The morning call., 1890-06-09
OUT OF THE DEEPS.

sT.HANK you. Miss Fawcett that will
XXX do. Now DR.. James and l are going
eyASS to consider about you. and then tell
your mother how she is to help you to get
well again."
There were four people In the room: Sir
William Parton, the great doctor, his con-
frere, Dr. James, with whom he was met in
consultation. Mrs. Fawcett, and the patient.
her only daughter, Helen Fawcett. girl Of
twenty-ons.
The girl looked up nervously, inqusi-
lively, with tremulOus fear in her face
and voice.
"Am lam I-very i'll ?''
Sir William looked at her face. at the
shining eyes with the diated pupils. the
quivering, sensitive mouth, then he took
both hands in his with pity. which he did
not show, in his heart.
"No. so i'll as you might be, my child;
but when we have finished our talk, and are
going TO tell Mrs. Fawcett how to take care
of you and prevent your doing yourself
harm, we mustn't have you listening, for
you are nervous enough to fancy you have
every illness under the SUM-"
"Then / shall get wel-soon."
i on lNusl uO US NOu are lOlu lHcli, AL
swered Sir William lightly, as he left the
room.
Keen observer as he was, he did not
notice how more terrible fear had grown
in the girls eyes as she found he avoided
direct answers. She saw, If the truth were
bad, it was no use to try and force II from
between those thin lips If the owner deemed
it better concealed. She and her mother
sat silent in suspense. as though each
dreaded TO hear the other speak, but when
Mrs. Fawcett had been summoned to join
the doctors, Helen burst out wildly to her
self, "lhey are deeeving me. l know they
think | shall die. Oh, God, can't, | ea'nt!'
She sat in that sickeDing, terrible dread,
with her hands pressed tenSely against her
forehead The moments seemed to drag
out their slow length like hours, till she
could bear it no longer The resolve Il will
know" was fierce in her heart; she stole
softly to the smaller drawing-rO room on the
other side of the staircase-the room opened
into the boudoir where she knew her
mother and the doctors were, and was
screened frCm it by 4 neavy velvet curtain,
through which Helen could hear-her
mothers sObS.
Passionate and uncontrolled, and in them
the girl knew her doom; but with the wild
terror and anguish within her, there awOke
a more piteous sorrow for her mother
grief, l0ve-oh. how dearl how neari-
for that mother who must lose her, whom
she must leave.
mo hope?" she heard Mrs. Fawcett ask
in broken, implorlng tone, then Sir Will
iam's voice in answer:
" wish | could give ii to you, but the
disease is so far advaDced-she may live
little longer, or little shorter period than
l expect"
ened; at last her mother spoke again, her
voice kept IeSulutely quiet:
How long can she Iiye?"
A few mOnthS-slX or eight. perhaps.
Mrs. FdwCett, il you know how 1 feel for
YOU. YOU would not think ME cruel; you
must know the truth-if you wish to keep
that poor girl with you as long as possible,
she must not know it-you must keep her
mind quiet and happy. Do you think you
can?"
A faint sob that meant yes"
And don't drag her from home; it can
do no good-elI tie Madeiras or Egypts in
the world wont save her, but quietness and
freedom from trouble may give her few
weeks more-that is why she must not
know"
"But she has hardly any cough" sobbed
Mrs. Fawcett. And people do live with
consumption Tor years aud years. can't
lose her-they do live"
mot in cases like hers-I wish l could say
otherwise"
Helen heard no more; the impulse to
comfort her mother with the sad comfort Of
clinging arms and bitter tears was so strong
she felt she should yield to it il she stayed.
There seemed TO be two Helens in her; the
girl who fels the chill shadows of the valley
of death closing round the life which had
been so dear and fair, and the girl whose
impulse was to help the mother who had
no husband to help heI bear her grief;
whose only daughter she was what
would she do without ber-with no girl left,
only the boys; one wrapped up in his wife
and two children, the other away in India?"
Helen knew her loss would break her
mothers life; did she realize that the bit
terness Of death would have been yet worse
had she thought her dying would be no en-
during pain to that mother?
She crept away silently. She met a ser
want on the staircase; her voice sounded
strange and hollow to herself rs she said;
Tell mamma, when the doctors have
gone, that am so tired have gone to lie
down"
Then she went up to her room and locked
herself in. AS she turned round she saw
her face in the glass, with wild hopeless
ness in il. bow ghastly it was, this face OF
girl who had to die. She hid it in her
hands, afraid to meet its look, and dull
stupor came over her. She was no longer
able to realize this stern late Which faced
her, veiled, yet real.
At last she reused herself. One thing was
certain, her mother must not guess that she
knew this. Their last months together-at
all events till the end drew very near-must
be as happy or rather as calm as they could
be. And Helen felt she could bear the dark
ness better alone, this strange darkness
that had suddenly yelled the world. She
feared even her mothers sympathy and
sorrow. What help or healing could avail
ner?
There was only one help she yearned for,
one hand, the touch of which could have
made her brave; one voice, loving tone of
which could have given her courage, even
If they had trebled her sense of passionate
less of sweet life.
AS she thought this she opened her locked
dressing-case and took therefrom q framed
photograph; for one minute she looked at
it as though to draw life from it through
her eyes, and then she kissed it wildly,
closely pressing her poor dry lips against
the cold glass, then holding it nestled
against her cheek. 1t had many time
been clasped close to her heart when she
slept; she had looked al it so often and so
long that she knew every faintcst and finest
line of the pictured face of his photograph,
offered careessly, accepted apparently as
lightly, but treasured as some faint type or
memory of the one who seemed to Helen
Fawcett to be the Whole meaning of her
life.
"Heen, dearw
The girl did not know how long she had
sat there; vito start she replaced her
treasure in its place. and opened the door
to her mother. Mrs. Fawcett'S voice trem-
bled very slightly, but she acted well as she
said:
"Well dear, why did you rush awayP
Were you SO frightened? You see you
needn't have been. You are TO rest and not
trouble, and get quite well again.
Quite well, said Helen. Really, man.
MAJ
YES" said the poor mother, not hearing
the sad under ring in her daughters voice,
and loving to cheat herself In deceivng the
child who was so dear to her. II mean to
cure you quicker than any doctor would; l
always could, you know"
The girl leant her head on her mothers
breast and felt the almost convulsive close
ness of her clasp with strange throb half
of self-compassion, half of pity for the ten
der, brave love which was so anxious at all
cost to shield its object from pain, yet so
helpless in the face of death.
Both women kept the bitter secret to
themselves-with self-repression which
Helen had inherited from Mrs. Fawcett;
and the latter never knew Of the times