Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon
Page 325
“‘Miss Wilson is the young lady I wish to see,’ I said. ‘Will you direct me to the Hermitage? I will call there early to-morrow morning.’
“The proprietress of Jakins’s, who was, I dare say, something of a matchmaker, after the manner of all good-natured matrons, smiled significantly.
“‘I know where you could see Miss Wilson, nearer than the Hermitage,’ she said, ‘and sooner than to-morrow morning. She works very hard all day, — poor, dear, delicate-looking young thing; but every evening when it’s tolerably fine, she goes to the churchyard. It’s the only walk I’ve ever seen her take since her father’s death. She goes past my window regular every night, just about when I’m shutting up, and from my door I can see her open the gate and go into the churchyard. It’s a doleful walk to take alone at that time of the evening, to be sure, though some folks think it’s the pleasantest walk in all Kylmington.’
“It was in consequence of this conversation that I found myself under the shadow of the trees while the Kylmington clock was striking eight.
“The churchyard was a square flat, surrounded on all sides by a low stone wall, beyond which the fields sloped down to the mouth of a river that widened into the sea at a little distance from Kylmington, but which hereabouts had a very dingy melancholy look when the tide was out, as it was to-night.
“There was no living creature except myself in the churchyard as I came out of the shadow of the trees on to the flat, where the grass grew long among the unpretending headstones.
“I looked at all the newest stones till I came at last to one standing in the obscurest corner of the churchyard, almost hidden by the low wall.
“There was a very brief inscription on this modest headstone; but it was enough to tell me whose ashes lay buried under the spot on which I stood.
“To the Memory of J. W. Who died December 19, 1853. ‘Lord have mercy upon me, a sinner!’
“I was still looking at this brief memorial, when I heard a woman’s dress rustling upon the long rank grass, and turning suddenly, saw my darling coming towards me, very pale, very pensive, but with a kind of seraphic resignation upon her face which made her seem to me more beautiful than I had ever seen her before.
“She started at seeing me, but did not faint. She only grew paler than she had been before, and pressed her two hands on her breast, as if to still the sudden tumult of her heart.
“I made her take my arm and lean upon it, and we walked up and down the narrow path talking until the last low line of light faded out of the dusky sky.
“All that I could say to her was scarcely enough to shake her resolution — to uproot her conviction that her father’s guilt was an insurmountable barrier between us. But when I told her of my broken life — when, in the earnestness of my pleading, she perceived the proof of a constancy that no time could shake, I could see that she wavered.
“‘I only want you to be happy, Clement,’ she said. ‘My former life has been such an unhappy one, that I tremble at the thought of linking it to yours. The shame, Clement — think of that. How will you answer people when they ask you the name of your wife?’
“‘I will tell them that she has no name, but that which she has honoured by accepting from me. I will tell them that she is the noblest and dearest of women, and that her history is a story of unparalleled virtue and devotion!’
“I sent a telegraphic message to my mother early the next morning; and in the afternoon the dear soul arrived at Kylmington to embrace her future daughter. We sat late in the little parlour of the Hermitage; a dreary cottage, looking out on the flat shore, half sand, half mud, and the low water lying in greenish pools. Margaret told us of her father’s penitence.
“‘No repentance was ever more sincere, Clement,’ she said, for she seemed afraid we should doubt the possibility of penitence in such a criminal as Joseph Wilmot. ‘My poor father — my poor wronged, unhappy father! — yes, wronged, Clement, you must not forget that; you must never forget that in the first instance he was wronged, and deeply wronged, by the man who was murdered. When first we came here, his mind brooded upon that, and he seemed to look upon what he had done as an ignorant savage would look upon the vengeance which his heathenish creed had taught him to consider a justifiable act of retaliation. Little by little I won my poor father away from such thoughts as these: till by-and-by he grew to think of Henry Dunbar as he was when they were young men together, linked by a kind of friendship, before the forging of the bills, and all the trouble that followed. He thought of his old master as he knew him first, and his heart was softened towards the dead man’s memory; and from that time his penitence began. He was sorry for what he had done. No words can describe that sorrow, Clement: and may you never have to watch, as I have watched, the anguish of a guilty soul! Heaven is very merciful. If my father had failed to escape, and had been hung, he would have died hardened and impenitent. God had compassion on him, and gave him time to repent.’”
(The end of the story.)
THE EPILOGUE:
ADDED BY CLEMENT AUSTIN SEVEN YEARS AFTERWARDS.
“My wife and I hear sometimes, through my old friend Arthur Lovell, of the new master and mistress of Maudesley Abbey, Sir Philip and Lady Jocelyn, who oscillate between the Rock and the Abbey when they are in Warwickshire. Lady Jocelyn is a beautiful woman, frank, generous, noble-hearted, beloved by every creature within twenty miles’ radius of her home, and idolized by her husband. The sad history of her father’s death has been softened by the hand of Time; and she is happy with her children and her husband in the grand old home that was so long overshadowed by the sinister presence of the false Henry Dunbar.
