“SHE WEPT, DELIVERED FROM HER DANGER.”
Violet awoke, feverish and unrefreshed, from the heavy slumber into
which she had fallen from sheer exhaustion. She awoke to see the
broad summer sunlight streaming through the old-fashioned windows of
her room.
At first she looked about her, dazed and bewildered by the
strangeness of the place in which she found herself, and scarcely
knowing whether she were dreaming or waking.
Then, with a terrible suddenness, the events of the previous night
flashed back upon her memory. She sprang hastily from her bed, and
ran to one of the windows; she wanted at least to know whither she
had been brought.
But the prospect to be seen from the window told her very little. She
looked out upon a flat swampy expanse, across which stretched a long
avenue of poplars,--the weird, ghastly-looking trees which she had
seen in the chill morning light as she was driven up to the house.
In the far distance she saw the river, widening to the sea. Violet
had spent her life so entirely in one neighbourhood that she had
little knowledge of the other parts of England. She had no idea that
the broad river was the Thames, and that the county in which she
found herself was Essex. Nor had she any idea of the distance which
she had been brought upon the previous night. In her bewilderment
and agitation she had lost all count of time. But her intense
anxiety about her mother had made the few hours during which she had
been travelling seem multiplied tenfold. She was utterly ignorant,
therefore, of the locality in which this dismal old house was
situated--as ignorant and helpless as a child.
For some time she stood motionless before the window, staring at the
flat barren swamp with the vacant gaze of despair. Then she suddenly
clasped her hands and lifted her eyes in mute appeal to Providence.
“Surely Heaven will not desert me,” she thought; “surely, if only for
my mother’s sake, I shall be spared!”
This thought seemed to inspire the helpless girl with new courage.
She sank upon her knees before one of the old carved-oak chairs, and
remained for a long time in the same attitude, praying fervently.
Then she rose and dressed herself neatly, with hands that had ceased
to tremble. The cold water with which she bathed her head and face
revived her considerably; and when her toilette was finished, she
looked almost as calm and self-possessed as if she had been in her
own home.
She had to cope with unknown and mysterious persecutors; and she
knew that any weakness or cowardice would render her only the more
completely powerless to protect herself.
What was the danger that assailed her?--and why had she been brought
to this lonely country-house? Again and again the unhappy girl asked
herself these two questions; but she could find no answer for them.
Presently the deaf old housekeeper made her appearance, carrying a
tray, upon which a simple breakfast was neatly laid. Violet ran to
meet the old woman, and clasping her hands entreatingly, begged her
to speak--to explain the mystery.
The poor girl repeated her questions again and again; but this time
it seemed as if the housekeeper either could not or would not hear a
word. Yet she nodded to Violet, with a friendly look on her withered
face; and to the helpless girl there was something reassuring even in
that slight action.
The old woman set the tray upon the table, and then retired; but just
as she reached the door, she stopped, and looked back with a very
significant expression at Violet.
“Don’t be down-hearted, poor child,” she said. “Keep up your
spirits, my pretty. There’s help nearer at hand than you think,
perhaps, my pet. Perhaps there is,--perhaps there is. There’s an
awful lot of wickedness in this world; but there’s goodness too,
praised be the Lord! so don’t be cast down.”
With this she retired, leaving Violet very much at a loss to
determine whether there was any hopeful meaning in these oracular
utterances, or whether they were only the wandering expressions of a
half-demented brain.
She went to the door and tried to open it; but it was locked. She
listened; but no sound broke the dismal silence, except the long
hoarse crow of some distant chanticleer, or the plaintive lowing of
the cattle in one of the flat meadows by the river. Mariana’s moated
grange could not have been more dreary than this unknown habitation
seemed to Violet Westford.
After listening wearily for a long time, hoping for some sound that
would betray the neighbourhood of human life, Violet stationed
herself at the window. Here at least she fancied there was some
chance of help. Surely in the course of the day some human creature
must pass below that window.
She opened the casement, and placed herself on the old-fashioned
window-seat, a living image of patience and resignation. But she
watched in vain. The hours crept by, insupportably slow in their
progress. The long summer day wore itself out; the sun sloped
westward; but still no living creature appeared upon the broad flat
below that open window.
Violet’s heart sank with a dull feeling of despair. She had
taken one cup of tea out of the quaint little silver teapot and
old dragon-china cup and saucer on the tray brought her by the
housekeeper, but she had eaten nothing. Her dry lips were burning
with fever, and she was sick and faint from exhaustion.
