Run to Earth: A Novel
by M. E. Braddon · English · Gutenberg #9102 · 1,073,136 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Run to Earth: A Novel
Author: M. E. Braddon
Release date: October 1, 2005 [eBook #9102]
Most recently updated: August 8, 2012
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9102
Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charlie Kirschner and Distributed Proofreaders
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUN TO EARTH: A NOVEL ***
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charlie Kirschner and
Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration: "I am in the power of a maniac" Honoria murmured.--Page
100. Henry French, del. E. Evans, sc.]
RUN TO EARTH
A NOVEL
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," "AURORA FLOYD"
"ISHMAEL," "VIXEN," "WYLLARD'S WEIRD"
ETC. ETC.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I. WARNED IN A DREAM
CHAPTER II. DONE IN THE DARKNESS
CHAPTER III. DISINHERITED
CHAPTER IV. OUT OF THE DEPTHS
CHAPTER V. "EVIL, BE THOU MY GOOD!"
CHAPTER VI. AULD ROBIN GRAY
CHAPTER VII. "O BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!"
CHAPTER VIII. AFTER THE PIC-NIC
CHAPTER IX. ON YARBOROUGH TOWER
CHAPTER X. "HOW ART THOU LOST! HOW ON A SUDDEN LOST!"
CHAPTER XI. "THE WILL! THE TESTAMENT!"
CHAPTER XII. A FRIEND IN NEED
CHAPTER XIII. IN YOUR PATIENCE YE ARE STRONG
CHAPTER XIV. A GHOSTLY VISITANT
CHAPTER XV. A TERRIBLE RESOLVE
CHAPTER XVI. WAITING AND WATCHING
CHAPTER XVII. DOUBTFUL SOCIETY
CHAPTER XVIII. AT ANCHOR
CHAPTER XIX. A FAMILIAR TOKEN
CHAPTER XX. ON GUARD
CHAPTER XXI. DOWN IN DORSETSHIRE
CHAPTER XXII. ARCH-TRAITOR WITHIN, ARCH-PLOTTER WITHOUT
CHAPTER XXIII. "ANSWER ME, IF THIS BE DONE?"
CHAPTER XXIV. "I AM WEARY OF MY PART"
CHAPTER XXV. A DANGEROUS ALLIANCE
CHAPTER XXVI. MOVE THE FIRST
CHAPTER XXVII. WEAVE THE WARP, AND WEAVE THE WOOF
CHAPTER XXVIII. PREPARING THE GROUND
CHAPTER XXIX. AT WATCH
CHAPTER XXX. FOUND WANTING
CHAPTER XXXI. "A WORTHLESS WOMAN, MERE COLD CLAY"
CHAPTER XXXII. A MEETING AND AN EXPLANATION
CHAPTER XXXIII. "TREASON HAS DONE HIS WORST"
CHAPTER XXXIV. CAUGHT IN THE TOILS
CHAPTER XXXV. LARKSPUR TO THE RESCUE!
CHAPTER XXXVI. ON THE TRACK
CHAPTER XXXVII. "O, ABOVE MEASURE FALSE!"
CHAPTER XXXVIII. "THY DAY IS COME"
CHAPTER XXXIX. "CONFUSION WORSE THAN DEATH"
CHAPTER XL. "SO SHALL YE REAP"
CHAPTER I.
WARNED IN A DREAM.
Seven-and-twenty years ago, and a bleak evening in March. There are
gas-lamps flaring down in Ratcliff Highway, and the sound of squeaking
fiddles and trampling feet in many public-houses tell of festivity
provided for Jack-along-shore. The emporiums of slop-sellers are
illuminated for the better display of tarpaulin coats and hats, so
stiff of build that they look like so many sea-faring suicides, pendent
from the low ceilings. These emporiums are here and there enlivened by
festoons of many-coloured bandana handkerchief's; and on every pane of
glass in shop or tavern window is painted the glowing representation of
Britannia's pride, the immortal Union Jack.
Two men sat drinking and smoking in a little parlour at the back of an
old public-house in Shadwell. The room was about as large as a
good-sized cupboard, and was illuminated in the day-time by a window
commanding a pleasant prospect of coal-shed and dead wall. The paper on
the walls was dark and greasy with age; and every bit of clumsy,
bulging deal furniture in the room had been transformed into a kind of
ebony by the action of time and dirt, the greasy backs and elbows of
idle loungers, the tobacco-smoke and beer-stains of half a century.
It was evident that the two men smoking and drinking in this darksome
little den belonged to the seafaring community. In this they resembled
each other; but in nothing else. One was tall and stalwart; the other
was small, and wizen, and misshapen. One had a dark, bronzed face, with
a frank, fearless expression; the other was pale and freckled, and had
small, light-gray eyes, that shifted and blinked perpetually, and
shifted and blinked most when he was talking with most animation. The
first had a sonorous bass voice and a resonant laugh; the second spoke
in suppressed tones, and had a trick of dropping his voice to a whisper
whenever he was most energetic.
The first was captain and half-owner of the brigantine 'Pizarro',
trading between the port of London, and the coast of Mexico. The second
was his clerk, factotum, and confidant; half-sailor, half-landsman;
able to take the helm in dangerous weather, if need were; and able to
afford his employer counsel in the most intricate questions of trading
and speculation.
The name of the captain was Valentine Jernam, that of his factotum
Joyce Harker. The captain had found him in an American hospital, had
taken compassion upon him, and had offered him a free passage home. On
the homeward voyage, Joyce Harker had shown himself so handy a
personage, that Captain Jernam had declined to part with him at the end
of the cruise: and from that time, the wizen little hunchback had been
the stalwart seaman's friend and companion. For fifteen years, during
which Valentine Jernam and his younger brother, George, had been
traders on the high seas, things had gone well with these two brothers;
but never had fortune so liberally favoured their trading as during the
four years in which Joyce Harker had prompted every commercial
adventure, and guided every speculation.
"Four years to-day, Joyce, since I first set eyes upon your face in the
hospital at New Orleans," said Captain Jernam, in the confidence of
this jovial hour. "'Why, the fellow's dead,' said I. 'No; he's only
dying,' says the doctor. 'What's the matter with him?' asked I.
'Home-sickness and empty pockets,' says the doctor; 'he was employed in
a gaming-house in the city, got knocked on the head in some row, and
was brought here. We've got him through a fever that was likely enough
to have finished him; but there he lies, as weak as a starved rat. He
has neither money nor friends. He wants to get back to England; but he
has no more hope of ever seeing that country than I have of being
Emperor of Mexico.' 'Hasn't he?' says I; 'we'll tell you a different
story about that, Mr. Doctor. If you can patch the poor devil up
between this and next Monday, I'll take him home in my ship, without
the passage costing him sixpence.' You don't feel offended with me for
having called you a poor devil, eh, Joyce?--for you really were, you
know--you really were an uncommonly poor creature just then," murmured
the captain, apologetically.
"Offended with you!" exclaimed the factotum; "that's a likely thing.
Don't I owe you my life? How many more of my countrymen passed me by as
I lay on that hospital-bed, and left me to rot there, for all they
cared? I heard their loud voices and their creaking boots as I lay
there, too weak to lift my eyelids and look at them; but not too weak
to curse them."
"No, Joyce, don't say that."
"But I do say it; and what's more, I mean it. I'll tell you what it is,
captain, there's a general opinion that when a man's shoulders are
crooked, his mind is crooked too; and that, if his poor unfortunate
legs have shrivelled up small, his heart must have shrivelled up small
to match 'em. I dare say there's some truth in the general opinion;
for, you see, it doesn't improve a man's temper to find himself cut out
according to a different pattern from that his fellow-creatures have
been made by, and to find his fellow-creatures setting themselves
against him because of that difference; and it doesn't soften a poor
wretch's heart towards the world in general, to find the world in
general harder than stone against him, for no better reason than his
poor weak legs and his poor crooked back. But never mind talking about
me and my feelings, captain. I ain't of so much account as to make it
worth while for a fine fellow like you to waste words upon me. What I
want to know is your plans. You don't intend to stop down this way, do
you?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Because it's a dangerous way for a man who carries his fortune about
him, as you do. I wish you'd make up your mind to bank that money,
captain."
"Not if I know it," answered the sailor, with a look of profound
wisdom; "not if I know it, Joyce Harker. I know what your bankers are.
You go to them some fine afternoon, and find a lot of clerks standing
behind a bran new mahogany counter, everything bright, and shining, and
respectable. 'Can I leave a few hundreds on deposit?' asks you. 'Why,
of course you can,' reply they; and then you hand over your money, and
then they hand you back a little bit of paper. 'That's your receipt,'
say they. 'All right,' say you; and off you sheer. Perhaps you feel
just a little bit queerish, when you get outside, to think that all
your solid cash has been melted down into that morsel of paper; but
being a light-hearted, easy-going fellow, you don't think any more of
it, till you come home from your next voyage, and go ashore again, and
want your money; when it's ten to one if you don't find your fine new
bank shut up, and your clerks and bran-new mahogany counter vanished.
No, Joyce, I'll trust no bankers."
"I'd rather trust the bankers than the people down this way, any day in
the week," answered the clerk, thoughtfully.
"Don't you worry yourself, Joyce! The money won't be in my keeping very
long. George is to meet me in London on the fifth of April, at the
latest, he says, unless winds and waves are more contrary than ever
they've been since he's had to do with them; and you know George is my
banker. I'm only a sleeping partner in the firm of Jernam Brothers.
George takes the money, and George does what he likes with it--puts it
here and there, and speculates in this and speculates in that. You've
got a business head of your own, Joyce; you're one of George's own
sort; and you are up to all his dodges, which is more than I am.
However, he tells me we're getting rich, and that's pleasant
enough--not that I think I should break my heart about it if we were
getting poor. I love the sea because it is the sea, and I love my ship
for her own sake."
"Captain George is right, though," answered the clerk. "Jernam Brothers
are growing rich; Jernam Brothers are prospering. But you haven't told
me your plans yet, captain."
"Well, since you say I had better cut this quarter, I suppose I must;
though I like to see the rigging above the housetops, and to hear the
jolly voices of the sailors, and to know that the 'Pizarro' lies hard
by in the Pool. However, there's an old aunt of mine, down in a sleepy
little village in Devonshire, who'd be glad to see me, and none the
worse for a small slice of Jernam Brothers' good luck; so I'll take a
place on the Plymouth coach to-morrow morning, and go down and have a
peep at her. You'll be able to keep a look-out on the repairs aboard of
the 'Pizarro', and I can be back in time to meet George on the fifth."
"Where are you to meet him?"
"In this room."
The factotum shook his head.
"You're both a good deal too fond of this house," he said. "The people
that have got it now are strangers to us. They've bought the business
since our last trip. I don't like the look on them."
"No more do I, if it comes to that. I was sorry to hear the old folks
had been done up. But come, Joyce, some more rum-and-water. Let's enjoy
ourselves to-night, man, if I'm to start by the first coach to-morrow
morning. What's that?"
The captain stopped, with the bell-rope in his hand, to listen to the
sound of music close at hand. A woman's voice, fresh and clear as the
song of a sky-lark, was singing "Wapping Old Stairs," to the
accompaniment of a feeble old piano.
"What a voice!" cried the sailor. "Why, it seems to pierce to the very
core of my heart as I listen to it. Let's go and hear the music, Joyce."
"Better not, captain," answered the warning voice of the clerk. "I tell
you they're a bad lot in this house. It's a sort of concert they give
of a night; an excuse for drunkenness, and riot, and low company. If
you're going by the coach to-morrow, you'd better get to bed early
to-night. You've been drinking quite enough as it is."
"Drinking!" cried Valentine Jernam; "why, I'm as sober as a judge.
Come, Joyce, let's go and listen to that girl's singing."
The captain left the room, and Harker followed, shrugging his shoulders
as he went.
"There's nothing so hard to manage as a baby of thirty years old," he
muttered; "a blessed infant that one's obliged to call master."
He followed the captain, through a dingy little passage, into a room
with a sanded floor, and a little platform at one end. The room was
full of sailors and disreputable-looking women; and was lighted by
several jets of coarse gas, which flared in the bleak March wind.
A group of black-bearded, foreign-looking seamen made room for the
captain and his companion at one of the tables. Jernam acknowledged
their courtesy with a friendly nod.
"I don't mind standing treat for a civil fellow like you," he said;
"come, mates, what do you say to a bowl of punch?"
The men looked at him and grinned a ready assent.
Valentine Jernam called the landlord, and ordered a bowl of rum-punch.
"Plenty of it, remember, and be sure you are not too liberal with the
water," said the captain.
The landlord nodded and laughed. He was a broad-shouldered,
square-built man, with a flat, pale face, broad and square, like his
figure--not a pleasant-looking man by any means.
Valentine Jernam folded his arms on the rickety, liquor-stained table,
and took a leisurely survey of the apartment.
There was a pause in the concert just now. The girl had finished her
song, and sat by the old square piano, waiting till she should be
required to sing again. There were only two performers in this
primitive species of concert--the girl who sang, and an old blind man,
who accompanied her on the piano; but such entertainment was quite
sufficient for the patrons of the 'Jolly Tar', seven-and-twenty years
ago, before the splendours of modern music-halls had arisen in the land.
Valentine Jernam's dark eyes wandered round the room, till they lighted
on the face of the girl sitting by the piano. There they fixed
themselves all at once, and seemed as if rooted to the face on which
they looked. It was a pale, oval face, framed in bands of smooth black
hair, and lighted by splendid black eyes; the face of a Roman empress
rather than a singing-girl at a public-house in Shadwell. Never before
had Valentine Jernam looked on so fair a woman. He had never been a
student or admirer of the weaker sex. He had a vague kind of idea that
there were women, and mermaids, and other dangerous creatures, lurking
somewhere in this world, for the destruction of honest men; but beyond
this he had very few ideas on the subject.
Other people were taking very little notice of the singer. The regular
patrons of the 'Jolly Tar' were accustomed to her beauty and her
singing, and thought very little about her. The girl was very quiet,
very modest. She came and went under the care of the old blind pianist,
whom she called her grandfather, and she seemed to shrink alike from
observation or admiration.
She began to sing again presently.
She stood by the piano, facing the audience, calm as a statue, with her
large black eyes looking straight before her. The old man listened to
her eagerly, as he played, and nodded fond approval every now and then,
as the full, rich notes fell upon his ear. The poor blind face was
illuminated with the musician's rapture. It seemed as if the noisy,
disreputable audience had no existence for these two people.
"What a lovely creature!" exclaimed the captain, in a tone of subdued
intensity.
"Yes, she's a pretty girl," muttered the clerk, coolly.
"A pretty girl!" echoed Jernam; "an angel, you mean! I did not know
there were such women in the world; and to think that such a woman
should be here, in this place, in the midst of all this tobacco-smoke,
and noise, and blasphemy! It seems hard, doesn't it, Joyce?"
"I don't see that it's any harder for a pretty woman than an ugly one,"
replied Harker, sententiously. "If the girl had red hair and a snub
nose, you wouldn't take the trouble to pity her. I don't see why you
should concern yourself about her, because she happens to have black
eyes and red lips. I dare say she's a bad lot, like most of 'em about
here, and would as soon pick your pocket as look at you, if you gave
her the chance."
Valentine Jernam made no reply to these observations. It is possible
that he scarcely heard them. The punch came presently; but he pushed
the bowl towards Joyce, and bade that gentleman dispense the mixture.
His own glass remained before him untouched, while the foreign seamen
and Joyce Harker emptied the bowl. When the girl sang, he listened;
when she sat in a listless attitude, in the pauses between her songs,
he watched her face.
Until she had finished her last song, and left the platform, leading
her blind companion by the hand, the captain of the 'Pizarro' seemed
like a creature under the influence of a spell. There was only one exit
from the room, so the singing-girl and her grandfather had to pass
along the narrow space between the two rows of tables. Her dark stuff
dress brushed against Jernam as she passed him. To the last, his eyes
followed her with the same entranced gaze.
When she had gone, and the door had closed upon her, he started
suddenly to his feet, and followed. He was just in time to see her
leave the house with her grandfather, and with a big, ill-looking man,
half-sailor, half-landsman, who had been drinking at the bar.
The landlord was standing behind the bar, drawing beer, as Jernam
looked out into the street, watching the receding figures of the girl
and her two companions.
"She's a pretty girl, isn't she?" said the landlord, as Jernam shut the
door.
"She is, indeed!" cried the sailor. "Who is she?--where does she come
from?--what's her name?"
"Her name is Jenny Milsom, and she lives with her father, a very
respectable man."
"Was that her father who went out with her just now?"
"Yes, that's Tom Milsom."
"He doesn't look very respectable. I don't think I ever set eyes on a
worse-looking fellow."
"A man can't help his looks," answered the landlord, rather sulkily;
"I've known Tom Milsom these ten years, and I've never known any harm
of him."
"No, nor any good either, I should think, Dennis Wayman," said a man
who was lounging at the bar; "Black Milsom is the name we gave him over
at Rotherhithe. I worked with him in a shipbuilder's yard seven years
ago: a surly brute he was then, and a surly brute he is now; and a
lazy, skulking vagabond into the bargain, living an idle life out at
that cottage of his among the marshes, and eating up his pretty
daughter's earnings."
"You seem to know Milsom's business as well as you do your own, Joe
Dermot," answered the landlord, with some touch of anger in his tone.
"It's no use looking savage at me, Dennis," returned Dermot; "I never
did trust Black Milsom, and never will. There are men who would take
your life's blood for the price of a gallon of beer, and I think Milsom
is one of 'em."
Valentine Jernam listened attentively to this conversation--not because
he was interested in Black Milsom's character, but because he wanted to
hear anything that could enlighten him about the girl who had awakened
such a new sentiment in his breast.
The clerk had followed his master, and stood in the shadow of the
doorway, listening even more attentively than his employer; the small,
restless eyes shifted to and fro between the faces of the speakers.
More might have been said about Mr. Thomas Milsom; but it was evident
that the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' was inclined to resent any
disrespectful allusion to that individual. The man called Joe Dermot
paid his score, and went away. The captain and his factotum retired to
the two dingy little apartments which were to accommodate them for the
night.
All through that night, sleeping or waking, Valentine Jernam was
haunted by the vision of a beautiful face, the sound of a melodious
voice, and the face and the voice belonged alike to the singing-girl.
The captain of the 'Pizarro' left his room at five o'clock, and tapped
at Joyce Marker's door with the intention of bidding him goodbye.
"I'm off, Joyce," he said; "be sure you keep your eye upon the repairs
between this and the fifth."
He was prepared to receive a drowsy answer; but to his surprise the
door was opened, and Joyce stood dressed upon the threshold.
"I'm coming to the coach-office with you, captain," answered Harker. "I
don't like this place, and I want to see you safe out of it, never to
come back to it any more."
"Nonsense, Joyce; the place suits me well enough."
"Does it?" asked the factotum, in a whisper; "and the landlord suits
you, I suppose?--and that man they call Black Milsom? There's something
more than common between those two men, Captain Jernam. However that
is, you take my advice. Don't you come back to this house till you come
to meet Captain George. Captain George is a cool hand, and I'm not
afraid of him; but you're too wild and too free-spoken for such folks
as hang about the 'Jolly Tar'. You sported your pocket-book too freely
last night, when you were paying for the punch. I saw the landlord spot
the notes and gold, and I haven't trusted myself to sleep too soundly
all night, for fear there should be any attempt at foul play."
"You're a good fellow, Joyce; but though you've pluck enough for twenty
in a storm at sea, you're as timid as a baby at home."
"I'm like a dog, captain--I can smell danger when it threatens those I
love. Hark! what's that?"
They were going down stairs quietly, in the darkness of the early
spring morning. The clerk's quick ear caught the sound of a stealthy
footstep; and in the next minute they were face to face with a man who
was ascending the narrow stairs.
"You're early astir, Mr. Wayman," said Joyce Harker, recognizing the
landlord of the 'Jolly Tar'.
"And so are you, for the matter of that," answered the host.
"My captain is off by an early coach, and I'm going to walk to the
office with him," returned Joyce.
"Off by an early coach, is he? Then, if he can stop to drink it, I'll
make him a cup of coffee."
"You're very good," answered Joyce, hastily; "but you see, the captain
hasn't time for that, if he's going to catch the coach."
"Are you going into the country for long, captain?" asked the landlord.
"Well, no; not for long, mate; for I've got an appointment to keep in
this house, on the fifth of April, with a brother of mine, who's
homeward-bound from Barbadoes. You see, my brother and me are partners;
whatever good luck one has he shares it with the other. We've been
uncommon lucky lately."
The captain slapped his hand upon one of his capacious pockets as he
spoke. Dennis Wayman watched the gesture with eager eyes. All through
Valentine's speech, Joyce Harker had been trying to arrest his
attention, but trying in vain. When the owner of the 'Pizarro' began to
talk, it was very difficult to stop him.
The captain bade the landlord a cheerful good day, and departed with
his faithful follower.
