“O Freude, habe Acht!     Sprich leise,
  Dass nicht der Schmerz erwacht!”
 
It was late on the afternoon of the day that Helen's father had left for home, and David was going into the village with some letters to mail. Helen was not feeling very well herself and could not go, but she insisted upon his going, for she watched over his exercise and other matters of health with scrupulous care. She had wrapped him up in a heavy overcoat, and was kneeling beside his chair with her arms about him.
“Tell me, dear,” she asked him, for the third or fourth time, “are you sure this will be enough to keep you warm?—for the nights are so very cold, you know; I do not like you to come back alone anyway.”
“I don't think you would be much of a protection against danger,” laughed David.
“But it will be dark when you get back, dear.”
“It will only be about dusk,” was the reply; “I don't mind that.”
Helen gazed at him wistfully for a minute, and then she went on: “Do you not know what is the matter with me, David? You frightened me to-day, and I cannot forget what you said. Each time that it comes to my mind it makes me shudder. Why should you say such fearful things to me?”
“I am very sorry,” said the other, gently.
“You simply must not talk to me so!” cried the girl; “if you do you will make me so that I cannot bear to leave you for an instant. For those thoughts make my love for you simply desperate, David; I cry out to myself that I never have loved you enough, never told you enough!” And then she added pleadingly, “But oh, you know that I love you, do you not, dear? Tell me.”
“Yes, I know it,” said the other gently, taking her in his arms and kissing her.
“Come back soon,” Helen went on, “and I will tell you once more how much I do; and then we can be happy again, and I won't be afraid any more. Please let me be happy, won't you, David?”
“Yes, love, I will,” said the man with a smile. “I do not think that I was wise ever to trouble you.”
Helen was silent for a while, then as a sudden thought occurred to her she added: “David, I meant to tell you something—do you know if those horrible thoughts keep haunting me, it is just this that they will make me do; you said that God was very good, and so I was thinking that I would show him how very much I love you, how I could really never get along without you, and how I care for nothing else in the world. It seems to me to be such a little thing, that we should only just want to love; and truly, that is all I do want,—I would not mind anything else in the world,—I would go away from this little house and live in any poor place, and do all the work, and never care about anything else at all, if I just might have you. That is really true, David, and I wish that you would know it, and that God would know it, and not expect me to think of such dreadful things as you talk of.”
As David gazed into her deep, earnest eyes he pressed her to him with a sudden burst of emotion. “You have me now, dearest,” he whispered, “and oh, I shall trust the God who gave me this precious heart!”—He kissed her once more in fervent love, and kissed her again and again until the clouds had left her face. She leaned back and gazed at him, and was radiant with delight again. “Oh—oh—oh!” she cried. “David, it only makes me more full of wonder at the real truth! For it is the truth, David, it is the truth—that you are all mine! It is so wonderful, and it makes me so happy,—I seem to lose myself more in the thought every day!”
“You can never lose yourself too much, little sweetheart,” David whispered; “let us trust to love, and let it grow all that it will. Helen, I never knew what it was to live until I met you,—never knew how life could be so full and rich and happy. And never, never will I be able to tell you how much I love you, dearest soul.”
“Oh, but I believe you without being told!” she said, laughing. “Do you know, I could make myself quite mad just with saying over to myself that you love me all that I could ever wish you to love me, all that I could imagine you loving me! Isn't that true, David?”
“Yes, that is true,” the man replied.
“But you don't know what a wonderful imagination I have,” laughed the girl, “and how hungry for your love I am.” And she clasped him to her passionately and cried, “David, you can make me too happy to live with that thought! I shall have to think about it all the time that you are gone, and when you come back I shall be so wonderfully excited,—oh—oh, David!”
Then she laughed eagerly and sprang up. “You must not stay any longer,” she exclaimed, “because it is getting late; only hurry back, because I can do nothing but wait for you.” And so she led him to the door, and kissed him again, and then watched him as he started up the road. He turned and looked at her, as she leaned against the railing of the porch, with the glory of the sunset falling upon her hair; she made a radiant picture, for her cheeks were still flushed, and her bosom still heaving with the glory of the thought she had promised to keep. There was so much of her love in the look which she kept upon David that it took some resolution to go on and leave her.
