Captain Prodder only nodded. He looked upon his scientific lashing of the softy as the triumph of art; but he hovered near his prisoner in compliance with Talbot’s request, ready to fall upon him if he should make any attempt to stir.
There was enough moonlight to enable Mr. Bulstrode to find the lucifers and candlestick after a few minutes search. The candle was not improved by having been trodden upon; but Talbot contrived to light it, and then set to work to look for the waistcoat.
The bundle had rolled into a corner. It was tightly bound with a quantity of whipcord, and was harder than it could have been had it consisted solely of the waistcoat.
“Hold the light for me while I undo this,” Talbot cried, thrusting the candlestick into Mr. Prodder’s hand. He was so impatient that he could scarcely wait while he cut the whip-cord about the bundle with the softy’s huge clasp-knife, which he had picked up while searching for the candle.
“I thought so,” he said, as he unrolled the waistcoat; “the money’s here.”
The money was there, in a small Russia-leather pocket-book, in which Aurora had given it to the murdered man. If there had been any confirmation needed for this fact, the savage yell of rage which broke from Stephen’s lips would have afforded that confirmation.
“It’s the money,” cried Talbot Bulstrode. “I call upon you, sir, to bear witness, whoever you may be, that I find this waistcoat and this pocket-book in the possession of this man, and that I take them from him after a struggle in which he attempts my life.”
“Ay, ay, I know him well enough,” muttered the sailor; “he’s a bad ‘un; and him and me have had a stand further, before this.”
“And I call upon you to bear witness that this man is the murderer of James Conyers!”
“WHAT?” roared Samuel Prodder; “him! Why, the double-dyed villain, it was him that put it into my head that it was my sister Eliza’s chi — that it was Mrs. Mellish—”
“Yes, yes, I know. But we’ve got him now. Will you run to the house, and send some of the men to fetch a constable, while I stop here?”
Mr. Prodder assented willingly. He had assisted Talbot in the first instance without any idea of what the business was to lead to. Now he was quite as much excited as Mr. Bulstrode. He scrambled through the lattice, and ran off to the stables, guided by the lighted windows of the grooms’ dormitories.
Talbot waited very quietly while he was gone. He stood at a few paces from the softy, watching Mr. Hargraves as he gnawed savagely at his bonds, in the hope, perhaps, of setting himself free.
“I shall be ready for you,” the young Cornishman said, quietly, “whenever you’re ready for me.”
A crowd of grooms and hangers-on came with lanterns before the constable could arrive; and foremost among them came Mr. John Mellish, very noisy and very unintelligible. The door of the lodge was opened, and they all burst into the little chamber, where, heedless of grooms, gardeners, stable-boys, hangers-on, and rabble, John Mellish fell on his friend’s breast and wept aloud.
L’ENVOI.
What more have I to tell of this simple drama of domestic life? The end has come. The element of tragedy which has been so intermingled in the history of a homely Yorkshire squire and his wife is henceforth to be banished from the record of their lives. The dark story which began in Aurora Floyd’s folly, and culminated in the crime of a half-witted serving-man, has been told from the beginning to the end. It would be worse than useless to linger upon the description of a trial which took place at York at the Michaelmas Assizes. The evidence against Stephen Hargraves was conclusive; and the gallows outside York Castle ended the life of a man who had never been either help or comfort to any one of his fellow-creatures. There was an attempt made to set up a plea of irresponsibility upon the part of the softy, and the sobriquet which had been given him was urged in his defence; but a set of matter-of-fact jurymen, looking at the circumstances of the murder, saw nothing in it but a most cold-blooded assassination, perpetrated by a wretch whose sole motive was gain; and the verdict which found Stephen Hargraves guilty was tempered by no recommendation to mercy. The condemned murderer protested his innocence up to the night before his execution, and upon that night made a full confession of his crime, as is generally the custom of his kind. He related how he had followed James Conyers into the wood upon the night of his assignation with Aurora, and how he had watched and listened during the interview. He had shot the trainer in the back while Mr. Conyers sat by the water’s -edge looking over the notes in the pocket-book, and he had used a button off his waistcoat instead of wadding, not finding anything else suitable for the purpose. He had hidden the waistcoat and pocket-book in a rat-hole in the wainscot of the murdered man’s chamber, and, being dismissed from the lodge suddenly, had been compelled to leave his booty behind him rather than excite suspicion. It was thus that he had returned upon the night on which Talbot found him, meaning to secure his prize and start for Liverpool at six o’clock the following morning.
