OUT OF THE DEPTHS.
After dismissing his nephew, Sir Oswald Eversleigh abandoned himself
for some time to gloomy thought. The trial had been a very bitter one;
but at length, arousing himself from that gloomy reverie, he said
aloud, "Thank Heaven it is over; my resolution did not break down, and
the link is broken."
Sir Oswald had made his arrangements for leaving London that afternoon,
on the first stage of his journey to Raynham Castle. There were few
railroads six-and-twenty years ago, and the baronet was in the habit of
travelling in his own carriage, with post-horses. The journey from
London to the far north of Yorkshire was, therefore, a long one,
occupying two or three days.
Sir Oswald left town an hour after his interview with Reginald
Eversleigh.
It was ten o'clock when he alighted for the first time in a large,
bustling town on the great northern road. He had changed horses several
times since leaving London, and had accomplished a considerable
distance within the five hours. He put up at the principal hotel, where
he intended to remain for the night. From the windows of his rooms was
to be seen the broad, open market-place, which to-night was brilliantly
lighted, and thronged with people. Sir Oswald looked with surprise at
the bustling scene, as one of the waiters drew the curtains before the
long windows.
"Your town seems busy to-night," he said.
"Yes, sir; there has been a fair, sir--our spring fair, sir--a cattle
fair, sir. Perhaps you'd rather not have the curtains drawn, sir. You
may like to look out of the window after dinner, sir."
"Look out of the window?--oh, dear no! Close the curtains by all means."
The waiter wondered at the gentleman's bad taste, and withdrew to
hasten the well-known guest's dinner.
It was long past eleven, and Sir Oswald was sitting brooding before the
fire, when he was startled from his reverie by the sound of a woman's
voice singing in the market-place below. The streets had been for some
time deserted, the shops closed, the lights extinguished, except a few
street-lamps, flickering feebly here and there. All was quiet, and the
voice of the street ballad-singer sounded full and clear in the
stillness.
Sir Oswald Eversleigh was in no humour to listen to street-singers. It
must needs be some voice very far removed from common voices which
could awaken him from his gloomy abstraction.
It was, indeed, an uncommon voice, such a voice as one rarely hears
beyond the walls of the Italian opera-house--such a voice as is not
often heard even within those walls. Full, clear, and rich, the
melodious accents sent a thrill to the innermost heart of the listener.
The song which the vagrant was singing was the simplest of ballads. It
was "Auld Robin Gray."
While he sat by the fire, listening to that familiar ballad, Sir Oswald
Eversleigh forgot his sorrow and indignation--forgot his nephew's
baseness, forgot everything, except the voice of the woman singing in
the deserted market-place below the windows.
He went to one of the windows, and drew back the curtain. The night was
cold and boisterous; but a full moon was shining in a clear sky, and
every object in the broad street was visible in that penetrating light.
The windows of Sir Oswald's sitting-room opened upon a balcony. He
lifted the sash, and stepped out into the chill night air. He saw the
figure of a woman moving a way from the pavement before the hotel very
slowly, with a languid, uncertain step. Presently he saw her totter and
pause, as if scarcely able to proceed. Then she moved unsteadily
onwards for a few paces, and at last sank down upon a door-step, with
the helpless motion of utter exhaustion.
He did not stop to watch, longer from the balcony. He went back to his
room, snatched up his hat, and hurried down stairs. They were beginning
to close the establishment for the night, and the waiters stared as Sir
Oswald passed them on his way to the street.
In the market-place nothing was stirring. The baronet could see the
dark figure of the woman still in the same attitude into which he had
seen her sink when she fell exhausted on the door-step, half-sitting,
half-lying on the stone.
Sir Oswald hurried to the spot where the woman had sunk down, and bent
over her. Her arms were folded on the stone, her head lying on her
folded arms.
"Why are you lying there, my good girl?" asked Sir Oswald, gently.
Something in the slender figure told him that the ballad-singer was
young, though he could not see her face.
She lifted her head slowly, with a languid action, and looked up at the
speaker.
"Where else should I go?" she asked, in bitter tones.
"Have you no home?"
"Home!" echoed the girl. "I have never had what gentlemen like you call
a home."
"But where are you going to-night?"
