Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “Paulina, for pity’s sake—”

  “Ah, me! these are idle words, are they not?” said Madame Durski, with a weary sigh. “And now I have told you my history, Reginald Eversleigh, and it is for you to judge whether there is any excuse for such a creature as I am.”

  Sir Reginald pitied this hopeless, friendless, woman as much as it was in him to pity any one except himself, and tried to utter some words of consolation.

  She looked up at him, as he spoke to her, with a glance in which he saw a deeper feeling than gratitude.

  Then it was that Reginald declared himself the devoted lover of the woman who had revealed to him the strange story of her life. He told her of the influence which she exercised over him, the fascination which he had sought in vain to resist. He declared himself attached to her by an affection which would know no change, come what might. But he did not offer this friendless woman the shelter of his name, the ostensible position which would have been hers had she become his wife.

  Even when beneath the sway of a woman’s fascination Reginald Eversleigh was cold and calculating. Paulina Durski was poor, and doubtless deeply in debt. She was a gambler, and the companion of gamblers. She was, therefore, no fitting wife for a man who looked upon marriage as a stepping-stone by which he might yet redeem his fallen fortunes.

  Paulina received his declaration with an air of simulated coldness; but Reginald Eversleigh could perceive that it was only simulated, and that he had awakened a real affection in the heart of this desolate woman.

  “Do not speak to me of love,” she said; “to me such words can promise no happiness. My love could only bring shame and misery on the man to whom it was given. Let me tread my dreary pathway alone, Reginald — alone to the very end.”

  Much was said after this by Reginald and the woman who loved him, and who was yet too proud to confess her love. Paulina Durski was not an inexperienced girl, to be persuaded by romantic speeches. She had acquired knowledge of the world in a hard and bitter school. She could fully fathom the base selfishness of the man who pretended to love her, and she understood why it was that he shrank from offering her the only real pledge of his truth.

  “I will speak frankly to you, Paulina,” he said. “I am too poor to marry.”

  “Yes,” she answered, bitterly; “I comprehend. You are too poor to marry a penniless wife.”

  “And I am not likely to find a rich one. But, believe me, that my love is none the less sincere because I shrink from asking you to ally yourself to misery.”

  “So be it, Sir Reginald. I am willing to accept your love for what it is — a wise and prudent affection — such as a man of the world may freely indulge in without fear that his folly may cost him too dearly. You will come to my house; I shall see you night after night amongst the reckless idlers who gather round me; you will pay me compliments all the year round, and bring me bon-bons on New Year’s Day; and some day, when I have grown old and haggard, you will all at once forget the fact of our acquaintance, and I shall see you no more. Let it be so. It is pleasant for a woman to fancy herself beloved, however false the fancy may be. I will shut my eyes, and dream that you love me, Reginald.”

  And this was all. No more was ever said of love between these two; but from that hour Reginald was more constant than ever in his attendance on the beautiful widow. The time came when she grew weary of Paris, and when those who had lost money began to shun the seductive delights of her nightly receptions. Reginald Eversleigh was not slow to perceive that the brilliant throng grew thin — the most distinguished guests “conspicuous by their absence.” He urged Paulina to leave Paris for London; and he himself selected the lonely villa on the banks of the Thames, in which he found a billiard-room, lighted from the roof, that was easily converted into a secret chamber.

  It was by his advice that Paulina Durski altered her line of conduct on taking up her abode in England, and refrained altogether from any active share in the ruinous amusements for which men frequented her receptions.

  “It was all very well for you to take a hand at écarté, or to take your place at the rouge et noir table, in Paris,” Reginald said, when he discussed this question; “but here it will not do. The English are full of childish prejudices, and to see a woman at the gaming-table would shock these prejudices. Let me play for you. I will find the capital, and we will divide the profits of each night’s speculation. For your part, you will have only to look beautiful, and to lure the golden-feathered birds into the net; and sometimes, perhaps, when I am playing écarté with one of your admirers, behind whose chair you may happen to be standing, you may contrive to combine a flattering interest in his play with a substantial benefit to mine.”

  Paulina’s eyelids fell, and a crimson flush dyed her face: but she uttered no exclamation of anger or disgust. And yet she understood only too well the meaning of Sir Reginald’s words. She knew that he wished her to aid him in a deliberate system of cheating. She knew this, and she did not withdraw her friendship from this man.

  Alas, no! she loved him. Not because she believed him to be good and honourable — not because she was blinded to the baseness of his nature. She loved him in spite of her knowledge of his real character — she yielded to the influence of an infatuation which she was so powerless to resist that she might almost be pardoned for believing herself the victim of a baleful destiny.

  “It is my fate,” she murmured to herself, after this last revelation of her lover’s infamy. “It must needs be my fate, since women with less claim to be loved than I possess are so happy as to win the devotion of good and brave men. It is my fate to love a cheat and trickster, on whose constancy I have so poor a hold that a breath may sever the miserable bond that unites us.”

