Rupert Godwin

A DARK JOURNEY.

The carriage in which Violet was seated drove at a rapid pace along the Strand; but, to the girl’s surprise and terror, it did not turn aside to cross Waterloo Bridge.

She was in an agony of excitement, thinking that the coachman, through mere ignorance or stupidity, had taken the wrong road, and that time, the precious time, would be lost.

She pulled the check-string violently; but the driver took no notice—he seemed to drive faster every minute. Already the carriage had passed under Temple Bar, and was making its way along Fleet-street at a rapid rate, for at this hour there were few vehicles in the City.

Violet strove to open the window, and with some difficulty succeeded in doing so. She called to the coachman, but he paid no attention to her cry. It might be that her voice was drowned by the noise of the wheels.

Rendered desperate by the thought of her mother’s illness, Violet would have tried to spring from the carriage, even at the risk of her life; but when she endeavoured to open the door, she found that it was locked.

She then beat violently with her hands against the front windows of the carriage. This time the coachman must have heard her, but he did not even turn his head; he took no notice whatever of her frantic summons.

By this time the carriage was crossing Smithfield. A few minutes more and it was in Bishopsgate-street. Violet strained her eyes, endeavouring to discover where she was; but the neighbourhood was entirely strange to her.

Then a feeling of utter despair came over her. The carriage dashed on; the houses and street-lamps swam before her eyes; the tramp of the horses’ hoofs seemed like the throbbing of her own brain.

Presently the houses grew thinner; there were trees and a country road—a road which seemed to go on for ever to the distracted girl, who watched it from the open window of the carriage.

She felt that she was the victim of some horrible conspiracy; but she did not for a moment doubt the story of her mother’s illness. Her brain was too much bewildered to enable her to think reasonably of the night’s work. She fancied that her mother was really ill, and that some wretches, out of fiendish cruelty, were carrying her away from that beloved mother.

So she sat, watching the long dark road, and praying for help from Heaven in this hour of bewilderment and despair.

After about two hours’ rapid travelling, the carriage stopped before an old-fashioned-looking inn.

It seemed as if the travellers were expected, for though it was long past midnight, a man came out of the stables directly the vehicle stopped. The doors and windows of the inn were all dark, and the household had evidently retired to rest; but the stable-yard was open, and a light was burning in one of the numerous buildings within. There was no time lost in waiting, and while the ostler removed the jaded and steaming animals from the carriage, a second man came out of the stable-yard leading a pair of fresh horses.

This only added to poor Violet’s bewilderment. All the occurrences of the night seemed rather the incidents of a troubled dream than those of reality.

She put her head out of the carriage-window, and saw a tall, slenderly-built man standing a little way from the carriage.

“O, for pity’s sake!” she cried, “whoever you are, tell me the meaning of this mystery! Why have I been brought here? Is there any one in the world who can be so cruel as to wish to separate a daughter from her dying mother?”

The stranger approached the carriage-window. His face was shaded by the brim of his hat, which he wore low on his forehead, and by a cashmere shawl which enveloped his chin. The night was dark, though fine, and Violet could not recognize the Marquis of Roxleydale, whom she had only seen for the first time that evening, and of whom she had taken very little notice.

“Whoever you are, I implore you to have pity upon me!” she cried. “If you have one touch of human feeling, have mercy upon me, and take me back to London—take me to my mother!”

“My dear young lady,” answered the Marquis, “pray don’t give way to grief. I can make your mind quite easy as regards your mother. Her illness was only a fiction. All stratagems, you know, are fair in love and war, and that kind of thing. So far as I know, the maternal par——your mother, is as well as ever she was.”

“She is not ill! O, thank Heaven—thank Heaven for that! And that letter—the doctor’s letter!”

“The doctor’s letter was only part of an innocent little ruse, which I am sure you will forgive when you know its motive. It mightn’t be exactly the thing, you know, but it isn’t more ungentlemanly than the conduct of that fellow who pretended he wasn’t going away, you know, and got his ships ready on the quiet, and made a bolt of it. Dido and Æneas, and that kind of thing, you know.”

