The Bar Sinister. A tale

Front matter

THE BAE SINISTER A TALE. BY CHARLES ALLSTON COLLINS, AUTHOK OF " A CRUISE UPON WHEELS," " THE ETE-WTTNESS," etc. etc. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL, M.DCCC.LX1V. [77i. right of Translation is reserved."] CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. Ciiapttk Page Prologue 1 I. Breakfast 28 n. Between Breakfast and Dinner 36 III. Dinner 51 IV. A Meeting and an Adventure .3 V. Fairy Land 96 VI. Crossing the Frontier 123 Vn. Major Trelane makes a Move forward 144 VIII. A Critical Situation 159 IX. Still in Danger 185 X. A Quiet Chapter 213 XI. A Startling Chapter 228 XII. A Sad Disclosure 250 XIII. Dr. Lebœuf 's News 268 XIV. A Treacherous Friend £ safe.

Prologue

. Twenty years ago there stood — nay, there stands still, aud will do for many a long year to come — in a certain valley in Gloucestershire, the remains of what was once a noble abbey. It is ten to one that the reader knows it well ; knows how much roof is left on the old building, what remnants of windows show through the dense masses of ivy, what traces remain of altar-steps and altar, what inscriptions may yet be found in the more sheltered nooks and corners, how many arches of the ancient crypt are still standing, below, and, above, what turret staircases, powdery with age, lead upwards to the head-quarters of the rooks and daws which wheel and poise themselves, or drift along before the breeze as it sighs through the windows of the roofless choir. vol. 1. Everybody knows the ruin now ; for those who, in these railway days, have not travelled to the place itself, have, in this age of photographs, seen the old abbey in the shop windows scores and scores of times.

There were, however, no photographs in the days I am now speaking of, and lady's fingers did the work which is now executed by pungent che micals, and did it very badly. On a certain afternoon in September, just at that particular crisis of the year when it is beginning to be evident that it will not be possible to sit out of doors much longer, a young lady was seated on the steps of the broken-down altar, and engaged in sketching the ruins of the abbey. There is no need to enter into the merits of her performance. Such as it was, it could hardly be said to be entirely her own work, a gentleman being at her side, who would, not un frequently, lean over her, and either direct her hand with his own (no unpleasant task), or add a few touches himself, which were calculated to render the completed sketch a more coherent achievement than it might otherwise have turned out.

Of this gentleman I am afraid it must be said that his appearance was against him. He was a tall, dark man, evidently a foreigner, and evidently, to a skilled eye, an Italian. Though his features were irreo-ular, almost to ugliness, the unprepossessing character of his countenance was less attributable to this circum stance than to the expression of the whole face. If

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. 3 this man was not selfish and crafty, if there was not beating in his breast a heart cold and calculating, at the same time that it was sensual and passionate, — a common combination in the worse kind of Italian character— if there was any scruple here, any sus ceptibility of conscience to limit the suggestions of self-interest, then let physiognomy go for nothing as a science, and never be taken as a guide again. And yet with the uninitiated, the careless, or with those whom no long intercourse with the world had rendered slow to give their confidence, the winning manners of this man would have served to counteract the bad impression which his countenance had at first sight produced. For physiognomy is an in stinctive science that acts on everybody more or less ; we make our own faces by our lives, and every man bears about with him, between the roots of the hair upon his head and those upon his chin, a letter of recommendation, or of caution, to the world.

Now it was pretty evident that the young^lady, by whose side our Italian was seated, had either never felt that this gentleman's appearance was unfavourable, or had got over the impression, or else liked him in spite of it. Indeed to judge by the slow progress of the drawing, its frequent inter ruption, and by the looks and actions of this young girl, you would at once have pronounced that the foreign gentleman was not only regarded by her 1—2 without suspicion, but was to her the object of an ardent love and admiration. She was a fair, almost a beautiful girl, and would have been quite beautiful, but for something that was wanting in her which you felt, but could hardly at first define. Was it an absence of repose in the grey eyes that never rested? was there no depth of loyal constancy in them ? were they eyes wandering everywhere for admiration? had they no such profundity of trust worthiness in them as should justify an honest man in saying, I give my confidence to this woman, I give it to her now, and give it to her for ever ?

