Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  It was not in any sense a good match. Mr. Tillott’s professional income was seventy-five pounds a year; his sole private means an allowance of fifty from his brother, who, Mr. Tillott admitted, with a blush, was in trade. He was neither handsome nor accomplished. The most his best friends could say of him was, that he was “a very worthy young man.” He was not an orator: he had an atrocious delivery, and rarely got through the briefest epistle, or collect even, without blundering over a preposition. His demeanour in pulpit and reading-desk was that of a prisoner at the bar, without hope of acquittal, and yet he had won Miss Granger — that prize in the matrimonial market, which many a stout Yorkshireman had been eager to win.

  He had flattered her; with a slavish idolatry he followed her footsteps, and ministered to her caprices, admiring, applauding, and imitating all her works and ways, holding her up for ever as the pattern and perfection of womankind. Five times had Miss Granger rejected him; on some occasions with contumely even, letting him know that there was a very wide gulf between their social positions, and that although she might be spiritually his sister, she stood, in a worldly sense, on a very remote platform from that which it was his mission to occupy. Mr. Tillott swallowed every humiliation with a lowly spirit, that had in it some leaven of calculation, and bore up against every repulse; until at last the fair Sophia, angry with her father, persistently opposed to her stepmother, and out of sorts with the world in general, consented to accept the homage of this persevering suitor. He, at least, was true to her; he, at least, believed in her perfection. The stout country squires, who could have given her houses and lands, had never stooped to flatter her foibles; had shown themselves heartlessly indifferent to her dragooning of the model villagers; had even hinted their pity for the villagers under that martial rule. Tillott alone could sympathise with her, trudging patiently from cottage to cottage in bleak Christmas weather, carrying parcels of that uncomfortable clothing with which Miss Granger delighted to supply her pensioners.

  Nor was the position which this marriage would give her, humble as it might appear, altogether without its charm. As Mr. Tillott’s wife, she would be a very great lady amongst small people; and Mr. Tillott himself would be invested with a reflected glory from having married an heiress. The curate stage would, of course, soon be past. The living of Arden was in Mr. Granger’s gift; and no doubt the present rector could be bought out somehow, after a year or so, and Mr. Tillott installed in his place. So, after due deliberation, and after the meek Tillott had been subjected to a trial of his faith which might have shaken the strongest, but which left him firm as a rock, Miss Granger surrendered, and acknowledged that she thought her sphere of usefulness would be enlarged by her union with Thomas Tillott.

  “It is not my own feelings which I consider,” remarked the maiden, in a tone which was scarcely flattering to her lover; “I have always held duty above those. I believe that New Arden is my proper field, and that it is a Providence that leads me to accept a tie which binds me more closely to the place. I could never have remained in this house after Mrs. Granger’s return.”

  Upon this, the enraptured Tillott wrote a humble and explanatory letter to Mr. Granger, stating the blessing which had descended upon him in the shape of Sophia’s esteem, and entreating that gentleman’s approval of his suit.

  It came by return of post, in a few hearty words.

  “MY DEAR TILLOTT, — Yes; with all my heart! I have always thought you a good fellow; and I hope and believe you will make my daughter a good husband. Mrs. Granger and I will be home in three weeks, in time to make all arrangements for the wedding. — Yours, &c.

  “DANIEL GRANGER.”

  “Ah,” said Miss Granger, when this epistle was shown her by her triumphant swain, “I expected as much. I have never been anything to papa since his marriage, and he is glad to get rid of me.”

  The Roman season was at its height, when there arose a good deal of talk about a lady who did not belong to that world in which Mrs. Granger lived, but who yet excited considerable curiosity and interest therein.

  She was a Spanish dancer, known as Donna Rita, and had been creating a furore in St. Petersburg, Paris, Vienna, all over the civilised world, in fact, except in London, where she was announced as likely to appear during the approaching season. She had taken the world by storm by her beauty, which was exceptional, and by her dancing, which made up in chic for anything it may have lacked in genius. She was not a Taglioni; she was only a splendid dark-haired woman, with eyes that reminded one of Cleopatra, a figure that was simply perfection, the free grace of some wild creature of the forest, and the art of selecting rare and startling combinations of colour and fabric for her dress.

  She had hired a villa, and sent a small army of servants on before her to take possession of it — men and women of divers nations, who contrived to make their mistress notorious by their vagaries before she arrived to astonish the city by her own eccentricities. One day brought two pair of carriage horses, and a pair of Arabs for riding; the next, a train of carriages; a week after came the lady herself; and all Rome — English and American Rome most especially — was eager to see her. There was an Englishman in her train, people said. Of course, there was always some one — elle en mange cinq comme ça tous les ans, remarked a Frenchman.

