Night and Morning Part 72

As he spoke, however, he attempted to touch it, and was repulsed with an energy that rather disconcerted him. The poor girl recoiled from him into the farthest corner of that prison in speechless horror--in the darkest confusion of ideas. She did not weep--she did not sob--but her trembling seemed to shake the very carriage. The man continued to address, to expostulate, to pray, to soothe.

His manner was respectful. His protestations that he would not harm her for the world were endless.

"Only just see the home I can give you; for two days--for one day. Only just hear how rich I can make you and your grandfather, and then if you wish to leave me, you shall."

More, much more, to this effect, did he continue to pour forth, without extracting any sound from f.a.n.n.y but gasps as for breath, and now and then a low murmur:

"Let me go, let me go! My grandfather, my blind grandfather!"

And finally tears came to her relief, and she sobbed with a pa.s.sion that alarmed, and perhaps even touched her companion, cynical and icy as he was. Meanwhile the carriage seemed to fly. Fast as two horses, thorough-bred, and almost at full speed, could go, they were whirled along, till about an hour, or even less, from the time in which she had been thus captured, the carriage stopped.

"Are we here already?" said the man, putting his head out of the window.

"Do then as I told you. Not to the front door; to my study."

In two minutes more the carriage halted again, before a building which looked white and ghostlike through the mist. The driver dismounted, opened with a latch-key a window-door, entered for a moment to light the candles in a solitary room from a fire that blazed on the hearth, reappeared, and opened the carriage-door. It was with a difficulty for which they were scarcely prepared that they were enabled to get f.a.n.n.y from the carriage. No soft words, no whispered prayers could draw her forth; and it was with no trifling address, for her companion sought to be as gentle as the force necessary to employ would allow, that he disengaged her hands from the window-frame, the lining, the cus.h.i.+ons, to which they clung; and at last bore her into the house. The driver closed the window again as he retreated, and they were alone. f.a.n.n.y then cast a wild, scarce conscious glance over the apartment. It was small and simply furnished. Opposite to her was an old-fas.h.i.+oned bureau, one of those quaint, elaborate monuments of Dutch ingenuity, which, during the present century, the audacious spirit of curiosity-vendors has transplanted from their native receptacles, to contrast, with grotesque strangeness, the neat handiwork of Gillow and Seddon. It had a physiognomy and character of its own--this fantastic foreigner! Inlaid with mosaics, depicting landscapes and animals; graceless in form and fas.h.i.+on, but still picturesque, and winning admiration, when more closely observed, from the patient defiance of all rules of taste which had formed its c.u.mbrous parts into one profusely ornamented and eccentric whole. It was the more noticeable from its total want of harmony with the other appurtenances of the room, which bespoke the tastes of the plain English squire. Prints of horses and hunts, fis.h.i.+ng-rods and fowling-pieces, carefully suspended, decorated the walls. Not, however, on this notable stranger from the sluggish land rested the eye of f.a.n.n.y. That, in her hurried survey, was arrested only by a portrait placed over the bureau--the portrait of a female in the bloom of life; a face so fair, a brow so candid, and eyes so pure, a lip so rich in youth and joy--that as her look lingered on the features f.a.n.n.y felt comforted, felt as if some living protectress were there. The fire burned bright and merrily; a table, spread as for dinner, was drawn near it. To any other eye but f.a.n.n.y's the place would have seemed a picture of English comfort. At last her looks rested on her companion.

He had thrown himself, with a long sigh, partly of fatigue, partly of satisfaction, on one of the chairs, and was contemplating her as she thus stood and gazed, with an expression of mingled curiosity and admiration; she recognised at once her first, her only persecutor. She recoiled, and covered her face with her hands. The man approached her:--

"Do not hate me, f.a.n.n.y,--do not turn away. Believe me, though I have acted thus violently, here all violence will cease. I love you, but I will not be satisfied till you love me in return. I am not young, and I am not handsome, but I am rich and great, and I can make those whom I love happy,--so happy, f.a.n.n.y!"

But f.a.n.n.y had turned away, and was now busily employed in trying to re-open the door at which she had entered. Failing in this, she suddenly darted away, opened the inner door, and rushed into the pa.s.sage with a loud cry. Her persecutor stifled an oath, and sprung after and arrested her. He now spoke sternly, and with a smile and a frown at once:--

"This is folly;--come back, or you will repent it! I have promised you, as a gentleman--as a n.o.bleman, if you know what that is--to respect you.

