The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow
Of
flames on high, and torches from below;
The
shriek of terror and the mingling yell.
He climbs the crackling stair—he bursts the door,
Nor feels his feet glow, scorching with the floor;
His breath choked, gasping with the volumed smoke,
But still from room to room his way he broke.
—Byron.
The events of the morning in which he had taken so prominent a part presented to Hal Vivian, when alone in his chamber, that evening, rather a wide field for contemplation. He was glad of the opportunity which the close of the day’s labour gave him to retire to the solitude of his neatly furnished bedroom, because, unobserved, he could there review the circumstances which had that day occurred, and give to them the colouring most agreeable to the feelings which had recently taken possession of him.
He threw himself into an easy chair, and was quickly engaged in drawing deductions. Not for a second was the fair face of Flora absent from his vision. The rugged visage of Jukes, the grimy features of his satellites, the impassible countenance of Nathan Gomer, which seemed moulded out of fine gold, the bright, frank aspect of Lotte, by turns floated across his mental speculum, but never to displace that of Flora.
Out of the past a future was to be formed; he tried to construct it, and in doing so set himself honestly to work to examine those feelings which prompted him so strongly to undertake the task.
He sought to understand why he should interest himself at all in the affairs of the old gold-worker; what motives should have induced him to interfere and take part in what had happened that morning, or why he should be so very eager to effect certain happy results he had in contemplation, and the answer which constantly presented itself to these and other questions was—Flora Wilton!
Hal Vivian was just out of his time; but a few days, and his—
Seven long years were out.
He was at that age in man when love partakes very strongly of the imaginative, and clothes the object of affection with an excellence and perfection which, though it be not always just, makes her whom he loves to him a beau ideal. Almost every youth creates in his mind a standard of perfect loveliness, and if he, perchance, meets with a face which presents some resemblance to the mental image he has formed, he at once proceeds to invest it with all the charms with which he has endowed the unreal. The maid is elected to the first place in his heart—she becomes his guiding influence—he busies himself by contemplating schemes of impossible delights for her, is anxious to be at her side whenever apart, and most loth, when with her, to tear himself from her.
No doubt a very considerable amount of mental deception is practised during this phase of youthful existence, and when marriage has bestowed upon the lovesick swain the object he has so ardently coveted, he perhaps finds that he has been gazing through, what he now considers, the wrong end of the telescope.
Harry Vivian was, however, like all youths of his age, in no condition to believe that the being he had made his representative angel could ever prove the reverse. He had always seen her mild and gentle, soft in manner, courteous in speech, amiable in expression, and exquisitely lovely in person. He could suppose no other side to the picture, and so, as she outwardly resembled an angel, he gave her credit for being inwardly a saint. His intimacy with her was slight, his opportunities of seeing her—save during the past year, when he had made them—had not been many; he had interchanged but few words with her, and they were of a very commonplace description. He had not hitherto thought of her, more than that she was a girl of rare and delicate beauty, whose features he should like to reproduce in some of the choice modellings of the precious metals entrusted to him, for it seemed to him that no artist, however marvellous his skill in delineating the female face divine, had ever succeeded in producing one so beautiful as her’s.
Love had, however, taken no part in this admiration; he had gazed upon her and thought of her as he would have done of the best efforts of the greatest masters of art—“a thing of beauty,” but animated with life. Her sudden appearance at the window, the golden sunbeams falling on her face, her hair, her light dress, bringing her beauty out in strong relief from the dark chamber in which she stood, altered at one stroke the condition of his feelings.
Passion sprang into life simultaneously with the glance he turned upon her—it intermingled with his admiration, and became love.
He was not conscious of the change wrought within him when he instinctively surmised that trouble and trial hovered over her, and that he should take an active part in endeavouring to avert it. He had not a notion of it even when seated with Mr. Harper, his uncle, discoursing on the position of the Wilton family, he employed himself devising how the all but orphaned child of their skilled workman might be rescued from destitution.
Here, in his chamber, alone in deep meditation and self-examination, it flashed through his mind. A sudden glow of heat pervaded his frame, and he sprang to his feet impulsively—a strange tremor thrilled through him—a feeling of apprehension crept over him—and a species of sadness oppressed him; wherefore, he could not comprehend. Here was food for contemplation, indeed; and he resumed his seat to pursue this new subject through its many ramifications until he should arrive at some kind of ultimate result.
One fact followed from this discovery made by him. Up to this moment he had been, in his knowledge of the world, a mere boy. He was, at a moment, transformed into a man.
He had “something to love,” and the affection was not of the same nature as that entertained for kith or kin. He had taken up a responsibility, and at once there was something to live for, work for, seek for, and to win. Fame, wealth, honour, were now worth striving to gain, because there was one, whose approbation he coveted, to share the wealth and honour to be secured by persevering energy and untiring ardour.
In commencing his struggle with the world, here was an incentive to ambition beyond a mere love of art or the desire to excel, and a motive for reaping golden opinions beyond the common wish to become rich.
It is true there was nothing in Flora’s manner to lead him to believe that he had created any such impression upon her as she had upon him, and the probabilities were that she did not see him in any other light than as a gentlemanly and good-hearted young man, who had been kind and considerate to her father in business, and singularly generous and friendly to her in her moment of trial. All this he quite understood; and, though he felt himself over head and ears in love with her, he did not deceive himself into any other notion than that to win her love his work was yet to commence, to be prosecuted with faithful perseverance, and in an honorable and unselfish spirit.
