AN UNEXPECTED GUEST.
Six days had come and gone since her lover's departure from Gethin, but
no tidings of him had reached Harry's ears. Solomon had returned on the
second day, and been closeted with her father for some hours, doubtless
in consultation about Richard; but not a word had been spoken of him, in
her presence, by either. She dared not mention him to her father, and
still less could she apply for information to his rival, her now
affianced bridegroom. How much, or how little, her father had disclosed
concerning him to Sol she did not know; but the latter had evidently
closed with the terms which she had in her late strait accepted on her
own part. The bans had been put up in the church upon the hill, and in a
month she would be this man's wife. She had been congratulated upon the
coming event by all the neighbors. Some had slyly hinted--little
guessing the pain they gave to that sore heart--at her late "goings-on"
with that young gentleman-painter; they had almost suspected at one time
that he would have supplanted her old flame; but they were glad to see
matters as they were. Solomon was a steady, sagacious man, as every body
knew, and would get on in the world; and what he gained he would not
waste in foolish ways. Such an old friend of her father's, too. Nothing
could be more fitting and satisfactory in all respects. Solomon,
notoriously a laggard in love, was likened to the tortoise, who had won
the race against the hare.
To have to listen to all this well-meant twaddle was misery indeed.
Perhaps, upon the whole, good honest dullness does unknowingly inflict
more grievous wounds than the barbed satiric tongue.
To think, to picture to herself the condition of her lover--deplorable,
she was convinced, from the grim satisfaction upon Solomon's face when
he first came back--was torture. She could not read, for her mind fled
from the page, like breath from a mirror; there was nothing for it but
occupation. She busied herself as she had never done before with the
affairs of the house, which afforded some excuse for escaping from Sol's
attentions, naturally grown somewhat pressing, now that his wedded
happiness was drawing so near. The _Gethin Castle_ was not, however,
very full of guests. It had been wet for a few days, and rain spoils the
harvest of the inn-keeper even more than that of the farmer. One night,
when it was pouring heavily, and such a windfall as a new tourist was
not to have been expected by the most sanguine Boniface, a lady arrived,
alone, and took up her quarters in the very room that Richard had
vacated. Trevethick himself was at the door when she had driven up and
asked with some apparent anxiety whether she could be accommodated. She
was wrapped up, and thickly veiled, but he had observed to his daughter
what a well-spoken woman she was, and an uncommon fine one too, though
her hair was gray. She had inquired whether there were any letters
waiting for her, addressed to Mrs. Gilbert; but there was no letter.
Harry took in the new arrival's supper with her own hands. It was the
time when she would otherwise have been expected in the bar parlor, to
sit by Solomon's side, and feel his arm creep round her waist, more
hateful than a serpent's fold. A fire had been lit in the sitting-room,
on account of the inclement weather, and Mrs. Gilbert was standing
beside it with her elbow on the mantel-piece. She watched Harry come in
and out, without a word, but the expression of her face was so
searching and attentive that it embarrassed her. Under other
circumstances she would certainly have delegated her duties to Hannah,
but to evade Solomon's society she would have waited on the Sphinx. She
brought in each article one at a time, and when there was nothing more
to bring inquired deferentially whether there was any thing else that
she could do for the lady.
"Yes," said Mrs. Gilbert, gravely; the voice was soft, but the manner
most earnest and impressive. "I want five minutes' talk with you; can I
have it secure from interruption?"
"Certainly, madam," answered Harry, trembling, she knew not why.
"Close the door, girl. Come nearer, and away from the window; we must
not be overheard."
Harry was constitutionally timid, and it struck her that this poor lady
was not in her right mind. She hesitated. The other seemed to read her
thoughts.
"I am not mad, child," said she, sorrowfully, "though I have trouble
enough to make me so. You are the daughter of the landlord of this inn,
I think?"
"Yes, madam."
"And I am the mother of Richard Yorke."
She was standing in the same position, and had spoken coldly and as
sternly as such a voice as hers could speak, when something in the young
girl's face caused her whole manner to change. With a sudden impulse she
turned toward her, and held out both her arms; and Harry threw herself
into them with a passionate cry, and sobbed as though her heart would
break.