  Victor Carrington was one of the first persons whom Reginald Eversleigh introduced to Madame Durski after her arrival in England. She was pleased with the quiet and graceful manners of the Frenchman; but she was at a loss to understand Sir Reginald’s intimate association with a man who was at once poor and obscure.

  She told Sir Reginald as much the next time she saw him alone.

  “I know that in most of your friendships convenience and self-interest reign paramount over what you call sentimentality; and yet you choose for your friend this Carrington, whom no one knows; and who is, you tell me, even poorer than yourself. You must have a hidden motive, Reginald; and a strong one.”

  A dark shade passed over the face of the baronet.

  “I have my reasons,” he said. “Victor Carrington was once useful to me — at least he endeavoured to be so. If he failed, the obligation is none the less; and he is a man who will have his bond.”

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  AT ANCHOR.

  The current of life flowed on at River View Cottage without so much as a ripple in the shape of an event, after the appalling midnight visit of Miser Screwton’s ghost, until one summer evening, when Captain Duncombe came home in very high spirits, bringing with him an old friend, of whom Miss Duncombe had heard her father talk very often; but whom she had hitherto never seen.

  This was no other than George Jernam, the captain of the “Albatross,” and the owner of the “Stormy Petrel” and “Pizarro.”

  In London the captain of the “Albatross” found plenty of business to occupy him. He had just returned from an African cruise, and though he had not forgotten the circumstances which had made his last intended visit to England only a memorable and melancholy failure, he was in high spirits.

  The first few days hardly sufficed for the talks between George Jernam and Joyce Harker, who aided him vigorously in the refitting of his vessel. He had been in London about a week before he fell in with honest Joe Duncombe. The two men had been fast friends ever since the day on which George, while still a youngster, had served as second-mate under the owner of the “Vixen.”

  They met accidentally in one of the streets about Wapping. Joseph Buncombe was delighted to encounter a sea-faring friend, and insisted on taking George Jernam down to
River View Cottage to eat what he called a homely bit of dinner.

  The homely bit of dinner turned out to be a very excellent repast; for Mrs. Mugby prided herself upon her powers as a cook and housekeeper, and to produce a good dinner at a short notice was a triumph she much enjoyed.

  Susan Trott waited at table in her prettiest cotton gown and smartest cap.

  Rosamond Duncombe sat by her father’s side during the meal; and after dinner, when the curtains were drawn, and the lamp lighted, the captain of the “Vixen” set himself to brew a jorum of punch in a large old Japanese china bowl, the composition of which punch was his strong point.

  Altogether that little dinner and cheerful evening entertainment seemed the perfection of home comfort. George Jernam had been too long a stranger to home and home pleasures not to feel the cheerful influence of that hospitable abode.

  For Joseph Duncombe the companionship of his old friend was delightful. The society of the sailor was as invigorating to the nostrils of a seaman as the fresh breeze of ocean after a long residence inland.

  “You don’t know what a treat it is to me to have an old shipmate with me once more, George,” he said. “My little Rosy and I live here pretty comfortably, though I keep a tight hand over her, I can tell you,” he added, with pretended severity; “but it’s dull work for a man who has lived the best part of his life on the sea to find himself amongst a pack of spooney landsmen. Never you marry a landsman, Rosy, if you don’t want me to cut you off with a shilling,” he cried, turning to his daughter.

  Of course Miss Rosamond Duncombe blushed on hearing herself thus apostrophized, as young ladies of eighteen have a knack of blushing when the possibility of their falling in love is mentioned.

  George Jernam saw the blush, and thought that Miss Duncombe was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

  George Jernam stayed late at the cottage, for its hospitable owner was loth to let his friend depart.

  “How long do you stay in London, George?” he asked, as the young man was going away.

  “A month, at least — perhaps two months.”

  “Then be sure you come down here very often. You can dine with us every Sunday, of course, for I know you haven’t a creature belonging to you in London except Harker; and you can run down of an evening sometimes, and bring him with you, and smoke your cigar in my garden, with the bright water rippling past you, and all the ships in the Pool spreading their rigging against the calm grey sky; and I’ll brew you a jorum of punch, and Rosy shall sing us a song while we drink it.”

  It is not to be supposed that George Jernam, who had a good deal of idle time on his hands, could refuse to oblige his old captain, or shrink from availing himself of hospitality so cordially pressed upon him.

  He went very often in the autumn dusk to spend an hour or two at River View Cottage, where he always found a hearty welcome. He strolled in the garden with Captain Duncombe and Rosamond, talking of strange lands and stranger adventures.

  Harker did not always accompany him; but sometimes he did, and on such occasions Rosamond seemed unaccountably glad to see him. Harker paid her no more attention than usual, and invariably devoted himself to Joe Duncombe, who was frequently lazy, and inclined to smoke his cigar in the comfortable parlour. On these occasions George Jernam and Rosamond Duncombe strolled side by side in the garden; and the sailor entertained his fair companion by the description of all the strangest scenes he had beheld, and the most romantic adventures he had been engaged in. It was like the talk of some sea-faring Othello; and never did Desdemona more “seriously incline” to hear her valiant Moor than did Miss Duncombe to hear her captain.