The fresh horses were harnessed by this time, and the driver was in his seat. Before Violet could ask another question, the Marquis bowed and retired. He returned to his seat in the rumble, the ostler gave the horses their heads, and in the next moment they had started at a gallant pace along the dark road.

At first there was only one feeling in Violet’s breast, and that was a profound sense of gratitude to Heaven.

Her mother was not ill; her beloved mother was not in danger.

The burden of anguish had been suddenly lifted from her breast; and the relief was so intense that it was some time before she could even attempt to contemplate her own position. But when she did at length grow calm enough to consider the events of the night, her brain seemed to give way beneath a sense of utter bewilderment.

Think of it as she would, she could not imagine any possible motive for this mysterious business.

Had she been persecuted by the addresses of any dishonourable lover, she might perhaps have realized at once the motive of this midnight abduction; but she imagined herself entirely unknown and unnoticed.

Who, then, could be interested in carrying her away from her home, from the mother she idolized, the mother who would suffer unutterable fear and suspense during her absence?

She tried in vain to find an answer to this question, but her bewilderment only increased as she tormented her brain by useless speculations. And at last she sank back in a corner of the carriage, completely worn out by the mental struggle she had undergone—weary, too, of watching the long dark, road along which she was being carried to her mysterious destination.

At last, at about three o’clock in the morning, the carriage stopped before high gates, with massive stone pillars, surmounted by escutcheons festooned with ivy.

A bell was rung,—a loud clanging bell, that gave out a strange shrill peal in the stillness of the night.

There was a pause, during which Violet had ample time to contemplate the tall stone pillars, the massive iron gates, which had a weird and ghostly look in the dim light; and then the bell was rung for the second time. This time the summons was heard; for a man came out of the lodge, carrying a lantern and a big bunch of keys.

He unlocked the gates, which fell back upon their hinges with a grating and scrooping noise, as if they were very rarely opened. The carriage passed through into a long dark avenue—an avenue in which the low gusty breath of the chill morning wind sounded almost like the wailing of a ghost.

At the end of the avenue, which seemed more than a mile long, the carriage crossed a bridge, below which Violet saw a black stream of water lying at the bottom of a wide stone moat. The carriage passed under an archway after crossing this bridge, and then drew up before a dreary-looking building with a castellated roof and circular towers at each angle of the wall.

Nothing could be more dispiriting than the appearance of this house, even when shrouded by the darkness. In the past, it might have been a feudal castle; in the present, it looked only like a madhouse, a union, or a gaol.

The Marquis of Roxleydale came to the carriage-door, unlocked it, and assisted Violet to alight.

The poor girl was utterly worn out in mind and body by the events of the night. She dismounted from the vehicle with a tottering step, and would have fallen on the slippery moss-grown stone if Lord Roxleydale had not supported her.

“Where am I?” she gasped; “and why am I brought here?”

“Only be patient, dearest and loveliest of women,” answered the Marquis in a tender whisper. “Rest quietly to-night, and ask no questions. To-morrow morning you shall know all.”

A stifled shriek escaped from Violet’s lips. There was something in the speaker’s tone which chilled her to the heart. It was the tone of a profligate who believed that his victim was in his power.

Innocent, inexperienced in life’s perils as Violet was, her instinct seemed to reveal to her the danger and misery of her position. But gentle though she was, she had the spirit of a true woman—the spirit which asserts itself in the hour of danger and difficulty.

“Why am I brought here?” she demanded, drawing herself away from Lord Roxleydale’s supporting arm; “and who are you who have been base enough to carry out this vile plot against a helpless girl? To any honourable man my friendlessness would have rendered me sacred.”

