Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “That’s a very pretty speech out of a novel,” said her husband, “but I never very much believe in these pretty speeches — perhaps I’ve a good reason of my own for doubting them. I suppose, if Darrell Markham asked for you with his dying breath, you’d go to see him; especially,” he added, with his old sneer, “as the town of Compton isn’t on fire.”

  Millicent sprang towards him, and caught his arm convulsively between her two slender little hands, so feeble at any other time, so strong to-night.

  “Did he, did he, did he?” she cried passionately; “did Darrell ask to see me? O, George Duke, on your honour as a gentleman, as a sailor, as a trusted servant of his gracious majesty, by your hope in heaven, by your faith in God, did Darrell Markham ask to see me?”

  The Captain kept her waiting for his answer while he went back to the parlour and lighted a wax taper at the flickering flame in the high candlestick.

  “I shan’t say no, and I shan’t say yes,” he said; “I’m not going to be go-between for you and him. Good-night,” he added, walking past his wife as she stood in the little passage, and going slowly up the stairs; if you’ve a mind to sit up all night, do so, by all means, Mistress Duke. It’s on the stroke of two, and I’m tired. Good-night!”

  He went upstairs, and entered a little sleeping-room over the parlour in which they had been seated. It was simply but handsomely furnished, and the most exquisite neatness prevailed in all its arrangements. A tiny fire burned on the hearth, but though the Captain shivered, it was to the window he directed his steps. He opened it very softly, and leaned out, as the clocks struck two. “I thought so,” he said, as he heard the faint rattle of bolts and the creaking of a door. “By the heaven above me, I knew she would go to him!”

  The faint sound of a light and rapid footstep broke the silence of the quiet street. “And the least agitation might be fatal!” said the Captain of the Vulture, as he softly closed the casement window.

  Darrell Markham lay in a deathlike stupor in the blue chamber at the Black Bear. Mr. Jordan, the doctor, had declared that his shattered arm, if it ever was set at all, could not be set for some days to come; and the Compton surgeon had thoughts of sending for a distinguished bone-setter in the town of Marley Water, celebrated for twisting distorted limbs into their places, by means of a hideous paraphernalia of racks and pulleys. In the meantime, Mrs. Sarah Pecker had received directions to bathe the swollen limb constantly with a cooling lotion. But on no account, should the young man again return to consciousness, was the worthy landlady of the Black Bear to disturb him with either lamentations or inquiries. Neither was she, at hazard of his life, to admit any one into the room but the doctor himself.

  Mrs. Pecker devoted herself to her duties as nurse to the wounded man with a good will, merely remarking that she should very much like to see the individual, male or female, as would come a-nigh him, to worrit or to vex him; “for if it was the parson of the parish,” she said, with determination, “he mustn’t set much account on his eyesight if he tries to circumvent Sarah Pecker.”

  “No one must come a-nigh him, once for all, and once and for ever,” added Mrs. Pecker sharply, as she faced about on the great staircase, and confronted a little crowd of pale faces; for all the household had thronged round her when she emerged from the sick room, in their eagerness to get tidings of Darrell Markham; “and I won’t have you” she continued, with especial acerbity, to her lord and master, the worthy Samuel, “I won’t have you a-comin’ and a worritin’ with your ‘Ain’t he better, Sarah?’ and Don’t you think he’ll get over it, Sarah?’ and such-like! When a poor dear young gentleman’s arm is shivered to a jelly,” she said, addressing herself generally, “and when a poor dear young gentleman has been a-lying left for dead on a lonely moor, for ever so many cruel hours on a cold October night, he don’t get over it in twenty minutes, no, nor yet in half an hour either. So what you’ve all got to do is just to go hack to the kitchen, and sit there quiet till one or other of you is wanted; for whatever Master Darrell wants shall be got. Yes, if he wanted the king’s golden crown and sceptre, one of you should walk to London and fetch ‘em!” Having thus declared her supreme pleasure, Mrs. Pecker reascended the stairs, and re-entered the sick room; while the doctor, who had declared his intention of staying all night at the inn, lay down to take a brief slumber in a neighbouring apartment.