Out in the street, Joyce Harker remonstrated with his employer.
"I told you that fellow was not to be trusted, captain," he said; "and
yet you blabbed to him about the money."
"Nonsense, Joyce. I didn't say a word about money."
"Didn't you though, captain? You said quite enough to let that man know
you'd got the cash about you. But you won't go back to that place till
you go to meet Captain George on the fifth?"
"Of course not."
"You won't change your mind, captain?"
"Not I."
"Because, you see, I shall be down at Blackwall, looking after the
repairs, for it will be sharp work to get finished against you want to
sail for Rio. So, you see, I shall be out of the way. And if you did go
back to that house alone, Lord knows what they might try on."
"Don't you be afraid, Joyce. In the first place I shan't go back there
till twelve o'clock on the fifth. I'll come up from Plymouth by the
night coach, and put up at the 'Golden Cross' like a gentleman. And, in
the second place, I flatter myself I'm a match for any set of
land-sharks in creation."
"No, you're not, captain. No honest man is ever a match for a
scoundrel."
Jernam and his companion carried the captain's portmanteau between
them. They hailed a hackney-coach presently, and drove to the "Golden
Cross," through the chill, gray streets, where the closed shutters had
a funereal aspect.
At the coach-office they parted, with many friendly words on both
sides; but to the last, Joyce Harker was grave and anxious.
The last he saw of his friend and employer was the captain's dark face
looking out of the coach-window; the captain's hand waved in cordial
farewell.
"What a good fellow he is!--what a noble fellow!" thought the wizen
little clerk, as he trudged back towards the City. "But was there ever
a baby so helpless on shore?--was there ever an innocent infant that
needed so much looking after?"
* * * * *
Valentine Jernam arrived at Plymouth early the next morning, and walked
from Plymouth to the little village of Allanbay, in which lived the
only relative he had in the world, except his brother George. Walking
at a leisurely pace along the quiet road, Captain Jernam, although not
usually a thoughtful person, was fain to think about something, and
fell to thinking over the past.
Light-hearted and cheery of spirit as the adventurous sailor was
now-a-days, his childhood had been a very sad one. Motherless at eight
years of age, and ill-used by a drunken father, the boy had suffered as
the children of the poor too often suffer.
His mother had died, leaving George an infant of less than twelve
months old; and from the hour of her death, Valentine had been the
infant's sole nurse and protector; standing between the helpless little
one and the father's brutality; enduring all hardships cheerfully, so
long as he was able to shelter little Georgy.
On more than one occasion, the elder boy had braved and defied his
father in defence of the younger brother.
It was scarcely strange, therefore, that there should arise between the
two brothers an affection beyond the ordinary measure of brotherly
love. Valentine had supplied the place of both parents to his brother
George,--the place of the mother, who lay buried in Allanbay
churchyard; the place of the father, who had sunk into a living death
of drunkenness and profligacy.
They were not peasant-born these Jernams. The father had been a
lieutenant in the Royal Navy; but had deservedly lost his commission,
and had come, with his devoted wife, to hide his disgrace at Allanbay.
The vices which had caused his expulsion from the navy had increased
with every year, until the family had sunk to the lowest depths of
poverty and degradation, in spite of the wife's heroic efforts to
accomplish the reform of a reprobate. She had struggled nobly till the
last, and had died broken-hearted, leaving the helpless children to the
mercy of a wretch whose nature had become utterly debased and
brutalized.
Throughout their desolate childhood the brothers had been all in all to
each other, and as soon as George was old enough to face the world with
his brother, the two boys ran away to sea, and obtained employment on
board a small trading vessel.
At sea, as on shore, Valentine stood between his younger brother and
all hardships. But the rough sailors were kinder than the drunken
father had been, and the two lads fared pretty well.
Thus began the career of the two Jernams. Through all changes of
fortune, the brothers had clung to each other. Despite all differences
of character, their love for each other had known neither change nor
diminution; and to-day, walking alone upon this quiet country road, the
tears clouded Valentine Jernam's eyes as he remembered how often he had
trodden it in the old time with his little brother in his arms.
"I shall see his dear face on the fifth," he thought; "God bless him!"
The old aunt lived in a cottage near the entrance to the village. She
was comfortably off now--thanks to the two merchant captains; but she
had been very poor in the days of their childhood, and had been able to
do but little for the neglected lads. She had given them shelter,
however, when they had been afraid to go home to their father, and had
shared her humble fare with them very often.
Mrs. Jernam, as she was called by her neighbours, in right of her sixty
years of age, was sitting by the window when her nephew opened the
little garden-gate: but she had opened the door before he could knock,
and was standing on the threshold ready to embrace him.
"My boy," she exclaimed, "I have been looking for you so long!"
That day was given up to pleasant talk between the aunt and nephew. She
was so anxious to hear his adventures, and he was so willing to tell
them. He sat before the fire smoking, while Susan Jernam's busy fingers
plied her knitting-needles, and relating his hair-breadth escapes and
perils between the puffs of blue smoke.
The captain was regaled with an excellent dinner, and a bottle of wine
of his own importation. After dinner, he strolled out into the village,
saw his old friends and acquaintances, and talked over old times.
Altogether his first day at Allanbay passed very pleasantly.
The second day at Allanbay, however, hung heavily on the captain's
hands. He had told all his adventures; he had seen all his old
acquaintances. The face of the ballad-singer haunted him perpetually;
and he spent the best part of the day leaning over the garden-gate and
smoking. Mrs. Jernam was not offended by her nephew's conduct.
"Ah! my boy," she said, smiling fondly on her handsome kinsman, "it's
fortunate Providence made you a sailor, for you'd have been ill-fitted
for any but a roving life."
The third day of Valentine Jernam's stay at Allanbay was the second of
April, and on that morning his patience was exhausted. The face which
had made itself a part of his very mind lured him back to London. He
was a man who had never accustomed himself to school his impulses; and
the impulse that drew him back to London was irresistible.
"I must and will see her once more," he said to himself; "perhaps, if I
see her face again, I shall find out it's only a common face after all,
and get the better of this folly. But I must see her. After the fifth,
George will be with me, and I shan't be my own master. I must see her
before the fifth."
Impetuous in all things, Valentine Jernam was not slow to act upon his
resolution. He told his aunt that he had business to transact in
London. He left Allanbay at noon, walked to Plymouth, took the
afternoon coach, and rode into London on the following day.
It was one o'clock when Captain Jernam found himself once more in the
familiar seafaring quarter; early as it was, the noise of riot and
revelry had begun already.
The landlord looked up with an expression of considerable surprise as
the captain of the 'Pizarro' crossed the threshold.
"Why, captain," he said, "I thought we weren't to see you till the
fifth."
"Well, you see, I had some business to do in this neighbourhood, so I
changed my mind."
"I'm very glad you did," answered Dennis Wayman, cordially; "you've
just come in time to take a snack of dinner with me and my missus, so
you can sit down, and make yourself at home, without ceremony."
The captain was too good-natured to refuse an invitation that seemed
proffered in such a hearty spirit. And beyond this, he wanted to hear
more about Jenny Milsom, the ballad-singer.
So he ate his dinner with Mr. Wayman and his wife, and found himself
asking all manner of questions about the singing-girl in the course of
his hospitable entertainment.
He asked if the girl was going to sing at the tavern to-night.
"No," answered the landlord; "this is Friday. She only sings at my
place on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays."
"And what does she do with herself for the rest of the week?"
"Ah! that's more than I know; but very likely her father will look in
here in the course of the afternoon, and he can tell you. I say,
though, captain, you seem uncommonly sweet on this girl," added the
landlord, with a leer and a wink.
"Well, perhaps I am sweet upon her," replied Valentine Jernam "perhaps
I'm fool enough to be caught by a pretty face, and not wise enough to
keep my folly a secret."
"I've got a Little business to see to over in Rotherhithe," said Mr.
Wayman, presently; "you'll see after the bar while I'm gone, Nancy.
There's the little private room at your service, captain, and I dare
say you can make yourself comfortable there with your pipe and the
newspaper. It's ten to one but what Tom Milsom will look in before the
day's out, and he'll tell you all about his daughter."
Upon this the landlord departed, and Valentine Jernam retired to the
little den called a private room, where he speedily fell asleep,
wearied out by his journey on the previous night.
His slumbers were not pleasant. He sat in an uneasy position, upon a
hard wooden chair, with his arms folded on the table before him, and
his head resting on his folded arms.
There was a miserable pretence of a fire, made with bad coals and damp
wood.
Sleeping in that wretched atmosphere, in that uncomfortable attitude,
it was scarcely strange if Valentine Jernam dreamt a bad dream.
He dreamt that he fell asleep at broad day in his cabin on board the
'Pizarro', and that he woke suddenly and found himself in darkness. He
dreamt that he groped his way up the companion-way, and on to the deck.
There, as below, he found gloom and darkness, and instead of a busy
crew, utter loneliness, perfect silence. A stillness like the stillness
of death reigned on the level waters around the motionless ship.
The captain shouted, but his voice died away among the shrouds.
Presently a glimmer of star-light pierced the universal gloom, and in
that uncertain light a shadowy figure came gliding towards him across
the ocean--a face shone upon him beneath the radiance of the stars. It
was the face of the ballad-singer.
The shadow drew nearer to him, with a strange gliding motion. The
shadow lifted a white, transparent hand, and pointed.
To what?
To a tombstone, which glimmered cold and white through the gloom of sky
and waters.
The starlight shone upon the tombstone, and on it the sleeper read this
inscription--"_In memory of Valentine Jernam, aged 33_."
The sailor awoke suddenly with a cry, and, looking up, saw the man they
called Black Milsom sitting on the opposite side of the table, looking
at him earnestly.
"Well, you are a restless sleeper, captain!" said this man: "I dropped
in here just now, thinking to find Dennis Wayman, and I've been looking
on while you finished your nap. I never saw a harder sleeper."
"I had a bad dream," answered Jernam, starting to his feet.
"A bad dream! What about, captain?"
"About your daughter!"
CHAPTER II.
DONE IN THE DARKNESS.
Before Thomas Milsom, otherwise Black Milsom, could express his
surprise, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' returned from his business
excursion, and presented himself in the dingy little room, where it was
already beginning to grow dusk.
Milsom told Dennis Wayman how he had discovered the captain sleeping
uneasily, with his head upon the table; and on being pressed a little,
Valentine Jernam told his dream as freely as it was his habit to tell
everything relating to his own affairs.
"I don't see that it was such a very bad dream, after all," said Dennis
Wayman, when the story was finished. "You dreamt you were at sea in a
dead calm, that's about the plain English of it."
"Yes; but such a calm! I've been becalmed many a time; but I never
remember anything like what I saw in my dream just now. Then the
loneliness; not a creature on board besides myself; not a human voice
to answer me when I called. And the face--there was something so awful
in the face--smiling at me, and yet with a kind of threatening look in
the smile; and the hand pointing to the tombstone! Do you know that I
was thirty-three last December?"
The sailor covered his face with his hands, and sat for some moments in
a meditative attitude. Bold and reckless though he was, the
superstition of his class had some hold upon him; and this bad dream
influenced him, in spite of himself.
The landlord was the first to break the silence. "Come, captain," he
said; "this is what I call giving yourself up to the blue devils. You
went to sleep in an uncomfortable position, and you had an
uncomfortable dream, with no more sense nor reason in it than such
dreams generally have. What do you say to a hand at cards, and a drop
of something short? You want cheering up a bit, captain; that's what
you want."
Valentine Jernam assented. The cards were brought, and a bowl of punch
ordered by the open-handed sailor, who was always ready to invite
people to drink at his expense.
The men played all-fours; and what generally happens in this sort of
company happened now to Captain Jernam. He began by winning, and ended
by losing; and his losses were much heavier than his gains.
He had been playing for upwards of an hour, and had drunk several
glasses of punch, before his luck changed, and he had occasion to take
out the bloated leathern pocket-book, distended unnaturally with notes
and gold.
But for that rum-punch he might, perhaps, have remembered Joyce
Harker's warning, and avoided displaying his wealth before these two
men. Unhappily, however, the fumes of the strong liquor had already
begun to mount to his brain, and the clerk was completely forgotten. He
opened his pocket-book every time he had occasion to pay his losses,
and whenever he opened it the greedy eyes of Dennis Wayman and Black
Milsom devoured the contents with a furtive gaze.
With every hand the sailor grew more excited. He was playing for small
stakes, and as yet his losses only amounted to a few pounds. But the
sense of defeat annoyed him. He was feverishly eager for his revenge:
and when Milsom rose to go, the captain wanted him to continue to play.
"You shan't sneak off like that," he said; "I want my revenge, and I
must have it."
Black Milsom pointed to a little Dutch clock in a corner of the room.
"Past eight o'clock," he said; "and I've got a five-mile walk between
me and home. My girl, Jenny, will be waiting up for me, and getting
anxious about her father."
In the excitement of play, and the fever engendered by strong drink,
Valentine Jernam had forgotten the ballad-singer. But this mention of
her name brought the vision of the beautiful face back to him.
"Your daughter!" he muttered; "your daughter! Yes; the girl who sang
here, the beautiful girl who sang."
His voice was thick, and his accents indistinct. Both the men had
pressed Jernam to drink, while they themselves took very little. They
had encouraged him to talk as well as to drink, and the appointment
with his brother had been spoken of by the captain.
In speaking of this intended meeting, Valentine Jernam had spoken also
of the good fortune which had attended his latest trading adventures;
and he had said enough to let these men know that he carried the
proceeds of his trading upon his person.
"Joyce wanted me to bank my money," he said; "but none of your banking
rogues for me. My brother George is the only banker I trust, or ever
mean to trust."
Milsom insisted upon the necessity of his departure, and the sailor
declared that he would have his revenge. They were getting to high
words, when Dennis Wayman interfered to keep the peace.
"I'll tell you what it is," he said; "if the captain wants his revenge,
it's only fair that he should have it. Suppose we go down to your
place, Milsom! you can give us a bit of supper, I dare say. What do you
say to that?"
Milsom hesitated in a sheepish kind of manner. "Mine's such a poor
place for a gentleman like the captain," he said. "My daughter Jenny
will do her best to make things straight and comfortable; but still it
is about the poorest place that ever was--there's no denying that."
"I'm no fine gentleman," said the captain, enraptured at the idea of
seeing the ballad-singer; "if your daughter will give us a crust of
bread and cheese, I shall be satisfied. We'll take two or three bottles
of wine down with us, and we'll be as jolly as princes. Get your trap
ready, Wayman, and let's be off at once."
The captain was all impatience to start. Dennis Wayman went away to get
the vehicle ready, and Milsom followed him, but they did not leave
Captain Jernam much time for thought, for Dennis Wayman came back
almost immediately to say that the vehicle was ready.
"Now, then, look sharp, captain!" he said; "it's a dark night, and we
shall have a dark drive."
It was a dark night--dark even here in Wapping, darker still on the
road by which Valentine Jernam found himself travelling presently.
The vehicle which Dennis Wayman drove was a disreputable-looking
conveyance--half chaise-cart, half gig--and the pony was a
vicious-looking animal, with a shaggy mane; but he was a tremendous
pony to go, and the dark, marshy country flew past the travellers in
the darkness like a landscape in a dream.
The ripple of the water, sounding faintly in the stillness, told
Valentine Jernam that the river was near at hand; but beyond this the
sailor had little knowledge of his whereabouts.
They had soon left London behind.
After driving some six or seven miles, and always keeping within sound
of the dull plash of the river, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' drew up
suddenly by a dilapidated wooden paling, behind which there was a
low-roofed habitation of some kind or other, which was visible only by
reason of one faint glimmer of light, flickering athwart a scrap of
dingy red curtain. The dull, plashing sound of the river was louder
here; and, mingling with that monotonous ripple of the water, there was
a shivering sound--the trembling of rushes stirred by the chill night
wind.
"I'd almost passed your place, Tom," said the landlord, as he drew up
before the darksome habitation.
"You might a'most drive over it on such a night as this," answered
Black Milsom, "and not be much the wiser."
The three men alighted, and Dennis Wayman led the vicious pony to a
broken-down shed, which served as stable and coach-house in Mr.
Milsom's establishment.
Valentine Jernam looked about him. As his eyes grew more familiar with
the locality, he was able to make out the outline of the dilapidated
dwelling.
It was little better than a hovel, and stood on a patch of waste
ground, which could scarcely have been garden within the memory of man.
By one side of the house there was a wide, open ditch, fringed with
rushes--a deep, black ditch, that flowed down to the river.
"I can't compliment you on the situation of your cottage, mate," he
said; "it might be livelier."
"I dare say it might," answered Black Milsom, rather sulkily. "I took
to this place because everybody else was afraid to take to it, and it
was to be had for nothing. There was an old miser as cut his throat
here seven or eight year ago, and the place has been left to go to
decay ever since. The miser's ghost walks about here sometimes, after
twelve o'clock at night, folks say. 'Let him walk till he tires himself
out,' says I. 'He don't come my way; and if he did he wouldn't scare
me.' Come, captain."
Mr. Milsom opened the door, and ushered his visitor into the lively
abode, which the prejudice of weak-minded people permitted him to
occupy rent-free.
The girl whom Jernam had seen at the Wapping public-house was sitting
by the hearth, where a scrap of fire burnt in a rusty grate. She had
been sitting in a listless attitude, with her hands lying idle on her
lap, and her eyes fixed on the fire; but she looked up as the two men
entered.
She did not welcome her father's return with any demonstration of
affection; she looked at him with a strange, wondering gaze; and she
looked with an anxious expression from him to his companion.
Dennis Wayman came in presently, and as the girl recognized him, a
transient look, almost like horror, flitted across her face, unseen by
the sailor.
"Come, Jenny," said Milsom; "I've brought Wayman and a friend of his
down to supper. What can you give us to eat? There's a bit of cold beef
in the house, I know, and bread and cheese; the captain here has
brought the wine; so we shall do well enough. Look sharp, lass. You're
in one of your tempers to-night, I suppose; but you ought to know that
don't answer with me. I say, captain," added the man, with a laugh, "if
ever you're going to marry a pretty woman, make sure she isn't troubled
with an ugly temper; for you'll find, as a rule, that the handsomer a
woman is the more of the devil there is in her. Now, Jenny, the supper,
and no nonsense about it."
The girl went into another room, and returned presently with such fare
as Mr. Milsom's establishment could afford. The sailor's eyes followed
her wherever she went, full of compassion and love. He was sure this
brutal wretch, Milsom, used her badly, and he rejoiced to think that he
had disregarded all Joyce Harker's warnings, and penetrated into the
scoundrel's home. He rejoiced, for he meant to rescue this lovely,
helpless creature. He knew nothing of her, except that she was
beautiful, friendless, lonely, and ill-used; and he determined to take
her away and marry her.
He did not perplex himself with any consideration as to whether she
would return his love, or be grateful for his devotion. He thought only
of her unhappy position, and that he was predestined to save her.
The supper was laid upon the rickety deal table, and the three men sat
down. Valentine would have waited till his host's daughter had seated
herself; but she had laid no plate or knife for herself, and it was
evident that she was not expected to share the social repast.
"You can go to bed now," said Milsom. "We're in for a jolly night of
it, and you'll only be in the way. Where's the old man?"
"Gone to bed."
"So much the better: and the sooner you follow him will be so much the
better again. Good night."
The girl did not answer him. She looked at him for a few moments with
an earnest, inquiring gaze, which seemed to compel him to return her
look, as if he had been fascinated by the profound earnestness of those
large dark eyes; and then she went slowly and silently from the room.
"Sulky!" muttered Mr. Milsom. "There never was such a girl to sulk."
He took up a candle, and followed his daughter from the room.
A rickety old staircase led to the upper floor, where there were three
or four bed-chambers. The house had been originally something more than
a cottage, and the rooms and passages were tolerably large.
Thomas Milsom found the girl standing at the top of the stairs, as if
waiting for some one.
"What are you standing mooning there for?" asked the man. "Why don't
you go to bed?"
"Why have you brought that sailor here?" inquired the girl, without
noticing Milsom's question.
"What's that to you? You'd like to know my business, wouldn't you? I've
brought him here because he wanted to come. Is that a good answer? I've
brought him here because he has money to lose, and is in the humour to
lose it. Is that a better answer?"
"Yes," returned the girl, fixing her eyes upon him with a look of
horror; "you will win his money, and, if he is angry, there will be a
quarrel, as there was on that hideous night three years ago, when you
brought home the foreign sailor, and what happened to that man will
happen to this one. Father," cried the girl, suddenly and passionately,
"let this man leave the house in safety. I sometimes think my heart is
almost as hard as yours; but this man trusts us. Don't let any harm
come to him."
"Why, what harm should come to him?"
For some time the girl called Jenny stood before her father in silence,
with her head bent, and her face in shadow; then she lifted her head
suddenly, and looked at him piteously.
"The other!" she murmured; "the other! I remember what happened to him."
