CHAPTER XXVII.
It is not in the least my intention to keep the reader in suspense regarding the fate of Helen Barham, or, indeed, of any of the other personages in this book. It is a plain unvarnished tale, without mystery or secret in any part of it, narrating the events exactly as they occurred, and preparing no other surprises for the public, than precisely those which fate and fortune destined for the actors in the scene itself. We will, therefore, at once, with good leave and permission, return, in point of time, to the night preceding the attack upon Mr. Carr's house, and venture, in our ghostly capacity, into the bedchamber of sweet Helen Barham.
She was certainly as fair a being as ever was seen, and the great test of loveliness, which the poet gave in his few masterly words, proved hers--that ornament made no addition to her charms; that dress added nothing, but rather took away, and that her beauty was assuredly, "when unadorned, adorned the most." She was indeed so lovely that eyes, not in general accustomed to contemplate or appreciate very great refinement, admired as much as those which fed upon rare flowers every day; and the girl whom Helen had brought from London with her, was almost as much her lover as if she had been a man.
Helen's toilet for the night, though always careful, was not long; and, it must be repeated, that in her bed-gown she was not a bit less lovely than in the richest robe that ever came from the hands of a Parisian artist. She had approached the side of her bed, to kneel down and pray to that God who had mingled most unexpected mercies with his chastisements, whom she had never forgotten in her misfortunes, and who had saved her from temptation to sin. She was about to kneel, then, when her maid, whom she had dismissed for the night some time before, re-entered the room, and said--"A little note from Count Lieberg, Miss Helen."
Helen turned round, perhaps somewhat impatiently, for her thoughts were full of other things--full of all the wants and wishes which she was about to express to the ear of God; and she asked, "What is it, Mary?--open it, and read it."
The girl obeyed, and taking the note to the light, read aloud the words which the reader has already heard. Helen returned to the table, and wrote her hasty reply beneath; and then dismissing the maid, knelt down and prayed. Amongst other petitions was the request that God would pardon, reform, and bless her brother; and her thoughts naturally ran on, after she had done, to his future fate, and to the hopes of fortune which Mr. Carr had held out. She could not help thinking that his having been prevented from proceeding on his voyage just at the time that such a discovery was likely to take place, seemed like an interposition of Providence. Such a train of thought induced her to take out of the lower part of her dressing-case the picture of her grandfather, and compare it with that of her father, which had belonged originally to her mother, and which, since her mother's death, she had constantly worn round her neck, night and day. The latter portrait was an extremely small miniature in a gold case, surrounded by small brilliants; but it had been painted for her father in the times of his happiness and prosperity, by an artist who has not long been dead, but whose works are of high value still to all who possess them, and who was known in his own day by the name of Gentleman Shelley. His skilful hand had preserved the likeness in a size scarcely greater than that of a large ring, and in comparing the two pictures, the resemblance between the father and the son was extraordinary.
Helen gazed on them for several minutes; her memory ran back to the past, and to the last looks of that father who had been taken from her at an hour when a father's care was most needful. No one can wonder that her eyes filled with tears; but feeling that it was in vain to indulge such sorrow, she extinguished the light and retired to bed, with her own heart free from guile, though crime, in various shapes, was hovering round--crime of one kind destined, by the wisdom and mercy of God, to disappoint another.
She lay awake for some time, for from the bosom of Helen Barham had gone for ever that balmy peace which sheds the downy blessing on the eyes of childhood. Passion, the scarer of slumber, had taken possession of her bosom, and the lids that not a year before used to drop at the first invitation of repose, now refused to shut out busy waking thought from the troubled brain. At length, however, weariness overcame her, and after a deep-drawn sigh, she fell into profound sleep.
How long it lasted she knew not, but when she woke, it was with a start. There was a light in the room which dazzled her eyes, and to her horror and consternation she beheld three men, dressed as we have described those who entered Lieberg's chamber, except that one had for the moment withdrawn the crape from his face, and was drinking a draught of cold water from a tumbler which she had left upon the table. All three were standing near the dressing-glass, and one was examining some of the little trinkets which she had laid down. Although they all seemed so peaceably disposed, Helen could not restrain the first impulse of terror, and uttered a scream, though it was rendered a faint one by an effort to repress it. The man whose face was uncovered, instantly drew the crape over it again, and darted towards her bedside with a crow-bar in his hand, exclaiming--"By--she has seen me!"
