CHAPTER XXIII.
"Take care you're not done, Bill--that's all I say!" was the exclamation of the good-looking, powerful fellow, who has once already been placed before the reader's eyes, under the name of Harry Martin, and who now sat with Helen's brother in the house she had inhabited. "If he gets you on board ship, you mayn't get out again, I take it; but you know your own business best. I don't like the job, I can tell you. I think you're all wrong, my lad, and you'll find it out some day.--Come, pass us another glass, and I'll be jogging.--If I were you, I would stick to my sister; she's a very good girl, I hear; and hang me, Bill, it's very well talking, but a good girl's a good girl, you know, and a bad one's a bad one--there's no mistake. You that are born a gentleman, too, I should have thought you'd something more of it in you. Why didn't ye fly at the fellow's throat when he shewed you the paper, and tear it all to pieces in a minute?"
"I couldn't," said William Barham, who had been gazing down upon the floor, with a look half sullen, half ashamed; "there was a table between us, and I couldn't get at it."
"If you could get hold of that," said Harry Martin, "the job would be at an end, you know; you could do what you pleased. Can't you make him shew it you again?"
The boy shook his head. "It wont do, Harry," he said; "he keeps it in a little pocket-book, with some other things; and I would have tried to get it out of his pocket quietly, as Simes showed me how one day, but you see it's an inside pocket, and I can't get at it."
"Why, for that matter, one could cut his pocket off," said Harry Martin; "and I shouldn't care if I had a hand in it; but we must have two or three, and unless there was a good deal of tin to be had besides, the men would not like to risk a trip to Botany, just to get that note of yours. However, I'll think over it, and talk with some other fellows about it, and perhaps we shall bring the thing right after all. I'll take one more glass, and then I'll go."
William Barham thought for a moment or two, and then said, "I'll tell you what, Harry, when we find out where Helen is, he's sure to go down into the country after her. Don't you think that one could do something, as he goes? He has always lots of money about him, and that gold snuff box which there was a piece of work about once with Bill Jones, you know; and if he goes into the country for any time, his dressing-case is worth a cool couple of hundred, just to make soup of, as you call it. It's all gold and silver together."
"What! a touch of the highway, as men used to have long ago?" said Harry Martin. "But that's not so easy done now, my boy. We have changed all that--trade has fallen off sadly too. I wish those days would come again, for there's scarce a man of us keeps a horse now."
"Why, you've got your horse and gig, Harry," said the youth.
"Ay, but one can't stop a gentleman on the road with a horse and gig."
"Very true," answered William Barham; "but if he were to go down into the country, you could go after him, and make a smash of it."
The man with whom he was talking, laughed, but seemed to think the idea not a bad one. "We can't do it for nothing, Bill," he said; "though if he puts up in a place where there's something to be got, and the thing's easy, I shouldn't mind undertaking it, for your sake, though I am not a cracksman, myself--especially if it's a good way down in the country, for you see, there's not so much chance of being pulled up for it. We could have the gig waiting, and after the job was done, get in and drive thirty miles or so, and then take the coach. All I can say is, if you choose to cut this business about your sister entirely, and want really to get out of the fellow's power, I'll help you as far as I can; so look out, there's a good boy, and let me know; for hang me, if I like to see a poor girl bought and sold, like a sheep in Smithfield!--And now, good night, Bill. I would fain see you a free man again, for now you're no better than a nigger-slave in the West Indies."
Thus saying, he left him, and I will not pause to investigate and lay bare all the curious combinations in the bosom of Harry Martin, which produced his strange and anomalous notions of honour and dishonour, honesty and dishonesty. It would be a very difficult task in his case, and perhaps if we knew all, it would not be much less so in the case of many men of far higher reputation--for too, too often, in this good world, do we see the frauds to which they are accustomed, the dishonest--ay, and criminal acts, which suit their purposes and conveniences, placed in as strange contrast with better things in the life of high and distinguished persons, "all honourable men," as the habit of plundering was, with his notions in regard to Helen Barham, in the breast of Henry Martin. The man who takes a solemn vow at the altar, in the presence of his God, and breaks it ere three months are over, would cut the throat of his dearest friend, if he called him a liar; and yet, what is he? The politician, who, on the hustings, or on the table, excites the passions of the people, vows that he is seeking their own interests solely, when his object is place, or power, or station; or he, who in his canvass promises all sorts of things that he never can, and never will perform, what is he but a hypocrite? and yet he would grin at you like a dog if you gave him his right name. I could go on for an hour to shew how we felons of high station contrive to render our notions of honour quite as compatible with crime and dishonour, of the basest sort, as were the plundering habits of William Barham's companion, with his indignation at the brother's carelessness of the sister's honour.