During almost every moment of that weary day her mother’s image
had been present with her. She had pictured Mrs. Westford’s
feelings--her suspense, her terror, her anguish; and sometimes she
could scarcely endure to remain in that silent room, knowing as
she did the sufferings that would be caused to that devoted mother
by her mysterious absence. There were times when she felt inclined
to leap from the window, even at the risk of her life: there were
moments when she felt that she must escape or perish. But a sense of
religion, the pure spirit of faith and love that had been instilled
long ago into her mind, supported her now under this most bitter
trial. When she suffered most, she clasped her hands and prayed
silently for help and deliverance.
The sunlight made a slanting track of crimson glory on the broad
river in the misty distance. Already the evening shadows were
gathering in the gloomy wainscoted apartment.
Violet began to think with terror that another dreary night of
suspense lay before her, when she heard a key turned in the lock.
The door was opened, and a gentleman entered the room.
This time she recognized the Marquis of Roxleydale, to whom she had
been introduced in the Circenses green-room on the previous evening.
The young nobleman had been dining with his tempter and accomplice,
Rupert Godwin, and had been drinking somewhat deeply.
The banker had driven to the Moat from the nearest railway station
early in the afternoon. He knew the weakness of his tool and dupe,
and he feared that his diabolical scheme would not be fully carried
out unless he was himself near to pull the strings of his puppet, and
direct the dark windings of the plot.
The old Essex mansion was large and rambling. Lord Roxleydale and
the banker had dined in a tolerably comfortable room at a remote
end of the building; where no sound of their voices, no echo of the
servants’ footsteps, could reach the wing in which Violet watched and
waited through that weary day.
At sunset the young Marquis presented himself before his victim,
flushed with wine, and duly instructed in the dark plot concocted by
Rupert Godwin.
That plot was one which could scarcely have failed to ensnare a weak
or ambitious woman; and Rupert Godwin, who thought meanly of all
womankind, fancied that Violet Westford would be utterly unable to
resist the temptation offered to her.
The Marquis was to affect only honourable intentions. He was to
make her a formal offer of his hand; but he was also to propose an
elopement and a secret marriage, as the only means by which he could
dare to make Violet his wife; pleading his minority as the reason for
this course.
Violet, ignorant of the world, eager, no doubt, to seize the golden
chance of becoming Marchioness of Roxleydale, would of course
speedily accept this proposal.
This is how the man of the world argued. It needed but the simplicity
of an innocent girl to overthrow all his carefully-laid plans.
Lord Roxleydale’s yacht, the _Norse King_, was lying at anchor in
the estuary of the Thames. If Violet consented to the clandestine
marriage proposed by the Marquis, she was to be induced to go on
board the yacht, under the pretence of crossing the Channel, in order
that the marriage might be performed in France, where secrecy would
be more easily ensured.
Once on board the _Norse King_, the Marquis could take her
whithersoever he pleased. He was the possessor of a charming little
villa on an island near Naples; and it was thither that Rupert Godwin
advised him to convey his helpless victim.
Violet once away, the banker felt that his scheme of vengeance upon
a hapless wife and mother would be complete. Then, and then only,
would he see Clara Westford’s proud head bowed to the dust; then, and
then only, would he feel that he had avenged the wrong inflicted on
him by the woman he had loved.
The Marquis approached Violet as she stood near the open window, pale
but self-possessed, with the last rays of the declining sunlight
gilding her hair.
“My dear Miss Watson,” he said, “I come to you this evening as the
humblest suppliant who ever sued for pardon. Can you forgive me?”
“My forgiveness will be easily won, Lord Roxleydale,” Violet
answered quietly; “and may Heaven forgive you also for the cruel
and purposeless wrong you have inflicted upon one who never injured
you; to whom, indeed, you are so complete a stranger that I am still
utterly at a loss to comprehend the motive of your extraordinary
conduct. I could very easily pardon you the pain you have inflicted
upon _me_; but it is much more difficult for me to excuse your
conduct when I think of the anguish it must have caused my mother.
She is a widow, my lord; and her life lately has been full of
trouble. She did not need this new trial.”
The Marquis blushed crimson at this reproach. He was very young--too
young to be altogether base or shameless; and he felt the reproof
conveyed in Violet’s quiet words.
But he had his tempter’s lesson by heart; and those better feelings
were only transient.
“My dear Miss Watson--my dear Violet, for I have been told that sweet
name belongs to you; and what other name could so well harmonize with
your loveliness?--my own sweet Violet, your mother’s anxiety can be
speedily set at rest. A few lines in your handwriting will assure her
of your safety. It is not yet too late for the London mail. Write,
and your letter shall be immediately sent to the post-town.”