Aurora and her husband left Mellish Park immediately after the committal of the softy to York prison. They went to the south of France, accompanied by Archibald Floyd, and once more travelled together through scenes which were overshadowed by no sorrowful association. They lingered long at Nice; and here Talbot and Lucy joined them, with an impedimental train of luggage and servants, and a Normandy nurse with a blue-eyed girl-baby. It was at Nice that another baby was born, a black-eyed child — a boy, I believe — but wonderfully like that solemn-faced infant which Mrs. Alexander Floyd carried to the widowed banker two-and-twenty years before at Felden Woods.
It is almost supererogatory to say that Samuel Prodder, the sea-captain, was cordially received by hearty John Mellish and his wife. He is to be a welcome visitor at the Park whenever he pleases to come; indeed, he is homeward bound from Barbadoes at this very time, his cabin-presses filled to overflowing with presents which he is carrying to Aurora in the way of chilis preserved in vinegar, guava jelly, the strongest Jamaica rum, and other trifles suitable for a lady’s acceptance. It may be some comfort to the gentlemen in Scotland Yard to know that John Mellish acted liberally to the detective, and gave him the full reward, although Talbot Bulstrode had been the captor of the softy.
So we leave Aurora, a little changed, a shade less defiantly bright, perhaps, but unspeakably beautiful and tender, bending over the cradle of her first-born; and though there are alterations being made at Mellish, and loose boxes for broodmares building upon the site of the north lodge, and a subscription tan-gallop being laid across Harper’s Common, I doubt if my heroine will care so much for horseflesh, or take quite so keen an interest in weight-for-age races as compared to handicaps as she has done in the days that are gone.
THE END
JOHN MARCHMONT’S LEGACY
This melodramatic novel was first serialised from 1862 to 1863. Despite the title, the main focus of the story is not on Marchmont himself, but on his wife and daughter. John Marchmont has entrusted his close friend Edward Arundel to look after his young daughter upon his death — the duty that is the ‘legacy’ of the title. Arundel agrees, before leaving for India, where he remains for several years.
In the meantime, Marchmont inherits a fortune from a distant relative and marries Edward’s cousin, Olivia. Although the marriage is loveless, Olivia is kind to Marchmont’s daughter, Mary, who is distraught when her father dies suddenly. Unfortunately, Olivia is deep in unrequited love with Edward Arundel. When Edward returns from India, falls in love with Mary and marries her, Mary is placed in a vulnerable situation; and after Edward suffers a serious accident, she finds herself surrounded by enemies on all sides.
Cover of the ‘yellowback’ edition
CONTENTS
VOLUME I.
CHAPTER I. THE MAN WITH THE BANNER.
CHAPTER II. LITTLE MARY.
CHAPTER III. ABOUT THE LINCOLNSHIRE PROPERTY.
CHAPTER IV. GOING AWAY.
CHAPTER V. MARCHMONT TOWERS.
CHAPTER VI. THE YOUNG SOLDIER’S RETURN.
CHAPTER VII. OLIVIA.
CHAPTER VIII. “MY LIFE IS COLD, AND DARK, AND DREARY.”
CHAPTER IX. “WHEN SHALL I CEASE TO BE ALL ALONE?”
CHAPTER X. MARY’S STEPMOTHER.
CHAPTER XI. THE DAY OF DESOLATION.
CHAPTER XII. PAUL.
CHAPTER XIII. OLIVIA’S DESPAIR.
CHAPTER XIV. DRIVEN AWAY.
VOLUME II.
CHAPTER I. MARY’S LETTER.
CHAPTER II. A NEW PROTECTOR.
CHAPTER III. PAUL’S SISTER.
CHAPTER IV. A STOLEN HONEYMOON.
CHAPTER V. SOUNDING THE DEPTHS.
CHAPTER VI. RISEN FROM THE GRAVE.
CHAPTER VII. FACE TO FACE.
CHAPTER VIII. THE PAINTING–ROOM BY THE RIVER.
CHAPTER IX. IN THE DARK.
CHAPTER X. THE PARAGRAPH IN THE NEWSPAPER.
CHAPTER XI. EDWARD ARUNDEL’S DESPAIR.
CHAPTER XII. EDWARD’S VISITORS.