“We are very happy. No prying eye would ever read in Margaret’s bright face the sad story of her early life. A new existence has begun for her as wife and mother. She has little time to think of that miserable past; but I think that, sound Protestant though she may be in every other article of faith, amidst all her prayers those are not the least fervent which she offers up for the guilty soul of her wretched father.
“We are very happy. The secret of my wife’s history is hidden in our own breasts — a dark chapter in the criminal romance of life, never to be revealed upon earth. The Winchester murder is forgotten amongst the many other guilty mysteries which are never entirely solved. If Joseph Wilmot’s name is ever mentioned, people suggest that he went to America; indeed, there are people who go farther, and say they have seen him in America.
“My mother keeps house for us; and in very nearly seven years’ experience we have never found any disunion to arise from this arrangement. The pretty Clapham villa is gay with the sound of children’s voices, and the shrill carol of singing birds, and the joyous barking of Skye terriers. We have added a nursery wing already to one side of the house, and have balanced it on the other by a vinery, built after the model of those which adorn the mansion of my senior. The Misses Balderby have taken what they call a ‘great fancy’ to my wife, and they swarm over our drawing-room carpets in blue or pink flounces very often, on what they call ‘social evenings for a little music.’ I find that a little music is only a synonym with the Misses Balderby for a great deal of noise.
“I love my wife’s playing best, though they are kind enough to perform twenty-page compositions by Bach and Mendelssohn for my amusement: and I am never happier than on those dusky summer evenings when we sit alone together in the shadowy drawing-room, and talk to each other, while Margaret’s skilful fingers glide softly over the keys in wandering snatches of melody that melt and die away like the low breath of the summer wind.”
THE END
BIRDS OF PREY
This novel was serialised between November 1866 and October 1867 in Belgravia, a magazine which Braddon founded and edited until 1876.
The main protagonists are Diana Paget and Charlotte Halliday. Diana is the daughter of a fallen gentleman, Captain Horatio Paget, who wanders around Europe eliciting money by a range of dishonest means. Charlotte, meanwhile, is the step-daug
hter of Philip Sheldon, a dental surgeon, whose marriage was brought about after Sheldon secretly poisoned his wife’s former husband (Charlotte’s father). The novel tells the story of what happens when Diana comes to live with Charlotte as a paid companion — an event which indirectly sets in motion a plot to disinherit Diana’s new friend.
As the story progressed it became clear that the novel would prove far too long for the length that Braddon had allotted the serial in her magazine and she decided to continue Charlotte’s story in a new novel, entitled Charlotte’s Inheritance.
This novel was first published in Braddon’s magazine ‘Belgravia’.
CONTENTS
BOOK THE FIRST. FATAL FRIENDSHIP.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
BOOK THE SECOND. THE TWO MACAIRES.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
BOOK THE THIRD. HEAPING UP RICHES.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
BOOK THE FOURTH. VALENTINE HAWKEHURST’S RECORD.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
BOOK THE FIFTH. RELICS OF THE DEAD.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
BOOK THE SIXTH. THE HEIRESS OF THE HAYGARTHS.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
BOOK THE SEVENTH. CHARLOTTE’S ENGAGEMENT.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
Cover of the ‘yellowback’ edition
Braddon’s son, William Babington Maxwell, was born in 1866 and went on to become a novelist
BOOK THE FIRST. FATAL FRIENDSHIP.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY.
“What about?” There are some houses whereof the outward aspect is sealed with the seal of respectability — houses which inspire confidence in the minds of the most sceptical of butchers and bakers — houses at whose area-gates the tradesman delivers his goods undoubtingly, and from whose spotless door-steps the vagabond children of the neighbourhood recoil as from a shrine too sacred for their gambols.
Such a house made its presence obvious, some years ago, in one of the smaller streets of that west-central region which lies between Holborn and St. Pancras Church. It is perhaps the nature of ultra-respectability to be disagreeably conspicuous. The unsullied brightness of No. 14 Fitzgeorge-street was a standing reproach to every other house in the dingy thorough-fare. That one spot of cleanliness made the surrounding dirt cruelly palpable. The muslin curtains in the parlour windows of No. 15 would not have appeared of such a smoky yellow if the curtains of No. 14 had not been of such a pharisaical whiteness. Mrs. Magson, at No. 13, was a humble letter of lodgings, always more or less in arrear with the demands of quarter-day; and it seemed a hard thing that her door-steps, whereon were expended much labour and hearthstone — not to mention house-flannel, which was in itself no unimportant item in the annual expenses — should be always thrown in the shade by the surpassing purity of the steps before No. 14.
Not satisfied with being the very pink and pattern of respectability, the objectionable house even aspired to a kind of prettiness. It was as bright, and pleasant, and rural of aspect as any house within earshot of the roar and rattle of Holborn can be. There were flowers in the windows; gaudy scarlet geraniums, which seemed to enjoy an immunity from all the ills to which geraniums are subject, so impossible was it to discover a faded leaf amongst their greenness, or the presence of blight amidst their wealth of blossom. There were birdcages within the shadow of the muslin curtains, and the colouring of the newly-pointed brickwork was agreeably relieved by the vivid green of Venetian blinds. The freshly-varnished street-door bore a brass-plate, on which to look was to be dazzled; and the effect produced by this combination of white door-step, scarlet geranium, green blind, and brass-plate was obtrusively brilliant.
