Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “Dying! O, sir, for God’s sake, don’t say that!”

  “She is dying, as her father died before her, by the hand of Philip

  Sheldon.”

  “O, sir! Mr. Hawkehurst!” cried the old woman, with clasped hands lifted in piteous supplication towards her master’s denouncer. “It’s not true. It is not true. For God’s dear love don’t tell me it is true! I nursed him when he was a baby, sir; and there wasn’t a little trouble I had to bear with him that didn’t make him all the dearer to me. I have sat up all the night through, sir, times and often, when he was ill, and have heard Barlingford church clock strike every hour of the long night; and O, if I had known that this could ever come to him, I should have wished him dead in the little crib where he lay and seemed so innocent. I tell you, sir, it can’t be true! His father and mother had been respected and looked up to in Barlingford for many a year, — his grandfather and grandmother before them. There isn’t a name that stands better in those parts than the name of Sheldon. Do you think such a man would poison his friend?”

  “I said nothing about poison, Mrs. Woolper,” said Valentine, sternly.

  This woman had known all, and had held her tongue, like the rest, it seemed. To Valentine there was unutterable horror in the thought that a cold-blooded murder could be thus perpetrated in the sight of several people, and yet no voice be raised to denounce the assassin.

  “And this is our modern civilization!” he said to himself. “Give me the desert or the jungle. The sons of Bowanee are no worse than Mr. Sheldon, and one might be on one’s guard against them.”

  Nancy Woolper looked at him aghast. He had said nothing about poison!

  What, then — had she betrayed her master?

  He saw that she had known, or strongly suspected, the worst in the case of Tom Halliday, and that she would easily be influenced to do all he wanted of her.

  “Mrs. Woolper, you must help me to save Charlotte,” he said, with intensity. “You made no attempt to save her father, though you suspected the cause of his death. I have this day seen Mr. Burkham, the doctor who attended Mr. Halliday, and from his lips I have heard the truth. I want you to accompany me to Hastings, and to take your place by Charlotte’s bed, as her nurse and guardian. If Mr. Sheldon suspects your knowledge of the past, and I have little doubt that he does” — a look in the housekeeper’s face told him that he was right—”you are of all people best fitted to guard that dear girl. Your part will not be a difficult one. If we dare remove her, we will remove her beyond the reach of that man’s power. If not, your task will be to prevent food or medicine, that his hand has touched, from approaching her lips. You can do it. It will only be a question of tact and firmness. We shall have one of the greatest doctors in London for our guide. Will you come?”

  “I don’t believe my master poisoned his friend,” said Nancy Woolper, doggedly; “nor I won’t believe it. You can’t force me to think bad of him I loved when he was little and helpless, and I carried him in my arms. What are you and your fine London doctor, Mr. Burkham — he was but a poor fondy, as I mind well — that I should take your word against my master? If that young man thought as Mr. Halliday was being poisoned, why didn’t he speak out, like a man, then? It’s a fine piece of work to bring it up against my master eleven years afterwards. As for young missy, she’s as sweet a young creature as ever lived, and I’d do anything to serve her. But I won’t think, and I can’t think, that my master would hurt a hair of her head. What would he gain by it?”

  “He has settled that with himself. He has gained by the death of Tom Halliday, and depend upon it he has made his plans to gain by the death of Tom Halliday’s daughter.”

  “I won’t believe it,” the old woman repeated in the same dogged tone.

  For such resistance as this Mr. Hawkehurst was in no manner prepared. He looked at his watch. The half hour was nearly gone. There was little more time for argument.

  “Great Heaven!” he said to himself, “what argument can I employ to influence this woman’s obdurate heart?”

  What argument, indeed? He knew of none stronger than those he had used. He stood for some moments battled and helpless, staring absently at the face of his watch, and wondering what he was to do next.

  As Valentine Hawkehurst stood thus, there came a loud ringing of the bell, following quickly on the sound of wheels grinding against the kerbstone.

  Mrs. Woolper opened the door and looked out into the hall.

  “It’s master!” cried one of the maids, emerging from the disorganized dining-room, “and missus, and Miss Halliday, and Mass Paget — and all the house topsy-turvy!”