The same unrest which has been already spoken of as apparent in this young lady's face was evident in her whole bearing and in all her action. That the trouble of taking even such a part in forwarding the drawing on which she was engaged as toexecute what the Italian gentleman directed was too much for her, was very unmistakable. She was for ever fidgeting in her place, constantly leaving off, and then recommencing her labours with languid effort and obvious aversion, till at last she pushed the sketch away from her, and, dropping her head upon her companion's shoulder, though it lay there but for an instant before she moved it away again, she said, in a tone of impatience and petulancy, and at the same time with a sort of hopelessness which surely the small progress of her work was not sufficient to account for, —

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. " It is impossible, I can't go on with it ; nor," she added, presently, " with anything else." " You must," replied the other, speaking in per fectly good English, but with a strong foreign accent, " you must, Rachel ; what will they say at the house when they find your drawing no more advanced than when you brought it out ? " "Let them say what they will," said the young lady, sadly, " I cannot do it." " Then I must," answered the Italian, taking the sketch from her. And soon his skilful fingers were at work producing an effect, which, though un true enough, and got far more from his own knowledge of what would bring about a speedy result, than from a consideration of the scene before him, advanced the drawing enough to account for the young lady's day. She for her part sat and watched him, with a kind of deference, and with a certain wonder at the methodical coolness with which this man could bend his mind at once to what seemed necessary at the moment.

" There," he said, at last, pausing in his work, " I think that will do for to-day ; they will be satisfied with that." " Oh, Frank," answered the girl — it was part of the Italian's plan to anglicise himself as much as possible, and so his name of Francesco had been converted into Frank during his residence in England — " Oh, Frank ! " she said, " this endless life of deception, how it puzzles and bewilders me." "It is not for long," replied the Italian; "in another month you will be of age, and then we can set your friends at defiance : you will be mine, and I will make your life so happy that all you suffer now will only be remembered to give a new zest to your enjoyment." " And Alfred ? " • I will not hear that name," interrupted the Italian, passionately. " If he had cared for you he would never have left you.

He would be here. He would have sacrificed everything — profession, prospects, all, rather than lose sight of you for a moment." " He trusted me," said the girl ; " he had his work to do — he went to do it, and he trusted me." " Work to do ! " cried the Italian, contemptuously; " it is like your northern prudence to talk so. There is no prudence in love. You, in this countrv, know not the meaning of the word ; with us, in Italy, love is more than life — not a passion but a worship. Unreal, a standing jest, a theme for laughter in this country, it is with us the only real thing, it is dearer than our honour or our blood ; for it, a man would give up his patrimony, sell his birthright, abandon the greatest dicoveries of science, the highest achieve ments of art at the very moment of success, and if tlie very Philosopher's Stone glittered before his

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. 7 eyes, and one minute's longer toil would give it to his grasp, would dash his crucible to the floor if he heard the voice of her he loved, calling him to her feet. This, and this only, is love, and," he added, in a lower voice, as he drew the girl to his side, " it is so that I love you, Rachel." At that moment, thousands of miles away, a young man in the first prime of life, of a tall and handsome presence, and wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the navy, was walking the quarter-deck of an EngUsh brig-of-war. It was night with him. There was little to occupy his thoughts. The ship was in the hands of the master, and the sea was like a mill-pond. As he came, in the course of his monoto nous walk to the binnacle, where the little trembling compass quivered under its light, he paused, and looked down on it almost with affection in his glance.

Of what was he thinking as he watched this lovely emblem of allegiance and of duty ? of a conscience trembling with eager dread of offence — constant in light or darkness, in storm as in sunshine, to one thing — unconscious of all beside. What a monitor, what a teacher, is here. The ship may rise, or fall, or turn, and still it points the same ; nay, drag it from this place, damage it, use it as roughly as you will, as long as it can hold together at all, the faithful, loyal heart comes back, unchangeable and true. Was the sailor thinking of these things, as he turned away and said, unconsciously echoing the words which have been quoted above, " It is so that I love you, Rachel ? " Rachel Pry or was the youngest daughter of a certain retired ship-breaker, who, having amassed a very con siderable fortune at Liverpool, had given up business, and purchasing some property in Gloucestershire, spent his whole time and a large portion of his income in perpetual alterations and improvements of the house and grounds which it had long been his ambition to possess, and which his successful. career had at last put within his reach.