As true love looks to marriage as its goal, so did that possessed by Hal; but romantic, generous, and noble-hearted as he was by nature, he had yet so much of the common leaven in him that it struck him it would be worth consideration to ascertain into what kind of family he should introduce himself by an alliance with Miss Wilton.
His own position was very soon determined. He was the son of a deceased sister of Mr. Harper, the goldsmith—was apprenticed to him, and would, in all probability, be his heir, as his only son had turned out wild in his youth, and had, after the commission of some outrageous piece of profligacy, disappeared. It was supposed he had fled to India, but from his departure to the present hour he had not been heard of.
Mr. Harper had mentioned to Hal an intention that he had formed, of taking him into partnership with him, but he had decided first on subjecting him to a probation of a year or two, to try whether the promise of steadiness and sobriety, which his youth had given, would be realised.
Hal’s future might, consequently, be said to be formed for him; and it was into his uncle’s family he should introduce Miss Wilton as his wife, if ever the union took place. Therefore, while considering his own happiness, he felt it to be his duty not to overlook that of his uncle, who had behaved to him from his infancy as a tender, just, and generous father. It would be a task he should impose upon himself, to ascertain, as far as possible, the previous history of old Wilton. Not that he feared the result would turn out other than he could wish, but he could not conceal from himself that there was a mystery hanging over the old worker in gold, which it would be proper, if possible, to penetrate.
Some years back Wilton had suddenly presented himself at the shop of Mr. Harper for employment in carving in gold. Inquiries elicited that he had not been bred to the business he professed, but was what might be termed a scientific amateur. Mr. Harper was struck by his language, and by his remarks upon the processes and art of modelling and chasing; and being much pressed at the time with an excess of business, he entrusted him with some valuable work—the more readily when he found that old Wilton resided exactly opposite to him.
Wilton returned with his task accomplished in a manner greatly to Mr. Harper’s satisfaction, and from that time he had been employed by him. He always executed his work excellently, but he was not always punctual, and twice or thrice Mr. Harper, in anger, had threatened to discontinue employing him; but Wilton generally contrived to smooth away his irritation, and they went on as before.
Nothing was known of him—whence, or when, or how, he came he seldom went out, and only worked for Mr. Harper. So much Hal knew—no one knew more—and yet they do know a good deal about each other in Clerkenwell. Hal resolved now that his knowledge should not sleep here, although at the present moment he could not see quite clearly his way to learn more.
His future cogitations were terminated by a call to supper, and that meal being discussed, he retired to rest—to think again, as before, and to fall into a deep, heavy slumber.
He dreamed.
He thought he met with Flora in some leafy coppice and in secret, and that, while conversing with her in a strain of loving tenderness, they were interrupted by the tramp of a body of persons approaching. He fancied that he seized Flora in his arms, and fled with her, but was pursued, and that his pursuers shouted and uttered fierce threats. He looked back, and saw that old Wilton headed Jukes and his followers, as well as Nathan Gomer and his uncle, who seemed to be the most excited of the party, and called him by name loudly. Then, as he still fled, he observed that his pursuers were armed, and he heard his uncle call to them to fire upon him.
He fled on; still his uncle’s voice shouted in his ear—
“Fire! fire! fire!”
At last he sprang up in his bed, suddenly awakened, and still the voice vehemently cried—
“Fire! fire! fire!”
A heavy hand beat violently against the panels of his chamber-door, and completely aroused him.
He at once leaped to the floor, and unlocked his door. He found his uncle without, in a state of great excitement—he was half-dressed.
“Oh, Lord!” he cried; “I thought you would never wake; there is a fire; throw on your clothes, Hal, my boy!”
“A fire! where?” asked Hal, hastily.
“Over the way,” returned Mr. Harper; “be quick! while I pacify your aunt, who is frightened to death.”
He lit Hal’s candle as he spoke, and shuffled hastily away in his slippers.
Over the way! Why Wilton’s house was over the way. Hal felt his blood rush violently through his veins. Over the way! What if it should be there? He drew on his clothes with hasty swiftness, and he heard the low, hoarse sounds of a gathering mob in the streets. The tramp of running feet, the violent knocking at doors, and the shouts of boys and men crying “Fire!”
All that was absolutely essential to wear, but nothing that would impede his activity or application of strength, did Hal put on, and then he hurried to one of the front windows of the house and looked out.
It is impossible to describe the sudden and violent shock that ran through his frame. Though he had thought it possible, he had not believed it probable that it could be Wilton’s abode which was on fire, yet his first glance told him that the lower part of that house was in flames.
A mob had gathered round; an active policeman was pushing it about to clear the way for the inhabitants to bring out their furniture from the burning house—that is, if they had a chance to do aught beyond saving their lives.
The door of the house was open, and volumes of smoke were pouring forth. A dull red flame, throwing a ruby glare, was to be seen gleaming through the windows of the kitchen and the parlour. The upper part of the house seemed lost in wreathing dull, gray, cloudy masses of vapour, which rolled up from the seat of the fire.
Rising up above the hoarse roar of the assembled mob, came the shouts of those who were on their way with the first engine. It seemed to be the herald of succour, but, alas! it was only the parish-engine, brought up by an energetic beadle, four men, and about twenty dirty ragged boys.
The turncock arrived with it, and he, though able in the daylight to find the plug-hole blindfold, could not without great difficulty discover it, with his eyes briskly exercised, at night.