  “If a person could be in two places at once, any way convenient,” muttered the landlord, as he withdrew into the offices of the inn, “why I could account for it most easy; but seein’ they can’t, or seem’ as how the parson says they can’t, it’s too much for me,” upon which Mr. Samuel Pecker seated himself on a great settle before the kitchen fire, and began to scratch his head feebly.

  “I think as Mr. Markham’s had himself shot in the arm, and she ain’t over likely to be a-comin’ downstairs, I might ventur on a mug of the eightpenny,” the landlord by-and-by remarked thoughtfully.

  It was half-past two by the eight-day clock on the stairs, and the landlord was going to fetch himself this very mug of beer, when he was arrested in the hall by a feeble knocking at the stout oaken door, which had been closed and barred for the night.

  The candle nearly dropped from the hand of the nervous landlord. Ghosts, I daresay,” he muttered; “Compton’s full of ‘em. I used to think the spirits was confined to the churchyard, and that was bad enough, but now they’ve taken to riding straight up to a man’s own door and asking him questions. I wonder what’s to become of us. I only wish they’d take to haunting Sarah. Her nerves would be equal to ‘em. I don’t think if they faced her once when her temper was up, as they’d care to face her again.”

  The knocking was repeated while the landlord stood meditating thus; this time a little louder.

  “They knocks hard for spirits,” said Samuel, “and they’re pretty persevering.” The knocking was still continued — still growing louder. “O, then, I suppose I must,” murmured Mr. Pecker, with a groan; but when I undoes the bolts, what’s the good? Of course there’s no one there; and if them as is there wanted to come in, there’s no thickness of oak panel would keep ’em out.”

  There was some one there, however; for when Mr. Pecker had undone the bolts very slowly and very cautiously, and with a great many half-suppressed but captious groans, a woman slid in at the narrow opening of the door, and before Mr. Pecker had recovered his surprise, crossed the hall and made direct for the staircase, at the top of which was the chamber wherein Darrell Markham lay.

  Terror of the vengeance of the ponderous Sarah seized upon the soul of the landlord, and with an unwonted activity he ran forward, and intercepted the woman at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You musn’t, ma’am,” he said, “you musn’t; excuse me, ma’am, but it’s as much as my life, or even the parson — yes, ma’am, Sarah!” thus vaguely the terrified Samuel.

  The woman threw back the large grey hood which had muffled her face.

  “Don’t you know me, Mr. Pecker?” she asked. “’Tis I, Millicent, Millicent — Duke.”

  “You, Miss Millicent! You, Mrs. Duke! O miss, O ma’am, your poor dear cousin!”

  “Mr. Pecker, for the love of mercy, don’t keep me from him. Stand out of the way, stand out of the way,” she said passionately; “he may die while you’re talking to me here.”, “But, ma’am, you musn’t go to him; the doctor, ma’am, and Sarah, Miss Millicent. Sarah, she was quite awful about it, ma’am!”

  “Stand aside,” cried Mrs. Duke; “I tell you a raging fire shouldn’t stop me. Stand aside!”

  “No, ma’am — but Sarah!”

  Millicent Duke stretched out two slender white hands, and pushed the landlord from her way with a strength that sent him sliding round the polished oak banister of the lowest stair. She flew up the flight of steps, which brought her to the door of the blue room, and on the threshold found herself face to face with Mrs. Sarah Pecker.

  The girl fell on her knees, with her hair falling loose about her should
ers, and her long grey cloak trailing round her on the polished oaken floor.

  “Sarah, Sarah, darling — Sarah, dear, let me see him.”

  “Not you, not you, nor any one,” said the landlady sternly—”you the last of all persons, Mrs. George Duke.”

  The name struck her like a blow, and she shivered under the cruelty of the thrust.

  “Let me see him! — let me see him!” she said; “his father’s brother’s only child — his first cousin — his playfellow — his friend — his dear and loving friend — his—”

  “His wife that was to have been, Mrs. Duke,” interrupted the landlady.

  “His wife that was to have been; and never, never should have been another’s. His loving, true, and happy wife that would have been. Let me see him!” cried Millicent piteously, holding up her clasped hands to Mrs. Pecker.