"Hush! hush!" whispered the other, tenderly; "we must not weep now, but
act!"
But the girl still sobbed on, without lifting up her face. Tears had
been strangers to her heated eyes for days, and she had longed in vain
for one sympathizing breast on which to lay her head. "I have been his
ruin," she murmured; "but for me he would never have done wrong. How
you, who are his mother, must hate me!"
"No, Harry, no!" answered the other, putting aside those rich brown
locks, and gazing upon the fair shut face attentively. "I do not wonder
at his loving you; for such beauty as yours many a man would lose his
soul! I did hate you until now. But you love my Richard truly, as I see;
and we two can not afford to be enemies. We must work together for his
good to avert the ruin of which you speak, for it is imminent. He has
sent me to you, for he can not come himself. He is in prison, Harry!"
"In prison! O Heaven, have mercy!"
She sank down on her knees, and covered her face with her hands.
"Yes, Harry, think of it. Our Richard, so bright, so dear, within prison
walls! He may pass his life there for what he has done for your sake,
unless you help him."
"Help him? I would die for him!"
"Calm yourself. Sit down. To grieve is selfish where one can do better;
when all is lost it is time enough for that. All _will_ be lost a
fortnight hence, unless we bestir ourselves. Hush! I hear a step in the
passage. Who is that?"
"It is Sol, madam--Solomon Coe."
"The man you are to marry, is it not?"
A stifled groan was the girl's reply.
"I can not speak what I have to say here," said the other, thoughtfully.
"Is there no other place? Stay. I can be ill--overfatigued with my
journey--and you will come and tend me in my own room presently. That
can be managed, can't it?"
"Yes, madam, yes."
"Then wipe your eyes--be a brave girl. Think of Richard, and not of
yourself--think of him, when yonder boor is clasping the hand that once
rested in his--think of him, when those alien lips press yours at
parting, and be strong! If I were in your place, he would find that I
had not deserted him in his trouble."
"Desert him, madam? I? Oh, never!"
"To be weak is to desert him, girl--to let yonder man and your father
suspect that any friend of Richard's is beneath this roof is to desert
him--to weep when there is need to work is to desert him. Did I not tell
you I was his own mother; and yet _I_ shed no tears! Look up, and learn
your lesson from me."
The faces of the two women were indeed in strong contrast--the younger,
yielding, feeble, despairing; the elder, calm, patient of purpose, and
inflexible. Her cheeks were plump, and radiant with health; her form
erect and composed; her eyes, indeed, betrayed anxiety, but it was from
want of confidence in the person she addressed, not in herself; the
white hair seemed to fitly crown that figure, so full of earnestness and
firmness.
"I will do my best," cried the young girl, "though I know I am but weak
and foolish. Pity me, and pray for me. I am going to the torture, but I
will be resolute. Tell Hannah--the servant-maid--that you wish me to
attend you in your room. Send for me soon, for mercy's sake! How I long
to know how I can help our Richard!"
As she left the room Mrs. Gilbert's face grew dark. "A fool! a dolt!"
she muttered, angrily. "How could he risk so much for such a stake! Oh,
Richard! Richard!"--her voice began to falter at that well-loved
name--"was this to have been the end of all my hopes? What fatal issue,
then, may not my fears have end in! my beautiful, bright boy! The only
light my lonely life possessed! to think of you as like yourself, and
then to think of you as you are now!" She looked around her on the
sordid walls, the vulgar ornaments upon the mantel-piece, the wretched
ill-chosen books; then listened to the splash of the rain in the unpaved
street. "And this was Paradise, was it, my poor boy, because this girl
dwelt in it! I ought to have known that there was danger here. His
letters few and short and far between, his patient tarrying in so wild a
place, should have been enough to warn me. But not of this; in no
nightmare dream could I have conceived this unimaginable peril. Ah, me!
ah, me!" She sat down at the untasted meal, and strove to eat. "I must
be strong, for Richard's sake," she murmured. But she soon laid down her
knife and fork to muse again. "This Trevethick is a hard, stern man, I
see. There is no hope in his mercy. The only path of safety is that
which the lawyer pointed out; but will this puling girl have the heart
and head to tread it? Will she not faint, as she nearly did just now,
and lose her wits when my Richard most requires them? And then, and
then?" As if unable to continue such reflections, she rose and rang the
bell, which Hannah answered.
