Wend back with me, dear reader, into that distant part of the country
where this tale first began; not exactly, indeed, to the same scene,
but to a spot about three or four miles from Morley Court, which you
have already heard of, under the name of Yelverly. The aspect of that
place, and of the whole country round it, was so peculiar, that I
should have wished to pause, and give some description of the house
and grounds, even if I had not been impelled to do so by the necessity
of the case. But there are things to come, which may render it
requisite that the reader's eye should be able to call up, like a
magistrate, each individual part of the scene before it, and examine
it strictly as a witness in regard to the events that are taking
place. Oh, those silent witnesses!--those trees, those shrubs, those
fields! those dark panels of the old oak chamber! those carved figures
and antique busts of ancient heroes!--oh, those silent witnesses in
every old domain! Could we but endow them with a voice, what tales
might they tell of merry or sad scenes in the long past; of secret
sins, and horrible treacheries; of human absurdity, folly, and vice;
of crime, of agony, and of despair! How might they, with their quaint
old legends, make the lips laugh, the bosom heave, and the eyes
overflow!
The house of Yelverly was a curious old stone structure, of firm and
solid masonry, on which few repairs had taken place, for few had been
necessary, but which had been subjected to several alterations, as was
evinced by apertures blocked up here and there, and by the lines of
different coloured stone-work, which indicated that the tops of the
windows, which were now square, had once displayed pointed, or Tudor
arches. What the building had originally been I do not know, probably
some dependence of a monastery or abbey, in the neighbourhood. It had
never been large, though it now formed a roomy and convenient house
for a small family. But, notwithstanding its antiquity, and the
picturesque taste of the architects of the age in which it was built,
it had not one single pretension to beauty of any kind; sort, or
description whatsoever. It was grey, and cold, and flat, with the
windows apparently scattered over the face of it by accident, each
having been put in, beyond all doubt, wherever it was found
convenient; here, to light one room--there, to light another; at one
point to clear up the obscurity of a staircase--at a second, to let
the sun shine into a passage.
As if to disfigure the front more completely, a penthouse had been
thrown out from one side, at the height or about ten feet from the
ground, covering an eighth part the building, and rendering the rooms
thus sheltered dull and sunless enough. The principal door would have
been as ugly as the rest of the house, had it not possessed an
old-fashioned stone porch, with a seat on either side, which, by no
means beautiful in itself, yet relieved the eye, in some degree, by
breaking the flatness of the building.
Before the house, extended a long grass court, up which no carriage
could drive, and which was separated from a cross road that run in
front, by a wall about three feet high, surmounted by a row of tall,
thin, iron railings. The ornaments of the court were ten magnificent
old yew trees, forming, as it were, a sort of avenue from the gate in
the iron railing, up to the door of the house, the trees being ranged
at equal distances on either side, and a small path, formed of
dumpling-like stones placed edgeways, running between them. On either
side the court was flanked by a tall brick wall, and the only entrance
for a carriage was down a narrow lane at the side, which led by some
gates into a large paved court behind. It is true that Mr. Carr,
having quarrelled with all the gentry in the neighbourhood, and not
being particularly beloved by the great farmers, who had an idea that
he was fond of fomenting disputes, was seldom troubled with the
approach of curricle, or carriage, or one-horse chaise. But still that
lane was necessary and useful to him, as he was himself a skilful and
experienced agriculturist, though so avaricious, as often to injure
himself by grudging a load of manure where it was really necessary.
The country round was of a very curious aspect. For more than a mile
on either side, it displayed chiefly fine old grass-land, separated
into fields of every size and shape by thick-set hedges, well kept,
but totally without trees. The scenery, though not at all mountainous,
or even hilly, might be called hillocky, for it was so undulating,
that if a field contained more than four acres, it was certain to have
in it both a hill and a valley; and through several of the latter ran
a clear trout-stream, giving great luxuriance to the grass, and
rendering it the finest pasture ground in the world. There was an air,
however, of bareness about the landscape, from the want of trees,
which accorded well with the bald antiquity of the old house, and on a
summer evening, when the sun was going down, and the slant beams
peered over the green uplands, one might sit in that stone porch, and
fancy oneself a yeoman of the olden time, so much did the ancient
aspect of the whole scene sink into the heart.
