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Updated: June 19, 2025
At least she would be with those whom he had loved, and who, she did not doubt, still loved him, believing him still alive. She could not go to the curate, but she could go to the Polwarths; no one would blame her for that-except indeed George. But even George should not come between her and what mere show of communion with Poldie was left her!
There, with the help of the household, she might have a chance of concealing him a poor one, certainly! but here, how was she even to keep him to the house in his raving fits? "Poldie, dear!" she said, "you must come with me. I am going to take you to my own room, where I can nurse you properly, and need not leave you. Do you think you could walk as far?" "Walk! Yes quite well: why not?"
Certainly he had always dreaded the place, but never a word of that sort had he said to her. Yet there was a shadow of possible comfort in the thought for, what if the whole thing should prove an hallucination! But whether real or not, she must have his story. "Come, dearest Poldie, darling brother!" she said, "you have not yet told me what it is. What is the terrible thing you have done?
And the sister who, all the time of the sermon, had been filled with wave upon wave of wishing that Poldie could hear this, could hear that, could have such a thought to comfort him, such a lovely word to drive the horror from his soul, now cast on him a chilly glance, and said never a word of the things to which she had listened with such heavings of the spirit-ocean; for she felt, with an instinct more righteous than her will, that they would but strengthen him in his determination to do whatever the teacher of them might approve.
"Oh Poldie! my own Poldie!" she cried at length, and fell upon her knees not-to worship the sky not to pray to Poldie, or even for Poldie not indeed to pray at all, so far as she knew; yet I doubt if it was merely and only from the impulse of the old childish habit of saying prayers. But in a moment she grew restless. There was no Poldie! She rose and walked about the room.
Then she put a dark shawl over her head, and fastened it under her chin. Her white face shone out from it like the moon from a dark cloud. "Follow me, Poldie," she said, and putting out the candles, went to the window. He obeyed without question, carrying the loaf she had put into his hands. The window-sash rested on a little door; she opened it, and stepped on the balcony.
"Poldie, dear," she said, "be calm and reasonable, and I will do all I can for you. Here, take this. And now, answer me one question" "You won't give me up, Helen?" "No. I will not." "Swear it, Helen." "Ah, my poor Poldie! is it come to this between you and me?" "Swear it, Helen." "So help me God, I will not!" returned Helen, looking up.
"Nonsense, dear Poldie! it was all fancy nothing more," she returned, in a voice almost as hollow as his; and the lightness of the words uttered in such a tone jarred dismayfully on her own ear. "Fancy!" he repeated; "I know what fancy is as well as any man or woman born: THAT was no fancy. She stood there, by the wardrobe in the same dress! her face as white as her dress! And listen!
"Helen!" he said again, and he spoke with a strange expression in his voice, for it seemed that of hope, "I have been thinking all day of what you told me on Sunday." "What was that, Poldie?" asked Helen with a pang of fear. "Why, those words of course what else? You sang them to me afterwards, you know. Helen, I should like to see Mr. Wingfold. Don't you think he might be able to do something?"
Searching the newspapers, Helen heard that a week had elapsed between the "mysterious murder of a young lady in Yorkshire" and the night on which he came to her window. "Well, Poldie, after all I would rather be you than she!" cried Helen indignantly, when she had learned the whole story. It was far from the wisest thing to say, but she meant it, and clasped her brother to her bosom.
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