As for Helen, she watched him until he had quite disappeared in the forest, after which she turned and gazed across the lake at the gold and crimson mountains. But all the time she was still thinking the thought of David's love; the wonder of it was still upon her face, and it seemed to lift her form; until at last she stretched wide her arms, and leaned back her head, and drank a deep draft of the evening air, whispering aloud, “Oh, I do not dare to be as happy as I can!” And she clasped her arms upon her bosom and laughed a wild laugh of joy.
Later on, because it was cold, she turned and went into the house, singing a song to herself as she moved. As she went to the piano and sat down she saw upon the rack the little springtime song of Grieg's that was the first thing she had ever heard upon David's violin; she played a few bars of it to herself, and then she stopped and sat still, lost in the memory which it brought to her mind of the night when she had sat at the window and listened to it, just after seeing Arthur for the last time. “And to think that it was only four or five months ago!” she whispered to herself. “And how wretched I was!”
“I do not believe I could ever be so unhappy again,” she went on after a while, “I know that I could not, while I have David!” after which her thoughts came back into the old, old course of joy. When she looked at the music again the memory of her grief was gone, and she read in it all of her own love-glory. She played it through again, and afterwards sat quite still, until the twilight had begun to gather in the room.
Helen then rose and lit the lamp, and the fire in the open fire-place; she glanced at the clock and saw that more than a quarter of an hour had passed, and she said to herself that it could not be more than that time again before David was back.
“I should go out and meet him if I were feeling quite strong,” she added as she went to the door and looked out; then she exclaimed suddenly: “But oh, I know how I can please him better!” And the girl went to the table where some of her books were lying, and sat down and began very diligently studying, glancing every half minute at the clock and at the door. “I shall be too busy even to hear him!” she said, with a sudden burst of glee; and quite delighted with the effect that would produce she listened eagerly every time she fancied she heard a step, and then fixed her eyes upon the book, and put on a look of most complete absorption.
Unfortunately for Helen's plan, however, each time it proved to be a false alarm; and so the fifteen minutes passed completely, and then five, and five again. The girl had quite given up studying by that time, and was gazing at the clock, and listening to its ticking, and wondering very much indeed. At last when more than three-quarters of an hour had passed since David had left, she got up and went to the door once more to listen; as she did not hear anything she went out on the piazza, and finally to the road. All about her was veiled in shadow, which her eyes strove in vain to pierce; and so growing still more impatient she raised her voice and called, “David, David!” and then stood and listened to the rustling of the leaves and the faint lapping of the water on the shore.
“That is very strange,” Helen thought, growing very anxious indeed; “it is fearfully strange! What in the world can have happened?” And she called again, with no more result that before; until with a sudden resolution she turned and passed quickly into the house, and flinging a wrap about her, came out and started down the road. Occasionally she raised her voice and shouted David's name, but still she got no reply, and her anxiety soon changed into alarm, and she was hurrying along, almost in a run. In this way she climbed the long ascent which the road made from the lake shore; and when she had reached the top of it she gathered her breath and shouted once more, louder and more excitedly than ever.
This time she heard the expected reply, and found that David was only a few rods ahead of her. “What is the matter?” she called to him, and as he answered that it was nothing, but to come to him, she ran on more alarmed than ever.
There was just light enough for her to see that David was bending down; and then as she got very near she saw that on the ground in front of him was lying a dark, shadowy form. As Helen cried out again to know what was the matter, her husband said, “Do not be frightened, dear; it is only some poor woman that I have found here by the roadside.”
“A woman!” the girl echoed in wonder, at the same time giving a gasp of relief at the discovery that her husband was not in trouble. “Where in the world can she have come from, David?”
“I do not know,” he answered, “but she probably wandered off the main road. It is some poor, wretched creature, Helen; she has been drinking, and is quite helpless.”
And Helen stood still in horror, while David arose and came to her. “You are out of breath, dear,” he exclaimed, “why did you come so fast?”
“Oh, I was so frightened!” the girl panted. “I cannot tell you, David, what happens in my heart whenever I think of your coming to any harm. It was dreadful, for I knew something serious must be the matter.”
David put his arm about her and kissed her to quiet her fears; then he said, “You ought not to have come out, dear; but be calm now, for there is nothing to worry you, only we must take care of this poor woman. It is such a sad sight, Helen; I wish that you had not come here.”
“What were you going to do?” asked the girl, forgetting herself quickly in her sympathy.