“And it will reach London--”
“Early to-morrow morning.”
Violet reflected that it was scarcely likely that she herself could
reach London sooner than the following morning, under the most
favourable circumstances. And was it not terribly probable that she
might be kept for days a prisoner in that hateful house? It would be
madness to reject any chance of giving at least some relief to her
mother’s fears and anxieties. The Marquis seemed to be sincere, and
she was so completely in his power that he could have little motive
for deceiving her.
“I will write,” she said, moving towards a table upon which there was
an inkstand and portfolio. “O, Lord Roxleydale, if you ever loved
your own mother, have pity upon mine, and on me!”
This appeal galled a hidden wound that lay deep in the young man’s
heart. The time had been when he had dearly loved the most tender and
indulgent of mothers; and that is an affection which never wholly
dies out, even in the breast of a hardened sinner. Lord Roxleydale
knew that he had been of late years a bad and neglectful son, and
Violet’s simple words stung him to the quick.
“Do not talk of my mother,” he said; “there are some subjects that
will not bear speaking of. Write your letter, Violet, and I will see
that it is posted.”
He walked to the window, and stood looking out at the dusky prospect.
The darkness was gathering rapidly; and one long line of crimson
light defined the low horizon.
Violet wrote only a few cautious lines. How could she have written
at any length, when she was utterly uncertain as to her own
fate--surrounded, perhaps, by dangers? She wrote the following brief
note intended to reassure her mother:--
“DEAREST MOTHER,--I am safe and well. At present I can tell you no
more than this. Believe this, and be at rest till you hear from me
again, or see me. You will not doubt that I shall return to you as
speedily as possible. You will not doubt that I am only kept away
from you by the sternest necessity.
“Ever and ever your own
“VIOLET.”
She folded her letter, placed it in an envelope, and directed it. The
Marquis took it from her.
“Dearest Violet,” he exclaimed, “I only leave you to get this
conveyed to the post; when I return I will explain my conduct--I will
endeavour to win your forgiveness.”
He left the room, and Violet heard the key turned in the lock.
That one simple action filled her with terror. This man, under all
outward appearance of respect and consideration, was her enemy, her
most dangerous enemy, since he took advantage of her helplessness
to approach her in the character of a lover. She was a prisoner in
that lonely house--a close prisoner, in that unknown and solitary
building, where the only creature in the least friendly to her was a
deaf and perhaps imbecile old woman.
What position could be more terrible to this girl, who, amidst all
her sorrow, had never before known danger? “O, my Heavenly Father!”
she cried, leaning in a half-fainting state against the oaken
wainscot, “Thou, who art a Father to the fatherless, hear my prayers,
have pity upon my helplessness, and raise up some friend in this
bitter hour of need!”
She had scarcely spoken the words when the oaken panelling behind her
was pushed suddenly on one side; and she felt herself supported by a
slender arm--an arm that felt like that of a woman.
It seemed as if Heaven had heard her prayers. It seemed almost as if
a miracle had been performed in her behalf. A cry of joyful surprise
half escaped her lips; but in the next moment it was stifled by a
hand, a soft feminine hand, pressed against her mouth.
“Hush!” murmured a low voice; “not a cry--not a whisper!”
Then the mysterious friend half drew, half lifted Violet through the
opening in the wall.
The helpless girl, so suddenly, so miraculously rescued, fainted
in the arms of her preserver. But she was not long unconscious.
Presently she felt cool perfumed water sprinkled upon her forehead;
a pungent aromatic odour revived her senses; and the evening breeze
blew in upon her from an open window, by which her unknown friend had
placed her.
She raised her heavy eyelids and looked up, clinging to her preserver.
She looked up, and saw a gentle, careworn face bending over her--a
beautiful face, with regularly chiselled features, and a tenderly
gracious smile. A face that was framed in bands of silvered hair, and
upon which the traces of suffering were only too evident.
The owner of this face was tall and slender. She looked, perhaps,
somewhat taller than she really was on account of her dress, which
was of black silk, very rich and costly, but made with an extreme
simplicity. A small cap of the most exquisite Honiton lace shrouded
her silvery hair.
“O madam!” exclaimed Violet, “you will not leave me? You will not
send me away from you?”
“No, child, not till I can place you in the care of your own
friends,” answered the lady. “Poor girl, you are still trembling.”
