Night and meditation were friendly to Morley's spirit; he wandered on, rising higher and higher as he advanced, over the busy world of emptiness, of folly and vice that he had just left in the great hall. The fresh breeze of the mountain played around his head, and quieted the feverish throbbing of his temples. He looked up to the Heavens, and saw star beyond star, till the deep blue sky seemed, to his intense gaze, to grow white with the multitude of brilliant orbs that shone forth from the very bottom of the depth. Was it possible that he could see that infinite immensity of worlds without thinking of God, without wondering at the mightiness of his power, without asking himself if his goodness or his strength could ever fail, and without deriving thence powers of endurance--ay, and powers of resistance, too--which no other philosophy could have afforded?
The very sight of Juliet Carr, too--the very words that she had uttered, though their import was sad, and though not a ray of hope could be elicited from anything that she had said, woke the better spirit in the bosom of her lover, and led his thoughts on to higher and to holier things than those to which the earthly spirit would have prompted him.
He wandered on, thinking of endurance: for the first time since the bitter disappointment that he had met with, the heavenly spirit in his bosom seemed to have free sway, to clear away, as in days of yore, the mists and shadows of earth from his eyes, to unveil the skeleton face of earth's ordinary pleasures, and to show him the rankling corruption of even the fairest forms of vice.
"I will endure," he thought, "firmly, strongly, resolutely. I will endure with resignation, with submission, with the courage of a man, with the humility of a Christian. Juliet shall not grieve to see me plunge into those things which my own heart condemns. I will learn, once for all, whether there be any real and substantial obstacle between us; and if my life must be passed in sorrow and regret, I will not add remorse also to the burden."
He had now climbed high up the side of the hill, with nothing but the stars above him, and turning his eyes from them down upon the town below, he beheld the place where he had so lately sat, with the lights glittering from the manifold windows, and the music sighing faintly up to his distant ear. The sight and the sounds only filled him with disgust; and it was with regret that, after remaining for some time longer upon the hill, he took his way back again to the busy haunts of men.
On arriving at the inn, and entering the rooms which had been assigned to himself and Lieberg, he found considerable confusion and disarray. The cause was soon explained to him, for the moment after he appeared, his companion issued forth from the left-hand room, saying, with an eager look--"What say you, Morley, to a journey by night? I have just received intelligence which obliges me to set off for Munich immediately--every hour is of consequence. Will you come?"
Morley thought of Juliet Carr, and replied, that he was sorry that he could not go--that it was impossible. Lieberg pressed him much, and seemed mortified that he would not consent; but his friend explained to him that he had made an engagement for the following morning which he could not break; and it was at length arranged that they should meet at Augsburg or Munich, Morley adding, with a faint light from hope still shining in his bosom--"If nothing should occur on either part to prevent it."
In less than half-an-hour the wheels of Lieberg's carriage rolled away, and Morley, finding that it was hopeless to attempt to sleep, sat up and read for some hours. How few books are there, amongst all the many that come from the hand of man, on which the mind can rest when the heart is sad! How often is even the very best of human productions taken up and laid down, looked at and cast away, as the sad thoughts wander round the one painful subject to which they are fixed, like an animal tethered in a field to one particular point, which he may turn round and round in every direction, but from which he can never break away. Many a book will amuse the couch of pain, will draw away the mind from corporeal uneasiness, but the anguish of the heart has a property in our thoughts that cannot be dissolved; and if any work can call us from that anguish, even for a moment, its chief characteristic must be goodness. Wit, and fancy, and imagination jar sadly with the tones of sorrow, but high and pure philosophies come as a balm to the wounds of the spirit.
It was over some of the smaller poems of Milton that Morley paused; and though he could not go on very connectedly, yet there was a depth and a freshness in the whole as invigorating as the waters of a clear, cool river to the limbs of one who has wandered far through a hot day. His spirit seemed to plunge into that well of pure poetry, and rose up refreshed.
At length he retired to rest, and though he slept not for some hours, yet his thoughts were calm. He determined that he would go early on the following morning to see Juliet Carr--that he would not wait for any formal time of visiting, although he saw that she was travelling with a party consisting of persons whom he believed to be nearly strangers to him; and he lay and revolved all that he would say and all that he would do, with the usual vain calculation of man, who never till the end of life learns to know that the very next minute is not his own. Thus passed the first four hours of the night, and then came a short period of repose, broken with thought running into dreams, and then came deep and profound slumber.
It seldom, if ever, happens that we can obtain sleep when we most require it, but the unbidden guest visits us at the times when we wish him most away. Morley Ernstein slept longer than he intended, but, nevertheless, it was not late when he woke; his watch pointed to a quarter to eight, and, starting up, he rang eagerly for his servant, intending to proceed upon his errand at about half-past nine. There was a note in the hands of old Adam Gray as he entered, and, as may be easily imagined, it was with some emotion that Morley opened it when he saw the hand writing of Juliet Carr; but that emotion was greatly increased when he read the contents.
"We go early," she said; "and though I will never refuse to see you when you think fit to come, I am inclined to believe that it would be better you should not come to-day at all. I could say nothing, Morley, to console you. All that I could tell you would, perhaps, but make you the more unhappy. For me the dream of life is over, and I feel from what passed last night, that it agitates us both too much at present to meet frequently. I will not say 'too much for me,' because I resign myself entirely to my fate--it is fixed and determined--I hope nothing, I fear nothing, I expect nothing. There is only one thing that I pray for in this life, to know that you are happy, and never, by any chance, to have cause to think otherwise of you than I have always hitherto done. Such is my fate, Morley, and such must be the fate of every woman situated as I am; but with a man it is very different. Suffer the memory of these days to fade away--I do not say forget me, for that I think you will never do; but remember me only as one that is dead. Form other ties, open your heart to other attachments, and believe me, that I shall experience the only consolation that I can receive in knowing that your affection for me, and the bitter disappointment that we have both undergone, has not permanently affected the happiness, or in any degree changed the nature of the man I love."
