SANCTUARY.
That same night, in a poorly furnished chamber, Esther sat, with bowed head, and hands clasped in her lap. By her side crouched an aged woman who mumbled incessantly, mingling wails, maledictions, and incomprehensible reminiscences of her childhood with fragments of prayers and scraps of biblical texts. She spoke to herself, never addressing the girl, who on her part paid her no heed. Esther's attention was riveted upon the sounds which reached her from the streets. With every minute the firing of a platoon, the crash of a wall undermined by the flames, or a savage clamor which rent the air, reached her ears and made her tremble.
The chamber was situated upon the second floor of a low house at the end of an alley, apparently deserted by its inhabitants; for there was no movement of life and no human being in sight. But at sixty paces away, though invisible, the great artery of Holborn, filled to overflowing with the howling, maddened crowd, sent a rumor of its infernal tumult to the two women. No candle burned in the room, but the neighboring glare from the conflagration of Langdale House illumined every object as distinctly as though it were noonday. Thus the hours dragged themselves away in gloomy monotony, notwithstanding the proximity of the confusion and the fury of human passions in a state of paroxysm. Suddenly Esther sprang to her feet.
"Maud," she exclaimed, "the flames are gaining upon us!"
It was true. From the side of the little court upon which the chamber looked, the panes of a grated window had burst into fragments, while a tongue of flame had suddenly darted forth, licking the blackened walls and casting its lightning athwart the pervading flare.
"Maud! Maud! Soon it will be no longer safe for us to remain here!"
"God be praised!" answered the old woman, having raised a vague glance upon the scene. "He gives the victory unto his saints; it is he who has cast both horse and rider into the sea!"
"She is madder than ever," thought Esther; "this night has quite unseated her reason.—And Mons. Lebeau does not return!"
What was to be done? What resolution ought to be taken?
The circumstances which had led her into this perilous situation passed swiftly through her mind. When she had placed her hand in that of the unknown who had pronounced the preconcerted signal,—"The moon has risen!"—she immediately experienced a sense of regret at her fault; but this regret had not been sufficiently potent to arrest in time the accomplishment of her resolution. She permitted herself to be conducted to the door where the sedan-chair awaited her.
"No!" she then exclaimed, "this is enough! I will go no farther!"
"This is no time for discussion," replied an imperious voice which was not Lord Mowbray's; "get into the chair, quick!"
The thought of Frank, whom she was now certain she loved since jealousy had cast its unerring ray into the depths of her heart—this thought tortured her.
"I am lost!" she cried, "lost!"
"On the contrary, you are saved!"
And with the words ringing in her ears the chair started. The men almost ran with it, the result of the masked personage having said something to them about "paying double."
In less than a quarter of an hour the chair stopped in an alley-way off Holborn, and the gentleman, conducting the fugitive into one of the houses, dismissed the bearers.
When at last they were alone in the chamber upon the second floor and the man had succeeded in lighting a candle upon the mantelpiece, Esther easily recognized him.
"Mons. Lebeau!" she gasped in surprise.
"Yes," he replied, "and you are out of all danger here, absolute mistress of your destiny, since all that I wish is to offer you some respectful advice."
"But how could you have known? How could you take the place of another?"
"That is my secret—at least for the present. It is enough that I have succeeded. One word which has escaped you has led me to believe that you will not blame me for my intervention. I await the assurance with anxiety. Have I been in the wrong to act as I have?"
"No," she answered after a moment's hesitation, "and I thank you. I do not love Lord Mowbray, and my folly was as inexcusable as it has been without consolation."
An expression of joy illumined Lebeau's withered features.
"Good!" he said. "But what motive has led you astray for the moment?"
"Vanity. Lord Mowbray assured me that he wished to make me his wife."
"His wife! He never dreamed of doing such a thing! Moreover, such a marriage would have been impossible. But let us speak no more about it."
"Are you not going to take me back to my aunt, whom I left in such a ridiculous predicament, and who must be dying with anxiety about me?"
"The predicament of which you speak must have soon terminated; and as for her anxiety, it is my duty not to disturb it for the present. Lord Mowbray has sworn that, by consent or force, he would abduct you this night, and I am not sure that you would be safe in the house in Tothill Fields, where there is no one to defend you, not even your cousin Reuben. These are my humble lodgings, although none of my acquaintances know of its existence nor the way thither. Rest here for a few hours. To-morrow, by daylight, we will consider the situation. Be very sure that Mrs. Marsham will raise no objection, will address you no shadow of reproach. Your fault will not transpire, since I will tell her that it was I who brought you here to save you from the peril which menaced your honor."
"She knows you, then?"
"Very well indeed."
"For some time?"
"For a very long time."
After a brief pause he added,—
"It was I who brought you, a little child, to her house before you were confided to the care of the Quakeresses at Bristol."
"Is it possible!"
And, impetuously seizing Lebeau's hand, she added:—
"Then you knew my parents? O, I beseech you, sir, tell me something of my mother! Who was she? Do I resemble her? Where did she die, and how?"
The queries crowded to her lips in an imperative tumult.
Lebeau's features relaxed in a melancholy smile.
"Patience!" he replied. "Later I will tell you all. Only know that your mother was exceedingly beautiful, and that you are her living image. She too was carried away by excess of emotion and by the thirst of adventure. There was no one at hand to give her timely warning, and she paid dearly for her imprudence."