It was on such a summer evening, then, that Old Carr, the miser--as he
was called in the neighbourhood,--walked forth between those black
yews with fair Helen Barham. Nature, who loves contrasts, and who
places the bright red berries amidst the dark green leaves, might well
be satisfied with the opposition of those two: Helen, as she came
forward, the picture of youth and grace and wild simplicity; and
Robert Carr, with age, and heaviness, and slow computation in all his
steps and looks. I have already described his personal appearance, and
have only to add, in that respect, that he seemed to the eye much more
aged when on foot than on horseback, as is very often the case. His
hair was not white, indeed, but it was very thickly mingled with grey,
and though he was not fat, yet, as I have said, he was heavy. His step
was deliberate and weighty, and his face, which had certainly once
been handsome, was marked with many lines, which one might have taken
for the traces of strong passions, had it not been for the thoughtful,
calculating expression of the countenance, which seemed utterly at
variance with passion of any sort but one. The greed of gain was
written there in characters easily read, though it also was of its
particular kind. It was more the eagerness of the beast of prey, than
the spirit of petty accumulation; nor was it alone the rapacity of the
wolf, for the subtlety of the fox was there also.
The eyes were bent down upon the ground all the time he walked, but
the right eyebrow was raised up and down, as the feelings, called
forth by the conversation, produced any change upon his countenance,
and always, while he was listening, his upper lip was raised on the
opposite side, displaying a long, fang-like tooth, with much of the
look of a dog when one strives to take away a bone. He must have been
a tall man and powerfully formed, though now very much broken; and it
is said that he beat another attorney almost to death in the streets
of York, for having foiled him in an unjust suit. The other prosecuted
him, indeed, for an assault; but by some of the extraordinary
loopholes of the law, Robert Carr crept through the danger, and
escaped unpunished.
He did not give his arm to Helen Barham as they walked, but held a
thick staff in his right hand, with which he steadied his steps, and
strove to give himself the appearance of youthful firmness. He had
shewn to Helen Barham so much kindness and courtesy since her arrival,
however, that she would have been very willing to pass over the want
of any small attention, even had she perceived it, which certainly she
did not; and, walking on beside him, with her bonnet loosely thrown
on, her rich hair clustering round her beautiful face, a look of
thoughtful sadness in her dark bright eyes, and a somewhat listless
grace in all her movement, very different from the wild buoyancy of
her step before she knew Morley Ernstein, she listened to the old
lawyer's questions, and gave him true and simple answers, with little
or no reservation, for he did not touch upon any of those points where
she might have felt some difficulty in framing her reply.
"And so," said old Carr, "your brother is seventeen years of age."
"Nearly eighteen," replied Helen; "his birthday is in December."
"A cold month," said the lawyer--"mine is in October. And so you, left
him in London?"
"Yes," replied Helen, "but he was very speedily to sail for the West
Indies."
The old man started--"Sail for the West Indies!" he exclaimed. "Sail
for the West Indies! That is very unfortunate. What could make him
think of such a thing as that?--that is very unfortunate, indeed!"
"Perhaps not so much as you imagine," said Helen, colouring, and
determined to meet the point at once, with the general truth, lest she
should be cross-questioned in regard to the particulars. "My poor
brother had got into very bad society, I am sorry to say, and some
kind and generous friends have obtained for him a small post in one of
those colonies."
"He must come back--he must come back!" said the old lawyer. "I was
just going to bid you invite him down here. Do you think he is gone?
Are you sure he is sailed?"
"By this time he certainly is," replied Helen. "In your kind
daughter's letter, which I received two or three days ago, she
informed me of the day that he was to sail, and enclosed to me a
letter from himself, confirming the same tidings, and bidding me write
to him at Deal, as that would be the last opportunity of communicating
with him ere his departure. I wrote yesterday, accordingly."
