Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “Do you suppose I should be ungrateful?”

  “Of course not. But, you see, I don’t ask for your gratitude — I want a good round sum down on the nail — hard cash. Your uncle’s fortune, if you get two-thirds of it, will be worth thirty thousand a year; and for such a fortune you can very well afford to pay me twenty thousand in ready money within two years of your accession to the inheritance.”

  “Twenty thousand!”

  “Yes; if you think the sum too much, we will say no more about it. The business is a very difficult one, and I scarcely care to engage in it.”

  “My dear Victor, you bewilder me. I cannot bring myself to believe that you can bring about my restoration to my old place in my uncle’s will; but if you do, the twenty thousand shall be yours.”

  “Good!” answered the surgeon, in his coolest and most business-like manner; “I must have it in black and white. You will give me two promissory notes; one for ten thousand, to fall due a year hence — the other for the same sum, to fall due in two years.”

  “But if I do not get the fortune — and I am not likely to get it within that time; my uncle’s life is a good one, and—”

  “Never mind your uncle’s life. I will give you an undertaking to cancel those notes of hand if you have not succeeded to the Raynham estates. And now here are stamps. You may as well fill in the body of the notes, and sign them at once, and so close the transaction.”

  “You are prepared with the stamps?”

  “Yes; I am a man of business, although a man of science.”

  “Victor,” said Reginald Eversleigh; “you sometimes make me shudder,

  There is something almost diabolical about you.”

  “But if I drag yonder fair lady down from her high, estate, you would scarcely care if I were the foul fiend in person,” said Carrington, looking at his friend with a sardonic smile. “Oh, I think I know you, Reginald Eversleigh, better than you know me.”

  * * * * *

  Amongst the guests who had arrived at the castle within the last few days was Lydia Graham, the young lady of whom the baronet had spoken to his nephew. She was a fascinating girl, with a bold, handsome face, brilliant gray eyes, an aquiline nose, and a profusion of dark, waving hair. She was a woman who knew how to make the most of every charm with which nature had endowed her. She dressed superbly; but with an extravagance far beyond the limits of her means. She was, for this reason, deeply in debt, and her only chance of extrication from her difficulties lay in a brilliant marriage.

  For nearly nine years she had been trying to make this brilliant marriage. She had “come out,” as the phrase goes, at seventeen, and she was now nine-and-twenty.

  During that period she had been wooed and flattered by troops of admirers. She had revelled in flirtations; she had triumphed in the power of her beauty; but she had known more than one disappointment of her fairest hopes, and she had not won the prize in the great lottery of fashionable life — a wealthy and patrician husband.

  Her nine-and-twentieth birthday had passed; and contemplating herself earnestly in her glass, she was fain to confess that something of the brilliancy of her beauty had faded.

  “I am getting wan and sallow,” she said to herself; “what is to become of me if I do not marry?”

  The prospect was indeed a sorry one.

  Lydia Graham possessed an income of two hundred a year, inherited from her mother: but such an income was the merest pittance for a young lady with Miss Graham’s tastes. Her brother was a captain of an expensive regiment, selfish and extravagant, and by no means inclined to open his purse for his sister’s benefit.

  She had no home; but lived sometimes with one wealthy relation, sometimes with another — always admired, always elegantly dressed; but not always happy.

  Amidst all Miss Graham’s matrimonial disappointments, she had endured none more bitter than that which she had felt when she read the announcement of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s marriage in the “Times” newspaper.

  She had met the rich baronet very frequently in society. She had visited at Raynham with her brother. Sir Oswald had, to all appearance, admired her beauty and accomplishments; and she had imagined that time and opportunity alone were wanting to transform that admiration into a warmer feeling. In plain words, Lydia Graham had hoped with a little good management, to become Lady Eversleigh of Raynham; and no words can fully describe her mortification when she learnt that the baronet had bestowed his name and fortune on a woman of whom the fashionable world knew nothing, except that she was utterly unknown.

