THE night was dark and tempestuous, the rain beat violently against
the windows of the carriage, the wind blew so vehemently as to shake
it upon the springs, and the hollow moanings of the gale, as it swept
down the valley of Treisam, sounded like the screams of souls in
torture. Once or twice, but once or twice only, the features of the
scene around were displayed for an instant by a sudden flash of
lightning, and rock, and chasm, and rushing stream, swelled into a
torrent by the deluge that was pouring down, started out from the
darkness and instantly disappeared again. The effect was fine, but
awful; and for the sake of postilions and servants, Morley Ernstein
would have willingly turned back, but that the storm did not commence
till Freiburg was left far behind, and had not reached its height till
the carriage was nearly half way through the pass, known by the gloomy
name of the Valley of Hell. To go on, then, was a matter of necessity,
and Morley contented himself with calling old Adam Gray into the
inside of the carriage, to shelter his white hair from the storm of
night. The journey, indeed, was not without danger, for the pit of
Acheron was certainly never darker than the Höllen-Thal, in the
intervals of the lightning; and the windings of the road, amongst
rocks and streams, are conducted with a greater regard to brevity than
to the traveller's neck.
"It is a dreadful night, indeed, sir," said good old Adam Gray, with a
shudder, "and it seems to be a terribly wild country. Why, the
carriage can scarcely get on, and I believe will be broken in pieces
before we get to the end of the stage."
"Oh, no!" replied Morley; "it is too well built for that, Adam; and
the darkness makes you think every jolt worse than it is. Through this
very valley General Moreau made his famous retreat, bringing with him
his baggage and artillery, so it is impossible that it can be so very
bad."
"It's bad enough, sir, any way!" exclaimed Adam Gray, as the carriage
passed over an immense stone, producing a jolt that nearly knocked the
heads of the travellers against the top of the vehicle. "I would
almost sooner be a cannon than a Christian to go through here--at
least in this dark night!"
"I certainly should have waited till to-morrow," replied Morley, "if I
had known we should have such a storm, but now it is not to be helped,
and the stage, I believe, is not a very long one. We must sleep where
we can for to-night, as there is no use of attempting to go on to
Schaffhausen."
The way, however, seemed to Adam Gray interminably long, for the
German drivers, with very proper caution, proceeded at a rate
certainly somewhat slower than that with which an English
broad-wheeled waggon wends its way along the drawing-room roads of our
own favoured land. At the end of about an hour the storm decreased,
the sharp gusts of wind ceased almost entirely, the lightning no
longer illuminated the valley from time to time with its fierce glare,
and the rain itself subsided into a thin and drizzling mist, through
which the lamps of the carriage poured a red and confused light,
occasionally catching upon some wild rock, or bringing forth from the
darkness the large boll of some old tree, but generally showing
nothing but the dim expanse of vapour which wrapped the harsh features
of the valley in a foggy shroud.
How long they had thus gone on through that tempestuous night, Morley
Ernstein did not know, but he judged by guess that the next post-house
could not be far off, when the sound of what seemed a distant call met
his ear, and, turning to old Adam Gray, he said--"Well, Adam, your
rough journey will soon be over; we must be coming near Steig, for I
hear voices, and some persons shouting."
"Perhaps some one has got hurt in this terrible night," replied Adam
Gray. "God send us well out of this horrid place!"
Morley Ernstein listened eagerly, for the old man's words brought
suddenly into his mind the very probable case of some accident having
happened in such a storm and such a scene; and, letting down the
window, he put his head out, gazing round to see if he could descry
anything, but in vain.
A moment or two after, however, a loud shout from the right, and at no
great distance, showed that the lamps of the carriage, though of no
great service either to the travellers or the postilions attached to
it, had sent their glare far enough into the gloom of the valley to
reach the eyes of some person in distress. The shout was repeated
again and again, and Morley thought that he distinguished an English
tone and English words, though let it be remembered that such sounds
may very well be heard in Germany, without the speakers being
Englishmen or knowing one syllable of our native tongue. This Morley
recollected, but, nevertheless, he was just as anxious to give
assistance as if he had been quite sure that the persons calling for
aid were his fellow-countrymen.
The postilions, although they must have heard the cry fully as well as
those within the carriage, did not seem in the slightest degree
disposed to stop, but went on with the same indifferent jog-trot,
which probably they would have continued if the father of each of them
had been drowning in the stream below. Three times did Morley himself
call to them before they condescended to pay any attention. They at
length brought up, however, and quietly asked what was the matter.
