GIRT WITH FIRE.
Rupert Godwin did not quit Wilmingdon Hall quite so soon as he had
told Mrs. Melville he intended to leave it; but he contrived that
the widow should take her departure some time before the removal of
Lionel Westford by Doctor Snaffley and his myrmidons.
In the solitude of her own apartments, Julia Godwin heard nothing of
what was passing in her father’s house. She lay upon a sofa in her
own room, not sleeping, but oppressed by a kind of stupor. She felt
as though she would have been glad to die, that in the repose of
death she might no longer be haunted by the memory of her father’s
guilt.
Mrs. Melville had tried to gain admission to Julia’s room, but found
the door locked. The unhappy girl feigned to be asleep, and made no
reply to the widow’s anxious entreaties for admittance.
The banker had behaved very liberally to his daughter’s companion;
but, accomplished hypocrite as he was, Mrs. Melville could not help
suspecting that he must have some reason for wishing her to leave his
house so suddenly.
The widow thought there was something wrong, but imagined that the
banker was harassed by some commercial difficulty--perhaps threatened
by ruin; and she considered herself fortunate in securing an advance
of six months upon her very handsome salary, when other people might
lose by a bankruptcy.
She left the Hall, therefore, in excellent spirits, after bidding
adieu to Mr. Godwin, who promised to communicate with her as soon as
he and his daughter were settled at Brighton.
At eleven o’clock that night all was quiet in Wilmingdon Hall, and
the banker strode up and down the dining-room, after dismissing the
servant who had attended upon him.
The habits of the household were early. At ten o’clock all except
the servant who waited on Mr. Godwin had retired to their several
apartments. By eleven all was still as the grave; and, pacing to and
fro the large empty room, Rupert Godwin was able to contemplate his
position with something like calmness.
“_He_ is safe,” the banker muttered, “and will remain so, while I
can pay that man, who has fathomed my secret and means to profit
by it. So long as I can satisfy his exorbitant claim, all will be
secure in that quarter. How much simpler would have been the effect
of that draught, had not some devilry interfered to prevent its
being administered! Nothing could have been more natural than that
young man’s death; and a decent funeral would have won for me the
reputation of a kind and liberal patron. However, at the worst,
he is safe. The next thing from which I have cause for fear is my
daughter’s suspicions. She knows something; but how much does she
know? That is the point. Was hers the hand which interposed so
mysteriously between that draught and the lips for which it was
intended? Was it she who baffled my plans, and put my neck in danger
of the gallows? And will she consider it her duty to betray her
father? These are fearful questions; but, come what may, I must know
the worst. I will face this girl, hear what she has to say, and learn
how far she dare accuse me.”
The banker took one of the candlesticks from the dining-room table,
and went upstairs to his daughter’s room.
He knocked, and waited, listening for some moments; but there was no
answer.
He knocked again, with the same result.
Then he spoke:
“Julia,” he said, in a low but resolute tone, “it is I--your father.
I beg you to admit me immediately.”
He heard his daughter’s footsteps slowly approaching the door, and
then a low voice answered, in broken accents:
“Pray pardon me, papa. I cannot see you to-night. I am distracted
with an excruciating headache, and really cannot see anyone.”
“I cannot accept that excuse, Julia; I must see you, and immediately.
I command you to admit me. I insist upon knowing your reasons for
this most extraordinary conduct.”
“Father, for pity’s sake--” cried the miserable girl, in an imploring
voice that was broken by hysterical sobs.
“If you do not unlock your door immediately, I will burst it open,”
rejoined the banker resolutely.
He had the desperate resolution of a man who feels that despair is
close upon him, that death and danger are tracking his footsteps,
and that only indomitable courage can save him from the fate he has
merited.
The key turned in the lock. The banker opened the door, and entered
his daughter’s apartment.
He shuddered, as he stood in presence of the girl, whose glorious
beauty had been wont to shine upon him radiant with youth and
happiness. To-night, he beheld the pale face of a woman whose heart
has been racked with the anguish of despair.
That colourless face looked soddened with tears. The dark luxuriant
hair hung loosely about Julia Godwin’s shoulders; her hands were
locked together, her white lips trembled convulsively, as she averted
her gaze from the father whom she had once loved so dearly, but whose
presence now inspired her with horror.
“Julia,” said the banker, “I want to know the meaning of your conduct
to-day. Why have you secluded yourself in this unusual manner, so
obstinately refusing to admit anyone to your room?”
“I have been very ill.”
“In that case you must see the doctor. I will send one of the
servants for Mr. Granger immediately.”
“There is no occasion. My illness is not one that can be cured by Mr.
Granger. It is an illness of the mind, rather than of the body.”
“Julia!” cried the banker sternly, “are you going mad? There was
something in your manner when you spoke this morning that was unlike
the conduct of a rational being. What is amiss with you?”
His daughter was silent. For a few moments she stood quite motionless,
with her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon her father’s face
with a heart-rending expression.
“Father,” she said, after that brief silence, “I had a dream last
night--a dream so horrible, that it has oppressed me throughout the
day, and I cannot shake it off. It clings to me still. It will haunt
me till I find forgetfulness in the grave. Shall I tell you that
hideous dream?”
“Yes, if telling it will give you relief.”