"That is very unlucky," said the old man, "and now the post is gone
out. He must come back--he must come back!"
"Nay," answered, Helen, somewhat surprised, and, to say the truth,
thinking the old gentleman verging towards dotage. "It will be better
for him, I believe, to stay where he is. You know that he has no means
of gaining his bread in England, and there at least he has a
provision."
"I know--I know," said the lawyer, impatiently. "You are all poor--you
are all beggars--Juliet said so. But, I tell you, your brother must
come back--he is heir to a large property unjustly withheld from him,
and I will undertake to cause restitution. Why, I have got all the
papers myself! I did not know, till Juliet wrote, that your father had
any children; and your father himself was a fool, and would not let me
act for him; but would have suffered you both to live like beggars and
die on a dunghill, out of a mere idle whim. But your brother will be
wiser, and I will get back the estates for him, if he will give
me--give me ten thousand pounds."
Helen smiled, and in gayer days, she might have laughed, though many
things that the lawyer had said had made her shrink as if he had put
his hand upon a wound.
"Where is my brother to get ten thousand pounds, think you, Mr. Carr?"
she said. "We are, as you said, if not quite beggars, very nearly so,
and I think poor William would find it difficult to find ten thousand
pence."
"I mean--I mean," cried Mr. Carr, "he shall give me ten thousand
pounds when I have got the property for him. I will stand all the
expenses in the meanwhile. Ten thousand pounds shall cover all, and he
shall give me a bond to pay it when I have got back the property for
him. I will be like the quack doctors--'no cure, no pay,' my dear Miss
Barham. Ha, ha, ha!" and he laughed aloud. "Why the thing is as easy
as possible," he continued; "the name is William Henslow Barham in the
deed, and his name was John."
"John was my grandfather's name," said Helen--"that I know very well,
because I have his miniature set in gold, with the name at the back,
with the day of his birth, and his age when it was taken."
"To be sure--to be sure," said old Carr, "his name was John. It was
your great grandfather's name that was William, and the drunken clerk
made a mistake in copying the old deeds. He shall have it back, every
inch of it, and Warmstone Castle and all; and you, my dear young
lady--why you will be a fortune. There is an old settlement, I know,
providing for younger children. There will be plenty of back rents to
pay, enough to beggar him, the coxcomb! Ha, ha, ha!" and again the old
lawyer laughed at some merry subject in his own breast.
Helen, too, looked joyfully up, for the words of Mr. Carr awakened in
her bosom various memories of the past, and convinced her that,
whether he was right or wrong in the expectation of recovering a
fortune for her brother, there was not wanting a foundation for what
he said. She remembered, in her father's room, at the Rectory, an old
water-colour painting, dim with dust and age, but under which she had
often spelt, in early years, the words "Warmstone Castle, the seat of
John Henslow Barham, Esq;" and she remembered upon one occasion
hearing her father and a neighbouring clergyman commenting upon the
drawing, while she was standing near. Her father had then replied, in
answer to some question put by his friend, "How did we lose the
property? By the simplest process in the world. My father was a
prodigal, his son an honest man. That is the way that half the
properties in Europe are lost."
The words had made an impression at the time, and Helen recollected
them now, so that she gained, in some degree, a clue to the old
lawyer's thoughts; and her heart, it must be owned, rejoiced; not for
her own sake, poor girl, but for the sake of her brother. Her fancy
was a lively one, and in an instant it presented to her mind's eye
that unhappy young man, freed from all the troubles and difficulties
in which he had placed himself, and--like him wit was afterwards the
victor of Azincourt--shaking from him the vices of his youth when
placed in a loftier station.
