We must now endeavour to give the picture of a woman's mind under deep affliction, as a contrast to that which we have drawn of a man suffering from similar sorrow. Juliet Carr sat sad and lonely in her own room at Yelverly, meditating over lost happiness and bitter disappointment. Her father's health was better--that is to say, he was stronger, able to rise, and go about in the immediate neighbourhood, though the surgeon shook his head, warned him that no great exertions must be made, and gave Juliet herself to understand that Mr. Carr was still in a very precarious state. It was a great relief to her, however, to see his health even so far improved, for it removed the necessity of making that anxious struggle to do her duty towards him, by tending him in sickness, which she never failed in, notwithstanding his unwillingness to receive her attention, or be indebted to her care.
She sat, then, lonely in her chamber, thinking over her fate, and it must be acknowledged that sad indeed were all her feelings, and deep was the depression that rested on her mind. But very, very different was her endurance of the sorrow from that of Morley Ernstein. She was sensible that her happiness was gone for ever, her brightest hopes disappointed, the treasured affections of her heart, the first deep, earnest love of her young spirit cast away upon the ocean of Time--one of all the manifold things which in the course of the world are wrecked and perish in that engulfing sea. She felt her fate in all its bitterness, but she writhed not under the pang; she knew that it is woman's lot to endure, and she prepared her mind for a life of endurance. She wept often, it is true, but she prayed often, too. She prayed not only for herself, but for him whose peace was shipwrecked with her own--she prayed that God might give him happiness, consolation, relief--that the grief which had befallen him might not drive his impetuous nature to seek for amusement or occupation in paths of danger or of wrong--nay more, that he might find others to cheer and to support him--that his fate might be brighter than her own--that he might not remember, nor feel, nor love as long as she must do.
For her own part her mind was made up; the day-dream of life was over to her; she asked nothing, she expected nothing from the future. All the aspirations of the young heart were at an end, and though she might expect some pleasures of a certain kind--in the doing good to others, the wiping away some tears, the relief of sorrows, the comforting and the consoling of the poor and the distressed--she dreamt of nothing more. She was well contented, indeed, to bound her hopes to the being an instrument in the hands of God to benefit her fellow-creatures; and if imagination did present a vision to her mind of anything like real joy for herself, if her heart did lift a prayer to Heaven for anything like individual gratification, it embraced but one bright object, it implied but one earnest petition that the time might sooner or later come when she should be of some use to him she loved--that she might have some opportunity of showing him the undying, the unchanging affection which existed in her heart. Oh! with what delight she sometimes dreamed of the possibility of following his footsteps unseen through the world, of hovering round him like a protecting spirit, warding off from him dangers and difficulties, shielding him from malice, enmity, and strife, guarding him against others--perhaps against himself! Such, for a moment, would sometimes be the waking vision of Juliet Carr; but then she would endeavour to shut it out.--It seemed too bright, too happy, for her to believe that anything so joyful could yet be in store for her.
These, then, reader, were the feelings of the woman's heart under the same affliction which had produced very different sensations in Morley Ernstein. He, it is true, longed for the happiness of Juliet Carr, even independent of himself; his voice would ever have been ready to defend her, his arm to protect; he would have gone to strife, and to certain death to procure her even a moment's happiness; but with his endurance of his own grief was mingled a bitterness and a repining which made him writhe and struggle under it. The character of man, born for effort and exertion, destined and taught to resist and to strive, rendered it scarcely possible for him to bow with resignation like hers to the stroke that separated them; there was anger mingled with the tears that he shed, and wrath was in his heart as well as sorrow.
Morley, however, had the world to go to for relief and for occupation. Juliet, in this respect, was far more unfortunate than he was, for she had nothing to take off the first edge of her sorrow; there was no variety in her existence, there was no one object to turn her thoughts from herself. Her father--though the sort of habitual respect with which he was accustomed to treat her, prevented him from breaking forth even into an angry word, nevertheless regarded her, when they met, with a stern and an enquiring eye; and the continual presence of the youth, William Barham, drove her often to seek the refuge of her own chamber, in order to avoid society which she did not like, and which every day was becoming more and more unpleasant to her.
From motives, and with views which Juliet could in no degree divine, Mr. Carr used to indulge the weak, idle, selfish youth whom he had taken into the house, in every sort of whim and fancy. He, who was usually so parsimonious, refused the young man nothing that he desired, and an evident taste for drinking soon manifested itself in his unpromising protégé. Mr. Carr caused him to be supplied with wine, or spirits, or whatever he might think necessary, taking a note, indeed, of every farthing of expense, but still with a degree of liberality which astonished all who witnessed his proceedings. It may be easily supposed, that the sort of unlimited command which the youth had over everything in the house, was not only unpleasant to Juliet personally, but also was painful for her to witness, from the evil effects it was evidently producing upon the brother of Helen Barham.
In one of her letters to Helen, who still remained with Lady Malcolm, Juliet, after much hesitation, mentioned the facts and her apprehensions; and about four days afterwards, while her father and William Barham were both out, she suddenly heard the rolling of wheels, and the moment after her maid ran in to tell her that Miss Barham had just arrived from London.
