ON THE RACK.
It was no heated fancy of a half-delirious brain of our poor friend,
Cole, that he had heard a tap on the gloomy door of the east chamber, at
Broadlawns, on the night he was snared by the huntress; held by the
fetters of a loveless union with Margaret Villiers; but he paid no heed
to the stealthy tap, repeated whenever the revelry below was loudest;
but as silent as the grave, he almost holds his breath as he watches the
door, a look of agony in his tired eyes, which throb as does his head in
neuralgic torture; but now, his strange midnight visitor, as if driven
to desperation by his silence, says through the keyhole:
"For heaven's sake, let me in!"
But no response; he will trust no one under the roof of this hateful
place, to which he has been trapped, in which he has lost his freedom,
in which the terrible conviction has seized him that he is going to be
laid low by the fell hand of sickness. What is that? Yes, he sees a slip
of paper passed under the door; his midnight visitor is evidently bent
on obtaining an interview; pale as a ghost, and trembling in every limb,
he creeps noiselessly to the door, picks up the paper, and reads the
following words:
"I am the woman who came in _too late_ to stop your marriage; _your own
friends_, who are far away, would tell you to see me. For God's sake,
let me do what I can for you, even _now_."
But for her wording, as to his "friends far away," he would have paid no
heed; he remembers now, in a dazed sort of way, amidst the medley he has
been in ever since his arrival, that there was some woman who appeared,
was maligned, and vanished, all in a few seconds. Yes, if he could only
feel sure the oak door only separated him from one not in league with
his enemies, as he now feels them to be, the lock would be immediately
turned; but, should it be a fraud whereby to obtain admittance for the
terrible woman he has wedded, and whom he loathes and fears at the same
time; and so, with his cold, nervous hand upon the lock, he hesitates,
when she again appeals a last time through the keyhole.
"I must go, and leave you to your misery, if you will not open the door;
they are preparing to come up stairs."
At this, the dread of loneliness, the craving for sympathy, with the
sinking feeling of sickness coming over him, the natural instinct of
self-preservation impelling him to risk something in endeavoring to
secure one friend to be about him if he cannot shake off this feeling of
intense lassitude, low spirits, head and brain on fire, and throbbing as
with ten thousand pulses, cause him with a sudden fear lest she should
go, to turn the key, when noiselessly, a pale woman with an intensely
sad expression in her whole countenance, and prematurely grey, enters.
"Poor fellow! and a kindly, handsome face, too; what a sacrifice! God
knows how willingly I would have saved you; but their moves were hidden
from me," she said piteously, in a low whisper, gazing into his face
tearfully, while taking his hands in her own.
In the reaction he flung her off, saying, brokenly,
"Why were you not in time? What trust have you broken so, blighting my
very existence? Out upon you, woman, you may go and leave me to
despair."
"No, no, I must stay; I _will_ stay; you are ill, but will be more calm;
though with _her_! God help you, you will never find peace, never be at
rest."
And throwing her apron over her face, she, too, sank on to the sofa
where he was; but he is, after a few moments, quiet again, and drawing
the covering from her face, which she has used as if to shut out the
view where all, all is misery to the last degree, she turns to look at
him; both hands white, cold and trembling, cover his face, through his
fingers drop scalding tears, silent tears of woe.
"Do not give way so, sir. Poor fellow, you are indeed to be pitied, away
from your home, away from your own land. They sent me off to London on
messages--to get me out of the way--for some things for Miss Villiers,
as then was."
"Don't remind me. God help me. Swear, woman, swear!" he said excitedly,
"to stay by me to get me well; quick, for my inner consciousness tells
me I shall be, nay am, ill; elucidate this mystery, is it money they
want, how can I escape? swear, swear to stay by me in this place,
smelling of brimstone. Swear!" he continued, forgetting time and place,
as he raised his voice, only remembering his wretchedness.
"For heaven's sake try to calm yourself; they have heard you, they come;
not a sound; they will turn me out, and you will have only them. I
conjure you, curb yourself; not a sound." And taking both his hands to
her knee, with motherly tenderness, seeks by gently stroking or holding
them in hers to soothe him to even momentary calm.
"I say, Cole, are you sleeping?" said the voice of Stone, turning the
handle. "You should have been down with us; we have been feeding like
fighting cocks."
"I am sure I heard him talking," said Margaret. "Mean fellow he is;
feigning sleep."
"Good night, Cole, or rather, morning; pleasant dreams," said Stone,
malevolently.
"Look, uncle, at aunt rolling into her bed-chamber; veal pie and stout
will be her nightmare. Good night, spouse," she said, through the
keyhole.
At this, Sarah Kane had great difficulty in quieting him. "I kiss my
hand to you"--for she is hilarious; a glass of beer, a change of name,
three thousand per annum secured, have been a powerful stimulant.