"When did this come?" exclaimed Morley, in a tone that made the old man start.
"About an hour ago, sir," replied Adam Gray. "I knocked at your door, but you were sound asleep."
Morley cast down the paper, dressed himself as rapidly as possible, and hurried out.
There were two or three people lounging quietly at the door of the inn called "The Towers," without any one of those signs and appearances which indicate to the eye of the experienced traveller that a departure is about to take place. There were no boxes in the passage, nor leather cases, nor cloaks and shawls, nor portfolios and drawing-books, the stray volume of a new romance, nor the couriers' innumerable straps and buckles. There were two or three men with whiskers, and one with mustachioes, and each bearing about him that indescribable something which points out the travelling servant; but they were all in a state of calm tranquillity; and Morley, by the whole aspect of the place, became convinced he was not, as he had feared, too late. He went into the house, then, and enquired of a person whom he met, and whom, from certain signs and symptoms, albeit as unlike an English innkeeper as possible, he took to be the master of the hotel, where he should find Miss Carr?
The man stared, and then replied, that there was no such person there. Morley next asked for Lord Clavering, which name immediately brought up a look of intelligence in the innkeeper's countenance; but the answer that instantly followed, at once damped the young Englishman's hopes.
"Oh, they are gone--they are gone!" replied the man. "They have been gone three quarters of an hour."
"Who do you mean by they?" demanded Morley.
"Why, the old 'milord', and the lady, and the beautiful young lady, and all--maids and servants and couriers, and all," answered the host.
"Are you sure they are the persons I mean?" said Morley with the last faint hope struggling up.
"I will shew you their names in the book," rejoined the innkeeper; and, taking him into a small room at the side of the passage, he opened a huge book before him, and pointed to a long string of names, half way down the page.
Morley read, but he soon saw enough, for there stood the words--"Lord Clavering, Lady Malcolm, Juliet Carr." He turned away in, silence, with his heart full of bitter thoughts, and, taking his way back to the inn, he gave but one order--"Let everything be prepared for departure."
"Do you know, sir," said Adam Gray, after hesitating for a moment or two--"do you know, sir, that Miss Juliet is here? I saw her maid this morning, in the street, and I did fancy that note came from her--"
Morley waved his hand impatiently, and the old man stopped. "She is gone," replied Morley Ernstein; "do as I told you, Adam."
"Will you not take breakfast, sir?" demanded the old servant, with a wistful look in his master's face.
"No, no!" answered Morley, impatiently; and Adam Gray quitted the room. He paused musing at the door, however, laying his finger upon his bald forehead, and muttering to himself--
"If I was sure it was she who is making him miserable--I would--that I would! But she never seemed to have any pride in her. What right had she, indeed? But I can't think it's her doing; she was always a good, kind young lady, as ever lived, and I am sure I thought she was fond enough of Master Morley, as well she might be. She wont find such another match in a hurry. But I'll watch, and see; she may be playing the fool after all, for there's no knowing about women--they are so devilish uncertain."
With this moral reflection old Adam Gray concluded his soliloquy, and went to give the orders with which his master had entrusted him, in regard to preparing for departure. Ere noon all was ready, and Morley, alone in his carriage, with his arms folded on his chest, his brow bent, and his hat pressed over his forehead, drove out of the little town, while many a foreign idler of the baths stood gazing at him, sneering at the gloomy aspect that they did not comprehend, and pointing him out as the true personification of English spleen.
Buried in the depth of his own thoughts, Morley cared little what comments were made upon his appearance. The brief glimpse he had had of Juliet Carr, the momentary revival of hope, had but plunged him into deeper gloom now that it was gone, and for a time all the better feelings which reflection had produced passed away, and left him as bitter in spirit as ever. There was one strong, predominant determination, however, in his mind, which was, to seek another meeting with Juliet wherever she had gone; to induce her to give him reasons for her conduct; to make her speak plainly why she debarred him and herself of hope, why, if she loved him, as she did not deny that she did, she made him miserable now that her father's death had removed his opposition to their union.
Such were the feelings with which he went on through the wild valleys and deep ravines that led him back to the banks of the Rhine. This is not the journal of a tourist, reader! but still I must pause, to say a word or two upon the scenes through which Morley Ernstein now passed, because those scenes were not without effect upon his mind. At first the impression was imperceptible, but gradually it became more and more strong, operating like some fine restorative balm, and producing a slow but salutary effect, as he journeyed on. It is not through the ear alone, nor by the written words addressed to the eye, neither by the tale, nor the fable, nor the moral, that man's heart may receive instruction, if he will but take it. There is not--I say again--there is not a sight, there is not a sound, from the flower in the valley to the cloud-covered peak of the mountain--from the song of the lark to the thunder of the storm, which does not speak to the heart of man sweet counsel, and wisdom without end; sinking softly, calmly, almost imperceptibly, into the mind.
The mere aspect of nature's ever-varying face must, if we will let it, tranquillize the passions, harmonize all the jarring affections of our nature, and with a solemn, and a soothing voice, proclaim to us the love, and the wisdom of Him--
"Who shapes our fate, rough-hew it how we will."