However, as I have said, I must not pause upon such things, for I fear very much, with the slow rate at which my story proceeds, I may be obliged to infringe the boundary which the customs of the present day ascribe to the teller of a tale. Nor will I delay the reader with all that took place between Lieberg and William Barham, previous to the embarkation of the latter in the river Thames, for a long and distant voyage. The whole business was conducted with the knowledge, and under the eye, of Morley Ernstein. Money was furnished to him for all necessary expenses, and Mr. Hamilton, who was now slowly recovering, promised his interest, at Morley's solicitation, to obtain advancement for the young man in the distant land to which he was going, if his conduct during a couple of years justified the belief that he would act honourably for the future. Before he embarked, he wrote a letter to Helen, and gave it into Morley's hands to put upon it the right address. Morley did so, and forwarded it himself, but no answer had been received at the time the ship dropped down the river.
Such were the principal events connected with the fate of William Barham which took place in London; but I must now suddenly change the scene, and beseech the reader to accompany me to a distant spot, and take up his abode for a short space in a small room--for the inn had no other but small rooms--in a house known by the distinctive appellation of "The Sandown Castle," in the small town of Deal.
It was night, and the wind had been blowing freshly from the westward during the whole day; but as the sun went down it increased to a gale, varying somewhat to the southward, with an unpromising blackness about the sky in that quarter, mingling with the faint red of evening, in the west and north. It was altogether as ominous and unpleasant a night to commence a long voyage upon, as any one could wish to see; and nobody whose destiny was not very well assured, would have chosen the neighbourhood of the Goodwin Sands for his night's lodging on the deep. Although the wind had got to the south, as I have said, the night was one of those which are more generally met with in this favoured climate than any other--that is to say, cold, raw, and damp, in the very midst of the summer, giving us back all our recollections of December in the heart of July.
The room of which I have spoken in the little inn, had been made as comfortable as possible, under existing circumstances. The table had been well rubbed, to take out the marks of tumblers, imprinted in rum-and-water; the windows had been opened to "air the room"--a proceeding which, to say the truth, was not a little required, as a dull and heavy atmosphere of tobacco-smoke and mixed spirits reigned within, and seemed very ill-disposed to go out, either at door or window, in that cold and boisterous night. There was a small fire, too, in the grate, and once or twice, as the evening drew in and night fell heavy over the world, a very genteel-looking personage, with a foreign countenance, and a grave, sedate air, entered the room, looked about him to see that everything was right, put this thing and that thing in order; smoothing down a great coat, that hung over the back of a chair, stirring the fire, arranging the furniture, and doing all those little acts which give notice that some personage is expected, for whom everything must be prepared in the nicest manner.
At length, he shut the windows and lighted the candles, and in about ten minutes after, a gentleman, dressed in the very height of fashion, with a large blue military cloak, of the finest cloth, hanging from his shoulders, entered the room, and advancing to the fire, gazed into it for a minute or two in silence. The other personage whom we have mentioned, stood at a respectful distance, without saying a single word, till at length his master, for so it was, turned round and gave him his hat and wet cloak, saying, "Here, Martini, take these, and then go down to the beach. It is a terrible night, and I am uneasy about the ship--one can see the surf running upon the sands quite plain. There was a vessel too, apparently coming into the Downs, but I could make nothing of it myself, and the jargon of these pilots I do not pretend to understand. I suppose the boy will come ashore directly, of course."
"If he can, sir," replied the man, with a strong foreign accent; "but I should not like to trust myself, I know, in an open boat, on such a night as this."