I do not mean to say, that Helen thought not at all of herself; but
she thought of herself only for a moment, and then shrunk away from
the ideas that imagination conjured up. She could not but feel that it
would be a joy and satisfaction--perhaps I might call it, more
properly, a consolation, placed as they were at that moment--to meet
Morley Ernstein, even for a brief space, as his equal in worldly
gifts; and yet there was a voice whispered at the bottom of her heart,
that there could never be anything like pride in her bosom towards
him. Oh, could he but have loved her, how willingly would she have
been the creature of his bounty--dependent upon him for everything on
earth! From his hand she could have received all, and enjoyed all that
she did receive, because it was he that gave it!
She would not pause upon such things--she dared not; and though she
mused for several minutes over the various pictures called up, she
soon returned to a consciousness of the questions which Mr. Carr was
asking her, and to which for a time, she had returned but irrelevant
answers. She promised immediately to write to her brother urging him
to return; or, at least, to tell him the facts, and let him return if
he thought fit; and the conversation soon led to her own recollections
of former times, in regard to which Mr. Carr cross-examined her as if
she had been a witness at the Old Bailey.
There was something, however, Mr. Carr suffered to appear, which
surprised and puzzled Helen in some degree. His words led her to
imagine that her father had known fully that a fortune of considerable
amount was due to himself and his children, but that on some account
he had refused, or neglected to claim it. Helen enquired why, and more
than once during their walk pressed Mr. Carr upon the subject. That
gentleman would give her no distinct information, however, sometimes
saying that it was a whim, sometimes saying that it was laziness; but,
in truth, Mr. Carr did not choose to tell Helen that it was a
conscientious scruple which had prevented Mr. Barham from pursuing the
course pointed out by his legal adviser. There was something in the
truth and simplicity of that sweet girl's heart which was formidable
to knavery; and Mr. Carr at once understood that there would be
difficulties with her which might not exist in the case of her
brother, and he therefore avoided the question altogether.
They strolled on slowly till it was nearly dusk and then returned
towards the house, still conversing on the same subject, when, as they
approached the front gate, walking over the crown of one of the little
hilly fields in the neighbourhood, Mr. Carr's eyes were astonished and
dazzled by the sight of a very handsome carriage standing opposite the
iron railings, with two post-horses, hot and panting with a long
stage.
"Who can that be?" said the old lawyer. "Thank God, I have not seen
fools in gilded carriages for a long time! It must be either for you,
Miss Barham, or there must be some mistake."
"Perhaps it is Morley Ernstein!" thought Helen Barham; but she did not
speak it, for that was a name which deep feelings in her own bosom had
prevented her from uttering once to the cold ear of Mr. Carr; and now,
the very thought of Morley, probably, being there, made her heart
flutter violently.
There was a servant out of livery standing at the carriage door, but
no one was in the inside of the vehicle, and the iron gate was open.
In the porch of the house, too, through the avenues of yews, could be
seen one of Mr. Carr's maid-servants, as if looking out for his
return; and, as soon as they were within hearing, the girl exclaimed,
in a jargon, which I shall not attempt to transpose to these
pages--"There's a gentleman, sir, in the drawing-room, waiting to
speak with Miss Barham upon business."
"Business!--Let me go in with you, Miss Barham," said the old lawyer;
"perhaps my advice may be of use."
And as Helen saw no reasonable objection to be offered, she did not
object, though she would rather have gone in alone. Her heart
throbbed, and her knees somewhat trembled, but nobody could have
perceived her agitation in the easy, graceful step in which she
advanced towards the door of the drawing-room.
When she entered, however, all agitation ceased, though not surprise,
for the person who came forward to meet her, with calm and tranquil
aspect, was no other than Colonel Lieberg, who had been standing near
the table, with his hat in his hand, waiting for her arrival, and
affecting to look over an old illustrated copy of Bunyan's "Pilgrim's
Progress," which the lawyer, from some unaccountable motive, would
always have in a conspicuous part of the drawing-room.
"My dear Miss Barham," said Lieberg, taking her hand, with a smile,
which certainly was as bright and engaging as any that ever crossed a
mortal lip--"I dare say you are surprised to see me here; but, having
obtained your address from your friends in London, I came hither with
all speed from Doncaster, where I had some business to transact,
knowing that you must be very anxious about your brother."