“I meant to come down and tell you,” was David's reply; “and then go back to town and get someone to come and take her away.”
“But, David, you can never get back over that rough road in the darkness!” exclaimed Helen in alarm; “it is too far for you to walk, even in the daytime—I will not let you do it, you must not!”
“But dear, this poor creature cannot be left here; it will be a bitter cold night, and she might die.”
Helen was silent for a moment in thought, and then she said in a low, trembling voice: “David, there is only one thing to do.”
“What is that, dear?” asked the other.
“We will have to take her home with us.”
“Do you know what you are saying?” asked the other with a start; “that would be a fearful thing to do, Helen.”
“I cannot help it,” she replied, “it is the only thing. And it would be wicked not to be willing to do that, because she is a woman.”
“She is in a fearful way, dear,” said the other, hesitatingly; “and to ask you to take care of her—”
“I would do anything sooner than let you take that walk in such darkness as this!” was the girl's reply; and with that statement she silenced all of his objections.
And so at last David pressed her hand, and whispered, “Very well, dear, God will bless you for it.” Then for a while the two stood in silence, until Helen asked, “Do you think that we can carry her, poor creature?”
“We may try it,” the other replied; and Helen went and knelt by the prostrate figure. The woman was muttering to herself, but she seemed to be quite dazed, and not to know what was going on about her. Helen did not hesitate any longer, but bent over and strove to lift her; the woman was fortunately of a slight build, and seemed to be very thin, so that with David's help it was easy to raise her to her feet. It was a fearful task none the less, for the poor wretch was foul with the mud in which she had been lying, and her wet hair was streaming over her shoulders; as Helen strove to lift her up the head sunk over upon her, but the girl bit her lips together grimly. She put her arm about the woman's waist, and David did the same on the other side, and so the three started, stumbling slowly along in the darkness.
“Are you sure that it is not too much for you?” David asked; “we can stop whenever you like, Helen.”
“No, let us go on,” the girl said; “she has almost no weight, and we must not leave her out here in the cold. Her hands are almost frozen now.”
They soon made their way on down to where the lights of the little cottage shone through the trees. David could not but shrink back as he thought of taking their wretched burden into their little home, but he heard the woman groan feebly, and he was ashamed of his thought. Nothing more was said until they had climbed the steps, not without difficulty, and had deposited their burden upon the floor of the sitting room; after which David rose and sank back into a chair, for the strain had been a heavy one for him.
Helen also sprang up as she gazed at the figure; the woman was foul with every misery that disease and sin can bring upon a human creature, her clothing torn to shreds and her face swollen and stained. She was half delirious, and clawing about her with her shrunken, quivering hands, so that Helen exclaimed in horror: “Oh God, that is the most dreadful sight I have ever seen in my life!”
“Come away,” said the other, raising himself from the chair; “it is not right that you should look at such things.”
But with Helen it was only a moment before her pity had overcome every other emotion; she knelt down by the stranger and took one of the cold hands and began chafing it. “Poor, poor woman!” she exclaimed; “oh, what misery you must have suffered! David, what can a woman do to be punished like this? It is fearful!”
It was a strange picture which the two made at that moment, the woman in her cruel misery, and the girl in her pure and noble beauty. But Helen had no more thought of shrinking, for all her soul had gone out to the unfortunate stranger, and she kept on trying to bring her back to consciousness. “Oh, David,” she said, “what can we do to help her? It is too much that any human being should be like this,—she would have died if we had not found her.” And then as the other opened her eyes and struggled to lift herself, Helen caught an incoherent word and said, “I think she is thirsty, David; get some water and perhaps that will help her. We must find some way to comfort her, for this is too horrible to be. And perhaps it is not her fault, you know,—who knows but perhaps some man may have been the cause of it all? Is it not dreadful to think of, David?”
So the girl went on; her back was turned to her husband, and she was engrossed in her task of mercy, and did not see what he was doing. She did not see that he had started forward in his chair and was staring at the woman; she did not see him leaning forward, farther and farther, with a strange look upon his face. But there was something she did see at last, as the woman lifted herself again and stared first at Helen's own pitying face, and then vaguely about the room, and last of all gazing at David. Suddenly she stretched out her arms to him and strove to rise, with a wild cry that made Helen leap back in consternation:—“David! It's David!”
And at the same instant David spr............