  Lydia Graham came to Raynham Castle with poisonous feelings rankling in her heart, but she wore her brightest smiles as well as her most elegant dresses. She congratulated the baronet in honeyed words, and offered warmest friendship to the lovely mistress of the mansion.

  “I am sure we shall suit each other delightfully, dear Lady Eversleigh,” she said; “and we shall be fast friends henceforward-shall we not?”

  Honoria’s disposition was naturally reserved. She revolted against frivolous and unmeaning sentimentality. She responded politely to Miss Graham’s proffers of friendship; but not with corresponding warmth.

  Lydia Graham perceived the coldness of her manner, and bitterly resented it. She felt that she had reason to hate this woman, who had caused the disappointment of her dearest hopes, whose beauty was infinitely superior to her own; and who was several years younger than herself.

  There was one person at Raynham whose scrutinizing eyes perceived the animosity of feeling lurking beneath Lydia Graham’s smooth manner. That penetrating observer was Victor Carrington. He saw that the fashionable beauty hated Lady Eversleigh, and he resolved to make use of her hatred for the furtherance of his schemes.

  “I fancy Miss Graham has at some time of her life cherished an idea that she might become mistress of this place, eh, Reginald?” he said one morning, as the two men lounged together on the terrace.

  “How did you know that?” said Reginald, questioning and replying at once.

  “By no diabolical power of divination, I assure you, my dear Reginald. I have only used my eyes. But it seems, from your exclamation, that I am right. Miss Graham did once hope to become Lady Eversleigh.”

  “Well, I believe she tried her uttermost to win my uncle for a husband. I have watched her manoeuvres — when she was here two years ago; but they did not give me much uneasiness, for I thought Sir Oswald was a confirmed bachelor. She used to vary her amusements by flirting with me. I was the acknowledged heir in those days, you know, and I have no doubt she would have married me if I had given her the opportunity. But she is too clever a woman for my taste; and with all her brilliancy, I never admired her.”

  “You are wise, for once in the way, my dear Reginald. Miss Graham is a dangerous woman. She has a very beautiful smile; but she is the sort of woman who can smile and murder while she smiles. But she may be made a very useful tool, notwithstanding.”

  “A tool?”

  “Yes; a good workman takes his tools wherever he finds them. I may be in want of just such a tool as Lydia Graham.”

  All went merry as a marriage-bell at Raynham Castle during the bright August weather. The baronet was unspeakably happy. Honoria, too, was happy in the novelty of her position; happy in the knowledge of her husband’s love. His noble nature had won the reward such natures should win. He was beloved by his young wife as few men are beloved in the heyday of their youth. Her affection was reverential, profound, and pure. To her mind, Oswald Eversleigh was the perfection of all that is noble in mankind, and she was proud of his devotion, grateful of his love.

  No guest at the castle was more popular than Victor Carrington, the surgeon. His accomplishments were of so varied a nature as to make him invaluable in a large party, and he was always ready to devote himself to the amusement of others. Sir Oswald was astonished at the versatility of his nephew’s friend. As a linguist, an artist, a musician, Victor alike shone pre-eminent; but in music he was triumphant. Professing on
ly to be an amateur, he exhibited a scientific knowledge, a mechanical proficiency, as rare as they were admirable.

  “A poor man is obliged to study many arts,” he said, carelessly, when Sir Oswald complimented him on his musical powers. “My life has been one of laborious industry; and the cultivation of music has been almost the only relaxation I have allowed myself. I am not, like Lady Eversleigh, a musical genius. I only pretend to be a patient student of the great masters.”

  The baronet was delighted with the musical talents of his guest because they assisted much in the display of Lady Eversleigh’s exceptional power. Victor Carrington’s brilliant playing set off the magnificent singing of Honoria. With him as her accompanyist, she sang as she could not sing without his aid. Every evening there was an impromptu concert in the long drawing-room; every evening Lady Eversleigh sang to Victor Carrington’s accompaniment.

  One evening, in the summer dusk, when she had been singing even more superbly than usual, Lydia Graham happened to be seated near Sir Oswald, in one of the broad open windows.

