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 wand
erer, 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.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 424
