What was it that stirred?

Scarcely a sound at all—not half so definite as the cracking of the twigs, the boom of the night moth against the window; yet it affected Helen as those sounds never did. When it had occurred twice she raised her head. It was nothing, and yet—— Again! What was it? Though you would not call it a sound, it made the air thrill as no sound of the inanimate ever does. She looked up, but the light of her own lamp blinded her. She could scarcely see beyond its charmed circle. Then a slight jar succeeded to the soft pressure, as of a human foot upon the turf. A sound that conveys purpose and energy, how different is it from the aimless noises of nature! She rose up in great, though restrained alarm, with a cry almost on her lips. Then Helen reflected that all the servants were far away, that a scream would not help her much; and though her heart beat wildly, almost taking from her both sight and hearing, she still could, after a sort, both hear and see. She stood up, closely drawn against the wall, looking out with puckered eyelids. Then a hand stole between the curtains of the nearest window: they were pushed aside, and a dark figure showed itself, at first indistinguishable, a something merely, an emblem of mystery and danger. Helen’s scream got vent, but in a low cry only of fright and dismay. Then all at once the fluttering of her heart stopped, her pulses regained their steadiness.

“Papa!” she said, “oh, how you have frightened me! Why didn’t you come in the other way?” It was a great relief, for her terror had been all the greater that she had never experienced any visionary alarms before, and her imagination was unprepared. She put out her hand to the bell, “I will ring for Brownlow——”

Her father did not leave her time even for another word. He sprang forward and caught her arm. “Don’t do anything of the kind,” he said. “I want no Brownlow. I am going again immediately. I want no one. I don’t wish it to be known that I have been here.”

It was certainly her father, but not the placid, prosperous, moneyed man she knew. His coat, which was of a rough kind she had never seen him wear before, was beaded with rain. His face was pale and haggard; his dress bore traces of mud, as if he had scrambled over ditches; his boots were wet and clogged with the damp soil. She looked at him with a terror she could not express, and he looked at her with a somewhat stern inquiry in his eyes.

“But you are wet: you want—dinner—something?” she faltered. “Shall I run and bid them bring——”

He shook her slightly, still holding her arm. “Are you good for anything?” he said. “Have you any stuff in you? Now is the time to test it. Go and get that white rag off. Put on your darkest dress, and come with me.”

“Come with you? To-night, papa?”

He gave her a slight shake again. “It will neither be to-night or any other night if you make so much noise. What are you capable of, Helen? Are you able to be quick, and silent, and brave? Can I rely upon you?—if not, say so; but make up your mind, for there is not a moment to lose.”

She grew whiter than her white dress, and looked at him with gleaming, wide-open eyes. She had read of appeals like this, but she could not remember how the heroines responded. She said, faltering, “I can be quick, and quiet, papa.”

“That is all that is necessary; but we have not a moment’s time to lose. No one must know that I have been here. I shall go out again outside the window and wait for you. Go up to my room, to the little Italian cabinet near my bed, on the right hand. You know it, and you know how to open the secret drawer? Here is the key: bring me a little portfolio, a sort of letter-case you will find in it. Stop; that is not all. Change your dress and put on thick boots, and a cloak, and a veil. Then go and bring Janey——”

“Janey! papa? She has been in bed for hours.”

“Did I say she was not in bed? Take up the child out of her bed, wrap her in something, and bring her down-stairs. You can surely carry that little thing down-stairs. After that I’ll take charge of her myself.”

“But, papa, Janey! she is so little. If I wake her she will cry.”

“Not she! But why wake her at all? Lift her, and wrap her in something warm; she need not be awoke. My poor little Janey! I can’t go without my Janey,” he said to himself.

Helen scarcely knew what she was saying in her consternation and surprise. “If you are going anywhere, papa, and want to take Janey—at this hour—would it not be best to order the brougham?”

“Would it not be best to order a coach and six, with half-a-dozen fools to draw it?” he said savagely. Just then some far-off sounds were audible, some one moving in the silence of the house. Mr Goulburn made a hurried step towards the window. Then paused and said in a half-whisper, which he seemed to try to make kind, “Let me see what mettle you are made of, Helen. Do what I have told you without betraying yourself—without attracting any one’s attention. Show what you are good for, once in your life.”