  “Charlotte here!” exclaimed Valentine. “You are dreaming, girl!”

  “And you told me she was dying!” said Mrs. Woolper, with a look of triumph. “What becomes of your fine story now?”

  “It is Miss Halliday!” cried the housemaid, as she opened the door. “And O my!” she added, looking back into the hall with a sorrowful face, “how bad she do look!”

  Valentine ran out to the gate. Yes; there were two cabs, one laden with luggage, the two cabmen busy about the doors of the vehicles, a little group of stragglers waiting to see the invalid young lady alight. It was the next best thing to a funeral.

  “O, don’t she look white!” cried a shrill girl with a baby in her arms.

  “In a decline, I dessay, pore young thing,” said a matron, in an audible aside to her companion.

  Valentine dashed amongst the group of stragglers. He pushed away the girl with the baby, the housemaid who had run out behind him, Mr. Sheldon, the cabman, every one; and in the next moment Charlotte was in his arms, and he was carrying her into the house.

  He felt as if he had been in a dream; and all that exceptional force which the dreamer sometimes feels he felt in this crisis. He carried his dear burden into the study, followed by Mr. Sheldon and Diana Paget. The face that dropped upon his shoulder showed deadly white against his dark-blue coat; the hand which he clasped in his, ah, how listless and feeble!

  “Valentine!” the girl said, in a low drowsy voice, lifting her eyes to his face, “is this you? I have been so ill, so tired; and they would bring me away. To be near the doctors, papa says. Do you think any doctors will be able to cure me?”

  “Yes, dear, with God’s help. I am glad he has brought you here. And now I must run away,” he said; when he had placed Charlotte in Mr. Sheldon’s arm-chair, “for a very little while, darling. I have seen a doctor, a man in whom I have more confidence than I have in Dr. Doddleson. I am going to fetch him, my dearest,” he added tenderly, as he felt the feeble hand cling to his; “I shall not be long. Do you think I shall not hurry back to you? My dearest one, when I return, it will be to stay with you — for ever.”

  She was too ill to note the significance of his words; she only knew that they gave her comfort. He hurried from the room. In less than an hour he must be at the London Bridge terminus, or in all probability the five o’clock train would carry Dr. Jedd to St. Leonards; and on Dr. Jedd his chief hope rested.

  “Do you believe me now?” he asked of Mrs. Woolper as he went out into the hall.

  “I do,” she answered in a whisper; “and I will do what you want.”

  She took his hand in her wrinkled horny palm and grasped it firmly. He felt that in this firm pressure there was a promise sacred as any oath ever registered on earth. He met Mr. Sheldon on the threshold, and passed him without a word. The time might come in which he would have to mask his thoughts, and stoop to the hateful hypocrisy of civility to this man; but he had not yet schooled himself to do this. At the gate he met George Sheldon.

  “What’s up now?” asked the lawyer.

  “Did you send your message?”

  “Yes; I telegraphed to Phil.”

  “It has been trouble wasted. He has brought her home.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Who knows? I pray God that he may have overreached himself. I have set a watch upon my dear love
, and no further harm shall come to her. I am going to fetch Dr. Jedd.”

  “And you are not afraid of Phil’s smelling a rat?”

  “I am afraid of nothing that he can do henceforward. If it is not too late to save her, I will save her.”

  He waited for no more, but jumped into the cab. “London Bridge terminus!

  You must get me there by a quarter to five,” he said to the driver.

  George Sheldon went no further than the gate of his brother’s domain.

  “I wonder whether the Harold’s Hill people will send that telegram after him,” he thought. “It’ll be rather unpleasant for Fred Orcott if they do. But it’s ten to one they won’t. The normal condition of every seaside lodging-house keeper in one degree removed from idiotcy.”

  BOOK THE NINTH. THROUGH THE FURNACE

  CHAPTER I.

  SOMETHING TOO MUCH.

  “Is that young man mad?” asked Philip Sheldon, as he went into his study immediately after Valentine had passed him in the hall.

