Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

The conversation between Miss Brewer and Victor Carrington lasted for some time longer, and then he was left alone, while Miss Brewer went to attend the levée of Madame Durski. As he paced the room, Carrington smiled again, and muttered, “If Dale were only here, and she could be persuaded to borrow money of him, all would be right. So far, all is going well, and I have taken the right course. My motto is the motto of Danton—’De l’audace, de l’audace, et toujours de l’audace.’”

  * * * * *

  Victor Carrington dined with Madame Durski and her companion. The meal was served with elegance, but the stamp of poverty was too plainly impressed upon all things at Hilton House. The dinner served with such ceremony was but a scanty banquet — the wines were poor — and Victor perceived that, in place of the old silver which he had seen on a previous occasion, Madame Durski’s table was furnished with the most worthless plated ware.

  Paulina herself looked pale and haggard. She had the weary air of a woman who finds life a burden almost too heavy for endurance.

  “I have consented to see you this evening, Mr. Carrington, in accordance with your very pressing message,” she said, when she found herself alone in the drawing-room with Victor Carrington after dinner, Miss Brewer having discreetly retired; “but I cannot imagine what business you can have with me.”

  “Do not question my motives too closely, Madame Durski,” said Victor; “there are some secrets lying deep at the root of every man’s existence. Believe me, when I assure you that I take a real interest in your welfare, and that I came here to-night in the hope of serving you. Will you permit me to speak as a friend?”

  “I have so few friends that I should be the last to reject any honest offer of friendship,” answered Paulina, with a sigh. “And you are the friend of Reginald Eversleigh. That fact alone gives you some claim to my regard.”

  The widow had admitted Victor Carrington to a more intimate acquaintance than the rest of her visitors; and it was fully understood between them that he knew of the attachment between herself and Sir Reginald.

  “Sir Reginald Eversleigh is my friend,” replied Victor; “but do not think me treacherous, Madame Durski, when I tell you he is not worthy of your regard. Were he here at this moment, I would say the same. He is utterly selfish — it is of his own interest alone that he thinks; and were the chance of a wealthy marriage to offer itself, I firmly believe that he would seize it — ay! even if by doing so he knew that he was to break your heart. I think you know that I am speaking the truth, Madame Durski?”

  “I do,” answered Paulina, in a dull, half despairing tone. “Heaven help me! I know that it is the truth. I have long known as much. We women are capable of supreme folly. My folly is my regard for your friend Reginald Eversleigh.”

  “Let your pride work the cure of that wasted devotion, madame,” said Victor, earnestly. “Do not submit any longer to be the dupe, the tool, of this man. Do you know how dearly your self-sacrifice has cost you? I am sure you do not. You do not know that this house is beginning to be talked about as a place to be shunned. You have observed, perhaps, that you have had few visitors of late. Day by day your visitors will grow fewer. This house is marked. It is talked of at the clubs; and Reginald Eversleigh will no longer be able to live upon the spoils won from his dupes and victims. The game is up, Madame Durski; and now that you can no longer be useful to Reginald Eversleigh, you will see how much his love is worth.”

  “I believe he loves me,” murmured Paulina, “after his own fashion.”

  “Yes, madame, after his own fashion, which is, at the best, a strange one. May I ask how you spent your Christmas?”

  “I was very lonely; this house seemed horribly cold and desolate. No one came near me. There were no congratulations; no Christmas gifts. Ah! Mr. Carrington, it is a sad thing to be quite alone in the world.”

  “And Reginald Eversleigh — the man whom you love — he who should have been at your side, was at Hallgrove Rectory, among a circle of visitors, flirting with the most notorious of coquettes — Miss Graham, an old friend of his boyish days.”

  Victor looked at Paulina’s face, and saw the random shot had gone home. She grew even paler than she had been before, and there was a nervous working of the lips that betrayed her agitation.

  “Were there ladies amongst the guests at Hallgrove?” he asked.