"To the fields--to some empty barn, if I can find one with a door
unfastened, into which I may creep. I have been singing all day, and
have not earned money enough to pay for a lodging."
The full moon shone broad and clear upon the girl's face. Looking at
her by that silvery light, Sir Oswald saw that she was very beautiful.
"Have you been long leading this miserable life?" Sir Oswald asked her
presently.
"My life has been one long misery," answered the ballad-singer.
"How long have you been singing in the streets?"
"I have been singing about the country for two years; not always in the
streets, for some time I was in a company of show-people; but the
mistress of the show treated me badly, and I left her. Since then I
have been wandering about from place to place, singing in the streets
on market-days, and singing at fairs."
The girl said all this in a dull, mechanical way, as if she were
accustomed to be called on to render an account of herself.
"And before you took to this kind of life," said the baronet, strangely
interested in this vagrant girl; "how did you get your living before
then?"
"I lived with my father," answered the girl, in an altered tone. "Have
you finished your questions?"
She shuddered slightly, and rose from her crouching attitude. The moon
still shone upon her face, intensifying its deathlike pallor.
"See," said her unknown questioner, "here are a couple of sovereigns.
You need not wander into the open country to look for an empty barn.
You can procure shelter at some respectable inn. Or stay, it is close
upon midnight: you might find it difficult to get admitted to any
respectable house at such an hour. You had better come with me to my
hotel yonder, the 'Star'--the landlady is a kind-hearted creature, and
will see you comfortably lodged. Come!"
The girl stood before Sir Oswald, shivering in the bleak wind, with a
thin black shawl wrapped tightly around her, and her dark brown hair
blown away from her face by that bitter March wind. She looked at him
with unutterable surprise in her countenance.
"You are very good," she said; "no one of your class ever before
stepped out of his way to help me. Poor people have been kind to
me--often--very often. You are very good."
There was more of astonishment than pleasure in the girl's tone. It
seemed as if she cared very little about her own fate, and that her
chief feeling was surprise at the goodness of this fine gentleman.
"Do not speak of that," said Sir Oswald, gently; "I am anxious to get
you a decent shelter for the night, but that is a very small favour. I
happen to be something of a musician, and I have been much struck by
the beauty of your voice. I may be able to put you in the way of making
good use of your voice."
"Of my voice!"
The girl echoed the phrase as if it had no meaning to her.
"Come," said her benefactor, "you are weary, and ill, perhaps. You look
terribly pale. Come to the hotel, and I will place you in the
landlady's charge."
He walked on, and the girl walked by his side, very slowly, as if she
had scarcely sufficient strength to carry her even that short distance.
There was something strange in the circumstance of Sir Oswald's meeting
with this girl. There was something strange in the sudden interest
which she had aroused in him--the eager desire which he felt to learn
her previous history.
The mistress of the "Star Hotel" was somewhat surprised when one of the
waiters summoned her to the hall, where the street-singer was standing
by Sir Oswald's side; but she was too clever a woman to express her
astonishment. Sir Oswald was one of her most influential patrons, and
Sir Oswald's custom was worth a great deal. It was, therefore, scarcely
possible that such a man could do wrong.
"I found this poor girl in an exhausted state in the street just now,"
said Sir Oswald. "She is quite friendless, and has no shelter for the
night, though she seems above the mendicant class. Will you put her
somewhere, and see that she is taken good care of, my dear Mrs. Willet?
In the morning I may be able to think of some plan for placing her in a
more respectable position."
Mrs. Willet promised that the girl should be taken care of, and made
thoroughly comfortable. "Poor young thing," said the landlady, "she
looks dreadfully pale and ill, and I'm sure she'll be none the worse
for a nice little bit of supper. Come with me, my dear."
The girl obeyed; but on the threshold of the hall she turned and spoke
to Sir Oswald.
"I thank you," she said; "I thank you with all my heart and soul for
your goodness. I have never met with such kindness before."
"The world must have been very hard for you, my poor child," he
replied, "if such small kindness touches you so deeply. Come to me
to-morrow morning, and we will talk of your future life. Goodnight!"
"Good night, sir, and God bless you!"
The baronet went slowly and thoughtfully up the broad staircase, on his
way to his rooms.
