Helen Porter : or, A Wife's tragedy and a sister's trials. A romance

Front matter

HELEN PORTER: OR, A WIFE'S TIUGEDY AND A SISTER'S TRIALS. A ROMANCE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "MILDRED WINNERLEY," "THE HANGMAN'S DAUGHTER," _-.., &0. UAHUMAfl S " She bears with accident, and evenchar*;e Of various life : the struggles *vith" ad* er^ity And waits the lieeure of the i ighteorr. gods they, in thenoim good _-i ointed hem', Shall bid her betters daya come lurch at once * A loDg and shining train." LONDON : PUBLISHED 13Y E. LLOYD SALISBURY-SQUARE, FLEET-STREET.

Preface

. Gkeat as bas been the amount of popularity deservedly bestowed upon tbe many productions emanating from the establishment by whieh this work is issued, none perhaps has obtained a greater share of support than the present ; and no writer can more gratefully fulfil tbe bounden duty of returning tbanks to the reading public than the author of these pages. He has bad recourse only to scenery and events of every-day life, and described occurrences wbieb are daily happening around us ; yet, so true ia it that facts are often stranger and more startling than fiction, that be believes more satisfaction has been felt in his simple narrative than might have atteuded it had be gone back to a more remote period of our history, or attempted to enuanee its interest by tales of diablerie. The Romance is founded on fads well known to many, and illus trates the punishment whicb sooner or later attends ujjon a career of crime, and the support under the most trying difficulties to be derived from feelings of conscious rectitude. , LONDO-T. A SECRET OF THE SEWERS OF LONDON.

H i.omatur. :HE PARCHMENT FROM THE CA , TER. GEOFFRY THORNTON SNATCHES glingstream,orthe black and loathsome river rat ever makes its way. Intothese prnssagesthe light of Heaven breaks atiutervals only — light is not wanted there. The walls on each side are damp and cold ; the roofs are arched, and covered with dark-coloured, putrid exhala tions. There is the rolling wrter, and there the large hideous-looking rats, but nothing else ; all besides is darkness, filth, and pu tridity. Along the densely-crowded and noisy city thoroughfares above, carriages roll, and men pursue their occupations ; but beneath, in these cold and gloomy passages, the tramp of the horses is but faintly heard, and the cries of the itinerant tradesmen become indistinct, and lost in the distance. These far

Chapter I. The Wanderer In The Sewers

— THE DARK OBJECT IN THE DISTANCE. — THE SEALED PAPERS. Few are they who reflect, while travers ing the streets of England's great metropolis, of the other city — the buried London — that hes beneath their feet. Extending far and wide, reaching from the Thames on one side, to Islington on the other, from Hyde-park corner to Mile-end gate, exist an extensive series of subterranean ways, along which the foot of man is seldom heard to fall, and through which nought save the foul and gur- No. 1. THE WIFE'S TBAGEDY. 2 pause to examine — to him it had both life and terror. He saw it, he knew it was advancing but his feet refused to aid him in the matt^ of flight. " Mercy, mercy 1" he cried aloud, as the form seemed to approach within a few yards of him. " Spare me 1 oh, spare me I" And with a shriek that woke up the dull echoes of those cavernous places, he dropped. senseless into the fetid stream.

The water rose not higher than his chest. That shriek was heard in the street above. " Jem, did you hear that awfulsome scream ?" said a carter to his companion, as they were passing along the roadway immediately over the sewer. " Bless'd if there ar'n't. some one down the gully-hole." " How could 'em get there.'Bill?" said bis companion. " Never mind how they got there," returned the first speaker; "but if it isn't as I say, wshy, I never drove a 'oss in all my life ; and I should say as how it was a gal,. too, it was so precious awful. Listen, Jem, through the gratings." " What's the matter ??' cried a litle barber, who ran out from his shop, on the opposite side of the way : " what's all that screauiLi.; sbo.uj?" " Some 'un's downhere in the shore," replicdtebc carter. " Only listen, shaver ; can't ■you hnsffl 'em groan ?"