  “Yes, Madame Durski, there were ladies. Did you not know that it was to be so?”

  “No,” replied Paulina. “Sir Reginald told me it was to be a bachelors’ party.”

  Victor saw that this petty deception on the part of her lover stung

  Paulina keenly.

  She had been deeply wounded by Reginald’s cold and selfish policy; but until this moment she had never felt the pangs of jealousy.

  “So he was flirting with one of your fashionable English coquettes, while I was lonely and friendless in a strange country,” she exclaimed. And then, after a brief pause, she added, passionately, “You are right, Mr. Carrington; your friend is unworthy of one thought from me, and I will think of him no more.”

  “You will do wisely, and you will receive the proof of what I say ere long from the lips of Reginald Eversleigh himself. Tell me the truth dear madame, are not your pecuniary difficulties becoming daily more pressing?”

  “They have become so pressing,” answered Paulina, “that, unless Reginald lends me money almost immediately, I shall be compelled to fly from this country in secret, like a felon, leaving all my poor possessions behind me. Already I have parted with my plate, as you no doubt have perceived. My only hope is in Reginald.”

  “A broken reed on which to rely, madame. Sir Reginald Eversleigh will not lend you money. Since this house has become a place of evil odour, to be avoided by men who have money to lose, you are no longer of any use to Sir Reginald. He will not lend you money. On the contrary he will urge your immediate flight from England; and when you have gone—”

  “What then?”

  “There will be an obstacle removed from his pathway; and when the chance of a rich marriage arises, he will be free to grasp it.”

  “Oh, what utter baseness!” murmured Paulina; “what unspeakable infamy!”

  “A selfish man can be very base, very infamous,” replied Victor. “But do not let us speak further of this subject, dear Madame Durski. I have spoken with cruel truth; but my work has been that of the surgeon, who uses his knife freely in order to cut away the morbid spot which is poisoning the very life-blood of the sufferer. I have shown you the disease, the fatal passion, the wasted devotion, to which you are sacrificing your life; my next duty is to show you where your cure lies.”

  “You may be a very clever surgeon,” replied Paulina, scornfully; “but in this case your skill is unavailing. For me there is no remedy.”

  “Nay, madame, that is the despairing cry of a romantic girl, and is unworthy the lips of an accomplished woman of the world. You complained just now of your loneliness. You said that it was very sad to be without a friend. How if I can show you that you possess one attached and devoted friend, who would be as willing to sacrifice himself for your interests as you have been willing to devote yourself to Reginald Eversleigh?”

  “Who is that friend?”

  “Douglas Dale.”

  “Douglas Dale!” exclaimed Paulina. “Yes, I know, that Mr. Dale admires me, and that he is a good and honourable man; but can I take advantage of his admiration? Can I trade upon his love? I — who have no heart to give, no affection to offer in return for the honest devotion of a good man? Do not ask me to stoop to such baseness — such degradation.”

  “I ask nothing from you but common sense,” answered Victor impatiently. “Instead of wasting your love upon Reginald Eversleigh, who is not worthy a moment’s consideration from you, give at least your esteem and respect to the honourable and unselfish man who truly loves you. Instead of flying from England, a ruined woman, branded with the name of cheat and swindler, remain as the affianced wife of Douglas Dale — remain to pr
ove to Reginald Eversleigh that there are those in the world who know how to value the woman he has despised.”

  “Yes, he has despised me,” murmured Paulina, speaking to herself rather than to her companion; “he has despised me. He left me alone in this dreary house; in the Christmas festival time, when friends and lovers draw nearer together all the world over, united by the sweet influences of the season; he left me to sit alone by this desolate hearth, while he made merry with his friends — while he sunned himself in the smiles of happier women. What truth can he claim from me — he who has been falsehood itself?”

  She remained silent for some minutes after this, with her eyes fixed on the fire, her thoughts far away. Victor did not arouse her from that reverie. He knew that the work he had to do was progressing rapidly.