Without waiting to inform them, but bidding the servants get down to
aid him, Morley sprang out of the vehicle, drew one of the lanterns
with his own hands from the socket, and called aloud, in very good
German, to ascertain where were the personages who had been so
vociferously appealing for help.
The reply left him no doubt as to its being an Englishman who now
spoke, for the very first sentence was adorned with one of those oaths
which unhappily are but too often in the mouths of our countrymen.
"Holloa hoy!" cried the voice. "D--n you, if you don't make haste you
will be too late! This way, I say--this way!"
It was not without some difficulty, however, that any means were found
of reaching the spot from whence the voice proceeded. The bank was
steep and rugged, large masses of rock and stone obstructed the way,
and the darkness of the night, increased by the mist, prevented Morley
Ernstein and his servant from seeing more than a few yards even by the
aid of the lantern, which the young gentleman himself carried. All
this delayed them much, but still they advanced, guided by several
voices talking rapidly and eagerly together; and bad French and bad
English were to be heard spoken in sharp and sometimes angry tones,
between people who seemed to have a very great difficulty in making
themselves mutually understood.
At length, however, the exact place where all this was going on became
more distinct; and the forms of two men, two or three women, a child,
four horses, and an overturned coach, were seen against a back ground
of white spray and foam, occasioned by the stream--now swelled, as I
have before said, into a torrent, and dashing in angry fury amidst the
crags and rocky fragments which encumbered the valley. The men and
most of the women were all gathered closely round the carriage, and
seemed to be holding on thereby as if endeavouring to move it, while
one of the group was giving eager orders to another, in a somewhat
extraordinary compound of English and French, to attach the horses to
the overthrown vehicle in a particular manner, and endeavour to pull
it up; while the man to whom he spoke seemed to have taken the wise
resolution, in the first place, of not understanding him, and in the
next place, of not doing what he was told when he did.
Such was the state of things when Morley Ernstein approached within a
few yards of the carriage, and perceived that the vehicle, and
whatever it might contain, was certainly in a very dangerous position,
being balanced as nicely as can be conceived, upon the edge of a
second bank, and apparently only kept from falling over into the
stream by the weight of the persons who held it down. Such was the
first fact that presented itself to Morley's mind; but there was
another point which struck him nearly at the same time--namely, that
the figures of two, at least, out of the personages in the group, were
quite familiar to him; and the combination of the voice which he had
heard, with the appearance of the people now before him, instantly
brought to his recollection our old acquaintance Harry Martin, and his
wife. The latter, it would seem, instantly recognised the young
Baronet in the person who now came to their aid, for at the very
moment that Morley recognised her husband, she exclaimed--"Oh, how
fortunate! It is Sir Morley, Harry--it is Sir Morley Ernstein!"
"That is luck, indeed!" cried Harry Martin. "We shall now have
somebody to help us."
The matter was soon explained; the Swiss driver of the vehicle in
which Martin had engaged a certain number of places for himself and
his family, had, in the darkness of the night, mistaken a small
cart-road on the right, for the highway to Steig, had soon become
embarrassed amongst the rocks, and had ended by overturning the
carriage in the most dangerous part of the valley.
"The worst part of the whole job, is," said Harry Martin, "that the
old woman is a good deal hurt, I am afraid; and we couldn't get her
out the carriage, as it lies there. I had nobody to help me but this
d--d fellow, and he will not help at all."
With the aid of Morley and his servants, the vehicle was soon freed
from the dangerous situation in which it hung, and drawn back into the
bad cart-road from which it had strayed. The jolting, however, was so
terrible to poor old Mrs. More--who had, as her son-in-law declared,
received considerable injuries--that she now very willingly agreed to
do that which she had at first refused, and quit the rough and
ill-hung coach for Morley's more comfortable conveyance.
Finding that the distance to the post-house was not more than an
English mile, the young Baronet determined to go the rest of the way
on foot, sending only one servant with his carriage, and giving the
places thus left vacant to the women, whom he had found in such a
deplorable situation in the valley. Harry Martin's wife and the little
boy took their seats beside old Mrs. More, in the inside. There was
room for another behind, but there were still two persons to be
provided for, both foreigners--one seeming the mistress, and the other
the maid. The lady, however, insisted that her attendant should go,
saying--"You are bruised, Marguerite, and I am not; I can walk very
well."
