Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  The young surgeon lived at the very extremity of the Maida Hill district, in a cottage, which was then almost in the country. It was a comfortable little residence; but Reginald Eversleigh looked at it with supreme contempt.

  “You can wait,” he said to the hackney coachman; “I shall be here in about half an hour.”

  The man drove away to refresh his horses at the nearest inn, and Reginald Eversleigh strode impatiently past the trim little servant-girl who opened the garden gate, and walked, unannounced, into the miniature hall.

  Everything in and about Victor Carrington’s abode was the perfection of neatness. The presence of poverty was visible, it is true; but poverty was made to wear its fairest shape. In the snug drawing-room to which Reginald Eversleigh was admitted all was bright and fresh. White muslin curtains shaded the French window; birds sang in gilded cages, of inexpensive quality, but elegant design; and tall glass vases of freshly cut flowers adorned tables and mantel-piece.

  Sir Oswald’s nephew looked contemptuously at this elegance of poverty.

  For him nothing but the splendour of wealth possessed any charm.

  The surgeon came to him while he stood musing thus.

  “Do you mind coming to my laboratory?” he asked, after shaking hands with his unexpected visitor. “I can see that you have something of importance to say to me, and we shall be safer from interruption there.”

  “I shouldn’t have come to this fag-end of Christendom if I hadn’t wanted very much to see you, you may depend upon it, Carrington,” answered Reginald, sulkily. “What on earth makes you live in such an out-of-the-way hole?”

  “I am a student, and an out-of-the-way hole — as you are good enough to call it — suits my habits. Besides, this house is cheap, and the rent suits my pocket.”

  “It looks like a doll’s house,” said Reginald, contemptuously.

  “My mother likes to surround herself with birds and flowers,” answered the surgeon; “and I like to indulge any fancy of my mother’s.”

  Victor Carrington’s countenance seemed to undergo a kind of transformation as he spoke of his mother. The bright glitter of his eyes softened; the hard lines of his iron mouth relaxed.

  The one tender sentiment of a dark and dangerous nature was this man’s affection for his widowed mother.

  He opened the door of an apartment at the back of the house, and entered, followed by Mr. Eversleigh.

  Reginald stared in wonder at the chamber in which he found himself. The room had once been a kitchen, and was much larger than any other room in the cottage. Here there was no attempt at either comfort or elegance. The bare, white-washed walls had no adornment but a deal shelf here and there, loaded with strange-looking phials and gallipots. Here all the elaborate paraphernalia of a chemist’s laboratory was visible. Here Reginald Eversleigh beheld stoves, retorts, alembics, distilling apparatus; all the strange machinery of that science which always seems dark and mysterious to the ignorant.

  The visitor looked about him in utter bewilderment.

  “Why, Victor,” he exclaimed, “your room looks like the laboratory of some alchymist of the Middle Ages — the sort of man people used to burn as a wizard.”

  “I am rather an enthusiastic student of my art,” answered the surgeon.

  The visitor’s eyes wandered round the room in amazement. Suddenly they alighted on some object on the table near the stove. Carrington perceived the glance, and, with a hasty movement, very unusual to him, dropped his handkerchief upon the object.

  The movement, rapid though it was, came too late, for Reginald Eversleigh had distinguished the nature of the object which the surgeon wished to conceal from him.

  It was a mask of metal, with glass eyes.

  “So you wear a mask when you are at work, eh, Carrington?” said Mr.

  Eversleigh. “That looks as if you dabble in poisons.”

  “Half the agents employed in chemistry are poisonous,” answered Victor, coolly.

  “I hope there is no danger in the atmosphere of this room just now?”

  “None whatever. Come, Reginald, I am sure you have bad news to tell me, or you would never have taken the trouble to come here.”

  “I have, and the worst news. My uncle has married this street ballad-singer.”

  “Good; then we must try to turn this marriage to account.”

  “How so?”