  “The doctor’s in there; do you want him to hear you, Mrs. Duke?”

  “If all the world heard me, I wouldn’t stop from asking you: Sarah, let me see my cousin, Darrell Markham!”

  The landlady — holding a candle in her hand, and looking down at the piteous face and the tearful eyes that were almost blinded by the loose pale golden hair — softened a little as she said, —

  “Miss Millicent, the doctor has forbidden a mortal creature to come a-nigh him — the doctor has forbidden a mortal soul to say one word to him that could disturb or agitate him — and do you think the sight of your face wouldn’t agitate him?”

  “But he asked to see me, Sarah; he spoke of me!”

  “When, Miss Millicent?”

  Softening towards this pitiful pale face looking up into hers, the landlady no longer called her dead master’s daughter by the new, hard, cruel name of Mrs. Duke. “When, Miss Millicent?”

  “To-night — to-night, Sarah.”

  “Master Darrell asked to see you! Who told you that?”

  “Captain Duke.”

  “Master Darrell hasn’t said better than a dozen words this night, Miss Millicent; and those words were mad words, and never once spoke your name.”

  “But my husband said—”

  “The Captain sent you here, then?”

  “No, no; he didn’t send me here. He told me — at least, he gave me to understand — that Darrell had spoken of me — had asked to see me.”

  “Your husband’s a strange gentleman, Miss Millicent.”

  “Let me see him, Sarah, only let me see him. I won’t speak one word, or breathe one sigh; only let me see him.”

  Mrs. Pecker withdrew for a few moments into the blue room, and whispered something to the doctor. Millicent Duke, still on her knees on the threshold of the half-opened door, strained her eyes as if she would have pierced through the thick oak that separated her from her prostrate kinsman.

  The landlady returned to the door, accompanied by the doctor, who went downstairs to fetch some potion he had ordered for his patient.

  “If you want to look at a corpse, Miss Millicent, you may come in and look at him, for he lies as still as one,” said Mrs. Pecker.

  She took the kneeling girl in her stout arms, and half lifted her into the room, where, opposite a blazing fire, Darrell Markham lay unconscious on a great draperied four-post bed. His head was thrown back upon the pillow, the fair hair dabbled with a lotion with which Mrs. Pecker had been bathing the scalp-wound spoken of by the doctor. Millicent tottered to the bedside, and seating herself in an arm-chair which had been occupied by Sarah Pecker, took Darrel Markham’s hand in hers, and pressed it to her tremulous lips. It seemed as if there was something magical in this gentle pressure, for the young man’s eyes opened for the first time since the scene in the hall, and he looked at his cousin.

  “Millicent,” he said, without any sign of surprise “dear Millicent, it is so good of you to watch me.”

  She had nursed him three years before through a dangerous illness, and it was scarcely strange if in his delirium he confused the present with the past, fancying that he was in his old room at Compton Hall, and that his cousin had been watching by his bedside.

  “Call my uncle,” he said, “call the squire; I want to see him!” and then after a pause he muttered, looking about him, “surely this is not the old room — surely some one has altered the room.”

  “Master Darrell, dear,” cried the landlady, “don’t you know where you are? With friends, Master Darrell, true and faithful friends. Don’t you know, dear?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, “I know, I know. I’ve been lying out in the cold, and my arm is hurt. I remember, Sally, I remember; but my head feels strange, and I can scarce tell where I am.”

  “See here, Master Darrell, here’s Mistress Duke has come all the way from the other end of Compton on this bitter black night on purpose to see you.”

  The good woman said this to comfort the patient, but the utterance of that one name, Duke, recalled his cousin’s marriage, and the young man exclaimed bitterly, —

  “Mistress Duke! yes, I remember’ and then, turning his weary head upon the pillow, he cried with a sudden energy, “Millicent Duke, Millicent Duke, why do you come here to torture me with the sight of you?” At this moment there arose the sound of some altercation in the hall below, and then the noise of two voices in dispute, and hurried footsteps upon the staircase. Mrs. Pecker ran to the door, but before she could reach it, it was burst violently open, and the Captain of the Vulture strode into the room. He was closely followed by the doctor, who walked straight to the bedside, exclaiming with suppressed passion, “I protest against this, Captain Duke; and if any ill consequences come of it, I hold you answerable for the mischief.”