  One of the windows of Joseph Duncombe’s favourite sitting-room commanded the garden; and from this window the captain of the “Vixen” could see his daughter and the captain of the “Albatross” walking side by side upon the smoothly kept lawn. He used to look unutterably sly as he watched the two figures; and on one occasion went so far as to tap his nose significantly several times with his ponderous fore-finger.

  “It’s a match!” he muttered to himself; “it’s a match, or my name is not Joe Duncombe.”

  Susan Trott was not slow to notice those evening walks in the garden. She told the dashing young baker that she thought there would be a wedding at the cottage before long.

  “Yours, of course,” cried the baker.

  “For shame, now, you impitent creature!” exclaimed Susan, blushing till she was rosier than the cherry-coloured ribbons in her cap; “you know what I mean well enough.”

  Neither Captain Duncombe nor Susan Trott were very far wrong. The “Albatross” was not ready for her next cruise till three months after George Jernam’s first visit to River View Cottage, nor did the captain of the vessel seem particularly anxious to hasten the completion of the repairs.

  When the “Albatross” did drop down into the Channel, she sailed on a cruise that was to last less than six months; and when George Jernam touched English ground again, he was to return to claim Rosamond Duncombe as his plighted wife. This arrangement had Joyce Harker’s hearty approbation; but when he, too, had taken leave of George Jernam, he turned away muttering, “I think he really has forgotten Captain Valentine now; but I have not, I have not. No, I remember him better than ever now, when there’s no one but me.”

  * * * * *

  The “Albatross” came safely back to the Pool in the early spring weather. George Jernam had promised Rosamond that she should know of his coming before ever he set foot on shore, and he contrived to keep his word.

  One fine March day she saw a vessel sailing up the river, with a white flag flying from the main-mast. On the white flag blazed, in bright red letters, the name, “Rosamond!”

  When Miss Duncombe saw this, she knew at once that her lover had returned. No other vessel than the “Albatross” was likely to sport such a piece of bunting.

  George Jernam came back braver, truer, handsomer even than when he went away, as it seemed to Rosamond. He came back more devoted to her than ever, she thought; and a man must have been indeed cold of heart who could be ungrateful for the innocent, girlish affection which Rosamond revealed in every word and look.

  The wedding took place within a month of the sailor’s return; and, after some discussion, George Jernam consented that he and his wife should continue to live at the cottage.

  “I can’t come here to take possession of your house,” he had said, addressing himself to his future father-in-law; “that would be rather too much of a good thing. I know you’d like to keep Rosy in the neighbourhood, and so you shall. I’ll do as you did. I’ll find a little bit of ground near here, and build myself a comfortable crib, with a view of the river.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” replied Captain Duncombe. “If that’s what you are going to do, you shall not have my Rosy. I’ve no objection to her having a husband on the premises; but the day she leaves my roof for the sake of any man in Christendom, I’ll cut her off with a shilling — and the shilling shall be a bad one.”

  The captain of the “Albatross” took his young wife into Devonshire for a brief honeymoon; and during this pleasant spring-time holiday, Rosamond made the acquaintance of her husband’s aunt. Susan Jernam was pleased with the bright-eyed, pure-minded, modest girl, and in the few days they were together, learned to regard her with a motherly feeling, which was destined to be of priceless value to Rosy at an unforeseen crisis of the new life that began so fairly.

  Never did a married couple begin their new life with a fairer prospect than that which lay before George Jernam and his wife when they returned to River View Cottage. Captain Duncombe received his son-in-law with the hearty welcome of a true seaman; but a few days after George Jernam’s return, the old sailor took him aside, and made an announcement which filled him with surprise.

  “You know how fond I am of Rosy,” he said, “and you know that if Providence had blessed me with a son of my own, he couldn’t have been much dearer to me than you are; so come what may, neit
her you or Rosy must doubt my affection for both of you. Come now, George, promise me you won’t.”

  “I promise, with all my heart,” answered Captain Jernam; “I should no more think of doubting your goodness or your love for us, than I should think of doubting that there’s a sun shining up aloft yonder. But why do you speak of this?”

  “Because, George, the truth of the matter is, I’m going to leave you.”

  “You are going to leave us?”

  “Yes, old fellow. You see, a lazy, land-lubber’s life doesn’t suit me. I’ve tried it, and it don’t answer. I thought the sound of the water washing against the bank at the bottom of my garden, and the sight of the ships in the Pool, would be consolation enough for me, but they ain’t, and I’ve been sickening for the sea for the last six mouths. As long as my little Rosy had nobody in the world but me to take care of her, I stayed with her, and I should have gone on staying with her till I died at my post. But she’s got a husband now, and two trust-worthy women-servants, who would protect her if you left her — as I suppose you must leave her, sooner or later — so there’s no reason why I should stop on shore any longer, pining for a sight of blue water.”