In an hour after the period at which we closed the last chapter, Helen
Barham stood before a house, bearing the name of the Tontine Inn, in
the town of Sheffield. It was now broad daylight, and there were a
many artisans and people of the lower classes going about the streets
on their various employments; but yet very few of the houses and shops
that she had passed were open, it being barely half-past five o'clock
in the morning. About the inn itself there was no appearance of
wakefulness, and the coach-office was not to be seen.
Poor Helen Barham's heart sunk as she gazed up at the closed shutters
and blank face of the tall house. She knew not where to go, or what to
do; and had she recollected that her appearance at that moment was
certainly somewhat wild and strange--her hair dishevelled, her bonnet
scarcely tied, without shawl or handkerchief, or gloves--she might
have felt still more abashed and apprehensive than she did.
After pausing for several minutes, Helen wandered some way on, and
then came back again, when, to her great satisfaction, she saw one of
the drudging housemaids of the establishment sweeping out the passage.
Helen approached her timidly, and asked which was the coach-office?
"Why, bless you, Miss!" replied the girl, "it wont be open these two
hours; those lazy fellows are never in it much before eight o'clock.
The early coach started an hour ago and more; and then Mr. Jones, who
is the night clerk, goes away, and it's long enough before the others
come."
"That is very unfortunate!" said Helen, "for I wanted to go to
Yelverly as fast as possible."
"There's no coach, ma'am," answered the girl, "till ten o'clock. But
hadn't you better step into the waiting-room, and remain there? What
coach did you come by?"
"I came by none," replied Helen; "I was brought here from Yelverly
against my will, and want to get back, as soon as possible, to Mr.
Carr's."
"Oh, what miser Carr's house!" said the girl. "I know that very well,
for I was born at Bingley; and I know Miss Juliet very well, too, for
she was kind to my poor dear mother before she died."
"She is a very dear and good friend of mine," answered Helen; "and I
have been staying at Mr. Carr's for some time: but a party of men
brought me away by force this morning."
The girl's, wonder and compassion were both moved by Helen's short
account of herself; and after a moment's thought, she said--"May be,
you would not like to go into the waiting-room, where everybody can
come in. Hadn't I better shew you into a private room, Miss? Some of
the waiters will be up soon, and then you can get some breakfast."
Helen very willingly agreed to this proposal, and by the maid's
assistance she was, in the space of half-an-hour, not only seated in a
comfortable room in the inn, but had before her such tea and toast as
the place could afford, and all that constitutes the inn idea of a
breakfast. It must not be supposed that Helen forgot her purse had
been left behind her, and that she had no money with her; but she had
busily turned in her own thoughts the situation in which she was
placed, and had made up her mind as to the course she was to pursue,
in order to pay both for he accommodation at the inn, and her place
back to Yelverly.
The personage who attended upon the room where she sat, who brought
her breakfast, and took away the things when she had done, could not
exactly be called a dumb waiter, because he possessed at least two
words, which were--"Yes, ma'am!" and once even, in a fit of Laputan
abstraction, he replied to a question from Helen--"Yes sir!"--though,
bless her, she looked as little like a gentleman as it is possible to
conceive. From this personage, it may be easily supposed, Helen could
get but very little information of any kind, either respecting the
starting of the stages, or aught else; and, after having waited till
she heard, by the chime of the clock, that the hour of the coach's
departure would be the next that struck, she rang the bell, and asked
the waiter if she could speak with the mistress of the house?
The waiter replied--"Yes, ma'am"--perhaps with the intention of
informing his mistress; but by this time, as I have hinted, it was
nine o'clock: people were coming and going; much gossiping was taking
place at the door of the house; bells were ringing, and a variety of
calls, objurgations, screams, applications, and scoldings, were flying
about the chambers and passages, fit to deafen the ears or distract
the brain of any personage but Figaro or the waiter of an inn.
The consequence was, that, after waiting for about a quarter of an
hour more, Helen again rang the bell, made the same demand, and
received the same reply. "Pray do not fail," she added, in a gentle
tone; and the man hastened away, determined to obey her behest, before
he did anything else. In a minute after, a tall, fine-looking, stately
dame, dressed in black silk, with an apron and cap as white as snow,
notwithstanding the manifold globules of soot that float about in the
air of Sheffield, entered the room, and asked the young lady, what was
her pleasure, surveying her, at the same time, from head to foot, with
some degree of curiosity.
