CHAPTER LIII.
In early youth there are pleasures in all seasons of the year; and as the schoolboy-story goes, it is difficult to choose between the glowing summer, with its brightness and its smiles--the sweet spring, with its soft breezes and its flowers--the brown autumn, with its fruits, and days of harvest--and the hardy winter, with its sports, and merry nights. But, believe me, reader, as one advances in life, the days that we would choose are always warm ones; and putting the brighter season of the year out of the question, the only difficulty is, to say which is most grateful; that brief return of summer-like hours, which generally takes place in the commencement of November--like that return of prosperity towards the end of life, which sometimes brightens the fate of men who have long struggled with adversity; or the burst of warmth and sunshine, which often, in the early spring, forestalls the summer--like the splendid vision of a great and glorious career which presents itself in hours of meditation to the unchastised eyes of youth.
It was in the end of February, however, with days warmer than many in June, with a balmy air, and a clear sky, that some travellers, with whom the reader is already well acquainted, took their way as nearly as possible by the same course that Morley Ernstein had pursued towards the classic land, in which he was now sojourning.
Nor let it seem strange, and romance-like, or make any one doubt the accuracy of this true history, that three parties of people, without any common consent amongst them, are here represented taking exactly the same path to a particular object, when there were five or six other roads open before them. Ay, but, dear reader, it is the very question which you are begging. If you remember rightly, at the period of which we are now speaking, a tremendous storm had swept the Alps, greatly injuring two of the principal passages; the Splugen was impassable, neither of the St. Bernards could be thought of, either very late or very early in the year; and Mont Cenis could only be passed in traineaux; but the Brenner was, and is passable, and convenient at all seasons, though sometimes the traveller is very cold before he gets at it. The convenience of this passage, especially to an invalid, in the early month of which we speak, was the cause why it was chosen by the party, to whom we now return; for one of that party was an invalid.
It was on one of those warm days of February, then, which generally brighten a part of the coldest season of the year, that a splendid green chariot, quite new, with much more silver about it than was in good taste--with a courier behind, dressed out to the highest pitch of courierism--and a lady's maid, of a very different appearance, neat, plain, and staid--drove along one of the roads that traverse the Black Forest, taking its way towards the small town of Schaffhausen. The vehicle was nevertheless at the distance of several leagues from that place; and, as it ascended one of the tall hills which diversify that part of the country, a wide extent of forest ground was displayed to the eye, undulating into all the most beautiful forms, with the yellow sun resting upon the bare, leafless branches of that ocean of trees, which.--although not a bud could be perceived upon the closest inspection, nor the slightest promise of the spring--yet bore over all, when beheld from afar, a kind of misty bloom, which is not seen in the earlier part of winter, and is difficult to account for.
The air was so warm that Helen Barham, at the request of her sick brother--who was now journeying for his only chance of life, towards that land where so many of the children of the North have laid their bones--opened the window of the carriage, and let in the breath of spring, which for a time seemed to revive the invalid. She herself leant forward, and gazed over the prospect, enjoying it with a spirit attuned to every thing that is beautiful, but with feelings saddened by a partial knowledge of her brother's perilous state; though William Barham himself, like most sufferers from the same malady, was utterly ignorant of the fate that hung over him, and had that very morning been cursing the doctors, for some little inconvenience which he had undergone at the last inn, declaring that if they had let him remain in England, he would have been well long before.
Helen gazed, as I have said, pleased but somewhat sorrowful; and, indeed, there is nothing on earth I know more melancholy, than to look over one of the bright scenes of nature with an eye fresh from the bed of deadly sickness. There is a strange and awful contrast in it: it makes life seem so utterly vain and worthless, that all we have been taught to prize turns suddenly, like the fabled fruits, to dust and ashes; and our heart sinks with a conviction of the emptiness of every thing below, even before it can rise with the consciousness of a better state beyond.
Helen gazed, then, and meditated; and her lovely eyes filled with tears. At that moment her brother's voice said, "Helen;" but for a short time she would not look round, lest he should see the drops upon her eyelids, and divine their cause. But the next moment, he repeated the word "Helen" in a tone that alarmed her, and when she did turn, his countenance alarmed her still more. His cheeks had become more hollow, the red spot which had been constantly there for some weeks was gone, his temples seemed fallen in, and the thin light hair lay more wild upon his brow than usual. There was a transparent greyness, too, about the flesh which Helen had never seen before, in him, but had marked it to well in another; and when once seen, it is never to be forgotten. At the same time a sort of spasmodic gasping seemed to convulse his chest, and his hands lay upon his knees.