Marrying at the prosperous turn of his life, he had of course, on the invariable principle which rules all human affairs, and gives more to him who has, met with a young lady who brought him a handsome fortune of her own, the whole of which at her decease (which at the time we are describing dated some years back) was settled on her three daughters, to be divided between them, share and share alike, on their coming of age. Of her three daughters, the youngest, Rachel, has already been brought before the reader's notice ; the eldest was living, and had been for some years at Paris with an aunt who had almost adopted her, and was rarely at home. On the second daughter, then, Miss Pryor, as she was generally called, devolved the whole care of the household, and in some degree the management of the property, for the old gentleman, altogether immersed in the " improvements " which were for ever going on in some part or other of the

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. 9 house or gardens, declined altogether to take any share in the conduct of his household affairs. The superintendence of these improvements was the whole object and purpose of the old man's life. To get any new hint or suggestion in connection w7ith them, he would take any trouble, shrink from no expense. The landscape-gardeners who came from different parts of the kingdom to provide new plans, and to arrange new combinations in the ever changing aspect of the grounds, were quite a source of income to the local inn, and were so looked upon as a regular portion of the landlord's revenue, that when it was rumoured that the Italian gentleman, who had been superintending the laying-out of my Lord Chalkstone's new gardens, was coming over to assist old Mr. Pryor with the " improvements," it was considered at the King's Arms almost an infringe ment of treaty, that the old gentleman had asked him to stay at Pryor's Lodge.

He was not Ions in making himself at home there. He was one of those men who make it their business to be popular, and lay siege to the regard of every one to whom it is worth while being civil. With Mr. Pryor he had easy cards to play; his shrewdness and real talent in the peculiar branch of art — if it may be called so — which he had studied, and in which the Northern Italians excel, his studious deference to the old man's wishes, and the enthusiasm which he professed to feel in all his undertakings, soon made him an almost indispensable ally, and even a chosen companion with the retired ship-breaker. With his youngest daughter Rachel, the advances which he niade were still more rapid. There was in this young lady's character one great defect — a defect so pre-eminently and almost distinctively feminine as to be shared in some slight degree by nearly every woman — but one whose full danger is little known and most inadequately estimated.

With Rachel Pryor the love of admiration w7as an appetite, a disease. To gain the attention of the last new admirer, and to lay herself out to win him, was with her an act almost unconscious and mechanical. To concentrate herself, to live for one pair of eyes, was an impossibility. Why had there been no one to warn her of her danger, no one honest enough to tell her that even her own poor object would not be gained, that the woman who forgets her owu dignity so far as to hunger thus obviously for praise, will never be admired, any more than the wretched spaniel will win approval who fawns alike on all his master's friends ? Profoundly skilled in all that belongs to women, the Italian Francesco Salvi was not slow to perceive the weakness and assailableness of Rachel's character, and to take advantage of it.

Cautious almost to an excess in his approaches to her, and his intercourse with her beforo the world, he was constantly arranging such private meetings with her as should

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. 11 give him the best opportunities of expressing, in careful language at first, but afterwards in undis guised terms, the admiration which he professed to feel for her ; while she for her part was ready enough to listen, and even to give such encourage ment to the Italian's advances, as would have been, in the case of one she knew so little, incautious in the last degree, even if she had been free to receive them. But she was not free. Among the number of those whom this young lady had sought to captivate, there had been one whom she had succeeded only too well in inspiring with a genuine passion. Con stitutionally generous and trusting, and as unsus picious as men in his profession generally are, the sailor, Alfred Trelane, when he joined his ship at Portsmouth, was accompanied to the very boat that bore him away by Rachel Pryor, and left her her betrothed lover.

God help him ! what did he know of women? His life had been passed on ship board: was he the man to guess that this Rachel, to whom his soul was bound, had had eyes through her tears for the very midshipman who commanded the boat that came off from the ship to fetch him. What chance had such a man against our Italian. True, he was his superior in appearance, in being a gentleman, a brave servant of his country, and in all besides, except, perhaps, a certain low clever ness and cunning which he was better without. The Italian had the power which treacherous men so often have with women. For some women aro like this. They, though not wholly vile themselves, will like a man who is so. Generosity, kindness of heart, a sense of honour, are thrown away on such ; they will " leave to feed on the fair moun tain," and will " batten on the moor."