CHAPTER XIII. ONE MORE SACRIFICE.
CHAPTER XIV. THE CHILD’S VOICE IN THE PAVILION BY THE WATER.
VOLUME III.
CHAPTER I. CAPTAIN ARUNDEL’S REVENGE.
CHAPTER II. THE DESERTED CHAMBERS.
CHAPTER III. TAKING IT QUIETLY.
CHAPTER IV. MISS LAWFORD SPEAKS HER MIND.
CHAPTER V. THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER.
CHAPTER VI. A WIDOWER’S PROPOSAL.
CHAPTER VII. HOW THE TIDINGS WERE RECEIVED IN LINCOLNSHIRE.
CHAPTER VIII. MR. WESTON REFUSES TO BE TRAMPLED UPON.
CHAPTER IX. “GOING TO BE MARRIED!”
CHAPTER X. THE TURNING OF THE TIDE.
CHAPTER XI. BELINDA’S WEDDING–DAY.
CHAPTER XII. MARY’S STORY.
CHAPTER XIII. “ALL WITHIN IS DARK AS NIGHT.”
CHAPTER XIV. THERE IS CONFUSION WORSE THAN DEATH.
CHAPTER THE LAST. “DEAR IS THE MEMORY OF OUR WEDDED LIVES.”
THE EPILOGUE.
Image showing part of the original serialisation in Temple Bar magazine
THIS STORY
IS DEDICATED
TO
MY MOTHER
VOLUME I.
CHAPTER I. THE MAN WITH THE BANNER.
The history of Edward Arundel, second son of Christopher Arundel Dangerfield Arundel, of Dangerfield Park, Devonshire, began on a certain dark winter’s night upon which the lad, still a schoolboy, went with his cousin, Martin Mostyn, to witness a blank–verse tragedy at one of the London theatres.
There are few men who, looking back at the long story of their lives, cannot point to one page in the record of the past at which the actual history of life began. The page may come in the very middle of the book, perhaps; perhaps almost at the end. But let it come where it will, it is, after all, only the actual commencement. At an appointed hour in man’s existence, the overture which has been going on ever since he was born is brought to a sudden close by the sharp vibration of the prompter’s signal–bell; the curtain rises, and the drama of life begins. Very insignificant sometimes are the first scenes of the play,––common–place, trite, wearisome; but watch them closely, and interwoven with every word, dimly recognisable in every action, may be seen the awful hand of Destiny. The story has begun: already we, the spectators, can make vague guesses at the plot, and predicate the solemn climax; it is only the actors who are ignorant of the meaning of their several parts, and who are stupidly reckless of the obvious catastrophe.
The story of young Arundel’s life began when he was a light–hearted, heedless lad of seventeen, newly escaped for a brief interval from the care of his pastors and masters.
The lad had come to London on a Christmas visit to his father’s sister, a worldly–minded widow, with a great many sons and daughters, and an income only large enough to enable her to keep up the appearances of wealth essential to the family pride of one of the Arundels of Dangerfield.
Laura Arundel had married a Colonel Mostyn, of the East India Company’s service, and had returned from India after a wandering life of some years, leaving her dead husband behind her, and bringing away with her five daughters and three sons, most of whom had been born under canvas.
Mrs. Mostyn bore her troubles bravely, and contrived to do more with her pension, and an additional income of four hundred a year from a small fortune of her own, than the most consummate womanly management can often achieve. Her house in Montague Square was elegantly furnished, her daughters were exquisitely dressed, her sons sensibly educated, her dinners well cooked. She was not an agreeable woman; she was perhaps, if any thing, too sensible,––so very sensible as to be obviously intolerant of anything like folly in others. She was a good mother; but by no means an indulgent one. She expected her sons to succeed in life, and her daughters to marry rich men; and would have had little patience with any disappointment in either of these reasonable expectations. She was attached to her brother Christopher Arundel, and she was very well pleased to spend the autumn months at Dangerfield, where the hunting–breakfasts gave her daughters an excellent platform for the exhibition of charming demi–toilettes and social and domestic graces, perhaps more dangerous to the susceptible hearts of rich young squires than the fascinations of a valse à deux temps or an Italian scena.
