentence marked plain enough. And there's another sentence marked. It isn't marked there, but it's written on my heart — I wish I could write it on my baby's — "Those whom God hath set asunder let not man put together." Yes,' she repeated, ' " those whom God had put .asunder let not man join together." ' They were the last words she uttered, or rather, the last connected sentence. She sank back, apparently exhausted with the effort, and all further attempts to rouse her were in vain. Bending over her, Mrs. Dorothy caught some faintly muttered words about ' errors past,' and ' pardon;' but all was indistinct; and a few minutes later, Mrs. Dorothy, old Betsy, Mrs. Bryce, and her daughter Hester, stood round the bed on which lay a pale, dead young mother, and a little, living, sleeping infant.

Whose property was it ? What was to be done with it ? No one knew aught of tho CHARITY HF.LSTONE. mother, save that she had come there that night, and implored them to take her in ' for pity's sake.' There was no paper about her ; no mark even on any thing she wore, save the initials, 'C. H.,' to show what was her name. Mrs. Bryce said she had inquired her name, but the woman had refused to tell ; and only said she should soon have none — and a good thing, too. She had become too ill to be questioned almost immediately after her arrival ; and the only other question Mrs. Bryce had been able to induce her to answer was, when she had asked ' what would become of the child?' and she had replied, 'God would take care of it — certainly she had no one in this world whom she could send it to. But there was a God above, and she left it to Him.' It was whilst Mrs. Bryce was saying this that old Betsy first observed how ill her mistress had be come.

Mrs. Dorothy, generally so calm, was shaking now from head to foot. She tried to compose her self, but allowed that she was ill, and made no objection when Betsy led her out of the room ; and Mrs. Bryce following, made her lie down on the sofa in the parlour, and covered her with blankets, for her very teeth were chattering, and she was shivering all over. But when the doctor shortly after arrived, and found the patient he had come five miles to see had passed beyond all human skill, and Mrs. Bryce wished Mrs. Dorothy to see him, she positively refused to do so, saying he could do her no good. And Betsy, anxious as she always was about her mistress, did not second Mrs. Bryce's request. ' It was a nervous attack,' she said ; ' and would pass off. Her mistress had had them before, but not for a long time.' No ; for it had been a long time since anything had so shaken Mrs. Dorothy's whole nervous system as had the scene which had just taken place.

A trying, harrowing scene it would have been to any one ; but to Mrs. Dorothy it seemed something personal, and old Betsy, though she said nothing, seemed quite to understand that it should be so. She attempted no word of comfort, ready as she generally was with her words ; but, after having covered her up warmly on good Mrs. Bryce's best parlour sofa, she left her alone for some time, and would allow no one to go near the room ; saying, in reply to Mrs. Bryce's repeated declaration, that ' it was a downright sin to leave any one by herself who had been as ill as Mrs. Dorothy ;' that ' she knew her mistress better than they did.' Which was evidently true ; for on Betsy's going to the room about an hour after wards she found Mrs. Dorothy, looking paler and more worn than usual, certainly, but perfectly composed and quiet.

Betsy never inquired how she felt, but merely announced that the kitchen kettle was boiling, and she would bring her some tea directly. And Mrs. Dorothy said ' Thank you, Betsy : but this is not the time to be thinking first of me. Where is that poor baby ? ' ' Hester has it, ma'am ; and Mrs. Bryce has dressed it up all comfortable in the clothes the mother had ready in a parcel : there were plenty of them, and all of the very best. It 's plain the poor creature was of the better class.' ' I saw that from her appearance,' replied Mrs. Dorothy : ' her hands were too white to have ever known much work.' ' They were thin enough,' said Betsy. 'Did you observe, ma'am, how large the wedding-ring was ? By-the-bye, I must speak to Mrs. Bryce about the ring being kept safe.' ' I have it here, Betsy,' said Mrs. Dorothy. ' I drew it from her finger when I found that it was falling from the cold hand, for which it had grown, as you see, so much too large.