"Bring me a bed-candle, girl; I will seek my room at once; and please
ask Miss Trevethick to look in upon me before she retires herself, for I
feel far from well."
"Yes, ma'am." Hannah thought within herself that the new arrival looked
uncommon fresh and well considering her years, and that her young
mistress had far more need of rest and "looking to" than she; but,
nevertheless, she gave the message; and Harry, at her usual time for
going to rest, repaired to the new-comer's room accordingly.
"Are they gone to bed, those men?" inquired Mrs. Gilbert, anxiously, as
soon as the door was closed.
"No, madam; my father and Solomon always sit up together now till late."
"Ay; plotting against my boy, I doubt not. Well, let us, then,
counterplot. Who sleeps on either side of this room?"
"No one, madam. Both rooms are empty at present; the last visitor,
except yourself, left us this evening."
"And the servants?"
"They have retired long ago up stairs."
"That's well. Sit here, then, close to me, and listen. You know that
Richard is in prison, placed there by your father and that other man on
a false charge. They know as well as I or you that he had no intention
of committing the crime of which he stands accused, and yet they both
mean to swear the contrary."
"Oh, madam, they will surely not do that!"
"But I say 'Yes;' they want revenge upon him. I know them better than
you, who have known them all your life; or perhaps you say they will
not, because you hope so. Is it possible," she broke forth, impatiently,
"that in such a strait as this, girl, you can encourage such delusions!
You are like the fool in the Scripture, of whom it is written, that
though thou shouldst bray him among wheat with a pestle, yet will not
his foolishness depart from him."
"I know I am not like you, madam," answered Harry, piteously. "Richard
has often told me how wise and brave you are; but yet my love for him is
as great as yours can be. Whatever you think fit that I should do to
help him, that shall be done. Trust me; it shall, indeed."
"That's well said, girl. Be you the hand, and I the head, then, of this
enterprise, and we shall conquer yet. I say again, that if they could,
these men would swear my Richard's life away. They might as well do that
as what they mean to do, and deprive him of his liberty; cast him for
years into prison, and herd with the worst and basest of mankind; to
work under a task-master with irons on. Do you understand, girl, what it
is to which, unless we can hinder them, these wretches would doom him?"
"Yes, yes, I do," she murmured, shuddering. "It is horrible, most
horrible! God help us!"
"We must help ourselves," answered Mrs. Gilbert, sternly.
"Yet God is surely on our side, and for the truth, madam. If they swear
falsely--"
"You must swear also," interrupted the other, angrily; "you must meet
them with their own weapons, if you would defend the innocent against
them. As it is, the law is with them, and will prove the instrument of
their vengeance. The notes were found upon his person; he strove to
change them, that he might pass their substitutes more easily. He
counted upon your father not missing them from his strong-box until it
was too late. The case is clear against him that he stole them."
"Great Heaven!" cried Harry, clasping her hands in agony; "and yet he
did not mean to steal them."
"Of course not; nay more, he did _not_ steal them, for _you gave them to
him_."
"_I_ gave them to him? Nay, I never did."
"You did--you did, girl; you acquiesced in his plan for obtaining your
father's consent to your engagement; you undertook to supply him
temporarily with the money requisite to establish his pretensions as a
man of fortune. Or, if you did _not_"--and here her voice assumed an
intense earnestness--"your Richard, the man you pretend to love, will be
a convicted felon--a prisoner for all the summer of his life, and for
the rest an outcast!"
Harry was silent; her hands were pressed to her forehead, as though to
compel her fevered brain to think without distraction. "I see, I see,"
she murmured, presently; "his fate hangs upon my word. 'So help me,
God,' is what I have first to say, and then say _that_!"
"Why not?" rejoined the other, stoutly. "Will not these men, too, call
God to witness what they know to be a lie? Will not _He_ discern the
motive that prompts _you_--desire to see a wronged man righted, the
innocent set free--and the motive that prompts _them_--malicious hate?
