CHAPTER XLVI.
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 of voituriers, 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 of voiturier< 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 Swiss voiturier, 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 that do< 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.