  He felt that he was moulding this proud and passionate woman to his will, as the sculptor moulds the clay which is to take the form of his statue.

  At last she spoke.

  “I thank you for your good advice, Mr. Carrington,” she said, calmly; “and I will avail myself of your worldly wisdom. What would you have me do?”

  “I would have you tell Douglas Dale, when he returns to town and comes to see you, the position in which you find yourself with regard to money matters, and ask the loan of a few hundreds. The truth and depth of his love for you will be proved by his response to this appeal.”

  “How came you to suspect his love for me?” asked Paulina. “It has never yet shaped itself in words. A woman’s own instinct generally tells her when she is truly loved; but how came you, a bystander, a mere looker-on, to discover Douglas Dale’s secret?”

  “Simply because I am a man of the world, and somewhat of an observer, and I will pledge my reputation as both upon the issue of your interview with Douglas Dale.”

  “So be it,” said Paulina; “I will appeal to him. It is a new degradation; but what has my whole life been except a series of humiliations? And now, Mr. Carrington, this interview has been very painful to me. Pardon me, if I ask you to leave me to myself.”

  Victor complied immediately, and took leave of Madame Durski with many apologies for his intrusion. Before leaving the house he encountered Miss Brewer, who came out of a small sitting-room as he entered the hall.

  “You are going away, Mr. Carrington?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered; “but I shall call again in a day or two. Meantime, let me hear from you, if Dale presents himself here. I have had some talk with your friend, and am surprised at the ease with which the work we have to do may be done. She despises Reginald now; she won’t love him long. Good night, Miss Brewer.”

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  MOVE THE FIRST.

  After the lapse of a few days, during which Victor Carrington carefully matured his plans, while apparently only pursuing his ordinary business, and leading his ordinary life of dutiful attention to his mother and quiet domestic routine, he received a letter in a handwriting which was unfamiliar to him. It contained the following words:

  “In accordance with your desire, and my promise, I write to inform you that, D. D. has notified his return to London and his intention to visit P. He did not know whether she was in town, and, therefore, wrote before coming. She seemed much affected by his letter, and has replied to it, appointing Wednesday after-noon for receiving him, and inviting him to luncheon. No communication has been received from R. E., and she takes the fact easily. If you have any advice, or I suppose I should say instructions, to give me, you had better come here to-morrow (Tuesday), when I can see you alone. — C. B.”

  Victor Carrington read this note with a smile of satisfaction, which faithfully interpreted the feelings it produced. There was a business-like tone in his correspondent’s letter which exactly suited his ideas of what it was advisable his agent should be.

  “She is really admirable,” he said, as he destroyed Miss Brewer’s note; “just clever enough to be useful, just shrewd enough to understand the precise force and weight of an argument, but not clever enough, or shrewd enough, to find out that she is used for any purpose but the one for which she has bargained.”

  And then Victor Carrington wrote a few lines to Miss Brewer, in which he thanked her for her note, and prepared her to receive a visit from him on the following day. This written and posted, he walked up and down his laboratory, in deep thought for some time, and then once more seated himself at his desk. This time his communication was addressed to Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and merely consisted of a request that that gentleman should call upon him — Victor Carrington — on a certain day, at a week’s distance from the present date.

  “I shall have more trouble with this shallow fool than with all the rest of them,” said Victor to himself, as he sealed his letter; and, as he said it, he permitted his countenance to assume a very unusual expression of vexation; “his vanity will make him kick against letting Paulina turn him off; and he will run the risk of destroying the game sooner than suffer that mortification. But I will take care he shall suffer it, and not destroy the game.

  “No, no, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, you shall not be my stumbling-block in this instance. How horribly afraid he is of me,” thought Victor Carrington, and a smile of cruel satisfaction, which might have become a demon, lighted his pale face at the reflection; “he is dying to know exactly how that business of Dale the elder was managed; he has the haziest notions in connection with it, and, by Jove, he dare not ask me. And yet, I am only his agent, — his to be paid agent, — and he shakes in his shoes before me. Yes, and I will be paid too, richly paid, Sir Reginald, not only in money, but in power. In power — the best and most enjoyable thing that money has to buy.”

