SANCTUARY.
That same night, in a poorly furnished chamber, Esther sat, with bowed
head, and hands clasped in her lap. By her side crouched an aged woman
who mumbled incessantly, mingling wails, maledictions, and
incomprehensible reminiscences of her childhood with fragments of
prayers and scraps of biblical texts. She spoke to herself, never
addressing the girl, who on her part paid her no heed. Esther's
attention was riveted upon the sounds which reached her from the
streets. With every minute the firing of a platoon, the crash of a wall
undermined by the flames, or a savage clamor which rent the air, reached
her ears and made her tremble.
[Illustration]
The chamber was situated upon the second floor of a low house at the end
of an alley, apparently deserted by its inhabitants; for there was no
movement of life and no human being in sight. But at sixty paces away,
though invisible, the great artery of Holborn, filled to overflowing
with the howling, maddened crowd, sent a rumor of its infernal tumult to
the two women. No candle burned in the room, but the neighboring glare
from the conflagration of Langdale House illumined every object as
distinctly as though it were noonday. Thus the hours dragged themselves
away in gloomy monotony, notwithstanding the proximity of the confusion
and the fury of human passions in a state of paroxysm. Suddenly Esther
sprang to her feet.
"Maud," she exclaimed, "the flames are gaining upon us!"
It was true. From the side of the little court upon which the chamber
looked, the panes of a grated window had burst into fragments, while a
tongue of flame had suddenly darted forth, licking the blackened walls
and casting its lightning athwart the pervading flare.
"Maud! Maud! Soon it will be no longer safe for us to remain here!"
"God be praised!" answered the old woman, having raised a vague glance
upon the scene. "He gives the victory unto his saints; it is he who has
cast both horse and rider into the sea!"
"She is madder than ever," thought Esther; "this night has quite
unseated her reason.--And Mons. Lebeau does not return!"
What was to be done? What resolution ought to be taken?
[Illustration]
The circumstances which had led her into this perilous situation passed
swiftly through her mind. When she had placed her hand in that of the
unknown who had pronounced the preconcerted signal,--"The moon has
risen!"--she immediately experienced a sense of regret at her fault; but
this regret had not been sufficiently potent to arrest in time the
accomplishment of her resolution. She permitted herself to be conducted
to the door where the sedan-chair awaited her.
"No!" she then exclaimed, "this is enough! I will go no farther!"
"This is no time for discussion," replied an imperious voice which was
not Lord Mowbray's; "get into the chair, quick!"
The thought of Frank, whom she was now certain she loved since jealousy
had cast its unerring ray into the depths of her heart--this thought
tortured her.
"I am lost!" she cried, "lost!"
"On the contrary, you are saved!"
And with the words ringing in her ears the chair started. The men almost
ran with it, the result of the masked personage having said something to
them about "paying double."
In less than a quarter of an hour the chair stopped in an alley-way off
Holborn, and the gentleman, conducting the fugitive into one of the
houses, dismissed the bearers.
When at last they were alone in the chamber upon the second floor and
the man had succeeded in lighting a candle upon the mantelpiece, Esther
easily recognized him.
"Mons. Lebeau!" she gasped in surprise.
"Yes," he replied, "and you are out of all danger here, absolute
mistress of your destiny, since all that I wish is to offer you some
respectful advice."
"But how could you have known? How could you take the place of another?"
"That is my secret--at least for the present. It is enough that I have
succeeded. One word which has escaped you has led me to believe that you
will not blame me for my intervention. I await the assurance with
anxiety. Have I been in the wrong to act as I have?"
"No," she answered after a moment's hesitation, "and I thank you. I do
not love Lord Mowbray, and my folly was as inexcusable as it has been
without consolation."
An expression of joy illumined Lebeau's withered features.
"Good!" he said. "But what motive has led you astray for the moment?"
"Vanity. Lord Mowbray assured me that he wished to make me his wife."
"His wife! He never dreamed of doing such a thing! Moreover, such a
marriage would have been impossible. But let us speak no more about it."
"Are you not going to take me back to my aunt, whom I left in such a
ridiculous predicament, and who must be dying with anxiety about me?"
"The predicament of which you speak must have soon terminated; and as
for her anxiety, it is my duty not to disturb it for the present. Lord
Mowbray has sworn that, by consent or force, he would abduct you this
night, and I am not sure that you would be safe in the house in Tothill
Fields, where there is no one to defend you, not even your cousin
Reuben. These are my humble lodgings, although none of my acquaintances
know of its existence nor the way thither. Rest here for a few hours.
To-morrow, by daylight, we will consider the situation. Be very sure
that Mrs. Marsham will raise no objection, will address you no shadow of
reproach. Your fault will not transpire, since I will tell her that it
was I who brought you here to save you from the peril which menaced your
honor."
"She knows you, then?"
"Very well indeed."
"For some time?"
"For a very long time."
After a brief pause he added,--
"It was I who brought you, a little child, to her house before you were
confided to the care of the Quakeresses at Bristol."
"Is it possible!"
And, impetuously seizing Lebeau's hand, she added:--
"Then you knew my parents? O, I beseech you, sir, tell me something of
my mother! Who was she? Do I resemble her? Where did she die, and how?"
The queries crowded to her lips in an imperative tumult.
Lebeau's features relaxed in a melancholy smile.
"Patience!" he replied. "Later I will tell you all. Only know that your
mother was exceedingly beautiful, and that you are her living image. She
too was carried away by excess of emotion and by the thirst of
adventure. There was no one at hand to give her timely warning, and she
paid dearly for her imprudence."