" I think I do," replied the barber ; " but what's to.be done?"-" " Done,^' returned the carter ; " why let'shave some pickaxes and a spade, and dig . 'feni W" By this time a considerable number, of persons had collected around the grating, sfpe attracted by the shriek which they had heard, and others by the uuusal. sight of the carter and his companions kneeling in the gutter by the road-side, with their ears appbed to the iron bars immediately over the entrance to> the sewer. Spades, crowbars, pickaxes, and implements of every available form were speedily procured, and as speedily did the bystanders prepare to tear up the grating, aud remove the stones around. "There's another groan!" exclaimed one of the lookers-on. " Bear a hand, then, boys, and up with the grating," cried the carter, as he plautod the, crowbar between the stones, and attempted to elevate the iron framework. spreading and continuous excavations are none other than the sewers of London.

It was towards the close of one fine summer's evening, some thirty or forty yearsago, that a man might have been seen wending his ' way, in a crouching attitude, down one of , these sewers, hi the neighbourhood of Fetter-lane, towards its outlet in the Thames, near to Temple-gardens. His dress was that of an humble artizan, being composed, according to appearance, of the coarse fustian so commonly worn by the operative classes. His age apparently was not more than twoand-twenty, yet his form was athletic and robust. His face was pale — pale even to a sickly pallor, and in his eyes there was a wild and fearful expression, {learning as they did through the gloom of the place along which he trod. There was a hurrieduess in his step, and a tremor of his hand, which I, ill accorded with his lusty and stout-built I frame.

You might have heard, as he came f onwards, the deep, quick sound of his breathing, and the loud and strong pulsations of his heart. You might have remarked the loose, disordered manner of his hair, and the strange and constant workings of the muscles around his month. It was on, what; business he should hara£ ■ come into such, a place, or why a mor&h being should havebeeu tempted;. to wandoi in, so pestiferous a path ; yet onwards ha osmp, his legs knee-deep in the filthy stream, apdhjs haudsemployedin supporting himself agajurt tile force of the current, by.. being outstretched against the wall -on either side. He was unprovided with a torch, or any other light to direct him in his path, except thtv feeble rags of advancing evening that fell through the iron gratings above. Onwards he came, now stopping to look around him and regain his breath, then hastening ou again iu his creeping attitude, and anon recoiling in affright as some huge rat dashed into the water before him, and swam between his legs.

Suddenly he paused, and straiaed his eyes eagerly along the way which he had come. Could it be ? Did he not hear a footfall? Was there another human being in the same dark place with him, aud fol , lowing closely iu bis track ? He withheld his breath, his knees appeared to knock together, i and his lower jaw fell paralysed with the excess of hk fright. Again there was another footfall, a splash in the water, as of, a person advancing, as of some one, on, his track. Fearfully, atd with eyeballs nearjy starting from their soekef s, aid be endeavour to penetrate the frightful darkness behind him ; a darker form seemed apparent through the gloom Whether it really existed, or was but •;-the,conjmii!g up of his own fancy, he did not Another groan, wras distinctly heard. " I should say," remarked the barber," that there's some gammon in this, I've heard of the wentwillorquists— them chaps as speaks through their belly, that they can send, their woices down such places as this 'ere.

Besides, how could any human mortal ever get into *ich a place ? I'm of opinion them stones should be left alone till we have parish au thority for moving 'em ; that's what I think" " Do you ? you unfeeling barbaritan," said a woman, who stood near; "more's the pity you ain't down the hole with a ton weight a top of you, and there you should stay." The stones and iron-work obstructing the entrance to the sewer had, by this time, be come removed. afraid he's dead. I'm afraid he's got smo" thered in the slosh!" " Sarve you right, if he is," observed the same woman who had, some minutes previously, wished a ton weight on the top of the barber's head, " sarve you right if he is ; only, more's the pity it wasn't you that wa» sufficatcd instead of him." Water was brought and thrown over the fainting man ; the carter knelt down by his side, and endeavoured to restore animation by chafing the pale, cold hands, while the little barber, hastening into his shop, returned with a lighted roll of brown paper, which he allowed to burn immediately tinder the nostrils of the sufferer.