At lengthy when the parish engine, bravely foremost in the rank, was ready, a mass of volunteers sprang forward to pump it. Mr. Turncock succeeded in pulling up the plug, and saturating a dozen venturesome persons, who with engineering spirits watched the operation. The hose of the parish-engine was at once connected with the stream of water, and with a hurrah the volunteers began to work the handles of the pump, but though they were made to sound jar-jar, jar-jar, jar-jar, briskly, nothing came of it. The parish-engine, as it has ever been from the hour it was first invented to the present time, was found to be practicably useless. No water could be forced into the directing pipe to play upon the burning house.
The flames grew fiercer, the smoke denser, and crackling sounds of wood splitting, and the sputtering of sparks, were more distinctly heard.
Then there was suddenly a mighty cry from the mob.
At the upper windows appeared, shrieking for aid, the forms of two young girls. They were in their night dresses, and had evidently only just been aroused. Three or four brave young fellows rushed into the passage of the house to ascend the stairs to save them, but a sheet of flame suddenly leaped forth, and drove them back scorched. Thus victorious, it seized the staircase in its blistering embrace, and hissed and sputtered as it danced and darted upwards, cutting off with a species of savage joy all means of egress by that route.
Shouts were raised for the fire-escape, as the attempting rescuers were forced back by the blinding burst of flame into the streets, and preparations were made, if the worst came to the worst, to receive with as much safety as possible those who would be called upon to leap from the dizzy heights of the upper floor as a last desperate resort to save their otherwise doomed lives.
A distant hubbub, growing louder as it drew near, announced the approach of the fire-escape. Its advent was hailed with lusty shouts, and fifty volunteers rushed to facilitate its arrival, but impeding and retarding its progress in their meritorious desire to get it up to the scene of disaster as quickly as possible.
This was the state of things when Hal looked out of window to ascertain where the fire had broken out.
A downward glance at the rolling masses of smoke, and intermittent flashes of forked flame; an upward glance at the windows, where, huddled together, were the shrinking, weeping, distracted females, and he was the next minute in front of the house making a mad attempt to ascend the burning staircase.
The serpent-tongued fire had, however, obtained complete possession; it roared, and licked as it roared, every particle of woodwork within its reach, brightening up as if with ferocious glee as it gained strength, and sending forth showers of coruscations, sparkling and glittering, seemingly to mark as a festive occasion one of the most dreadful visitations to which human society is occasionally subjected.
Blinded and suffocated, Hal was compelled to give back, to save the life which might yet be successfully employed in rescuing that of others.
As he reached the doorway, the fire-escape came up, the conductor placed it against the wall; but before he could commence his perilous ascent, a light, youthful figure sprang past him on to the wheel, caught in his hands the nearest rundle of the ladder, and ran lightly upwards, followed by a cheer from the mob and a shout from the conductor to come down again; for inexperience, no matter how honorably influenced, is, in most cases, a sad marplot.
In such emergencies, surrounded by frightful danger, exposed to fatal consequences by a false step or an error in judgment, the safety of valuable lives hanging upon a thread, experience allied to calmness, and cool self-reliance under the most trying contingencies, is essential to successful operation. In these cases, knowledge is indeed power. To know how to act and when to act, what to use and how to use it, with the necessary courage to do and dare all that may be required, is the battle, and victory rarely fails to follow it when it is properly conducted. It can be understood, therefore, why the conductor of the fire-escape, who had saved many lives, enraged at the act of Hal Vivian, shouted so vehemently to him to return.
He knew by many instances that such a proceeding as that of which the youth was guilty, while it imperilled the rescue of those sought to be saved, added to the number he was called upon to preserve. His own life was always in jeopardy in the performance of his duty, to which he was quite equal, and it was vexing to find another placing himself in peril without occasion for it, and, in all probability, doing far more harm than good.
Quick as he was in his chase after Hal, he failed to reach him before he was at the window, where clustered the affrighted girls. Ere he could clutch hold of him, Hal sprang on the window-sill, and was the next instant in the room.
He was recognised immediately by those whom he came to deliver.
Flora, as she saw Hal’s form upon the edge of the window, and witnessed him bound into the room, uttered a cry of joy.
As the light from the street flashed upon his animated excited countenance, her heart received upon it the impression of a face it was not likely to permit easily to be effaced.
“Heaven reward you, Mr. Vivian!” she exclaimed, hysterically, “you have come to save us.”
“Or perish with you!” he replied, excitedly, “for I will not leave the room until you are all safely down.”
“God bless you! God bless you!” sobbed Lotte Clinton, who, as white as death, was trembling like an aspen.
“Now then, young fellow,” cried the conductor, putting his head into the window, “since you are here, you must make yourself useful, and be as cool as a cowcumber. Recollect, we ain’t here to spend a week. Shut that door; look sharp, or you’ll all be stifled in a minute.”
No sooner commanded than done.
At the same instant the clattering of horses’ feet at full gallop over the ringing stones, the heavy rumble of whirling wheels, the rattling cheers of a mob which was fast growing into a multitude, announced the arrival of the first practicable fire-engine.
By this time Lotte was placed within the cradle of the fire-escape, and was safely lowered down to those beneath.
A roar of gratification burst from the lips of the spectators as they beheld one added to the list of the saved.
Hal watched until Lotte was lifted out of the escape, and then he turned to Flora, to request her to be in readiness to take her place in the little life-boat.
It must be understood that these operations were performed with the utmost rapidity consistent with safety. The room was more than half filled by a dense smoke when Hal entered; and, although the door was since closed, it had streamed in through crannies and chinks so as to fill it—the open window rather holding it in the room than suffering it to escape.
When Lotte and her companion, the conductor of the fire-escape departed, the atmosphere had become heated and stifling. It was also so thick that scarcely a thing a foot off could be distinguished. Hal’s astonishment and alarm can be imagined when, on the return of the cradle, he spoke to Flora and received no answer.