Esther bowed her head, while a tear glided slowly from her lashes to her
cheek.
"It was then that your father met her and took pity upon her. She was in
sore need of pity and protection. Her child was born. You are that
child."
"Alas!" murmured Esther. "But my father--is he still living?"
"Yes."
"Why does he not come? Why does he not show himself? I should be so
happy to embrace him!"
At this moment an extraordinary change took place in Lebeau. His
features, scarred by the battle with life, his dulled eyes, his entire
vulgar face were ennobled with a solemn tenderness. Irresistibly his
arms seemed to open to clasp the girl to his breast. Then they fell at
his sides, and his face resumed its expression of discouragement and
fatigue.
"Your father would indeed be happy," he said, "and very proud to call
you his daughter; but circumstances prevent. I do not justify his
conduct; far from it. He has committed wrongs, grievous wrongs,--and
even more than that!"
Esther recoiled from him violently.
"You are my father's friend, and you calumniate him!"
Lebeau's only response was a shrug of his shoulders and a sigh. He
turned to the window, and from a convulsive movement of his back Esther
divined that he was weeping. In a moment she was at his side.
"Pardon me!" she cried, "pardon! You are perhaps the only human being
whose interest in me is not tainted with calculation. You have saved me
from death, you have saved me from shame, and by way of recompense I
accuse and wound you! O, pardon me, my friend!"
Delightful words to Lebeau's ear!
"Thank you, my child," he said; "thank you, and good by. It is already
daybreak, and all is calm. Sleep in peace. In a few hours I will
return."
And Mons. Lebeau hastened away. Left alone, Esther dared not undress in
a house which filled her with forebodings. She threw herself upon the
bed just as she was, clasping in her hand a tiny poignard which had been
Garrick's gift. Tradition had it that the weapon had once belonged to
Sir William Davenant, who pretended to have received it from Ben Jonson.
The latter, while a soldier in Flanders, had purchased it of a Jew who
came from Italy. It was a marvellous bit of Florentine work, and must
have been manufactured towards the close of the fifteenth century. What
had been its history? In what dramas had it taken part? What ferocious
jealousies, what mortal desires, had it served? Had it ever been dyed
in human blood? In whose snowy breast, in whose throbbing heart, had it
been plunged? Considering these fancies, but especially her own destiny,
her imagination in a whirl, our little heroine fell asleep.
When she awoke she perceived Lebeau, who stood watching her as she
slept, and she heard the clocks chiming high noon.
"Well?" she demanded.
"I came from Tothill Fields," he answered; "the house is full of
soldiers come thither to arrest your cousin Reuben, and they are to
remain there, lying in ambush to surprise him upon his return. Your aunt
has not come home, and up to the present time I have been unable to
discover her place of refuge. Old Maud was alone at the mercy of the
soldiers, whom, in her turn, she provoked and insulted. I have brought
her here. She will attend to your wants and will be a companion for you
so long as you are obliged to lie in concealment here, which from
present appearances may be for some time; for the city is still in an
agitated state, and this very disorder singularly favors your admirer's
plans, since he has not lost the hope of taking his revenge."
Soon after Lebeau departed, promising to return on the morrow with the
latest tidings; but Sunday passed and he did not appear. On Monday a
child brought an unsigned note from him, which ran:--
"I cannot come to see you. I am suspected, and every step I take is
shadowed. Have patience until to-morrow."
The rioting had begun again, and the two women in their sanctuary
listened to the sound of it as it grew each minute more distinct.
Esther slept but little that night.
Next day affairs assumed an even more threatening aspect. The Langdale
distillery was in flames close by, although the situation of the house
prevented the girl from following the progress of the catastrophe.
Towards evening, when the tumult increased and the firing became
general, her agitation was extreme. The sight of the flames which
enwrapped the neighboring buildings and threatened her refuge put the
finishing touch upon her anxiety.
"Shall I remain here," she thought, "shut up with this crazy old
creature, who does nothing but sing psalms? Shall I suffer myself to be
burned alive in this strange trap? Mons. Lebeau has forgotten me or else
he cannot come to me. Who knows if he is even alive?"
She approached the window and looked at the tower of St. Giles, upon
which the clock marked the first hour of a new day. So brilliant was the
flare from the conflagration that Esther could distinguish the delicate
V-shaped shadow which the hands made upon the dial, the slightest detail
in the sculpture about the dial, and even the joining of the masonry.
She resolved to depart. But where should she go? She knew not; but first
of all it was necessary to escape from the circle of fire which was fast
hemming her in. She put on her mantle and cast a silken handkerchief
over her hair, knotting it under her chin. Then she called Maud, who had
passed into an adjoining chamber.
But here she found herself in the presence of an unlooked-for
difficulty. The old woman had fallen fast asleep and only responded to
her words, her entreaties and cries by vague mutterings without
awakening in the slightest degree. Esther shook her in desperation and
tugged at her garments, but her girlish strength, depleted by the sense
of her peril, was powerless to arouse the inert mass.
Perhaps she might secure assistance from outside! She opened the outer
door, and, standing upon the threshold, cried, "Help!"
All in vain; her voice was lost, incapable of piercing the tumult. She
was scarcely able to hear it herself. No one appeared. The neighboring
houses, deserted as they were, were slowly yielding to the flames, and
no one appeared to think of disputing the ravage. The almost intolerable
heat fairly scorched the girl's eyelids.
Then she rushed towards Holborn, crossed like a flash the vaulted
arcade, the only exit which opened from that side, and ran into the
highway.
There she paused, terrified by the spectacle which met her gaze.