"Come, drop that!" cried Milsom, savagely; "do you think I'm going to
stand your mad talk? Get to bed, and go to sleep. And the sounder you
sleep the better, unless you want to sleep uncommonly sound for the
future, my lady."
The ruffian seized his daughter by the arm, and half pushed, half flung
her into a room, the door of which stood open. It was the dreary room
which she called her own. Milsom shut the door upon her, and locked it
with a key which he took from his pocket--a key which locked every door
in the house. "And now, I flatter myself, you're safe, my pretty
singing-bird," he muttered.
He went down stairs, and returned to his guest, who had been pressed to
eat and drink by Dennis Wayman, and who had yielded good-naturedly to
that gentleman's hospitable attentions.
* * * * *
Alone in her room, Jenny Milsom opened the window, and sat looking out
into the inky darkness of the night, and listening to the voices of the
three men in the room below.
The voices sounded very distinctly in that dilapidated old house. Every
now and then a hearty shout of laughter seemed to shake the crazy
rafters; but presently the revellers grew silent. Jenny knew they were
busy with the cards.
"Yes, yes," she murmured; "it all happens as it happened that
night--first the loud voices and laughter; then the silence;
then--Great Heaven! will the end be like the end of that night?"
She clasped her hands in silent agony, and sank in a crouching position
by the open window, with her head lying on the sill.
For hours this wretched girl sat upon the floor in the same attitude,
with the cold wind blowing in upon her. All seemed tranquil in the room
below. The voices sounded now and then, subdued and cautious, and there
were no more outbursts of jovial laughter.
A dim, gray streak glimmered faint and low in the east--the first pale
flicker of dawn. The girl raised her weary eyes towards that chill gray
light.
"Oh! if this night were only ended!" she murmured: "if it were only
ended without harm!"
The words were still upon her lips, when the voices sounded loud and
harsh from the room below. The girl started to her feet, white and
trembling. Louder with every moment grew those angry voices. Then came
a struggle; some article of furniture fell with a crash; there was the
sound of shivered glass, and then a dull heavy noise, which echoed
through the house, and shook the weather-beaten wooden walls to their
foundations.
After the fall there came the sound of one loud groan, and then subdued
murmurs, cautious whispers.
The window of Jenny Milsom's room looked towards the road. From that
window she could see nothing of the sluggish ditch or the river.
She tried the door of her room. It was securely locked, as she had
expected to find it.
"They would kill me, if I tried to come between them and their victim,"
she said; "and I am afraid to die."
She crept to her wretched bed, and flung herself down, dressed as she
was. She drew the thin patchwork coverlet round her.
Ten minutes after she had thrown herself upon the bed, a key turned in
the lock, and the door was opened by a stealthy hand. Black Milsom
looked into the room.
The cold glimmer of day fell full upon the girl's pale face. Her eyes
were closed, and her breathing was loud and regular.
"Asleep," he whispered to some one outside; "as safe as a rock."
He drew back and closed the door softly.
* * * * *
Joyce Harker worked his hardest on board the 'Pizarro', and the repairs
were duly completed by the 4th of April. On the morning of the 5th the
vessel was a picture, and Joyce surveyed her with the pride of a man
who feels that he has not worked in vain.
He had set his heart upon the brothers celebrating the first day of
their re-union on board the trim little craft: and he had made
arrangements for the preparation of a dinner which was to be a triumph
in its way.
Joyce presented himself at the bar of the 'Jolly Tar' at half-past
eleven on the appointed morning. He expected that the brothers would be
punctual; but he did not expect either of them to appear before the
stroke of noon.
All was very quiet at the 'Jolly Tar' at this hour of the day. The
landlord was alone in the bar, reading a paper. He looked up as Joyce
entered; but did not appear to recognize him.
"Can I step through into your private room?" asked Joyce; "I expect
Captain Jernam and his brother to meet me here in half an hour."
"To be sure you can, mate. There's no one in the private room at this
time of day. Jernam--Jernam, did you say? What Jernam is that? I don't
recollect the name."
"You've a short memory," answered Joyce; "you might remember Captain
Jernam of the 'Pizarro'; for it isn't above a week since he was here
with me. He dined here, and slept here, and left early in the morning,
though you were uncommonly pressing for him to stay."
"We've so many captains and sailors in and out from year's end to
year's end, that I don't remember them by name," said Dennis Wayman;
"but I do remember your friend, mate, now you remind me of him; and I
remember you, too."
"Yes," said Joyce, with a grin; "there ain't so many of my pattern.
I'll take a glass of rum for the good of the house; and if you can lend
me a paper, I'll skim the news of the day while I'm waiting."
Joyce passed into the little room, where Dennis took him the newspaper
and the rum.
Twelve o'clock struck, and the clerk began to watch and to listen for
the opening of the door, or the sound of a footstep in the passage
outside. The time seemed very long to him, watching and listening. The
minute-hand of the Dutch clock moved slowly on. He turned every now and
then towards the dusky corner where the clock hung, to see what
progress that slow hand had made upon the discoloured dial.
He waited thus for an hour.
"What does it mean?" he thought. "Valentine Jernam so faithfully
promised to be punctual. And then he's so fond of his brother. He'd
scarcely care to be a minute behindhand, when he has the chance of
seeing Captain George."
Joyce went into the bar. The landlord was scrutinizing the address of a
letter--a foreign letter.
"Didn't you say your friend's name was Jernam?" he asked.
"I did."
"Then this letter must be for him. It has been lying here for the last
two or three days; but I forgot all about it till just this minute."
Joyce took the letter. It was addressed to Captain Valentine Jernam, of
the 'Pizarro', at the 'Jolly Tar', care of the landlord, and it came
from the Cape of Good Hope.
Joyce recognized George Jernam's writing.
"This means a disappointment," he thought, as he turned the letter over
and over slowly; "there'll be no meeting yet awhile. Captain George is
off to the East Indies on some new venture, I dare say. But what can
have become of Captain Valentine? I'll go down to the 'Golden Cross,'
and see if he's there."
He told Dennis Wayman where he was going, and left a message for his
captain. From Ratcliff Highway to Charing Cross was a long journey for
Joyce; but he had no idea of indulging in any such luxury as a
hackney-coach. It was late in the afternoon when he reached the hotel;
and there he was doomed to encounter a new disappointment.
Captain Jernam had been there on the second of the month, and had never
been there since. He had left in the forenoon, after saying that he
should return at night; and in evidence that such had been his
intention, the waiter told Joyce that the captain had left a
carpet-bag, containing clean linen and a change of clothes.
"He's broken his word to me, and he's got into bad hands," thought
Harker. "He's as simple as a child, and he's got into bad hands. But
how and where? He'd never, surely, go back to the 'Jolly Tar', after
what I said to him. And where else can he have gone? I know no more
where to look for him in this great overgrown London than if I was a
new-born baby."
In his perfect ignorance of his captain's movements, there was only one
thing that Joyce Harker could do, and that was to go back to the "Jolly
Tar," with a faint hope of finding Valentine Jernam there.
It was dusk by the time he got back to Ratcliff Highway, and the
flaring gas-lamps were lighted. The bar of the tavern was crowded, and
the tinkling notes of the old piano sounded feebly from the inner room.
Dennis Wayman was serving his customers, and Thomas Milsom was drinking
at the bar. Joyce pushed his way to the landlord.
"Have you seen anything of the captain?" he asked.
"No, he hasn't been here since you left."
"You're sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
"He's not been here to day; but he's been here within the week, hasn't
he? He was here on Tuesday, if I'm not misinformed."
"Then you _are_ misinformed," Wayman said, coolly; "for your seafaring
friend hasn't darkened my doors since the morning you and he left to go
to the coach-office."
Joyce could say nothing further. He passed through the passage into the
public room, where the so-called concert had begun. Jenny Milsom was
singing to the noisy audience.
The girl was very pale, and her manner and attitude, as she sat by the
piano, were even more listless than usual.
Joyce Harker did not stop long in the concert-room. He went back to the
bar. This time there was no one but Milsom and Wayman in the bar, and
the two seemed to be talking earnestly as Joyce entered.
They left off, and looked up at the sound of the clerk's footsteps.
"Tired of the music already?" asked Wayman.
"I didn't come here to hear music," answered Joyce; "I came to look for
my captain. He had an appointment to meet his brother here to-day at
twelve o'clock, and it isn't like him to break it. I'm beginning to get
uneasy about him."
"But why should you be uneasy? The captain is big enough, and old
enough, to take care of himself," said the landlord, with a laugh.
"Yes; but then you see, mate, there are some men who never know how to
take care of themselves when they get into bad company. There isn't a
better sailor than Valentine Jernam, or a finer fellow at sea; but I
don't think, if you searched from one end of this city to the other,
you'd find a greater innocent on shore. I'm afraid of his having fallen
into bad hands, Mr. Wayman, for he had a goodish bit of money about
him; and there's land-sharks as dangerous as those you meet with on the
sea."
"So there are, mate," answered the landlord; "and there's some queer
characters about this neighbourhood, for the matter of that."
"I dare say you're right, Mr. Wayman," returned Joyce; "and I'll tell
you what it is. If any harm has come to Valentine Jernam, let those
that have done the harm look out for themselves. Perhaps they don't
know what it is to hurt a man that's got a faithful dog at his heels.
Let them hide themselves where they will, and let them be as cunning as
they will, the dog will smell them out, sooner or later, and will tear
them to pieces when he finds them. I'm Captain Jernam's dog, Mr. Dennis
Wayman; and if I don't find my master, I'll hunt till I do find those
that have got him out of the way. I don't know what's amiss with me
to-night; but I've got a feeling come over me that I shall never look
in Valentine Jernam's honest face again. If I'm right, Lord help the
scoundrels who have plotted against him, for it'll be the business of
my life to track them down, and bring their crime home to them--and
I'll do it."
After having said this, slowly and deliberately, with an appalling
earnestness of voice and manner, Joyce Harker looked from Dennis Wayman
to Black Milsom, and this time the masks they were accustomed to wear
did not serve these scoundrels so well as usual, for in the faces of
both there was a look of fear.
"I am going to search for my captain," said Joyce. "Good night, mates."
He left the tavern. The two men looked at each other earnestly as the
door closed upon him.
"A dangerous man," said Dennis Wayman.
"Bah!" muttered Black Milsom, savagely; "who's afraid of a hunchback's
bluster? I dare say he wanted the handling of the money himself."
All that night Joyce Harker wandered to and fro amidst the haunts of
sailors and merchant captains; but wander where he would, and inquire
of whom he would, he could obtain no tidings of the missing man.
Towards daybreak, he took a couple of hours' sleep in a tavern at
Shadwell, and with the day his search began again.
Throughout that day the same patient search continued, the same
inquiries were repeated with indomitable perseverance, in every likely
and unlikely place; but everywhere the result was failure.
It was towards dusk that Joyce Harker turned his back upon a tavern in
Rotherhithe, and set his face towards the river bank.
"I have looked long enough for him among the living," he said; "I must
look for him now amongst the dead."
Before midnight the search was ended. Amongst the printed bills
flapping on dreary walls in that river-side neighbourhood, Joyce Harker
had discovered the description of a man "found drowned." The
description fitted Valentine Jernam, and the body had been found within
the last two days.
Joyce went to the police-office where the man was lying. He had no need
to look at the poor dead face--the dark, handsome face, which was so
familiar to him.
"I expected as much," he said to the official who had admitted him to
see the body; "he had money about him, and he has fallen into the hands
of scoundrels."
"You don't think it was an accident?"
"No; he has been murdered, sir. And I think I know the men who did it."
"You know the men?"
"Yes; but my knowledge won't help to avenge his death, if I can't bring
it home to them--and I don't suppose I can. There'll be a coroner's
inquest, won't there?"
At the inquest, next day, Joyce Harker told his story; but that story
threw very little light on the circumstances of Valentine Jernam's
death.
The investigation before the coroner set at rest all question as to the
means by which the captain had met his death. A medical examination
demonstrated that he had been murdered by a blow on the back of the
head, inflicted by some sharp heavy instrument. The unfortunate man
must have died before he was thrown into the water.
The verdict of the coroner's jury was to the effect that Valentine
Jernam had been wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown.
And with this verdict Joyce Harker was obliged to be content. His
suspicions he dared not mention in open court. They were too vague and
shadowy. But he called upon a celebrated Bow Street officer, and
submitted the case to him. It was a case for secret inquiry, for
careful investigation; and Joyce offered a handsome reward out of his
own savings.
While this secret investigation was in progress, Joyce opened the
letter addressed to Valentine by his brother George.
"DEAR VAL," wrote the sailor: "_I have been tempted to make another
trip to Calcutta with a cargo shipped at Lisbon, and shall not be able
to meet you in London on the 5th of April. It will be ten or twelve
months before I see England again; but when I do come back, I hope to
add something handsome to our joint fortunes. I long to see your honest
face, and grasp your hand again; but the chance of a big prize lures me
out yonder. We are both young, and have all the world before us, so we
can afford to wait a year or two. Bank the money; Joyce will tell you
where, and how to do it; and let me know your plans before you leave
London. A letter addressed to me, care of Riverdale and Co., Calcutta,
will be safe. Good luck to you, dear old boy, now and always, and every
good wish.--From your affectionate brother_," "GEORGE JERNAM."
It was Joyce Harker's melancholy task to tell Valentine Jernam's
younger brother the story of the seaman's death. He wrote a long
letter, recording everything that had happened within his knowledge,
from the moment of the 'Pizarro' reaching Gravesend to the discovery of
Valentine's body in the river-side police office. He told George the
impression that had been made upon his brother by the ballad-singer's
beauty.
"_I think that this girl and these two men, her father, Thomas Milsom,
and Dennis Wayman, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar', are in the
secret--are, between them, the murderers of your brother. I think that
when he broke his promise to me, and came back to this end of London,
before the fifth, he came lured by that girl's beauty. It is to the
girl we must look for a key to the secret of his death. I do not expect
to extort anything from the fears of the men. They are both hardened
villains; and if, as I believe, they are guilty of this crime, it is
not likely to be the first in which they have been engaged. The police
are on the watch, and I have promised a liberal reward for any
discoveries they may make; but it is very slow work_."
This, and much more, Joyce Harker wrote to George Jernam. The letter
was written immediately after the inquest; and on the night succeeding
that inquiry, Joyce went to the 'Jolly Tar', in the hope of seeing
Jenny Milsom. But he was doomed to disappointment; for in the
concert-room at Dennis Wayman's tavern he found a new singer--a fat,
middle-aged woman, with red hair.
"What has become of the pretty girl who used to sing here?" he asked
the landlord.
"Milsom's daughter?" said Wayman. "Oh, we've lost her She was a regular
she-devil, it seems. Her father and she had a row, and the girl ran
away. She can get her living anywhere with that voice of hers; and I
don't suppose Milsom treated her over well. He's a rough fellow, but an
honest one."
"Yes," answered Joyce, with a sneer; "he seems uncommonly honest.
There's a good deal of that sort of honesty about this neighbourhood, I
think, mate. I suppose you've heard about my captain?"
"Not a syllable. Is there anything wrong with him?"
"Ah! news seems to travel slowly down here. There was an inquest held
this morning, not so many miles from this house."
The landlord shrugged his shoulders.
"I've been busy in-doors all day, and I haven't heard anything," he
said.
Joyce told the story of his captain's fate, to which Dennis Wayman
listened with every appearance of sympathy.
"And you've no idea what has become of the girl?" Harker asked, after
having concluded his story.
"No more than the dead. She's cut and run, that's all I know."
"Has her father gone after her?"
"Not a bit of it. He's not that sort of man. She has chosen to take
herself off, and her father will let her go her own way."
"And her grandfather, the old blind man?"
"He has gone with her."
There was no more to be said about the girl after this.
"I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Wayman," said Joyce, "I'm likely to be a
good bit down in this neighbourhood, while I'm waiting for directions
about my poor captain's ship from his brother Captain George, and as
your house suits me as well as any other, I may as well take up my
quarters here. I know you've got plenty of room, and you'll find me a
quiet lodger."
"So be it," answered the landlord, promptly. "I'm agreeable."
Joyce deliberated profoundly as he walked away from the 'Jolly Tar'
that night.
"He's too deep to be caught easily," he thought. "He'll let me into his
house, because he knows there's nothing I can find out, watch as I may.
Such a murder as that leaves no trace behind it. If I had been able to
get hold of the girl, I might have frightened her into telling me
something; but it's clear to me she has really bolted, or Wayman would
never let me into his house."
For weeks Joyce Harker was a lodger at the 'Jolly Tar'; always on the
watch; always ready to seize upon the smallest clue to the mystery of
Valentine Jernam's death; but nothing came of his watching.
The police did their best to discover the key to the dreadful secret;
but they worked in vain. The dead man's money had been partly in notes
and gold, partly in bills of exchange. It was easy enough to dispose of
such bills in the City. There were men ready to take them at a certain
price, and to send them abroad; men who never ask questions of their
customers.
So there was little chance of any light being thrown on this dark and
evil mystery. Joyce watched and waited with dog-like fidelity, ready to
seize upon the faintest clue; but he waited and watched in vain.
* * * * *
CHAPTER III.
DISINHERITED.
Nearly a year had elapsed since the murder of Valentine Jernam, and the
March winds were blowing amongst the leafless branches of the trees in
the Green Park.
In the library of one of the finest houses in Arlington Street, a
gentleman paced restlessly to and fro, stopping before one of the
windows every now and then, to look, with a fretful glance, at the dull
sky. "What weather!" he muttered: "what execrable weather!"
The speaker was a man of some fifty years of age--a man who had been
very handsome and who was handsome still--a man with a haughty
patrician countenance--not easily forgotten by those who looked upon
it. Sir Oswald Eversleigh, Baronet, was a descendant of one of the
oldest families in Yorkshire. He was the owner of Raynham Castle, in
Yorkshire; Eversleigh Manor, in Lincolnshire; and his property in those
two counties constituted a rent-roll of forty thousand per annum.
He was a bachelor, and having nearly reached his fiftieth year it was
considered unlikely that he would marry.
Such at least was the fixed idea of those who considered themselves the
likely inheritors of the baronet's wealth. The chief of these was
Reginald Eversleigh, his favourite nephew, the only son of a younger
brother, who had fallen gloriously on an Indian battle-field.
There were two other nephews who had some right to look forward to a
share in the baronet's fortune. These were the two sons of Sir Oswald's
only sister, who had married a country rector, called Dale. But Lionel
and Douglas Dale were not the sort of young men who care to wait for
dead men's shoes. They were sincerely attached to their uncle; but they
carefully abstained from any demonstration of affection which could
seem like worship of his wealth. The elder was preparing himself for
the Church; the younger was established in chambers in the Temple,
reading for the bar.
It was otherwise with Reginald Eversleigh. From his early boyhood this
young man had occupied the position of an adopted son rather than a
nephew.
There are some who can bear indulgence, some flowers that flourish best
with tender rearing; but Reginald Eversleigh was not one of these.
Sir Oswald was too generous a man to require much display of gratitude
from the lad on whom he so freely lavished his wealth and his
affection. When the boy showed himself proud and imperious, the baronet
admired that high, and haughty spirit. When the boy showed himself
reckless and extravagant in his expenditure of money, the baronet
fancied that extravagance the proof of a generous disposition,
overlooking the fact that it was only on his own pleasures that
Reginald wasted his kinsman's money. When bad accounts came from the
Eton masters and the Oxford tutors, Sir Oswald deluded himself with the
belief that it was only natural for a high-spirited lad to be idle, and
that, indeed, youthful idleness was often a proof of genius.
But even the moral blindness of love cannot last for ever. The day came
when the baronet awoke to the knowledge that his dead brother's only
son was unworthy of his affection.
The young man entered the army. His uncle purchased for him a
commission in a crack cavalry regiment, and he began his military
career under the most brilliant auspices. But from the day of his
leaving his military tutor, until the present hour, Sir Oswald had been
perpetually subject to the demands of his extravagance, and had of late
suffered most bitterly from discoveries which had at last convinced him
that his nephew was a villain.
In ordinary matters, Sir Oswald Eversleigh was by no means a patient or
long-suffering man; but he had exhibited extraordinary endurance in all
his dealings with his nephew. The hour had now come when he could be
patient no longer.
He had written to his nephew, desiring him to call upon him at three
o'clock on this day.
The idea of this interview was most painful to him, for he had resolved
that it should be the last between himself and Reginald Eversleigh. In
this matter he had acted with no undue haste; for it had been
unspeakably distressing to him to decide upon a step which would
separate him for ever from the young man.
As the timepiece struck three, Mr. Eversleigh was announced. He was a
very handsome man; of a refined and aristocratic type, but of a type
rather effeminate than powerful. And pervading his beauty, there was a
winning charm of expression which few could resist. It was difficult to
believe that Reginald Eversleigh could be mean or base. People liked
him, and trusted him, in spite of themselves; and it was only when
their confidence had been imposed upon, and their trust betrayed, that
they learned to know how despicable the handsome young officer could
be. Women did their best to spoil him; and his personal charms of face
and manner, added to his brilliant expectations, rendered him an
universal favourite in fashionable circles.