We will not talk now of it, or of her, but as soon as it is light let Mr. Saville be sent for. And now I will go to the room, Betsy ; whatever remains to be done for that poor creature, it is for us to do it. And the child ' ' She left it to God, poor thing ! ' said Betsy. ' And has not God given it in charge to us ? ' said Mrs. Dorothy ; ' and shall we not receive it from Him, and in His grace do our duty by it ? ' Thus it was that Mrs. Dorothy Helstone came to adopt as her own a little nameless orphan. The following Sunday a christening interrupted the course of the service, and old Betsy, with a baby in her arms — a sight never before seen — approached the font, followed by Mrs. Dorothy and the Rector's wife. They, with the Rector, were the sponsors, and on Mrs. Dorothy's being desired to name the child, she pronounced the words ' Charity Helstone.' As she had said to Mrs. Savdle the evening before, ' Helstone ' might be a help to her in other days, and might make the title of ' Aunt Dorothy, ' by which she should teach her to call her, come more natural ; and ' H.' was one of the initial letters on the mother's linen. ' C. H.' was marked there, and ' C. H.' alone marked that grave where the young mother now lay, with the date of her death, and the words, ' His compassions fail not.' ' Let the other initial, then, be for Charity,' Mrs. Dorothy had said, ' and they would seek God's grace to train the child in such a way that her character and conduct might be in accordance with those virtues, the greatest of which was charity.' So the baby was named Charity, and by no other name did either ' Aunt Dorothy ' or Betsy ever call her. ' Cherrie,' indeed, was her own abbrevi ation of it, and ' Cherrie ' she was generally called by others.

Even the Rector would sometimes be heard to adopt the more familiar epithet, and when taken to task for so doing hy Mrs. Dorothy, he would excuse himself by saying that really, just at present, there was more of the cherry than of anything else about her, and the shorter seemed the more appro priate title. Which was true, for a more rosy, bright, tempting little morsel to behold, it would have been difficult to discover ; whilst her character end conduct were such that she was a constant tor ment and trouble to every one : so impossible to teach, so untameable, so uncontrollable, so domi neering, that it was difficult to connect her with her name — unless, indeed, it was to be by allow ing that name to remind others of the charity which they needs must exercise in their dealings with her.

Chapter II

3SPEVEN years old to-day, Miss Charity!' "rK^lif sa^ Betsy to her little charge, as she -;SBP-a|| drew near her co^ evidently with the in tention of ' getting her up,' as she called it. ' This is your birthday, Miss ; and you '11 like to be up before Aunt Dorothy comes out of her room, won't you ? ' ' No, I won't ! ' was the reply. ' I '11 like to stop here till Aunt Dorothy comes in ; and nobody 's going to touch me but her on my birthday.' 'Oh, but, Miss,' expostulated Betsy, whose one idea of managing the child was by what she termed ' coming round her ; ' a system which she persisted in pursuing, though both Mrs. Dorothy's counsel and her own experience were for ever telling her that it was the very worst in the world, — ' Oh, but, Miss, you know Aunt Dorothy 's ill. She went to bed very ill last night, and I felt sure you 'd like to be a very good girl this morning, and be up and dressed with out any trouble at all — on your birthday, too, when c you 're seven years old.

Come, my dear, put on your shoes and stockings, and do be a good girl, just to please me : don't you wish to please me ? " ' No, I don't ! ' exclaimed Charity, throwing at the same time the shoes and stockings which Betsy had presented to her to the other end of the room. ' No, indeed, I don't want to please you, for I hate you ! ' ' Miss Charity ! ' said Betsy, in extreme astonish ment ; for, though she was accustomed to such as surances with regard to Charity's feelings towards her, when those feelings were roused by anger, it was something quite new to hear such a pleasant declaration from her charge the first thing in the morning, before she had done anything whatever to displease her. ' What ! hate me ? old Betsy, who am so good to you ! ' ' Good to me ! ' exclaimed Charity ; ' indeed you're not good to me.

You 're wicked, that 's what you are ; and it 's right to hate you, for we ought to hate liars ; and you 're a liar.' ' Me a liar ? ' exclaimed Betsy. ' You wicked, wicked chdd ! I '11 tell your aunt, Miss Charity, that I will, the very moment she comes out of her room. Nice news for me to have to tell her, the very first thing, on your birthday ! But I shall tell her, and what will she say then ? ' ' She '11 say it 's true,' replied the chdd. ' Aunt Dorothy doesn't tell lies ; if she did, I wouldn't love her. But you do, Betsy : you 're a liar, and you shan't dress me to-day. I never mean to let you dress me again, and I wish you 'd go away. I won't get up with you — there ! I won't get up till Aunt Dorothy comes.' This being Charity's resolution, old Betsy knew perfectly well that, chdd as she was, she would adhere to it ; therefore, leaving the shoes and stockings where Charity had thrown them, at the further end of the room, she went down-stairs to fetch the hot water to carry to her mistress.