After the lapse of a few minutes the colour was seen returning into the cheeks of the rescued man, and not many minutes more elapsed before he opened his eyes, aud gazed wildly at the vast crowd which had congregated around. " Where am I ?" he exclaimed, in a tone of voice like that which is made nse of by persons on awakening from some terrible dream ; " were am I — where is he ? Oh, save me — save me — save me !" " Now," cried the carter, " bring us a lad der and let's see what we've got here." A ladder was brought, and the carter, with a lighted candle in his hand, was prqiariug to descend, when another groan, more faint and inaudible than any that had preceded, confirmed thc bystanelers in the belief of some living thing being concealed in the sewer. " Lord have mercy on us !" exclamed an old woman.

" It's perfectly horrible to think of a Christian dying down in such a place as that. I hope the poor creature won't die till they've got down to her." " What's the use of her dying, then ?" said the barber. "D'ye want her friends taken up for manslaughter, old 'ooman?" " Help.here ! — help!"cried the carter, who was now at the bottom ofthe ladder. "Here's something alive in the drain. Hand down a larger light." The carter's request was complied with, and he soon re-appeared at the top of the ladder, holding by the collar of his fustian jacket the still insensate form of the w*anderer in the sewers. "All's right, friend," said the carter; " there's no one here that'll harm yon. Cheer up, comrade !" " But where is this ? and who are all these people ?" exclaimed he, in a wild, incoherent manner.

" Pardon — pardon ! I did not do it. It wasn't me !" " Didn't do what, Geoffry ?" interrupted the barber. " Look up ! Don't you know me ? Don't you know your brother Phineas?" " Bless us I" exclaimed the Httle barber, pushintr through the crowd iu order to gain a near view of the newly-found prize ; "bless us ! Why, it's a man, and ia such a condition, too. I should like to know what brought him down in the shores? Not for any good purpose, that's certain. And if I was the car ter I should have left him there with the rats, before I would have made myself in a mess by lugging his filthy carcass up the ladder. But — but — but what's this?" he cried, as he approached close to the side of the insensate man, and peered eagerly in his face. " Bless us, hivens ! it's my own brother — it's Geoffry.

Geoffry, I say, what's the meaning of all this? How came you here ? Geoffry ! Geoffry, I say, what's the meaning of all this? How came you here ? Geoffry — Geoffry — Geoffry ! Don't you hear, it's your own brother Phineas that's calling you?" But the rescued man was not sufficiently recovered to pay attention to the demands of his relative ; and, therefore, the little barber remained unanswered. " My brother ! — these people !" ejaculated the astonished man. " Oh, it's a horrible dream I've had. Horrible — horrible — horrible !" " Horridable enough, friend," returned the carter ; " but I don't know as that it isn't sunuiiut worse than a dream. Can't you tell us, friend, how you came down in the shores .-"' "The sewers !" exclaimed the half-recovered man, in a wild and fearful manner. " Yes, the shores, Geoffry," said the barber.

" Don't you know you've been down in the shores ?" ' ' Have I ?" said he. " Then it's no dream. Oh ! I wish it were. It's all true — true true ! and I am lost. Save me — save me I" " You're save enough, now, friend," returned the carter ; " don't be frightened. Here, take a little gin; that'll set you to rights, and then you can tell us all about it." The terrified man took the proffered glass and drained off its contents ; but his hand 6hook violently as he lifted it to his mouth, and his eyes wandered in a wild and. fearful manner over the edge of the vessel while h "Oh, Lud! oh, Lud!" he eiclaimed, "I'm drank. The remembrance of some fearful the roll, hid it within the folds of his inner garments, exclaiming at the same time, — " Heaven be praised, it is safe !— safe, and I am here 1" I -vision seemed to be still vivid in his brain.