  Clarissa had no curiosity about this person. The idle talk went by her like the wind, and made no impression; but one sunny afternoon, when she was driving with her boy, Daniel Granger having an engagement to look at a new picture which kept him away from her, she met the Senora face to face — Donna Rita, wrapped in sables to the throat, with a coquettish little turban-shaped sable hat, a couple of Pomeranian dogs on her lap — half reclining in her barouche — a marvel of beauty and insolence. She was not alone. A gentleman — the Englishman, of course — sat opposite to her, and leant across the white bear-skin carriage-rug to talk to her. They were both laughing at something he had just said, which the Senora characterised as “pas si bête.”

  He looked up as the two carriages passed each other; for just one brief moment looked Clarissa Granger in the face; then, pale as death, bent down to caress one of the dogs.

  It was George Fairfax.

  It was a bitter ending; but such stories are apt to end so; and a man with unlimited means, and nothing particular to do with himself, must find amusement somehow. Clarissa remained in Rome a fortnight after this, and encountered the Senora several times — never unattended, but never again with George Fairfax.

  She heard the story afterwards from Lady Laura. He had been infatuated, and had spent thousands upon “that creature.” His poor mother had been half broken-hearted about it.

  “The Lyvedon estate spoiled him, my dear,” Lady Laura said conclusively.

  “He was a very good fellow till he came into his property.”

  Mr. Fairfax reformed, however, a couple of years later, and married a fashionable widow with a large fortune; who kept him in a whirl of society, and spent their combined incomes royally. He and Clarissa meet sometimes in society — meet, touch hands even, and know that every link between them is broken.

  And is Clarissa happy? Yes, if happiness can be found in children’s voices and a good man’s unchanging affection. She has Arden Court, and her children; her father’s regard, growing warmer year by year, as with increasing age he feels increasing need of some one to love him; her brother’s society now and then — for Mr. Granger has been lavish in his generosity, and all the peccadilloes of Austin’s youth have been extinguished from the memories of money-lenders and their like by means of Mr. Granger’s cheque-book.

  The painter can come to England now, and roam his native woods unburdened by care; but though this is very sweet to him once in a way, he prefers a Continental city, with its café life, and singing and dancing gardens, where he may smoke his cigar in the gloaming. He grows steadier as he grows older, paints better, and makes friends worth making; much to the joy of poor Bessie, who asks no greater privilege than to stand h
umbly by, gazing fondly while he puts on his white cravat, and sallies forth radiant, with a hot-house flower in his button-hole, to dine in the great world.

  But this is only a glance into the future. The story ends in the orthodox manner, to the sound of wedding bells — Miss Granger’s — who swears to love, honour, and obey Thomas Tillott, with a fixed intention to keep the upper hand over the said Thomas in all things. Yet these men who are so slavish as wooers are apt to prove of sterner mould as husbands, and life is all before Mrs. Tillott, as she journeys in chariot and posters to Scarborough for her unpretentious honeymoon, to return in a fortnight to a bran-new gothic villa on the skirts of Arden, where one tall tree is struggling vainly to look at home in a barren waste of new-made garden. And in the servants’ hall and housekeeper’s room at Arden Court there is rejoicing, as when the elder Miss Pecksniff went away from the little village near Salisbury.

  For some there are no marriage bells — for Lady Geraldine, for instance, who is content to devote herself unostentatiously to the care of her sister’s neglected children — neglected in spite of French and German governesses, Italian singing masters, Parisian waiting-maids, and half an acre or so of nursery and schoolroom — and to wider charities: not all unhappy, and thankful for having escaped that far deeper misery — the fate of an unloved wife.

  THE END

  THE CLOVEN FOOT

  The first book edition of this novel appeared in 1879. It is another of Braddon’s sensation thrillers, dealing with the theme of bigamy — a perennial topic in her fiction — and is set in the world of Victorian theatre, of which Braddon had first-hand experience in her early career.

  Title page of the first book edition

  CONTENTS

  VOLUME I

  CHAPTER I. THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE.

  CHAPTER II. JASPER TREVERTON’S WILL.

  CHAPTER III. A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.

  CHAPTER IV. LA CHICOT.

  CHAPTER V. A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

  CHAPTER VI. LA CHICOT HAS HER OWN WAY.

  CHAPTER VII. ‘A LITTLE WHILE SUCH LIPS AS THINE TO KISS.’

  CHAPTER VIII. ‘DAYS THAT ARE OVER, DREAMS THAT ARE DONE.’

  CHAPTER IX. ‘AND ART THOU COME! AND ART THOU TRUE!’