  “Lady Eversleigh is indeed a genius,” said Miss Graham, at the close of a superb bravura; “but how delightful for her to have that accomplished Mr. Carrington to accompany her — though some people prefer to play their own accompaniments. I do, for instance; but when one has a relative who plays so well, it is, of course, a different thing.”

  “A relative! I don’t understand you, my dear Miss Graham.”

  “I mean that it is very nice for Lady Eversleigh to have a cousin who is so accomplished a musician.”

  “A cousin?”

  “Yes. Mr. Carrington is Lady Eversleigh’s cousin — is he not? Or, I beg your pardon, perhaps he is her brother. I don’t know your wife’s maiden name.”

  “My wife’s maiden name was Milford,” answered the baronet, with some displeasure in his tone. “And Mr. Carrington is neither her brother nor her cousin; he is no relation whatever to her.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Graham.

  There was a strange significance in that word “indeed”; and after having uttered it, the young lady seemed seized with a sudden sense of embarrassment.

  Sir Oswald looked at her sharply; but her face was half averted from him, as if she had turned away in confusion. “You seem surprised,” he said, haughtily, “and yet I do not see anything surprising in the fact that my wife and Mr. Carrington are not related to each other.”

  “Oh, dear no, Sir Oswald; of course not,” replied Lydia, with a light laugh, which had the artificial sound of a laugh intended to disguise some painful embarrassment. “Of course not. It was very absurd of me to appear surprised, if I did really appear so; but I was not aware of it. You see, it was scarcely strange if I thought Lady Eversleigh and Mr. Carrington were nearly related; for, when people are very old friends, they seem like relations: it is only in name that there is any difference.”

  “You seemed determined to make mistakes this evening, Miss Graham,” answered the baronet, with icy sternness. “Lady Eversleigh and Mr. Carrington are by no means old friends. Neither my wife nor I have known the gentleman more than a fortnight. He happens to be a very accomplished musician, and is good enough to make himself useful in accompanying Lady Eversleigh when she sings. That is the only claim which he has on her friendship; and it is one of only a few days’ standing.”

  “Indeed!” said Miss Graham, repeating the exclamation which had sounded so disagreeable to Sir Oswald. “I certainly should have mistaken them for old friends; but then dear Lady Eversleigh is of Italian extraction, and there is always a warmth of manner, an absence of reserve, in the southern temperament which is foreign to our colder natures.”

  Lady Eversleigh rose from her seat just at this moment, in compliance with the entreaties of the circle about her.

  She approached the grand piano, where Victor Carrington was still sitting, turning over the leaves of some music, and at the same moment Sir Oswald rose also, and hurried towards her.

  “Do not sing any more to-night, Honoria,” he said; “you will fatigue yourself.”

  There was some lack of politeness in this speech, as Lady Eversleigh was about to sing in compliance with the entreaties of her guests. She turned to her husband with a smile —

  “I am not in the least tired, my dear Oswald,” she said; “and if our friends really wish for another song, I am quite ready to sing one. That is to say, if Mr. Carrington is not tired of accompanying me.”

  Victor Carrington declared that nothing gave him greater pleasure than to play Lady Eversleigh’s accompaniments.

  “Mr. Carrington is very good,” answered the baronet, coldly, “but I do not wish you to tire yourself by singing all the evening; and I beg that you will not sing again to-night, Honoria.”

  Never before had the baronet addressed his wife with such cold decision of manner. There was something almost severe in his tone, and Honoria looked at him with wondering eyes.

  “I have no greater pleasure than in obeying you,” she said, gently, as she withdrew from the piano.

