Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  From a chance meeting in a public billiard-room, an intimacy arose between Victor Carrington and Reginald Eversleigh, which speedily ripened into friendship. The weaker nature was glad to find a stronger on which to lean. Reginald Eversleigh invited his new friend to his rooms — to champagne breakfasts, to suppers of broiled bones, eaten long after midnight: to card-parties, at which large sums of money were lost and won; but the losers were never Victor Carrington or Reginald Eversleigh, and there were men who said that Eversleigh was a more dangerous opponent at loo and whist since he had picked up that fellow Carrington.

  “I always feel afraid of Eversleigh, when that sallow-faced surgeon is his partner at whist, or hangs about his chair at écarté,” said one of the officers in Reginald Eversleigh’s regiment. “It’s my opinion that black-eyed Frenchman is Mephistopheles in person. I never saw a countenance that so fully realized my idea of the devil.”

  People laughed at the dragoon’s notion: but there were few of Mr. Eversleigh’s guests who liked his new acquaintance, and there were some who kept altogether aloof from the young cornet’s rooms, after two or three evenings spent in the society of Mr. Carrington.

  “The fellow is too clever,” said one of Eversleigh’s brother-officers; “these very clever men are almost invariably scoundrels. I respect a man who is great in one thing — a great surgeon, a great lawyer, a great soldier — but your fellow who knows everything better than anybody else is always a villain.”

  Victor Carrington was the only person to whom Reginald Eversleigh told the real story of his breach with his uncle. He trusted Victor: not because he cared to confide in him — for the story was too humiliating to be told without pain — but because he wanted counsel from a stronger mind than his own.

  “It’s rather a hard thing to drop from the chance of forty thousand a year to a pension of a couple of hundred, isn’t it, Carrington?” said Reginald, as the two young men dined together in the cornet’s quarters, a fortnight after the scene in Arlington Street. “It’s rather hard, isn’t it, Carrington?”

  “Yes, it would be rather hard, if such a contingency were possible,” replied the surgeon, coolly; “but we don’t mean to drop from forty thousand to two hundred. The generous old uncle may choose to draw his purse-strings, and cast us off to ‘beggarly divorcement,’ as Desdemona remarks; but we don’t mean to let him have his own way. We must take things quietly, and manage matters with a little tact. You want my advice, I suppose, my dear Reginald?”

  “I do.”

  The surgeon almost always addressed his friends by their Christian names, more especially when those friends were of higher standing than himself. There was a depth of pride, which few understood, lurking beneath his quiet and unobtrusive manner; and he had a way of his own by which he let people know that he considered himself in every respect their equal, and in some respects their superior.

  “You want my advice. Very well, then, my advice is that you play the penitent prodigal. It is not a difficult part to perform, if you take care what you’re about. Sir Oswald has advised you to exchange into the line. Instead of doing that, you will sell out altogether. It will look like a stroke of prudence, and will leave you free to play your cards cleverly, and keep your eye upon this dear uncle.”

  “Sell out!” exclaimed Reginald. “Leave the army! I have sworn never to do that.”

  “But you will find yourself obliged to do it, nevertheless. Your regiment is too expensive for a man who has only a pitiful two hundred a year beyond his pay. Your mail-phaeton would cost the whole of your income; your tailor’s bill can hardly be covered by another two hundred; and then, where are you to get your gloves, your hot-house flowers, your wines, your cigars? You can’t go on upon credit for ever; tradesmen have such a tiresome habit of wanting money, if it’s only a hundred or so now and then on account. The Jews are beginning to be suspicious of your paper. The news of your quarrel with Sir Oswald is pretty sure to get about somehow or other, and then where are you? Cards and billiards are all very well in their way; but you can’t live by them, without turning a regular black-leg, and as a black-leg you would have no chance of the Raynham estates. No, my dear Reginald, retrenchment is the word. You must sell out, keep yourself very quiet, and watch your uncle.”

  “What do you mean by watching him?” asked Mr. Eversleigh, peevishly.