Such also was the effect upon Morley Ernstein, as he journeyed onward, though it was produced very slowly. When he first raised his eyes, the mouth of the valley through which his course had been directed was just opening out upon the Rhine. High on either side rose grey ruins, pinnacled upon the ancient mountain-tops, all that remained of the feudal domination of the past; dark, and solemn, and sad, each itself a legend, appealing more strongly to the imagination than any of those with which tradition had ornamented the walls. Fancy might there range at liberty, might people the deserted halls with life, might see fair faces gazing from the casementless windows, might cover the winding roads with the bands of horsemen, and might see the plundered merchants, or the train of captives, borne up to the hold of the lordly robbers who reigned in the towers above. The ruined church called fancy to other creations--the bridal song, and gay procession, the joyful birth of the young heir, the dark funeral of the departed lord, and all the manifold acts to which the ceremonies of religion lend their aid.
It is true, the imagination of Morley Ernstein, occupied with one sad subject, was not disposed to tear his mind away from the present; but, still, as the eye rested upon this object or upon that, his thoughts would stray for a moment to the scenes of the dim past; or, leaving his own fate for an instant, would find a temporary occupation in that of others. The merry vintage was going on; and on every bank, and on every hill, thousands and thousands of the peasantry, rejoicing in the reward of honest industry, poured forth their songs as he passed by. While he gazed around, perhaps, he pictured to himself the return home of the labourers he saw, the embrace of affection, the soft domestic love, and all the household joys that were never to be his; but still he was not so selfish that he could not bless God for the happiness of others, though he himself could not partake of it. The better spirit, reader, gained the ascendancy, and in deep and pensive thought, calm though sad, he went upon his way.
All those who have travelled along the banks of the Rhine--and few there are who have not done so, now-a-days--know well, that though, perhaps, the Rhone presents more picturesque beauties, there is scarcely any spot on earth where, to loveliness of scenery, are joined so many thrilling memories, and such a wide extent of associations. Well might it be called the Storied Rhine; for there is not one step along its banks which has not its history; and from the ages of the Roman domination, down to the "Now," when the stranger stands beside it, there is scarcely a year in the wide course of time, which has not marked the Rhine by some great event. He, indeed, must have become dead to life, or never have been alive to half the wonderful things that life presents, who can wander by the side of that mighty river, without giving himself up to dreams of the past--ay, and perchance of the future.
Morley Ernstein was neither; and though the tone of his own feelings, of course, gave a colouring to all his thoughts, yet his meditations on the things around him soon became deep and long, and in those meditations he himself found relief.
Thus passed the next four days, but, as he went from inn to inn, he perseveringly strove to trace the road that Juliet Carr had taken. Once only, however, he met with the name of Lord Clavering, with the words, "and party," attached to it; and he knew not why, but a painful feeling that Juliet Carr should be included in the party of another passed across his mind. He strove to banish it instantly; he asked himself, with a sort of scornful smile, if he were jealous of Lord Clavering; but still the idea continued painful; and now, convinced that Juliet had taken the same road which he was following, he simply pointed out the name of the party to his courier, and directed him to search for it in the inn-books, and let him know when he found it again.
When the fall of Napoleon Buonaparte had opened the gates of Europe to the little body of islanders who had been knocking at them for so many years in vain, the first that rushed in to see all the wonders of the great continental fair, were, of course, the great and the wealthy, having every means at hand to satisfy to the full the expectant innkeepers and postilions, who were well prepared to make the purses of our good countrymen pay for the sights which and been so long forbidden. But in the rear of these, only by a very short distance, came a number of very respectable people of an inferior class, who were firmly resolved to have their holiday also, and that it should be spent on the Continent. The means of locomotion, indeed, were not so plentiful then as now; no steam-boats bridged over the Straits of Dover; no railroads saved one the trouble of seeing anything in Europe without depriving one of the pleasant consciousness of making a tour. People set out actually to travel in those times; and many a worthy citizen of London contemplated the journey to Paris with as much wild excitement, and strong sense of personal enterprise and merit in braving danger, as did Le Valliant, or Bruce, or Cook, or any other traveller of past days.
To facilitate them in their undertaking, however, there was established, at a house on the eastern side of the Haymarket, what may be called a dépôt ofvoituriers, where a man was almost always to be found or heard of, ready, for a specified sum, to carry any lady, gentleman, or child, who might be locomotively disposed, from one part of Europe to another. In truth, the manner of travelling was not at all an unpleasant one, and being then in its first freshness, fewer tricks were played upon the traveller, more conveniences provided for him, and the rogues and vagabonds with which Europe is superabundantly supplied, had not then fully discovered that the trade ofvoiturier< br> was one which afforded them great facilities for the exercise of their talent.
It was one day, then, in the month of September, a short time after various events had taken place, which have been related in this true history, that a Swissvoiturier, ready, for any man's money, to go to any part of the civilized world, was standing in the shop in question, having left his horses and carriage in the good town of Calais and come over to England, for the express purpose of seeing what the English could be about, that nobody had hired him up to that late period of the year. The master of the house expressed himself not a little grieved that such was the case, but assured him that he had not had one single application, and was in the very act of counselling him to go back to Switzerland empty, when a tall, powerful, and good-looking man, dressed in black, and with a very pretty and lady-like young woman leaning upon his arm, entered the shop, and made some enquiries, which instantly caused the Swiss to raise his ears, and listen with great attention.