He came to Arlington Street prepared to receive a lecture, and a severe
one, for he knew that some of his late delinquencies had become known
to Sir Oswald; but he trusted in the influence which he had always been
able to exercise over his uncle, and he was determined to face the
difficulty boldly, as he had faced it before.
He entered the room with a smile, and advanced towards his uncle, with
his hand outstretched.
But Sir Oswald drew back, refusing that proffered hand.
"I shake hands only with gentlemen and honest men," he said, haughtily.
"You are neither, Mr. Eversleigh."
Reginald had been used to hear his uncle address him in anger; but
never before had Sir Oswald spoken to him in that tone of cool
contempt. The colour faded from the young man's face, and he looked at
his uncle with an expression of alarm.
"My dear uncle!" he exclaimed.
"Be pleased to forget that you have ever addressed me by that name, or
that any relationship exists between us, Mr. Eversleigh," answered Sir
Oswald, with unaltered sternness. "Sit down, if you please. Our
interview is likely to be a long one."
The young man seated himself in silence.
"I have sent for you, Mr. Eversleigh," said the baronet, "because I
wished to tell you, without passion, that the tie which has hitherto
bound us has been completely broken. Heaven knows I have been patient;
I have endured your misdoings, hoping that they were the thoughtless
errors of youth, and not the deliberate sins of a hardened and wicked
nature. I have trusted till I can trust no longer; I have hoped till I
can hope no more. Within the past week I have learned to know you. An
old friend, whose word I cannot doubt, whose honour is beyond all
question, has considered it a duty to acquaint me with certain facts
that have reached his knowledge, and has opened my eyes to your real
character. I have given much time to reflection before determining on
the course I shall pursue with one who has been so dear to me. You know
me well enough to be aware that when once I do arrive at a decision,
that decision is irrevocable. I wish to act with justice, even towards
a scoundrel. I have brought you up with the habits of a rich man, and
it is my duty to save you from absolute poverty. I have, therefore,
ordered my solicitors to prepare a deed by which an income of two
hundred a year will be secured to you for life, unconditionally. After
the execution of that deed I shall have no further interest in your
fate. You will go your own way, Mr. Eversleigh, and choose your own
companions, without remonstrance or interference from the foolish
kinsman who has loved you too well."
"But, my dear uncle--Sir Oswald--what have I done that you should treat
me so severely?"
The young man was deadly pale. His uncle's manner had taken him by
surprise; but even in this desperate moment, when he felt that all was
lost, he attempted to assume the aspect of injured innocence.
"What have you done!" cried the baronet, passionately.
"Shall I show you two letters, Reginald Eversleigh--two letters which,
by a strange combination of circumstances, have reached my hands; and
in each of which there is the clue to a shameful story--a cruel and
disgraceful story, of which you are the hero?"
"What letters?"
"You shall read them," replied Sir Oswald. "They are addressed to you,
and have been in your possession; but to so fine a gentleman such
letters were of little importance. Another person, however, thought
them worth preserving, and sent them to me."
The baronet took up two envelopes from the table, and handed them to
his nephew.
At the sight of the address of the uppermost envelope, Reginald
Eversleigh's face grew livid. He looked at the lower, and then returned
both documents to his uncle, with a hand that trembled in spite of
himself.
"I know nothing of the letters," he faltered, huskily.
"You do not!" said his uncle; "then it will be necessary for me to
enlighten you."
Sir Oswald took a letter from one of the envelopes, but before reading
it he looked at his nephew with a grave and mournful countenance, from
which all traces of scorn had vanished.
"Before I heard the history of this letter, I fully believed that, in
spite of all your follies and extravagances, you were at least
honourable and generous-hearted. After hearing the story of this
letter, I knew you to be base and heartless. You say you know nothing
of the letter? Perhaps you will tell me that you have forgotten the
name of the writer. And yet you can scarcely have so soon forgotten
Mary Goodwin."
The young man bent his head. A terrible rage possessed him, for he knew
that one of the darkest secrets of his life had been revealed to his
uncle.
"I will tell you the history of Mary Goodwin," said the baronet, "since
you have so poor a memory. She was the favourite and foster-sister of
Jane Stukely, a noble and beautiful woman, to whom you were engaged.
You met Jane Stukely in London, fell in love with her as it seemed, and
preferred your suit. You were accepted by her--approved by her father.
No alliance could have been more advantageous. I was never better
pleased than when you announced to me your engagement. The influence of
a good wife will cure him of all his follies, I thought, and I shall
yet have reason to be proud of my nephew."
"Spare me, sir, for pity's sake," murmured Reginald, hoarsely.
"When did you spare others, Mr. Reginald Eversleigh? When did you
consider others, if they stood in the way of your base pleasures, your
selfish gratifications? Never! Nor will I spare you. As Jane's engaged
lover, you were invited to Stukely Park. There you saw Mary Goodwin.
Accident threw you across this girl's pathway very often in the course
of your visit; but the time came when you ceased to meet by accident.
There were secret meetings in the park. The poor, weak, deluded girl
could not resist the fascinations of the fine gentleman--who lured her
to destruction by means of lying promises. In due time you left Stukely
Park, unsuspected. Within a few days of your departure, the girl, Mary
Goodwin, disappeared.
"For six months nothing was heard of the missing Mary Goodwin; but at
the end of that time a gentleman, who remembered her in the days of her
beauty and innocence at Stukely Park, recognized the features of Miss
Stukely's _protégée_ in the face of a suicide, whose body was exhibited
in the Morgue at Paris. The girl had been found drowned. The Englishman
paid the charges of a decent funeral, and took back to the Stukelys the
intelligence of their _protégée's_ fate; but no one knew the secret of
her destruction. That secret was, however, suspected by Jane Stukely,
who broke her engagement with you on the strength of the dark suspicion.
"It was to you she fled when she left Stukely Park--in your
companionship she went abroad, where she passed as your wife, you
assuming a false name--under which you were recognized, nevertheless.
The day came when you grew weary of your victim. When your funds were
exhausted, when the girl's tears and penitence grew troublesome--in the
hour when she was most helpless and miserable, and had most need of
your pity and protection, you abandoned her, leaving her alone in
Paris, with a few pounds to pay for her journey home, if she should
have courage to go back to the friends who had sheltered her. In this
hour of abandonment and shame, she chose death rather than such an
ordeal, and drowned herself."
"I give you my honour, Sir Oswald, I meant to act liberally. I
meant,"--the young man interrupted; but his uncle did not notice the
interruption.
"I will read you this wretched girl's letter," continued the baronet;
"it is her last, and was left at the hotel where you deserted her, and
whence it was forwarded to you. It is a very simple letter; but it
bears in every line the testimony of a broken heart:--
"'_You have left me, Reginald, and in so doing have proved to me most
fully that the love you once felt for me has indeed perished. For the
sake of that love I have sacrificed every principle and broken every
tie. I have disgraced the name of an honest family, and have betrayed
the dearest and kindest friend who ever protected a poor girl. And now
you leave me, and tell me to return to my old friends, who will no
doubt forgive me, you say, and shelter me in this bitter time of my
disgrace. Oh, Reginald, do you know me so little that you think I could
go back, could lift my eyes once more to the dear faces that used to
smile upon me, but which now would turn from me with loathing and
aversion? You know that I cannot go back. You leave me in this great
city, so strange and unknown to me, and you do not care to ask yourself
any questions as to my probable fate. Shall I tell you what I am going
to do, Reginald? You, who were once so fond and passionate a
lover--you, whom I have seen kneeling at my feet, humbly born and
penniless though I was--it is only right that you should know the fate
of your abandoned mistress. When I have finished this letter it will be
dark--the shadows are closing in already, and I can scarcely see to
write. I shall creep quietly from the house, and shall make my way over
to that river which I have crossed so often, seated by your side in a
carriage. Once on the bridge, under cover of the blessed darkness, all
my troubles will be ended; you will be burdened with me no longer, and
I shall not cost you even the ten-pound note which you so generously
left for me, and which I shall enclose in this letter. Forgive me if
there is some bitterness in my heart. I try to forgive you--I do
forgive you! May a merciful heaven pardon my sins, as I pardon your
desertion of me_! M.G.'"
There was a pause after the reading of the letter--a silence which Mr.
Eversleigh did not attempt to break. "The second letter I need scarcely
read to you," said the baronet; "it is from a young man whom you were
pleased to patronize some twelve months back--a young man in a banking
office, aspiring and ambitious, whose chief weakness was the desire to
penetrate the mystic circle of fashionable society. You were good
enough to indulge that weakness at your own price, and for your own
profit. You initiated the banker's clerk into the mysteries of
card-playing and billiards. You won money of him--more than he had to
lose; and after being the kindest and most indulgent of friends, you
became all at once a stern and pitiless creditor. You threatened the
bank-clerk with disgrace if he did not pay his losses. He wrote you
pleading letters; but you laughed to scorn his prayers for mercy, and
at last, maddened by shame, he helped himself to the money entrusted to
him by his employers, in order to pay you. Discovery came, as discovery
always does come, sooner or later, in these cases, and your friend and
victim was transported. Before leaving England he wrote you a letter,
imploring you to have some compassion on his widowed mother, whom his
disgrace had deprived of all support. I wonder how much heed you took
of that letter, Mr. Eversleigh? I wonder what you did towards the
consolation of the helpless and afflicted woman who owed her
misfortunes to you?"
The young officer dared not lift his eyes to his uncle's face; the
consciousness of guilt rendered him powerless to utter a word in his
defence.
"I have little more to say to you," resumed the baronet. "I have loved
you as a man rarely loves his nephew. I have loved you for the sake of
the brother who died in my arms, and for the sake of one who was even
dearer to me than that only brother--for the sake of the woman whom we
both loved, and who made her choice between us--choosing the younger
and poorer brother, and retaining to her dying day the affection and
esteem of the elder. I loved your mother, Reginald Eversleigh, and when
she died, within one short year of her husband's death, I swore that
her only child should be as dear to me as a son. I have kept that
promise. Few parents can find patience to forgive such follies as I
have forgiven. But my endurance is exhausted; my affection has been
worn out by your heartlessness: henceforward we are strangers."
"You cannot mean this, sir?" murmured Reginald Eversleigh.
There was a terrible fear at his heart--an inward conviction that his
uncle was in earnest.
"My solicitors will furnish you with all particulars of the deed I
spoke of," said Sir Oswald, without noticing his nephew's appealing
tones. "That deed will secure to you two hundred a year. You have a
soldier's career before you, and you are young enough to redeem the
past--at any rate, in the eyes of the world, if not before the sight of
heaven. If you find your regiment too expensive for your altered means,
I would recommend you to exchange into the line. And now, Mr.
Eversleigh, I wish you good morning."
"But, Sir Oswald--uncle--my dear uncle--you cannot surely cast me off
thus coldly--you--"
The baronet rang the bell.
"The door--for Mr. Eversleigh," he said to the servant who answered his
summons.
The young man rose, looking at his kinsman with an incredulous gaze. He
could not believe that all his hopes were utterly ruined; that he was,
indeed, cast off with a pittance which to him seemed positively
despicable.
But there was no hope to be derived from Sir Oswald's face. A mask of
stone could not have been more inflexible.
"Good morning, sir," said Reginald, in accents that were tremulous with
suppressed rage.
He could say no more, for the servant was in attendance, and he could
not humiliate himself before the man who had been wont to respect him
as Sir Oswald Eversleigh's heir. He took up his hat and cane, bowed to
the baronet, and left the room.
Once beyond the doors of his uncle's mansion, Reginald Eversleigh
abandoned himself to the rage that possessed him.
"He shall repent this," he muttered. "Yes; powerful as he is, he shall
repent having used his power. As if I had not suffered enough already;
as if I had not been haunted perpetually by that girl's pale,
reproachful face, ever since the fatal hour in which I abandoned her.
But those letters; how could they have fallen into my uncle's hands?
That scoundrel, Laston, must have stolen them, in revenge for his
dismissal."
He went to the loneliest part of the Green Park, and, stretched at full
length upon a bench, abandoned himself to gloomy reflections, with his
face hidden by his folded arms.
For hours he lay thus, while the bleak March winds whistled loud and
shrill in the leafless trees above his head--while the cold, gray light
of the sunless day faded into the shadows of evening. It was past seven
o'clock, and the lamps in Piccadilly shone brightly, when he rose,
chilled to the bone, and walked away from the park.
"And I am to consider myself rich--with my pay and fifty pounds a
quarter," he muttered, with a bitter laugh; "and if I find a crack
cavalry regiment too expensive, I am to exchange into the line--turn
foot-soldier, and face the scornful looks of all my old acquaintances.
No, no, Sir Oswald Eversleigh; you have brought me up as a gentleman,
and a gentleman I will remain to the end of the chapter, let who will
pay the cost. It may seem easy to cast me off, Sir Oswald; but we have
not done with each other yet."
* * * * *
CHAPTER IV.
OUT OF THE DEPTHS.
After dismissing his nephew, Sir Oswald Eversleigh abandoned himself
for some time to gloomy thought. The trial had been a very bitter one;
but at length, arousing himself from that gloomy reverie, he said
aloud, "Thank Heaven it is over; my resolution did not break down, and
the link is broken."
Sir Oswald had made his arrangements for leaving London that afternoon,
on the first stage of his journey to Raynham Castle. There were few
railroads six-and-twenty years ago, and the baronet was in the habit of
travelling in his own carriage, with post-horses. The journey from
London to the far north of Yorkshire was, therefore, a long one,
occupying two or three days.
Sir Oswald left town an hour after his interview with Reginald
Eversleigh.
It was ten o'clock when he alighted for the first time in a large,
bustling town on the great northern road. He had changed horses several
times since leaving London, and had accomplished a considerable
distance within the five hours. He put up at the principal hotel, where
he intended to remain for the night. From the windows of his rooms was
to be seen the broad, open market-place, which to-night was brilliantly
lighted, and thronged with people. Sir Oswald looked with surprise at
the bustling scene, as one of the waiters drew the curtains before the
long windows.
"Your town seems busy to-night," he said.
"Yes, sir; there has been a fair, sir--our spring fair, sir--a cattle
fair, sir. Perhaps you'd rather not have the curtains drawn, sir. You
may like to look out of the window after dinner, sir."
"Look out of the window?--oh, dear no! Close the curtains by all means."
The waiter wondered at the gentleman's bad taste, and withdrew to
hasten the well-known guest's dinner.
It was long past eleven, and Sir Oswald was sitting brooding before the
fire, when he was startled from his reverie by the sound of a woman's
voice singing in the market-place below. The streets had been for some
time deserted, the shops closed, the lights extinguished, except a few
street-lamps, flickering feebly here and there. All was quiet, and the
voice of the street ballad-singer sounded full and clear in the
stillness.
Sir Oswald Eversleigh was in no humour to listen to street-singers. It
must needs be some voice very far removed from common voices which
could awaken him from his gloomy abstraction.
It was, indeed, an uncommon voice, such a voice as one rarely hears
beyond the walls of the Italian opera-house--such a voice as is not
often heard even within those walls. Full, clear, and rich, the
melodious accents sent a thrill to the innermost heart of the listener.
The song which the vagrant was singing was the simplest of ballads. It
was "Auld Robin Gray."
While he sat by the fire, listening to that familiar ballad, Sir Oswald
Eversleigh forgot his sorrow and indignation--forgot his nephew's
baseness, forgot everything, except the voice of the woman singing in
the deserted market-place below the windows.
He went to one of the windows, and drew back the curtain. The night was
cold and boisterous; but a full moon was shining in a clear sky, and
every object in the broad street was visible in that penetrating light.
The windows of Sir Oswald's sitting-room opened upon a balcony. He
lifted the sash, and stepped out into the chill night air. He saw the
figure of a woman moving a way from the pavement before the hotel very
slowly, with a languid, uncertain step. Presently he saw her totter and
pause, as if scarcely able to proceed. Then she moved unsteadily
onwards for a few paces, and at last sank down upon a door-step, with
the helpless motion of utter exhaustion.
He did not stop to watch, longer from the balcony. He went back to his
room, snatched up his hat, and hurried down stairs. They were beginning
to close the establishment for the night, and the waiters stared as Sir
Oswald passed them on his way to the street.
In the market-place nothing was stirring. The baronet could see the
dark figure of the woman still in the same attitude into which he had
seen her sink when she fell exhausted on the door-step, half-sitting,
half-lying on the stone.
Sir Oswald hurried to the spot where the woman had sunk down, and bent
over her. Her arms were folded on the stone, her head lying on her
folded arms.
"Why are you lying there, my good girl?" asked Sir Oswald, gently.
Something in the slender figure told him that the ballad-singer was
young, though he could not see her face.
She lifted her head slowly, with a languid action, and looked up at the
speaker.
"Where else should I go?" she asked, in bitter tones.
"Have you no home?"
"Home!" echoed the girl. "I have never had what gentlemen like you call
a home."
"But where are you going to-night?"
"To the fields--to some empty barn, if I can find one with a door
unfastened, into which I may creep. I have been singing all day, and
have not earned money enough to pay for a lodging."
The full moon shone broad and clear upon the girl's face. Looking at
her by that silvery light, Sir Oswald saw that she was very beautiful.
"Have you been long leading this miserable life?" Sir Oswald asked her
presently.
"My life has been one long misery," answered the ballad-singer.
"How long have you been singing in the streets?"
"I have been singing about the country for two years; not always in the
streets, for some time I was in a company of show-people; but the
mistress of the show treated me badly, and I left her. Since then I
have been wandering about from place to place, singing in the streets
on market-days, and singing at fairs."
The girl said all this in a dull, mechanical way, as if she were
accustomed to be called on to render an account of herself.
"And before you took to this kind of life," said the baronet, strangely
interested in this vagrant girl; "how did you get your living before
then?"
"I lived with my father," answered the girl, in an altered tone. "Have
you finished your questions?"
She shuddered slightly, and rose from her crouching attitude. The moon
still shone upon her face, intensifying its deathlike pallor.
"See," said her unknown questioner, "here are a couple of sovereigns.
You need not wander into the open country to look for an empty barn.
You can procure shelter at some respectable inn. Or stay, it is close
upon midnight: you might find it difficult to get admitted to any
respectable house at such an hour. You had better come with me to my
hotel yonder, the 'Star'--the landlady is a kind-hearted creature, and
will see you comfortably lodged. Come!"
The girl stood before Sir Oswald, shivering in the bleak wind, with a
thin black shawl wrapped tightly around her, and her dark brown hair
blown away from her face by that bitter March wind. She looked at him
with unutterable surprise in her countenance.
"You are very good," she said; "no one of your class ever before
stepped out of his way to help me. Poor people have been kind to
me--often--very often. You are very good."
There was more of astonishment than pleasure in the girl's tone. It
seemed as if she cared very little about her own fate, and that her
chief feeling was surprise at the goodness of this fine gentleman.
"Do not speak of that," said Sir Oswald, gently; "I am anxious to get
you a decent shelter for the night, but that is a very small favour. I
happen to be something of a musician, and I have been much struck by
the beauty of your voice. I may be able to put you in the way of making
good use of your voice."
"Of my voice!"
The girl echoed the phrase as if it had no meaning to her.
"Come," said her benefactor, "you are weary, and ill, perhaps. You look
terribly pale. Come to the hotel, and I will place you in the
landlady's charge."
He walked on, and the girl walked by his side, very slowly, as if she
had scarcely sufficient strength to carry her even that short distance.
There was something strange in the circumstance of Sir Oswald's meeting
with this girl. There was something strange in the sudden interest
which she had aroused in him--the eager desire which he felt to learn
her previous history.
The mistress of the "Star Hotel" was somewhat surprised when one of the
waiters summoned her to the hall, where the street-singer was standing
by Sir Oswald's side; but she was too clever a woman to express her
astonishment. Sir Oswald was one of her most influential patrons, and
Sir Oswald's custom was worth a great deal. It was, therefore, scarcely
possible that such a man could do wrong.
"I found this poor girl in an exhausted state in the street just now,"
said Sir Oswald. "She is quite friendless, and has no shelter for the
night, though she seems above the mendicant class. Will you put her
somewhere, and see that she is taken good care of, my dear Mrs. Willet?
In the morning I may be able to think of some plan for placing her in a
more respectable position."
Mrs. Willet promised that the girl should be taken care of, and made
thoroughly comfortable. "Poor young thing," said the landlady, "she
looks dreadfully pale and ill, and I'm sure she'll be none the worse
for a nice little bit of supper. Come with me, my dear."
The girl obeyed; but on the threshold of the hall she turned and spoke
to Sir Oswald.
"I thank you," she said; "I thank you with all my heart and soul for
your goodness. I have never met with such kindness before."
"The world must have been very hard for you, my poor child," he
replied, "if such small kindness touches you so deeply. Come to me
to-morrow morning, and we will talk of your future life. Goodnight!"
"Good night, sir, and God bless you!"
