Helbeck of Bannisdale, vol 1 | Page 7

my guest, it is only as a favour, to look after my sister."
Aloud he said:
"Augustina told me she could not hope to keep you for long."
"No!" said the girl sharply. "No! I must take up a profession. I have a
little money, you know, from papa. I shall go to Cambridge, or to
London, perhaps to live with a friend. Oh! you darling!--you

_darling_!"
Helbeck opened his eyes in amazement. Miss Fountain had sprung
from her seat, and thrown herself on her knees beside his old collie
Bruno. Her arms were round the dog's neck, and she was pressing her
cheek against his brown nose. Perhaps she caught her host's look of
astonishment, for she rose at once in a flush of some feeling she tried to
put down, and said, still holding the dog's head against her dress:
"I didn't know you had a dog like this. It's so like ours--you see--like
papa's. I had to give ours away when we left Folkestone. You dear, dear
thing!"--(the caressing intensity in the girl's young voice made Helbeck
shrink and turn away)--"now you won't kill my Fricka, will you? She's
curled up, such a delicious black ball, on my bed; you couldn't--you
couldn't have the heart! I'll take you up and introduce you--I'll do
everything proper!"
The dog looked up at her, with its soft, quiet eyes, as though it weighed
her pleadings.
"There," she said triumphantly. "It's all right--he winked. Come along,
my dear, and let's make real friends."
And she led the dog into the hall, Helbeck ceremoniously opening the
door for her.
She sat herself down in the oak settle beside the hall fire, where for
some minutes she occupied herself entirely with the dog, talking a sort
of baby language to him that left Helbeck absolutely dumb. When she
raised her head, she flung, dartlike, another question at her host.
"Have you many neighbours, Mr. Helbeck?"
Her voice startled his look away from her.
"Not many," he said, hesitating. "And I know little of those there are."
"Indeed! Don't you like--society?"

He laughed with some embarrassment. "I don't get much of it," he said
simply.
"Don't you? What a pity!--isn't it, Bruno? I like society
dreadfully,--dances, theatres, parties,--all sorts of things. Or I
did--once."
She paused and stared at Helbeck. He did not speak, however. She sat
up very straight and pushed the dog from her. "By the way," she said,
in a shrill voice, "there are my cousins, the Masons. How far are they?"
"About seven miles."
"Quite up in the mountains, isn't it?"
Helbeck assented.
"Oh! I shall go there at once, I shall go tomorrow," said the girl, with
emphasis, resting her small chin lightly on the head of the dog, while
she fixed her eyes--her hostile eyes--upon her host.
Helbeck made no answer. He went to fetch another log for the fire.
"Why doesn't he say something about them?" she thought angrily.
"Why doesn't he say something about papa?--about his illness?--ask me
any questions? He may have hated him, but it would be only decent. He
is a very grand, imposing person, I suppose, with his melancholy airs,
and his family. Papa was worth a hundred of him! Oh! past a quarter to
ten? Time to go, and let him have his prayers to himself. Augustina told
me ten."
She sprang up, and stiffly held out her hand.
"Good-night, Mr. Helbeck. I ought to go to Augustina and settle her for
the night. To-morrow I should like to tell you what the doctor said
about her; she is not strong at all. What time do you breakfast?"
"Half-past eight. But, of course----"

"Oh, no! of course Augustina won't come down! I will carry her up her
tray myself. Good-night."
Helbeck touched her hand. But as she turned away, he followed her a
few steps irresolutely, and then said: "Miss Fountain,"--she looked
round in surprise,--"I should like you to understand that everything that
can be done in this poor house for my sister's comfort, and yours, I
should wish done. My resources are not great, but my will is good."
He raised his eyelids, and she saw the eyes beneath, full, for the first
time,--eyes grey like her own, but far darker and profounder. She felt a
momentary flutter, perhaps of compunction. Then she thanked him and
went her way.
* * * * *
When she had made her stepmother comfortable for the night, Laura
Fountain went back to her room, shielding her candle with difficulty
from the gusts that seemed to tear along the dark passages of the old
house. The March rawness made her shiver, and she looked shrinkingly
into the gloom before her, as she paused outside her own door. There,
at the end of the passage, lay the old