His knowledge of the English language was certainly very limited, but at the same time he understood the meaning of the word carriage, and was well aware that the word Naples, though somewhat different from the Italian name of the place, was applied by us Englishmen to the City of the Syren. Be soon found, then, that the gentleman was bargaining to be carried, lodged, and boarded by the way, from the town of Calais to that of Naples. He, moreover, understood, that two ladies and a child were to be of the party, so that four places, out of the six which his vehicle afforded, might be speedily secured. He perceived, likewise, that the gentleman made his bargain shrewdly and strictly--in fact, as a man accustomed to deal with a world which has rogues in it; and as he thought he saw an inclination on the part of the master of the shop to risk losing a customer by demanding too much, he hastened to join in to the best of his abilities, and make his bargain for himself. His next discovery was, that the gentleman in black could not speak a word of any language but his own; and that the lady who was with him could only converse in French of a certain sort; but after about three-quarters of an hour's discussion, the whole matter was arranged satisfactorily, and the Swiss set off again for Calais, to prepare for a journey to Naples, to which city he was to convey the party of travellers, upon terms set down in a written agreement.
When all had been settled, the two future travellers took their way through the streets of London to one of the small houses, which, placed in the neighbourhood of the more fashionable parts of the town, afford to the younger and poorer branches of distinguished families many a convenient residence at no great expense.
"No. 15, did you not say, Jane?" said the gentleman, addressing the lady on his arm. "It seems a wonderfully nice house; I wonder how that is kept up."
Knocking as he spoke, he asked the servant who appeared--a man in mourning livery--if Miss Barham were at home. But even while he was putting the question, the door of what seemed a dining-room opened, and a distinguished looking elderly man, apparently not in the best health, came out, saying, to some persons within--"Well, gentlemen, all I can say is, that he shall hear the whole particulars. You have dealt candidly with me, in shewing me the deeds, and, without giving an opinion on the case, I will promise you to communicate the whole facts fairly."
As he came forth the door was closed, and the servant who was in the passage drew back to give him egress.
"That is Mr. Hamilton, the famous banker," observed the gentleman in black, in a whisper, to his fair companion--"a very good man, they say."
At the same moment the servant replied, that Miss Barham was at home, and ushered the two up to the drawing-room, while a great deal of loud talking, with evident haste and eagerness, was heard from the chamber which they passed on the right.
"What name shall I give, sir?" demanded the servant at the drawing-room door.
"Martin," replied the stranger; and the moment after Mr. and Mrs. Martin were announced, in a loud tone.
In an elegant, though somewhat small drawing-room, with everything which could contribute to comfort and convenience around her, sat Helen Barham, not less beautiful than ever, though with a deep shade of melancholy hanging upon her fair brow, and a colour, almost too delicately lovely, in her cheek. She raised her eyes as the man threw open the door, and then started up with a look almost of alarm, paused, and hesitated till the servant was gone, and then, with one of her radiant smiles, chasing away the cloud, like the sun at noon, she pointed to a chair, saying--"I am glad to see you--pray sit down. I know not what startled me, but the name brought back painful memories."
"I do not wonder at it, ma'am," answered Harry Martin--"though, after all, I think, if I were you, it would bring up the proudest and happiest memories that could come into my heart. Memories of having done, Miss Barham, what there are not two people in all Europe would do--ay, not only of having saved a fellow-creature from death, but of having saved him from perhaps worse destructions. I have come to thank you, ma'am--and my poor wife, too; and the first name we shall teach our baby to pray for is yours--isn't it, Jane?"
Jane Martin went round the table, and dropping upon her knees beside Helen Barham, kissed her hand, and bathed it with tears.
"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen, trying to raise her. "Pray do not do so!--you agitate--you distress me. I did but keep the promise I had made."
"Ay, ma'am, and nobly," replied Harry Martin; "give me those thatdo< br> keep their word in this world of promise-breakers. But Jane has got something to tell you, she will say it better than I can, for such words are so new in my mouth that they come rather awkwardly."
Helen turned an inquiring look towards Jane Martin, who had now risen, and was standing by her side, wiping away the tears that the sweet feelings of gratitude had drawn forth. "He means me to tell you, madam," said the latter, "something that I am sure, if I judge you rightly, will repay you for all you did, and all you suffered on that terrible day at York. He has determined, madam, more out of gratitude to you and one other, who has befriended us, too, in our time of need, to change his way of life altogether. We are going to a far country, ma'am, as far from England as we can get, without going out of Europe; I mean to Naples, where I had once an uncle, who is, I believe, living still. There we may do honestly and industriously, and, if possible, in time, will pay back everything that is not rightly ours."
"Oh, do so!--do so!" cried Helen, gladly; "the blessing which that very thought will give you, will be worth any other kind of happiness."
"I begin to think so too, Miss Barham," replied Harry Martin; "and one thing more I will say, which is, that I know what will make me the happiest man alive."
"What is that?" said Helen; "I am sure if it be possible for me to help you I will. I cannot forget that, besides sparing my life when many other people would have taken it, you aided to deliver my brother from the power of those who would have most basely used the means of injuring him which they possessed. Tell me what it is; I am far more capable of doing something to show my gratitude now, than I have ever been before, and if money--"
"No, no!" exclaimed Harry Martin, "it is not money that I want, Miss Barham! All I wish for is an opportunity of serving you. But do you know, Miss Barham," he added, after a moment's pause, "I am almost sorry to hear you have money to spare."
"Why so?" said Helen, in some surprise.
"Why, I don't know well how to tell you what I mean," replied Harry Martin; "but it's this, you see, Miss Barham from what I know, I don't see how you or your brother can have much money to spare, if he gets it in a way that may not some time or another bring you into a worse scrape than the last."