I " There's something mysterious in what's ; happened to that man," remarked one of the bystanders. " Lord preserve us from seeing and knowing all that he's seen and known." "Well," replied another individual, "it's not to be wondered at if he's seen some ghosts in the dark regions." " Summut more than ghosts, I should say," returned the former speaker. " Not urdikely, friends," interposed the carter, " There's plenty of rats down there, enough to frighten old blackey himself. But, howsumdever that may be, I should consider, barber, that, if he's your brother, you'd better take him into your shop, and let him come to a bit, while I put these 'ere stones back again in their places." The suggestion of the carter wa9 acted upon, and the, as yet, but half-awakened man, was carried forthwith into the dwelling of his brother.

Scarcely, however, had they seated him i in a chair, before he placed his hand suddenly upon his bosom, and as instantly exclaimed — " The papers — the papers ! Oh, Heaven, the papers !" " Something he's left behind him in the sewers," remarked an individual present. " It had better be looked for before they put the stones down again." So saying, the speaker hastened out of the shop, and, arresting the carter in bis work of repairing the damages he had occasioned, explained to him the nature of the conjecture. " Let's have the ladder and bght again," repbed he. " We may as well see if all's up and safe before we put matters to rights." The ladder was accordingly replaced in the hole, and the carter, taking the candle in his hand, once more descended into the drain. It was not long before he reappeared, bringing with him what to all appearance seemed a roll of parchment.

"Why, what have you got there, mate?" asked one of those persons who were crowding around the top of the ladder. " He's not been down in the dark to make a map of the drains — has he ? Let's have a look at the performance." " Hold off, will you ?" exclaimed the carter, as he drew up the ladder after him. " Don't any of you know your manners better than to want to read another man's papers ? There's nothing particular about it, except a big seal at one corner, which may be that of King George himself, for all I know." No sooner did the carter enter the shop with the parchment in his hand, than the barber's brother sprang up from the seat on which he j had been placed, and, hastily snatching away " That's a very certain fact, Geoffry," said the barber, who, together with the carter and his companion, alone remained with the rescued man.

" Here you are ; but it's curious what could have made you take such a strange road. Oome, Geoffry, let's know how yon came down in the shores?" "The sewers 1" exclaimed he. "Don't— don't name the sewers. He's here — I see him — he follows 1 See — see — see 1 Mercy — mercy 1" " I tell yon what's my opinions on this 'ere subject, young fellow," said the carter. " It strikes me as how all ain't quite square with you, and I shouldn't wonder but what the Bow-street gemmen have been at your heels. Howsomdever, if you did give 'em the artful, and get down in the shores, as I got you out again I shan't give 'em any useful knowledge on the subject. Yet it's awfulsome to think how near you were being suffocated. It's lucky for you that me and Bill here heard you groan." " Thanks— thanks, good friend, for your kindness," replied the now recovered man ; " but the case is not as you suppose.

My going down in the drains was merely a freak, aud then the dreadful smell overcame me, and I fainted away. That I am not escaping from justice is evident, from the fact of my being now about to return home along the public streets." " That'll do, friend," returned the honest carter. " It may be so ; but I don't want to know other people's affairs. So, as I've set you on your legs again, and you've got another chance of sniffing Christians' air, let's have your fist, my hearty, and good day t'ye." With this farewell, the carter and his com panion left Geoffry and his brother together. Some few minutes elapsed before the latter ventured to speak. " Geoffry," said he, " I ain't to be gam moned by this story of yours. You've always been a queer chap, and w*hat with the learn ing you've got, and getting amongst the nobs as you've done, there's no making of you out.