But the same Mrs. Mostyn, who never forgot to keep up her correspondence with the owner of Dangerfield Park, utterly ignored the existence of another brother, a certain Hubert Arundel, who had, perhaps, much more need of her sisterly friendship than the wealthy Devonshire squire. Heaven knows, the world seemed a lonely place to this younger son, who had been educated for the Church, and was fain to content himself with a scanty living in one of the dullest and dampest towns in fenny Lincolnshire. His sister might have very easily made life much more pleasant to the Rector of Swampington and his only daughter; but Hubert Arundel was a great deal too proud to remind her of this. If Mrs. Mostyn chose to forget him,––the brother and sister had been loving friends and dear companions long ago, under the beeches at Dangerfield,––she was welcome to do so. She was better off than he was; and it is to be remarked, that if A’s income is three hundred a year, and B’s a thousand, the chances are as seven to three that B will forget any old intimacy that may have existed between himself and A. Hubert Arundel had been wild at college, and had put his autograph across so many oblong slips of blue paper, acknowledging value received that had been only half received, that by the time the claims of all the holders of these portentous morsels of stamped paper had been satisfied, the younger son’s fortune had melted away, leaving its sometime possessor the happy owner of a pair of pointers, a couple of guns by crack makers, a good many foils, single–sticks, boxing–gloves, wire masks, basket helmets, leathern leg–guards, and other paraphernalia, a complete set of the old Sporting Magazine, from 1792 to the current year, bound in scarlet morocco, several boxes of very bad cigars, a Scotch terrier, and a pipe of undrinkable port.
Of all these possessions, only the undrinkable port now remained to show that Hubert Arundel had once had a decent younger son’s fortune, and had succeeded most admirably in making ducks and drakes of it. The poor about Swampington believed in the sweet red wine, which had been specially concocted for Israelitish dealers in jewelry, cigars, pictures, wines, and specie. The Rector’s pensioners smacked their lips over the mysterious liquid and confidently affirmed that it did them more good than all the doctor’s stuff the parish apothecary could send them. Poor Hubert Arundel was well content to find that at least this scanty crop of corn had grown up from the wild oats he had sown at Cambridge. The wine pleased the poor creatures who drank it, and was scarcely likely to do them any harm; and there was a reasonable prospect that the last bottle would by–and–by pass out of the rectory cellars, and with it the last token of that bitterly regretted past.
I have no doubt that Hubert Arundel felt the sting of his only sister’s neglect, as only a poor and proud man can feel such an insult; but he n
ever let any confession of this sentiment escape his lips; and when Mrs. Mostyn, being seized with a fancy for doing this forgotten brother a service, wrote him a letter of insolent advice, winding up with an offer to procure his only child a situation as nursery governess, the Rector of Swampington only crushed the missive in his strong hand, and flung it into his study–fire, with a muttered exclamation that sounded terribly like an oath.
“A nursery governess!” he repeated, savagely; “yes; an underpaid drudge, to teach children their A B C, and mend their frocks and make their pinafores. I should like Mrs. Mostyn to talk to my little Livy for half an hour. I think my girl would have put the lady down so completely by the end of that time, that we should never hear any more about nursery governesses.”
He laughed bitterly as he repeated the obnoxious phrase; but his laugh changed to a sigh.
Was it strange that the father should sigh as he remembered how he had seen the awful hand of Death fall suddenly upon younger and stronger men than himself? What if he were to die, and leave his only child unmarried? What would become of her, with her dangerous gifts, with her fatal dowry of beauty and intellect and pride?
“But she would never do any thing wrong,” the father thought. “Her religious principles are strong enough to keep her right under any circumstances, in spite of any temptation. Her sense of duty is more powerful than any other sentiment. She would never be false to that; she would never be false to that.”
In return for the hospitality of Dangerfield Park, Mrs. Mostyn was in the habit of opening her doors to either Christopher Arundel or his sons, whenever any one of the three came to London. Of course she infinitely preferred seeing Arthur Arundel, the eldest son and heir, seated at her well–spread table, and flirting with one of his pretty cousins, than to be bored with his rackety younger brother, a noisy lad of seventeen, with no better prospects than a commission in her Majesty’s service, and a hundred and fifty pounds a year to eke out his pay; but she was, notwithstanding, graciously pleased to invite Edward to spend his Christmas holidays in her comfortable household; and it was thus it came to pass that on the 29th of December, in the year 1838, the story of Edward Arundel’s life began in a stage–box at Drury Lane Theatre.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 171