He disappeared, and Helen stood for a moment like one in a dream. Was it a dream? and would she awake?—or had the rest of her life been a dream to which this was the awaking? She felt that her father was watching her from behind the white mist of the curtains, and that she dared not delay. She went up-stairs mechanically. The huge house lay silent like an enchanted palace. On Saturdays it was always possible that the master might not return until the late train, and it was common for the great household of servants, badly ruled and prodigal, to hold a sort of domestic saturnalia on that night. Faint sounds of fun and frolic were to be heard from the servants’ hall—very faint, for Brownlow had a sense of his responsibilities—and all the guardians of the place were out of the way. Helen went up, unseen and solitary, to her father’s room and her own. She did what he had told her—changed her own dress, and took the Russia leather letter-case, which was full apparently of papers, out of the secret drawer of the cabinet. But there she paused; the other part of the mission was more difficult; and Helen stood still again, with a beating heart, outside the door of little Janey’s nursery, where the nurse certainly ought to be, even if all the other servants were off duty. What should she do if the nurse were there? Her mission was difficult enough without that. When Helen went in, however, to the luxurious rooms appropriated to her little sister, no nurse was visible. The child of the millionaire slept, unwatched, like the child of the poorest clerk. A faint night-light burnt in the inner room. There were acres of stairs and corridors between little Janey and the highly paid functionary who was supposed to be devoted to her body and soul. She might have died of fright before any one could have heard her cry. Helen stood, breathless, at the foot of the little bed in which Janey lay fast asleep. She thought she had never realised before what perfect rest was, or the beauty of the child who lay with her pretty round arms thrown above her head, rosy with sleep and warmth, her soft breathing making a little murmurous cadence in the stillness. How can I have the heart to wake her? Helen said to herself; a new sentiment, half tenderness, half fear, seemed to awaken in her heart. To wake the little one to this hurried incomprehensible night journey seemed terrible—yet somehow Helen felt a reluctant conviction that Janey would adapt herself to the adventure better than she herself should. The child’s sleep, however, was so profound, and there was something so contrary to all the prejudices of education in waking her up at that hour, that only the thought of her father’s severe and haggard countenance kept Helen to her errand. She had even turned away to go back to him—to say that she could not do it—when the greater evil of having to return again, and of, perhaps, meeting nurse next time, prevailed. She got a warm little pelisse, with many capes—a piquant little Parisian garment, which had tantalised all the mothers in the district—out of its drawer, and put the little shoes ready. Then she bent over her small sister and called her. “Janey, wake up, wake up; papa wants you. Wake up; we are to go with him if you are quiet and don’t cry.”

The child sat up in her bed, awake all at once, with big, dark eyes, opening like windows in her pale face. “I am not doing to cry,” she said, and stared at her sister through the gloom, which was faintly illuminated by the night-lamp. Janey was, as Helen had anticipated, much more at home in the emergency than she was. She woke up in a moment, as children do, not with a margin of bewilderment and confusion such as is common to us—but wide awake, with all her little intelligence fresh and on the alert.

“What is it? what is it, Helen?”

“I don’t know; but you are to go down to papa. You are to be quiet; you are not to cry. We are going with him.”

“Where? where?”

“I don’t know,” said Helen, ready to weep with the strange and wild confusion, the sense of misery and wretchedness which was involved to her in this overthrowal of all habits, this sudden secrecy and adventure in the dark. But little Janey clapped her hands. It was a delightful novelty to the child. She pulled on her stockings on her own small pink feet, her eyes dancing with pleasure and excitement. No need to carry her down asleep, as Helen with terror and doubt of her own powers had feared.

“You must be quiet; you must be quiet—not to let the servants know,” the elder sister whispered.

“I am doing to be quiet,” said the little girl, delighted with the mystery. She thrust her big doll into her bed, and covered it carefully, while Helen, not knowing what she did, picked up various fugitive articles, half-consciously, and put them into the pockets of the ulster which she had put on.