Sir Oswald Eversleigh passed the night of his sojourn at the 'Star' in
broken slumbers. The events of the preceding day haunted him
perpetually in his sleep, acting themselves over and over again in his
brain. Sometimes he was with his nephew, and the young man was pleading
with him in an agony of selfish terror; sometimes he was standing in
the market-place, with the ghost-like figure of the vagrant
ballad-singer by his side.
When he arose in the morning, Sir Oswald resolved to dismiss all
thought of his nephew. His strange adventure of the previous night had
exercised a very powerful influence upon his mind; and it was upon that
adventure he meditated while he breakfasted.
"I have seen a landscape, which had no special charm in broad daylight,
transformed into a glimpse of paradise by the magic of the moon," he
mused as he lingered over his breakfast. "Perhaps this girl is a very
ordinary creature after all--a mere street wanderer, coarse and vulgar."
But Sir Oswald stopped himself, remembering the refined tones of the
voice which he had heard last night--the perfect self-possession of the
girl's manner.
"No," he exclaimed, "she is neither coarse nor vulgar; she is no common
street ballad-singer. Whatever she is, or whoever she is, there is a
mystery around and about her--a mystery which it shall be my business
to fathom."
When he had breakfasted, Sir Oswald Eversleigh sent for the
ballad-singer.
"Be good enough to tell the young person that if she feels herself
sufficiently rested and refreshed, I should like much to have a few
minutes' conversation with her," said the baronet to the head-waiter.
In a few minutes the waiter returned, and ushered in the girl. Sir
Oswald turned to look at her, possessed by a curiosity which was
utterly unwarranted by the circumstances. It was not the first time in
his life that he had stepped aside from his pathway to perform an act
of charity; but it certainly was the first time he had ever felt so
absorbing an interest in the object of his benevolence.
The girl's beauty had been no delusion engendered of the moonlight.
Standing before him, in the broad sunlight, she seemed even yet more
beautiful, for her loveliness was more fully visible.
The ballad-singer betrayed no signs of embarrassment under Sir Oswald's
searching gaze. She stood before her benefactor with calm grace; and
there was something almost akin to pride in her attitude. Her garments
were threadbare and shabby: yet on her they did not appear the garments
of a vagrant. Her dress was of some rusty black stuff, patched and
mended in a dozen places; but it fitted her neatly, and a clean linen
collar surrounded her slender throat, which was almost as white as the
linen. Her waving brown hair was drawn away from her face in thick
bands, revealing the small, rosy-tinted ear. The dark brown of that
magnificent hair contrasted with the ivory white of a complexion which
was only relieved by transient blushes of faint rose-colour, that came
and went with emotion or excitement.
"Be good enough to take a seat," said Sir Oswald: "I wish to have a
little conversation with you. I want to help you, if I can. You do not
seem fitted for the life you are leading; and I am convinced that you
possess talent which would elevate you to a far higher sphere. But
before we talk of the future, I must ask you to tell me something of
the past."
"Tell me," he continued, gently, "how is it that you are so friendless?
How is it that your father and mother allow you to lead such an
existence?"
"My mother died when I was a child," answered the girl.
"And your father?"
"My father is dead also."
"You did not tell me that last night," replied the baronet, with some
touch of suspicion in his tone, for he fancied the girl's manner had
changed when she spoke of her father.
"Did I not?" she said, quietly. "I do not think you asked me any
question about my father; but if you did, I may have answered at
random; I was confused last night from exhaustion and want of rest, and
I scarcely knew what I said."
"What was your father?"
"He was a sailor."
"There is something that is scarcely English in your face," said Sir
Oswald; "were you born in England?"
"No, I was born in Florence; my mother was a Florentine."
"Indeed."
There was a pause. It seemed evident that this girl did not care to
tell the story of her past life, and that whatever information the
baronet wanted to obtain, must be extorted from her little by little. A
common vagrant would have been eager to pour out some tale of misery,
true or false, in the hearing of the man who promised to be her
benefactor; but this girl maintained a reserve which Sir Oswald found
it very difficult to penetrate.
"I fear there is something of a painful nature in your past history,"
he said, at last; "something which you do not care to reveal."
"There is much that is painful, much that I cannot tell."