But a moment past and she was at his elbow; she was now gone—he could not see her—he called to her, but received no reply. He felt about the room, but he was nearly suffocated, without succeeding in finding her. He heard the roaring of the flames beneath him: the smoke grew each moment thicker and denser: large drops of perspiration poured from him: instinctively he cowered to the floor and spread his hands in all directions, afraid to open his mouth for fear of being stifled.
The conductor of the fire-escape now poked his head into the window, and shouted for the pair to save their lives while they had a chance, but he received no answer.
He leaped into the room, and threw himself on the floor, groping about upon his hands and knees. He uttered a shrill cry, but met with no response. He persevered as long as he could breathe, but without meeting the bodies of either the youth or the maiden.
It was his impression that, overpowered by the smoke they had sunk senseless upon the floor, but he could nowhere find them, and at last mystified, and all but suffocated, he was compelled to retreat to the window.
The fire was at the door of the room, shooting its long forks of flame into the old wood of which it was composed, and with such intense heat, that it was quickly one mass of flame, and sputtering sparks.
With a heavy heart, the conductor got out of the room, on to his machine, and he was barely upon it, when a long blast of flame followed him with the speed of lightning, and darted out of both windows, cracking and smashing the fragile glass panes, causing them to fly in all directions, playing fantastically over, and wreathing up the architraves of the windows, lighting up as it did so the excited faces of the swaying, yelling mob below.
The conductor slid down the escape, and communicated the appalling intelligence, that in the burning rooms above were two miserable young creatures who, by the time he was relating the occurrence, had become shapeless, blackened, charred masses of human clay.
The scene had now grown intensely exciting; more engines had arrived, and hundreds of persons were added to those already assembled. A body of policemen were employed in forcing the turbulent crowd back, so as to give the firemen room for their exertions. The street was turned into a river, and the fire brigade—accoutred like the heavy dragoons of a former period—were plashing through the muddy stream, getting their engines into working order with the systematic, and, as it appeared to the anxious gazers, the rather apathetic regularity of organised action.
Frantic occupiers of adjoining houses were flinging out their furniture—their little all, and that uninsured. The beds and chairs, tables and drawers, formed, as they were brought, or thrown, hastily into the streets, a motley jumble—some of them being borne away by active parties, never more to be returned to the original owner.
“Two persons burned to death!” was a cry which ran through the crowd, and was again and again re-echoed by the individuals of which it was formed, a thrill of horror accompanying it wherever it went.
An explosion, and up shot a body of flame into the air, attended by a shower of sparks, fragments of burning wood, and flaming articles, the volumes of smoke, of gold and rose-blush tint rolling away, painfully contrasting with the violet-hued heavens.
The roof was gone!
A brilliant glare was thrown over all objects, far and near, making the place around as light as day.
Lo! a sudden and tremendous cry burst from the agitated multitude, pressing, crowding, and crushing upon the foot and roadways.
“There! there!—look there!” burst from a thousand throats, and as many hands pointed to a particular spot.
The adjoining house to Wilton’s—now a burning mass—had a tall, irregular, but pointed roof, as though two rooms had been built above the old roof of much less dimensions than those beneath, at the smallest possible cost, and with an utter disregard of architectural rule.
Up the jagged side of this slanting erection a human figure was observed climbing slowly, his arm encircling a form all in white. His position was terrifyingly dangerous—the least slip, and he, together with his burden, would be precipitated into the burning ruins, still roaring, spluttering, and flaming below him.
He lay almost flat upon his face on the rough tiles, his right hand grasping the carved edge of the angle of the roof. Gradually he worked his hand upwards, and by a tremendous exertion of strength, he drew himself and his companion up a foot at each movement. It was desperate labour—a fearful struggle with death. It seemed to those who gazed upon him a mere impossibility that he could save himself and the girl whom he still clutched round the waist.
On he went slowly, the bright flames lighting him in his task, but reducing his strength by the intense heat they threw out. He succeeded in getting one leg across the angle of the roof, but in doing so he slipped back at least two feet.
A shriek of horror burst from the crowd, and rose up in the air like a death-wail.
The youth did not yet despair, but with desperate exertion he arrested his descent with his knees.
He paused but a moment, and renewed his efforts to ascend, using his knees now to enable him to maintain his position on the roof, while he elevated his body so as to extend his reach until he obtained a hold higher than before, that he might thus ultimately gain a place of comparative safety.
It was Hal Vivian who was with Flora Wilton in this frightful situation. He had crawled in search of her into an adjoining apartment to that which he had entered from the street. She had hurried thither to save something to which she knew her father attached great importance, but, overpowered by the smoke, she had, after securing it, fallen senseless.
Hal fortunately found her as soon as he got into the room, and the reflection from the fire below enabled him just to see the window. He tore it open, and saw that the parapet adjoined the roof of the next house.
He sprang on to it, and commenced the perilous task of endeavouring to escape a horrible death, and of saving, with his own, a life he esteemed far more valuable.
The falling roof of the house he had just quitted, when it sank with its dreadful crash, was within an ace of taking him with it. It was a fearful moment, but he surmounted it, and attempted to proceed at the instant the crowd caught sight of him. He heard not their cry, saw nothing, thought not of aught but the endeavour to reach a place of safety with her. He strained every nerve and sinew to accomplish his object, but human endurance, though backed by the urgings and influence of a strong will, has its limits.