  His friend’s advice was by no means palatable to him. He sat in a moody attitude, with his elbows on his knees, and his head bent forward, staring at the fire. His wine stood untasted on the table by his side.

  “I mean that you must keep your eye upon him, in order to see that he don’t play you a trick,” answered the surgeon, at his own leisure.

  “What trick should he play me?”

  “Well, you see, when a man quarrels with his heir, he is apt to turn desperate. Sir Oswald might marry.”

  “Marry! at fifty years of age?”

  “Yes. Men of fifty have been known to fall as desperately in love as any of your heroes of two or three and twenty. Sir Oswald would be a splendid match, and depend upon it, there are plenty of beautiful and high-born women who would be glad to call themselves Lady Eversleigh. Take my advice, Reginald, dear boy, and keep your eye on the baronet.”

  “But he has turned me out of his house. He has severed every link between us.”

  “Then it must be our business to establish a secret chain of communication with his household,” answered Victor. “He has some confidential servant, I suppose?”

  “Yes; he has a valet, called Millard, whom he trusts as far as he trusts any dependent; but he is not a man who talks to his servants.”

  “Perhaps not; but servants have a way of their own of getting at information, and depend upon it, Mr. Millard knows more of your uncle’s business than Sir Oswald would wish him to know. We must get hold of this faithful Millard.”

  “But he is a very faithful fellow — honesty itself — the pink of fidelity.”

  “Humph!” muttered the young surgeon; “did you ever try the effect of a bribe on this pink of fidelity?”

  “Never.”

  “Then you know nothing about him. Remember what Sir Robert Walpole said, ‘Every man has his price.’ We must find out the price of Mr. Millard.”

  “You are a wonderful fellow, Carrington.”

  “You think so? Bah, I keep my eyes open, that’s all; other men go through the world with their eyes half-shut. I graduated in a good school, and I may, perhaps, have been a tolerably apt pupil?”

  “What school?”

  “The school of poverty. That’s the sort of education that sharpens a man’s intellect. My father was a reprobate and a gamester, and I knew at an early age that I had nothing to hope for from him. I have had my own way to carve in life, and if I have as yet made small progress, I have fought against terrible odds.”

  “I wonder you don’t set up in a professional career,” said Mr.

  Eversleigh; “you have finished your education; obtained your degree.

  What are you waiting for?”

  “I am waiting for my chances,” answered Victor; “I don’t care to begin the jog-trot career in which other men toil for twenty years or so, before they attain anything like prosperity. I have studied as few men of five-and-twenty have studied, — chemistry as well as surgery. I can afford to wait my chances. I pick up a few pounds a week by writing for the medical journals, and with that resource and occasional luck with cards, I can very easily support the simple home in which my mother and I live. In the meantime, I am free, and believe me, my dear Reginald, there is nothing so precious as freedom.”

  “And you will not desert me now that I am down in the world, eh, old fellow?”

  “No, Reginald, I will never desert you while you have the chance of succeeding to forty thousand a year,” answered the surgeon, with a laugh.

  His small black eyes flashed and sparkled as he laughed. Reginald looked at him with a sensation that was almost fear.

  “What a f
ellow you are, Carrington!” he exclaimed; “you don’t pretend even to have a heart.”

  “A heart is a luxury which a poor man must dispense with,” answered Victor, with perfect sang froid. “I should as soon think of setting up a mail-phaeton and pair as of pretending to benevolent feelings or high-flown sentiments. I have my way to make in the world, Mr. Eversleigh, and must consider my own interests as well as those of my friends. You see, I am no hypocrite. You needn’t be alarmed, dear boy. I’ll help you, and you shall help me; and it shall go hard if you are not restored to your uncle’s favour before the year is out. But you must be patient. Our work will be slow, for we shall have to work underground. If Sir Oswald is still in Arlington Street, I shall make it my business to see Mr. Millard to-morrow.”

  * * * * *

  Sir Oswald Eversleigh had not left Arlington Street, and at dusk on the following evening Mr. Carrington presented himself at the door of the baronet’s mansion, and asked to see Mr. Millard, the valet.