Juliet went down in haste, and the meeting between Helen Barham and herself was like that of two sisters. In regard to human affections--as indeed in regard to almost everything else--time is a mere relative term; for there are circumstances and situations which bind heart to heart in a few hours by ties more strong than can be woven by the intimacy of a lifetime. It is alone upon the deceitfulness of the world that is grounded the sad necessity of choosing slowly and thoughtfully the friends of the heart; but there are cases where the inmost secrets of the bosom are so clearly displayed that caution may be well done away; and generally it is in such cases that those circumstances exist which draw us irresistibly towards another, and teach us at once to love and to esteem.
So had it been with Helen Barham and Juliet Carr. In a few days--nay, in a few hours, they had known each other well, and loved each other dearly; and if in the character of Helen Barham there were points which Juliet grieved for, yet they were points which excited tenderness and pity rather than condemnation, and proceeded from errors in education, never from defects of the heart. When they had last met there had existed a difference in their state of mind, which was the only impediment to the deepest attachment. It was, that Juliet Carr was then perfectly happy, and happiness, which is at best a selfish thing, prevented her from feeling altogether as she might have done that full sympathy for Helen, which none but those who have themselves known deep grief can experience towards those who grieve. Let me not be misunderstood, however--Juliet had sympathized with her fair companion deeply, and had loved her warmly, and the only abatement was, that Juliet was herself completely happy. Now, however, happiness had passed away from her heart, and as she held Helen in her arms for a moment, at their first meeting, she felt that she had hardly loved her half enough.
Luckily for themselves, they were suffered to be alone for several hours, for they had much to explain to each other which was difficult to tell--many subjects to speak upon, in regard to which even woman with woman hesitates. And Juliet had dreamt a dream, so mingled of sweet and noble purposes, of painful expectations, of devotion, of resignation, and of tenderness, that it was hard for her even to approach the subject--hard even to think of it, without the tears rising in her eyes, and her heart throbbing as if it would beat through her bosom. She gazed on Helen Barham, while they sat and talked together; she looked at her bright and sparkling beauty, almost as if she had been a lover; she read the deep, strong affections of those bright heart-full eyes, she fathomed in her own mind the well of intense feelings that existed in that soft bosom, and in her humility she asked herself--"What am I, that he should love me rather than her?"
Juliet went on with her enquiries, and demanded of herself, "Is it not possible--is it not even probable, that, knowing we can never be united, with his attachment to me broken by the cold hand of despair, his affections may turn to one who so well deserves them, and Helen Barham, happy in his love, may, in the end, make him happy likewise?" Not only was it likely, she thought, but scarcely to be doubted. It was impossible that he could see much of one so beautiful, so talented, so engaging, without learning to love her, if love for another could once be extinguished in his heart.
A pause had taken place while she thus thought, and Juliet saw her fair companion's eyes rest upon the green expanse before the house, while an expression of deep melancholy stole over her countenance. Juliet read that look, and read it rightly; and though she felt somewhat timid, in regard to touching upon the subject at all, and sought not to raise any expectations, especially when she could not be sure that they might not be disappointed, yet she resolved, with the generous confidence of a pure and high mind, to let Helen know the exact position in which she herself stood towards Morley Ernstein. "I am sure," she said to herself, "that Helen will not rejoice in my disappointment. But, nevertheless, the knowledge that he whom she loves is not actually about to be united to another, may make a difference in her own fate and conduct."
Thus thinking, she fixed her eyes for a moment upon Helen Barham again, saying--"Dear Helen, you look somewhat pale and sad."
The blood rushed up into Helen Barham's cheek, from the well of consciousness in her heart. But Juliet went on, anxious to prevent her making any reply--"I am afraid, dear Helen," she continued, "that you are not very happy, though there never yet was one who more deserved happiness, I am sure. I can now sympathize with you, dear Helen, more deeply than I ever could do before, for I am not happy, either."
Helen started, and gazed eagerly in her face--"What is it you mean?" she cried. "You unhappy, Juliet!--you, whose days I thought were to be all sunshine, blessed and blessing from the beginning of life to the close!--you, whose fate I believed was destined to show to man that it is possible to be happy, even on this earth!--you, who I fancied were to be for ever a being of brightness, and goodness, and joy!--you to be unhappy! Then, indeed, is this world a place of trial to every one; and, as old Comines says--'Right loyally has God kept his word with man, that in sorrow shall every one eat of the fruit of the ground, all the days of his life!' Oh, Juliet! this is very sad to me, for it takes away that belief in the mere existence of such a thing as happiness, which was all that was left to make me remember my own."
"Why should I be exempt, Helen?" replied Juliet. "I am not vain enough to think I deserved that which I believed was in store for me; and though deep and bitter has been the disappointment of all my hopes, yet I trust to be enabled, by God's mercy, to bear that disappointment calmly."
Helen Barham gazed earnestly and sadly in her face, making no reply, for some moments; but she then said--"Speak, Juliet, speak; tell me more, now you have told so much; but do not, do not say he was unworthy, for that I can never believe, even from your lips."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Juliet, eagerly, with her whole soul coming into her beautiful eyes. "Unworthy! oh, no!--he is worthy of all the deepest, the tenderest, the most ardent, the most enduring love that even a woman's heart can bestow. But, alas, Helen, it is all in vain! He and I can never be united. Say not a word, dear Helen; for on this subject I must be very, very brief. I dare not speak--I cannot speak much, lest these tears should drown me. We can never be united, Helen; there is a barrier between us that cannot be removed; and my only hope, my only wish, is, to see him happy with some one who may deserve to share his fate."