  “By making it the means of bringing about a reconciliation. You will write a letter of congratulation to Sir Oswald — a generous letter — in which you will speak of your penitence, your affection, the anguish you have endured during this bitter period of estrangement. You can venture to speak freely of these things now, you will say, for now that your honoured uncle has found new ties you can no longer be suspected of any mercenary motive. You can now approach him boldly, you will say, for you have henceforward nothing to hope from him except his forgiveness. Then you will wind up with an earnest prayer for his happiness. And if I am not very much out in my reckoning of human nature, that letter will bring about a reconciliation. Do you understand my tactics?”

  “I do. You are a wonderful fellow, Carrington.”

  “Don’t say that until the day when you are restored to your old position as your uncle’s heir. Then you may pay me any compliment you please.”

  “If ever that day arrives, you shall not find me ungrateful.”

  “I hope not; and now go back to town and write your letter. I want to see you invited to Raynham Castle to pay your respects to the bride.”

  “But why so?”

  “I want to know what the bride is like. Our future plans will depend much upon her.”

  Before leaving Lorrimore Cottage, Reginald Eversleigh was introduced to his friend’s mother, whom he had never before seen. She was very like her son. She had the same pale, sallow face, the same glittering black eyes. She was slim and tall, with a somewhat stately manner, and with little of the vivacity usual to her countrywomen.

  She looked at Mr. Eversleigh with a searching glance — a glance which was often repeated, as he stood for a few minutes talking to her. Nothing which interested her son was without interest for her; and she knew that this young man was his chief friend and companion.

  Reginald Eversleigh went back to town in much better spirits than when he had left the West-end that morning. He lost no time in writing the letter suggested by his friend, and, as he was gifted with considerable powers of persuasion, the letter was a good one.

  “I believe Carrington is right,” he thought, as he sealed it: “and this letter will bring about a reconciliation. It will reach my uncle at a time when he will be intoxicated with his new position as the husband of a young and lovely bride; and he will be inclined to think kindly of me, and of all the world. Yes — the letter is decidedly a fine stroke of diplomacy.”

  Reginald Eversleigh awaited a reply to his epistle with feverish impatience; but an impatience mingled with hope.

  His hopes did not deceive him. The reply came by return of post, and was even more favourable than his most sanguine expectations had led him to anticipate.

  “Dear Reginald,” wrote the baronet, “your generous and disinterested letter has touched me to the heart. Let the past be forgotten and forgiven. I do not doubt that you have suffered, as all men must suffer, from the evil deeds of their youth.

  “You were no doubt surprised to receive the tidings of my marriage. I have consulted my heart alone in the choice which I have made, and I venture to hope that choice will secure the happiness of my future existence. I am spending the first weeks of my married life amidst the lovely solitudes of North Wales. On the 24th of this month, Lady Eversleigh and I go to Raynham, where we shall be glad to see you immediately on our arrival. Come to us, my dear boy; come to me, as if this unhappy estrangement had never arisen, and we will discuss your future together. — Your affectionate uncle, OSWALD EVERSLEIGH.” “Royal Hotel, Bannerdoon, N. W.”

  Nothing could be more satisfactory than this epis
tle. Reginald Eversleigh and Victor Carrington dined together that evening, and the baronet’s letter was freely discussed between them.

  “The ground lies all clear before you now,” said the surgeon: “you will go to Raynham, make yourself as agreeable as possible to the bride, win your uncle’s heart by an appearance of extreme remorse for the past, and most complete disinterestedness for the future, and leave all the rest to me.”

  “But how the deuce can you help me at Raynham?”

  “Time alone can show. I have only one hint to give you at present. Don’t be surprised if you meet me unexpectedly amongst the Yorkshire hills and wolds, and take care to follow suit with whatever cards you see me playing. Whatever I do will be done in your interest, depend upon it. Mind, by the bye, if you do see me in the north, that I know nothing of your visit to Raynham. I shall be as much surprised to see you as you will be to see me.”

