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.