  Victor Carrington had never seen his friend’s kinsman; he was, therefore, secure against all chances of recognition. He had chosen the baronet’s dinner-hour as the time for his call, knowing that during that hour the valet must be disengaged. He sent his card to Mr. Millard, with a line written in pencil to request an interview on urgent business.

  Millard came to the hall at once to see his visitor, and ushered Mr. Carrington into a small room that was used occasionally by the upper servants.

  The surgeon was skilled in every science by which a man may purchase the hearts and minds of his fellow-men. He could read Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s valet as he could have read an open book He saw that the man was weak, irresolute, tolerably honest, but open to temptation. He was a middle-aged man, with sandy hair, a pale face, and light, greenish-gray eyes.

  “Weak,” thought the surgeon, as he examined this man’s countenance, “greedy, and avaricious. So, so; we can do what we like with Mr. Millard.”

  Victor Carrington told the valet that he was the most intimate friend of Reginald Eversleigh, and that he made this visit entirely without that gentleman’s knowledge. He dwelt much upon Mr. Eversleigh’s grief — his despair.

  “But he is very proud,” he added; “too proud to approach this house, either directly or indirectly. The shock caused by his uncle’s unexpected abandonment of him has completely prostrated him. I am a member of the medical profession, Mr. Millard, and I assure you that during the past fortnight I have almost feared for my friend’s reason. I therefore determined upon a desperate step — a step which Reginald Eversleigh would never forgive, were he to become aware of it. I determined upon coming to this house, and ascertaining, if possible, the nature of Sir Oswald’s feelings towards his nephew. Is there any hope of a reconciliation?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “That’s a bad thing,” said Victor, gravely; “a very bad thing. A vast estate is at stake. It would be a bad thing for every one if that estate were to pass into strange hands — a very bad thing for old servants, for with strangers all old links are broken. It would be a still worse thing for every one if Sir Oswald should take it into his head to marry.”

  The valet looked very grave.

  “If you had said such a thing to me a fortnight ago, I should have told you it was impossible,” he said; “but now — .”

  “Now, what do you say?”

  “Well, sir, you’re a gentleman, and, of course, you can keep a secret; so I’ll tell you candidly that nothing my master could do would surprise me after what I’ve seen within the last fortnight.”

  This was quite enough for Victor Carrington, who did not leave Arlington Street until he had extorted from the valet the entire history of the baronet’s adoption of the ballad-singer.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER VI.

  AULD ROBIN GRAY.

  A year and some months had passed, and the midsummer sunlight shone upon the woods around Raynham Castle.

  It was a grand pile of buildings, blackened by the darkening hand of time. At one end Norman towers loomed, round and grim; at another extremity the light tracery of a Gothic era was visible in window and archway, turret and tower. The centre had been rebuilt in the reign of Henry VIII, and a long range of noble Tudor windows looked out upon the broad terrace, beyond which there was a garden, or pleasaunce, sloping down to the park. In the centre of this long façade there was an archway, opening into a stone quadrangle, where a fountain played perpetually in a marble basin. This was Raynham Castle, and all the woods and pastures as far as the eye could reach, and far beyond the reach of any human eye, belonged to the castle estate. This was the fair domain of which Reginald Eversleigh had been for years the acknowledged heir, and which his own folly and dishonour had forfeited.

  Now all was changed. There was not a peasant in Raynham village who had not as much right to enter the castle, and as good a chance of a welcome, as he who had once been acknowledged heir to that proud domain. It was scarcely strange if Reginald Eversleigh felt this bitter change very keenly.

  He had placed himself entirely in the hands of his friend and adviser, Victor Carrington. He had sold out of the cavalry regiment, and had taken up his abode in a modest lodging, situated in a small street at the West-end of London. Here he had tried to live quietly, according to his friend’s advice; but he was too much the slave of his own follies and vices to endure a quiet existence.