Helen glanced her eye to Mr. Carr, who was now entering the room, and
lest Lieberg should suffer the secret of her brother's conduct to
escape, she introduced the Count to her host, saying, "Colonel
Lieberg--Mr. Carr;" and then immediately added, "I heard from my
brother, sir, the other day. He wrote me a letter which quite relieved
my apprehensions regarding him. I am very much obliged to you, indeed,
however, for the kind trouble that you have taken. Pray sit down."
While she had been speaking, Lieberg with cool effrontery had measured
Mr. Carr from head to foot with his eye, and returned his bow with a
cold and stately inclination of the head. He turned to Helen, however,
as soon as he had done so, saying--"I imagine from your words that my
visit has been more useful than I expected, dear Miss Barham, for I
have outrun bad news that might have alarmed you."
Helen turned somewhat pale; for the idea of her brother having
committed some fresh crime or folly was the first that imagination
presented. Lieberg, however, who marked each variation of her cheek,
hastened to relieve her.
"Do not be frightened," he said, "the danger is all past now. Your
brother is well, and in safety; I left him at Deal, two days ago, but
he was soon to follow me to London. The vessel he was in was wrecked
upon the Goodwin Sands."
Helen clasped her fair hands together, and looked up to heaven, in
Lieberg's eyes more beautiful than any object that he had ever beheld
on earth. Had he dared, he would have thrown his arm round her,
carried her, willingly or unwillingly, to the carriage at the gate,
and bade the postilion drive anywhere on earth, so that he might
secure possession of her. Such were the feelings which had grown up in
his heart under the influence of opposition and disappointment; but,
as is too usual, his demeanour was the most opposite that it is
possible to imagine.
"Come, my dear young lady, sit down," he continued, "and do not let
this matter agitate you. Poor William certainly has had a very narrow
escape, and remained all night upon the wreck with the sea washing
over him; but he was much better when I left him, though somewhat
bruised and chilled."
"Poor boy!" exclaimed Helen. "Oh! how I wish I could be with him!"
"That is what I was about to propose," said Lieberg, in a quiet, easy
manner. "I think it would be better for you to be with him, for he
really needs some nursing, and a sister's care and tenderness may make
the difference of life and death to him."
"Good God!" cried Helen--"what shall I do? There is no one to take
care of him there!--The very maid I have taken with me--"
"Nay," answered Lieberg, "do not suppose that I would leave him
without aid, Miss Barham, if not on his own, on your account. I would
not act such a part, believe me. I left him attended by a skilful
surgeon, with plenty of money and every convenience; and in London I
gave directions to my own servants to watch for his arrival in town,
and treat him as if he were my own brother. You think me very
hard-hearted and unkind, I see."
"Oh, no, no!" exclaimed Helen, clasping her hands again: "God in
heaven will bless you! I will pray to him to bless you for your
kindness and humanity to that poor boy."
A dark shade came over Lieberg's countenance, as it had done once
before when Helen had used nearly similar expressions; but some words
she added immediately afterwards, changed his feelings, whatever they
were, making him believe himself on the point of succeeding to a
greater extent than he had even dared to hope would be the case so
speedily.
"What shall I do?" exclaimed Helen. "I wonder what I ought to do?"
Lieberg paused for a moment, not to seem too eager, and then
replied--"I cannot think that you will hesitate, dear Miss Barham.
Your brother wants much tendance and care, and--"
"Go, my dear young lady--go!" said Mr. Carr, much to Lieberg's
surprise, at finding so unexpected an ally. "His life is infinitely
valuable just now; and as you ought not to travel alone, I think I
will go with you. We will have post-chaise over to Doncaster
to-morrow, and then take the coach to London."