"And yet you must be aware that it will be very difficult for me to
give you assistance if I do not know to whom I am giving it. I wish to
place you in a position very different from that which you now occupy;
but it would be folly to interest myself in a person of whose history I
positively know nothing."
"Then dismiss from your mind all thoughts of me, and let me go my own
way," answered the girl, with that calm pride of manner which imparted
a singular charm to her beauty. "I shall leave this house grateful and
contented; I have asked nothing from you, nor did I intend to ask
anything. You have been very good to me; you took compassion upon me in
my misery, and I have been accustomed to see people of your class pass
me by. Let me thank you for your goodness, and go on my way." So
saying, she rose, and turned as if to leave the room.
"No!" cried Sir Oswald, impetuously; "I cannot let you go. I must help
you in some manner--even if you will throw no light upon your past
existence; even if I must act entirely in the dark."
"You are too good, sir," replied the girl, deeply touched; "but
remember that I do not ask your help. My history is a terrible one. I
have suffered from the crimes of others; but neither crime nor
dishonour have sullied my own life. I have lived amongst people I
despised, holding myself aloof as far as was possible. I have been
laughed at, hated, ill-used for that which has been called pride; but I
have at least preserved myself unpolluted by the corruption that
surrounded me. If you can believe this, if you can take me upon trust,
and stretch forth your hand to help me, knowing no more of me than I
have now told you, I shall accept your assistance proudly and
gratefully. But if you cannot believe, let me go my own way."
"I will trust you," he said; "I will help you, blindly, since it must
be so. Let me ask you two or three questions, then all questioning
between us shall be at an end."
"I am ready to answer any inquiry that it is possible for me to answer."
"Your name?"
"My name is Honoria Milford."
"Your age?"
"Eighteen."
"Tell me, how is it that your manner of speaking, your tones of voice,
are those of a person who has received a superior education?"
"I am not entirely uneducated. An Italian priest, a cousin of my poor
mother's, bestowed some care upon me when I was in Florence. He was a
very learned man, and taught me much that is rarely taught to a girl of
fourteen or fifteen. His house was my refuge in days of cruel misery,
and his teaching was the only happiness of my life. And now, sir,
question me no further, I entreat you."
"Very well, then, I will ask no more; and I will trust you."
"I thank you, sir, for your generous confidence."
"And now I will tell you my plans for your future welfare," Sir Oswald
continued, kindly. "I was thinking much of you while I breakfasted. You
have a very magnificent voice; and it is upon that voice you must
depend for the future. Are you fond of music?"
"I am very fond of it."
There was little in the girl's words, but the tone in which they were
spoken, the look of inspiration which lighted up the speaker's face,
convinced Sir Oswald that she was an enthusiast.
"Do you play the piano?"
"A little; by ear."
"And you know nothing of the science of music?"
"Nothing."
"Then you will have a great deal to learn before you can make any
profitable use of your voice. And now I will tell you what I shall do.
I shall make immediate arrangements for placing you in a first-class
boarding school in London, or the neighbourhood of London. There you
will complete your education, and there you will receive lessons from
the best masters in music and singing, and devote the greater part of
your time to the cultivation of your voice. It will be known that you
are intended for the career of a professional singer, and every
facility will be afforded you for study. You will remain in this
establishment for two years, and at the end of that time I shall place
you under the tuition of some eminent singer, who will complete your
musical education, and enable you to appear as a public singer. All the
rest will depend on your own industry and perseverance."
"And I should be a worthless creature if I were not more industrious
than ever any woman was before!" exclaimed Honoria. "Oh, sir, how can I
find words to thank you?"
"You have no need to thank me. I am a rich man, with neither wife nor
child upon whom to waste my money. Besides, if you find the obligation
too heavy to bear, you can repay me when you become a distinguished
singer."
"I will work hard to hasten that day, sir," answered the girl,
earnestly.
Sir Oswald had spoken thus lightly, in order to set his _protégée_ more
at her ease. He saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and moving to
the window to give her time to recover herself, stood for some minutes
looking out into the market-place. Then he came back to his easy chair
by the fire, and addressed her once more.