"There are several boats out," said Lieberg, for it was our friend who spoke; and then making a sign for the man to leave him, he sat till nearly eleven o'clock at night in that worst of all states of idleness; the idleness of a strange inn, which is the next thing to solitary confinement. Lieberg, on most occasions, had plenty of means of employing and amusing himself, but at the present moment his mind was evidently not at ease. He gazed during the greater part of the evening into the fire, and one might have supposed that it was the thought of being baffled in his pursuit, by the destruction of the ship which bore William Barham, that troubled him, had not a word or two escaped from his lips towards the end of the period we have mentioned, which shewed that, in reality, some better feelings were mingled with his emotions, and that it was about the youth himself, and the risk he ran for the time, he was anxious. The words indeed, dear reader, to which I allude, were all harsh, and, apparently, unfeeling; but still they shewed that Lieberg was occupied rather with the boy's fate than with his own plans and purposes.
"Curse him!" he said, rising from his chair, towards eleven o'clock--"he may as well die that way as any other. He would be hanged, that's certain, sooner or later, if he escaped the water. So it is as well if he be drowned after all. There is no reason for my making myself uneasy about him. It might be as well, indeed, if he had some other business in hand when called upon to join the world of spirits; but I dare say, let him live as long as a patriarch, he would be engaged in some rascality at the day of his death, and as well this as anything else; so good bye to him!"
Thus saying, Lieberg rang the bell and ordered supper to be brought, of which, when it did appear, he partook moderately, and then retired to bed, his valet having by that time returned without any tidings whatsoever of William Barham, or the ship that bore him. If the truth must be told, however, Lieberg did not sleep much, for while he was undressing, a dull, distant peal came from the sea, loud, but heavy.
"'Tis some ship firing for a pilot, sir," said his valet.
Lieberg took out his watch and listened; ere the minute was quite done, there came the roar of another gun, and then another, and another. For near an hour the same sounds went on, when all became still, except the rushing of the wind, and the heavy, thunder-like fall of the sea upon the beach. Stoicism may do its utmost, but the human heart generally finds a time to speak, and Lieberg was so evidently uneasy, that his valet de chambre--who had about as much feeling as that race of created beings generally have, and no more--evidently saw that his master was very much more moved than was usually the case with him, and went to bed, wondering what could be the occasion thereof--that is to say, not asking himself exactly what was the object of Lieberg's emotion, but what possibly could induce him to give way to any emotion at all.
Perceiving, however, that such was the case, and wishing, as all well-disposed valets de chambre are expected to do, to set his master's mind at ease, his tap was heard at Lieberg's door towards six o'clock on the following morning, and his voice exclaimed--"He is arrived, sir! The ship has gone to pieces, but all the crew are saved."
Lieberg instantly started up, threw on his brocaded dressing-gown, and opened the door. The man, who was standing there, pointed to the sitting-room, which was on the opposite side of the passage, and his master instantly crossed over and entered the room.
Certainly never on earth did a more disconsolate object present itself to the eyes of man, than that which was offered to Lieberg's sight by the unfortunate William Barham. He was seated on a chair by the fire--which had just been relighted and had not well burnt up--without a coat or waistcoat; his long, silky, light hair drenched with water, and hanging upon his cheeks and neck; his countenance, previously pallid with licentiousness and habits of vice, now ten times paler than ever, and purplish at the extremes, with the cold and terror he had undergone; his eyes languid, his teeth chattering, and his whole limbs trembling, while a bad cut upon his forehead, received in getting into one of the boats, made him look still more miserable, and a stain or two of blood oozing through the breast of his shirt, shewed that he must have received some other blow upon the chest.
Lieberg was truly moved by what he saw, and exerted himself energetically to comfort and assist the unhappy young man. "Get a bed ready, and have it warmed, immediately!" he exclaimed, addressing a drowsy chambermaid, who was trying, by various pokes and thumps, to irritate the cold-hearted coals, in the grate, into some degree of warmth. "You, Martini, bring him some Madeira as quick as possible, while I get him some dry clothes."
The girl proceeded as slowly as possible, according to the usual custom of such personages; but Martini sprang rapidly to obey his master's orders, and Lieberg himself soon procured all that was necessary for arraying the unfortunate youth in dry clothing, and bringing some degree of warmth back into his chilled and exhausted frame. A surgeon also was sent for, and, as soon as possible, William Barham was placed in a warm bed, and received such treatment as the man of art thought necessary in the existing circumstances.