Lieberg's countenance fell, and his expectations likewise. He laid a
strong curse upon the old man in his own mind, and still more so, when
Mr. Carr, with the sarcastic bitterness he sometimes displayed,
added--"Colonel Lieberg would doubtless have much pleasure in
escorting you but I think my plan is the most proper one."
Lieberg was instantly upon his guard, and he replied--"Most certainly,
my dear sir; and though I should have been very happy to escort Miss
Barham, yet I could scarcely have done so to-morrow, as I have
business of importance to transact at Doncaster. There is one little
matter I have to settle with you also, Mr. Carr," he continued; "you
are, I think, the proprietor of the manors of Yelverly and Maxtown,
and wish to let the sporting for the next year?"
Mr. Carr's face assumed quite a different aspect; he smiled graciously
upon Lieberg, and replied that such was certainly the case. He had
long given up shooting himself, he said--his family required very
little game; it annoyed him to deal with poachers continually; and
therefore he always liked to let his manors when possible; that the
two years' lease of them had lately fallen in, and the gentleman who
had before taken them, being but a poor, second-rate sort of man, had
not been able to keep them on. There could not be better manors in
Europe, he continued. There were the finest covers it was possible to
see; the best partridge-ground in Europe; trout-streams, where the
fish jostled each other in the river; and moors, the higher parts of
which were actually swarming with grouse and black game.
Lieberg appeared charmed with the account, regretted that it was too
late to take a canter over the ground that afternoon, but added, that
he would return the next morning to see them, that he might know how
the ground lay. He imagined, he said, that he could not find an inn
without either returning to Doncaster or going on to Bingley, and he
should prefer the latter, as it was much nearer, and there were also
two manors there which he had heard of, and which he could see early
in the morning, before he returned.
Now, Lieberg had taken care to get plenty of good information at
Doncaster, and knew perfectly well that, in a sporting point of view,
the manors at Bingley were infinitely preferable to those of Mr. Carr.
Mr. Carr was very well aware of the same fact, and, bent upon taking
in Lieberg to hire the sporting of his manors, instead of the better
ones a little further on, he was himself taken in to ask Lieberg to
stay the night, which was all that his visitor wanted. It may seem
that he employed a complicated man[oe]uvre to obtain that end, but in
truth it was a very simple one, with a man who knew the facts, and saw
profoundly into the heart, as Lieberg did.
Mr. Carr assured him that, after the manors of Yelverly and Maxtown,
the two manors at Bingley were not worth his seeing. He took down the
county map, and demonstrated to him that the estates could not be
compared for a moment, with as much ease as any other falsehood can be
demonstrated when there is nobody to contradict it. If Coronel Lieberg
would do him the honour of taking a bed at Yelverly, they could very
easily ride over the manors in the morning, before it was necessary
for himself and Miss Barham to set off for Doncaster. The coach from
York was late ere it passed, he said, and they had plenty of time
before them.
Lieberg, on his part, affected to be afraid of putting Mr. Carr to
inconvenience--there was his servant, too; he really thought he had
better go on to Bingley for the night. But Mr. Carr was determined
that such should not be the case--a bed could be found for the
servant, too. His calculation was, that the whole expenses of
Lieberg's stay, even if his servant had beer and meat for supper, and
the Count himself took a glass of wine before he went to bed, could
not amount to four shillings, while, if he missed the opportunity of
letting his shooting for two years, it might be a couple of hundreds
of pounds out of his pocket, besides all the expenses of gamekeepers,
lookers, etc. The matter, then, was at length arranged, the
post-horses sent away, Lieberg's carriage placed in the yard, and his
valet, with his goods and chattels, brought into the house.
The Count very soon suffered to appear, without saying so directly,
how much he proposed to give for the shooting he desired, and from
that moment Mr. Carr's civilities knew no bounds. Tea was sent for,
and Helen Barham presided over the "odoriferous infusion," as some
gentleman, prodigal of fine words, has called it; while Lieberg,
seating himself by her side, put forth all his powers of fascination,
which, as we have before informed the reader, were anything but small.
