When the fall of Napoleon Buonaparte had opened the gates of Europe to
the little body of islanders who had been knocking at them for so many
years in vain, the first that rushed in to see all the wonders of the
great continental fair, were, of course, the great and the wealthy,
having every means at hand to satisfy to the full the expectant
innkeepers and postilions, who were well prepared to make the purses
of our good countrymen pay for the sights which and been so long
forbidden. But in the rear of these, only by a very short distance,
came a number of very respectable people of an inferior class, who
were firmly resolved to have their holiday also, and that it should be
spent on the Continent. The means of locomotion, indeed, were not so
plentiful then as now; no steam-boats bridged over the Straits of
Dover; no railroads saved one the trouble of seeing anything in Europe
without depriving one of the pleasant consciousness of making a tour.
People set out actually to travel in those times; and many a worthy
citizen of London contemplated the journey to Paris with as much wild
excitement, and strong sense of personal enterprise and merit in
braving danger, as did Le Valliant, or Bruce, or Cook, or any other
traveller of past days.
To facilitate them in their undertaking, however, there was
established, at a house on the eastern side of the Haymarket, what may
be called a dépôt of _voituriers_, where a man was almost always to be
found or heard of, ready, for a specified sum, to carry any lady,
gentleman, or child, who might be locomotively disposed, from one part
of Europe to another. In truth, the manner of travelling was not at
all an unpleasant one, and being then in its first freshness, fewer
tricks were played upon the traveller, more conveniences provided for
him, and the rogues and vagabonds with which Europe is superabundantly
supplied, had not then fully discovered that the trade of _voiturier_
was one which afforded them great facilities for the exercise of their
talent.
It was one day, then, in the month of September, a short time after
various events had taken place, which have been related in this true
history, that a Swiss _voiturier_, ready, for any man's money, to go
to any part of the civilized world, was standing in the shop in
question, having left his horses and carriage in the good town of
Calais and come over to England, for the express purpose of seeing
what the English could be about, that nobody had hired him up to that
late period of the year. The master of the house expressed himself not
a little grieved that such was the case, but assured him that he had
not had one single application, and was in the very act of counselling
him to go back to Switzerland empty, when a tall, powerful, and
good-looking man, dressed in black, and with a very pretty and
lady-like young woman leaning upon his arm, entered the shop, and made
some enquiries, which instantly caused the Swiss to raise his ears,
and listen with great attention.
His knowledge of the English language was certainly very limited, but
at the same time he understood the meaning of the word carriage, and
was well aware that the word Naples, though somewhat different from
the Italian name of the place, was applied by us Englishmen to the
City of the Syren. Be soon found, then, that the gentleman was
bargaining to be carried, lodged, and boarded by the way, from the
town of Calais to that of Naples. He, moreover, understood, that two
ladies and a child were to be of the party, so that four places, out
of the six which his vehicle afforded, might be speedily secured. He
perceived, likewise, that the gentleman made his bargain shrewdly and
strictly--in fact, as a man accustomed to deal with a world which has
rogues in it; and as he thought he saw an inclination on the part of
the master of the shop to risk losing a customer by demanding too
much, he hastened to join in to the best of his abilities, and make
his bargain for himself. His next discovery was, that the gentleman in
black could not speak a word of any language but his own; and that the
lady who was with him could only converse in French of a certain sort;
but after about three-quarters of an hour's discussion, the whole
matter was arranged satisfactorily, and the Swiss set off again for
Calais, to prepare for a journey to Naples, to which city he was to
convey the party of travellers, upon terms set down in a written
agreement.
When all had been settled, the two future travellers took their way
through the streets of London to one of the small houses, which,
placed in the neighbourhood of the more fashionable parts of the town,
afford to the younger and poorer branches of distinguished families
many a convenient residence at no great expense.
"No. 15, did you not say, Jane?" said the gentleman, addressing the
lady on his arm. "It seems a wonderfully nice house; I wonder how that
is kept up."
Knocking as he spoke, he asked the servant who appeared--a man in
mourning livery--if Miss Barham were at home. But even while he was
putting the question, the door of what seemed a dining-room opened,
and a distinguished looking elderly man, apparently not in the best
health, came out, saying, to some persons within--"Well, gentlemen,
all I can say is, that he shall hear the whole particulars. You have
dealt candidly with me, in shewing me the deeds, and, without giving
an opinion on the case, I will promise you to communicate the whole
facts fairly."
As he came forth the door was closed, and the servant who was in the
passage drew back to give him egress.
"That is Mr. Hamilton, the famous banker," observed the gentleman in
black, in a whisper, to his fair companion--"a very good man, they
say."