  The question was not addressed to any particular individual; and Diana, who was standing near the door by which Mr. Sheldon entered, took upon herself to answer it.

  “I think he is very anxious,” she said in a half whisper.

  “What brought him here just now? He did not know we were coming home.”

  Mrs. Woolper answered this question.

  “He came for something for Miss Charlotte, sir; some books as she’d had from the library. They’d not been sent back; and he came to see about their being sent.”

  “What books?” murmured Charlotte. But a pressure from Mrs. Woolper’s hand prevented her saying more.

  “I never encountered any one with so little self-command,” said Mr. Sheldon. “If he is going to rush in and out of my house in that manner, I must really put a stop to his visits altogether. I cannot suffer that kind of thing. For Charlotte’s welfare quiet is indispensable; and if Mr. Hawkehurst’s presence is to bring noise and excitement, Mr. Hawkehurst must not cross this threshold.”

  He spoke with suppressed anger; with such evident effort to restrain his anger, that it would have seemed as if his indignation against Valentine was no common wrath.

  Charlotte caught his last words.

  “Dear papa,” she pleaded in her faint voice, “pray do not be angry with

  Valentine; he is so anxious about me.”

  “I am not angry with him; but while you are ill, I will have quiet — at any price.”

  “Then I’m sure you should not have brought Charlotte home,” exclaimed Georgy, in tones of wailing and lamentation; “for of all the miseries in life, there is nothing worse than coming home in the very midst of a general cleaning. It was agreed between Ann Woolper and me that there should be a general cleaning while we were away at the seaside. We were to be away a fortnight, and everything was to be as neat as a new pin when we came home. But here we are back in less than a week, and everything at sixes-and-sevens. Where we are to dine I know not; and as for the carpets, they are all away at the beating-place, and Ann tells me they won’t be home till Friday.”

  “We can exist without carpets,” answered Mr. Sheldon, in a hard dry voice. “I suppose they are seeing to Miss Halliday’s room?” he added, addressing himself to Mrs. Woolper. “Why don’t you go and look after them, Nancy?”

  “Sarah knows what she has to do. The bed-rooms was done first; and there’s not much amiss in Miss Charlotte’s room.”

  Mr. Sheldon dropped wearily into a chair. He looked pale and haggard. Throughout the journey he had been unfailing in his attention to the invalid; but the journey had been fatiguing; for Charlotte Halliday was very ill — so ill as to be unable to avoid inflicting trouble upon others. The weariness — the dizziness — the dull intervals of semi-consciousness — the helpless tottering walk, which was like the walk of intoxication rather than ordinary weakness — the clouded sight — all the worst symptoms of this nameless disease, had every hour grown more alarming.

  Against this journey to London Mrs. Sheldon and Diana had pleaded — Georgy with as much earnestness as she could command; Diana as forcibly as she dared argue a question in which her voice had so little weight.

  But upon this point Mr. Sheldon was adamant.

  “She will be better off in London,” he said resolutely. “This trip to the seaside was a whim of my wife’s; and, like most other whims of my wife’s, it has entailed trouble and expense upon me. Of course I know that Georgy did it for the best,” he added, in reply to a reproachful “O Philip!” from Mrs. Sheldon. “But the whole business has been a mistake. No sooner are we comfortably settled down here, than Hawkehurst takes it into his head to be outrageously alarmed about Charlotte, and wants to bring half-a-dozen doctors round the poor girl’s bed, to her inevitable peril; for in an illness which begins and ends in mental depression, all appearance of alarm is calculated to do mischief.”

  Having said this, Mr. Sheldon lost no time in making arrangements for the journey. A carriage was ordered; all possible preparations were made for the comfort of the invalid — everything that care or kindness could do was done; but the cruelty of the removal was not the less obvious. Georgy wailed piteously about the sixes-and-sevens to which they were being taken. Diana cared nothing about sixes-and-sevens; but she felt supreme indignation against Charlotte’s stepfather, and she did not attempt to conceal her feelings.

  Nor was it without an effort to oppose Mr. Sheldon’s authority that Miss

  Paget succumbed to the force of circumstances. She appealed to his wife.