The baronet went slowly and thoughtfully up the broad staircase, on his
way to his rooms.
Sir Oswald Eversleigh passed the night of his sojourn at the 'Star' in
broken slumbers. The events of the preceding day haunted him
perpetually in his sleep, acting themselves over and over again in his
brain. Sometimes he was with his nephew, and the young man was pleading
with him in an agony of selfish terror; sometimes he was standing in
the market-place, with the ghost-like figure of the vagrant
ballad-singer by his side.
When he arose in the morning, Sir Oswald resolved to dismiss all
thought of his nephew. His strange adventure of the previous night had
exercised a very powerful influence upon his mind; and it was upon that
adventure he meditated while he breakfasted.
"I have seen a landscape, which had no special charm in broad daylight,
transformed into a glimpse of paradise by the magic of the moon," he
mused as he lingered over his breakfast. "Perhaps this girl is a very
ordinary creature after all--a mere street wanderer, coarse and vulgar."
But Sir Oswald stopped himself, remembering the refined tones of the
voice which he had heard last night--the perfect self-possession of the
girl's manner.
"No," he exclaimed, "she is neither coarse nor vulgar; she is no common
street ballad-singer. Whatever she is, or whoever she is, there is a
mystery around and about her--a mystery which it shall be my business
to fathom."
When he had breakfasted, Sir Oswald Eversleigh sent for the
ballad-singer.
"Be good enough to tell the young person that if she feels herself
sufficiently rested and refreshed, I should like much to have a few
minutes' conversation with her," said the baronet to the head-waiter.
In a few minutes the waiter returned, and ushered in the girl. Sir
Oswald turned to look at her, possessed by a curiosity which was
utterly unwarranted by the circumstances. It was not the first time in
his life that he had stepped aside from his pathway to perform an act
of charity; but it certainly was the first time he had ever felt so
absorbing an interest in the object of his benevolence.
The girl's beauty had been no delusion engendered of the moonlight.
Standing before him, in the broad sunlight, she seemed even yet more
beautiful, for her loveliness was more fully visible.
The ballad-singer betrayed no signs of embarrassment under Sir Oswald's
searching gaze. She stood before her benefactor with calm grace; and
there was something almost akin to pride in her attitude. Her garments
were threadbare and shabby: yet on her they did not appear the garments
of a vagrant. Her dress was of some rusty black stuff, patched and
mended in a dozen places; but it fitted her neatly, and a clean linen
collar surrounded her slender throat, which was almost as white as the
linen. Her waving brown hair was drawn away from her face in thick
bands, revealing the small, rosy-tinted ear. The dark brown of that
magnificent hair contrasted with the ivory white of a complexion which
was only relieved by transient blushes of faint rose-colour, that came
and went with emotion or excitement.
"Be good enough to take a seat," said Sir Oswald: "I wish to have a
little conversation with you. I want to help you, if I can. You do not
seem fitted for the life you are leading; and I am convinced that you
possess talent which would elevate you to a far higher sphere. But
before we talk of the future, I must ask you to tell me something of
the past."
"Tell me," he continued, gently, "how is it that you are so friendless?
How is it that your father and mother allow you to lead such an
existence?"
"My mother died when I was a child," answered the girl.
"And your father?"
"My father is dead also."
"You did not tell me that last night," replied the baronet, with some
touch of suspicion in his tone, for he fancied the girl's manner had
changed when she spoke of her father.
"Did I not?" she said, quietly. "I do not think you asked me any
question about my father; but if you did, I may have answered at
random; I was confused last night from exhaustion and want of rest, and
I scarcely knew what I said."
"What was your father?"
"He was a sailor."
"There is something that is scarcely English in your face," said Sir
Oswald; "were you born in England?"
"No, I was born in Florence; my mother was a Florentine."
"Indeed."
There was a pause. It seemed evident that this girl did not care to
tell the story of her past life, and that whatever information the
baronet wanted to obtain, must be extorted from her little by little. A
common vagrant would have been eager to pour out some tale of misery,
true or false, in the hearing of the man who promised to be her
benefactor; but this girl maintained a reserve which Sir Oswald found
it very difficult to penetrate.
"I fear there is something of a painful nature in your past history,"
he said, at last; "something which you do not care to reveal."
"There is much that is painful, much that I cannot tell."
"And yet you must be aware that it will be very difficult for me to
give you assistance if I do not know to whom I am giving it. I wish to
place you in a position very different from that which you now occupy;
but it would be folly to interest myself in a person of whose history I
positively know nothing."
"Then dismiss from your mind all thoughts of me, and let me go my own
way," answered the girl, with that calm pride of manner which imparted
a singular charm to her beauty. "I shall leave this house grateful and
contented; I have asked nothing from you, nor did I intend to ask
anything. You have been very good to me; you took compassion upon me in
my misery, and I have been accustomed to see people of your class pass
me by. Let me thank you for your goodness, and go on my way." So
saying, she rose, and turned as if to leave the room.
"No!" cried Sir Oswald, impetuously; "I cannot let you go. I must help
you in some manner--even if you will throw no light upon your past
existence; even if I must act entirely in the dark."
"You are too good, sir," replied the girl, deeply touched; "but
remember that I do not ask your help. My history is a terrible one. I
have suffered from the crimes of others; but neither crime nor
dishonour have sullied my own life. I have lived amongst people I
despised, holding myself aloof as far as was possible. I have been
laughed at, hated, ill-used for that which has been called pride; but I
have at least preserved myself unpolluted by the corruption that
surrounded me. If you can believe this, if you can take me upon trust,
and stretch forth your hand to help me, knowing no more of me than I
have now told you, I shall accept your assistance proudly and
gratefully. But if you cannot believe, let me go my own way."
"I will trust you," he said; "I will help you, blindly, since it must
be so. Let me ask you two or three questions, then all questioning
between us shall be at an end."
"I am ready to answer any inquiry that it is possible for me to answer."
"Your name?"
"My name is Honoria Milford."
"Your age?"
"Eighteen."
"Tell me, how is it that your manner of speaking, your tones of voice,
are those of a person who has received a superior education?"
"I am not entirely uneducated. An Italian priest, a cousin of my poor
mother's, bestowed some care upon me when I was in Florence. He was a
very learned man, and taught me much that is rarely taught to a girl of
fourteen or fifteen. His house was my refuge in days of cruel misery,
and his teaching was the only happiness of my life. And now, sir,
question me no further, I entreat you."
"Very well, then, I will ask no more; and I will trust you."
"I thank you, sir, for your generous confidence."
"And now I will tell you my plans for your future welfare," Sir Oswald
continued, kindly. "I was thinking much of you while I breakfasted. You
have a very magnificent voice; and it is upon that voice you must
depend for the future. Are you fond of music?"
"I am very fond of it."
There was little in the girl's words, but the tone in which they were
spoken, the look of inspiration which lighted up the speaker's face,
convinced Sir Oswald that she was an enthusiast.
"Do you play the piano?"
"A little; by ear."
"And you know nothing of the science of music?"
"Nothing."
"Then you will have a great deal to learn before you can make any
profitable use of your voice. And now I will tell you what I shall do.
I shall make immediate arrangements for placing you in a first-class
boarding school in London, or the neighbourhood of London. There you
will complete your education, and there you will receive lessons from
the best masters in music and singing, and devote the greater part of
your time to the cultivation of your voice. It will be known that you
are intended for the career of a professional singer, and every
facility will be afforded you for study. You will remain in this
establishment for two years, and at the end of that time I shall place
you under the tuition of some eminent singer, who will complete your
musical education, and enable you to appear as a public singer. All the
rest will depend on your own industry and perseverance."
"And I should be a worthless creature if I were not more industrious
than ever any woman was before!" exclaimed Honoria. "Oh, sir, how can I
find words to thank you?"
"You have no need to thank me. I am a rich man, with neither wife nor
child upon whom to waste my money. Besides, if you find the obligation
too heavy to bear, you can repay me when you become a distinguished
singer."
"I will work hard to hasten that day, sir," answered the girl,
earnestly.
Sir Oswald had spoken thus lightly, in order to set his _protégée_ more
at her ease. He saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and moving to
the window to give her time to recover herself, stood for some minutes
looking out into the market-place. Then he came back to his easy chair
by the fire, and addressed her once more.
"I shall post up to town this afternoon to make the arrangements of
which I have spoken," he said; "you, in the meantime, will remain under
the care of Mrs. Willet, to whom I shall entrust the purchase of your
wardrobe. When that has been prepared, you will come straight to my
house in Arlington Street, whence I will myself conduct you to the
school I may have chosen as your residence. Remember, that from to-day
you will begin a new life. Ah, by the bye, there is one other question
I must ask. You have no relations, no associates of the past who are
likely to torment you in the future?"
"None. I have no relations who would dare approach me, and I have
always held myself aloof from all associates."
"Good, then the future lies clear before you. And now you can return to
Mrs. Willet. I will see her presently, and make all arrangements for
your comfort."
Honoria curtseyed to her benefactor, and left the room in silence. Her
every gesture and her every tone were those of a lady. Sir Oswald
looked after her with wonder, as she disappeared from the apartment.
The landlady of the "Star" was very much surprised when Sir Oswald
Eversleigh requested her to keep the ballad-singer in her charge for a
week, and to purchase for her a simple but thoroughly complete wardrobe.
"And now," said Sir Oswald, "I confide her to you for a week, Mrs.
Willet, at the end of which time I hope her wardrobe will be ready. I
will write you a cheque for--say fifty pounds. If that is not enough,
you can have more."
"Lor' bless you, Sir Oswald, it's more than enough to set her up like a
duchess, in a manner of speaking," answered the landlady; and then,
seeing Sir Oswald had no more to say to her, she curtseyed and withdrew.
Sir Oswald Eversleigh's carriage was at the door of the "Star" at noon;
and at ten minutes after twelve the baronet was on his way back to town.
He visited a great many West-end boarding-schools before he found one
that satisfied him in every particular. Had his _protégée_ been his
daughter, or his affianced wife, he could not have been more difficult
to please. He wondered at his own fastidiousness.
"I am like a child with a new toy," he thought, almost ashamed of the
intense interest he felt in this unknown girl.
At last he found an establishment that pleased him; a noble old mansion
at Fulham, surrounded by splendid grounds, and presided over by two
maiden sisters. It was a thoroughly aristocratic seminary, and the
ladies who kept it knew how to charge for the advantages of their
establishment. Sir Oswald assented immediately to the Misses Beaumonts'
terms, and promised to bring the expected pupil in less than a week's
time.
"The young lady is a relation, I presume, Sir Oswald?" said the elder
Miss Beaumont.
"Yes," answered the baronet; "she is--a distant relative."
If he had not been standing with his back to the light, the two ladies
might have seen a dusky flush suffuse his face as he pronounced these
words. Never before had he told so deliberate a falsehood. But he had
feared to tell the truth.
"They will never guess her secret from her manner," he thought; "and if
they question her, she will know how to baffle their curiosity."
On the very day that ended the stipulated week, Honoria Milford made
her appearance in Arlington Street. Sir Oswald was in his library,
seated in an easy-chair before the fire-place, with a book in his hand,
but with no power to concentrate his attention to its pages. He was
sitting thus when the door was opened, and a servant announced--
"Miss Milford!"
Sir Oswald rose from his chair, and beheld an elegant young lady, who
approached him with a graceful timidity of manner. She was simply
dressed in gray merino, a black silk mantle, and a straw bonnet,
trimmed with white ribbon. Nothing could have been more Quaker-like
than the simplicity of this costume, and yet there was an elegance
about the wearer which the baronet had seldom seen surpassed.
He rose to welcome her.
"You have just arrived in town?" he said.
"Yes, Sir Oswald; a hackney-coach brought me here from the
coach-office."
"I am very glad to see you," said the baronet, holding out his hand,
which Honoria Milford touched lightly with her own neatly gloved
fingers; "and I am happy to tell you that I have secured you a home
which I think you will like."
"Oh, Sir Oswald, you are only too good to me. I shall never know how to
thank you."
"Then do not thank me at all. Believe me, I desire no thanks. I have
done nothing worthy of gratitude. An influence stronger than my own
will has drawn me towards you; and in doing what I can to befriend you,
I am only giving way to an impulse which I am powerless to resist."
The girl looked at her benefactor with a bewildered expression, and Sir
Oswald interpreted the look.
"Yes," he said, "you may well be astonished by what I tell you. I am
astonished myself. There is something mysterious in the interest which
you have inspired in my mind."
Although the baronet had thought continually of his _protégée_ during
the past week, he had never asked himself if there might not be some
simple and easy solution possible for this bewildering enigma. He had
never asked himself if it were not just within the limits of
possibility that a man of fifty might fall a victim to that fatal fever
called love.
He looked at the girl's beautiful face with the admiration which every
man feels for the perfection of beauty--the pure, calm, reverential
feeling of an artist, or a poet--and he never supposed it possible that
the day might not be far distant when he would contemplate that lovely
countenance with altered sentiments, with a deeper emotion.
"Come to the dining-room, Miss Milford," he said; "I expected you
to-day--I have made all my arrangements accordingly. You must be hungry
after your journey; and as I have not yet lunched, I hope you will
share my luncheon?"
Honoria assented. Her manner towards her benefactor was charming in its
quiet grace, deferential without being sycophantic--the manner of a
daughter rather than a dependent Before leaving the library, she looked
round at the books, the bronzes, the pictures, with admiring eyes.
Never before had she seen so splendid an apartment: and she possessed
that intuitive love of beautiful objects which is the attribute of all
refined and richly endowed natures.
The baronet placed his ward on one side of the table, and seated
himself opposite to her.
No servant waited upon them. Sir Oswald himself attended to the wants
of his guest. He heaped her plate with dainties; he filled her glass
with rare old wine; but she ate only a few mouthfuls, and she could
drink nothing. The novelty of her present position was too full of
excitement.
During the whole of the repast the baronet asked her no questions. He
talked as if they had long been known to each other, explaining to her
the merits of the different pictures and statues which she admired,
pleased to find her intelligence always on a level with his own.
"She is a wonderful creature," he thought; "a wonderful creature--a
priceless pearl picked up out of the gutter."
After luncheon Sir Oswald rang for his carriage, and presently Honoria
Milford found herself on her way to her new home.
The mansion inhabited by the Misses Beaumont was called "The Beeches."
It had of old been the seat of a nobleman, and the grounds which
encircled it were such as are rarely to be found within a few miles of
the metropolis; and they would in vain be sought for now. Shabby little
streets and terraces cover the ground where grand old cedars of Lebanon
cast their dark shadows on the smooth turf seven-and-twenty years ago.
Honoria Milford was enraptured with the beauty of her new home. That
stately mansion, shut in by noble old trees from all the dust and
clamour of the outer world; those smooth lawns, and exquisitely kept
beds, filled with flowers even in this chill spring weather, must have
seemed beautiful to those accustomed to handsome habitations. What must
they have been then to the wanderer of the streets--the friendless
tramp--who a week ago had depended for a night's rest on the chance of
finding an empty barn.
She looked at her benefactor with eyes that were dim with tears, as the
carriage approached this delightful retreat.
"If I were your daughter, you could not have chosen a better place than
this," she said.
"If you were my daughter, I doubt if I could feel a deeper interest in
your fate than I feel now," answered Sir Oswald, quietly.
Miss Beaumont the elder received her pupil with ceremonious kindness.
She looked at the girl with the keen glance of examination which
becomes habitual to the eye of the schoolmistress; but the most severe
scrutiny would have failed to detect anything unladylike or ungraceful
in the deportment of Honoria Milford.
"The young lady is charming," said Miss Beaumont, confidentially, as
the baronet was taking leave; "any one could guess that she was an
Eversleigh. She is so elegant, so patrician in face and manner. Ah, Sir
Oswald, the good old blood will show itself."
The baronet smiled as he bade adieu to the schoolmistress. He had told
Honoria that policy had compelled him to speak of her as a distant
relative of his own; and there was no fear that the girl would betray
herself or him by any awkward admissions.
Sir Oswald felt depressed and gloomy as he drove back to town. It
seemed to him as if, in parting from his _protégée_, he had lost
something that was necessary to his happiness.
"I have not spent half a dozen hours in her society," he thought, "and
yet she occupies my mind more than my nephew, Reginald, who for fifteen
years of my life has been the object of so much hope, so many cares.
What does it all mean? What is the key to this mystery?"
* * * * *
CHAPTER V.
"EVIL, BE THOU MY GOOD."
Reginald Eversleigh was handsome, accomplished, agreeable--irresistible
when he chose, many people said; but he was not richly endowed with
those intellectual gifts which lift a man to either the good or bad
eminence. He was weak and vacillating--one minute swayed by a good
influence, a transient touch of penitence, affection, or generosity; in
the next given over entirely to his own selfishness, thinking only of
his own enjoyment. He was apt to be influenced by any friend or
companion endowed with intellectual superiority; and he possessed such
a friend in the person of Victor Carrington, a young surgeon, a man
infinitely below Mr. Eversleigh in social status, but whose talents,
united to tact, had lifted him above his natural level.
The young surgeon was a slim, elegant-looking young man, with a pale,
sallow face, and flashing black eyes. His appearance was altogether
foreign, and although his own name was English, he was half a
Frenchman, his mother being a native of Bordeaux. This widowed mother
now lived with him, dependent on him, and loving him with a devoted
affection.
From a chance meeting in a public billiard-room, an intimacy arose
between Victor Carrington and Reginald Eversleigh, which speedily
ripened into friendship. The weaker nature was glad to find a stronger
on which to lean. Reginald Eversleigh invited his new friend to his
rooms--to champagne breakfasts, to suppers of broiled bones, eaten long
after midnight: to card-parties, at which large sums of money were lost
and won; but the losers were never Victor Carrington or Reginald
Eversleigh, and there were men who said that Eversleigh was a more
dangerous opponent at loo and whist since he had picked up that fellow
Carrington.
"I always feel afraid of Eversleigh, when that sallow-faced surgeon is
his partner at whist, or hangs about his chair at _écarté_," said one
of the officers in Reginald Eversleigh's regiment. "It's my opinion
that black-eyed Frenchman is Mephistopheles in person. I never saw a
countenance that so fully realized my idea of the devil."
People laughed at the dragoon's notion: but there were few of Mr.
Eversleigh's guests who liked his new acquaintance, and there were some
who kept altogether aloof from the young cornet's rooms, after two or
three evenings spent in the society of Mr. Carrington.
"The fellow is too clever," said one of Eversleigh's brother-officers;
"these very clever men are almost invariably scoundrels. I respect a
man who is great in one thing--a great surgeon, a great lawyer, a great
soldier--but your fellow who knows everything better than anybody else
is always a villain."
Victor Carrington was the only person to whom Reginald Eversleigh told
the real story of his breach with his uncle. He trusted Victor: not
because he cared to confide in him--for the story was too humiliating
to be told without pain--but because he wanted counsel from a stronger
mind than his own.
"It's rather a hard thing to drop from the chance of forty thousand a
year to a pension of a couple of hundred, isn't it, Carrington?" said
Reginald, as the two young men dined together in the cornet's quarters,
a fortnight after the scene in Arlington Street. "It's rather hard,
isn't it, Carrington?"
"Yes, it _would be_ rather hard, if such a contingency were possible,"
replied the surgeon, coolly; "but we don't mean to drop from forty
thousand to two hundred. The generous old uncle may choose to draw his
purse-strings, and cast us off to 'beggarly divorcement,' as Desdemona
remarks; but we don't mean to let him have his own way. We must take
things quietly, and manage matters with a little tact. You want my
advice, I suppose, my dear Reginald?"
"I do."
The surgeon almost always addressed his friends by their Christian
names, more especially when those friends were of higher standing than
himself. There was a depth of pride, which few understood, lurking
beneath his quiet and unobtrusive manner; and he had a way of his own
by which he let people know that he considered himself in every respect
their equal, and in some respects their superior.
"You want my advice. Very well, then, my advice is that you play the
penitent prodigal. It is not a difficult part to perform, if you take
care what you're about. Sir Oswald has advised you to exchange into the
line. Instead of doing that, you will sell out altogether. It will look
like a stroke of prudence, and will leave you free to play your cards
cleverly, and keep your eye upon this dear uncle."
"Sell out!" exclaimed Reginald. "Leave the army! I have sworn never to
do that."
"But you will find yourself obliged to do it, nevertheless. Your
regiment is too expensive for a man who has only a pitiful two hundred
a year beyond his pay. Your mail-phaeton would cost the whole of your
income; your tailor's bill can hardly be covered by another two
hundred; and then, where are you to get your gloves, your hot-house
flowers, your wines, your cigars? You can't go on upon credit for ever;
tradesmen have such a tiresome habit of wanting money, if it's only a
hundred or so now and then on account. The Jews are beginning to be
suspicious of your paper. The news of your quarrel with Sir Oswald is
pretty sure to get about somehow or other, and then where are you?
