“My God, how terrible!”

Helen came and stood before her with such grief and penitence in her countenance that for a moment it conquered the despair that had broken bounds.

“We should have told you this at first; I longed to do it, but I was afraid you’d go and leave me.  I was so lonely, so miserable, Christie.  I could not give you up when I had learned to love you; and I did learn very soon, for no wretched creature ever needed help and comfort more than I. For your sake I tried to be quiet, to control my shattered nerves, and hide rny desperate thoughts.  You helped me very much, and your unconsciousness made me doubly watchful.  Forgive me; don’t desert me now, for the old horror may be coming back, and I want you more than ever.”

Too much moved to speak, Christie held out her hands, with a face full of pity, love, and grief.  Poor Helen clung to them as if her only help lay there, and for a moment was quite still.  But not long; the old anguish was too sharp to be borne in silence; the relief of confidence once tasted was too great to be denied; and, breaking loose, she went to and fro again, pouring out the bitter secret which had been weighing upon heart and conscience for a year.

“You wonder that I hate my mother; let me tell you why.  When she was beautiful and young she married, knowing the sad history of my father’s family.  He was rich, she poor and proud; ambition made her wicked, and she did it after being warned that, though he might escape, his children were sure to inherit the curse, for when one generation goes free it falls more heavily upon the rest.  She knew it all, and yet she married him.  I have her to thank for all I suffer, and I cannot love her though she is my mother.  It may be wrong to say these things, but they are true; they burn in my heart, and I must speak out; for I tell you there comes a time when children judge their parents as men and women, in spite of filial duty, and woe to those whose actions change affection and respect to hatred or contempt.”

The bitter grief, the solemn fervor of her words, both touched and awed Christie too much for speech.  Helen had passed beyond the bounds of ceremony, fear, or shame:  her hard lot, her dark experience, set her apart, and gave her the right to utter the bare truth.  To her heart’s core Christie felt that warning; and for the first time saw what many never see or wilfully deny,—­the awful responsibility that lies on every man and woman’s soul forbidding them to entail upon the innocent the burden of their own infirmities, the curse that surely follows their own sins.

Sad and stern, as an accusing angel, that most unhappy daughter spoke: 

“If ever a woman had cause to repent, it is my mother; but she will not, and till she does, God has forsaken us.  Nothing can subdue her pride, not even an affliction like mine.  She hides the truth; she hides me, and lets the world believe I am dying of consumption; not a word about insanity, and no one knows the secret beyond ourselves, but doctor, nurse, and you.  This is why I was not sent away, but for a year was shut up in that room yonder where the door is always locked.  If you look in, you’ll see barred windows, guarded fire, muffled walls, and other sights to chill your blood, when you remember all those dreadful things were meant for me.”