“I have suffered so much,” murmured Violet, in a low tremulous voice;
“and it has all seemed like some dreadful dream. Ah, madam, it seems
to me as if Heaven raised you up to befriend me in answer to my
prayers. Where did you come from? How did you know that I wanted your
help?”
“My presence in this house is indeed providential,” replied the lady.
“I only arrived at ten o’clock last night; but a few hours before you
yourself were brought here. Thank heaven I arrived in time to save
you, and to hinder my wretched son from the commission of any deeper
wrong than that of which he has already been guilty!”
“Your son, madam?”
“Yes, my poor child. I am Lord Roxleydale’s most unhappy mother. A
letter from an old friend informed me of my son’s latest follies,
and urged upon me the necessity of making one more attempt to
withdraw him from the set in which he has involved himself. I have
made many efforts on his behalf, and have begun almost to despair of
his reformation. But my friend told me that Albert was looking ill,
and--well, I suppose--I suppose I am still weak enough to love him
better than he deserves. I left Yorkshire, and came here, intending
to spend the autumn in this house, which is within easy reach of
town, and from which I could visit my son as often as I pleased. I
little thought that my coming would happen so fortunately.”
“But the Marquis--he will follow me here!”
“No! He does not yet know of my presence in this house. He is quite
ignorant of the secret of that sliding panel, which I happened to
remember having heard of when I was first married, and spent a summer
in this house. Nancy Gibson, the old housekeeper, told me of your
arrival, and it is in consequence of the information afforded me by
her that I have been enabled to watch over you. You are as safe here,
and in the rooms adjoining, as if you were a hundred miles away from
your foolish and wicked persecutor.”
The Marchioness led the way to an adjacent apartment--a handsome
room, with ponderous old-fashioned furniture. The shutters were
closed, the heavy curtains drawn, and a pair of tall wax candles
lighted a comfortably-arranged tea-table.
“Come, my poor child,” exclaimed Lady Roxleydale, “a cup of tea will
restore new strength to your nerves. Sit down by me, and tell me how
it was you were brought here last night. Be candid, and confide in
me.”
“Willingly, dear madam. Believe me, the events of last night are as
great a mystery to me as they can be to you.”
Violet felt a sense of unspeakable gratitude towards the gentle lady
who had rescued her. She told the whole story of her adventures,
with a simple candour which made a most favourable impression on
Lady Roxleydale, whose strict education and somewhat old-fashioned
prejudices had by no means inclined her to look very indulgently
upon a _figurante_ from the Circenses. The girl would fain have left
the Moat that night, in her anxiety to return to her mother; but the
Dowager told her the journey to town would be impossible until the
next morning, and that she herself would undertake to convey her
safely back to that anxious mother early the next day.
So that night Violet slept in peace, safe under the protection of her
new friend, comparatively happy in the thought that the morning’s
post would convey her letter to Clara Westford.
The poor girl little dreamt how false that hope was. Lord Roxleydale
had met Rupert Godwin in the hall as he was about to despatch
Violet’s letter to the post; and the banker, seeing the envelope in
his hand, had easily gained from him the history of its contents.
It is scarcely necessary to say that Rupert Godwin interfered to stop
the posting of the letter. He had a packet for the post himself, he
said, taking the missive from Lord Roxleydale’s hand, and he would
see that Violet’s letter was posted with his own. A carriage was
waiting to convey him back to the railway station. He had schooled
his protégé carefully in the part he was to play, and, having
done this was eager to get back to town. He was well aware of the
penalties attending the abduction he had planned, and had no wish
that his own hand should appear in any part of the work.
He took Violet’s letter, bade the Marquis a hasty good-night, and got
into the hired fly that had been ordered to fetch him.
Lord Roxleydale was only too glad to return to the apartment where he
had left his beautiful prisoner, and where he naturally expected to
find her.
His mortification was extreme when he found the bird flown from the
trap so artfully set, so heartlessly baited; and it was with profound
humiliation that he heard, by-and-by, of his mother’s presence in the
old house.
Had Rupert Godwin been near to sustain him, or to shame him into
a display of hardihood, Lord Roxleydale might have tried to carry
matters with a high hand. As it was, he left the Moat, and went
quietly back to town, very much ashamed of the transaction he had
been engaged in, and fully resolved, that whatever follies or
escapades might vary the monotony of his future life, he would never
again try his hand at an abduction.
“It may be all very well in a novel or a play,” he said to himself as
he sat smoking in the solitary _coupé_, which a judiciously invested
half-crown had secured for him; “but it doesn’t answer in real life;
and it makes a man feel uncommonly small when he’s trying it on.”