  She seated herself by one of the tables, and opened a portfolio of sketches. Her head drooped over the book, and she seemed absorbed in the contemplation of the drawings. Glancing at her furtively, Sir Oswald could see that she was wounded; and yet he — the adoring husband, the devoted lover — did not approach her. His mind was disturbed — his thoughts confused. He passed through one of the open windows, and went out upon the terrace. There all was calm and tranquil; but the tranquil loveliness of the scene had no soothing influence on Sir Oswald. His brain was on fire. An intense affection can scarcely exist without a lurking tendency to jealousy. Until to-night every jealous feeling had been lulled to rest by the confiding trust of the happy husband; but to-night a few words — spoken in apparent carelessness — spoken by one who could have, as Sir Oswald thought, no motive for malice — had aroused the sleeping passion, and peace had fled from his heart.

  As Sir Oswald passed the window by which he had left Lydia Graham, he heard that young lady talking to some one.

  “It is positively disgraceful,” she said; “her flirtation with that Mr. Carrington is really too obvious, though Sir Oswald is so blind as not to perceive it. I thought they were cousins until to-night. Imagine my surprise when I found that they were not even distantly related; that they have actually only known each other for a fortnight. The woman must be a shameless flirt, and the man is evidently an adventurer.”

  The poisoned arrow shot to its mark. Sir Oswald believed that these words had never been intended to reach his ears. He did not for a moment suspect that Lydia Graham had recognized his approaching figure on the moonlit terrace, and had uttered these words to her friend on purpose that they should reach his ears.

  How should a true-hearted man suspect a woman’s malice? How should he fathom the black depths of wickedness to which a really false and heartless woman can descend?

  He did not know that Lydia Graham had ever hoped to be mistress of his home. He did not know that she was inspired by fury against himself — by passionate envy of his wife. To him her words seemed only the careless slander of society, and experience had shown him that in such slanders there lurked generally some leaven of truth.

  “I will not doubt her,” he thought, as he walked onward in the moonlight, too proud and too honourable to linger in order to hear anything more that Miss Graham might have to say. “I will not doubt the wife I love so fondly, because idle tongues are already busy with her fair fame. Already! We have not been married two months, and already evil tongues drop the poison of doubt into my ear. It seems too cruel! But I will watch her with this man. Her ignorance of the world may have caused her to be more familiar with him than the rigid usages of society would permit. And yet she is generally so dignified, so reserved — apt to err on the side of coldness rather than of warmth. I must watch! — I must watch!”

  Never before had Sir Oswald known the anguish of distrust. But his was an impulsive nature, easily swaye
d by the force of any absorbing passion. Blindly, unquestionably, as he had abandoned himself to his love for Honoria Milford, so now he abandoned himself to the jealous doubts inspired by a malicious woman’s lying tongue.

  That night his slumbers were broken and feverish. The next day he set himself to watch his wife and Victor Carrington.

  The mind, imbued with suspicion, contemplates everything in a distorted light. Victor Carrington was especially attentive to the mistress of the castle. It was not that he talked to her, or usurped more of her society than his position warranted; but he devoted himself to her service with a slavish watchfulness which was foreign to the manner of an ordinary guest.

  Wherever Lady Eversleigh went, Carrington’s eyes followed her; every wish of hers seemed to be divined by him. If she lingered for a few moments by an open window, Mr. Carrington was at hand with her shawl. If she was reading, and the leaves of her book required to be cut open, the surgeon had procured her a paper-knife before she could suffer inconvenience or delay. If she went to the piano, he was at the instrument before her, ready to adjust her chair, to arrange her music. In another man these attentions might have appeared very common-place, but so quiet of foot, so subdued of voice, was Victor Carrington, that there seemed something stealthy, something secret in his devotion; something which had no right to exist. One long day of patient watchfulness revealed all this to Sir Oswald Eversleigh; and with the revelation came a new and terrible agony.

  How far was his wife to blame for all that was exceptional in the surgeon’s manner? Was she aware of his devotion? Did she encourage this silent and stealthy worship? She did not, at any rate, discourage it, since she permitted it.

  The baronet wondered whether Victor Carrington’s manner impressed others as it impressed himself. One person had, he knew, been scandalized by the surgeon’s devotion to Lady Eversleigh; and had spoken of it in the plainest terms. But did other eyes see as Lydia Graham and he himself had seen?