  The sale of his commission made him rich for the time being, and, so long as his money lasted, he pursued the old course, betting, playing billiards, haunting all the aristocratic temples of folly and dissipation; but, at the worst, conducting himself with greater caution than he had done of old, and always allowing himself to be held somewhat in check by his prudent ally and counsellor.

  “Enjoy yourself as much as you please, my dear Reginald,” said Victor Carrington; “but take care that your little follies don’t reach the ears of your uncle. Remember, I count upon your being reconciled to him before the year is out.”

  “That will never be,” answered Mr. Eversleigh, with a tone of sullen despair. “I am utterly ruined, Carrington. It’s no use trying to shirk the truth. I am a doomed wretch, a beggar for life, and the sooner I throw myself over one of the bridges, and make an end of my miserable existence, the better. According to Millard’s account my uncle’s infatuation for that singing-girl grows stronger and stronger. Not a week now passes without his visiting the school where the young adventuress is finishing her education. As sure as fate, it will end by his marrying her and the street ballad-singer will be my Lady Eversleigh.”

  “And when she is my Lady Eversleigh, it must be our business to step between her and the Eversleigh estates,” answered Victor, quietly. “I told you that your uncle’s marriage would be an unlucky thing for you; but I never told you that it would put an end to your chances. I think, from what Millard tells us, there is very little doubt Sir Oswald will make a fool of himself by marrying this girl. If he does, we must set our wits to work to prevent his leaving her his fortune. She is utterly friendless and obscure, so he is not likely to make any settlement upon her. And for the rest, a man of fifty who marries a girl of nineteen is very apt to repent of his folly. It must be our business to make your uncle repent very soon after he has taken the fatal step.”

  “I don’t understand you, Carrington.”

  “My dear Eversleigh, you very seldom do understand me,” answered the surgeon, in that half-contemptuous tone in which he was apt to address his friend; “but that is not of the smallest consequence. Only do what I tell you, and leave the rest to me. You shall be lord of Raynham Castle yet, if my wits are good for anything.”

  * * * * *

  A year had elapsed, which had been passed by Sir Oswald between Raynham Castle and Arlington Street, and during which he had paid more visits than he could count to “The Beeches.”

  On the occasion of these visits, he only saw his protégée for about a quarter of an hour, while the stately Miss Beau
mont looked on, smiling a dignified smile upon her pupil and the liberal patron who paid so handsomely for that pupil’s education. She had always a good account to give of Sir Oswald’s protégée — there never was so much talent united to so much industry, according to Miss Beaumont’s report. Sometimes Sir Oswald begged to hear Miss Milford sing, and Honoria seated herself at the piano, over whose notes her white fingers seemed to have already acquired perfect command.

  The rich and clear soprano voice had attained new power since Sir Oswald had heard it in the moonlit market-place; the execution of the singer improved day by day. The Italian singing-master spoke in raptures of his pupil — never was there a finer organ or more talent. Miss Milford could not fail to create a profound impression when her musical education should be completed, and she should appear before the public.

  But as the year drew to its close, Sir Oswald Eversleigh talked less and less of that public career for which he had destined his protégée. He no longer reminded her that on her own industry depended her future fortune. He no longer spoke in glowing terms of that brilliant pathway which lay before her. His manner was entirely changed, and he was grave and silent whenever any allusion was made by Miss Beaumont or Honoria to the future use which was to be made of that superb voice and exceptional genius.

  The schoolmistress remarked upon this alteration one day, when talking to her pupil.

  “Do you know, my dear Miss Milford, I am really inclined to believe that Sir Oswald Eversleigh has changed his mind with regard to your future career, and that he does not intend you to be an opera-singer.”

  “Surely, dear Miss Beaumont, that is impossible,” answered Honoria, quietly; “my education is costing my kind bene — relative a great deal of money, which would be wasted if I were not to make music my profession. Besides, what else have I to look to in the future? Remember, Sir Oswald has always told you that I have my own fortune to achieve. I have no claim on any one, and it is to his generosity alone I owe my present position.”