Helen, by this time, had indeed done something at the looking-glass,
to take away the wildness of her appearance; but still she was
conscious of not being dressed with that care which becomes a lady,
and her situation altogether gave a timidity to her tone, as she
replied--"I wished, madam, to ask a favour of you. The case is,
simply, this: I have been spending some time at Mr. Carr's, at
Yelverly; but I was brought away from that place last night by four
men, perfect strangers to me, and against my will. All my money was
left behind----"
The landlady uttered an ominous "Oh!" and pursed up her lips, with a
very significant expression of countenance. But Helen hastened on to
the principal point of her story, saying--"I desire to get back again
to Yelverly, as fast as possible, and I have no means of doing so,
but----"
"I never lend money to nobody, ma'am," said the landlady, tossing her
head; "and I always expect people to pay for their breakfast when they
order it." And as she thus spoke, she took a step towards the door, as
if to consult with her excellent spouse upon ulterior proceedings. But
Helen was made a little angry at the worthy lady's sharp selfishness;
and she replied, in a tone of more firmness, and command--
"Stop a minute, madam, and be so good as to hear me out, before you
come to such rapid conclusions. I do not expect you to lend me money,
or to trust me in any way, without some certainty of being paid. I
have, luckily, one thing with me, which--though I have never parted
with it for an hour, from the time I first had it till the present
day--I must now give up for a time, till I can get to Yelverly, and
send the money to you."
As she spoke, she unclasped the little gold chain that suspended her
father's picture around her neck, and looked at the miniature for a
moment, with a glistening eye. "This picture, madam," she continued,
"is set in gold--those are brilliants round it, of no great value it
is true, but more than enough to make you quite sure that you will not
lose by trusting me with whatever may be the amount of my bill here,
and with a sufficient sum to carry me to Yelverly. You will be good
enough to give me a little memorandum of having received the picture;
and as soon as I arrive at Mr. Carr's house, I will send back the
money to redeem it."
The landlady's manner was altered in an extraordinary degree, as she
looked at the miniature, and saw that it was set round with a row of
small diamonds, intrinsically worth, perhaps, seven or eight guineas.
"I will speak to my husband, ma'am," she said. "Indeed, I did not mean
to say anything----"
Helen bowed her head gently, replying--"There is no need of any
apology. It is very natural that you should not trust a mere stranger.
Speak to your husband by all means; shew him the picture, and tell him
what I say. Indeed, if he likes to send some one with me to Yelverly,
I shall greatly prefer it. Then he can have the money at once, and I
will pay his messenger."
"Oh dear, no, ma'am, there's no occasion for that, I'm sure," cried
the landlady; "he'll be quite satisfied, I'm certain. I'll be back in
a minute, ma'am," and away she went to tell her husband all about the
nice young lady in No. 5, whom ten minutes before she had set down for
a swindler and a reprobate.
When she came into the bar, however, she found her husband speaking
busily with a gentleman whose whole attire was dusty, as if from long
travelling.
"No, sir, no," said the landlord; "I have heard nothing of the
kind--Lord have mercy! you had better go to the magistrates. What do
you think, my dear? They have broken into Mr. Carr's house, at
Yelverly, and carried off every thing out of the place."
"Then I'll bet any money," cried the landlady, "that this here picture
is a part of the stolen goods.--But no, that can't be it, neither; for
the young lady wants to go back again."
"What young lady?--What picture?" cried Lieberg eagerly, for he it
was. "Let me look at it!"
"Why, sir," rejoined the landlady, handing it to him, "the young lady
says she was carried away by force by four men against her will. To
say the truth, I did not believe it at first----"
"Then you were a fool for your pains!" thundered Lieberg. "It is Miss
Barham! Where is she? Poor girl, what she must have suffered!" and
Lieberg, who without scruple would have wrung her heart, and condemned
her to a life of regret and remorse, did, nevertheless, feel sincere
compassion for Helen Barham under sufferings not a thousandth part so
intense.
The landlady, however, who did not at all like being called a fool in
the presence of her husband and her waiter, determined to stand up for
Helen Barham's dignity, now that she was thoroughly convinced that the
young lady was what she professed to be; and to Lieberg's repeated
question of "Where is she?" she replied, "I must first ask the lady,
sir, whether she desires to see you. What name shall I tell her?"
"Colonel Lieberg," he exclaimed, sharply. "But, as there is no doubt
about her seeing me, I shall accompany you."
The landlady led the way to No. 5, and opened the door sufficiently
wide to admit her own portly person, but not to let Lieberg pass,
saying, at the same time, "Madam, if your name is Miss Barham, here is
a gentleman, who calls himself Colonel Lieberg, wishing to see you."
In an instant the warnings of the housebreaker came back to Helen's
recollection, but more powerfully still the words of Morley Ernstein.
Her countenance spoke at once plainly that her visitor was not one
whom she most eagerly desired to see, but, ere she could reply,
Lieberg pushed the door impetuously out of the landlady's hand, and,
passing by her, advanced at once towards Helen.