He now reached that point when, with sickening dismay, he found his strength failing him, and although his firmness and determination were unshaken, his power to go on was departing. To slacken his tenacious hold was to be hurled into the yawning gulph of fire behind him. He knew this well; that knowledge had as yet sustained him, and he clung to the roof still with desperation, resolved, notwithstanding the quivering of his fingers, the agonising aching of the arm which supported Flora, and the trembling of his knees, to continue to the last his exertions to save the maiden, or to pass out of life with her.
Slowly rising up, as before, he made a clutch at the top of the roof, and caught it, but he found that, beyond drawing himself and the form of the senseless girl a little higher, he could do no more. It required an effort of unusual strength to reach the summit, where he believed he could remain safe until rescued, and that effort exhausted nature was incapable of making. Nay, he felt that he could but a few minutes longer cling there, and if some Heaven-sent aid did not reach him, his almost superhuman exertions would have been made in vain.
He remained motionless, trying to recover his spent breath, and, while in this position, the hoarse cries of the people thronging in the streets reached his ears, and seemed to rouse him from his slowly approaching listless inanition. He breathed a prayer; a thought what Flora yet might be to him, and what that great world, of which he had yet seen so little, might have in store for him, flashed through his brain. The effect upon him was like the sound of a trumpet to the soldier at the moment of some fearful charge, in which death is the alternative of glory.
He drew himself upwards, struggling with the obstacles which seemed to try and force him backwards, and, almost with a scream upon his lips, he found himself oscillating upon the spot he had with such trying exertion sought to reach, exhausted, and unable to make another effort.
A shadow fell upon him; he turned his feeble eyes upon the occasion of it, and saw one of the fire brigade, who, having laid a short ladder against the side of the roof, had mounted it and reached him.
Behind this man rose up the helmet of a second fireman, closely following his comrade in his work of mercy.
Hal knew at a glance that Flora and himself were saved. He no longer strove to continue the battle with fate, and did not attempt to resist the embrace of insensibility as he felt the grip of the fireman upon his collar, and heard undistinguishable words fall from him greeting him.
“You have deserted me; where am I now?
Not in
your heart, while care weighs on your brow;
No,
no! you have dismissed me, and I go
From your
breast houseless; ay, ay, it must be so,”
He
answered.
—John Keats.
Mr. Grahame, though greatly agitated at the sudden appearance and abrupt disappearance of Nathan Gomer, at a moment of such dread importance, did not make any comment upon it to Mr. Chewkle. He felt unequal to such a task, and perhaps, too, he thought that it would be better not to suppose that the strange little moneyed man had either observed or suspected any foul play in the act he must have seen in commission. So he folded his arms, and remained silent, assuming the aspect of profound meditation.
Mr. Chewkle, finding the coast clear of the small enemy, would have given free vent to the feelings which were turbulent and in turmoil within him, but Mr. Grahame repressed the very first outbreak.
“Pray be silent on the matter,” he observed, hastily, as if aroused suddenly from a fit of abstraction, “our speculations upon the situation are worth nothing, and may lead us astray if suffered to have the rein. Keep what you know safely locked within your own breast. Trust the key in my keeping alone. Your reward shall not certainly be less than your expectations. Mr. Gomer doubtless saw me affixing a signature to a deed, and would presume it to be my own; he could not imagine the truth; and therefore, though startled at the moment, I do not, upon reflection, see any occasion for alarm. Let me see you again in a few days, my good friend, and in the meantime endeavour to suggest a mode of bringing that wretchedly obstinate old man, Wilton, to reason.”
Mr. Grahame rang a hand-bell sharply, and Whelks instantly was in the room. Mr. Chewkle “had a thing to say,” which had strong reference to an immediate pecuniary supply; but Mr. Grahame did not afford him the opportunity, for he addressed Whelks as he entered, and bade him escort Mr. Chewkle to the door. He tendered a finger to the commission agent as a parting salute, honoured him with a stiff bow, and retired promptly to the further end of the library.
“This way if you please!” exclaimed Whelks to Chewkle, as with head erect and shoulders back, he, with the stateliness of a Tartar soldier in an Astley’s drama, marched out of the room.
Mr. Chewkle glanced at Mr. Grahame and at Whelks; he had a pressing occasion for a few pounds; but though he had quite made up his mind to ask for and have a sum, and indeed in a private self-communion on his way thither that morning, he had composed the conversation which was to take place between himself and Mr. Grahame, and which was to terminate in a princely act of munificence towards him on the part of the latter personage, he found himself sneaking out, treading tip-toe on the shadow of Whelks, without having uttered a word or having obtained a penny.
The princely act of munificence did not come off upon this occasion, but he promised himself that before long it should; and, ere he was out of the house, he had flung his friendship for Grahame to the winds, and had carved for himself an antagonistic attitude, in which he played the part of one who, having in his possession a dreadful secret, by which the safety of another is compromised, makes money by it frequently.
As the door closed upon him, Mr. Grahame turned a fitful gaze in that direction, and quickly, but silently, turned the key in the lock.
Then he paced up and down the library, almost convulsed by a fierce, mental struggle. He pressed his burning palm upon his aching forehead, and muttered rapidly and wildly—
“It must be done now; there is no escape—no escape—none—retreat is utterly impossible, and the advance must be swift, or, in spite of crime, utter crushing ruin must be the result. No; there is no stopping now. That forgery is useless, worthless, while he lives to prove it what it is. But how dispose of him without having any apparent connection with his death? Let me see! I must have no accomplice. I already have one too many; he will be a thorn in my side, I can see that; but there is time enough to think of the plan by which I shall get rid of him. But this Wilton; he must die, and that immediately. Yes, he must die! he must die! or I perish! but how to kill him—how? how?”