“Be dood, baby, and keep my little bed warm till I come back,” sang little Janey.

“Oh, hush, hush! you are to be quiet—you are to be quiet,” Helen said.

They crept down the great stairs like two ghosts, fantastic little shadows, so unlike anything that could have been expected on that grand staircase at that hour. But they met no one. The sounds from the servants’ hall were a little more audible as the evening went on. The master was absent, the master’s daughter too shy and timid, even had she heard them, to take any notice. The hours of licence were approaching when even Mr Brownlow relaxed the bonds of discipline. As these sounds reached them, little Janey clasped her sister’s hand tighter. But it was the sense of a mischievous escapade, not of a mysterious calamity, which was in her mind.

“What will Nursey say?” the child said with a low laugh.

Even the whisper frightened Helen. The lights flared in all those vacant passages, but gloom lurked in every corner; the great rooms were all dark and empty: not a living being, not a sound of habitation was in the magnificent costly place, except the squeak of the footman’s violin, the far-off laughter of the servants—so much for so little! Amid all the confusion and terror of the moment, Helen always recollected the vacant lighted staircase, the hall with its marble pillars, the vast darkness of the dining-room standing open—not a creature near, except those two helpless creatures equipped for flight; but on the other hand, the servants’ merry-making, and the squeak of the fiddle painfully scratching out a popular tune. They paused to listen for one moment, holding their breath. Then they went into the drawing-room, where Helen’s lamp was still burning close to the wall, making the darkness visible. Her book was still lying open on the table. She had left the heroine at a painful crisis, but it was not so terrible as this.

Helen closed the door behind her with great precautions, and Janey, a little frightened at the dark, clung to her closely.

“Where is papa? I don’t see papa,” cried the child.

“Oh, hush, hush!” said Helen, frightened by the sound of her voice.

He was standing behind the curtains waiting for them.

“How long you have been!” he said to her in a low, stern voice; but he opened his arms to the child. “My little Janey—my little darling!” he said, bending down on his knees to bring himself within her reach. Janey clasped her arms round his neck, and kissed him, with open-mouthed childish kisses.

“Where are you doing to take me, papa?” she said, her dark eyes dancing with excitement. He raised himself up, holding her closely clasped to his breast, and carried her out into the night.

What a strange night-walk it was—through the country lanes, all heavy and muddy after the storm, and dark as the darkest midnight; brushing against the rustling, thorny hedges, stumbling over heaps of stones, through the pools at the roadside, and upon the slippery grass; here and there crossing a stile at haphazard, with no guide but instinct; here stealing past a cottage, shrinking from the lamps of the doctor’s gig, which threw a suspicious light upon them. Helen, following, dragging her weary feet through the muddy ways, holding up the long skirts not intended for such usage in her arms, her veil over her face, felt herself shrink, too, when the light flashed upon them. But who could have supposed that it was the master of Fareham and his children that were out there in the muddy lanes? Once at the turnpike, where they were all as well known as the day, her father, whom she always saw before her, a vague, dark shadow with the child in his arms, replied in a gruff feigned voice, with a fictitious country accent, which gave Helen a sharp shock, to the good-night of the gatekeeper. To avoid notice was one thing, to tell a practical lie was another. This, in the midst of her confused wretchedness, gave her a painful prick of sensation. Janey in her excitement had begun to prattle at first, but had been summarily silenced by her father, and now drooped upon his shoulder fast asleep, her face half hidden in the rough collar of his coat. Between the other two not a word passed. Helen was too miserable and too much bewildered to ask any questions; she followed submissively.

The little station was within about a mile of Fareham, but a mile is long when trudged through mud and rain by unaccustomed feet, in a gloomy night, and with a heavy heart. A late train going express to town which otherwise would have scorned this little station, had been arranged to stop there for the convenience of the man of business, the well-known Mr Goulburn, whose affairs were on too colossal a scale to be managed by the ordinary means of communication open to everybody. Sometimes he had special parcels to send by the guard: sometimes a clerk who had “run down” for some special directions, or an associate acting with him on some great city board, whose time was too valuable to permit the loss of a moment, took advantage of this train; and sometimes he himself, jumping into a dogcart the moment the latest guest had departed after a sumptuous dinner, had rushed up to town by it. The station-master and the porters were like his own servants, and the whole place all but kept for his convenience. He crept up to it now, keeping carefully in the shadow, out of the glare of its poor paraffin lamps.