"I shall post up to town this afternoon to make the arrangements of
which I have spoken," he said; "you, in the meantime, will remain under
the care of Mrs. Willet, to whom I shall entrust the purchase of your
wardrobe. When that has been prepared, you will come straight to my
house in Arlington Street, whence I will myself conduct you to the
school I may have chosen as your residence. Remember, that from to-day
you will begin a new life. Ah, by the bye, there is one other question
I must ask. You have no relations, no associates of the past who are
likely to torment you in the future?"
"None. I have no relations who would dare approach me, and I have
always held myself aloof from all associates."
"Good, then the future lies clear before you. And now you can return to
Mrs. Willet. I will see her presently, and make all arrangements for
your comfort."
Honoria curtseyed to her benefactor, and left the room in silence. Her
every gesture and her every tone were those of a lady. Sir Oswald
looked after her with wonder, as she disappeared from the apartment.
The landlady of the "Star" was very much surprised when Sir Oswald
Eversleigh requested her to keep the ballad-singer in her charge for a
week, and to purchase for her a simple but thoroughly complete wardrobe.
"And now," said Sir Oswald, "I confide her to you for a week, Mrs.
Willet, at the end of which time I hope her wardrobe will be ready. I
will write you a cheque for--say fifty pounds. If that is not enough,
you can have more."
"Lor' bless you, Sir Oswald, it's more than enough to set her up like a
duchess, in a manner of speaking," answered the landlady; and then,
seeing Sir Oswald had no more to say to her, she curtseyed and withdrew.
Sir Oswald Eversleigh's carriage was at the door of the "Star" at noon;
and at ten minutes after twelve the baronet was on his way back to town.
He visited a great many West-end boarding-schools before he found one
that satisfied him in every particular. Had his _protégée_ been his
daughter, or his affianced wife, he could not have been more difficult
to please. He wondered at his own fastidiousness.
"I am like a child with a new toy," he thought, almost ashamed of the
intense interest he felt in this unknown girl.
At last he found an establishment that pleased him; a noble old mansion
at Fulham, surrounded by splendid grounds, and presided over by two
maiden sisters. It was a thoroughly aristocratic seminary, and the
ladies who kept it knew how to charge for the advantages of their
establishment. Sir Oswald assented immediately to the Misses Beaumonts'
terms, and promised to bring the expected pupil in less than a week's
time.
"The young lady is a relation, I presume, Sir Oswald?" said the elder
Miss Beaumont.
"Yes," answered the baronet; "she is--a distant relative."
If he had not been standing with his back to the light, the two ladies
might have seen a dusky flush suffuse his face as he pronounced these
words. Never before had he told so deliberate a falsehood. But he had
feared to tell the truth.
"They will never guess her secret from her manner," he thought; "and if
they question her, she will know how to baffle their curiosity."
On the very day that ended the stipulated week, Honoria Milford made
her appearance in Arlington Street. Sir Oswald was in his library,
seated in an easy-chair before the fire-place, with a book in his hand,
but with no power to concentrate his attention to its pages. He was
sitting thus when the door was opened, and a servant announced--
"Miss Milford!"
Sir Oswald rose from his chair, and beheld an elegant young lady, who
approached him with a graceful timidity of manner. She was simply
dressed in gray merino, a black silk mantle, and a straw bonnet,
trimmed with white ribbon. Nothing could have been more Quaker-like
than the simplicity of this costume, and yet there was an elegance
about the wearer which the baronet had seldom seen surpassed.
He rose to welcome her.
"You have just arrived in town?" he said.
"Yes, Sir Oswald; a hackney-coach brought me here from the
coach-office."
"I am very glad to see you," said the baronet, holding out his hand,
which Honoria Milford touched lightly with her own neatly gloved
fingers; "and I am happy to tell you that I have secured you a home
which I think you will like."
"Oh, Sir Oswald, you are only too good to me. I shall never know how to
thank you."
"Then do not thank me at all. Believe me, I desire no thanks. I have
done nothing worthy of gratitude. An influence stronger than my own
will has drawn me towards you; and in doing what I can to befriend you,
I am only giving way to an impulse which I am powerless to resist."
The girl looked at her benefactor with a bewildered expression, and Sir
Oswald interpreted the look.