Cards and billiards are all very well in their way; but you can't live
by them, without turning a regular black-leg, and as a black-leg you
would have no chance of the Raynham estates. No, my dear Reginald,
retrenchment is the word. You must sell out, keep yourself very quiet,
and watch your uncle."
"What do you mean by watching him?" asked Mr. Eversleigh, peevishly.
His friend's advice was by no means palatable to him. He sat in a moody
attitude, with his elbows on his knees, and his head bent forward,
staring at the fire. His wine stood untasted on the table by his side.
"I mean that you must keep your eye upon him, in order to see that he
don't play you a trick," answered the surgeon, at his own leisure.
"What trick should he play me?"
"Well, you see, when a man quarrels with his heir, he is apt to turn
desperate. Sir Oswald might marry."
"Marry! at fifty years of age?"
"Yes. Men of fifty have been known to fall as desperately in love as
any of your heroes of two or three and twenty. Sir Oswald would be a
splendid match, and depend upon it, there are plenty of beautiful and
high-born women who would be glad to call themselves Lady Eversleigh.
Take my advice, Reginald, dear boy, and keep your eye on the baronet."
"But he has turned me out of his house. He has severed every link
between us."
"Then it must be our business to establish a secret chain of
communication with his household," answered Victor. "He has some
confidential servant, I suppose?"
"Yes; he has a valet, called Millard, whom he trusts as far as he
trusts any dependent; but he is not a man who talks to his servants."
"Perhaps not; but servants have a way of their own of getting at
information, and depend upon it, Mr. Millard knows more of your uncle's
business than Sir Oswald would wish him to know. We must get hold of
this faithful Millard."
"But he is a very faithful fellow--honesty itself--the pink of
fidelity."
"Humph!" muttered the young surgeon; "did you ever try the effect of a
bribe on this pink of fidelity?"
"Never."
"Then you know nothing about him. Remember what Sir Robert Walpole
said, 'Every man has his price.' We must find out the price of Mr.
Millard."
"You are a wonderful fellow, Carrington."
"You think so? Bah, I keep my eyes open, that's all; other men go
through the world with their eyes half-shut. I graduated in a good
school, and I may, perhaps, have been a tolerably apt pupil?"
"What school?"
"The school of poverty. That's the sort of education that sharpens a
man's intellect. My father was a reprobate and a gamester, and I knew
at an early age that I had nothing to hope for from him. I have had my
own way to carve in life, and if I have as yet made small progress, I
have fought against terrible odds."
"I wonder you don't set up in a professional career," said Mr.
Eversleigh; "you have finished your education; obtained your degree.
What are you waiting for?"
"I am waiting for my chances," answered Victor; "I don't care to begin
the jog-trot career in which other men toil for twenty years or so,
before they attain anything like prosperity. I have studied as few men
of five-and-twenty have studied,--chemistry as well as surgery. I can
afford to wait my chances. I pick up a few pounds a week by writing for
the medical journals, and with that resource and occasional luck with
cards, I can very easily support the simple home in which my mother and
I live. In the meantime, I am free, and believe me, my dear Reginald,
there is nothing so precious as freedom."
"And you will not desert me now that I am down in the world, eh, old
fellow?"
"No, Reginald, I will never desert you while you have the chance of
succeeding to forty thousand a year," answered the surgeon, with a
laugh.
His small black eyes flashed and sparkled as he laughed. Reginald
looked at him with a sensation that was almost fear.
"What a fellow you are, Carrington!" he exclaimed; "you don't pretend
even to have a heart."
"A heart is a luxury which a poor man must dispense with," answered
Victor, with perfect _sang froid_. "I should as soon think of setting
up a mail-phaeton and pair as of pretending to benevolent feelings or
high-flown sentiments. I have my way to make in the world, Mr.
Eversleigh, and must consider my own interests as well as those of my
friends. You see, I am no hypocrite. You needn't be alarmed, dear boy.
I'll help you, and you shall help me; and it shall go hard if you are
not restored to your uncle's favour before the year is out. But you
must be patient. Our work will be slow, for we shall have to work
underground. If Sir Oswald is still in Arlington Street, I shall make
it my business to see Mr. Millard to-morrow."
* * * * *
Sir Oswald Eversleigh had not left Arlington Street, and at dusk on the
following evening Mr. Carrington presented himself at the door of the
baronet's mansion, and asked to see Mr. Millard, the valet.
Victor Carrington had never seen his friend's kinsman; he was,
therefore, secure against all chances of recognition. He had chosen the
baronet's dinner-hour as the time for his call, knowing that during
that hour the valet must be disengaged. He sent his card to Mr.
Millard, with a line written in pencil to request an interview on
urgent business.
Millard came to the hall at once to see his visitor, and ushered Mr.
Carrington into a small room that was used occasionally by the upper
servants.
The surgeon was skilled in every science by which a man may purchase
the hearts and minds of his fellow-men. He could read Sir Oswald
Eversleigh's valet as he could have read an open book He saw that the
man was weak, irresolute, tolerably honest, but open to temptation. He
was a middle-aged man, with sandy hair, a pale face, and light,
greenish-gray eyes.
"Weak," thought the surgeon, as he examined this man's countenance,
"greedy, and avaricious. So, so; we can do what we like with Mr.
Millard."
Victor Carrington told the valet that he was the most intimate friend
of Reginald Eversleigh, and that he made this visit entirely without
that gentleman's knowledge. He dwelt much upon Mr. Eversleigh's
grief--his despair.
"But he is very proud," he added; "too proud to approach this house,
either directly or indirectly. The shock caused by his uncle's
unexpected abandonment of him has completely prostrated him. I am a
member of the medical profession, Mr. Millard, and I assure you that
during the past fortnight I have almost feared for my friend's reason.
I therefore determined upon a desperate step--a step which Reginald
Eversleigh would never forgive, were he to become aware of it. I
determined upon coming to this house, and ascertaining, if possible,
the nature of Sir Oswald's feelings towards his nephew. Is there any
hope of a reconciliation?"
"I'm afraid not, sir."
"That's a bad thing," said Victor, gravely; "a very bad thing. A vast
estate is at stake. It would be a bad thing for every one if that
estate were to pass into strange hands--a very bad thing for old
servants, for with strangers all old links are broken. It would be a
still worse thing for every one if Sir Oswald should take it into his
head to marry."
The valet looked very grave.
"If you had said such a thing to me a fortnight ago, I should have told
you it was impossible," he said; "but now--."
"Now, what do you say?"
"Well, sir, you're a gentleman, and, of course, you can keep a secret;
so I'll tell you candidly that nothing my master could do would
surprise me after what I've seen within the last fortnight."
This was quite enough for Victor Carrington, who did not leave
Arlington Street until he had extorted from the valet the entire
history of the baronet's adoption of the ballad-singer.
* * * * *
CHAPTER VI.
AULD ROBIN GRAY.
A year and some months had passed, and the midsummer sunlight shone
upon the woods around Raynham Castle.
It was a grand pile of buildings, blackened by the darkening hand of
time. At one end Norman towers loomed, round and grim; at another
extremity the light tracery of a Gothic era was visible in window and
archway, turret and tower. The centre had been rebuilt in the reign of
Henry VIII, and a long range of noble Tudor windows looked out upon the
broad terrace, beyond which there was a garden, or _pleasaunce_,
sloping down to the park. In the centre of this long façade there was
an archway, opening into a stone quadrangle, where a fountain played
perpetually in a marble basin. This was Raynham Castle, and all the
woods and pastures as far as the eye could reach, and far beyond the
reach of any human eye, belonged to the castle estate. This was the
fair domain of which Reginald Eversleigh had been for years the
acknowledged heir, and which his own folly and dishonour had forfeited.
Now all was changed. There was not a peasant in Raynham village who had
not as much right to enter the castle, and as good a chance of a
welcome, as he who had once been acknowledged heir to that proud
domain. It was scarcely strange if Reginald Eversleigh felt this bitter
change very keenly.
He had placed himself entirely in the hands of his friend and adviser,
Victor Carrington. He had sold out of the cavalry regiment, and had
taken up his abode in a modest lodging, situated in a small street at
the West-end of London. Here he had tried to live quietly, according to
his friend's advice; but he was too much the slave of his own follies
and vices to endure a quiet existence.
The sale of his commission made him rich for the time being, and, so
long as his money lasted, he pursued the old course, betting, playing
billiards, haunting all the aristocratic temples of folly and
dissipation; but, at the worst, conducting himself with greater caution
than he had done of old, and always allowing himself to be held
somewhat in check by his prudent ally and counsellor.
"Enjoy yourself as much as you please, my dear Reginald," said Victor
Carrington; "but take care that your little follies don't reach the
ears of your uncle. Remember, I count upon your being reconciled to him
before the year is out."
"That will never be," answered Mr. Eversleigh, with a tone of sullen
despair. "I am utterly ruined, Carrington. It's no use trying to shirk
the truth. I am a doomed wretch, a beggar for life, and the sooner I
throw myself over one of the bridges, and make an end of my miserable
existence, the better. According to Millard's account my uncle's
infatuation for that singing-girl grows stronger and stronger. Not a
week now passes without his visiting the school where the young
adventuress is finishing her education. As sure as fate, it will end by
his marrying her and the street ballad-singer will be my Lady
Eversleigh."
"And when she is my Lady Eversleigh, it must be our business to step
between her and the Eversleigh estates," answered Victor, quietly. "I
told you that your uncle's marriage would be an unlucky thing for you;
but I never told you that it would put an end to your chances. I think,
from what Millard tells us, there is very little doubt Sir Oswald will
make a fool of himself by marrying this girl. If he does, we must set
our wits to work to prevent his leaving her his fortune. She is utterly
friendless and obscure, so he is not likely to make any settlement upon
her. And for the rest, a man of fifty who marries a girl of nineteen is
very apt to repent of his folly. It must be our business to make your
uncle repent very soon after he has taken the fatal step."
"I don't understand you, Carrington."
"My dear Eversleigh, you very seldom do understand me," answered the
surgeon, in that half-contemptuous tone in which he was apt to address
his friend; "but that is not of the smallest consequence. Only do what
I tell you, and leave the rest to me. You shall be lord of Raynham
Castle yet, if my wits are good for anything."
* * * * *
A year had elapsed, which had been passed by Sir Oswald between Raynham
Castle and Arlington Street, and during which he had paid more visits
than he could count to "The Beeches."
On the occasion of these visits, he only saw his _protégée_ for about a
quarter of an hour, while the stately Miss Beaumont looked on, smiling
a dignified smile upon her pupil and the liberal patron who paid so
handsomely for that pupil's education. She had always a good account to
give of Sir Oswald's _protégée_--there never was so much talent united
to so much industry, according to Miss Beaumont's report. Sometimes Sir
Oswald begged to hear Miss Milford sing, and Honoria seated herself at
the piano, over whose notes her white fingers seemed to have already
acquired perfect command.
The rich and clear soprano voice had attained new power since Sir
Oswald had heard it in the moonlit market-place; the execution of the
singer improved day by day. The Italian singing-master spoke in
raptures of his pupil--never was there a finer organ or more talent.
Miss Milford could not fail to create a profound impression when her
musical education should be completed, and she should appear before the
public.
But as the year drew to its close, Sir Oswald Eversleigh talked less
and less of that public career for which he had destined his
_protégée_. He no longer reminded her that on her own industry depended
her future fortune. He no longer spoke in glowing terms of that
brilliant pathway which lay before her. His manner was entirely
changed, and he was grave and silent whenever any allusion was made by
Miss Beaumont or Honoria to the future use which was to be made of that
superb voice and exceptional genius.
The schoolmistress remarked upon this alteration one day, when talking
to her pupil.
"Do you know, my dear Miss Milford, I am really inclined to believe
that Sir Oswald Eversleigh has changed his mind with regard to your
future career, and that he does not intend you to be an opera-singer."
"Surely, dear Miss Beaumont, that is impossible," answered Honoria,
quietly; "my education is costing my kind bene--relative a great deal
of money, which would be wasted if I were not to make music my
profession. Besides, what else have I to look to in the future?
Remember, Sir Oswald has always told you that I have my own fortune to
achieve. I have no claim on any one, and it is to his generosity alone
I owe my present position."
"Well, I don't know how it may be, my dear," answered Miss Beaumont, "I
may be mistaken; but I cannot help thinking that Sir Oswald has changed
his mind about you. I need not tell you that my opinions are opposed to
a professional career for any young lady brought up in my
establishment, however highly gifted. I'm sure my blood actually
freezes in my veins, when I think of any pupil of mine standing on a
public stage, to be gazed at by the common herd; and I told Sir Oswald,
when he first proposed bringing you here, that it would be necessary to
keep your destiny a profound secret from your fellow-pupils; for I
assure you, my love, there are mammas and papas who would come to this
house in the dead of the night and carry off their children, without a
moment's warning, if they were informed that a young person intended to
appear on the stage of the Italian Opera was receiving her education
within these walls. In short, nothing but your own discreet conduct,
and Sir Oswald's very liberal terms, could have reconciled me to the
risk which I have run in receiving you."
The first year of Honoria Milford's residence at "The Beeches" expired,
and another year began. Sir Oswald's visits became more and more
frequent. When the accounts of his _protégée's_ progress were more than
usually enthusiastic, his visits were generally followed very speedily
by the arrival of some costly gift for Miss Beaumont's pupil--a ring--a
bracelet--a locket--always in perfect taste, and such as a young lady
at a boarding-school might wear, but always of the most valuable
description.
Honoria Milford must have possessed a heart of stone, if she had not
been grateful to so noble a benefactor. She was grateful, and her
gratitude was obvious to her generous protector. Her beautiful face was
illuminated with an unwonted radiance when she entered the drawing-room
where he awaited her coming: and the pleasure with which she received
his brief visits was as palpable as if it had been expressed in words.
It was midsummer, and Honoria Milford had been a year and a quarter at
"The Beeches." She had acquired much during that period; new
accomplishments, new graces; and her beauty had developed into fresh
splendour in the calm repose of that comfortable abode. She was liked
by her fellow-pupils; but she had made neither friends nor
_confidantes_. The dark secrets of her past life shut her out from all
intimate companionship with girls of her own age.
She had, in a manner, lived a lonely life amongst all these companions,
and her chief happiness had been derived from her studies. Thus it was,
perhaps, that she had made double progress during her residence with
the Misses Beaumont.
One bright afternoon in June, Sir Oswald's mail-phaeton and pair drove
past the windows of the school-room.
"Visitors for Miss Milford!" exclaimed the pupils seated near the
windows, as they recognized the elegant equipage.
Honoria rose from her desk, awaiting the summons of the
schoolroom-maid. She had not long to wait. The young woman appeared at
the door in a few moments, and Miss Milford was requested to go to the
drawing-room.
She went, and found Sir Oswald Eversleigh awaiting her alone. It was
the first time that she had ever known Miss Beaumont to be absent from
the reception-room on the visit of the baronet.
He rose to receive her, and took the hand which she extended towards
him.
"I am alone, you see, Honoria," he said; "I told Miss Beaumont that I
had something of a serious nature to say to you, and she left me to
receive you alone."
"Something of a serious nature," repeated the girl, looking at her
benefactor with surprise. "Oh, I think I can guess what you are going
to say," she added, after a moment's hesitation; "my musical education
is now sufficiently advanced for me to take some new step in the
pathway which you wish me to tread."
"No, Honoria, you are mistaken," answered the baronet, gravely; "so far
from wishing to hasten your musical education, I am about to entreat
you to abandon all thought of a professional career."
"To abandon all thought of a professional career! You would ask me
this, Sir Oswald--_you_ who have so often told me that all my hopes for
the future depended on my cultivation of the art I love?"
"You love your art very much then, Honoria?"
"More than I love life itself."
"And it would grieve you much, no doubt, to resign all idea of a public
career--to abandon your dream of becoming a public singer?"
There was a pause, and then the girl answered, in a dreamy tone--
"I don't know. I have never thought of the public. I have never
imagined the hour in which I should stand before a great crowd, as I
have stood in the cruel streets, amongst all the noise and confusion,
singing to people who cared so little to hear me. I have never thought
of that--I love music for its own sake, and feel as much pleasure when
I sing alone in my own room, as I could feel in the grandest
opera-house that ever was built."
"And the applause, the admiration, the worship, which your beauty, as
well as your voice, would win--does the idea of resigning such
intoxicating incense give you no pain, Honoria?"
The girl shook her head sadly.
"You forget what I was when you rescued me from the pitiless stones of
the market-place, or you would scarcely ask me such a question. I have
confronted the public--not the brilliant throng of the opera-house, but
the squalid crowd which gathers before the door of a gin-shop, to
listen to a vagrant ballad-singer. I have sung at races, where the rich
and the high-born were congregated, and have received their admiration.
I know what it is worth, Sir Oswald. The same benefactor who throws a
handful of half-pence, offers an insult with his donation."
Sir Oswald contemplated his _protégée_ in silent admiration, and it was
some moments before he continued the conversation.
"Will you walk with me in the garden?" he asked, presently; "that
avenue of beeches is delightful, and--and I think I shall be better
able to say what I wish there, than in this room. At any rate, I shall
feel less afraid of interruption."
Honoria rose to comply with her benefactor's wish, with that
deferential manner which she always preserved in her intercourse with
him, and they walked out upon the velvet lawn. Across the lawn lay the
beech-avenue, and it was thither Sir Oswald directed his steps.
"Honoria," he said, after a silence of some duration, "if you knew how
much doubt--how much hesitation I experienced before I came here
to-day--how much I still question the wisdom of my coming--I think you
would pity me. But I am here, and I must needs speak plainly, if I am
to speak at all. Long ago I tried to think that my interest in your
fate was only a natural impulse of charity--only an ordinary tribute to
gifts so far above the common. I tried to think this, and I acted with
the cold, calculating wisdom of a man of the world, when I marked out
for you a career by which you might win distinction for yourself, and
placed you in the way of following that career. I meant to spend last
year upon the Continent. I did not expect to see you once in twelve
months; but the strange influence which possessed me in the hour of our
first meeting grew stronger upon me day by day. In spite of myself, I
thought of you; in spite of myself I came here again and again, to look
upon your face, to hear your voice, for a few brief moments, and then
to go out into the world, to find it darker and colder by contrast with
the brightness of your beauty. Little by little, the idea of your
becoming a public singer became odious to me," continued Sir Oswald.
"At first I thought with pride of the success which would be yours, the
worship which would be offered at your shrine; but my feeling changed
completely before long, and I shuddered at the image of your triumphs,
for those triumphs must, doubtless, separate us for ever. Why should I
dwell upon this change of feeling? You must have already guessed the
secret of my heart. Tell me that you do not despise me!"
"Despise you, Sir Oswald!--you, the noblest and most generous of men!
Surely, you must know that I admire and reverence you for all your
noble qualities, as well as for your goodness to a wretched creature
like me."
"But, Honoria, I want something more than your esteem. Do you remember
the night I first heard you singing in the market-place on the north
road?"
"Can I ever forget that miserable night?" cried the girl, in a tone of
surprise--the question seemed so strange to her--"that bitter hour, in
which you came to my rescue?"
"Do you remember the song you were singing--the last song you ever sang
in the streets?"
Honoria Milford paused for some moments before answering It was evident
that she could not at first recall the memory of that last song.
"My brain was almost bewildered that night," she said; "I was so weary,
so miserable; and yet, stay, I do remember the song. It was 'Auld Robin
Gray.'"
"Yes, Honoria, the story of an old man's love for a woman young enough
to be his daughter. I was sitting by my cheerless fire-side, meditating
very gloomily upon the events of the day, which had been a sad one for
me, when your thrilling tones stole upon my ear, and roused me from my
reverie. I listened to every note of that old ballad. Although those
words had long been familiar to me, they seemed new and strange that
night. An irresistible impulse led me to the spot where you had sunk
down in your helplessness. From that hour to this you have been the
ruling influence of my life. I have loved you with a devotion which few
men have power to feel. Tell me, Honoria, have I loved in vain? The
happiness of my life trembles in the balance. It is for you to decide
whether my existence henceforward is to be worthless to me, or whether
I am to be the proudest and happiest of men."
"Would my love make you happy, Sir Oswald?"
"Unutterably happy."
"Then it is yours."
"You love me--in spite of the difference between our ages?"
"Yes, Sir Oswald, I honour and love you with all my heart," answered
Honoria Milford. "Whom have I seen so worthy of a woman's affection?
From the first hour in which some guardian angel threw me across your
pathway, what have I seen in you but nobility of soul and generosity of
heart? Is it strange, therefore, if my gratitude has ripened into love?"
"Honoria," murmured Sir Oswald, bending over the drooping head, and
pressing his lips gently on the pure brow--"Honoria, you have made me
too happy. I can scarcely believe that this happiness is not some
dream, which will melt away presently, and leave me alone and
desolate--the fool of my own fancy."
He led Honoria back towards the house. Even in this moment of supreme
happiness he was obliged to remember Miss Beaumont, who would, no
doubt, be lurking somewhere on the watch for her pupil.