“Keep yourself muffled up, and your veil down, and go and get the tickets,” Mr Goulburn said, in the low and peremptory tone in which he had throughout addressed Helen. She went without a word; she who had never in her life done any such thing for herself. The clerk peered at her through his wicket; the solitary porter stared as she stood alone on the little platform. She was left there by herself until the train came up, and the three persons who formed the personnel of the station had nothing to do but to stare at her, and ask about the luggage which she did not possess. When the train stopped with its usual little fret and commotion, Mr Goulburn suddenly came forward and plunged into an empty carriage. His high coat-collar, the slouch of his hat, and finally, the figure of the child asleep upon his shoulder concealed him effectually. Helen could not help wondering whether she were as effectually disguised, and the thought once more gave her a sharp pinch of pain. Why were they hiding themselves? There was not a word spoken while the train rushed on, tearing through that darkness which they had just traversed so slowly and painfully. Only once, and that when they were but just started, did any communication pass between the father and daughter. They both looked out towards the home they had left, though it was invisible as they left the little station. Upon the road close by the lights of a carriage were visible, slowly approaching. It was the carriage which, when Mr Goulburn was absent, was despatched to meet the last train on Saturday nights. The last train from London was not due for half an hour, and the coachman came along at a leisurely pace, slowly climbing the road to meet his master, who was flying, disguised and shameful, in the other direction. The contrast was so strange that he looked at Helen, and their eyes met. Something piteous was in his look. It contained a whole world of misery, of consciousness, of appeal which was almost humorous, amidst the profundity of pain. She had asked no questions, she had scarcely ventured to form to herself an idea of what the cause of this flight could be, but for the first time her heart was touched.

“Does she not tire you, lying on your shoulder? I could take her a little, papa,” she said. She could think of no other way of showing her sympathy. He shook his head and pressed the child closer to him. Was it that the touch of her innocence made him feel less guilty? Was it that to convince himself of the strength of the natural affection in him made him think himself a better man? or was it only the one real and true sentiment which may still preserve the least worthy from perdition? Helen looked somewhat wistfully at her little sister, lying in all the abandon of childish sleep, helpless yet omnipotent, across her father’s breast. She had never been a favourite like little Janey. No passion of parental affection had ever been lavished upon her, and, in consequence, she knew her father better, and perhaps secretly trusted him less, than children ought to do—though she had never said this even to herself. But for the moment, she sitting alone opposite to them, carried off from all her anchors, swept into some wild sea of the unknown, looked at them wistfully, and envied the father and the child.

In a few hours more Helen understood much more perfectly what the metaphor meant which we have just employed. At midnight they embarked in a steamer which, after feeling its way down the river through a thousand dangers, plunged into the Channel just as daybreak made the rough waves and flying foam visible. It was a small, old, almost worn-out boat, and the voyage was one of the longer and cheaper ones which tempt the passengers from the ordinary routes, to their profound suffering and repentance. Helen had never been at sea before. She lay trembling while the vessel creaked and plunged, not knowing what to reply to Janey’s inquiry why the ship went up and down. Why, indeed? It seemed to do so on purpose, tossing them up one moment and down the other with that sickening repetition which helps to make up the agony of a voyage to the inexperienced. In the morning, in the perplexing and painful daylight of which Helen felt afraid, she did not know why, they landed on foreign soil. Her father had changed during the night, she could not tell how. Was it possible that already on the previous evening he had worn the large whiskers and carefully smoothed hair which seemed to have grown lighter, redder, than it used to be? She scarcely knew him when he came on deck, and he gave her an uneasy look when he met her eye. She did not, however, suspect the truth as yet, nor did she in the least understand his disguise. She was only full of alarm and wonder, not knowing what to think.