While this was taking place he said very little himself, only answering in a monosyllable; and Lieberg asked but few questions for the time. All that he thus learnt was, that the vessel had got well out of the mouth of the Thames, and was making the best of her way towards her destination, notwithstanding the Captain's previous intimation that he would touch at Deal, when the change of wind had forced him to try for an anchorage in the Downs, and, by some mismanagement towards nightfall, the ship, instead of getting into a place of security, had been driven upon the Goodwins, and become a complete wreck. Though the gallant boatmen of Deal had done all in their power, it had proved utterly impossible to save any one from the wreck before daybreak. But then, with great difficulty, and at the imminent risk of their own lives, the hovellers, as they are called, had contrived to bring off the whole of the crew, except one or two, who had been swept from the wreck during the night. Further particulars were obtained by Lieberg in the course of the day; and with the spirit of liberality which he always shewed, he contributed largely to assist the unfortunate persons who had lost the whole of their stores in the ship, and also to reward the brave fellows who had saved their lives.
Lieberg thus occupied himself during the day, and at night returned to the inn, where his servant met him at the foot of the little stairs, and communicated to him two pieces of intelligence, the latter of which seemed to affect him the most.
"He is up, sir," said the man in a low tone; "and in the sitting-room; and he has received a letter from the post-office, addressed to William Barham, Esq., in the ship Mary Anne.'"
"In what sort of hand?" demanded Lieberg, eagerly. "Did you see the post-mark?"
"The hand was a very good one, sir," replied the valet. "The post-mark was Doncaster."
Lieberg started, and turned red. "Morley Ernstein's post-town!" he exclaimed. "But nonsense!" he continued, after pausing for a moment, "he is still lingering on in London. The thing cannot be. He must have got somebody to receive her in the neighbourhood;" and with some doubts still upon his mind, he mounted the staircase and entered the room, where William Barham was seated over the fire, though by this time the weather had become sultry to the feelings of every one else.
"How hot the room is!" exclaimed Lieberg, as he entered. "Tell the people to serve dinner as soon as possible.--Well, William, how do you feel now?"
"Very much bruised, and very cold," replied the youth, sullenly. "I hear you have had a letter from your sister," said Lieberg, in a quiet, easy tone. "Pray where is she now?"
The man Martini was in the room; and it is probable that Lieberg calculated upon the youth giving him an answer at once. But William Barham still sat over the fire, without looking up, and replied--"We'll talk about that by-and-by."
"Leave the room, Martini," said Lieberg, adding, as soon as he was obeyed--"Well, William, now, where is your sister?"
The youth rose up from before the fire, and stood opposite to Lieberg, pale, ghastly, and haggard, replying, boldly--"I do not mean to say I do not know where my sister is, for I do, and I know too that you have got me in your power; but before I tell you any more, or help you any farther, I will have you promise me to settle something upon her, so that she may never want."
Lieberg gazed at him for a moment, with a dark, considering look, not unmixed with contempt, and he then replied--"Make your mind easy, she shall never want. Now answer my question, and quickly, for I do not love being trifled with."
The worm he trod upon turned against him, and the youth replied--"I shall not tell you anything more, or help you any farther, unless you give me some better assurance than that. I'll tell you what, Count; last night in the storm, when I was clinging to the wreck, I thought I heard Helen's voice in the wind, and this morning I have been thinking of her ever since I woke; and I have made up my mind sooner to die than to do anything farther, unless you will give me something, under your hand, which will ensure that she shall never be walking about the streets in misery, as I have seen some poor girls do."
Lieberg frowned upon him darkly, with feelings that it may be best to explain. We can only do so in part, it is true, for there was one dark side of his character upon which we cannot throw light. Such explanation, however, as we can give, we will. There had been something in the beauty of Helen Barham--ay, in her innocence and somewhat wild simplicity--which had struck and captivated him much. Her talents, too, and tastes, were of a kind to attract him; and though he had beheld her but once, he had seen quite sufficient to show him that she was exactly the being for whom he had been long seeking, to be his companion, his paramour, the object of passion, the amusement of idle hours; to be sported with, conversed with, to be lapped in luxury, spoiled, petted, and perhaps loved, but to be dependent entirely upon his will--the slave of the Eastern harem, not the wife of a civilized land.