He threw himself in his chair, and racked his brain for a device by which to accomplish his devilish purpose without compromising himself. But as he did so, the magnitude of the crime he proposed to effect was not lost upon him. He felt that his face was livid, his hands cold and clammy, while drops of icy sweat trickled from his temples on to his cheek bones. His teeth, too, chattered, and his limbs trembled, as though he had been suddenly nipped by a frost.
Some hours elapsed before his torturing reverie terminated—even then he had only an indistinct notion of the course which he calculated upon, as the best to be adopted. The vulgar modes of knife or poison, he foresaw could not be employed by him, because he would have to be connected, however remotely, with the deed; and how to accomplish his design without the aid of one or the other, was a problem harder for him to work out than the most difficult in the “first four books” to an indifferent mathematician.
He certainly hit upon a scheme, but he was not sure that it would accomplish the object in view. There was not, however, time to project a plan, requiring consummate skill in its details, and rare ability to execute. Need was driving, and the ground was such as the devil must cover without the option of a choice; and he made up his mind to act at once, for he required immediately the funds which the successful execution of his infamous purpose would place at his disposal.
As if to sustain him in the resolution he had formed, he was aroused by the arrival of Whelks at the library door, who, when it was opened, informed him that his son had just returned home, accompanied by the Duke of St. Allborne, and the Honorable Lester Vane, and that they awaited him in the drawing-room.
Dismissing Whelks with a message to the effect that he would immediately
join them, he hastened to his dressing-room, to obliterate all traces of
the mental struggle he had for so many hours endured, and, making a slight
alteration in his attire, he descended,
With
solemn step and slow,
to welcome his son’s guests upon their arrival from college.
He found, on entering the gorgeously furnished apartment, his wife and daughters entertaining the new arrivals after the manner of the House—always excepting Evangeline, who sat back in a window recess, as if she had no business there.
A few words of stately congratulation and welcome from Mr. Grahame, and the whole party returned to the position which it occupied when he entered.
The keen eye of Mr. Grahame ran over the forms of the two young men who were thus introduced into his family for the first time, and naturally the young Duke was the first to attract his attention.
He was tall—over six feet, and stout with his height. He was fair, with round blue eyes, a small mouth, and no whiskers upon his cheeks or moustache upon his upper lip, or the sign of a hair in the vicinity.
His hands and feet were small, but there was a bulky, plethoric character about his frame, and his legs had an ungraceful leaning to knock-kneeism.
The tone of his voice was rich and not unmusical; but, like many members of the aristocracy, his tongue refused to have anything to do with the letter r, and, as a not unusual consequence, he used words containing that letter more frequently than did persons who could sound it like the roll of a drumstick upon a kettle-drum.
He was dressed elegantly. The jewellery he wore, though spare in quantity, was superb in material, and super-eminently costly.
The Honorable Lester Vane was of an entirely different stamp; and could, perhaps, have better sustained the character of a duke than his friend. Standing about five feet ten, he was remarkably well-formed and erect, and seemed to be at least six feet high. He was dark; and, though not a military man, wore a handsomely-shaped and trimmed moustache: his features were regular and well-shaped: his eyes were a very dark blue, and shaded by long black eyelashes: his hair and whiskers being of the same hue as the latter. His hands were white and small, and his feet were equally neat in their proportions. He was dressed with consummate taste and care, and of all men was calculated to attract the notice of women.
Malcolm Grahame, short in stature, was a rather ugly likeness of his sister Margaret, possessing all her pride, but not enough of her studied coldness to prevent it becoming vulgar arrogance. He was rather overdressed, too; and, altogether, presented a remarkable contrast to his college companions. It was soon perceptible that he toadied them, and that they both held him at no very flattering height in their estimation.
Why, then, did they accompany him home? An answer to that question might have been found in the glances bestowed by both the young men on the beautiful Helen Grahame, who, conscious of her own charms, received the homage of their eyes as simply her due. They were both, very shortly after their introduction, aware that she interpreted their looks of admiration, rather steadfastly bestowed—that they did not surprise nor did they abash her—nay, when, to show her power, she flashed those brilliant orbs upon them by turns, with a clear, steadfast gaze, they were fain to let their eyelids fall, to screen their unsteady eyes from the direct, unfaltering look she bent upon them.
Both regarded her in the light of a prize worth having, though each looked on the achievement from a different point of view. One seriously hoped to win it without the formulary of the wedding ring—the other with that aid, but with the addition also of a golden store.
Helen Grahame was unquestionably beautiful. The heightened colour of her cheek, the sparkling dancing of her brilliant eye, as she observed the impression her personal attractions had made upon the two young highborn men, greatly enhanced that beauty, which excited admiration even when in repose. It kept them at her side, and engrossed the largest share of their attention.
With a woman’s quickness of perception, Helen saw that she should soon have both these men suitors for her favour, sighing at her feet for her love. The gracefully fashioned form of Lester Vane pleased her eye and taste—the ducal coronet of his bulky friend roused her ambition and dazzled her; and she foresaw that she should be perplexed, when, as she instinctively knew would be the case, both wooed her, which to prefer. It was something to have a handsome “Honorable” for a husband—but to be a duchess!—ah!
Why at the moment did she sigh so sharply?—why did a spasm run through her frame, and make her clutch convulsively at a chair for support? Was it that this momentary pang reminded her that in neither decision would her heart be enlisted, or that there was another and more grave consideration which rendered such a speculation a forbidden subject?