"Dear Miss Barham," he cried--"we have almost been in despair about
you. This is, indeed, joyful to have found you so soon. I have been
galloping about the country these last three hours in search of you."
There was so much real joy and satisfaction in his whole look, that
Helen could not refuse to give him her hand; and the landlady having
shut the door, Lieberg, in the excitement of the moment, pressed his
lips upon it, resolved to hazard everything at what he believed to be
a favourable opportunity.
Helen would have drawn away her hand instantly, but he held it firmly,
and led her to her seat, saying--"Oh, Helen, what have I suffered on
your account this night!"
Helen coloured and trembled, feeling that a moment of trial was
approaching. She replied gravely, however--"I am extremely sorry that
you should have been put to any pain on my account; but as the stage
will soon be departing for Yelverly, I must settle with the people
here, and take my place."
"Nay, nay, Helen," said Lieberg, "you must first listen to me for a
moment."
Helen turned very pale; but he continued, eagerly, though in that
bland, persuasive tone which he knew well how to use, his voice
assuming the softest modulations, his brow cleared of every thing that
was stern and dark, his magnificent features glowing with animation,
but full of gentleness and entreaty, his eyes beaming like stars in a
dark night, but with a subdued and gentle light.
"Helen," he said, "dear Helen, you must know, you cannot but know,
since last night, that I love you; deeply, passionately, tenderly;
with an ardour, strength, a profoundness that I never felt before
towards any woman. I know not what it is, or how, but you have
fascinated me--enchanted me. That song which you sang last night
seemed to waken in my heart feelings that had slept for years--those
early dreams of love and ecstatic joy with one adored being, separate
from all the rest of earth, bound to her by none of the cold worldly
ties that unite the dull earthly insects which crawl about the world
and call themselves society, but united to her by the bond of strong
affection--of passion, powerful, overpowering, everlasting,
indestructible--of passion, neither to be changed by the world's cold
maxims, nor restrained by idle ceremonies or empty laws. Oh, Helen,
listen to me! Turn not away your head--let not your cheek grow pale as
if you thought I wished to deceive or to wrong you, for I am yours
altogether, and you shall dictate anything to me that you, please. You
shall command we in all respects; I will be your slave, the creature
of your will. I, who never bowed my head to human being--who never
found any to resist or to control me--I will take my law from your
lips, and do in all things as you would have me!--Only, only, do one
thing. There are circumstances which I cannot explain now, for want of
time, but which shall be entirely made clear to you as we go. Only, I
beseech you, let me order horses, and go with me at once to London and
to your brother. I would fain have you, too, go on with me to the
Continent; but you shall stay in London if it please you better. All I
have is at your command, myself, my fortune, my life itself; and you
shall always dictate to me every thing that you would have done, and
it shall be done at once. Helen, dear Helen, come with me! True
passion bears no cold delay, and a rapid resolution, taken in a moment
like this, when love speaks out, when opportunity presents itself and
there is nothing to oppose, often goes on to happiness the most
intense, the most durable, when, if we lose the instant, we give
ourselves up to grief for our whole lives. Nay, shrink not from my
arms, beloved--for once let me clasp you to a bosom that burns for you
alone."
Helen did shrink from him, however, farther and farther, as with
increasing energy and vehemence, with his eyes lighting up, his words
rushing rapidly from his lips in a thousand varied intonations, and
his whole spirit moved by the strong feelings within him, he poured
forth his passionate solicitations. She shrunk from him, I say,
farther and farther, with the small, finely cut ear glowing with the
scarlet blood, her cheek as pale as death, her lip quivering, her eye
fixed upon her suitor, in terror, surprise, and horror. She could
hardly speak. But however Lieberg veiled his purposes under vague,
though glowing language, warned as she had been, she understood him
only too well, and saw that all which had been told her was true.
Her lips moved for a moment without uttering a sound, but at length
she murmured, "Monster!"--and turned to ring the bell.
Lieberg, however, caught her hand and stopped her, and she stood
gazing at him with such a look of horror and pain as, in the moment of
the great temptation, the mother of mankind might have worn, had some
angel whispered the real nature of the being to whom she listened, and
displayed to her mind's eye the endless misery, through unnumbered
generations, that was to follow on man's fall.
"Beware!" said Lieberg, at length, as he marked that look and read it
aright; and his tongue, while he spoke, lost its poisonous melody, his
face its fascinating smile--"beware what you do! Remember, Helen
Barham, that you are in my power. The moment is now before you to
choose between my love and my hate. Be mine, and I swear by all that I
hold sacred, such a life of joy and love shall be yours as even your
fancy could never dream; but if you reject all that I offer, recollect
that your brother's fate is in my hands, his life, his shame, ay--and
your own fate, too--that reputation of which you may be idly vain.