But neither will I myself be trifled with nor insulted. There must be no screams!"

His look and his voice awed f.a.n.n.y in spite of her bewilderment and her loathing, and she suffered herself pa.s.sively to be drawn into the room.

He closed and bolted the door. She threw herself on the ground in one corner, and moaned low but piteously. He looked at her musingly for some moments, as he stood by the fire, and at last went to the door, opened it, and called "Harriet" in a low voice. Presently a young woman, of about thirty, appeared, neatly but plainly dressed, and of a countenance that, if not very winning, might certainly be called very handsome.

He drew her aside for a few moments, and a whispered conference was exchanged. He then walked gravely up to f.a.n.n.y "My young friend," said he, "I see my presence is too much for you this evening. This young woman will attend you--will get you all you want. She can tell you, too, that I am not the terrible sort of person you seem to suppose. I shall see you to-morrow." So saying, he turned on his heel and walked out.

f.a.n.n.y felt something like liberty, something like joy, again. She rose, and looked so pleadingly, so earnestly, so intently into the woman's face, that Harriet turned away her bold eyes abashed; and at this moment d.y.k.eman himself looked into the room.

"You are to bring us in dinner here yourself, uncle; and then go to my lord in the drawing-room."

d.y.k.eman looked pleased, and vanished. Then Harriet came up and took f.a.n.n.y's hand, and said, kindly,--

"Don't be frightened. I a.s.sure you, half the girls in London would give I don't know what to be in your place. My lord never will force you to do anything you don't like--it's not his way; and he's the kindest and best man,--and so rich; he does not know what to do with his money!"

To all this f.a.n.n.y made but one answer,--she threw herself suddenly upon the woman's breast, and sobbed out: "My grandfather is blind, he cannot do without me--he will die--die. Have you n.o.body you love, too? Let me go--let me out! What can they want with me?--I never did harm to any one."

"And no one will harm you;--I swear it!" said Harriet, earnestly. "I see you don't know my lord. But here's the dinner; come, and take a bit of something, and a gla.s.s of wine."

f.a.n.n.y could not touch anything except a gla.s.s of water, and that nearly choked her. But at last, as she recovered her senses, the absence of her tormentor--the presence of a woman--the solemn a.s.surances of Harriet that, if she did not like to stay there, after a day or two, she should go back, tranquillised her in some measure. She did not heed the artful and lengthened eulogiums that the she-tempter then proceeded to pour forth upon the virtues, and the love, and the generosity, and, above all, the money of my lord. She only kept repeating to herself, "I shall go back in a day or two." At length, Harriet, having eaten and drunk as much as she could by her single self, and growing wearied with efforts from which so little resulted, proposed to f.a.n.n.y to retire to rest.

She opened a door to the right of the fireplace, and lighted her up a winding staircase to a pretty and comfortable chamber, where she offered to help her to undress. f.a.n.n.y's complete innocence, and her utter ignorance of the precise nature of the danger that awaited her, though she fancied it must be very great and very awful, prevented her quite comprehending all that Harriet meant to convey by her solemn a.s.surances that she should not be disturbed. But she understood, at least, that she was not to see her hateful gaoler till the next morning; and when Harriet, wis.h.i.+ng her "good night," showed her a bolt to her door, she was less terrified at the thought of being alone in that strange place.

She listened till Harriet's footsteps had died away, and then, with a beating heart, tried to open the door; it was locked from without. She sighed heavily. The window?--alas! when she had removed the shutter, there was another one barred from without, which precluded all hope there; she had no help for it but to bolt her door, stand forlorn and amazed at her own condition, and, at last, falling on her knees, to pray, in her own simple fas.h.i.+on, which since her recent visits to the schoolmistress had become more intelligent and earnest, to Him from whom no bolts and no bars can exclude the voice of the human heart.

CHAPTER XIII.

"In te omnis domus inclinata rec.u.mbit."--VIRGIL.

[On thee the whole house rests confidingly.]

Lord Lilburne, seated before a tray in the drawing-room, was finis.h.i.+ng his own solitary dinner, and d.y.k.eman was standing close behind him, nervous and agitated. The confidence of many years between the master and the servant--the peculiar mind of Lilburne, which excluded him from all friends.h.i.+p with his own equals--had established between the two the kind of intimacy so common with the n.o.ble and the valet of the old French regime, and indeed, in much Lilburne more resembled the men of that day and land, than he did the n.o.bler and statelier being which belongs to our own. But to the end of time, whatever is at once vicious, polished, and intellectual, will have a common likeness.