After the common-places which usually attend an introduction, Mr. Grahame suggested that the guests should be shown to their respective rooms, where they might remove the traces of their journey, and prepare their toilet for dinner, to be served at half-past eight—a suggestion which was somewhat readily accepted, and appeared to be grateful to all parties.
The Duke and the Honorable Lester Vane had heard Malcolm Grahame boast of his beautiful sister Helen and his proud sister Meg. They had availed themselves of his apparently unlimited command of money, and they considered that his family were enormously wealthy, but vulgar and common-place. When Malcolm invited them home to spend a week with him, at his “place” in London, they both, having “places” of their own in the great city, looked upon the invitation as a good joke, and accepted it in the same spirit. They each resolved to add to the favours they had bestowed upon him, by permitting him always to pay, by borrowing his money in return for their company, and by running off with the pretty sister, of whom he spoke so enthusiastically. They had even entered into a bet with each other as to which would prove successful.
They were, however, not a little surprised to find the Grahames living in a style of elegant luxury, and the members of it displaying a pride of bearing not even surpassed by the ineffably proud Somerset himself, whose wife—a Percy—never attempted the liberty of kissing him. They were equally posed to find the pretty sister a brilliant beauty, who could only be approached with deference and humility; who was not to be gained with a glance of passion, or won by the pretended asseverations of a love having no existence.
Lester Vane saw his course at once. His income was narrow, and during his father’s life would not be increased by inheritances or bequests from any branch of his family, near or remote. To gain a beautiful wife, with an enormous dowry, was precisely the means by which he purposed elevating himself to wealth, and within a few minutes after his introduction to Helen, he abandoned his criminal project, and took up the matrimonial one. He formed the determination, too, of thwarting, promptly and effectually, the Duke’s designs, without appearing to do so, until he was sure of the lady, because he knew not when and how he might require his interest and service.
The young Duke was quite thrown out, too, by what was presented to his astonished eyes. Malcolm Grahame, after all, was not the parvenu he had fancied him to be, and his sister, instead of being merely a pretty, silly girl, was one to grace a throne. His was not a nature easily to abandon a resolution once formed, and he thought of Helen as a mistress with a gratified emotion not to be described. A passion for her was at once raised in his heart. He, too, remembering his bet with Lester Vane, made his resolutions in respect to the intentions of his friend, but as his own in that particular remained unchanged, he decided upon preserving silence respecting it for the present.
Both the young men were therefore glad to escape to their rooms, to recover their surprise on finding themselves in an atmosphere they had not expected, and in contact with persons differing materially from the conceptions they had formed of them. They were anxious to reflect upon their line of conduct during their stay, and having well considered the path to choose, to follow it out.
The two girls and their mother were glad of an opportunity of comparing notes and devising plans, to be carried out so long as their guests remained.
Mr. Grahame seemed to be in a dream, glad to be away from everybody, yet hating to be alone.
A brilliant dinner was served at the appointed hour. As there was no point of resemblance in the characters of those present, save in those of Margaret Grahame and her mother, the conversation was certainly not monotonous. It afforded, however, an opportunity for those interested in such a task to observe and mentally comment upon their companions, and to draw conclusions to be treasured up for future use.
The Duke of St. Allborne was placed on the right hand of Mr. Grahame, the Honorable Lester Vane on the right of Mrs. Grahame, the Duke enjoyed the pleasure of having the fair Helen as his right hand neighbour, and Lester Vane was honoured with the company of Margaret, for which he was not disposed to be especially grateful.
Evangeline faced her brother Malcolm, and thus arranged they proceeded to discuss the various courses, to partake of the choicest wines, to converse, and to gaze upon each other.
The last item was by no means the least important. The Duke did his best to engross the conversation of Helen, and to keep his round light blue eyes settled upon her, which she affected only to observe now and then by accident. Then a scarcely perceptible smile turned the corners of her mouth.
The deep blue eyes of Lester Vane rarely left her face, even when he was addressed by others. As often as she turned hers in his direction, which, with a motive, she did occasionally, she perceived his earnest, dreamy gaze fixed upon her. Twice or thrice it made her shudder, she knew not why. It was fixed, expressive, teeming with passion, but, if it possessed fascination, it was that of the serpent. Insensibly, every now and then her eyes wandered towards his, and settled for a moment upon them, each was conscious of the effect they were creating, and when Helen averted hers, a strange dread thrilled through her frame.
Now, although the beautiful face of this girl absorbed so much of Vane’s gaze, he was not ignorant of the fact that there was another face possessing great claims to loveliness at the table.
At first the timid reserve of Evangeline had caused him to pass her over unnoticed, but now that she sat almost opposite to him, he could not fail to notice her.
She was attired in a dinner dress of pale blue and silver, and, being very fair, looked charming. Her gentleness and quietness prevented her attracting much attention. To the Duke she was mixed up with the lights, the plate, and Malcolm Grahame, but the eye of Vane marked her down.
“I must fall in with her when she is alone,” he thought; “early in the morning or in byeways. She can be made, I am sure, to believe and to keep a secret, at any self-sacrifice.”
Once more his eye fell upon Helen, who was turning her dark, bright eyes upon the Duke, and electrifying him with her beauty, while she confused him by the smartness of her sallies.
“I will have her,” mused Lester Vane. “It may be a task surrounded with almost insuperable difficulties, but I will have her.”
Margaret Claverhouse Grahame divided her attentions between her plate and the young Duke. She had estimated Lester Vane at pretty much his value, and therefore did not trouble her head any more about him. She fastened her gray eyes upon the Duke as often as her dinner would admit, and she came to the same conclusion respecting him that Lester Vane had with her sister Helen.