Helen Barham cast her arms round Juliet's neck, and, for a moment or two, gave way to an overwhelming flood of tears. She made no comment, she asked no further question; and all she said, even in the end, was "Oh, Juliet Carr--dear Juliet Carr!--would to God, that I might spend my life with you! I know not, but I think that I might comfort you, as you have often comforted me; and that peace, Juliet--calm peace, which is all that either of us can hope for now, might sooner come to our dwelling if we were together. To be with you, even for a brief space, is a great happiness to me; and when your father sent for me--oh, how gladly did I come, although I had long tried to fancy that I was better away!"
There was a pause for several minutes, but at length Juliet asked--"Did my father, then, send for you, Helen?"
"Yes," replied Helen Barham. "Did you not know it, Juliet? He sent a messenger express to London for me, begging me to come down immediately, on business of importance."
"I never heard of it," said Juliet. "I thought you had come on your brother's account. But there are my father and Mr. Barham in the avenue. I will speak to you more about your brother, Helen, when I have an opportunity. There are many things of which I wish to warn you."
To the heart that deals with facts as they exist, and not according to the conventional mode of viewing them--to the heart that tries things by its own feelings, and not by the appreciations of others to the heart, in short that feels and acts for itself, the world, and the world's customs, the idle apathy, the selfish indifference, the narrow calculations, the dark, and often stupid caution of that ordinary crowd which forms what is called the mass of society, must ever be considered as a host of natural enemies. Thus we close our bosoms against them; and when the gates have been unbarred for a moment, and the feelings have been permitted to issue forth, it is wonderful how soon, if any of the adversaries' troops approach, in the persons of the worldly and the indifferent, the soldiers of the heart retreat within the walls of the fortress, the drawbridge is pulled up, the doors and sally-ports closed, and everything is put in a state of stern defence.
Such was the case with Helen Barham and Juliet Carr. The traces of tears were rapidly wiped off, the every-day look put on as a veil, and the very thoughts with which they had been so busy were chased away, lest they might still affect the countenance, as soon as Mr. Carr and William Barham approached the house.
The old lawyer himself had become extremely thin and haggard since Helen had seen him, and though he had recovered sufficient strength to drive to Doncaster on that very morning, he was evidently sadly broken and enfeebled. He met Miss Barham, however, with a good deal of that fawning courtesy which he always displayed towards those whom he sought to flatter and to win, and which was strangely, but not unnaturally, contrasted with the acerbity and sarcastic bitterness that he assumed towards those he disliked or despised.
The conduct of William Barham, on meeting with his sister, was such as the reader may very well conceive it would be. There was a shy coldness about it, a sort of schoolboy-awkwardness, which was mixed with an affectation of ease; and, through all, an enquiring underlook of apprehension was apparent, as if he feared that Helen might have been betraying his secrets to Miss Carr. In short, every word and gesture rendered their meeting painful, even to Helen herself. Indeed, for many months, each conversation between the brother and sister had added but one source of grief or another to the number which the more amiable of the two had to bear; but now she remarked not alone the unpleasant and ungentlemanlike demeanour of her brother, but that in personal appearance a considerable and painful change had taken place. He looked thin and worn, and his face, which always bore a look of pale dissipation, was now marked by several purple blotches, in various places, and a bright red spot in the centre of each cheek. He had a peculiar cough, too, which Helen did not like; for she was old enough to remember something very like it, before her mother's death; and the course which Juliet told her that her brother was pursuing was certainly not one to improve his health and restore his vigour. After Mr. Carr and the young man had been about ten minutes in the room, the former left it, with a chuckling laugh, saying to Helen, that he had a little note for her in his desk. He returned almost instantly, and put into her hand a long slip of writing, upon which she gazed with enquiring eyes, finding it very nearly, if not totally unintelligible. "It is a sort of summons, my dear young lady," said the old man, "to appear, and give evidence upon the trial of those villains who broke into the house. It is all in proper form."
Helen Barham turned very pale, saying--"I thought I should have been spared this;" and sitting down with the document in her hand, she continued gazing upon it in silence, with a thoughtful and anxious expression of countenance, as if placed in a situation of sudden and unexpected difficulty.
"Pray, Mr. Carr," she asked, at length, "was it on this account that you sent for me from town?"
Mr. Carr saw that he had pained her, and he was evidently not a little anxious to give her no offence.
"No, no," he replied, eagerly--"not entirely, my dear Miss Barham--not entirely; there are various other important things to be done. I must have your authority, as well as your brother's, to act upon. He is not quite of age yet, you know; and I have to consult with you upon a great many matters, though I have put your affairs into the hands of a gentleman, who agrees to take it upon the 'no cure, no pay' system. He sees his way as clearly as I do, and signs an agreement to stand all the expenses if he does not recover your property. Nevertheless, there is much to be talked about; and as to this affair," he continued, seeing that the first effect upon Helen's mind was wearing away--"you know, my dear Miss Barham, I acted for the best in giving you the subpœna here, where I was at your elbow to afford you advice and assistance. If I had not done so, they would have sent it to you in London, and what would have come of it then? Nobody can escape such a thing, you know, my dear Miss Barham; it is one of the bounden duties of Englishmen to give evidence for the purpose of promoting the ends of justice."