Helen Barham's habit of blushing had not been lost, even in all the painful scenes she had lately gone through, and the blood came warm into her cheek at the man's words, though she knew that they were not intended to offend or pain her. There was something in them, however, which caused her mind instantly to refer to her late position--to the position of danger and temptation in which she had been placed when first she was presented to the reader's eyes--and the very thought made the true modesty of her young and candid heart shrink as if from contamination.
"You are mistaken, in this instance," she said, mildly; "a great change has taken place in our situation. I cannot tell you all the particulars, for I do not know them; and, indeed, I believe on some account I have been purposely kept in the dark--but it has been discovered that a large property rightly belonging to my brother has been kept from him. It was old Mr. Carr who first told me of the facts; since then, the matter has been referred to several London lawyers, who are so perfectly convinced the property cannot be withheld any longer, that the solicitor is quite willing to advance my brother any money that he needs--more so, indeed, than I could wish--for William is yet too young to use it rightly."
"He'll never be old enough," replied Harry Martin; "but, however, whatever is for your good is a blessing; and, I trust, notwithstanding, though God may give you, young lady, the fortune you well deserve, I shall some day be able to show you my gratitude. I wont ask to see your brother, Miss Barham, for the meeting would not be very pleasant to him or to me, but I can tell him one thing, if he would have health or happiness either, he must live a very different life from that which he was following when I knew him. Why, we ourselves, who did not stick at a trifle, as you may well suppose, used to get sick of his way of going on."
Helen Barham cast down her eyes, and for a moment or two made no reply. It was painful enough for her to think that her brother should ever have been the companion of the man who stood before her; but to bear that even the profligates, the lawless, and the reckless, were outdone by the son of her own mother, was terrible indeed. Her silence, however, arose from other sensations, likewise produced in her bosom by the words of Harry Martin. The stores of the past, the things that have been--ay, and the things that are--are often garnered up in our hearts like the inflammable substances of a magazine, apparently cold and lifeless, but requiring only a spark to blaze forth. That spark is frequently a mere accidental word; a look, a tone will sometimes communicate the flame. There had been a deep anxiety preying upon Helen Barham for some weeks, a new anxiety, a fresh grief, which mingled with all the others painful feelings in her bosom, and produced a sort of dread, which cast an additional gloom over every prospect. She had remarked in her brother a bright red spot in the pale cheek, increasing towards nightfall, an eye full of unnatural lustre, a hurried and fluttering respiration, a slight but frequent cough--all of which she had seen once before in another, a few months previous to the time when the turf was laid upon her mother's head. She had questioned him eagerly and often; she had endeavoured to prevent him from committing excess in various ways, but he had always insisted that he was quite well, and any attempt to restrain his inclinations seemed but to irritate him, and to drive him to wild extremes. Lately she had tried hard, and successfully, to shut out his state of health from her mind: she had kept the truth at a distance; but the words of Harry Martin not only opened her eyes, and showed her that her brother was hurrying on towards death, but that it was his own deed.
"I fear," she said, in reply--"I fear that his health has suffered very much! Indeed, he is anything but well; and I trust, when all this business is settled, to induce him to try a better climate."
"Induce him, Miss Barham," said Harry Martin--"induce him--"
He was going to add--"to try a better life," but he gazed in the fair face of Helen Barham, saw the deep melancholy that overspread it, and felt afraid that he might add one drop more of bitter to the lot of her, who, born with every endowment of person and mind which the prodigal hand of nature could bestow upon a favourite child, had been placed in circumstances where beauty was peril, where excellence was trial, and where tenderness was anguish. He would not add another word, but paused in the midst of what he was saying, and then turned abruptly to his wife, exclaiming--"Come, Jane, let us go, we are only keeping Miss Barham. God bless you, madam, and protect you. May you find kind friends wherever you go, and may every one be as honest to you as you have been to me. God bless you, I say, and make you happy, and give me some opportunity of helping you when you need it."
Thus speaking, he turned away and left the room, followed by his wife; and Helen, bidding them adieu, resumed her occupations.
They had not been long gone, however, when her brother came in, with his face flushed and excited, and a look of triumph in his countenance. "I have him," he said--"I'll do for him, Helen! We have got hold of the only admission that was wanting. I'll make a beggar of him before I have done with him!"
"I hope not, William," answered Helen, reproachfully. "I hope you will make a beggar of no one upon the earth. You, of all people, William, ought to know how terrible a thing it is to be a beggar. But who is it you are talking of?"
"Ay! that I sha'n't tell you, Helen," replied William Barham, with a laugh. "I know you'd be for interfering, and that wouldn't do. The business is my own, and I'll manage it myself. You shall know nothing about it till it's all done; and who can tell if the matter may not be more for your advantage than you think?"
"Well, William," rejoined Helen, with a sigh, "as I said to you yesterday, if you do not tell me more, tell me nothing. But listen to what I have to say to you. The man, Harry Martin, who was tried at York, has been here to thank me. You know very well that he took, and destroyed, those papers which were so dangerous to you. Now, I think, as you say you have money to spare, you ought to send him some immediately."
"Not I," cried William Barham, though his face for a moment had become very pale. "You say he destroyed the papers. He can't do anything against me, then--I shall send him no money. You were a fool for not letting him be hanged," and he turned sullenly from her, and left the room.
Helen Barham leaned her head upon her hand, pressed her handkerchief upon her eyes, and wept bitterly.