  “So be it; I will fall into your plans. As your first move has been so wonderfully successful, I shall be inclined to trust you implicitly in the future. I suppose you will want to be paid rather stiffly by and bye, if you do succeed in getting me any portion of Sir Oswald’s fortune?”

  “Well, I shall ask for some reward, no doubt. I am a poor man, you know, and do not pretend to be disinterested or generous. However, we will discuss that question when we meet at Raynham.”

  * * * * *

  On the 28th of July, Reginald Eversleigh presented himself at Raynham Castle. He had thought never more to set foot upon that broad terrace, never more to pass beneath the shadow of that grand old archway; and a sense of triumph thrilled through his veins as he stood once again on the familiar threshold.

  And yet his position in life was terribly changed since he had last stood there. He was no longer the acknowledged heir to whom all dependents paid deferential homage. He fancied that the old servants looked at him coldly, and that their greeting was the chilling welcome which is accorded to a poor relation. He had never done much to win affection or gratitude in the days of his prosperity. It may be that he remembered this now, and regretted it, not from any kindly impulse towards these people, but from a selfish annoyance at the chilling reception accorded him.

  “If ever I win back what I have lost, these pampered parasites shall suffer for their insolence,” thought the young man, as he walked across the broad Gothic hall of the castle, escorted by the grave old butler.

  But he had not much leisure to think about his uncle’s servants. Another and far more important person occupied his mind, and that person was his uncle’s bride.

  “Lady Eversleigh is at home?” he asked, while crossing the hall.

  “Yes, sir; her ladyship is in the long drawing-room.”

  The butler opened a ponderous oaken door, and ushered Reginald into one of the finest apartments in the castle.

  In the centre of this room, by the side of a grand piano, from which she had just risen, stood the new mistress of the castle. She was simply dressed in pale gray silk, relieved only by a scarlet ribbon twisted in the masses of her raven hair. Her beauty had the same effect upon Reginald Eversleigh which it exercised on almost all who looked at her for the first time. He was dazzled, bewildered, by the singular loveliness.

  “And this divinity — this goddess of grace and beauty, is my uncle’s wife,” he thought; “this is the street ballad-singer whom he picked up out of the gutter.”

  For some moments the elegant and accomplished Reginald Eversleigh stood abashed before the calm presence of the nameless girl his uncle had married.

  Sir Oswald welcomed his nephew with perfect cordiality. He was happy, and in the hour of his happiness he could cherish no unkind feeling towards the adopted son who had once been so dear to him. But while ready to open his arms to the repentant prodigal, his intentions with regard to the disposition of his wealth had undergone no change. He had arrived, calmly and deliberately, at a certain resolve, and he intended to adhere to that decision.

  The baronet told his nephew this frankly in the first confidential conversation which they had after the young man’s arrival at Raynham.

  “You may think me harsh and severe,” he said, gravely; “but the resolution which I announced to you in Arlington Street cost me much thought and care. I believe that I have acted for the best. I think that my over-indulgence was the bane of your youth, Reginald, and that you would have been a better man had you been more roughly reared. Since you have left the army, I have heard no more of your follies; and I trust that you have at last struck out a better path for yourself, and separated yourself from all dangerous associates. But you must choose a new profession. You must not live an idle life on the small income which you receive from me. I only intended that annuity as a safeguard against poverty, not as a sufficient means of life. You must select a new career, Reginald; and whatever it may be, I will give you some help to smooth your pathway. Your first cousin, Douglas Dale, is studying for the law — would not that profession suit you?”

  “I am in your hands, sir, and am ready to obey you in everything.”

  “Well, think over what I have said; and if you choose to enter yourself as a student in the Temple, I will assist you with all necessary funds.”

  “My dear uncle, you are too good.”

  “I wish to serve you as far as I can with justice to others. And now, Reginald, we will speak no more of the past. What do you think of my wife?”

  “She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.”