“Dear Miss Watson,” pleaded the Marquis, who really was inclined to feel very much ashamed of himself, but who was always trying to act according to the base sentiments instilled into his weak mind by those false friends who called themselves men of the world,—“dear Miss Watson, if you knew the devoted admiration, the all-absorbing love, and that kind of thing, which prompted this scheme, you would pardon all. Believe this, and let me defer all explanations until to-morrow. This lonely house shall be as safe a shelter for you as the roof beneath which you slept last night.”

This time there was an accent of truth in the young man’s words. Violet was almost fainting, and was far too weak to make any further struggle to extricate herself from the power of her persecutor. She sank upon a carved oaken bench, in the great stone entrance-hall, which was dimly lighted by one lamp, and the atmosphere of which seemed cold and damp as that of a charnel-house.

No wealthy young nobleman, possessor of numerous country seats in pleasant neighbourhoods, would have cared to spend much of his life at this dreary habitation amongst the flat swamps upon the Essex coast. The Marquis of Roxleydale was the very last man in the world to tolerate a dull abode; and the Moat had been almost deserted ever since the death of his grandfather—an eccentric old misanthrope, who had chosen to inhabit the dreariest house of all his possessions.

An old woman had admitted the Marquis and his companion into the hall. Lord Roxleydale committed Violet to her charge.

“You received my letter?” he asked.

He spoke in a very loud voice, but he had to repeat the question.

“Yes, my lord. Yes, yes; I received the letter,” muttered the old woman at last; “and all’s ready for the lady—the young lady. Yes, and it’s a pretty face too, and a fair face, and a good face—eh, my lord?” she said, looking at Violet, “but it’s paler than it should be for a bride; it’s much too pale for a bride, I’ve seen a bonny bride brought home to this house long ago—very long ago; but the place seems to have gone to ruin since then.”

“She’s a little weak in her head, I think, Miss Watson,” the Marquis said apologetically; “but you won’t mind her, will you?”

Violet shook her head, and stretched out her hand with a friendly gesture towards the old woman. She was too ill to speak; her dry lips refused to utter a sound.

The old housekeeper led her charge towards the great oaken staircase; the broad staircase up and down which gay-hearted people had trodden lightly in the days that were gone.

The Marquis had removed his hat on entering the hall; but even yet Violet had not recognized him. She was too completely prostrated to observe the face of her abductor. Only one thought held a place amid the misty shadows that clouded her brain. That one thought related to her desire to escape, to return to her mother, whose heart would be wrung by all the torments of suspense and anxiety.

She followed the housekeeper. There was something honest and friendly in the old woman’s countenance; and Violet felt that with her she was at least safe.

The woman led her up the staircase and along a corridor, until they came to a spacious room, where a pair of tall wax candles were burning in antique silver candlesticks. A wood fire blazed upon the broad stone hearth, within the great chimney; and, summer time though it was, there was unspeakable comfort in the aspect of the red logs.

The room was large and gloomy, and, like everything else in the old house, seemed to belong to an age long gone by. The wainscoting was of black oak; the ceiling was of the same sombre hue and massive material, crossed by huge beams, with quaintly-carved pendants, which threw weird shadows upon the walls, and looked like grinning faces leering down at the inmates of the room.

An immense four-post bedstead, surmounted by funereal-looking plumes, stood at one end of the apartment. Near the fireplace there were two old-fashioned easy-chairs, covered with faded tapestry, and a table upon which the silver candlesticks were placed.

Violet had scarcely strength to totter to the nearest chair. She sank into it fainting and helpless.

“Don’t leave me!” she gasped, clinging to the old woman’s withered hands. “Pray don’t leave me!”

The housekeeper seemed to understand the meaning of the helpless girl’s look and gesture, though she could not possibly have understood her words.

“Ay, ay,” she muttered. “I’ll take care of you, my pretty—you needn’t, be afraid. Old Nancy will take care of you.”

Violet felt reassured by these words. Her eyelids sank over her wearied eyes; her head fell back upon the cushion of the chair. Presently she felt the housekeeper’s feeble hands tenderly removing her outer garments, and then the old woman half carried, half led her to the bed, on which she sank, completely overcome by fatigue and excitement.