At the same moment the servant replied, that Miss Barham was at home,
and ushered the two up to the drawing-room, while a great deal of loud
talking, with evident haste and eagerness, was heard from the chamber
which they passed on the right.
"What name shall I give, sir?" demanded the servant at the
drawing-room door.
"Martin," replied the stranger; and the moment after Mr. and Mrs.
Martin were announced, in a loud tone.
In an elegant, though somewhat small drawing-room, with everything
which could contribute to comfort and convenience around her, sat
Helen Barham, not less beautiful than ever, though with a deep shade
of melancholy hanging upon her fair brow, and a colour, almost too
delicately lovely, in her cheek. She raised her eyes as the man threw
open the door, and then started up with a look almost of alarm,
paused, and hesitated till the servant was gone, and then, with one of
her radiant smiles, chasing away the cloud, like the sun at noon, she
pointed to a chair, saying--"I am glad to see you--pray sit down. I
know not what startled me, but the name brought back painful
memories."
"I do not wonder at it, ma'am," answered Harry Martin--"though, after
all, I think, if I were you, it would bring up the proudest and
happiest memories that could come into my heart. Memories of having
done, Miss Barham, what there are not two people in all Europe would
do--ay, not only of having saved a fellow-creature from death, but of
having saved him from perhaps worse destructions. I have come to thank
you, ma'am--and my poor wife, too; and the first name we shall teach
our baby to pray for is yours--isn't it, Jane?"
Jane Martin went round the table, and dropping upon her knees beside
Helen Barham, kissed her hand, and bathed it with tears.
"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen, trying to raise her. "Pray do not do
so!--you agitate--you distress me. I did but keep the promise I had
made."
"Ay, ma'am, and nobly," replied Harry Martin; "give me those that _do_
keep their word in this world of promise-breakers. But Jane has got
something to tell you, she will say it better than I can, for such
words are so new in my mouth that they come rather awkwardly."
Helen turned an inquiring look towards Jane Martin, who had now risen,
and was standing by her side, wiping away the tears that the sweet
feelings of gratitude had drawn forth. "He means me to tell you,
madam," said the latter, "something that I am sure, if I judge you
rightly, will repay you for all you did, and all you suffered on that
terrible day at York. He has determined, madam, more out of gratitude
to you and one other, who has befriended us, too, in our time of need,
to change his way of life altogether. We are going to a far country,
ma'am, as far from England as we can get, without going out of Europe;
I mean to Naples, where I had once an uncle, who is, I believe, living
still. There we may do honestly and industriously, and, if possible,
in time, will pay back everything that is not rightly ours."
"Oh, do so!--do so!" cried Helen, gladly; "the blessing which that
very thought will give you, will be worth any other kind of
happiness."
"I begin to think so too, Miss Barham," replied Harry Martin; "and one
thing more I will say, which is, that I know what will make me the
happiest man alive."
"What is that?" said Helen; "I am sure if it be possible for me to
help you I will. I cannot forget that, besides sparing my life when
many other people would have taken it, you aided to deliver my brother
from the power of those who would have most basely used the means of
injuring him which they possessed. Tell me what it is; I am far more
capable of doing something to show my gratitude now, than I have ever
been before, and if money--"
"No, no!" exclaimed Harry Martin, "it is not money that I want, Miss
Barham! All I wish for is an opportunity of serving you. But do you
know, Miss Barham," he added, after a moment's pause, "I am almost
sorry to hear you have money to spare."
"Why so?" said Helen, in some surprise.
"Why, I don't know well how to tell you what I mean," replied Harry
Martin; "but it's this, you see, Miss Barham from what I know, I don't
see how you or your brother can have much money to spare, if he gets
it in a way that may not some time or another bring you into a worse
scrape than the last."
Helen Barham's habit of blushing had not been lost, even in all the
painful scenes she had lately gone through, and the blood came warm
into her cheek at the man's words, though she knew that they were not
intended to offend or pain her. There was something in them, however,
which caused her mind instantly to refer to her late position--to the
position of danger and temptation in which she had been placed when
first she was presented to the reader's eyes--and the very thought
made the true modesty of her young and candid heart shrink as if from
contamination.
"You are mistaken, in this instance," she said, mildly; "a great
change has taken place in our situation. I cannot tell you all the
particulars, for I do not know them; and, indeed, I believe on some
account I have been purposely kept in the dark--but it has been
discovered that a large property rightly belonging to my brother has
been kept from him. It was old Mr. Carr who first told me of the
facts; since then, the matter has been referred to several London
lawyers, who are so perfectly convinced the property cannot be
withheld any longer, that the solicitor is quite willing to advance my
brother any money that he needs--more so, indeed, than I could
wish--for William is yet too young to use it rightly."