  The Captain took no notice of this speech, but, turning to his wife, said savagely, “Will it please you to go home with me, Mistress Millicent? It is near upon four o’clock, and a sick gentleman’s room is scarce a fit place for a lady at such a time.”

  Darrell Markham lifted himself up in bed, and cried with au hysterical laugh, “I tell you that’s the man, Millicent; Sarah, look at him. That is the man who stopped me upon Compton Moor — the man who shot me in the arm, and rifled me of my purse.”

  “Darrell! Darrell!” cried Millicent; “you do not know what you are saying. That man is my husband.”

  “Your husband! A highwayman! — a—”

  Whatever word was on Mr. Markham’s lips remained unspoken, for he fell back insensible upon the pillow.”

  “Captain George Duke,” said the surgeon, laying his hand upon his patient’s wrist, “if this man dies, you have committed a murder!”

  CHAPTER III. LOOKING BACK.

  JOHN HOMERTON, the blacksmith, only spoke advisedly when he said that the young squire, Ringwood Markham, was ruining himself up in London. The simple inhabitants of villages are apt to exaggerate the dangers and the vices of that unknown metropolis of which they hear such strange stories; but in this case honest Master Homerton did not exaggerate, for the young squire was hurrying at a good rattling pace along that smooth and easy highway known as the road to ruin.

  Ringwood Markham was three years older than his sister Millicent, and six years younger than his cousin Darrell; for old Squire Markham had married late in life, and had, shortly after his marriage, adopted little Darrell, the only child of a younger brother, who Lad died early, leaving a small fortune to his orphan boy.

  Ringwood Markham in person closely resembled his sister. He had the same pale golden hair, the deep limpid blue eyes, the small features, and delicate pink-and-white complexion. But that style of beauty which was charming in a girl of nineteen was far too effeminate to be pleasing in a man of two-and-twenty, and the old squire bad been sorely vexed to see his beloved son grow up into nothing better than a pretty boy — a fair-faced dollish young coxcomb, the admiration of simpering school-girls and middle-aged women, and the type of the Strephons and Damons who at that time overran our English poetry.

  Ringwood had always been his father’s favourite, to the exclusion even of pretty, lovable, and loving
Millicent; and as Darrell grew to manhood, it vexed the old squire to see the elder cousin high-spirited and stalwart, broad-chested and athletic, accomplished in all manly exercises, a good shot, an expert swordsman, a bold horseman, and reckless, daredevil, generous, thoughtless, open-hearted lad; while Ringwood only thought of his pretty face and his embroidered waistcoat, and loved the glittering steel ornaments of his sword-hilt far better than the blade of the weapon.

  It was hard for the squire to have to confess the humiliating truth, even to himself; but it was not the less a fact that Ringwood Markham was a milksop.

  The old man concealed his mortification in the most secret recesses of his heart, and, with a spirit of injustice which is one of the weaknesses of passionate love, hated Darrell for being so superior to his son.

  This was how the pale face of sorrow first peeped in upon the little family group at Compton Hall.

  Darrell and Millicent had loved each other from that early childish but unforgotten day on which the orphan boy peeped into his baby cousin’s cradle, and gazed with admiring wonder at her pretty face and tiny rosy hands, so ready to twine themselves with a warm caressing touch around the boy’s coarser fingers.

  I am not perhaps justified in saying that love on her side began so soon as this, but I know that it did on his; and I know too that the first syllables cousin Milly ever lisped were those two simple sounds that shaped the name of Darrell.

  They loved each other from such an early age, and they loved each other so honestly and truly, that perhaps they were never, in the legitimate sense of the word, lovers.

  They had no pretty coquettish jealousies; no charming quarrels and more charming reconciliations; no stolen meetings by moonlit nights; no interposition of bribed waiting-maids charged with dainty perfumed notes. No; they loved each other honestly and openly, with a calm unchanging affection which had so little need of words, that few lookers-on would perhaps have suspected the depth and strength of so tranquil a passion.