The reader will have some idea from the conver sation in the ruined abbey, which has been reported above, of the length to which things had gone in this intercourse between Rachel and the Italian. Had this intercourse been wholly unobserved ? Had no one regarded with suspicion this growing attach ment? Of the family in which Francesco Salvi had succeeded in domesticating himself, there was one member, and one only, with whom he had failed to make himself popular. One person only viewed him with doubt in her regard, and withheld from him that confidence which the rest had bestowed so easily. It was Miss Pryor. This young lady was of a charac ter widely different from that of her sister : staunch and firm in her affection, as in everything else, Mr. Pryor's second daughter would as soon have thought of robbing a church as of injuring, so much as by an unloyal thought, the man to whom she belonged.

It was, therefore, ever a subject of anxiety to her, to observe how little the thought of the absent sailor had any vitality or power to influence her

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. youngest sister's conduct. It was not in the case of the Italian only that she had seen this : indeed, the extraordinary care and precautions which he had used, had prevented her from forming any but the vaguest and, apparently, most unfounded conjectures in connection with his intimacy with Rachel. Vague and unfounded, however, as these suspicions appeared, they yet existed in Miss Pryor's secret heart, and caused her to be the one single difficulty in the path of the Italian, and an object to him both of hatred and of fear. It was her eye alone that he dreaded. It was for her that all the precautions were taken. As for the old ship-breaker, he was so utterly absorbed in his improvements that he noticed nothing else ; and it was evident that the Italian was becoming more necessary to him daily.

So much so, indeed, that when one day the Signor announced that it would be necessary to the formation of some fish ponds, which the old gentleman had set his heart upon, that he should go up to town and spend some time in search ing for the treatise of Janus Dubravius on fish and _ fish-ponds, as well as that of the learned Frenchman Dr. Lebault ; when this was announced to old Mr. Pryor, he actually shed tears (so weak had he become) at the thought of the stranger's departure ; though he acknowledged the validity of the reason for his temporary absence." The treatise of the learned Frenchman, and of Janus Dubravius, were so hard to come at, and the field of inquiry-, opened by them, was so large, that many delays occurred before the Italian's return, and three weeks had nearly elapsed, when a letter came to announce that in two or three days, at farthest, he would return, having exhausted the whole subject of fish-ponds ; and ready, if need were, to construct one, on the shortest notice, as large as the Lake of Constance.

It was just before the arrival of that letter, that Rachel had announced one morning, that it was necessary she should go up to London for a day, having some purchases to make, which she had already delayed longer than she ought. She would go up, she said, with her maid ; and, as she could have a bed at the house of an old servant, who let lodgings in Duke Street, St. James's, she would spend one night in town, and come down again the next morning. She told her sister, with the most perfect candour that this was a good opportunity, as the Signor could take care of her on the return journey. She did not exactly ask permission, nor was the other in a condition to withhold it if she had wished; but Miss Rachel did not like to do anything without this sort of communication with her elder sister.

It meant nothing, but was felt to be necessary, notwithstanding. A day was not far distant which was to confirm all Miss Pryor's suspicions, and to reveal to her a

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. 15 truth worse than the very worst she had apprehended. A letter written by Miss Pryor to her sister's be trothed lover, soon after the period of Rachel's return from their expedition to London, will explain, perhaps, better than anything else, the position which the Italian had now taken up and the success of his designs upon the youngest Miss Pryor. " Mt dear Alfred" (writes Miss Pryor) — " I dare say you will be surprised when this mail brings yon a letter in my handwriting, instead of my sister's. I have, indeed, to write to you on a subject upon wdiich it is almost as painful to me to speak as it will be to you to hear. I have to speak to you, dear Alfred, about Rachel. I am most anxious and uneasy about her. I must tell you first of all that, some months ago, papa invited an Italian gentleman, who has been laying out Lord Chalkstone's new gardens, to come over here, and assist him with some of the endless alterations in the grounds which he is for ever making.

This Italian came two months ago, and has been here ever since. He has made himself perfectly indispensable to poor papa's happiness, and, what is much worse, I am sorry to say that it appears to me that an excessive intimacy and confidence has sprung up between this comparative stranger, of whom we know nothing, and my sister Rachel. My dear Alfred, I do not write to you on this subject except after long thought, and with deep sorrow and sympathy for the pain which I know it will give you to receive my letter. I have, indeed, in the desire to avoid torturing you, as I know I am doing, put off already too long the wretched task of communicating with you upon this subject ; but things have arrived now at a climax which makes a longer delay impossible. You know that, in three weeks from this time, Rachel will be of age, and will come into absolute control over her share in the property (amounting altogether to about 30,000/.) which was left by my poor mother to be equally divided between us three sisters.