"Helen!" he cried--"Helen! I feel very queer. Don't let them go on in this mist. Stop the carriage--I should like to get out. The air is so thick here I cannot breathe. Stop the carriage, girl, I say! Those d--d doctors, if they had but left me in England I should have been well by this time. That mist--"
Helen let down the window hastily, and called to the postilions to stop, but they did not hear her, and it was some time before she could catch the ear of the courier. At length, however, the carriage paused; and the door was opened, and, by a great effort, William Barham raised himself from his seat, and fell forward into the arms of the courier. The man carried him to the bank, and placed him at the foot of a tree, but the unhappy youth sunk back upon the grass with his eyes closed; while the same death-like pallor continued upon his countenance, and a quick, hard-drawn respiration shook his emaciated frame. Helen sprang from the carriage after her brother, and knelt beside him, her heart palpitating with apprehension, and her eyes filled with the tears of natural affection, no less keen and sensible because he who lay there dying before her had been so frequently the cause of pain, and sorrow, and anxiety. She bade the man bring water from the stream to throw upon his face; but though he went civilly to obey, yet he shrugged his shoulders, saying, in French--"It is of no use, mademoiselle--he is dying."
Oh! of all the many painful things of earth, there are few more terrible than to stand by the side of a being that we deeply love, watching the last struggles of departing life, looking round for aid, consolation, and support, and finding about us none but indifferent strangers, who view our sorrow and its cause but as a scene upon a theatre. Though she knew that medical aid was useless, what would not Helen Barham have given, at that moment, for the presence of a physician, for the presence of any friend! But all she could do was to clasp her hands, and gaze through her tears upon the unanswering countenance of her brother, expecting every moment to see the spirit depart. After the courier had been gone for a minute, however, a hasty step called her attention, and then a voice which seemed familiar to her ear, asking aloud, in English--"What's the matter--what's the matter?"
Helen looked up, and the face of Harry Martin met her eyes.
"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" she exclaimed. "My brother--my brother,--he is dying, I am afraid."
Harry Martin said, in his own heart, "And no bad job either!" But there was too much of the milk of human kindness, mingled with his rough nature, to let him utter one word which could pain poor Helen Barham at that moment.
"I am very glad to see you, ma'am," he replied; "but sorry to find you in such a state. But why did you take the young man out of the carriage? The place they call Steig is only two miles off; the doctor will be there in half an hour, to see our poor old woman who broke her leg. Better put him in again, Miss! Take the maid with you, inside; I'll jump up behind, and we'll soon be there."
The courier came back with some water in his hands, but though thrown upon the face of the unhappy youth, it produced no effect, except a slight shudder which passed over his frame. The suggestion of the man Harry Martin was then followed. He himself carried the almost lifeless body of William Barham to the carriage, and placed him in it; while Helen, taking her seat beside him, supported his head upon her arm, and the door being closed after the maid had entered, they proceeded on their way.
The postilions drove quick--much more so, indeed, than any money would have induced them to do--and in about twenty minutes the chariot stood before the little post-house. Much to the satisfaction of Harry Martin, the surgeon who had been attending old Mrs. More was seen, as they came up, in the very act of getting into his ancient caleche, to rumble back again to Friedburg, and, springing down, the Englishman stopped him, and told him what had occurred. The surgeon followed him instantly to the side of the vehicle, but when they came up, the post-master, the servants, and the courier were all whispering round, Helen's beautiful face was buried in her handkerchief, and the dead body of William Barham lay beside her, with the head resting upon her shoulder.
Harry Martin sprang round to the other side of the chariot, opened the door, and, raising the corpse in his powerful arms, bore it into the inn. Helen started, and looked round for a moment, as she felt the weight that had leaned upon her removed; but then bent down her head again, and once more covering her eyes, wept bitterly, without making any movement to quit the carriage. In another instant, however, Harry Martin was at the door again, and gently laying his hand upon her sleeve, he called her attention, saying--"You must get out, Miss Barham, I fear, for there is much to be done.--Be comforted, madam," he added, in a low tone--"be comforted. Ay, and thank God! Remember, it might have been worse--much worse."