Disappoint me now, and men shall laugh, and say that she was Count
Lieberg's paramour; but that he tired of her, and cast her off in a
single day. Your fate, I say, as well as his, is in my hands."
"Mine, mine!" cried Helen, with astonishment and terror. "Mine in your
hands? What is it that you mean?"
"Nay, nay," said Lieberg, softening his tone again, "though what I say
is true, think not of it. I meant but to shew you what was in my
power, Helen. I have not thought of using that power. To wring or pain
your heart would pain my own, dear girl. Forgive me for what I have
said--think that it was but the mad vehemence of passion. Oh, feel for
me, Helen!--you that seem made for love and joy, feel for the intense,
the burning love you have inspired. Think not that I would hurt your
brother. On the contrary, I have tended him with kindness and care,
when there was no one to tend him but myself. I have furnished him
with all that was needful for his happiness, and it is his first wish
and desire you should be mine. My vehemence has frightened and
surprised you, I see; but you know not what it is I feel. Sit
down again, dear girl, and listen to me--listen to me but for a
moment----."
"No, Count Lieberg," she replied, firmly, "I will not! I will neither
sit down nor listen to you at all, but upon one subject. I can easily
conceive that you suppose my brother's fate entirely in your hands;
but, thank God, my reputation is not; and I believe you speak a
falsehood when you say that you can make even the general world, much
less those that love and esteem me, believe that I ever was the
paramour of a man whom I hate and despise. I believe, sir, that you
have told a gross falsehood, for the same base purpose for which you
have threatened a brother's life to the ears of his sister."
The look of Helen Barham had changed under the emotions that she felt.
Instead of fear, and timidity, and horror, it bore now the look of
indignant pride. Her head was raised high, her beautiful nostril
expanded, her bright eyes flashed, and Lieberg, though all these signs
of anger were displayed against himself, felt passion but the stronger
in his heart.
"Nay, nay, Helen," he said, in a quick, but half sportive tone, "if
you so dare me, dear lady, I must shew that I threaten not without
power. Look at these few words of written invitation, in Helen
Barham's hand! Sent to me by my own valet last night, after all the
household were in bed--'_Whenever you like.--Helen Barham!_'"
To Lieberg's surprise, the horror and detestation which became the
predominant expression of Helen's countenance, was ummingled with
anything like fear.
"You are a fiend, indeed!" she cried. "You are a fiend, indeed! But,
like the machinations of all other fiends, your devices are controlled
by the good will of God! When the note that you wrote to me last
night, and which you have torn off from the answer, was brought to me,
know that I was not alone. It was read by another to me--by one who
can swear to every word of it. Thus I set you at nought, scorning you,
as well as hating you, feeling as much disgust as horror at your
conduct. Let me tell you more, Count Lieberg, that, were there no
other man on earth, I would regard you with the same contempt that I
do now; that you are personally odious to me; and that were you at my
feet to-morrow, with proposals as high and pure, as those of to-day
are base and infamous, though I were a beggar in the streets, seeking
my bread from door to door, I would spurn you from me, with the same
scorn that I do now," and passing him boldly, she rang the bell.
The moment that Helen's hand had left the bell rope, the stately old
landlady burst into the room, with her face all in a glow.
"You shan't be injured, or insulted, in my house, ma'am," she said. "I
beg your pardon for listening, ma'am, but I thought you might want a
little help from what I saw. The gentleman may take himself where he
likes, but he shan't affront you any more here."
Helen burst into tears at this unexpected support; and the good woman,
who really, except in money matters, deserved that name, held out her
arms towards the agitated and beautiful being before her, saying, in
the tone of a mother--
"Come here to me, my dear! You are a good, virtuous girl, and deserve
to be taken care of. The coach will go in a quarter of an hour, and my
son, Will, shall go with you on the top, to see that no harm comes to
you. There's the picture, my dear--we don't want it; and as for the
gentleman, he had better budge, for if my husband had heard all that I
have heard, he would have leathered his jacket."
Lieberg gazed at her for a moment, with a look of calm scorn, for his
self-possession had been restored in a moment.
"My good woman," he said, "you are a very foolish person; and, if you
meddle in this way, with things that don't concern you, you will burn
your fingers some day. Miss Barham, we shall meet again, when you will
think differently."
"Never!" said Helen; and Lieberg, without more reply, quitted the
room, and ordered his horse over to the other inn.
"Feed him," he said, to the hostler who took him, "and bring him round
as soon as he is ready."
He then called for a private room, and buried his eyes in his hands
till the sound of a coach setting out from the office opposite made
him look up. Then biting his lip, without any other gesticulation, he
muttered--"Curses upon it all!"