“Nothing can give me relief. There is nothing but misery for me
henceforward upon this earth. But I will tell you my dream. I dreamt
last night that the sick man lying in this house was menaced by some
terrible danger. I did not know the nature of the peril; but I knew
that it was deadly peril, and close at hand. I thought that--guided
always by some subtle instinct that was stronger than reason--I left
my room in the dead of the night, resolved to watch over the helpless
invalid, to save him if possible from the danger that threatened
him. I did leave my room, and crept along the corridor with stealthy
footsteps. I went into Mr. Wilton’s room, and found that the old
woman who was set to watch him had fallen asleep at her post. That
was the first part of the danger.”
“Humph!” muttered the banker, “a commonplace dream enough, and a very
natural one. You have troubled yourself a good deal more than was
necessary or becoming about this protégé of yours.”
“That is only the beginning of my dream, father,” answered Julia,
“you will find the end of it neither commonplace nor natural. I
had not been in the sick-room many moments, when I was startled
by the sound of stealthy footsteps in the corridor outside.
The same instinct that had prompted me to seek the sick man’s
apartment prompted me now to hide--or it might be only a feeling of
embarrassment at my strange position. I had no time for reflection;
so, obeying the impulse of the moment, I concealed myself behind the
curtains of the bed. From that hiding-place I saw a man enter the
room. I saw the hand of a murderer mix poison with the medicine which
was to be administered to the sleeper. I saw the assassin’s face;
yes, father, as plainly as I see yours at this moment. O, Heaven!
have pity upon me; when shall I forget the horror of that time?”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Rupert Godwin; “distempered dreams like these
arise from a disordered brain. Beware how you indulge in them, Julia.
They are the forerunners of madness. Such youth and beauty as yours
would be sadly wasted in the padded room of a private lunatic asylum.
Take my advice, Julia, and do not give way to the influence of evil
dreams, lest such a fate should be yours.”
This advice sounded like a threat. But Julia Godwin did not quail
beneath her father’s stern gaze or threatening tone.
“It would be better to be really mad than to suffer as I do,” she
said.
“Why should this dream affect you? It is as absurd and
inconsequential as dreams usually are. What motive should anyone have
for murdering your protégé? Besides, how did you know that the liquid
mixed with the draught was poison?”
“Because--in my dream--I caused the draught to be analyzed--or, at
least, I consulted a surgeon as to its nature, and he told me that it
contained prussic acid.”
“A very strange dream. Come, Julia, let me hear no more of this
folly. I shall remove you from here to-morrow, and shall take you
with me to Brighton. If I do not speedily find you recovered from
these morbid fancies, I shall conclude that your mind is seriously
affected, and I shall place you under the charge of a medical man
accustomed to deal with mental disorder.”
“You would do that, father?” asked Julia; “you would declare me to be
mad, and give me over to the care of a stranger?”
“Yes, I would do so without a moment’s hesitation,” answered the
banker resolutely, “if I saw reason for such a course. Once for
all, I tell you, I will endure no folly of the kind which you have
practised to-day. I know how to act when I am assailed by the morbid
fancies of madness; and to prove my power to protect myself from
the folly of others, I will tell you of something that has happened
to-day--something that is _not_ a dream. But, first, come with me.”
Rupert Godwin led the way to the apartment which had lately been
occupied by Lionel Westford.
“You see, Julia,” he said, pointing to the bed upon which the young
man had so lately been lying, “this person, in whom you take so much
interest that you must needs dream horrible dreams about him, has
disappeared: you will never see him again.”
“Great Heaven!” cried Julia, “he is dead! And you--_you_ dare tell me
this!”
“He is not dead; but he is as completely lost to the living as if he
were buried in the deepest grave that was ever dug for mortal man. He
was like you, Julia; and he had foolish fancies. He was tormented by
some absurd idea about a murder--a foul deed which had no existence
save in his own distempered imagination, but which, little by little,
had shaped itself into a reality. Poor fellow! he could not abandon
his dream, and the end of it is, that two qualified practitioners
have pronounced him a confirmed maniac, and to-night he will sleep
in that living tomb--a private lunatic asylum. And now, Julia, you
can return to your room; I think we shall understand each other in
future; and you will trouble me no more by the relation of ghastly
dreams, that are as meaningless as they are unpleasant.”
Once more the eyes of the father and daughter met--the girl’s
expression sorrowful, despairing; the man’s gaze proudly defiant,
with the defiance of a fiend.
Julia did not utter another word. She turned from her father, and
left the room with a slow step and a drooping head. It seemed to her
as if the end of the world had come. She felt that she could not
endure life now that her father had revealed himself to her in his
true character.
And the man she loved, what of him?
“Heaven give me power to think calmly!” she murmured on her knees
in her own room. “Let me plan some means for watching over him. An
impulse, inspired by Providence, enabled me to save him from an
untimely death. May the same Providence watch over him now in his
helplessness, and enable me to rescue him from a life that can be
little better than death!”
* * * * *
Early next morning the banker went to his daughter’s room to order
her immediate preparation for departure from Wilmingdon Hall. He
intended to take her to London by an early train, and thence to
Brighton.
He found her rooms empty. Julia Godwin had fled from the home which
had sheltered her from her girlhood.
This was the last blow that fell upon him before he left
Hertfordshire, and the stroke was a crushing one.