THE night was dark and tempestuous, the rain beat violently against the windows of the carriage, the wind blew so vehemently as to shake it upon the springs, and the hollow moanings of the gale, as it swept down the valley of Treisam, sounded like the screams of souls in torture. Once or twice, but once or twice only, the features of the scene around were displayed for an instant by a sudden flash of lightning, and rock, and chasm, and rushing stream, swelled into a torrent by the deluge that was pouring down, started out from the darkness and instantly disappeared again. The effect was fine, but awful; and for the sake of postilions and servants, Morley Ernstein would have willingly turned back, but that the storm did not commence till Freiburg was left far behind, and had not reached its height till the carriage was nearly half way through the pass, known by the gloomy name of the Valley of Hell. To go on, then, was a matter of necessity, and Morley contented himself with calling old Adam Gray into the inside of the carriage, to shelter his white hair from the storm of night. The journey, indeed, was not without danger, for the pit of Acheron was certainly never darker than the Höllen-Thal, in the intervals of the lightning; and the windings of the road, amongst rocks and streams, are conducted with a greater regard to brevity than to the traveller's neck.
"It is a dreadful night, indeed, sir," said good old Adam Gray, with a shudder, "and it seems to be a terribly wild country. Why, the carriage can scarcely get on, and I believe will be broken in pieces before we get to the end of the stage."
"Oh, no!" replied Morley; "it is too well built for that, Adam; and the darkness makes you think every jolt worse than it is. Through this very valley General Moreau made his famous retreat, bringing with him his baggage and artillery, so it is impossible that it can be so very bad."
"It's bad enough, sir, any way!" exclaimed Adam Gray, as the carriage passed over an immense stone, producing a jolt that nearly knocked the heads of the travellers against the top of the vehicle. "I would almost sooner be a cannon than a Christian to go through here--at least in this dark night!"
"I certainly should have waited till to-morrow," replied Morley, "if I had known we should have such a storm, but now it is not to be helped, and the stage, I believe, is not a very long one. We must sleep where we can for to-night, as there is no use of attempting to go on to Schaffhausen."
The way, however, seemed to Adam Gray interminably long, for the German drivers, with very proper caution, proceeded at a rate certainly somewhat slower than that with which an English broad-wheeled waggon wends its way along the drawing-room roads of our own favoured land. At the end of about an hour the storm decreased, the sharp gusts of wind ceased almost entirely, the lightning no longer illuminated the valley from time to time with its fierce glare, and the rain itself subsided into a thin and drizzling mist, through which the lamps of the carriage poured a red and confused light, occasionally catching upon some wild rock, or bringing forth from the darkness the large boll of some old tree, but generally showing nothing but the dim expanse of vapour which wrapped the harsh features of the valley in a foggy shroud.
How long they had thus gone on through that tempestuous night, Morley Ernstein did not know, but he judged by guess that the next post-house could not be far off, when the sound of what seemed a distant call met his ear, and, turning to old Adam Gray, he said--"Well, Adam, your rough journey will soon be over; we must be coming near Steig, for I hear voices, and some persons shouting."
"Perhaps some one has got hurt in this terrible night," replied Adam Gray. "God send us well out of this horrid place!"
Morley Ernstein listened eagerly, for the old man's words brought suddenly into his mind the very probable case of some accident having happened in such a storm and such a scene; and, letting down the window, he put his head out, gazing round to see if he could descry anything, but in vain.
A moment or two after, however, a loud shout from the right, and at no great distance, showed that the lamps of the carriage, though of no great service either to the travellers or the postilions attached to it, had sent their glare far enough into the gloom of the valley to reach the eyes of some person in distress. The shout was repeated again and again, and Morley thought that he distinguished an English tone and English words, though let it be remembered that such sounds may very well be heard in Germany, without the speakers being Englishmen or knowing one syllable of our native tongue. This Morley recollected, but, nevertheless, he was just as anxious to give assistance as if he had been quite sure that the persons calling for aid were his fellow-countrymen.
The postilions, although they must have heard the cry fully as well as those within the carriage, did not seem in the slightest degree disposed to stop, but went on with the same indifferent jog-trot, which probably they would have continued if the father of each of them had been drowning in the stream below. Three times did Morley himself call to them before they condescended to pay any attention. They at length brought up, however, and quietly asked what was the matter. Without waiting to inform them, but bidding the servants get down to aid him, Morley sprang out of the vehicle, drew one of the lanterns with his own hands from the socket, and called aloud, in very good German, to ascertain where were the personages who had been so vociferously appealing for help.
The reply left him no doubt as to its being an Englishman who now spoke, for the very first sentence was adorned with one of those oaths which unhappily are but too often in the mouths of our countrymen. "Holloa hoy!" cried the voice. "D--n you, if you don't make haste you will be too late! This way, I say--this way!"
It was not without some difficulty, however, that any means were found of reaching the spot from whence the voice proceeded. The bank was steep and rugged, large masses of rock and stone obstructed the way, and the darkness of the night, increased by the mist, prevented Morley Ernstein and his servant from seeing more than a few yards even by the aid of the lantern, which the young gentleman himself carried. All this delayed them much, but still they advanced, guided by several voices talking rapidly and eagerly together; and bad French and bad English were to be heard spoken in sharp and sometimes angry tones, between people who seemed to have a very great difficulty in making themselves mutually understood.
At length, however, the exact place where all this was going on became more distinct; and the forms of two men, two or three women, a child, four horses, and an overturned coach, were seen against a back ground of white spray and foam, occasioned by the stream--now swelled, as I have before said, into a torrent, and dashing in angry fury amidst the crags and rocky fragments which encumbered the valley. The men and most of the women were all gathered closely round the carriage, and seemed to be holding on thereby as if endeavouring to move it, while one of the group was giving eager orders to another, in a somewhat extraordinary compound of English and French, to attach the horses to the overthrown vehicle in a particular manner, and endeavour to pull it up; while the man to whom he spoke seemed to have taken the wise resolution, in the first place, of not understanding him, and in the next place, of not doing what he was told when he did.