Helen sat silent for a moment, and then asked--"What are the consequences, Mr. Carr, of a person refusing to give evidence?"
"Oh, very terrible, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Carr; "I can scarcely tell you what might, or what might not be done; but, certainly, in the very first instance, anybody doing so would be committed for contempt of court, and then they might stay their whole life in prison."
Helen's cheek turned very pale, and Mr. Carr continued--"When anything happens to make witnesses wish not to answer, they generally contrive to evade the question, to say they are not sure of this thing or that--to equivocate a little, in short."
"But suppose they do not choose to equivocate?" said Helen.
"Then they tell the truth," said Mr. Carr, sharply.
Helen was silent and thoughtful, but there was a look of resolution in her face, which made Mr. Carr somewhat apprehensive that she would not act exactly in the way that he wished; and he was preparing all his eloquence to show her the dangers and inconveniences of the plan he suspected she was about to pursue, when one of the maids came into the room quickly, saying, with an impatient air--"There is an old woman, sir, at the door, wants to speak to you."
"I can't speak with her now, Sally," replied Mr. Carr; "she must come again."
"But she says she must speak with you directly, sir," rejoined the maid; "indeed, she is very saucy about it."
"Oh, I dare say it is that old woman, Brown," said Mr. Carr, "who says always there was five shillings owing to her son who died. Tell her it is no such thing, and that she had better go away, or I will send for a constable."
"It isn't Goody Brown, at all," answered the woman, in a tone of very little reverence for her master--"she told me something about her name, but I forget what it was."
"Go, and ask it--go, and ask it, then!" said Mr. Carr; and he was about to recommence his argument with Helen during the girl's absence; but she was not away more than a minute, and returned with a vastly indignant air, saying--"The saucy old thing says she must and will see you directly--that her name is Jane More, widow of Sergeant More; and she will take no refusal."
Mr. Carr turned as pale as death, pressed his hand upon his heart, and sunk into a chair.
"You are not well," cried Juliet, starting up. "Let me go and speak to her, sir."
"No, no, no!" cried N. Carr, eagerly--"on no account. Take her into my little room, Sally. Some one give me a spoonful of brandy. Tell her I am not well, or I would have spoken to her at once, but I will come directly."
As soon as Mr. Carr had left the room, Helen Barham turned towards the place where her brother had been standing the moment before--not, indeed, to ask his advice as to her future proceedings, for, alas, she did not respect that brother sufficiently to trust in any of his counsels!--but with the sort of enquiring look which nature has taught us to direct towards any one nearly allied to us, in circumstances of difficulty or danger. To her surprise, however, William Barham was no longer there; and Juliet informed her that her brother had quitted the room as soon as Mr. Carr began to speak of the robbery. "Indeed," she added, with a smile, and little thinking her words would give pain, "I perceive that he always does so."
Helen Barham looked down, for the knowledge which she possessed of her brother's former course of life produced some apprehension lest William himself might be by some means implicated in the terrible transaction which was about to undergo the investigation of the law. When she recollected the conduct and the words of Harry Martin, too, the probability seemed so great, that she actually trembled at the thought of what might be the consequence; and the difficulties of her own situation became aggravated a thousand fold by fears for her brother.
Juliet remarked her agitation, perhaps with some surprise, but she made no observation, and Helen, as soon as she had recovered herself, left the room, saying, that she wished to speak with William for a few moments. She found him in the room to which she was directed by one of the servants of the house, busily engaged in packing up a portmanteau. He was looking extremely pale, and in answer to Helen's enquiries, said that he intended to go back to London the next day. He made some excuse for this sudden determination, which Helen did not clearly understand, alleging that it was necessary he should see "the lawyer;" but his sister could draw no farther information from him, and, indeed, he appeared anxious to free himself from her presence. She remained for some time, however, trying to soothe him, and endeavouring to call up some better feelings in his heart; but she found that her efforts were spent in vain, and with sorrow of various kinds in her bosom, she returned to the room where she had left Juliet.
As she laid her hand upon the lock of the drawing-room door, she heard her friend's voice calling loudly from a little room at the end of the corridor,--"Helen! Helen!" cried Juliet; "pray send some of the maids. Come to me, dear Helen--my father has fainted!"
Helen ran into the room in which Mr. Carr usually transacted his business, and found him seated in a chair, as pale as death, with his daughter supporting his head.
"Something has happened," said Juliet, in a low voice--"something has happened between him and that woman who was here just now; for the moment that she was gone, he called for me eagerly, but before I could reach him he was in the state that you see."
Measures were immediately taken for restoring Mr. Carr, and in about half-an-hour they proved successful. He opened his eyes faintly and looked around him, and then endeavoured to rise from his chair, but was unable to do so. He was very angry, however, when he found that a medical man had been sent for, vowed it was ruin and destruction, and reproached Juliet bitterly for bringing him, as he termed it, to poverty and disgrace.