The attendant needed no great pressing, but took her place at once,
and Morley Ernstein, offering his arm to her mistress, gave directions
to his courier to remain with the Swiss, in order to aid him in
getting his carriage safely back into the main road, and then
proceeded, with Harry Martin on his right hand, talking sometimes to
one of his companions, sometimes to the other. The lady spoke very
little English, but French she understood thoroughly, although her
accent betrayed the tones of a southern land; and, now that the danger
was over, she laughed with light-hearted gaiety at the misadventures
of the night, though a tone of sadness mingled every now and then with
her merriment, when she mentioned the situation of the poor old lady,
Mrs. More. The impression produced by her conversation upon the mind
of Morley Ernstein was altogether agreeable; and indeed it must be a
hard case, where a young and graceful woman and a young and
accomplished man, finding their way on together along a road they do
not know, in a dull and drizzly night, dislike each other very much in
the end.
The mind of Harry Martin seemed, for the time, wholly taken up with
the accident which had happened to Mrs. More, for whom he apparently
entertained as much affection as if he had been her son. Although he
in no degree affected to have forgotten Morley Ernstein, and spoke to
him in a tone of respect--perhaps one might say, of gratitude--yet he
referred, not even by a word, to the circumstances of their previous
acquaintance. Morley himself kept aloof from any such topic also, on
account of the proximity of his servants' ears, though he determined,
if occasion served, to enquire into all which had lately occurred to
his companion, and to ascertain by what train of events he now found
him in a remote part of Germany, with his wife and family. The
opportunity was soon given to him. On their arrival at Steig, they
found the little post-house full of bustle and confusion. Poor Mrs.
More had been taken out of the carriage, and removed to bed, it having
been found that her leg was broken in two places. Her daughter was in
the room, attending upon her, with no little distress of mind; and the
fair Italian, who had accompanied Morley Ernstein--though there was
evidently a little struggle in her breast as to whether she should
stay below in the hall, and pass the evening with the young English
gentleman, or go up and give what assistance she could to the sufferer
up stairs--decided, at length, in favour of the more amiable, though
less pleasant occupation. Bidding Morley a graceful good night, she
left him and Harry Martin in possession of the great, odd-shaped room,
which is almost always to be found on the lower story of a German inn,
and proceeded to the chamber of Mrs. More, where, we may as well add,
in passing, she shewed much good humour, and benevolent attention,
aiding Jane in putting her child to bed, and soothing and tending her
mother.
In the meantime, Morley Ernstein's servants busied themselves in
preparing their master's room, taking care of the carriage, and
removing a part of the contents to the house; while the courier paid
the postilion within a few florins of the sum he intended to charge
his master, ordered the best of everything for his own supper, and the
next best for that of Sir Morley, and looked into the saloon three
times to see what the young gentleman was about, and to prove that he
was very attentive.
On the part of Sir Morley Ernstein, the first proceeding was to send
for the post-master, and to enquire where a surgeon could be procured.
No good one was to be heard of nearer than Freiburg; and, accordingly,
a man on horseback was sent off by Sir Morley's directions, to bring
the best bone-setter that the capital of the Breisgau could afford.
Then--after various enquiries as to the real situation of the old
woman, after some going to and fro between her chamber and the saloon,
and all the little bustles, orders and counter-orders, enquiries and
replies, examinations and discoveries, precautions, preparations, and
annoyances, which attend the first arrival at an out-of-the-way inn,
on a dark and rainy night, after a journey of adventures and
mishaps--after all this was concluded Harry Martin stood upon the
other, with his arms crossed upon his broad, bull-like chest.
"You see, Sir Morley," said the latter, at length, as if in
explanation of his feelings towards Mrs. More--"you see, that I am
very anxious about this old woman, for she has been kind to me ever
since I first knew her, and ended by saving my life. She was
the first one, sir, that ever made me think--love being out of the
question--that any one could care about me for myself, and she has
always kept tight to the same way of acting by me; though, God knows,
little was the good I ever did her or hers! However, I am sure I ought
to be well contented with the world, for when I was at the hardest
pinch that ever man was at, I found people to be generous to me,
people to be true to me, and people to be zealous for me, which,
altogether, was what saved my life, when I as much deserved to be
hanged as any man that ever was born."
"How was that?" demanded Morley Ernstein, not doubting, indeed, the
truth of Harry Martin's confession, but merely desirous of hearing
something more of his history: "I left you in a fair way of making
your escape, I thought."