Helen dried her tears, and entered the inn, where much sad business lay before her. Luckily, however, she was amongst kindhearted and honest people, and the only effort that was made to wrong her in any respect, was on the part of her brother's courier. He was detected in pilfering and cheating, on the day after the funeral of William Barham, by the keen eyes of Harry Martin, who, as he himself said, not knowing the laws of the country, ensured that the rogue should not go without punishment by thrashing him most terribly on the spot, and at the moment. He then reported his conduct to Miss Barham, and the man was accordingly dismissed, so that Helen was left in a small German village, without any counsel or assistance of the kind and character which she most needed, to choose her own plans, and to follow out the curious windings of that fate, which had placed her in so many an unforeseen position through life. She had been compelled to choose her course before, in circumstances that may seem to the reader far more difficult; but, strange to say, now that great wealth was at her command, and that all the self-named friends and humble servants who are always ready to bow down and worship at the shrine of the great god of this world, were prepared to court and seek her, and show her kindnesses and attentions, not the slightest of which her high qualities of mind and heart would have won from them had she remained poor,--strange to say, she felt more embarrassed, more anxious, more doubtful in acting for herself, than she had felt when left, by her father's death, to provide by her own exertions food for her brother and herself.
At one time, she thought of returning to England; and, perhaps, had she been a person to consult the dictates of prudence alone, she would have done so; but alas! reader, Helen Barham was not by nature a prudent person. She was good, indeed,--she was very good; and she had strong and fine principles, but it was from her heart that her goodness proceeded--in her heart that her principles dwelt. On the present occasion there was some secret longing--some inclination hidden from herself which made her anxiously desire to go on towards Italy; and though, at first, she felt some sort of fear at the mere idea of doing so, of taking so long a journey by herself, of encountering strange scenes and strange people, and undergoing all the dangers and difficulties of the road, yet these apprehensions soon disappeared, and she reasoned down every other objection in her own mind.
Nor did many real obstacles present themselves. All her brother's affairs had been settled before she left England, and she came in as the clear and sole heir, he having died under age, of the whole property which they had lately acquired. The steps necessary to be taken in consequence of his decease, the lawyers were very willing to carry through without her presence, and Helen having once written to England and received an answer, openly took the resolution of going on to Italy--speaking the truth when she said that she herself did not feel well, and would probably be better for the air of a milder climate.
There was a difficulty, indeed, in procuring an honest and respectable servant, and her experience of the last courier did not tend to give her any great confidence in that sort of cattle. But she was not destined to proceed alone. The man Martin and his wife had shown her that devoted attention and respect, which could only spring from deep gratitude; and although the good old lady, Mrs. More, was still in a very feeble and even dangerous state, they had lost no opportunity of offering to Helen every attention and assistance. The funeral of William Barham had been arranged and carried through by Harry Martin himself, who had by this time learnt to converse in a somewhat barbarous kind of German, and many of the painful particulars which attend the act of committing our kindred clay to the earth, had been spared to Helen by his consideration for her.
When he now heard that she was going on to Italy, he made all the preparations, took her orders, as if he had been her servant, and often gazed wistfully in her face, with a look that seemed to imply there was something in his mind which he wished to speak, without presuming to do so. He often, too, held long consultations with his wife; and, in the end, he came one morning suddenly into the room which Helen had made her sitting-room, saying, without any preface--"I can't think of your going to Italy by yourself, Miss Helen. I know you talk of getting a courier fellow at Schaffhausen or Constance; but bless you, ma'am, he's as likely to cheat you as the other, and you are going into a place where there are blackguards of all sorts. Now, it's very possible, ma'am, that, from what you know of me, you may think I am not a very likely person to take with you, and that I may just prove as bad as the rest of them you would meet with; but I give you my word of honour, that I never cheated any one in my life, though many a time I have done, perhaps, what may be worse. But, however, I would not wrong you in any way for a great deal more than the world, and if you were to give me to keep for you a hundred thousand pound without counting it, you should have every farthing back again, if I were starving."
"I am quite sure of it, Martin," replied Helen Barham, with one of her sweet confiding smiles; "I should not in the least mind putting all I have in the world in your hands. But what is it you wish to propose? You could not, quit this poor lady in her present state--"
"Why, Miss Helen," replied Harry Martin, "that is just what I have been talking to my wife about. She is not the least afraid of staying here to attend to her mother, till I go with you to Italy and come back again. What I want is, just to go along with you, on the outside of the carriage, to see that nobody does you any harm. You can get a courier fellow where you can find one, for you see I know nothing about that sort of business, and should not exactly like such a thing either; but I will see that he keeps all straight, and when once you are safe, and amongst people who will love you, and take care of you, as you ought to be, I can come back again, or Jane can come to me, as the case may be."
Helen took a day to consider, but her consideration ended in her adopting the plan which was proposed, and though she obtained a courier with a good recommendation, Harry Martin attended her onward into Italy.