Helen, overpowered by terror, could not utter a word, but clasped her hands in an attitude of supplication. She was so young, so beautiful, there was so much of the light and spirit of life about her, that it must have been a heart of stone indeed that could have struck her, as she there lay, in her innocence and her loveliness. The man paused suddenly, repeating--"She has seen me!" and then asked in a harsh and grating tone, "Did you not see me?"
Even then Helen would not tell a falsehood, and she murmured forth, "I did; but I will never, never say a word of it to any one."
The man continued gazing at her for a minute or more, in perfect silence, and then thrust the end of the crow-bar into his pocket, saying, "It's no use!--I can't do it! Look ye, my young lady, I know ye, your name is Barham--I have seen you with your brother. Now if I spare your life, and you help to take mine, damme if you're not a great deal worse than I am."
"I will never say one word against you, so help me Heaven!" exclaimed Helen.
At that moment one of the man's companions pulled him by the sleeve, and they had a quick whispering conference together at the other side of the room.
"Very well," said the man who had approached her bedside, "that will do. You stay here at her door, on the outside, d'ye see, while Simes and I go to the other room.--Don't you do her any harm, mind ye, for I wont have her hurt. I know she's a good girl.--Come, ma'am, you must get up, and put on some things, and go with us. They don't choose to leave ye here. So now be quick, Don't be afraid; no harm shall happen to ye. I give you my honour I'll take care of ye, and nobody shall lay a finger on ye. If they do, I'll take care of them--that's all. Get up quick, there's a good girl," he added, in a softer tone, and all three left the room.
Astonished, surprised--scarcely knowing whether she was dead or alive--Helen lay for a moment ere she proceeded to execute the commands she had received. She then rose, though it was with terror and agitation, which scarcely left her power to dress herself, so terribly did her hands tremble and her knees shake under her. Her dress was still in sad disarray, when the man who was watching on the outside put his head in, exclaiming, "Be quick--be quick!--we can't stay here all night. They'll soon have done."
But, as may well be supposed, his exhortations to speed only tended to agitate Helen more, and take from her the power of making haste. A minute after, another man appeared, who, by his voice, she recognised as the man whose face she had seen. "Come, come!" he exclaimed, "you must be quick."
She would fain have supplicated to be allowed to remain, but he caught her sharply by the hand, and led her along, saying, "Not a word, as you value your life."
With these words he led her down stairs, through the passages at the bottom of the house, and to the door leading out into the court. Another man who preceded them, darted away towards a room, which she knew to be Mr. Carr's, and returned in a minute, bearing a large and heavy load, and followed by a third similarly burdened. A fourth carried another large package, and as soon as they were all collected in the hall, they opened the door and issued forth, one of them pausing for a moment to lock the door behind them. Poor Helen, still grasped by the arm, was hurried along through the grass court, and down the road, which passed before the house, to a spot at about a hundred yards' distance, where they found a double-bodied phaeton, and two knavish-looking horses, which apparently had come some distance that morning. These animals had their forelegs tightly tied with handkerchiefs, so as to prevent them from moving; but the bandages being speedily taken off, the packages, which the men had brought, were placed in various parts of the carriage, and Helen, in a state scarcely to be described, was lifted into the vehicle.
The man who had hitherto shewn her some kindness, now took his place by her side, seized the reins with an experienced hand, and drove on, as fast as the horses would go, for the space of nearly two hours, only stopping for one single minute to let the poor animals breathe at the top of a hill. He shewed no hesitation as to which way he should turn, though one of the men--of whom there were three, crowded into the second body of the carriage--called out from time to time, "To the right, Harry--to the left!" as they approached any lane or road, up which it was necessary to go.