"Ay, sir, so you did," replied his companion, "but I was fool enough
to put my foot in a trap, and was caught. I should have been hanged,
too, if it hadn't been for that noble girl Miss Helen Barham, who
should be a queen if I had my will. She kept her word with me in spite
of all that any one could say, and she'll go to heaven for it, if it
was for nothing else, for she's given me time to think and to change
my life altogether, and that's what the law would not have done. My
wife was reading me the Bible, the other day, where it says--'There's
joy in heaven over one sinner that repents;' and if it be so,
which I don't pretend to doubt, she must have made the place very
happy--which, indeed, I suppose it was before--for certainly I was as
bad as I could be, but now I have repented a good deal, and mean to do
so a great deal more. It would not have been the case, sir, if it
happened any other way at all; if they had hanged me, I should have
died game; and if I had got off by some trick of the lawyers, some
flaw in the indictment, or something of that kind, I should have been
at the old work again in a week; but to see that beautiful girl sit
there, badgered by the judge and all the lawyers, and quietly make up
her mind to go to prison sooner than to break her word with a man like
me,--why, sir, it changed my whole heart in a moment; and I thought to
myself, if I get off this time I will lead a different life altogether
for your sake, you angel, just to shew you that I'm not altogether so
bad as people think!"
By degrees, Morley Ernstein obtained a general idea of all that
occurred to Harry Martin, since he left him in the north of England.
It was not with little interest that the young Englishman questioned
him concerning Helen Barham, and we need hardly say that it was with
pleasure he heard, not only her praises from the man beside him, but
an account of the actions which had called forth his gratitude. It was
with great satisfaction, too, he learnt that a change had taken place
in her pecuniary affairs and that competence, if not wealth, was at
all events assured to her; for though he had written to Mr. Hamilton
about her before he left England, and placed her future fate beyond
doubt, he was not a little pleased to find that she would be dependant
upon no one. The relative situation into which they had been thrown,
the high qualities of her mind, the compassion that he had felt for
her--ay, the very temptation which had at one moment assailed him, had
left a tenderness in his feelings towards Helen Barham, which was
certainly not love, and yet was something more than friendship, It was
a sensation, strange, complicated, difficult to be defined even to his
own mind; it was the blending of many memories and many sweet
impressions into something like the affection of a father for a child,
something like the love of a brother for a sister, and yet differing
from both, inasmuch as there was nothing conventional in it, inasmuch
as there was no bond or tie of duty, inasmuch as it differed from the
common forms and modes into which the rules of society shape our
feelings as well as our actions.
The presence of such sensations in his bosom was rendered more
sensible to him by the conversation taking place at that moment, than
it had ever been before, and he paused for some short time thinking
that it was all very strange, and enquiring into the nature of the
things within him. The man Martin, in the meantime, remained beside
him, with his keen, intelligent eyes fixed upon his countenance,
apparently reading, or attempting to read, the thoughts that were busy
in his breast.
At length he said--"Well, Sir Morley, I am going to bid you good
night, and I thank you very heartily for all the kindness you have
shewn me. There's one thing I can't help saying, however--and you must
not think me impudent or meddling for saying it, though I must not
mention any names--but I can't help thinking, sir, that you have
thrown away your own happiness, and quitted the good, and the true,
and the beautiful, to follow one that you'll find out some day,
perhaps when hope, and comfort, and peace are all ruined together.
Forgive me for saying it, sir, but I owe it to one who has been kind
to me to give him a warning. I wish you good night, sir!"
"Stay, stay!" cried Morley; "explain what you mean, at least, before
you go."
"No, no, I can't say any more," replied Harry Martin, moving steadily
towards the door, "I have said all that I have a right to say; and I
only add, that if you watch you will see, and if you enquire you will
find out. You will be convinced, at last, although I should think that
you had had enough to convince you already."
Without waiting for further question he turned and quitted the room,
and Morley remained bewildered and surprised, applying the words just
spoken to Juliet Carr, although they referred to quite a different
object; and asking himself how the man who had just left him could
have gained such a knowledge of his affairs. Surprise was certainly
the first feeling, but suspicion is a guest that finds but too easy
admission into the human heart.
"Peace, and comfort, and happiness are indeed gone already," he said,
"and gone by her act--must I call it by her fault? Can this be
trifling?--Love, they say, is blind.--Can it be coquetry? Can she be
sporting with my misery?"
But, as he put the question to his own heart, the idea of Juliet Carr,
in all her beauty, in all her frank simplicity, in all that
openhearted candour which gave the crowning grace to her demeanour,
rose up before his sight, and he became not only angry with himself
for having given credit to one word against her; but angry also and
indignant, with the man who had uttered aught that could raise a doubt
of her sincerity in his mind.