Rupert Godwin

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.