"But, my lord," said d.y.k.eman, "just reflect. This girl is so well known in the place; she will be sure to be missed; and if any violence is done to her, it's a capital crime, my lord--a capital crime. I know they can't hang a great lord like you, but all concerned in it may----"

Lord Lilburne interrupted the speaker by, "Give me some wine and hold your tongue!" Then, when he had emptied his gla.s.s, he drew himself nearer to the fire, warmed his hands, mused a moment, and turned round to his confidant:--

"d.y.k.eman," said he, "though you're an a.s.s and a coward, and you don't deserve that I should be so condescending, I will relieve your fears at once. I know the law better than you can, for my whole life has been spent in doing exactly as I please, without ever putting myself in the power of LAW, which interferes with the pleasures of other men. You are right in saying violence would be a capital crime. Now the difference between vice and crime is this: Vice is what parsons write sermons against, Crime is what we make laws against. I never committed a crime in all my life,--at an age between fifty and sixty--I am not going to begin. Vices are safe things; I may have my vices like other men: but crimes are dangerous things--illegal things--things to be carefully avoided. Look you" (and here the speaker, fixing his puzzled listener with his eye, broke into a grin of sublime mockery), "let me suppose you to be the World--that cringing valet of valets, the WORLD! I should say to you this, 'My dear World, you and I understand each other well,--we are made for each other,--I never come in your way, nor you in mine. If I get drunk every day in my own room, that's vice, you can't touch me; if I take an extra gla.s.s for the first time in my life, and knock down the watchman, that's a crime which, if I am rich, costs me one pound--perhaps five pounds; if I am poor, sends me to the treadmill. If I break the hearts of five hundred old fathers, by buying with gold or flattery the embraces of five hundred young daughters, that's vice,--your servant, Mr. World! If one termagant wench scratches my face, makes a noise, and goes brazen-faced to the Old Bailey to swear to her shame, why that's crime, and my friend, Mr. World, pulls a hemp-rope out of his pocket.' Now, do you understand? Yes, I repeat," he added, with a change of voice, "I never committed a crime in my life,--I have never even been accused of one,--never had an action of crim. con.--of seduction against me. I know how to manage such matters better. I was forced to carry off this girl, because I had no other means of courting her. To court her is all I mean to do now. I am perfectly aware that an action for violence, as you call it, would be the more disagreeable, because of the very weakness of intellect which the girl is said to possess, and of which report I don't believe a word. I shall most certainly avoid even the remotest appearance that could be so construed.

It is for that reason that no one in the house shall attend the girl except yourself and your niece. Your niece I can depend on, I know; I have been kind to her; I have got her a good husband; I shall get her husband a good place;--I shall be G.o.dfather to her first child. To be sure, the other servants will know there's a lady in the house, but to that they are accustomed; I don't set up for a Joseph. They need know no more, unless you choose to blab it out. Well, then, supposing that at the end of a few days, more or less, without any rudeness on my part, a young woman, after seeing a few jewels, and fine dresses, and a pretty house, and being made very comfortable, and being convinced that her grandfather shall be taken care of without her slaving herself to death, chooses of her own accord to live with me, where's the crime, and who can interfere with it?"

"Certainly, my lord, that alters the case," said d.y.k.eman, considerably relieved. "But still," he added, anxiously, "if the inquiry is made,--if before all this is settled, it is found out where she is?"

"Why then no harm will be done--no violence will be committed. Her grandfather,--drivelling and a miser, you say--can be appeased by a little money, and it will be n.o.body's business, and no case can be made of it. Tus.h.!.+ man! I always look before I leap! People in this world are not so charitable as you suppose. What more natural than that a poor and pretty girl--not as wise as Queen Elizabeth--should be tempted to pay a visit to a rich lover!

"All they can say of the lover is, that he is a very gay man or a very bad man, and that's saying nothing new of me. But don't think it will be found out. Just get me that stool; this has been a very troublesome piece of business--rather tried me. I am not so young as I was. Yes, d.y.k.eman, something which that Frenchman Vaudemont, or Vautrien, or whatever his name is, said to me once, has a certain degree of truth. I felt it in the last fit of the gout, when my pretty niece was smoothing my pillows. A nurse, as we grow older, may be of use to one. I wish to make this girl like me, or be grateful to me. I am meditating a longer and more serious attachment than usual,--a companion!"