"Then you will give up all thought of a professional career, Honoria?"
said the baronet, as they walked slowly back.
"I will obey you in everything."
"My dearest girl--and when you leave this house, you will leave it as
Lady Eversleigh."
Miss Beaumont was waiting in the drawing-room, and was evidently
somewhat astonished by the duration of the interview between Sir Oswald
and her pupil.
"You have been admiring the grounds, I see, Sir Oswald," she said, very
graciously. "It is not quite usual for a gentleman visitor and a pupil
to promenade in the grounds _tête-à-tête_; but I suppose, in the case
of a gentleman of your time of life, we must relax the severity of our
rules in some measure."
The baronet bowed stiffly. A man of fifty does not care to be reminded
of his time of life at the very moment when he has just been accepted
as the husband of a girl of nineteen.
"It may, perhaps, be the last opportunity which I may have of admiring
your grounds, Miss Beaumont," he said, presently, "for I think of
removing your pupil very shortly."
"Indeed!" cried the governess, reddening with suppressed indignation.
"I trust Miss Milford has not found occasion to make any complaint; she
has enjoyed especial privileges under this roof--a separate bed-room,
silver forks and spoons, roast veal or lamb on Sundays, throughout the
summer season--to say nothing of the most unremitting supervision of a
positively maternal character, and I should really consider Miss
Milford wanting in common gratitude if she had complained."
"You are mistaken, my dear madam; Miss Milford has uttered no word of
complaint. On the contrary, I am sure she has been perfectly happy in
your establishment; but changes occur every day, and an important
change will, I trust, speedily occur in my life, and in that of Miss
Milford. When I first proposed bringing her to you, you asked me if she
was a relation; I told you he was distantly related to me. I hope soon
to be able to say that distant relationship has been transformed into a
very near one. I hope soon to call Honoria Milford my wife."
Miss Beaumont's astonishment on hearing this announcement was extreme;
but as surprise was one of the emotions peculiar to the common herd,
the governess did her best to suppress all signs of that feeling. Sir
Oswald told her that, as Miss Milford was an orphan, and without any
near relative, he would wish to take her straight from "The Beeches" to
the church in which he would make her his wife, and he begged Miss
Beaumont to give him her assistance in the arrangement of the wedding.
The mistress of "The Beeches" possessed a really kind heart beneath the
ice of her ultra-gentility, and she was pleased with the idea of
assisting in the bringing about of a genuine love-match. Besides, the
affair, if well managed, would reflect considerable importance upon
herself, and she would be able by and bye to talk of "my pupil, Lady
Eversleigh;" or, "that sweet girl, Miss Milford, who afterwards married
the wealthy baronet, Sir Oswald Eversleigh." Sir Oswald pleaded for an
early celebration of the marriage--and Honoria, accustomed to obey him
in all things, did not oppose his wish in this crisis of his life. Once
more Sir Oswald wrote a cheque for the wardrobe of his _protégée_, and
Miss Beaumont swelled with pomposity as she thought of the grandeur
which might be derived from the expenditure of a large sum of money at
certain West-end emporiums where she was in the habit of making
purchases for her pupils, and where she was already considered a person
of some importance.
It was holiday-time at "The Beeches," and almost all the pupils were
absent. Miss Beaumont was, therefore, able to devote the ensuing
fortnight to the delightful task of shopping. She drove into town
almost every day with Honoria, and hours were spent in the choice of
silks and satins, velvets and laces, and in long consultations with
milliners and dressmakers of Parisian celebrity and boundless
extravagance.
"Sir Oswald has intrusted me with the supervision of this most
important business, and I will drop down in a fainting-fit from sheer
exhaustion before the counter at Howell and James's, sooner than I
would fail in my duty to the extent of an iota," Miss Beaumont said,
when Honoria begged her to take less trouble about the wedding
_trousseau_.
It was Sir Oswald's wish that the wedding should be strictly private.
Whom could he invite to assist at his union with a nameless and
friendless bride? Miss Beaumont was the only person whom he could
trust, and even her he had deceived; for she believed that Honoria
Milford was some fourth or fifth cousin--some poor relative of Sir
Oswald's.
Early in July the wedding took place. All preparations had been made so
quietly as to baffle even the penetration of the watchful Millard. He
had perceived that the baronet was more than usually occupied, and in
higher spirits than were habitual to him; but he could not discover the
reason.
"There's something going on, sir," he said to Victor Carrington; "but
I'm blest if I know what it is. I dare say that young woman is at the
bottom of it. I never did see my master look so well or so happy. It
seems as if he was growing younger every day."
Reginald Eversleigh looked at his friend in blank despair when these
tidings reached him.
"I told you I was ruined, Victor," he said; "and now, perhaps, you will
believe me. My uncle will marry that woman."
It was only on the eve of his wedding-day that Sir Oswald Eversleigh
made any communication to his valet. While dressing for dinner that
evening, he said, quietly--
"I want my portmanteaus packed for travelling between this and two
o'clock to-morrow, Millard; and you will hold yourself in readiness to
accompany me. I shall post from London, starting from a house near
Fulham, at three o'clock. The chariot must leave here, with you and the
luggage, at two."
"You are going abroad, sir?"
"No, I am going to North Wales for a week or two; but I do not go
alone. I am going to be married to-morrow morning, Millard, and Lady
Eversleigh will accompany me."
Much as the probability of this marriage had been discussed in the
Arlington Street household, the fact came upon Joseph Millard as a
surprise. Nothing is so unwelcome to old servants as the marriage of a
master who has long been a bachelor. Let the bride be never so fair,
never so high-born, she will be looked on as an interloper; and if, as
in this case, she happens to be poor and nameless, the bridegroom is
regarded as a dupe and a fool; the bride is stigmatized as an
adventuress.
The valet was fully occupied that evening with preparations for the
journey of the following day, and could find no time to call at Mr.
Eversleigh's lodgings with his evil tidings.
"He'll hear of it soon enough, I dare say, poor, unfortunate young
man," thought Mr. Millard.
The valet was right. In a few days the announcement of the baronet's
marriage appeared in "The Times" newspaper; for, though he had
celebrated that marriage with all privacy, he had no wish to keep his
fair young wife hidden from the world.
"_On Thursday, the 4th instant, at St. Mary's Church, Fulham, Sir
Oswald Morton Vansittart Eversleigh, Bart., to Honoria daughter of the
late Thomas Milford._"
This was all; and this was the announcement which Reginald Eversleigh
read one morning, as he dawdled over his late breakfast, after a night
spent in dissipation and folly. He threw the paper away from him, with
an oath, and hurried to his toilet. He dressed himself with less care
than usual, for to-day he was in a hurry; he wanted at once to
communicate with his friend, Victor Carrington.
The young surgeon lived at the very extremity of the Maida Hill
district, in a cottage, which was then almost in the country. It was a
comfortable little residence; but Reginald Eversleigh looked at it with
supreme contempt.
"You can wait," he said to the hackney coachman; "I shall be here in
about half an hour."
The man drove away to refresh his horses at the nearest inn, and
Reginald Eversleigh strode impatiently past the trim little
servant-girl who opened the garden gate, and walked, unannounced, into
the miniature hall.
Everything in and about Victor Carrington's abode was the perfection of
neatness. The presence of poverty was visible, it is true; but poverty
was made to wear its fairest shape. In the snug drawing-room to which
Reginald Eversleigh was admitted all was bright and fresh. White muslin
curtains shaded the French window; birds sang in gilded cages, of
inexpensive quality, but elegant design; and tall glass vases of
freshly cut flowers adorned tables and mantel-piece.
Sir Oswald's nephew looked contemptuously at this elegance of poverty.
For him nothing but the splendour of wealth possessed any charm.
The surgeon came to him while he stood musing thus.
"Do you mind coming to my laboratory?" he asked, after shaking hands
with his unexpected visitor. "I can see that you have something of
importance to say to me, and we shall be safer from interruption there."
"I shouldn't have come to this fag-end of Christendom if I hadn't
wanted very much to see you, you may depend upon it, Carrington,"
answered Reginald, sulkily. "What on earth makes you live in such an
out-of-the-way hole?"
"I am a student, and an out-of-the-way hole--as you are good enough to
call it--suits my habits. Besides, this house is cheap, and the rent
suits my pocket."
"It looks like a doll's house," said Reginald, contemptuously.
"My mother likes to surround herself with birds and flowers," answered
the surgeon; "and I like to indulge any fancy of my mother's."
Victor Carrington's countenance seemed to undergo a kind of
transformation as he spoke of his mother. The bright glitter of his
eyes softened; the hard lines of his iron mouth relaxed.
The one tender sentiment of a dark and dangerous nature was this man's
affection for his widowed mother.
He opened the door of an apartment at the back of the house, and
entered, followed by Mr. Eversleigh.
Reginald stared in wonder at the chamber in which he found himself. The
room had once been a kitchen, and was much larger than any other room
in the cottage. Here there was no attempt at either comfort or
elegance. The bare, white-washed walls had no adornment but a deal
shelf here and there, loaded with strange-looking phials and gallipots.
Here all the elaborate paraphernalia of a chemist's laboratory was
visible. Here Reginald Eversleigh beheld stoves, retorts, alembics,
distilling apparatus; all the strange machinery of that science which
always seems dark and mysterious to the ignorant.
The visitor looked about him in utter bewilderment.
"Why, Victor," he exclaimed, "your room looks like the laboratory of
some alchymist of the Middle Ages--the sort of man people used to burn
as a wizard."
"I am rather an enthusiastic student of my art," answered the surgeon.
The visitor's eyes wandered round the room in amazement. Suddenly they
alighted on some object on the table near the stove. Carrington
perceived the glance, and, with a hasty movement, very unusual to him,
dropped his handkerchief upon the object.
The movement, rapid though it was, came too late, for Reginald
Eversleigh had distinguished the nature of the object which the surgeon
wished to conceal from him.
It was a mask of metal, with glass eyes.
"So you wear a mask when you are at work, eh, Carrington?" said Mr.
Eversleigh. "That looks as if you dabble in poisons."
"Half the agents employed in chemistry are poisonous," answered Victor,
coolly.
"I hope there is no danger in the atmosphere of this room just now?"
"None whatever. Come, Reginald, I am sure you have bad news to tell me,
or you would never have taken the trouble to come here."
"I have, and the worst news. My uncle has married this street
ballad-singer."
"Good; then we must try to turn this marriage to account."
"How so?"
"By making it the means of bringing about a reconciliation. You will
write a letter of congratulation to Sir Oswald--a generous letter--in
which you will speak of your penitence, your affection, the anguish you
have endured during this bitter period of estrangement. You can venture
to speak freely of these things now, you will say, for now that your
honoured uncle has found new ties you can no longer be suspected of any
mercenary motive. You can now approach him boldly, you will say, for
you have henceforward nothing to hope from him except his forgiveness.
Then you will wind up with an earnest prayer for his happiness. And if
I am not very much out in my reckoning of human nature, that letter
will bring about a reconciliation. Do you understand my tactics?"
"I do. You are a wonderful fellow, Carrington."
"Don't say that until the day when you are restored to your old
position as your uncle's heir. Then you may pay me any compliment you
please."
"If ever that day arrives, you shall not find me ungrateful."
"I hope not; and now go back to town and write your letter. I want to
see you invited to Raynham Castle to pay your respects to the bride."
"But why so?"
"I want to know what the bride is like. Our future plans will depend
much upon her."
Before leaving Lorrimore Cottage, Reginald Eversleigh was introduced to
his friend's mother, whom he had never before seen. She was very like
her son. She had the same pale, sallow face, the same glittering black
eyes. She was slim and tall, with a somewhat stately manner, and with
little of the vivacity usual to her countrywomen.
She looked at Mr. Eversleigh with a searching glance--a glance which
was often repeated, as he stood for a few minutes talking to her.
Nothing which interested her son was without interest for her; and she
knew that this young man was his chief friend and companion.
Reginald Eversleigh went back to town in much better spirits than when
he had left the West-end that morning. He lost no time in writing the
letter suggested by his friend, and, as he was gifted with considerable
powers of persuasion, the letter was a good one.
"I believe Carrington is right," he thought, as he sealed it: "and this
letter will bring about a reconciliation. It will reach my uncle at a
time when he will be intoxicated with his new position as the husband
of a young and lovely bride; and he will be inclined to think kindly of
me, and of all the world. Yes--the letter is decidedly a fine stroke of
diplomacy."
Reginald Eversleigh awaited a reply to his epistle with feverish
impatience; but an impatience mingled with hope.
His hopes did not deceive him. The reply came by return of post, and
was even more favourable than his most sanguine expectations had led
him to anticipate.
"_Dear Reginald_," wrote the baronet, "_your generous and disinterested
letter has touched me to the heart. Let the past be forgotten and
forgiven. I do not doubt that you have suffered, as all men must
suffer, from the evil deeds of their youth_.
"_You were no doubt surprised to receive the tidings of my marriage. I
have consulted my heart alone in the choice which I have made, and I
venture to hope that choice will secure the happiness of my future
existence. I am spending the first weeks of my married life amidst the
lovely solitudes of North Wales. On the 24th of this month, Lady
Eversleigh and I go to Raynham, where we shall be glad to see you
immediately on our arrival. Come to us, my dear boy; come to me, as if
this unhappy estrangement had never arisen, and we will discuss your
future together.--Your affectionate uncle_, OSWALD EVERSLEIGH."
"_Royal Hotel, Bannerdoon, N. W._"
Nothing could be more satisfactory than this epistle. Reginald
Eversleigh and Victor Carrington dined together that evening, and the
baronet's letter was freely discussed between them.
"The ground lies all clear before you now," said the surgeon: "you will
go to Raynham, make yourself as agreeable as possible to the bride, win
your uncle's heart by an appearance of extreme remorse for the past,
and most complete disinterestedness for the future, and leave all the
rest to me."
"But how the deuce can you help me at Raynham?"
"Time alone can show. I have only one hint to give you at present.
Don't be surprised if you meet me unexpectedly amongst the Yorkshire
hills and wolds, and take care to follow suit with whatever cards you
see me playing. Whatever I do will be done in your interest, depend
upon it. Mind, by the bye, if you do see me in the north, that I know
nothing of your visit to Raynham. I shall be as much surprised to see
you as you will be to see me."
"So be it; I will fall into your plans. As your first move has been so
wonderfully successful, I shall be inclined to trust you implicitly in
the future. I suppose you will want to be paid rather stiffly by and
bye, if you do succeed in getting me any portion of Sir Oswald's
fortune?"
"Well, I shall ask for some reward, no doubt. I am a poor man, you
know, and do not pretend to be disinterested or generous. However, we
will discuss that question when we meet at Raynham."
* * * * *
On the 28th of July, Reginald Eversleigh presented himself at Raynham
Castle. He had thought never more to set foot upon that broad terrace,
never more to pass beneath the shadow of that grand old archway; and a
sense of triumph thrilled through his veins as he stood once again on
the familiar threshold.
And yet his position in life was terribly changed since he had last
stood there. He was no longer the acknowledged heir to whom all
dependents paid deferential homage. He fancied that the old servants
looked at him coldly, and that their greeting was the chilling welcome
which is accorded to a poor relation. He had never done much to win
affection or gratitude in the days of his prosperity. It may be that he
remembered this now, and regretted it, not from any kindly impulse
towards these people, but from a selfish annoyance at the chilling
reception accorded him.
"If ever I win back what I have lost, these pampered parasites shall
suffer for their insolence," thought the young man, as he walked across
the broad Gothic hall of the castle, escorted by the grave old butler.
But he had not much leisure to think about his uncle's servants.
Another and far more important person occupied his mind, and that
person was his uncle's bride.
"Lady Eversleigh is at home?" he asked, while crossing the hall.
"Yes, sir; her ladyship is in the long drawing-room."
The butler opened a ponderous oaken door, and ushered Reginald into one
of the finest apartments in the castle.
In the centre of this room, by the side of a grand piano, from which
she had just risen, stood the new mistress of the castle. She was
simply dressed in pale gray silk, relieved only by a scarlet ribbon
twisted in the masses of her raven hair. Her beauty had the same effect
upon Reginald Eversleigh which it exercised on almost all who looked at
her for the first time. He was dazzled, bewildered, by the singular
loveliness.
"And this divinity--this goddess of grace and beauty, is my uncle's
wife," he thought; "this is the street ballad-singer whom he picked up
out of the gutter."
For some moments the elegant and accomplished Reginald Eversleigh stood
abashed before the calm presence of the nameless girl his uncle had
married.
Sir Oswald welcomed his nephew with perfect cordiality. He was happy,
and in the hour of his happiness he could cherish no unkind feeling
towards the adopted son who had once been so dear to him. But while
ready to open his arms to the repentant prodigal, his intentions with
regard to the disposition of his wealth had undergone no change. He had
arrived, calmly and deliberately, at a certain resolve, and he intended
to adhere to that decision.
The baronet told his nephew this frankly in the first confidential
conversation which they had after the young man's arrival at Raynham.
"You may think me harsh and severe," he said, gravely; "but the
resolution which I announced to you in Arlington Street cost me much
thought and care. I believe that I have acted for the best. I think
that my over-indulgence was the bane of your youth, Reginald, and that
you would have been a better man had you been more roughly reared.
Since you have left the army, I have heard no more of your follies; and
I trust that you have at last struck out a better path for yourself,
and separated yourself from all dangerous associates. But you must
choose a new profession. You must not live an idle life on the small
income which you receive from me. I only intended that annuity as a
safeguard against poverty, not as a sufficient means of life. You must
select a new career, Reginald; and whatever it may be, I will give you
some help to smooth your pathway. Your first cousin, Douglas Dale, is
studying for the law--would not that profession suit you?"
"I am in your hands, sir, and am ready to obey you in everything."
"Well, think over what I have said; and if you choose to enter yourself
as a student in the Temple, I will assist you with all necessary funds."
"My dear uncle, you are too good."
"I wish to serve you as far as I can with justice to others. And now,
Reginald, we will speak no more of the past. What do you think of my
wife?"
"She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld."
"And she is as good and true as she is beautiful--a pearl of price,
Reginald. I thank Providence for giving me so great a treasure."
"And this treasure will be possessor of Raynham Castle, I suppose,"
thought the young man, savagely.
Sir Oswald spoke presently, almost as if in answer to his nephew's
thoughts.
"As I have been thoroughly candid with you, Reginald," he said, "I may
as well tell you even more. I am at an age which some call the prime of
life, and I feel all my old vigour. But death sometimes comes suddenly
to men whose life seems as full of promise as mine seems to me now. I
wish that when I die there may be no possible disappointment as to the
disposal of my fortune. Other men make a mystery of the contents of
their wills. I wish the terms of my will to be known by all interested
in it."
"I have no desire to be enlightened, sir," murmured Reginald, who felt
that his uncle's words boded no good to himself.
"My will has been made since my marriage," continued Sir Oswald,
without noticing his nephew's interruption; "any previous will would,
indeed, have been invalidated by that event Two-thirds--more than
two-thirds--of my property has been left to my wife, who will be a very
rich woman when I am dead and gone. Should she have a son, the landed
estates will, of course, go to him; but in any case, Lady Eversleigh
will be mistress of a large fortune. I leave five thousand a year to
each of my nephews. As for you, Reginald, you will, perhaps, consider
yourself bitterly wronged; but you must, in justice, remember that you
have been your own enemy. The annuity of two hundred a year which you
now possess will, after my death, become an income of five hundred a
year, derived from a small estate called Morton Grange, in
Lincolnshire. You have nothing more than a modest competency to hope
for, therefore; and it rests with yourself to win wealth and
distinction by the exercise of your own talents."
The pallor of Reginald Eversleigh's face alone revealed the passion
which consumed him as he received these most unwelcome statements from
his uncle's lips. Fortunately for the young man, Sir Oswald did not
observe his countenance, for at this moment Lady Eversleigh appeared on
the terrace-walk outside the open window of her husband's study, and he
hurried to her.
"What are to be our plans for this afternoon, darling?" he asked. "I
have transacted all my business, and am quite at your service for the
rest of the day."
"Very well, then, you cannot please me better than by showing me some
more of the beauties of your native county."
"You make that proposition because you know it pleases me, artful puss;
but I obey. Shall we ride or drive? Perhaps, as the afternoon is hot,
we had better take the barouche," continued Sir Oswald, while Honoria
hesitated. "Come to luncheon. I will give all necessary orders."
They went to the dining-room, whither Reginald accompanied them.
Already he had contrived to banish the traces of emotion from his
countenance: but his uncle's words were still ringing in his ears.
Five hundred a year!--he was to receive a pitiful five hundred a year;
whilst his cousins--struggling men of the world, unaccustomed to luxury
and splendour--were each to have an income of five thousand. And this
woman--this base, unknown, friendless creature, who had nothing but her
diabolical beauty to recommend her--was to have a splendid fortune!