But something's the matter — you didn't get into the shores for nothing. Then there's them parchments, too. What could you want to read them for, down there in the dark ? I begin to think " " Phineas !" exclaimed the barber's brother, starting up, and speaking in a fearful and violent manner. " Why, Geoffry, what is the matter — what have I said to hurt yon ? How verv terrible you look ! I was only saying that those parch ments seemed " something very extraordinary abont them. I wish I had looked 'em over while he was sitting iu the chair. There's a secret in them, depend upon it — yes, there is a very awful secret." " Phineas ! Hell and d n ! will yon be quiet ?" again cried his brother, in the same frightful manner. ' ' -What are the parchments to you ? What have you to*do with them ? Do you think they are yours ?"

" No, brother," returned Phineas. " I was only asking why " " Then ask no more !" thundered GeofFry, apparently in the very heat of passion. " The parchments are mine. They fell through a grating, and I went down to seek for them. Hark ye, you had best say no more about this matter — let it be forgotten— forgotten, d'ye hear ?" And Phineas, the barber, was right in his conjecture, for in that parchment was con tained the secret of the sewers of London. What the secret of the parchment was, and what also was that secret which Geoffry Thornton took occasion to remind his brother of, will be revealed in future chapters, Let it suffice, at present, that they were of those kinds, at the relation of which the blue flame is seen to hover about the midnight lamp, and the heart of the spell-bound listener is heard to beat quickly and fitfully within his breast — when, as he listens, his cheeks turn pale, and his boding brain conjures up phantoms wherever he may direct his gaze.

" Yes, brother, it shall be as you say ; only don't look at me in that wild, horrid man ner." " Then swear it, Phineas ! Swear it, man, on your knees, before God and the angels !" " Swear what, brother ?" "Swear," exclaimed Geoffry, "that you will never recall, by word, hint, or action, the events of this day. That you will never return an answer to any one who may ques tion you upon this day's occurrences. On your knees, swear it !" he added, as he flourished over his brother's head the chair upon which he had been sitting. "I swear, brother — I swear !" interjected the barber, in a frightened tone of voice. "Remember, then, your oath, Phineas," continued his brother : " keep it well, for you, too, have your secrets, recollect; and fearful would that day be for you were I to reveal what we know.

I must now return home. At our next meeting be careful that you refer not to anything that has passed on the present occasion. Good-by, brother, good-by." And so saying, Geoffry Thornton departed from his brother's shop. The crowds that had assembled on the causeway were all dis persed, and only now and then did a stray passenger pause on his journey, to wonder why the stones in the road were suffered to remain in such an ill-disposed and unsafe condition. Geoffry Thornton passed on un heeded.

Chapter II

Ever from sunshine shade is springing — Sadsome day from smiling morn ; Ever is summer the frost-time bringing, — Beauty is ever to sorrow horn. — Frenigraih. THE SICK MAN AND HIS SON. — HELEN PORTER. — THE DAUGHTER RESOLVES TO SAVE HER FATHER. Going back for some months from the date of the events recorded in the preceding chap ter, it becomes necessary in introducing new scenes to bring other characters upon the stage. The time was the cold and dismal evening of a winter's day ; the place was a small room in a mean house, situate in a street of no very imposing appearance on the outskirts of the town, towards Islington. The characters present were three in number — a man, a maiden, and a youth. Stretched upon a hed, the coverings of which seemed too scanty and insufficient to shield its occupant from the chilliness of the atmosphere around, lay the sickly and emaciated form of a man, whose age, according to the indications offered by his gray hair and wrinkled brow, appeared to be somewhat more than fifty.

His eyes were without animation, flattened and sunk in their sockets. His hands, as they lay outspread upon the bedclothes, looked shrivelled, pale, and fleshless ; although vestiges were still discernible of their having being once employed in hard and laborious operations. The dire effects of disease were visible in the gaunt and attenuated outlines of his form, and languor and debility showed themselves in the vacant, listless expression of his countenance, j Oh, it was a terrible sight to behold what was once a vigorous and lusty man, now re- ! "Bless us I" ejaculated the little barber to himself, as he closed his shop door, after he had watched his brother down the street — "bless us ! what a comfort it is to get rid of him. And to come in so strange a manner, too. It's just for all the world like the way in which they come up through the boards at the theayters.