Poor Juliet wept, not so much at the sting of her father's reproaches, as because she thought his senses were bewildered; for although Mr. Carr throughout life had displayed his avarice in acts, he had been very careful to avoid suffering the miser to appear in his words. He often, on the contrary, affected a tone of liberality; talked much about "petty savings," and people being "penny wise and pound foolish;" with all those old proverbs and saws of liberality, which are more frequently in the mouths of the greedy and the avaricious than of the really generous and open-handed.
Gradually, as he recovered himself, he became more guarded again, said that as the doctor had been sent for he could not help it, but at the same time put Juliet away from him with a cold air, and begged that she would not act in such a way another time without his authority. He asked, moreover, with a look of doubt and suspicion, if she had seen that old woman, and seemed relieved when he was informed that such had not been the case.
The surgeon, when he arrived, would fain have sent Mr. Carr to bed, declared that he was much more ill than he believed himself to be, and protested that he would not answer for the consequences if his directions were not obeyed. Mr. Carr resisted, however, saying, that there could be no use of his going to bed then, as he must set off for York at six o'clock on the following morning, to be present at the assizes.
It was in vain that Juliet remonstrated, and besought him to refrain from an act which the surgeon assured him might cost his life,--it was in vain that she represented how little it mattered whether the men who robbed his house were convicted or not, if his own death was to be the result. He grew angry with her arguments, telling her that she knew not what she was talking about, and could not enter into his views, or understand his motives; and so far, at least, he seemed to be in the right, that the very exertion appeared to do him good, for during the evening he went about making his preparations with much greater strength than either Juliet or Helen believed him to possess.
He was pale when he rose on the following morning, and his hand shook a good deal, as if he had had a slight stroke of the palsy; but his determination of proceeding to York was so evident, that Juliet dared offer no farther opposition, and only petitioned to be allowed to accompany him. He did not comply with her request, however, saying, somewhat impatiently, that there was no need of increasing the charges at an inn. His daughter judged, and judged rightly, that the apprehension of expense was not the sole cause of her father's unwillingness to take her with him, and she did not venture to propose that arrangement which had but too often taken place between him and herself--namely, that she should pay her share from her own private income.
As soon as the chaise appeared, Mr. Carr and Helen Barham got into it, and the door was already shut when William Barham, who had been wandering about the house during the whole morning, as if not knowing what to do with his vacant time, ran up to the side of the vehicle, and spoke a few words to Mr. Carr. The old man seemed surprised, but after a reply and a rejoinder, exclaimed--"Very well--very well, then--only make haste!"
The youth's portmanteau was immediately sent for, and strapped upon the carriage; he himself took his place inside, and the whole party were borne away in a very few minutes. To Juliet, who watched them from the window, the words which William Barham had spoken where inaudible; and she was not a little surprised to see the young man depart, even for a short time, without the ordinary courtesy of bidding her adieu; for, to say the truth, there had been a growing familiarity in his manner, which, though difficult to check, had been not a little disagreeable to her. On the present occasion, she concluded that he was going to witness the trial at York, and was glad of the relief; but she would have been still more surprised at his conduct, though even better satisfied with the result, if she had known that he only proposed to accompany M. Carr as far as the high road, and there to get a place in the first coach for London.
While in the carriage with Mr. Carr and Helen, William Barham maintained that sort of dull reserve which his sister's presence seemed now to produce invariably, and only entered into conversation for the purpose, of hinting to the old lawyer that he wanted a supply of money. With scarcely a moment's hesitation given to his habitual reluctance to part with money on any consideration, Mr. Carr produced his pocket-book, and handed over at once two ten-pound notes to his young companion, only stipulating that, when they arrived at the inn, he should give a note of hand for the sum which he had received.
"This man has been called a miser and a usurer," thought Helen, "and yet he deals thus liberally and kindly. So do people gain the reputation of vices that they do not possess."
But poor Helen Barham knew not, that for every shilling which Mr. Carr lent to William, he calculated that he would gain fifty, if not a hundred per cent. On their arrival at the inn, which occupied the angle where the by-road from Yelverly joined the high road from York to London, Mr. Carr and William Barham got out of the carriage; and the old lawyer carefully took a memorandum from the young man of the sum which had been given him. William then took leave of his sister, merely shaking hands as if she had been some common acquaintance, and the chaise rolled on towards York, while Helen's brother remained waiting the arrival of the coach. When it came, he got into the inside, seeing that is was already tenanted by two well-dressed young women, and an elderly gentleman; and in a few minutes the youth was in full conversation, casting away entirely all that reserve which he had displayed in the presence of his sister, and giving himself all sorts of airs, as if he were the scion of some noble house, frequenting the first society in the land, and possessing wealth at will.
Fast drove the coach along the road, and faster went the young man's tongue, the innocent girls within the vehicle giving full credit to every word he said, though not particularly liking his manners and appearance, and their elder companion, with more experience and knowledge of the world, setting him down, not exactly for what he really was, but for some saucy shopboy, suddenly possessed of a few pounds, and raised in his own impudent imagination to the highest pitch of fortune.