"Yes," he said, "you may well be astonished by what I tell you. I am
astonished myself. There is something mysterious in the interest which
you have inspired in my mind."
Although the baronet had thought continually of his _protégée_ during
the past week, he had never asked himself if there might not be some
simple and easy solution possible for this bewildering enigma. He had
never asked himself if it were not just within the limits of
possibility that a man of fifty might fall a victim to that fatal fever
called love.
He looked at the girl's beautiful face with the admiration which every
man feels for the perfection of beauty--the pure, calm, reverential
feeling of an artist, or a poet--and he never supposed it possible that
the day might not be far distant when he would contemplate that lovely
countenance with altered sentiments, with a deeper emotion.
"Come to the dining-room, Miss Milford," he said; "I expected you
to-day--I have made all my arrangements accordingly. You must be hungry
after your journey; and as I have not yet lunched, I hope you will
share my luncheon?"
Honoria assented. Her manner towards her benefactor was charming in its
quiet grace, deferential without being sycophantic--the manner of a
daughter rather than a dependent Before leaving the library, she looked
round at the books, the bronzes, the pictures, with admiring eyes.
Never before had she seen so splendid an apartment: and she possessed
that intuitive love of beautiful objects which is the attribute of all
refined and richly endowed natures.
The baronet placed his ward on one side of the table, and seated
himself opposite to her.
No servant waited upon them. Sir Oswald himself attended to the wants
of his guest. He heaped her plate with dainties; he filled her glass
with rare old wine; but she ate only a few mouthfuls, and she could
drink nothing. The novelty of her present position was too full of
excitement.
During the whole of the repast the baronet asked her no questions. He
talked as if they had long been known to each other, explaining to her
the merits of the different pictures and statues which she admired,
pleased to find her intelligence always on a level with his own.
"She is a wonderful creature," he thought; "a wonderful creature--a
priceless pearl picked up out of the gutter."
After luncheon Sir Oswald rang for his carriage, and presently Honoria
Milford found herself on her way to her new home.
The mansion inhabited by the Misses Beaumont was called "The Beeches."
It had of old been the seat of a nobleman, and the grounds which
encircled it were such as are rarely to be found within a few miles of
the metropolis; and they would in vain be sought for now. Shabby little
streets and terraces cover the ground where grand old cedars of Lebanon
cast their dark shadows on the smooth turf seven-and-twenty years ago.
Honoria Milford was enraptured with the beauty of her new home. That
stately mansion, shut in by noble old trees from all the dust and
clamour of the outer world; those smooth lawns, and exquisitely kept
beds, filled with flowers even in this chill spring weather, must have
seemed beautiful to those accustomed to handsome habitations. What must
they have been then to the wanderer of the streets--the friendless
tramp--who a week ago had depended for a night's rest on the chance of
finding an empty barn.
She looked at her benefactor with eyes that were dim with tears, as the
carriage approached this delightful retreat.
"If I were your daughter, you could not have chosen a better place than
this," she said.
"If you were my daughter, I doubt if I could feel a deeper interest in
your fate than I feel now," answered Sir Oswald, quietly.
Miss Beaumont the elder received her pupil with ceremonious kindness.
She looked at the girl with the keen glance of examination which
becomes habitual to the eye of the schoolmistress; but the most severe
scrutiny would have failed to detect anything unladylike or ungraceful
in the deportment of Honoria Milford.
"The young lady is charming," said Miss Beaumont, confidentially, as
the baronet was taking leave; "any one could guess that she was an
Eversleigh. She is so elegant, so patrician in face and manner. Ah, Sir
Oswald, the good old blood will show itself."
The baronet smiled as he bade adieu to the schoolmistress. He had told
Honoria that policy had compelled him to speak of her as a distant
relative of his own; and there was no fear that the girl would betray
herself or him by any awkward admissions.
Sir Oswald felt depressed and gloomy as he drove back to town. It
seemed to him as if, in parting from his _protégée_, he had lost
something that was necessary to his happiness.
"I have not spent half a dozen hours in her society," he thought, "and
yet she occupies my mind more than my nephew, Reginald, who for fifteen
years of my life has been the object of so much hope, so many cares.
What does it all mean? What is the key to this mystery?"
* * * * *