"It's my belief he heard every word we said, but wouldn't give in," said
her uncle, as they went along the hall.
"Of course, he did, the mean pup; but never fear, I'll make him knuckle
under."
"That you will," he said, chuckling.
When all is again quiet at Broadlawns, Charlie Cole and Sarah Kane again
breathe more freely.
"Tell now, _now_," he says feverishly, "how I am to get away from here
and without, remember, that woman? You will have to stay by me, for I am
too ill, God help me, to act alone."
"First, you must undress and get into bed; my, but you are weak!"
"I am; please take this key and unlock my trunk; I am not equal to any
exertion."
"Were you ill crossing the ocean, sir?"
"I was, but nothing like this; the medical attendant on board said I
must have some mental worry which preyed even then upon my bodily
health."
"Your name, Charles Cole, how well I remember it," she said, reading it
on his linen. "My poor dead mistress and friend trusted me--God help me
if I have seemed unfaithful to my trust. Perhaps I should have found out
and followed my young mistress, but Silas and I thought I had best watch
her interests here. God pity me," she said tearfully, falling upon her
knees. "Good Lord, watch over her, lead my steps to her, for I have
failed in preventing their black deeds here; so I shall go to America to
try and find you, poor, dear, wronged Miss Pearl."
Here Cole, with a groan of weakness and dizziness, falls half undressed
upon the bed, at which Sarah Kane flies to him, takes off his boots,
assisting him to get under the clothes.
"Poor, poor feet, like ice," she says pityingly; "I must do something
for him. Heaven help him among such a horde of cruel hearts; I must at
any risk go down and get a foot warmer. Poor fellow, so gentle and
amiable-like, he deserved a better fate, and should have a physician at
once; but the mind, the poor sick mind, as well as body, how will that
be calmed? There, there, don't mind anything; try to sleep. I am going
down stairs to get a foot-warmer for you."
"No, no," he said nervously, "you must not leave me."
"I have listened in the hall, and they are all snoring, sleeping heavily
after the late supper. I must, indeed, sir, see to the warming of your
feet; it will only take me five minutes; please consent, for your own
sake."
"Well, go; and I will lock the door after you, lest the wretches come
in," and attempting to sit up he feels too weak, falling backwards with
a heavy sigh.
Sarah Kane, now really alarmed, slips off her shoes, silently unfastens
the door, making a speedy exit; passing the doors of the sleepers
without detection, not so though on entering the servants' wing--the
cook and man-servant seeming both restless, she hesitates, then on with
flying feet accomplishes her object, bringing also mustard; up again
this time, not risking the back stairs and the servants, the front
stairs, which, being thickly padded, cover her footfalls.
Back again, she finds him staring fixedly at the door in terror, lest
any but herself should appear. She now applies the foot-warmer, also
putting mustard plasters to the nape of the neck and pit of the stomach.
"You look tired," he said languidly, "but I cannot say go and rest, I am
not brave enough."
"I am accustomed to do without sleep. I nurse many sick. Since my poor
mistress died, and they sent sweet Miss Pearl out to the States, I have
no regular duties here, but thought it wise, as they did not bid me go,
to stay on and watch them. They often quarrel over my being here, Mr.
Stone wanting to drive me out, Miss--I mean--but no, never mind--there,
there," stroking his hands, "the aunt and niece thinking, and true, that
I know too much. It's a fact, sir, but I have not known how to check
them for all. God help me, but when I see you well and away from this
home of the Pharisee--this place with a heart of stone and a tongue of
oil, or evil, as it suits--I must see what is best, even so late."
And so the poor, half-distracted thing talked on and on, often in a
disconnected sort of way, but her tones were soothing.
"Go on," he said, opening his eyes; "what trust have you broken," he
repeated, "bringing me to this?" Here he grew excited, but, evidently
too weak to talk, said languidly, putting her hand to his brow:
"Feel that, their work," he said feverishly, "and in part yours, as you
have not exposed them; why have you not?"
"What would the world heed had I, _in their employ_, lifted up my voice
against them? they are all Pharisees, all strict church-goers, and would
turn the wrath against myself, for I do not make loud prayers, their
hypocrisy driving me to my closet, instead of to the be-seen-of-men sort
of religion; no, no one would have believed me, though I think now of
one who would, and he is Dr. Annesley, of the city. I have erred in
judgment, but never thought they would marry you to Miss Villiers; nay,
look at it calmly, if you can, sir, and get well sooner. My father was
an attorney, but rogues fleeced him, and I was penniless; my late
mistress took me here, and I was her friend and confidant, for they were
cruel to her and her child. Silas Jones and I knew of Miss Pearl and
yourself, and Silas said----"