These were the thoughts which tormented Reginald Eversleigh as he took
his place at the luncheon-table. He had been now a fortnight at Raynham
Castle, and had become, to all outward appearance, perfectly at his
ease with the fair young mistress of the mansion. There are some women
who seem fitted to occupy any station, however lofty. They need no
teaching; they are in no way bewildered by the novelty of wealth or
splendour; they make no errors. They possess an instinctive tact, which
all the teaching possible cannot always impart to others. They glide
naturally into their position; and, looking on them in their calm
dignity, their unstudied grace, it is difficult to believe they have
not been born in the purple.
Such a woman was Honoria, Lady Eversleigh. The novelty of her position
gave her no embarrassment; the splendour around her charmed and
delighted her sense of the beautiful, but it caused her no
bewilderment; it did not dazzle her unaccustomed eyes. She received her
husband's nephew with the friendly, yet dignified, bearing which it was
fitting Sir Oswald's wife should display towards his kinsman; and the
scrutinizing eyes of the young man sought in vain to detect some secret
hidden beneath that placid and patrician exterior.
"The woman is a mystery," he thought; "one would think she were some
princess in disguise. Does she really love my uncle, I wonder? She acts
her part well, if it is a false one. But, then, who would not act a
part for such a prize as she is likely to win? I wish Victor were here.
He, perhaps, might be able to penetrate the secret of her existence.
She is a hypocrite, no doubt; and an accomplished one. I would give a
great deal for the power to strip the veil from her beautiful face, and
show my lady in her true colours!"
Such bitter thoughts as these continually harassed the ambitious and
disappointed man. And yet he was able to bear himself with studied
courtesy towards Lady Eversleigh. The best people in the county had
come to Raynham to pay their homage to Sir Oswald's bride. Nothing
could exceed her husband's pride as he beheld her courted and admired.
No shadow of jealousy obscured his pleasure when he saw younger men
flock round her to worship and admire. He felt secure of her love, for
she had again and again assured him that her heart had been entirely
his even before he declared himself to her. He felt an implicit faith
in her purity and innocence.
Such a man as Oswald Eversleigh is not easily moved to jealousy; but
with such a man, one breath of suspicion, one word of slander, against
the creature he loves, is horrible as the agony of death.
Reginald Eversleigh had shared in all the pleasures and amusements of
Sir Oswald and his wife. They had gone nowhere without him since his
arrival at the castle; for at present he was the only visitor staying
in the house, and the baronet was too courteous to leave him alone.
"After the twelfth we shall have plenty of bachelor visitors," said Sir
Oswald; "and you will find the old place more to your taste, I dare
say, Reginald. In the meantime, you must content yourself with our
society."
"I am more than contented, my dear uncle, and do not sigh for the
arrival of your bachelor friends; though I dare say I shall on very
well with them when they do come."
"I expect a bevy of pretty girls as well. Do you remember Lydia Graham,
the sister of Gordon Graham, of the Fusiliers?"
"Yes, I remember her perfectly."
"I think there used to be something like a flirtation between you and
her."
Sir Oswald and Lady Eversleigh seated themselves in the barouche;
Reginald rode by their side, on a thorough-bred hack out of the Raynham
stables.
The scenery within twenty miles of the castle was varied in character
and rich in beauty. In the purple distance, to the west of the castle,
there was a range of heather-clad hills; and between those hills and
the village of Raynham there flowed a noble river, crossed at intervals
by quaint old bridges, and bordered by little villages, nestling amid
green pastures.
The calm beauty of a rustic landscape, and the grandeur of wilder
scenery, were alike within reach of the explorer from the castle.
On this bright August afternoon, Sir Oswald had chosen for the special
object of their drive the summit of a wooded hill, whence a superb
range of country was to be seen. This hill was called Thorpe Peak, and
was about seven miles from the castle.
The barouche stopped at the foot of the hill; the baronet and his wife
alighted, and walked up a woody pathway leading to the summit,
accompanied by Reginald, who left his horse with the servants.
They ascended the hill slowly, Lady Eversleigh leaning upon her
husband's arm. The pathway wound upward, through plantations of fir,
and it was only on the summit that the open country burst on the view
of the pedestrian. On the summit they found a gentleman seated on the
trunk of a fallen tree, sketching. A light portable colour-box lay open
by his side, and a small portfolio rested on his knees.
He seemed completely absorbed in his occupation, for he did not raise
his eyes from his work as Sir Oswald and his companions approached. He
wore a loose travelling dress, which, in its picturesque carelessness
of style, was not without elegance.
A horse was grazing under a group of firs near at hand, fastened to one
of the trees by the bridle.
This traveller was Victor Carrington.
"Carrington!" exclaimed Mr. Eversleigh; "whoever would have thought of
finding you up here? Sketching too!"
The surgeon lifted his head suddenly, looked at his friend, and burst
out laughing, as he rose to shake hands. He looked handsomer in his
artistic costume than ever Reginald Eversleigh had seen him look
before. The loose velvet coat, the wide linen collar and neckerchief of
dark-blue silk, set off the slim figure and pale foreign face.
"You are surprised to see me; but I have still more right to be
surprised at seeing you. What brings you here?"
"I am staying with my uncle, Sir Oswald Eversleigh, at Raynham Castle."
"Ah, to be sure; that superb place within four miles of the village of
Abbey wood, where I have taken up my quarters."
The baronet and his wife had been standing at a little distance from
the two young men; but Sir Oswald advanced, with Honoria still upon his
arm.
"Introduce me to your friend, Reginald," he said, in his most cordial
manner.
Reginald obeyed, and Victor was presented to Sir Oswald and his wife.
His easy and graceful bearing was calculated to make an agreeable
impression at the outset, and Sir Oswald was evidently pleased with the
appearance and manners of his nephew's friend.
"You are an artist, I see, Mr. Carrington," he said, after glancing at
the young man's sketch, which, even in its unfinished state, was no
contemptible performance.
"An amateur only, Sir Oswald," answered Victor. "I am by profession a
surgeon; but as yet I have not practised. I find independence so
agreeable that I can scarcely bring myself to resign it. I have been
wandering about this delightful county for the last week or two, with
my sketch-book under my arm--halting for a day or two in any
picturesque spot I came upon, and hiring a horse whenever I could get a
decent animal. It is a very simple mode of enjoying a holiday; but it
suits me."
"Your taste does you credit. But if you are in my neighbourhood, you
must take your horses from the Raynham stables. Where are your present
quarters?"
"At the little inn by Abbeywood Bridge."
"Four miles from the castle. We are near neighbours, Mr. Carrington,
according to country habits. You must ride back with us, and dine at
Raynham."
"You are very kind, Sir Oswald; but my dress will preclude--"
"No consequence whatever. We are quite alone just now; and I am sure
Lady Eversleigh will excuse a traveller's toilet. If you are not bent
upon finishing this very charming sketch, I shall insist on your
returning with us; and you join me in the request, eh, Honoria?"
Lady Eversleigh smiled an assent, and the surgeon murmured his thanks.
As yet he had looked little at the baronet's beautiful wife. He had
come to Yorkshire with the intention of studying this woman as a man
studies an abstruse and difficult science; but he was too great a
tactician to betray any unwonted interest in her. The policy of his
life was patience, and in this as in everything else, he waited his
opportunity.
"She is very beautiful," he thought, "and she has made a good market
out of her beauty; but it is only the beginning of the story yet--the
middle and the end have still to come."
* * * * *
After this meeting on Thorpe Peak, the surgeon became a constant
visitor at Raynham. Sir Oswald was delighted with the young man's
talents and accomplishments; and Victor contrived to win credit by the
apparently accidental revelation of his early struggles, his mother's
poverty, his patient studies, and indomitable perseverance. He told of
these things without seeming to tell them; a word now, a chance
allusion then, revealed the story of his friendless youth. Sir Oswald
fancied that such a companion was eminently adapted to urge his nephew
onward in the difficult road that leads to fortune and distinction.
"If Reginald had only half your industry, half your perseverance, I
should not fear for his future career, Mr. Carrington," said the
baronet, in the course of a confidential conversation with his visitor.
"That will come in good time, Sir Oswald," answered Victor. "Reginald
is a noble fellow, and has a far nobler nature than I can pretend to
possess. The very qualities which you are good enough to praise in me
are qualities which you cannot expect to find in him. I was a pupil in
the stern school of poverty from my earliest infancy, while Reginald
was reared in the lap of luxury. Pardon me, Sir Oswald, if I speak
plainly; but I must remind you that there are few young men who would
have passed honourably through the ordeal of such a change of fortune
as that which has fallen on your nephew."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that with most men such a reverse would have been utter ruin of
soul and body. An ordinary man, finding all the hopes of his future,
all the expectations, which had been a part of his very life, taken
suddenly from him, would have abandoned himself to a career of vice; he
would have become a blackleg, a swindler, a drunkard, a beggar at the
doors of the kinsman who had cast him off. But it was not so with
Reginald Eversleigh. From the moment in which he found himself cast
adrift by the benefactor who had been more than a father to him, he
confronted evil fortune calmly and bravely. He cut the link between
himself and extravagant companions. He disappeared from the circles in
which he had been admired and courted; and the only grief which preyed
upon his generous heart sprang from the knowledge that he had forfeited
his uncle's affection."
Sir Oswald sighed. For the first time he began to think that it was
just possible he had treated his nephew with injustice.
"You are right, Mr. Carrington," he said, after a pause; "it was a hard
trial for any man; and I am proud to think that Reginald passed
unscathed through so severe an ordeal. But the resolution at which I
arrived a year and a half ago is one that I cannot alter now. I have
formed new ties; I have new hopes for the future. My nephew must pay
the penalty of his past errors, and must look to his own exertions for
wealth and honour. If I die without a direct heir, he will succeed to
the baronetcy, and I hope he will try his uttermost to win a fortune by
which he may maintain his title."
There was very little promise in this; but Victor Carrington was,
nevertheless, tolerably well satisfied with the result of the
conversation. He had sown the seeds of doubt and uncertainty in the
baronet's breast. Time only could bring the harvest. The surgeon was
accustomed to work underground, and knew that all such work must be
slow and laborious.
* * * * *
CHAPTER VII.
"O BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY."
The castle was gay with the presence of many guests. The baronet was
proud to gather old friends and acquaintances round him, in order that
he might show them the fair young wife he had chosen to be the solace
of his declining years. A man of fifty who marries a girl of nineteen
is always subject to the ridicule of scandalous lips, the ironical
jests of pitiless tongues. Sir Oswald Eversleigh knew this, and he
wanted to show the world that he was happy--supremely happy--in the
choice that he had made.
Amongst those who came to Raynham Castle this autumn was one trusted
friend of Sir Oswald, a gruff old soldier, Captain Copplestone, a man
who had never won advancement in the service; but who was known to have
nobly earned the promotion which had never been awarded him.
This man was on brotherly terms with Sir Oswald, and was about the only
creature who had ever dared to utter disagreeable truths to the
baronet. He was very poor; but had never accepted the smallest favour
from the hands of his wealthy friend. Sir Oswald was devoutly attached
to him, and would have gladly opened his purse to him as to a brother;
but he dared not offend the stern old soldier's pride by even hinting
at such a desire.
Captain Copplestone came to Raynham prepared to remonstrate with his
friend on the folly of his marriage. He arrived when the reception-room
was crowded with other visitors, and he stood by, looking on in grim
disdain, while the newly arrived guests were pressing their
felicitations on Sir Oswald.
By and bye the guests departed to their rooms, and the friends were
left alone.
"Well, old friend," cried the baronet, stretching out both his hands to
grasp those of the captain in a warmer salutation than that of his
first welcome, "am I to have no word of congratulation from you?"
"What word do you want?" growled Copplestone. "If I tell you the truth,
you won't like it; and if I were to try to tell you a lie, egad! I
think the syllables would choke me. It has been hard enough for me to
keep patience while all those idiots have been babbling their unmeaning
compliments; and now that they've gone away to laugh at you behind your
back, you'd better let me follow their example, and not risk the chance
of a quarrel with an old friend by speaking my mind."
"You think me a fool, then, Copplestone?"
"Why, what else can I think of you? If a man of fifty must needs go and
marry a girl of nineteen, he can't expect to be thought a Solon."
"Ah, Copplestone, when you have seen my wife, you will think
differently."
"Not a bit of it. The prettier she is, the more fool I shall think you;
for there'll be so much the more certainty that she'll make your life
miserable."
"Here she comes!" said the baronet; "look at her before you judge her
too severely, old friend, and let her face answer for her truth."
The room in which the two men were standing opened into another and
larger apartment, and through the open folding-doors Captain
Copplestone saw Lady Eversleigh approaching. She was dressed in
white--that pure, transparent muslin in which her husband loved best to
see her--and one large natural rose was fastened amidst her dark hair.
As she drew nearer to the baronet and his friend, the bluff old
soldier's face softened.
The introduction was made by Sir Oswald, and Honoria held out her hand
with her brightest and most bewitching smile.
"My husband has spoken of you very often, Captain Copplestone," she
said; "and I feel as if we were old friends rather than strangers. I
have pleasure in bidding welcome to all Sir Oswald's guests; but not
such pleasure as I feel in welcoming you."
The soldier extended his bronzed hand, and grasped the soft white
fingers in a pressure that was something like that of an iron vice. He
looked at Lady Eversleigh with a serio-comic expression of
bewilderment, and looked from her to the baronet.
"Well?" asked Sir Oswald, presently, when Honoria had left them.
"Well, Oswald, if the truth must be told, I think you had some excuse
for your folly. She is a beautiful creature; and if there is any faith
to be put in the human countenance, she is as good as she is beautiful."
The baronet grasped his friend's hand with a pressure that was more
eloquent than words. He believed implicitly in the captain's powers of
penetration, and this favourable judgment of the wife he adored filled
him with gratitude. It was not that the faintest shadow of doubt
obscured his own mind. He trusted her fully and unreservedly; but he
wanted others to trust her also.
* * * * *
While Sir Oswald and his friend were enjoying a brief interval of
confidential intercourse, Reginald Eversleigh and Victor Carrington
lounged in a pleasant little sitting-room, smoking their cigars, and
leaning on the stone sill of the wide Gothic window.
They were talking, and talking very earnestly.
"You are a very clever fellow, I know, my dear Carrington," said
Reginald; "but it is slow work, very slow work, and I don't see my way
through it."
"Because you are as impatient as a child who has set his heart on a new
toy," answered the surgeon, disdainfully. "You complain that the game
is slow, and yet you see one move after another made upon the
board--and made successfully. A month ago you did not believe in the
possibility of a reconciliation between your uncle and yourself; and
yet that reconciliation has come about. A fortnight ago you would have
laughed at the idea of my being here at Raynham, an invited guest; and
yet here I am. Do you think there has been no patient thought necessary
to work out this much of our scheme? Do you suppose that I was on
Thorpe Hill by accident that afternoon?"
"And you hope that something may come of your visit here?"
"I hope that much may come of it. I have already dared to drop hints at
injustice done to you. That idea of injustice will rankle in your
uncle's mind. I have my plans, Reginald, and you have only to be
patient, and to trust in me."
"But why should you refuse to tell me the nature of your plans?"
"Because my plans are as yet but half formed. I may soon be able to
speak more plainly. Do you see those two figures yonder, walking in the
_pleasaunce_?"
"Yes, I see them--my uncle and his wife," answered Reginald, with a
gesture of impatience.
"They are very happy--are they not? It is quite an Arcadian picture. I
beg you to contemplate it earnestly."
"What a fool you are, Carrington!" cried the young man, flinging away
his cigar. "If my uncle chooses to make an idiot of himself, that is no
reason why I should watch the evidence of his folly!"
"But there is another reason," answered Victor, with a sinister look in
his glittering black eyes. "Look at the picture while you may,
Reginald, for you will not have the chance of seeing it very often."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the day is near at hand when Lady Eversleigh will fall
from her high estate. I mean that an elevation as sudden as hers is
often the forerunner of a sudden disgrace. The hour will come when Sir
Oswald will mourn his fatal marriage as the one irrevocable mistake of
his life; and when, in his despair, he will restore you, the disgraced
nephew, to your place, as his acknowledged heir; because you will at
least seem to him more worthy than his disgraced wife."
"And who is to bring this about?" asked Reginald, gazing at his friend
in complete bewilderment.
"I am," answered the surgeon; "but before I do so I must have some
understanding as to the price of my services. If the cat who pulled the
chestnuts out of the fire for the benefit of the monkey had made an
agreement beforehand as to how much of the plunder he was to receive
for his pains, the name of the animal would not have become a bye-word
with posterity. When I have worked to win your fortune, I must have my
reward, my dear Reginald."
"Do you suppose I should be ungrateful?"
"Of course not. But, you see, I don't ask for your gratitude--I want a
good round sum down on the nail--hard cash. Your uncle's fortune, if
you get two-thirds of it, will be worth thirty thousand a year; and for
such a fortune you can very well afford to pay me twenty thousand in
ready money within two years of your accession to the inheritance."
"Twenty thousand!"
"Yes; if you think the sum too much, we will say no more about it. The
business is a very difficult one, and I scarcely care to engage in it."
"My dear Victor, you bewilder me. I cannot bring myself to believe that
you can bring about my restoration to my old place in my uncle's will;
but if you do, the twenty thousand shall be yours."
"Good!" answered the surgeon, in his coolest and most business-like
manner; "I must have it in black and white. You will give me two
promissory notes; one for ten thousand, to fall due a year hence--the
other for the same sum, to fall due in two years."
"But if I do not get the fortune--and I am not likely to get it within
that time; my uncle's life is a good one, and--"
"Never mind your uncle's life. I will give you an undertaking to cancel
those notes of hand if you have not succeeded to the Raynham estates.
And now here are stamps. You may as well fill in the body of the notes,
and sign them at once, and so close the transaction."
"You are prepared with the stamps?"
"Yes; I am a man of business, although a man of science."
"Victor," said Reginald Eversleigh; "you sometimes make me shudder,
There is something almost diabolical about you."
"But if I drag yonder fair lady down from her high, estate, you would
scarcely care if I were the foul fiend in person," said Carrington,
looking at his friend with a sardonic smile. "Oh, I think I know you,
Reginald Eversleigh, better than you know me."
* * * * *
Amongst the guests who had arrived at the castle within the last few
days was Lydia Graham, the young lady of whom the baronet had spoken to
his nephew. She was a fascinating girl, with a bold, handsome face,
brilliant gray eyes, an aquiline nose, and a profusion of dark, waving
hair. She was a woman who knew how to make the most of every charm with
which nature had endowed her. She dressed superbly; but with an
extravagance far beyond the limits of her means. She was, for this
reason, deeply in debt, and her only chance of extrication from her
difficulties lay in a brilliant marriage.
For nearly nine years she had been trying to make this brilliant
marriage. She had "come out," as the phrase goes, at seventeen, and she
was now nine-and-twenty.
During that period she had been wooed and flattered by troops of
admirers. She had revelled in flirtations; she had triumphed in the
power of her beauty; but she had known more than one disappointment of
her fairest hopes, and she had not won the prize in the great lottery
of fashionable life--a wealthy and patrician husband.
Her nine-and-twentieth birthday had passed; and contemplating herself
earnestly in her glass, she was fain to confess that something of the
brilliancy of her beauty had faded.
"I am getting wan and sallow," she said to herself; "what is to become
of me if I do not marry?"
The prospect was indeed a sorry one.
Lydia Graham possessed an income of two hundred a year, inherited from
her mother: but such an income was the merest pittance for a young lady
with Miss Graham's tastes. Her brother was a captain of an expensive
regiment, selfish and extravagant, and by no means inclined to open his
purse for his sister's benefit.
She had no home; but lived sometimes with one wealthy relation,
sometimes with another--always admired, always elegantly dressed; but
not always happy.
Amidst all Miss Graham's matrimonial disappointments, she had endured
none more bitter than that which she had felt when she read the
announcement of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's marriage in the "Times"
newspaper.
She had met the rich baronet very frequently in society. She had
visited at Raynham with her brother. Sir Oswald had, to all appearance,
admired her beauty and accomplishments; and she had imagined that time
and opportunity alone were wanting to transform that admiration into a
warmer feeling. In plain words, Lydia Graham had hoped with a little
good management, to become Lady Eversleigh of Raynham; and no words can
fully describe her mortification when she learnt that the baronet had
bestowed his name and fortune on a woman of whom the fashionable world
knew nothing, except that she was utterly unknown.
Lydia Graham came to Raynham Castle with poisonous feelings rankling in
her heart, but she wore her brightest smiles as well as her most
elegant dresses. She congratulated the baronet in honeyed words, and
offered warmest friendship to the lovely mistress of the mansion.
"I am sure we shall suit each other delightfully, dear Lady
Eversleigh," she said; "and we shall be fast friends henceforward-shall
we not?"
Honoria's disposition was naturally reserved. She revolted against
frivolous and unmeaning sentimentality. She responded politely to Miss
Graham's proffers of friendship; but not with corresponding warmth.
Lydia Graham perceived the coldness of her manner, and bitterly
resented it. She felt that she had reas
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