"He'll never be old enough," replied Harry Martin; "but, however,
whatever is for your good is a blessing; and, I trust, notwithstanding,
though God may give you, young lady, the fortune you well deserve, I
shall some day be able to show you my gratitude. I wont ask to see your
brother, Miss Barham, for the meeting would not be very pleasant to him
or to me, but I can tell him one thing, if he would have health or
happiness either, he must live a very different life from that which he
was following when I knew him. Why, we ourselves, who did not stick at
a trifle, as you may well suppose, used to get sick of his way of
going on."
Helen Barham cast down her eyes, and for a moment or two made no
reply. It was painful enough for her to think that her brother should
ever have been the companion of the man who stood before her; but to
bear that even the profligates, the lawless, and the reckless, were
outdone by the son of her own mother, was terrible indeed. Her
silence, however, arose from other sensations, likewise produced in
her bosom by the words of Harry Martin. The stores of the past, the
things that have been--ay, and the things that are--are often garnered
up in our hearts like the inflammable substances of a magazine,
apparently cold and lifeless, but requiring only a spark to blaze
forth. That spark is frequently a mere accidental word; a look, a tone
will sometimes communicate the flame. There had been a deep anxiety
preying upon Helen Barham for some weeks, a new anxiety, a fresh
grief, which mingled with all the others painful feelings in her
bosom, and produced a sort of dread, which cast an additional gloom
over every prospect. She had remarked in her brother a bright red spot
in the pale cheek, increasing towards nightfall, an eye full of
unnatural lustre, a hurried and fluttering respiration, a slight but
frequent cough--all of which she had seen once before in another, a
few months previous to the time when the turf was laid upon her
mother's head. She had questioned him eagerly and often; she had
endeavoured to prevent him from committing excess in various ways, but
he had always insisted that he was quite well, and any attempt to
restrain his inclinations seemed but to irritate him, and to drive him
to wild extremes. Lately she had tried hard, and successfully, to shut
out his state of health from her mind: she had kept the truth at a
distance; but the words of Harry Martin not only opened her eyes, and
showed her that her brother was hurrying on towards death, but that it
was his own deed.
"I fear," she said, in reply--"I fear that his health has suffered
very much! Indeed, he is anything but well; and I trust, when all this
business is settled, to induce him to try a better climate."
"Induce him, Miss Barham," said Harry Martin--"induce him--"
He was going to add--"to try a better life," but he gazed in the fair
face of Helen Barham, saw the deep melancholy that overspread it, and
felt afraid that he might add one drop more of bitter to the lot of
her, who, born with every endowment of person and mind which the
prodigal hand of nature could bestow upon a favourite child, had been
placed in circumstances where beauty was peril, where excellence was
trial, and where tenderness was anguish. He would not add another
word, but paused in the midst of what he was saying, and then turned
abruptly to his wife, exclaiming--"Come, Jane, let us go, we are only
keeping Miss Barham. God bless you, madam, and protect you. May you
find kind friends wherever you go, and may every one be as honest to
you as you have been to me. God bless you, I say, and make you happy,
and give me some opportunity of helping you when you need it."
Thus speaking, he turned away and left the room, followed by his wife;
and Helen, bidding them adieu, resumed her occupations.
They had not been long gone, however, when her brother came in, with
his face flushed and excited, and a look of triumph in his
countenance. "I have him," he said--"I'll do for him, Helen! We have
got hold of the only admission that was wanting. I'll make a beggar of
him before I have done with him!"
"I hope not, William," answered Helen, reproachfully. "I hope you will
make a beggar of no one upon the earth. You, of all people, William,
ought to know how terrible a thing it is to be a beggar. But who is it
you are talking of?"
"Ay! that I sha'n't tell you, Helen," replied William Barham, with a
laugh. "I know you'd be for interfering, and that wouldn't do. The
business is my own, and I'll manage it myself. You shall know nothing
about it till it's all done; and who can tell if the matter may not be
more for your advantage than you think?"
"Well, William," rejoined Helen, with a sigh, "as I said to you
yesterday, if you do not tell me more, tell me nothing. But listen to
what I have to say to you. The man, Harry Martin, who was tried at
York, has been here to thank me. You know very well that he took, and
destroyed, those papers which were so dangerous to you. Now, I think,
as you say you have money to spare, you ought to send him some
immediately."
"Not I," cried William Barham, though his face for a moment had become
very pale. "You say he destroyed the papers. He can't do anything
against me, then--I shall send him no money. You were a fool for not
letting him be hanged," and he turned sullenly from her, and left the
room.
Helen Barham leaned her head upon her hand, pressed her handkerchief
upon her eyes, and wept bitterly.