"A companion, my lord, in that poor creature!--so ignorant--so uneducated!"

"So much the better. This world palls upon me," said Lilburne, almost gloomily. "I grow sick of the miserable quackeries--of the piteous conceits that men, women, and children call 'knowledge,' I wish to catch a glimpse of nature before I die. This creature interests me, and that is something in this life. Clear those things away, and leave me."

"Ay!" muttered Lilburne, as he bent over the fire alone, "when I first heard that that girl was the granddaughter of Simon Gawtrey, and, therefore, the child of the man whom I am to thank that I am a cripple, I felt as if love to her were a part of that hate which I owe to him; a segment in the circle of my vengeance. But now, poor child!

"I forget all this. I feel for her, not pa.s.sion, but what I never felt before, affection. I feel that if I had such a child, I could understand what men mean when they talk of the tenderness of a father. I have not one impure thought for that girl--not one. But I would give thousands if she could love me. Strange! strange! in all this I do not recognise myself!"

Lord Lilburne retired to rest betimes that night; he slept sound; rose refreshed at an earlier hour than usual; and what he considered a fit of vapours of the previous night was pa.s.sed away. He looked with eagerness to an interview with f.a.n.n.y. Proud of his intellect, pleased in any of those sinister exercises of it which the code and habits of his life so long permitted to him, he regarded the conquest of his fair adversary with the interest of a scientific game. Harriet went to f.a.n.n.y's room to prepare her to receive her host; and Lord Lilburne now resolved to make his own visit the less unwelcome by reserving for his especial gift some showy, if not valuable, trinkets, which for similar purposes never failed the depositories of the villa he had purchased for his pleasures.

He, recollected that these gewgaws were placed in the bureau in the study; in which, as having a lock of foreign and intricate workmans.h.i.+p, he usually kept whatever might tempt cupidity in those frequent absences when the house was left guarded but by two women servants. Finding that f.a.n.n.y had not yet quitted her own chamber, while Harriet went up to attend and reason with her, he himself limped into the study below, unlocked the bureau, and was searching in the drawers, when he heard the voice of f.a.n.n.y above, raised a little as if in remonstrance or entreaty; and he paused to listen. He could not, however, distinguish what was said; and in the meanwhile, without attending much to what he was about, his bands were still employed in opening and shutting the drawers, pa.s.sing through the pigeon-holes, and feeling for a topaz brooch, which he thought could not fail of pleasing the unsophisticated eyes of f.a.n.n.y.

One of the recesses was deeper than the rest; he fancied the brooch was there; he stretched his hand into the recess; and, as the room was partially darkened by the lower shutters from without, which were still unclosed to prevent any attempted escape of his captive, he had only the sense of touch to depend on; not finding the brooch, he stretched on till he came to the extremity of the recess, and was suddenly sensible of a sharp pain; the flesh seemed caught as in a trap; he drew back his finger with sudden force and a half-suppressed exclamation, and he perceived the bottom or floor of the pigeon-hole recede, as if sliding back. His curiosity was aroused; he again felt warily and cautiously, and discovered a very slight inequality and roughness at the extremity of the recess. He was aware instantly that there was some secret spring; he pressed with some force on the spot, and he felt the board give way; he pushed it back towards him, and it slid suddenly with a whirring noise, and left a cavity below exposed to his sight. He peered in, and drew forth a paper; he opened it at first carelessly, for he was still trying to listen to f.a.n.n.y. His eye ran rapidly over a few preliminary lines till it rested on what follows:

"Marriage. The year 18--

"No. 83, page 21.

"Philip Beaufort, of this parish of A-----, and Catherine Morton, of the parish of St. Botolph, Aldgate, London, were married in this church by banns, this 12th day of November, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ----' by me,

"CALEB PRICE, Vicar.

"This marriage was solemnised between us,

"PHILIP BEAUFORT.

"CATHERINE MORTON.

"In the presence of "DAVID APREECE.

"WILLIAM SMITH.

"The above is a true copy taken from the registry of marriages, in A-----parish, this 19th day of March, 18--, by me,