I hardly expect you to believe that my sister has announced her intention of placing the whole of her portion of this sum in the hands of this Italian, of whom, as I have said, we know nothing, in order that he may invest it for her in some security about which he is always talking, and about which she understands as little as I do. Of course I have expostulated and reasoned with Rachel on this monstrous determination ; but to what purpose ? The money is, or will be in a few short weeks, entirely under her control, and I am powerless to shake her mad determination. I have even gone farther than this, and have shown her how fearfully wrongly she is acting — situated as she is with regard to you — in taking this step without your knowledge and consent. I have accused her of dis loyalty to you, of allowing this dreadful Italian an influence over her which it is a sin against you for

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. 17 her to permit ; I have done all this, but again I say to no purpose. She seems perfectly powerless in this man's hands, and callous to all argument or persua sion. Under these circumstances what conclusion can I come to but the wretched one, that this wily adventurer has succeeded in undermining the hold which I hoped and believed, dear Alfred, you pos sessed on Rachel's affections, and what can I do but entreat you at any sacrifice, at any inconvenience, to return to England, if the thing is possible, by the next ship that sails, that you may be on the spot to look to the security of those rights which this un happy girl has so cruelly disregarded, and to save her, if yet it may be done, from the hands of this wicked and unscrupulous man, " Yours always affectionately, " Anne Pryoe."

It was months before that letter reached its desti nation. Meantime, a great change had come over the wretched girl, who was the subject of it. Attacks of excitement, followed by the most fearful depression, and all accompanied by an unrest, very terrible and painful to witness — these things were continually increasing the anxiety of Miss Pryor for her sister, and throwing a deadly gloom over the whole establishment at Pryor's Lodge. The Italian, and he alone, had any power over her at such times, and even his influence was soon to be withdrawn. vol. I. It was some time (perhaps six weeks) after Rachel's coming of age, that Salvi made the announcement that his absence from his own country had now been so long continued, that it was absolutely necessary, for his own affairs, that he should return for a short time to Italy, and he alleged farther, as the reason for doing so at once, that he had received a com munication, by which he learnt that his aged mother was seriously ill, and wished to see her son, if it were yet possible, before she died.

From the time of this announcement, a settled and speechless despair seemed to have taken possession of the unhappy Rachel. She would sit for hours to gether without uttering a word, and from the day that the Italian left the house, she confined herself to her own room, and could by no persuasion or stratagem be induced to leave it. The clay of Salvi's departure was one of those when Nature seems to exhaust her whole machinery of discomfort and gloom at once. It was a Novem ber afternoon, and fog, rain, and cold had united their chill hands, as in a bargain, to make the day a bad one. On that afternoon, as the wheels of the carriage which bore Salvi away from the hall, oozed through the wet gravel of the sweep, there was one who, in the secrecy of that chamber from which the sanctity of a woman's purity had departed, bent her head upon the ground in an agony of despair, and called on death to release her from her torment.

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. 19 Is it to such that Death comes ? Is it when tlie cup is filling fast that the bitter draught is stayed, and that its stream pours no longer ? The weeks rolled on ; months passed away, and no change for the better took place in Rachel's con dition. Physicians were sent for and prescribed, but to no purpose, and at last the old resource was de termined on, and travelling was ordered as a thing that must be deferred no longer than the necessary preparations absolutely demanded. Last resource, indeed, — change of the sky under which we suffer, movement, flight, escape from that to which we have at last to return again — the inevitable facts of our own existence. The hall of Pryor's Lodge was filled with pack ages; trunks and portmanteaus were scattered about in all directions, and the full confusion of an approaching journey was in the house.

But what a journey ! There was none of the delightful excitement of the start here, — it was no holiday party setting off for their summer trip. It was a pilgrimage of despair. The travellers were Miss Pryor and Craven, who were to be accompanied by an old man-servant and a maid. Mr. Pryor, whom it was useless to think of carrying away from the lodge, was to remain there, and his sister, an old maiden lady, was to come and take care of the old gentleman while his eldest and youngest daughters were away. This worthy lady was, on the day 2—2 preceding the journey, which is that the events of which we are describing, expected hourly at the lodge; so that when a post-chaise from thc neighbouring station, which was at some distance, was seen coming up the drive, it was a matter of some surprise to the servants who had come out to meet it, to see a man's head and arm thrust out of the window, and busy opening the door of the carriage.