  Victor Carrington sent his letter to the post, and joined his mother in her sitting-room, where her life passed placidly away, among her birds and her flowers. Mrs. Carrington had none of the vivacity about her which is so general an attribute of French women. She liked her quiet life, and had little sympathy with her son’s restless ambition and devouring discontent. A cold, silent, self-contained woman, she shut herself up in her own occupations, and cared for nothing beyond them. She had the French national taste and talent for needlework, and generally listened to her son, as he talked or read to her, with a piece of elaborate embroidery in her hand. On the present occasion, she was engaged as usual, and Victor looked at her work and praised it, according to his custom.

  “What is it for, mother?” he asked.

  “An altar-cloth,” she replied. “I cannot give money, you know, Victor, and so I am glad to give my work.”

  The young man’s dark eyes flashed, as he replied; —

  “True, mother, but the time will come — it is not far off now — when you and I shall both be set free from poverty, when we shall once more take our place in our own rank — when we shall be what the Champfontaines were, and do as the Champfontaines did — when this hateful English name shall be thrown aside, and this squalid English home abandoned, and the past restored to us, we to the past.” He rose as he spoke, and walked about the room. A faint flush brightened his sallow face, an unwonted light glittered in his deep-set eyes. His mother continued to ply her needle, with downcast eyes, and a face which showed no sign of sympathy with her son’s enthusiasm.

  “Industry and talent are good, my Victor,” she said, “and they bring comfort, they bring le bienêtre in their train; but I do not think all the industry and talent you can display as a surgeon in London will ever enable you to restore the dignity and emulate the wealth of the old Champfontaines.”

  Victor Carrington glanced at his mother almost angrily, and for an instant felt the impulse rise within him which prompted him to tell her that it was not only by the employment of means so tame and common-place that he designed to realize the cherished vision of his ambition. But he checked it instantly, and only said, with the reverential inflection which his voice never failed to take when he addressed his mother, “What, then, would you advise me to try, in addition?”

  �
��Marry a rich woman, my Victor; marry one of these moneyed English girls, who are, for the most part, permitted to follow their inclinations — inclinations which would surely, if encouraged, lead many of them your way.” Mrs. Carrington spoke in the calmest tone possible.

  “Marry — I marry?” said Victor, in a tone of surprise, in which a quick ear would have noticed something also of disappointment. “I thought you would never like that, mother. It would part us, you know, and then what would you do?”

  “There is always the convent for me, Victor,” said his mother, “if you no longer needed me.” And she composedly threaded her needle, and began a very minute leaf in the pattern of her embroidery.

  Victor Carrington looked at his mother with surprise, and some vague sense of pain. She could make up her mind to part with him — she had thought of the possibility, and with complacence. He muttered something about having something to do, and left her, strangely moved, while she calmly worked in at her embroidery.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  “WEAVE THE WARP, AND WEAVE THE WOOF.”

  On the following day Victor Carrington presented himself at Hilton House, and was received by Miss Brewer alone. She was pale, chilly, and ungracious, as usual, and the understanding which had been arrived at between Carrington and herself did not move her to the manifestation of the smallest additional cordiality in her reception of him.

  “I have to thank you for your prompt compliance with my request, Miss

  Brewer,” said Victor.

  She made no sound nor sign of encouragement, and he continued. “Since I saw you, another complication has arisen in this matter, which makes our game doubly safe and secure. In order to explain this complication thoroughly, I must ask you to let me put you through a kind of catechism. Have I your permission, Miss Brewer?”

  “You may ask me any questions you please,” returned Miss Brewer, in a hard, cold, even voice; “and I will answer them as truthfully as I can.”