It seemed to Helen from the way in which they turned and re-turned, that they were making more than one circuit, in order to evade pursuit; and such indeed was the case, for the spot which they at length reached was not, in a direct line, more than sixteen miles from Yelverly, and the round they had taken must have been at least twenty-four. Instead of slackening their pace, they quickened it towards the end of the journey, and entered a large smoky-looking town, just as the darkness of the night was beginning to turn grey with the light of the morning. There was nobody stirring in the streets, and they did not drive far into the town, stopping at a small public house on the left hand, almost immediately after they had entered. All was darkness in the aspect of the dwelling, but one of the men springing down, opened the door without knocking, and Helen was lifted out, by another, and taken into a small parlour, where she found a rushlight on the table, the faint twinkling of which shewed her, that the people who were with her had not yet taken the crape from off their faces. One of the two who had got out of the phaeton stayed in the room with her, without saying a word, while the other ran out, and returned with a candle, which he lighted at the rushlight; and then both quitted the parlour, leaving Helen alone, and locking the door upon her.
Nearly half-an-hour passed without any one returning, and the poor girl remained shivering with terror, and with a sensation of cold all over her; although it was in the midst of summer, and the morning was in reality warm. No sounds stirred in the house--nothing gave any indication of its being inhabited; but at length the door was again opened, and a man appeared, in whom, though the crape was gone, and the smock-frock was thrown off, Helen recognised without difficulty, the man whose face she had seen in her room at Yelverly. He was a handsome, powerful, active-looking man, with a frank and bold, but somewhat stern countenance; and though his brow was frowning when he entered, yet, to say the truth, Helen felt more security in his presence, than probably she might have done in that of any of his companions.
She had been sitting upon a wooden chair, with her head resting upon her hands, but she started up as soon as the man entered, and gazed upon him as if enquiring her fate. The expression of apprehension upon her face seemed to move him, and his first words were--"Don't be afraid, young lady; I told you nobody should do you any harm, and they shan't; so make your mind at ease on that score.--You can hurt nobody but me, and I'll take my chance."
"On my word," cried Helen--"on my honour, I will never say anything to injure you."
"Well, well, I believe you," he said; "and if you did think of peaching, I don't fancy you will, when I give you what I've got in my hand. Look here, Miss Barham; you know your brother's a d--d fool.--There, that paper might have hanged him--ay, and it was kept for the purpose of hanging him, too, by that bitter bad scamp, Lieberg, if he did not do what was wrong by you. So there, now, take it, and do what you like with it:" and he held out towards her the very bill that her brother had forged.
"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen, drawing back; "I do not know what to do with it."
"Not know what to do with it!" cried the man; "why, you foolish girl, I'll shew you then;"--and twisting it up in his fingers, he put it to the light. In a moment it blazed up, and the chief record of William Barham's guilt was at an end. Though Helen dared not do that act herself, yet her heart beat gladly when she saw it done, and starting forward with one of her wild impulses of gratitude, she caught the man's hand, and pressed it to her lips.
"Nonsense, nonsense!--don't do that," he cried, actually colouring with a feeling of shame. "Look here! here's another paper I got out of that same pocket-book--a sort of confession that he made your brother sign, all for the sake of getting hold of you--I can't well wonder at it, after all. But then he should have gone honourably about it, and asked you yourself. However, we will serve this the same," and he set fire to it likewise, and threw it into the empty grate. "And now," continued he, "you're to stay here for an hour more, Miss Helen! After that, you may go where you please--back again if you like; but take my advice, and have nothing to do with that d--d rascal, Lieberg, for he's as bad a one as ever lived. He would have made your brother sell you, like a sheep, to save his neck; and that's not the way to get a woman's love, I'm sure."
"But how can I get back?" said Helen; "how can I get home?"
"Oh! easy enough," replied the man; "you have nothing to do, but to turn to the left out of the door, and walk straight up the street, till you come to the Tontine Inn, and the coach-office; and so now remember, that whenever you see me again, you're not to know me from Adam."
"I have promised you most sincerely," said Helen, "and on my word I will keep that promise--you need not be in the least afraid."
"I am not--I am not," said the man; "there, give us your hand upon it. Stay here for an hour, and then go where you like."
Thus saying, he shook her hand heartily, and was turning to depart, but Helen stopped him, saying, timidly, "But am I safe here?"
"Perfectly," replied the man--"perfectly! Why bless your little heart, there's nobody in the house but yourself."
"But if the people to whom it belongs should come?" said Helen, "they may think--"
"Well, tell them how you were brought here," said the man; "in an hour you may say anything you please;" and he added, "we shall be far on the road into Scotland by that time, so don't forget your word, and good bye!"
Thus speaking, he quitted the room, and Helen stood watching the light, as it burnt slowly down in the candlestick.