He saw all this in a moment, and had determined to obtain her: yet perhaps he might have been diverted from the pursuit by any small and ordinary obstacle, which did not pique his vanity or excite his passions. The difficulties he had met with, however, had been the work of human beings; he had been thwarted and opposed by those who seemed inferior to himself; and every stumbling-block that he met with, every barrier in his way, made him but the more resolute to overleap them all, and to pursue his course with a degree of vehemence and passion, which mere love for Helen Barham could not have excited in the short space of time that he had known her.
Determined to win her, and thinking that no sacrifice would be too much for that object, he would not have hesitated, in the least, to make any provision for her that was in his power, had it not been dictated to him; but that her brother, who was bound hand and foot before him, chained to his will, as a sinner to the power of Satan--that he should turn and make conditions, excited the evil spirit that reigned in him to the very highest pitch, and made him reply, after gazing upon the youth darkly for a moment--"Very well.--you would sooner die, would you? That is easy. I had better send for a constable;" and he put his hand towards the bell, adding, as he did so--"You make your own choice, young man; but do not let any wild notions of romance enter into your head, and make you believe that you can frustrate me. You will only be hanged yourself, and make no change in your sister's fate, for I know that she is in the neighbourhood of Doncaster as well as you do. So now I shall give you into charge at once; then go down to see her, and return in time to bear testimony to your merits at the trial:" and he rang the bell.
The youth's resolution failed him; he gasped, as if he were half strangled, exclaiming--"For God's sake--for God's sake, spare me!" and thrust into Lieberg's hand--even as the landlord entered the room--the letter which he had received from Helen Barham.
Lieberg's lip curled, and grasping the letter tight, he turned round to the landlord, saying--"Is not the dinner ready? I ordered it at six precisely! What wine can you give me?" and he entered, in the calmest tone possible, into a discussion upon things to be eaten and drunk, which would not edify the reader to hear.
After he had done, and the landlord was dismissed, Lieberg walked with the letter to the window, read it attentively, took a note of one or two things on some tablets, and then returned it to William Barham.
"Mark one thing, my good young man," he said, "and recollect it well in your future dealings with me--I am not a man to be dictated to. Nothing was ever obtained from me by threat or opposition yet. What you required for your sister just now, and I would not grant, because you asked it in a high tone, I will now consent to, since you have yielded obedience, and will give you a promise under my hand of that which will always put your sister above need. Where is the paper I gave you when we were in London? I will add it to that."
The boy shook his head sadly, saying--"It is lost, with everything else that I had, in that ship. You must write it on another piece of paper."
"That I will do at once," said Lieberg, drawing a writing-desk to him. "Do not be cast down, my good youth, at your losses, I will soon repair them amply if we succeed. But come, here is the dinner, and you want some refreshment. I will write it afterwards. Sit down; what will you take--some soup, or some fish?"
The youth sat down to table with him, and Lieberg treated him with kindness. But the reader learned in the human heart need not be told, that William Barham hated him as much for his after-condescension as he did for his previous tyranny.
Lieberg kept his word. After dinner he wrote a promise, which was quite as satisfactory to William Barham as such a promise could be: he provided him also with all that was necessary for his comfort, while weakness obliged him to remain in Deal, and gave him money to journey to London as soon as he had taken some repose, charging him strictly, however, to go to the house he had formerly inhabited, and keep himself out of sight of Sir Morley Ernstein. Lieberg himself set off early in the following morning for London, proposing to go down at once to Doncaster, in pursuit of Helen, but hoping to return successful ere many days were over.
Not wishing his proceedings to be particularly remarked, and fearing that he might meet some one in the coach who knew him, Lieberg had come down to Deal in his own carriage, and in it he returned; but scarcely was he gone, when William Barham demanded at what hour the coaches started, and in less than half an hour after he also was on his way to town, with feelings of hatred in his heart towards him who had just left him, which were not without their fruit in due time.