Such was the state of things when Morley Ernstein approached within a few yards of the carriage, and perceived that the vehicle, and whatever it might contain, was certainly in a very dangerous position, being balanced as nicely as can be conceived, upon the edge of a second bank, and apparently only kept from falling over into the stream by the weight of the persons who held it down. Such was the first fact that presented itself to Morley's mind; but there was another point which struck him nearly at the same time--namely, that the figures of two, at least, out of the personages in the group, were quite familiar to him; and the combination of the voice which he had heard, with the appearance of the people now before him, instantly brought to his recollection our old acquaintance Harry Martin, and his wife. The latter, it would seem, instantly recognised the young Baronet in the person who now came to their aid, for at the very moment that Morley recognised her husband, she exclaimed--"Oh, how fortunate! It is Sir Morley, Harry--it is Sir Morley Ernstein!"
"That is luck, indeed!" cried Harry Martin. "We shall now have somebody to help us."
The matter was soon explained; the Swiss driver of the vehicle in which Martin had engaged a certain number of places for himself and his family, had, in the darkness of the night, mistaken a small cart-road on the right, for the highway to Steig, had soon become embarrassed amongst the rocks, and had ended by overturning the carriage in the most dangerous part of the valley.
"The worst part of the whole job, is," said Harry Martin, "that the old woman is a good deal hurt, I am afraid; and we couldn't get her out the carriage, as it lies there. I had nobody to help me but this d--d fellow, and he will not help at all."
With the aid of Morley and his servants, the vehicle was soon freed from the dangerous situation in which it hung, and drawn back into the bad cart-road from which it had strayed. The jolting, however, was so terrible to poor old Mrs. More--who had, as her son-in-law declared, received considerable injuries--that she now very willingly agreed to do that which she had at first refused, and quit the rough and ill-hung coach for Morley's more comfortable conveyance.
Finding that the distance to the post-house was not more than an English mile, the young Baronet determined to go the rest of the way on foot, sending only one servant with his carriage, and giving the places thus left vacant to the women, whom he had found in such a deplorable situation in the valley. Harry Martin's wife and the little boy took their seats beside old Mrs. More, in the inside. There was room for another behind, but there were still two persons to be provided for, both foreigners--one seeming the mistress, and the other the maid. The lady, however, insisted that her attendant should go, saying--"You are bruised, Marguerite, and I am not; I can walk very well."
The attendant needed no great pressing, but took her place at once, and Morley Ernstein, offering his arm to her mistress, gave directions to his courier to remain with the Swiss, in order to aid him in getting his carriage safely back into the main road, and then proceeded, with Harry Martin on his right hand, talking sometimes to one of his companions, sometimes to the other. The lady spoke very little English, but French she understood thoroughly, although her accent betrayed the tones of a southern land; and, now that the danger was over, she laughed with light-hearted gaiety at the misadventures of the night, though a tone of sadness mingled every now and then with her merriment, when she mentioned the situation of the poor old lady, Mrs. More. The impression produced by her conversation upon the mind of Morley Ernstein was altogether agreeable; and indeed it must be a hard case, where a young and graceful woman and a young and accomplished man, finding their way on together along a road they do not know, in a dull and drizzly night, dislike each other very much in the end.
The mind of Harry Martin seemed, for the time, wholly taken up with the accident which had happened to Mrs. More, for whom he apparently entertained as much affection as if he had been her son. Although he in no degree affected to have forgotten Morley Ernstein, and spoke to him in a tone of respect--perhaps one might say, of gratitude--yet he referred, not even by a word, to the circumstances of their previous acquaintance. Morley himself kept aloof from any such topic also, on account of the proximity of his servants' ears, though he determined, if occasion served, to enquire into all which had lately occurred to his companion, and to ascertain by what train of events he now found him in a remote part of Germany, with his wife and family. The opportunity was soon given to him. On their arrival at Steig, they found the little post-house full of bustle and confusion. Poor Mrs. More had been taken out of the carriage, and removed to bed, it having been found that her leg was broken in two places. Her daughter was in the room, attending upon her, with no little distress of mind; and the fair Italian, who had accompanied Morley Ernstein--though there was evidently a little struggle in her breast as to whether she should stay below in the hall, and pass the evening with the young English gentleman, or go up and give what assistance she could to the sufferer up stairs--decided, at length, in favour of the more amiable, though less pleasant occupation. Bidding Morley a graceful good night, she left him and Harry Martin in possession of the great, odd-shaped room, which is almost always to be found on the lower story of a German inn, and proceeded to the chamber of Mrs. More, where, we may as well add, in passing, she shewed much good humour, and benevolent attention, aiding Jane in putting her child to bed, and soothing and tending her mother.
In the meantime, Morley Ernstein's servants busied themselves in preparing their master's room, taking care of the carriage, and removing a part of the contents to the house; while the courier paid the postilion within a few florins of the sum he intended to charge his master, ordered the best of everything for his own supper, and the next best for that of Sir Morley, and looked into the saloon three times to see what the young gentleman was about, and to prove that he was very attentive.
On the part of Sir Morley Ernstein, the first proceeding was to send for the post-master, and to enquire where a surgeon could be procured. No good one was to be heard of nearer than Freiburg; and, accordingly, a man on horseback was sent off by Sir Morley's directions, to bring the best bone-setter that the capital of the Breisgau could afford. Then--after various enquiries as to the real situation of the old woman, after some going to and fro between her chamber and the saloon, and all the little bustles, orders and counter-orders, enquiries and replies, examinations and discoveries, precautions, preparations, and annoyances, which attend the first arrival at an out-of-the-way inn, on a dark and rainy night, after a journey of adventures and mishaps--after all this was concluded Harry Martin stood upon the other, with his arms crossed upon his broad, bull-like chest.