He had a peculiar habit of fixing his large dark eyes, with all their
deep, intense light, upon the persons to whom he spoke, not with what
is termed a stare, or anything that could be looked upon as rude or
annoying; but with a sort of thoughtful interest, as if that glance
established a communication between his soul and theirs, making
thought answer to thought, before any words were spoken. There was
something overpowering in it, especially when he used all his
exertions to please, as he did this night; and, in truth, as he sat
there, gazing on the lovely face of Helen Barham, it might well put
one in mind of the serpent fascinating the bright birds of the warm
climates of the south, by the lustre of his dangerous eyes.
In this case, however, the bird had a talisman which set such magic at
defiance; and, though there was in his whole conversation and
demeanour, that mingling of sportiveness and depth; that appearance of
pride bent down to please, of confident reliance on innate powers of
mind, yet deference to the opinions of the being spoken to; that light
and sparkling brilliancy, which seems merely the sport of strength;
that combination of all things, in short, which are engaging--except
the heart--though the manifold expressions that he brought over his
fine and striking countenance rendered the beauty thereof more marked
and attractive; though every movement was full of grace and
gentlemanly suavity--though all those small cares and little
attentions, which win so much upon the heart of woman, seemed as
familiar to him as any of the daily acts of life, yet upon Helen
Barham the whole had no more effect than to make a few hours pass
pleasantly, and occupy her somewhat sad and wandering thoughts.
Reader, she was in love with another!
What was the effect upon Lieberg himself? His arts recoiled and
wounded him; her beauty, her grace, her talents, her enthusiasms, all
struck and captivated him more than he had ever been with any other
mortal being; but, strange as it may seem, her indifference attracted
him more than all. He saw it--he could not help seeing it. There was
something to conquer, and he resolved to conquer it. But how?--that
was the question. It mattered not! Lieberg was one who had few
scruples of any kind. "Once she be mine," he thought, "I will soon
teach her to love me. First let me overcome her, and the rest will be
easy enough."
I have said that Lieberg's presence and conversation made the hours
pass pleasantly to Helen Barham. It cannot be denied that such was the
case, and that she certainly thought him one of the most gentlemanly
and agreeable men she had ever met with, though nothing more. She grew
much more cheerful, however, under this influence, and was prevailed
upon, ere the evening came to an end, to sit down to Juliet's piano,
and sing one of those songs for which her full rich voice was
peculiarly adapted. It was at Mr. Carr's request that she did so, and
he named a song that he had heard his daughter sing.
Helen had sung it many a time before; and she sat down without
dreaming that either the words or the music would touch her in the
least; but the changes that are within us affect the influence of all
external things upon ourselves, fully as much as the changes of
external things affect our feelings. Since last she had sung that
song, there was a new spirit in the breast of Helen Barham, and a new
sensation--love and hopelessness. In the stormiest hours of former
days she had not given way to despair; though the spot on which she
stood was ever so dark, there had been bright hopes lighting the
future. But now, the cloud hung above the coming days--dark,
impenetrable, gloomy; and if we could make a distinction between
hopelessness and despair, we might say that the former was her state,
rather than the latter. Thus it was she herself was changed, and yet
the song seemed entirely altered to her. It spoke to her heart; it
seemed to thrill through her bosom; it was like the voice of her own
sorrows poured forth whether she would or not; and the very feeling
with which she sang, the expression she gave to each note, acted upon
herself even more than upon those that heard her, and made the tears
rise in her eyes, and well nigh overflow when she had done.
The song had a great effect upon Lieberg, too; it made him sad, though
it excited him; it seemed like the voice of an angel singing to a
fallen spirit, mourning over his degradation and loss, and drawing
from his heart tears of regret, though not of repentance--the glow of
shame, though not of contrition. For, as the inspired writer
says--"There is a shame that bringeth sin; and there is a shame which
is glory and grace." There were moments with him, as with all others
like him, when he felt the bitterness of wrong, but without even a
dream of turning unto right; and one of the times at which that
feeling was most strong upon him was when he heard plaintive
music--not the music of the opera, of the concert, or the oratorio,
for those are places in which it is easy to cast aside one's heart,
and become the mere connoisseur, but the song sung in private, the
piece of music played by a delicate hand, and breathing softly to the
ear, like the low, still voice of conscience, or like the tongue of
memory, speaking to us of early days--of innocence--and of peace.