There's something wrong about him, too — there's a mystery — a very gTeat mystery at the bottom of it. I wonder whe ther1 he's murdered anybody ? And them parchments, too — bless us I if there ain't duced to the helplessness and weakness of a sucking child. The lips that had once given Utterance to sounds of merriment, and the eyes that had once sparkled in the enjoyment of earthly pleasures, now alike remained un moved and undelighted. The scenes that had once enchanted, the words which once were pregnant with the intimations of happiness, were now without enchantment, and without the power of communicating even the slightest -consolation. When the memory can call up remembrances of no pleasures that may serve to soothe the troubled soul ; when the present moment seems like some horrible tale wliich the heart recoils at, and the ear tries to listen to, and when the future looms like some hideous apparition, whose path we would wish to shun, — then, indeed, does life wear sable garments, and man appears in his humblest character — that of a weak and dependant being.

Oh, poverty is a -sad tiring ! — sad it is to feel the cravings of hunger and the distresses of want. Sad also is the bed of sickness, when the strength is gone and the day is dreary. But sadder still is it when poverty and illness go hand in hand, and the one waits upon the couch of the other, like the servant of some demon spirit, aiding its master in the work of torture, misery, and death. Thus it was in that desolate room — on that cold winter's evening, that disease and penury alike hovered around the wasted form of God frey Porter. By his side — in his very bed, along with him, was the one ; around him, from the bare walls, the tireless grate, and the uncarpeted floor, frowned the other. In truth, it was a sadsome scene. again, and bought a bundle of sticks to boil it with ; and now here it is.

You must try it, father, if it's only for poor Mark's sake. He does nothing, poor boy, but grieve all the day long, because he thinks you will die of star vation.'* " Where is he, Elly — where is he ? Let me see him, that I may give him his father's blessing." " Here I am, father," said Mark Porter, who had been leaning against the stone man telshelf, in an attitude of grief, during the preceding colloquy — " here I am, father ; but don't thank me — don't say anything about the shilling. Let me see you eat the pud ding." " Bless you — bless you I my poor boy," ejaculated the sick man. " Heaven will re ward you for your kindness. God himself will thank you, in his own rich way, for all your good behaviour. He will, my son — he will." " I don't want any thanks — I don't want any reward, father," exclaimed Mark, fer vently.

" I only want to see you get well again, and at work among the flowers in our little front garden." The mention of the little garden seemed to call up some olden and pleasant recollections in the breast of the sorrowful Helen, which, contrasting with the present forlorn condition of affairs, caused her suddenly to give vent to a violent flood of tears. " Look, Mark !" cried the sick man, "your sister — my poor Elly— see, she is ill ! My sweet child is dying — starving here by my very bedside. She is up all night with me in this cold, bitter season, without any fire, and she will die — die ! Mark, your sister will die, and I shall be her murderer !" " Oh, say not so, father — say not so !" ex claimed Helen, running to her parent, and clasping his neck with her arms. " I am not ill — I do not feel the cold; 'tis you, dear father, that must feel it, in that miserable bed, with not clothing enough even for a summer's night.

See ! see 1" and she tossed back with her fair white hands the rich, auburn coloured locks that fell in thick profusion over her more than beautiful countenance ; " sec, dear father, I am quite well, there is nothing the matter with me. I will not weep any more ; I was a fooUsh — foolish girl, for doing so ; but it is over now. Look ! there is not a tear-drop in my eye — there is not a sorrow upon my countenance. My griefs are all for you, dear father; I have none of my own." " My sweet, sweet child 1" exclaimed the suffering invalid, as he grasped with the fer vour of parental affection the pale chillv hands of his daughter. " God be to thee a friend when I am dead and gone. Thou hast all the " Father — -dear father, take a little of this nice pudding that I have made you. It will do you good ; it will strengthen you, dear father," said Helen Porter, his daughter, who knelt by his bedside.