“He must be mine. He is fat and awkward,” she thought, “but he is a duke, and I am born to bear the rank of a duchess.”
On the period appointed by etiquette for the ladies to retire arriving, the young ladies, led by Mrs. Grahame, quitted the apartment, to leave the gentlemen to their wine. They were now on much more familiar terms with each other, and, as the ladies retired, the Duke rising with the gentlemen, said to Helen—
“Weally, Miss Gwahame, I gwow evwy day moah and moah convinced that the wegulation which dwove the ladies fwom our society, though only faw a time, was absolutely bawbawous; and the pwesent fashion which pwescwibes a limit to the sepawation, an intwo-duction of the most admiwable kind. Believe me, I shall, with all wespect to my hospitable host, count the minutes until we join you in the dwawing woom.”
“And I!” exclaimed Lester Vane, in a tone of voice which compelled Helen to turn towards him; their eyes met—again she felt a strange, thrilling dread pass over her frame; she turned her eyes away.
“I am grateful!” she responded with a bow, and hastily quitted the room with her mother and sisters.
She did not enter the drawing-room, but ran into her own dressing-room, and, throwing herself in a chair, buried her face in a handkerchief.
She gave way to a passionate burst of tears; presently she drew from her bosom a small note, broke the seal, and perused its contents many times, and then she crushed it in her hand.
“How inopportune!” she exclaimed, in a vexed tone; “any night but this; still the terms are so peremptory; what is to be done?” She looked at her watch. “It is the hour,” she said; “what if I let it pass by, and go not? we part then to meet no more—no, no, that must not be—oh, fickle heart, to what fate will you drive me!”
At this moment her maid entered the room, and she hastily secreted the note. She mused for a second, and then she said—
“Chayter, give me a shawl; I will walk in the garden; my head aches.”
“It is very dark, miss,” returned the girl, “and the air is getting cold. It will be dangerous to your health to walk there now.”
“Give me a shawl, Chayter,” cried Helen, impatiently. “It is my pleasure to walk there—my brain burns.”
The girl knew it was useless to remonstrate further, and handed her a thick shawl, which she threw hastily over her head, and left the room. In a moment she returned, and said—
“Chayter, that dress I bade you alter this morning, you may keep.”
“Oh thank you, miss,” exclaimed the girl, joyfully, for it was a rich one.
“And, Chayter, remain here until you see me. Remember that if I am sent for, to say that I am lying upon my couch for a few minutes, and do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Do not mention a word to any one that I have gone to the garden.”
“Not to a soul, miss.”
“There’s a good girl; I will reward you on my return.”
As she concluded, she hastened down the private staircase.
“She’s got a sweetheart, I’ll swear!” murmured Chayter reflectively. “I’ll find that out, see if I don’t that will be many a dress in my way.”
Helen hurried on tiptoe until she reached one of the parlours which had a window opening on to the lawn. She passed out thence, closing the window silently after her.
She kept upon the lawn, in the shadow of the house, for a short distance, and then pursuing a winding path, did not pause until she reached a small thicket of trees planted on the banks of a tongue of land curving the ornamental waters.
Here she stood still for a moment, and then she coughed thrice. A voice whispered, “Helen!” and she clapped her hand. The next instant there issued from the thicket a young man, who immediately placed himself at her side.
“I feared you would not come, dearest!” he said, in a low tone.
“Oh, Hugh!” she answered; “it was indeed a task difficult to execute, but you so earnestly wished me to meet you that I am here.”
“It is shameful of me to doubt you, Helen, after the proofs of affection which you have bestowed upon me, yet I know the full value of my prize, and I so fear to lose it.”
“And you still love me, Hugh?” she asked, thoughtfully.
“Love you!—oh, Helen! why do you ask that terrible question? Have I changed in look, in word, in thought, in act?” he exclaimed, earnestly.
“No!” she said, “oh, no! yet do you not think a time may come when your love for me will be diverted to another?”
“Helen!”
“Can you not, Hugh, imagine a time when one fairer, less exacting, more gentle, than myself, may win from me that love you say I now alone possess?”
“Helen, this language affrights me—I do not understand it!” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise; and then added, passionately, “surely it is not for you to hazard such a terrible supposition! I love you, Helen—I have sworn it! I shall never change, never swerve from that adoration, that idolatry, with which I worship you. Oh! we are about to part for a time, Helen, and is this a moment to raise such doubts?”
She remained silent.
He pressed his clenched hand upon his heart, and said, with deep emotion—
“Helen, I repeat, we are about to part: you cannot have met me to tell me that the love you have declared for me, the love which you have proved, and which I have, oh! so fondly, so dearly cherished, has faded suddenly away at a moment, and you wish that the separation commencing now should last for ever? You dare not do it!”
“Oh! no, no, Hugh, no!” she cried earnestly.
“Helen!” he ejaculated, in low but deep tones, as though his very existence depended upon her answer, “you have, as I believe, proved to me that you loved me; you love me still, do you not?”
“Oh! yes, yes, Hugh,” she returned, with fervour, “I do, indeed, Hugh, love you with my whole soul.”
She sank upon his breast, and he pressed his lips to hers, passionately.
At this instant there was the sound of a footstep upon the gravel path.
She sprang from his embrace.
“For Heaven’s sake, be silent!” she whispered.
She turned her eyes in the direction of the advancing footsteps, and saw, approaching the spot where she stood with her companion, the Honorable Lester Vane.