At the end of about two hours, the coach drove up to an inn to change horses, and at the same moment a dark-coloured, but highly-finished barouche, rolled rapidly past on the side next to William Barham. The old gentleman who occupied the other corner, could only perceive that the carriage contained a man of a distinguished aspect, with fine features and a very dark complexion; but William Barham recognised with terror the well-known countenance of Lieberg, and saw that the keen dark eye rested upon him while the finger was raised and the brow contracted. He turned deadly pale, and became as silent as the grave.
The old gentleman remarked all this, and whispered to one of his daughters, "I suppose this vulgar young coxcomb is some valet-de-chambre, and if so, depend upon it that was his master who passed just now."
William Barham's sharp ears caught the meaning of the whisper, and his heart burned within him, but he did not dare to reply. His only resource was to betake himself to the outside of the coach at the next stage, and to drown the mingled feelings of apprehension and rage in five or six glasses of strong brandy and water, taken wherever the vehicle stopped long enough to give time for such potations.
It was in the interior of the well-known prison of York, just after nightfall, that the prisoner Harry Martin sat by himself, having been permitted a long interview with his wife in the course of the day, and having apparently derived great comfort and consolation from her presence--much greater, indeed, than that which he had derived from a conversation with his lawyer, who had taken a view of his case not the most encouraging. During the first day or two of his imprisonment he had, to say the truth, felt a degree of despairing anxiety which he had never before known in life; not, indeed, that he had displayed any external sign of apprehension, unless it were a stern gravity of language rather different from his usual gay and reckless tone. But upon the whole he had been calm, talking with any one who saw him upon indifferent subjects, and seemingly not at all engrossed with his own situation, but only feeling the general impression of a serious charge. His demeanour altogether had much pleased not only the governor of the prison, but also the turnkeys; and the former declared that he had seen many a guilty man in his day, but he had never seen any who had less the manner of one than Mr. Martin, nor could he conceive that what all the London officers said of him was true; while the turnkeys, on their part, vowed that, whatever he had done, Mr. Martin was "quite a gentleman."
Although even in those days the prison licentiousness, commemorated in the Beggar's Opera and in the works of our older novelists, had been very nearly done away, yet a degree of licence existed in our gaols unknown to our stricter rule. The discipline of a prison was a very different thing then from that which it is now, and it rarely happened that a harsh magistrate interdicted a prisoner before trial from any reasonable communication with his friends and acquaintances. All that was required from the governor of a gaol was the secure custody of the prisoner's person, and if that was properly cared for, few questions of any kind were asked.
There were hours fixed, however, beyond which any visits to the prison were not usually permitted, and it was with some surprise, therefore, that Harry Martin saw the door of his cell open a few hours after the ordinary time of admission.
"A gentleman wants to speak with you, Mr. Martin," said one of the turnkeys, and the prisoner, raising his eyes, beheld a tall and powerful man, wrapped in a travelling cloak, enter the room while the gaoler held the door for him to pass in.
Harry Martin was not one to forget readily a face he had once seen, but it took the reflection of a moment or two to connect that of his visitor with the events of the past; and ere his recollection served him, the door was closed, and he stood face to face with the personage whom we have called Count Lieberg. The moment that he became aware of who it was, the brow of the prisoner contracted, and he demanded sternly--"What do you want with me?"
Lieberg's dark, keen eye rested upon him heavily, with that sort of oppressive light which seemed at once to see into and weigh down the heart of those he gazed at, and he remained for a moment or two without making any reply, as if to let the man before him feel the full force of that basilisk glance.
"When last we met," he said, at length, "you took away some papers--"
Harry Martin had by this time recollected himself, and he replied. with a loud laugh--"When last we met? Did we ever meet at all? That is the question, my fine fellow. You seem to me as impudent as a quack doctor, and I dare say are as great a liar as a horse-chanter."
"When last we met," repeated Lieberg, in an unaltered tone, "you took a pocket-book of mine, containing some papers of value to me and of no value to you. What has become of them?"
"What has become of them!" cried Harry Martin. "If I took any papers of yours, depend upon it that they are by this time what you and I soon will be."
"And what is that?" demanded Lieberg.
"Dust and ashes--dust and ashes!" replied Harry Martin.
"You make a mistake," said Lieberg, calmly, "I have no intention of being anything of the kind. But listen to me for a moment, my good friend, and I will give you sufficient motives for making you change your mind in this business. Those papers are of great consequence to me; if they can't be found, the proofs of the facts to which they referred are the next important things to obtain. If you can furnish me with either the one or the other, you will benefit me and yourself too. Hear me!--you will save your own neck from the gallows--You will save your own life, I say."
"I would not, to save fifty lives," answered Harry Martin. "Come, don't talk to me any more about it, for I don't want to hear such stuff. You have no power to give life or to take it. You, who, if laws were equal, and punishments proportioned to crime, would find a far higher gallows than any of us poor fellows--you, who are a robber of more than money--a murderer of more than life--who gave you power to offer me safety, or anything like it?"
"The chance that placed me in the house which you broke into," replied Lieberg, "and the wit that made me lie quiet when I found there was no use in resisting. Upon my words hangs your life, and I pledge my honour to save it, if you but restore me those papers."