Esther bowed her head, while a tear glided slowly from her lashes to her cheek.
"It was then that your father met her and took pity upon her. She was in sore need of pity and protection. Her child was born. You are that child."
"Alas!" murmured Esther. "But my father—is he still living?"
"Yes."
"Why does he not come? Why does he not show himself? I should be so happy to embrace him!"
At this moment an extraordinary change took place in Lebeau. His features, scarred by the battle with life, his dulled eyes, his entire vulgar face were ennobled with a solemn tenderness. Irresistibly his arms seemed to open to clasp the girl to his breast. Then they fell at his sides, and his face resumed its expression of discouragement and fatigue.
"Your father would indeed be happy," he said, "and very proud to call you his daughter; but circumstances prevent. I do not justify his conduct; far from it. He has committed wrongs, grievous wrongs,—and even more than that!"
Esther recoiled from him violently.
"You are my father's friend, and you calumniate him!"
Lebeau's only response was a shrug of his shoulders and a sigh. He turned to the window, and from a convulsive movement of his back Esther divined that he was weeping. In a moment she was at his side.
"Pardon me!" she cried, "pardon! You are perhaps the only human being whose interest in me is not tainted with calculation. You have saved me from death, you have saved me from shame, and by way of recompense I accuse and wound you! O, pardon me, my friend!"
Delightful words to Lebeau's ear!
"Thank you, my child," he said; "thank you, and good by. It is already daybreak, and all is calm. Sleep in peace. In a few hours I will return."
And Mons. Lebeau hastened away. Left alone, Esther dared not undress in a house which filled her with forebodings. She threw herself upon the bed just as she was, clasping in her hand a tiny poignard which had been Garrick's gift. Tradition had it that the weapon had once belonged to Sir William Davenant, who pretended to have received it from Ben Jonson. The latter, while a soldier in Flanders, had purchased it of a Jew who came from Italy. It was a marvellous bit of Florentine work, and must have been manufactured towards the close of the fifteenth century. What had been its history? In what dramas had it taken part? What ferocious jealousies, what mortal desires, had it served? Had it ever been dyed in human blood? In whose snowy breast, in whose throbbing heart, had it been plunged? Considering these fancies, but especially her own destiny, her imagination in a whirl, our little heroine fell asleep.
When she awoke she perceived Lebeau, who stood watching her as she slept, and she heard the clocks chiming high noon.
"Well?" she demanded.
"I came from Tothill Fields," he answered; "the house is full of soldiers come thither to arrest your cousin Reuben, and they are to remain there, lying in ambush to surprise him upon his return. Your aunt has not come home, and up to the present time I have been unable to discover her place of refuge. Old Maud was alone at the mercy of the soldiers, whom, in her turn, she provoked and insulted. I have brought her here. She will attend to your wants and will be a companion for you so long as you are obliged to lie in concealment here, which from present appearances may be for some time; for the city is still in an agitated state, and this very disorder singularly favors your admirer's plans, since he has not lost the hope of taking his revenge."
Soon after Lebeau departed, promising to return on the morrow with the latest tidings; but Sunday passed and he did not appear. On Monday a child brought an unsigned note from him, which ran:—
"I cannot come to see you. I am suspected, and every step I take is shadowed. Have patience until to-morrow."
The rioting had begun again, and the two women in their sanctuary listened to the sound of it as it grew each minute more distinct. Esther slept but little that night.
Next day affairs assumed an even more threatening aspect. The Langdale distillery was in flames close by, although the situation of the house prevented the girl from following the progress of the catastrophe. Towards evening, when the tumult increased and the firing became general, her agitation was extreme. The sight of the flames which enwrapped the neighboring buildings and threatened her refuge put the finishing touch upon her anxiety.
"Shall I remain here," she thought, "shut up with this crazy old creature, who does nothing but sing psalms? Shall I suffer myself to be burned alive in this strange trap? Mons. Lebeau has forgotten me or else he cannot come to me. Who knows if he is even alive?"
She approached the window and looked at the tower of St. Giles, upon which the clock marked the first hour of a new day. So brilliant was the flare from the conflagration that Esther could distinguish the delicate V-shaped shadow which the hands made upon the dial, the slightest detail in the sculpture about the dial, and even the joining of the masonry.
She resolved to depart. But where should she go? She knew not; but first of all it was necessary to escape from the circle of fire which was fast hemming her in. She put on her mantle and cast a silken handkerchief over her hair, knotting it under her chin. Then she called Maud, who had passed into an adjoining chamber.
But here she found herself in the presence of an unlooked-for difficulty. The old woman had fallen fast asleep and only responded to her words, her entreaties and cries by vague mutterings without awakening in the slightest degree. Esther shook her in desperation and tugged at her garments, but her girlish strength, depleted by the sense of her peril, was powerless to arouse the inert mass.
Perhaps she might secure assistance from outside! She opened the outer door, and, standing upon the threshold, cried, "Help!"
All in vain; her voice was lost, incapable of piercing the tumult. She was scarcely able to hear it herself. No one appeared. The neighboring houses, deserted as they were, were slowly yielding to the flames, and no one appeared to think of disputing the ravage. The almost intolerable heat fairly scorched the girl's eyelids.
Then she rushed towards Holborn, crossed like a flash the vaulted arcade, the only exit which opened from that side, and ran into the highway.
There she paused, terrified by the spectacle which met her gaze.