  “Dear Mrs. Sheldon, I beg you not to suffer Lotta’s removal,” she said earnestly. “You do not know how ill she is — nor can Mr. Sheldon know, or he would not take such a step. As her mother, your authority is superior to his; you have but to say that she shall not be taken from this house in her present state of prostration and sickness.”

  “I have only to say!” cried Georgy, piteously. “O Diana, how can you say such a thing? What would be Mr. Sheldon’s feelings if I were to stand up against him, and declare that Charlotte should not be moved? And he so anxious too, and so clever. I’m sure his conduct about my poor dear Lotta is positively beautiful. I never saw such anxiety. Why, he has grown ten years older in his looks since the beginning of her illness. People go on about stepfather this, and stepfather that, until a poor young widow is almost frightened to marry again. But I don’t believe a real father ever was more thoughtful or more careful about a real daughter than Philip has been about Lotta. And what a poor return it would be if I were to oppose him now, when he says that the removal will be for Charlotte’s good, and that she will be near clever doctors — if she should require clever doctors! You don’t know how experienced he is, and how thoughtful. I shall never forget his kindness to poor Tom.”

  “Yes,” exclaimed Miss Paget impatiently, “but Mr. Halliday died.”

  “O Diana,” whimpered Georgy, “I did not think you could be so unkind as to remind me of that.”

  “I only want to remind you that Mr. Sheldon is not infallible.”

  Mr. Sheldon entered the room at this juncture, and Diana left it, passionately indignant against the poor weak creature, to whom no crisis, no danger, could give strength of mind or will.

  “A sheep would make some struggle for her lamb,” she thought, angrily.

  “Mrs. Sheldon is lower than a sheep.”

  It was the first time she had thought unkindly of this weak soul, and her anger soon melted to pity for the powerless nature which Mr. Sheldon held in such supreme control. She made no further attempt at resistance after this; but went to Charlotte’s room and prepared for the journey.

  “O, why am I to be moved, dear?” the girl asked piteously. “I am too ill to be moved.”

  “It is for your good, darling. Mr. Sheldon wants you to be near the great physicians, who can give you health and strength.”

  “There are no physicians who can do that. Let me stay here, Di. Beg papa to let me stay here.
”

  Diana hid her face upon the invalid’s shoulder. Her tears choked her. To repress her grief was agony scarcely endurable. But she did hide all trace of anger and sorrow, and cheered the helpless traveller throughout the weariness of the journey.

  * * * * *

  Charlotte was lying on a sofa in her bedroom, with Mrs. Woolper in attendance upon her, when Dr. Jedd arrived. It was a quarter to six, and the low western sunshine flooded the room.

  The physician came with Valentine, and did not ask to see Mr. Sheldon before going to his patient’s room. He told the housemaid who admitted him to show the way to Miss Halliday’s room.

  “The nurse is there, I suppose?” he said to the girl.

  “Yes, sir; leastways, Mrs. Woolper.”

  “That will do.”

  Mr. Sheldon heard the voice in the hall, and came out of the library as the doctor mounted the step of the stairs.

  “Who is this? What is this?” he asked of Valentine Hawkehurst.

  “I told you I was not satisfied with Dr. Doddleson’s opinion,” answered the young man coolly. “This gentleman is here by appointment with me.”

  “And pray by what right do you bring a doctor of your own choosing to visit my stepdaughter without previous consultation with me?”

  “By the right of my love for her. I am not satisfied as to the medical treatment your stepdaughter has received in this house, Mr. Sheldon, and I want to be satisfied. Miss Halliday is something more than your stepdaughter, remember: she is my promised wife. Dr. Jedd’s opinion will be more assuring to me than the opinion of Dr. Doddleson.”

  At the sound of Dr. Jedd’s name Mr. Sheldon started slightly. It was a name he knew only too well — a name he had seen among the medical witnesses in the great Fryar trial, the record of which had for him possessed a hideous fascination. He had fancied himself in the poisoner Fryar’s place; and the fancy had sent an icy chill through his veins. But in the next minute he had said to himself, “I am not such a reckless fool as that man Fryar was; and have run no such risks as he ran.”