Such was the case now; and when Helen had done, when she had turned
away till the drops had disappeared from her eyelids, and looked round
again, she saw Lieberg sitting with his head bent thoughtfully
forward, his eyes fixed sadly upon the ground, and his whole attitude
and look displaying deep and sad abstraction. Had Helen's affections
been free, that would have been the moment in which Lieberg would have
made more impression upon her than at any other, for the widest door
of woman's heart is pity, and he seemed sorrowful.
The effect soon passed away with the whole party, and not long after,
Mr. Carr left the room for a moment, to see for some supper, as he
expressed it. Strange to say, Lieberg was agitated; he, the calm, the
composed, the immovable, felt shaken in a way that he had never known
in all his earthly course before; and angry at himself for what he
called such weakness, he at length drew a little nearer to Helen's
side--who, as if placed in stronger opposition than ever to him, was
not in the least degree agitated or embarrassed and said--"Dear Miss
Barham, I wish very much to obtain a few minutes' private conversation
with you."
Helen looked a little surprised, but answered with a degree of
calmness that provoked him--"Certainly!--I suppose about my brother,
of course--I hope there is nothing worse concerning him to be told me,
Count Lieberg!"
Lieberg resolved to keep her imagination at work, and he
replied--"Nothing worse exactly, but still something of much
importance."
"Can you not tell me now?" she asked, eagerly; but ere he could reply,
Mr. Carr returned, and did not quit the room again, till Helen Barham
rose and proposed to retire to rest.
Lieberg and M. Carr sat for about a quarter of an hour after she was
gone, and the Count then was shewn to his room, which he found a very
comfortable one; while the display of all his dressing apparatus had
given it even an air of splendour, notwithstanding the dimity
curtains, and the plain Kidderminster carpet. The valet, Martini, was
still busy, arranging everything in the place, when Lieberg entered,
and the Count having made him take out some writing materials, sat
down, and wrote--
"Dear Miss Barham--Will you kindly write underneath, merely in pencil,
at what time to-morrow I can have a few minutes' conversation with you
alone, upon the subject that we mentioned?"
"There, take that!" he said, folding up the paper, "and find out Miss
Barham's maid directly; bid her give it to her mistress, and let me
have an answer."
The valet took the note, and disappeared. Helen's toilette for the
night was well nigh done, and she was on the point of seeking her bed,
when she received it; and, guileless and innocent herself, without a
thought of evil, she wrote underneath the lines sent by Lieberg, in
pencil, "Whenever you like.--Helen Barham."
When the note was brought back, Lieberg gazed at it with a keen,
triumphant look, though his cheek was pale with intense feeling.
"Do you know which is Miss Barham's room?" he said, addressing the
valet.
"The one at the end of the corridor, sir," said the man; "that on the
right; the opposite door leads to a store-room, I find."
"And where do you sleep yourself, Martini?" said Lieberg.
"I sleep just above Miss Barham's room, sir," replied the man.
"Get a horse early to-morrow," said Lieberg; "go over to the
post-office at Doncaster, and let me have my letters before eleven."
The man bowed, and very little further conversation took place, while
Lieberg undressed, and retired to bed. His last words were, "Leave the
light burning."
As soon as the man was gone, Lieberg rose from his bed again,
carefully cut the sheet of note-paper on which he had written to Helen
in two, separating the part containing his enquiry from Helen's reply,
burnt the former part, and then gazed steadfastly upon the other,
repeating--"Whenever I like! whenever I like!--I like this very
night!--This shall justify me;" and putting the paper into his desk,
he extinguished the light, and retired to bed again, but not to sleep.