"Your honour!" exclaimed Harry Martin. "What's your honour worth? I have heard some tricks of your honour, that make it of as little value, to those who know what is underneath the surface, as a coiner's shilling."
"You are in the wrong," said Lieberg, calmly, keeping still fixed upon him that peculiar look which Harry Martin could not prevent himself from feeling, notwithstanding all his daring hardihood--"you are quite in the wrong, my good friend, and are risking your neck, or rather, I should say, absolutely condemning yourself to death for the sake of a youth who has betrayed you, and who was the first to bring upon you the eye of the law."
"Has he betrayed me?" demanded Harry Martin, with his eye flashing. "Has he betrayed me? If I thought that--"
"I can prove it," replied Lieberg. "You have mistaken your friends for your enemies, my good man. Listen to me for a very brief space of time, and you shall soon see that you have not only done me injustice, but yourself too. All the information that you possess, with regard to me and to my proceedings, has been derived from a youth whom you yourself know to be one of the most egregious liars in Europe, who has misrepresented my conduct to every one, even while I was acting for his own good. I should have supposed that you were too wise to trust to one word that he says, even from what you knew of him before; but surely you will not be foolish enough to give the slightest credit to the falsehoods which he has spoken of me, when you find that he is rascal enough to betray you without the least hesitation. Of the latter fact you may be quite sure, although he may very likely have bargained not to be brought forward at your trial. Take any means that you like to satisfy yourself, and you will find that almost immediately after the robbery had been committed, he went to the house of Mr. Carr, and has remained there ever since. You will find, also, that his sister has been brought down to give evidence against you; and every enquiry that you make will prove to you, more and more strongly, that it was he who pointed you out to the police as the man, even when suspicion had very naturally fallen upon two other persons."
Harry Martin walked up and down the narrow space of the cell, in a state of terrible agitation. "So, so!" he said, "this is the game! He shall smart for it!--I wish I had my hand upon his shoulder, that's all; but I will have my day, yet. Never mind--revenge will come, and it is sweet!"
"It is, indeed!" said Lieberg, with a tone of such earnestness, that no one could doubt he felt the burning passion, the hell-thirst of which he spoke, with strong intensity, notwithstanding the calm and indifferent demeanour which he so generally affected. "It is, indeed," he said, "and no man who knows how sweet it is, lets slip the opportunity when presented to him. The way before you, my good friend, is open, and easy; give me those papers; or, if you really have them not, furnish me with the proofs, which I know you possess, against the boy, William Barham, and you at once save your own life, and gain your revenge against him; for I tell you fairly, it is at him I strike."
"Pooh! nonsense!--don't talk to me," cried Harry Martin; "it's his sister you want. You care devilish little about him. Do you think to come humbugging me in that manner?"
"You are mistaken," said Lieberg, sternly; "I may seek revenge upon them both, and so may you, too, for she is as much your enemy as he is, and has come down for the express purpose of giving evidence against you."
"Not she!" cried Harry Martin; "that's a lie--I'll never believe it!"
"I tell you, she arrived in York last night, with Mr. Carr," replied Lieberg; "and, as you know, the trial comes on the day after tomorrow."
"She'll give no evidence against me, I'm sure," said Harry Martin, gazing down upon the floor, but speaking in a less assured tone than he had used before. "I don't think she would, if her life were at stake."
"If you are quite sure of that," answered Lieberg, in a meaning tone--"if you are quite sure that the fear of being committed, and of suffering a tedious imprisonment will not induce her to give some intimation of the facts, you can trust her, and make yourself easy upon her score. It were as well, however, to recollect all the arguments that may be used to induce a girl like that to speak what she knows, however strongly she may have promised you not to do so. In the first place, they will shew her, that, both morally and religiously, promises extorted under threats and the fear of death are always held to be no promises at all, and quite in vain. They will get lawyers, and priests, and friends, to tell her all this; and then they will set before her eyes her duty to her country, and shew that everybody is bound, by the strongest of moral obligations, to aid in bringing an offender to justice. All the arguments, in short, which a poor gentleman, whom you call the devil, has supplied to make people betray each other under the idea of being very virtuous, will be used towards her, and with effect; and then, to back all these persuasions, will be held out the terror of the law, which is armed with power to punish those who do not do their duty to society. Do you think any girl will hold out against all this--against the arguments of lawyers, and friends, and divines--and most likely, against her own convictions also; and will quietly walk into a prison for an uncertain space of time, solely to save a man from the gallows whom she never saw but once in her life? If you do, my good friend, trust her--trust her by all means; you are the best judge of the value of your own neck, though probably there are some other people besides yourself, who may grieve for you, and who may be left destitute if you are hanged."
Harry Martin seemed shaken. He sat down at the table, he leaned his head upon his hands, and the workings of his countenance told how strong was the emotion within him. Lieberg watched him, with eyes terribly skilled in reading the passions and weaknesses of the human heart; and after he had paused for a moment, to let what he had said have full effect, he went on--"So much for the girl!--and you must recollect, that if she refuses to swear that you are the man, and assigns for the reason that her life had been spared, even that will tell against you, in some degree. Then comes her brother, and says all that he knows of you; then come I myself, and swear to you positively. Now, if you do what I want, you sweep away the whole of this mass of evidence at once, and, in fact, may be said to set yourself free."
