CHAPTER XLVII.
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.