Or do you deem the all-seeing eye of Heaven is purblind? I tell you
this, girl, if I were in _your_ place, and the man I loved stood
_justly_ in such peril, I would swear a score such oaths to set him
free! Yet here, with justice on your side and truth, and Heaven itself,
you hesitate; you shrink from uttering a mere form of words, the spirit
of which is contrary to the letter, and for conscience sake, forsooth,
will let your lover perish! _Your_ lover! yes, but you were never _his_,
although he thinks so. I will go hence, and tell him that you refuse to
speak the thing that alone can save him from life-long wretchedness; I
will go and tell him that the girl for whose sake he has brought this
load of ruin on himself will not so much as lift it with her little
finger! You fair, foul devil, how I hate you!" She drew herself up to
her full height, and regarded the wretched girl with such contemptuous
scorn that even in her abject misery she felt its barb.
"I have not earned your hate," said Harry, with some degree of firmness,
"if I have earned your scorn; nor is it meet that you should so despise
me, because I fear to anger God."
"And man," added the other, with bitterness. "You fear your father's
wrath far more than Heaven's."
That bolt went home: the unhappy girl did indeed stand in greater terror
of her father than of the sin of perjury; and the idea of affirming upon
oath what she had but a few days before so solemnly denied to him was
filling her with consternation and dismay. Still the picture that had
just been drawn of the ruin that would assuredly befall her Richard,
unless she interposed to save him, had more vivid colors even than that
of Trevethick's anger. Let him kill her, if he would, after the trial
was over, but Richard should go free.
"I will do your bidding, madam," said she, suddenly, "though I perish,
body and soul."
"You say that now, girl, and it's well and bravely said; but will you
have strength to put your words to proof? When I am gone, and there are
none but Richard's foes about you, will you resist their menaces, their
arguments, their cajolements, and be true as steel?"
"I will, I will; I swear it," answered Harry, passionately; "they shall
never turn me from it. But suppose they prevent me from leaving Gethin,
from attending at the trial at all?"
"Well thought of!" answered Mrs. Gilbert, approvingly; "she has some
wits, then, after all, this girl. As for their forbidding you to give
evidence, however, Mr. Weasel, who is Richard's lawyer, will see to
that. You will be subpoenaed as a witness for the defense. You will say,
then, that it was you who opened the strong-box, and took out the notes,
and gave them into Richard's hand."
"But how could I open the letter padlock?"
"Good, again!" answered the other; "you have asked the very question for
which I have brought the answer. Now, listen! Have you access to your
father's watch at times when he does not wear it?"
"Yes; he does not always put it on--never on the day he goes to market,
for instance. He comes back late, you see."
"Just so; and sometimes, perhaps, not altogether sober. Very good. Now,
you once opened that watch from curiosity, and saw a paper in its case
with B N Z upon it. Those letters formed the secret by which the lock
was opened. You tried it, just in fun at first, and found they did. Do
you understand?"
"I do," said Harry.
"You will not forget, then, what you have to say; or shall I
recapitulate it?"
"There is no need," groaned Harry. "I shall remember it forever, be sure
of that, and on my death-bed most of all." With a wearied look on her
wan face, and a heavy sigh, the young girl rose to go. "Good-night,
madam. We need not speak of this again to-morrow, need we?"
"Surely not, child. My mission here is done. The rain is falling still,
and that will be a sufficient excuse for my departure. I had a sick
headache to-night--remember that--but it will be better after a night's
sleep."
"Do you sleep?" asked Harry, simply. "Ah me, I would that _I_ could
sleep!"
"Of course I do. Is it not necessary for Richard's sake that I should be
well and strong? I could weep all night and fast all day, if I let my
foolish heart have its own will. It is easy enough to grieve at any
time; one has only to think to do that. Sleep, child, sleep, and dream
of him as he will be when you have set him free; then wake to work his
freedom. I will tell him that you will do so. Press your lips to mine,
that I may carry their sweet impress back to him. One moment more. Do
not get your lesson by heart, lest they should doubt you; but hold by
this one sentence, and never swerve from it: 'I gave Richard Yorke the
notes with my own hand.' That is the key which can alone unlock his
prison-door. Good-night, good-night."