"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.