"Why, how so?" cried Harry Martin. "How would that prevent her giving her evidence?"
"Do you think she would give her evidence against you, if by so doing she condemned her own brother to death?" demanded Lieberg, in a low, but emphatic tone; "and I promise you, she shall have that before her eyes, at all events."
Harry Martin gazed at him from under his bent brows, and for a moment or two a variety of different expressions passed over the prisoner's countenance, from which the dark, keen eye of Lieberg could extract no information in regard to what was passing in his bosom. All that his tempter could divine was, that he was shaken, that his resolution wavered, though there was a certain look of scorn mingled with all the shades that flitted across Martin's face, which was not very pleasant to his proud companion. He failed not, however, to ply him with every argument, to tempt him by every inducement, and Martin sat and listened, sometimes gazing full upon Lieberg, sometimes bending his eyes down upon the table, sometimes frowning heavily, and sometimes indulging in a flickering smile, which crossed his countenance like the lights that we occasionally see carried across the open windows of a house, the tenant of which we know not, as we travel past it in a dark night.
"Well now, sir," he said, at length, looking up with a softened look, in Lieberg's face--"Well now, sir, suppose I were to do as you wish, what surety should I have that you will stand by me, in the time of need?"
Lieberg bent down his head, speaking across the table, and replied, "I will acknowledge this night in presence of the turnkey, that in seeing you, and hearing your voice, I have become convinced you are not one of the men who broke into Mr. Carr's house, at Yelverly."
"That might do," said Harry Martin, in a thoughtful tone--"that would go a great way; but don't you think it would be a lie?"
"A lie!" exclaimed Lieberg, with his lip curling--"Are you fool enough to suppose, that a man of the world cares two straws about the mere empty shade of truth, when a great and important object is to be obtained? Where is the minister, the statesman, the patriot, who ever dreams of the abstract truth or falsehood of a particular proposition? The greatest reformer that ever lived, who harangues multitudes upon corruption, and all the evils that afflict a state or a religion, will no more scruple to falsify the truth in regard to an opponent, or to tell a bare falsehood to gain an end, than a schoolboy will to rob an orchard. Take them all, from Luther down to the lowest of your purity-mongers in this happy island, and you will find that there is not one of them who considers truth and falsehood, except in reference to the end they have in view. Away with such nonsense between us--it is only fit for a school-mistress's homily to girls of twelve years old. I will do what I say, and that is sufficient; and ere your trial comes on, I will so contrive to tutor Helen Barham that she shall work your acquittal, without committing herself."
"That will do--that will do!" said Harry Martin, meditating. "But then, sir, I thought you intended to have your revenge upon this young woman. I should not be sorry to have mine upon that scoundrel, her brother. Now let me see; though we jump together in that. I should not like the poor girl ill treated at all--I don't suppose you would ever go to strike a woman, or to punish her in that sort of way, at all?"
Lieberg smiled contemptuously, and replied--"You cannot understand, my good friend, the nature of the revenge I seek; but be satisfied! It is nothing of the kind you imagine."
"But I should like to know what it is, sir," said Harry Martin--"I should much like to know what it is before I consent.--Anything in reason, but no violence!"
His tone was very much altered, and Lieberg marked with no light satisfaction that everything promised well for his purposes.
"Well," he said, at length, "my revenge should be this: to force her to be mine, to bind her to myself by ties she loathes and abhors--to bow her pride to the dust, by none of the ill-treatment that you dream of, but by caresses that she hates--ay, and daily to know that her situation, as my paramour, is a pang and an anguish to her, while she has no means of freeing herself from the bond!"
"Well!" cried Harry Martin, starting up, with such fury that he overset the table, "you are a damneder scoundrel than I thought man could be! Get out, or I will dash you to atoms!" And at the same moment he seized Lieberg by the shoulder, as if to cast him headlong forth from the door.
To his surprise, however, he found that, notwithstanding all his own great strength, he could not move him in the least, and that the dark man before him stood rooted like a rock to the floor.
"Beware!" said Lieberg, lifting up his finger with a scornful smile, as the prisoner drew back in some astonishment--"beware!" and at the same moment one of the turnkeys opened the door to enquire what was the matter.
Lieberg went out without making any reply, and the prisoner was once more left alone.
"Ay," said Martin when he was by himself; "now if they have a cell in the place fit to receive a man that has murdered his own father, they should put that fellow into it. How the scoundrel was taken in, to tell all his rascality!--I don't believe a word of it--never peach. I know a little bit about women, too, and I'll bet my life she doesn't say a word--only those rascally fellows may get it out of her; those lawyers. I have seen them puzzle a cleverer head than hers with their questions. However, we will see: a man can but die once, and I'd rather do that while I'm about it, than give the poor girl up into the hands of such an infernal villain as that, even if I had the papers to give him, which, thank God, I have not!--for no man can tell what he will do when he is tempted.--I suppose it will go hard with me after all!" And with this not very pleasant reflection, Martin cast himself into a chair, and appeared to give himself up to calculate the chances for and against himself, with a heavy brow and a sad and anxious eye.