"You see, Sir Morley," said the latter, at length, as if in explanation of his feelings towards Mrs. More--"you see, that I am very anxious about this old woman, for she has been kind to me ever since I first knew her, and ended by saving my life. She was the first one, sir, that ever made me think--love being out of the question--that any one could care about me for myself, and she has always kept tight to the same way of acting by me; though, God knows, little was the good I ever did her or hers! However, I am sure I ought to be well contented with the world, for when I was at the hardest pinch that ever man was at, I found people to be generous to me, people to be true to me, and people to be zealous for me, which, altogether, was what saved my life, when I as much deserved to be hanged as any man that ever was born."
"How was that?" demanded Morley Ernstein, not doubting, indeed, the truth of Harry Martin's confession, but merely desirous of hearing something more of his history: "I left you in a fair way of making your escape, I thought."
"Ay, sir, so you did," replied his companion, "but I was fool enough to put my foot in a trap, and was caught. I should have been hanged, too, if it hadn't been for that noble girl Miss Helen Barham, who should be a queen if I had my will. She kept her word with me in spite of all that any one could say, and she'll go to heaven for it, if it was for nothing else, for she's given me time to think and to change my life altogether, and that's what the law would not have done. My wife was reading me the Bible, the other day, where it says--'There's joy in heaven over one sinner that repents;' and if it be so, which I don't pretend to doubt, she must have made the place very happy--which, indeed, I suppose it was before--for certainly I was as bad as I could be, but now I have repented a good deal, and mean to do so a great deal more. It would not have been the case, sir, if it happened any other way at all; if they had hanged me, I should have died game; and if I had got off by some trick of the lawyers, some flaw in the indictment, or something of that kind, I should have been at the old work again in a week; but to see that beautiful girl sit there, badgered by the judge and all the lawyers, and quietly make up her mind to go to prison sooner than to break her word with a man like me,--why, sir, it changed my whole heart in a moment; and I thought to myself, if I get off this time I will lead a different life altogether for your sake, you angel, just to shew you that I'm not altogether so bad as people think!"
By degrees, Morley Ernstein obtained a general idea of all that occurred to Harry Martin, since he left him in the north of England. It was not with little interest that the young Englishman questioned him concerning Helen Barham, and we need hardly say that it was with pleasure he heard, not only her praises from the man beside him, but an account of the actions which had called forth his gratitude. It was with great satisfaction, too, he learnt that a change had taken place in her pecuniary affairs and that competence, if not wealth, was at all events assured to her; for though he had written to Mr. Hamilton about her before he left England, and placed her future fate beyond doubt, he was not a little pleased to find that she would be dependant upon no one. The relative situation into which they had been thrown, the high qualities of her mind, the compassion that he had felt for her--ay, the very temptation which had at one moment assailed him, had left a tenderness in his feelings towards Helen Barham, which was certainly not love, and yet was something more than friendship, It was a sensation, strange, complicated, difficult to be defined even to his own mind; it was the blending of many memories and many sweet impressions into something like the affection of a father for a child, something like the love of a brother for a sister, and yet differing from both, inasmuch as there was nothing conventional in it, inasmuch as there was no bond or tie of duty, inasmuch as it differed from the common forms and modes into which the rules of society shape our feelings as well as our actions.
The presence of such sensations in his bosom was rendered more sensible to him by the conversation taking place at that moment, than it had ever been before, and he paused for some short time thinking that it was all very strange, and enquiring into the nature of the things within him. The man Martin, in the meantime, remained beside him, with his keen, intelligent eyes fixed upon his countenance, apparently reading, or attempting to read, the thoughts that were busy in his breast.
At length he said--"Well, Sir Morley, I am going to bid you good night, and I thank you very heartily for all the kindness you have shewn me. There's one thing I can't help saying, however--and you must not think me impudent or meddling for saying it, though I must not mention any names--but I can't help thinking, sir, that you have thrown away your own happiness, and quitted the good, and the true, and the beautiful, to follow one that you'll find out some day, perhaps when hope, and comfort, and peace are all ruined together. Forgive me for saying it, sir, but I owe it to one who has been kind to me to give him a warning. I wish you good night, sir!"
"Stay, stay!" cried Morley; "explain what you mean, at least, before you go."
"No, no, I can't say any more," replied Harry Martin, moving steadily towards the door, "I have said all that I have a right to say; and I only add, that if you watch you will see, and if you enquire you will find out. You will be convinced, at last, although I should think that you had had enough to convince you already."
Without waiting for further question he turned and quitted the room, and Morley remained bewildered and surprised, applying the words just spoken to Juliet Carr, although they referred to quite a different object; and asking himself how the man who had just left him could have gained such a knowledge of his affairs. Surprise was certainly the first feeling, but suspicion is a guest that finds but too easy admission into the human heart.
"Peace, and comfort, and happiness are indeed gone already," he said, "and gone by her act--must I call it by her fault? Can this be trifling?--Love, they say, is blind.--Can it be coquetry? Can she be sporting with my misery?"
But, as he put the question to his own heart, the idea of Juliet Carr, in all her beauty, in all her frank simplicity, in all that openhearted candour which gave the crowning grace to her demeanour, rose up before his sight, and he became not only angry with himself for having given credit to one word against her; but angry also and indignant, with the man who had uttered aught that could raise a doubt of her sincerity in his mind.