  “And she is as good and true as she is beautiful — a pearl of price,

  Reginald. I thank Providence for giving me so great a treasure.”

  “And this treasure will be possessor of Raynham Castle, I suppose,” thought the young man, savagely.

  Sir Oswald spoke presently, almost as if in answer to his nephew’s thoughts.

  “As I have been thoroughly candid with you, Reginald,” he said, “I may as well tell you even more. I am at an age which some call the prime of life, and I feel all my old vigour. But death sometimes comes suddenly to men whose life seems as full of promise as mine seems to me now. I wish that when I die there may be no possible disappointment as to the disposal of my fortune. Other men make a mystery of the contents of their wills. I wish the terms of my will to be known by all interested in it.”

  “I have no desire to be enlightened, sir,” murmured Reginald, who felt that his uncle’s words boded no good to himself.

  “My will has been made since my marriage,” continued Sir Oswald, without noticing his nephew’s interruption; “any previous will would, indeed, have been invalidated by that event Two-thirds — more than two-thirds — of my property has been left to my wife, who will be a very rich woman when I am dead and gone. Should she have a son, the landed estates will, of course, go to him; but in any case, Lady Eversleigh will be mistress of a large fortune. I leave five thousand a year to each of my nephews. As for you, Reginald, you will, perhaps, consider yourself bitterly wronged; but you must, in justice, remember that you have been your own enemy. The annuity of two hundred a year which you now possess will, after my death, become an income of five hundred a year, derived from a small estate called Morton Grange, in Lincolnshire. You have nothing more than a modest competency to hope for, therefore; and it rests with yourself to win wealth and distinction by the exercise of your own talents.”

  The pallor of Reginald Eversleigh’s face alone revealed the passion which consumed him as he received these most unwelcome statements from his uncle’s lips. Fortunately for the young man, Sir Oswald did not observe his countenance, for at this moment Lady Eversleigh appeared on the terrace-walk outside the open window of her husband’s study, and he hurried to her.

  “What are to be our plans for this afternoon, darling?” he asked. “I have transacted all my business, and am quite at your service for the rest of the day.”

  “Very well, then, you cannot please me better than by showing me some more of the beauties of your native county.”

&nbs
p; “You make that proposition because you know it pleases me, artful puss; but I obey. Shall we ride or drive? Perhaps, as the afternoon is hot, we had better take the barouche,” continued Sir Oswald, while Honoria hesitated. “Come to luncheon. I will give all necessary orders.”

  They went to the dining-room, whither Reginald accompanied them. Already he had contrived to banish the traces of emotion from his countenance: but his uncle’s words were still ringing in his ears.

  Five hundred a year! — he was to receive a pitiful five hundred a year; whilst his cousins — struggling men of the world, unaccustomed to luxury and splendour — were each to have an income of five thousand. And this woman — this base, unknown, friendless creature, who had nothing but her diabolical beauty to recommend her — was to have a splendid fortune!

  These were the thoughts which tormented Reginald Eversleigh as he took his place at the luncheon-table. He had been now a fortnight at Raynham Castle, and had become, to all outward appearance, perfectly at his ease with the fair young mistress of the mansion. There are some women who seem fitted to occupy any station, however lofty. They need no teaching; they are in no way bewildered by the novelty of wealth or splendour; they make no errors. They possess an instinctive tact, which all the teaching possible cannot always impart to others. They glide naturally into their position; and, looking on them in their calm dignity, their unstudied grace, it is difficult to believe they have not been born in the purple.

  Such a woman was Honoria, Lady Eversleigh. The novelty of her position gave her no embarrassment; the splendour around her charmed and delighted her sense of the beautiful, but it caused her no bewilderment; it did not dazzle her unaccustomed eyes. She received her husband’s nephew with the friendly, yet dignified, bearing which it was fitting Sir Oswald’s wife should display towards his kinsman; and the scrutinizing eyes of the young man sought in vain to detect some secret hidden beneath that placid and patrician exterior.