Those who had been so privileged as to behold the interior of the house in Fitzgeorge-street brought away with them a sense of admiration that was the next thing to envy. The pink and pattern of propriety within, as it was the pink and pattern of propriety without, it excited in every breast alike a wondering awe, as of a habitation tenanted by some mysterious being, infinitely superior to the common order of householders.
The inscription on the brass-plate informed the neighbourhood that No. 14 was occupied by Mr. Sheldon, surgeon-dentist; and the dwellers in Fitzgeorge-street amused themselves in their leisure hours by speculative discussions upon the character and pursuits, belongings and surroundings, of this gentleman.
Of course he was eminently respectable. On that question no Fitzgeorgian had ever hazarded a doubt. A householder with such a door-step and such muslin curtains could not be other than the most correct of mankind; for, if there is any external evidence by which a dissolute life or an ill-regulated mind will infallibly betray itself, that evidence is to be found in the yellowness and limpness of muslin window-curtains. The eyes are the windows of the soul, says the poet; but if a man’s eyes are not open to your inspection, the windows of his house will help you to discover his character as an individual, and his solidity as a citizen. At least such was the opinion cherished in Fitzgeorge-street, Russell-square.
The person and habits of Mr. Sheldon were in perfect harmony with the aspect of the house. The unsullied snow of the door-step reproduced itself in the unsullied snow of his shirt-front; the brilliancy of the brass-plate was reflected in the glittering brightness of his gold-studs; the varnish on the door was equalled by the lustrous surface of his black-satin waistcoat; the careful pointing of the brickwork was in a manner imitated by the perfect order of his polished finger-nails and the irreproachable neatness of his hair and whiskers. No dentist or medical practitioner of any denomination had inhabited the house in Fitzgeorge-street before the coming of Philip Sheldon. The house had been unoccupied for upwards of a year, and was in the last stage of shabbiness and decay, when the bills disappeared all at once from the windows, and busy painters and bricklayers set their ladders against the dingy brickwork. Mr. Sheldon took the house on a long lease, and spent two or three hundred pounds in the embellishment of it. Upon the completion of all repairs and decorations, two great waggon-loads of furniture, distinguished by that old fashioned clumsiness which is eminently suggestive of respectability, arrived from the Euston-square terminus, while a young man of meditative aspect might have been seen on his knees, now in one empty chamber, anon in another, performing some species of indoor surveying, with a three-foot rule, a loose little oblong memorandum-book, and the merest stump of a square lead-pencil. This was an emissary from the carpet warehouse; and before nightfall it was known to more than one inhabitant in Fitzgeorge-street that the stranger was going to lay down new carpets. The new-comer was evidently of an active and energetic temperament, for within three days of his arrival the brass-plate on his street-door announced his profession, while a neat little glass-case, on a level with the eye of the passing pedestrian, exhibited specimens of his skill in mechanical dentistry, and afforded instruction and amusement to the boys of the neighbourhood, who criticised the glistening white teeth and impossibly red gums, displayed behind the plate-glass, with a like vigour and freedom of language. Nor did Mr. Sheldon’s announcement of his profession confine itself to the brass-plate and the glass-case. A shabby-genteel young man pervaded th
e neighbourhood for some days after the surgeon-dentist’s advent, knocking a postman’s knock, which only lacked the galvanic sharpness of the professional touch, and delivering neatly-printed circulars to the effect that Mr. Sheldon, surgeon-dentist, of 14 Fitzgeorge-street, had invented some novel method of adjusting false teeth, incomparably superior to any existing method, and that he had, further, patented an improvement on nature in the way of coral gums, the name whereof was an unpronounceable compound of Greek and Latin, calculated to awaken an awful reverence in the unprofessional and unclassical mind.
The Fitzgeorgians shook their heads with prophetic solemnity as they read these circulars. Struggling householders, who find it a hard task to keep the two ends which never have met and never will meet from growing farther and farther asunder every year, are apt to derive a dreary kind of satisfaction from the contemplation of another man’s impending ruin. Fitzgeorge-street and its neighbourhood had existed without the services of a dentist, but it was very doubtful that a dentist would be able to exist on the custom to be obtained in Fitzgeorge-street. Mr. Sheldon may, perhaps, have pitched his tent under the impression that wherever there was mankind there was likely to be toothache, and that the healer of an ill so common to frail humanity could scarcely fail to earn his bread, let him establish his abode of horror where he might. For some time after his arrival people watched him and wondered about him, and regarded him a little suspiciously, in spite of the substantial clumsiness of his furniture and the unwinking brightness of his windows. His neighbours asked one another how long all that outward semblance of prosperity would last; and there was sinister meaning in the question.