  CHAPTER X. ENGAGED.

  CHAPTER XI. NO TROUSSEAU.

  CHAPTER XII. AN ILL-OMENED WEDDING.

  CHAPTER XIII. THE SETTLEMENT.

  CHAPTER XIV. ‘YOU HAVE BUT TO SAY THE WORD.’

  VOLUME II.

  CHAPTER I. EDWARD CLARE DISCOVERS A LIKENESS.

  CHAPTER II. SHALL IT BE ‘YES’ OR ‘NO’?

  CHAPTER III. MURDER.

  CHAPTER IV. WHAT THE DIAMONDS WERE WORTH.

  CHAPTER V. ‘TO A DEEP LAWNY DELL THEY CAME.’

  CHAPTER VI. THE CHURCH NEAR CAMELOT.

  CHAPTER VII. HALCYON DAYS.

  CHAPTER VIII. A VILLAGE IAGO.

  CHAPTER IX. ‘IN THE MEANWHILE THE SKIES ‘GAN RUMBLE SORE.’

  CHAPTER X. ‘AND PURPLE LIGHT SHONE OVER ALL.’

  CHAPTER XI. THE CHILDREN’S PARTY.

  CHAPTER XII. A DISINTERESTED PARENT.

  CHAPTER XIII. DESROLLES IS NOT COMMUNICATIVE.

  CHAPTER XIV. EDWARD CLARE GOES ON A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY.

  CHAPTER XV. GEORGE GERARD.

  CHAPTER XVI. THOU ART THE MAN.

  VOLUME III.

  CHAPTER I. WHY DON’T YOU TRUST ME?

  CHAPTER II. ON HIS DEFENCE.

  CHAPTER III. AT THE MORGUE.

  CHAPTER IV. GEORGE GERARD IN DANGER.

  CHAPTER V. ON A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY.

  CHAPTER VI. KERGARIOU’S WIFE.

  CHAPTER VII. THE TENANT FROM BEECHAMPTON.

  CHAPTER VIII. CELIA’S LOVERS.

  CHAPTER IX. ON SUSPICION.

  CHAPTER X. MR. LEOPOLD ASKS IRRELEVANT QUESTIONS.

  CHAPTER XI. MRS. EVITT MAKES A REVELATION.

  CHAPTER XII. THE UNDERTAKER’S EVIDENCE.

  CHAPTER XIII. AN OLD LADY’S DIARY.

  CHAPTER XIV. THREE WITNESSES.

  CHAPTER XV. THE HUNT FOR DESROLLES.

  EPILOGUE.

  A ‘yellowback’ edition of the novel

  VOLUME I

  CHAPTER I. THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE.

  THE air was thick with falling snow, and the country side looked a formless mass of chilly whiteness, as the south-western mail train carried John Treverton on a lonely midnight journey. There were not many people in the train on that bleak night, and Mr. Treverton had a second-class compartment to himself.

  He had tried to sleep, but had failed ignominiously in the endeavour, waking with a start, after five minutes’ doze, and remaining broad awake for an hour at a time pondering upon the perplexities of his life, and hating himself for the follies that had made it what it was. It had been a very hard life of late, for the world had gone ill with John Treverton. He had begun his career with a small fortune and a commission in a crack regiment, and, after wasting his patrimony and selling his commission, he was now a gentleman at large, living as best he might, no one but himself knew how.

  He was going to a quiet village in Devonshire, a far away nook under the shadow of Dartmoor, in obedience to a telegram that told him a rich kinsman was dying, and summoned him to the death bed. The day had been when he hoped to inherit this kinsman’s property; not because the old man had ever cared for him, but because he, John, was the only relative Jasper Treverton had in the world; but that hope had vanished when the lonely old bachelor adopted an orphan girl to whom he was reported to have attached himself strongly. The ci-devant Captain had never seen this young person, and it is not to be supposed that he cherished very kindly feelings towards her. He had made up his mind that she was a deep and designing creature, who would, of course, play her cards in such a manner as to induce old Jasper Treverton to leave her everything.

  ‘He never bore me or mine much goodwill,’ John Treverton said to himself, ‘but he might have left his money to me for want of any one else to leave it to, if it hadn’t been for this girl.’

  During almost the whole of that dreary night journey he was meditating on this subject, half inclined to be angry with himself for having taken such useless trouble for the sake of a man who was not likely to leave him sixpence.

  He was not an utterly bad fellow, this John Treverton, though his better and purer feelings had been a good deal blunted by rough contact with the world. He had a frank winning manner, and a handsome face, a face which had won him the love of more than one woman, with little profit to himself. He was a man of no strong principle, and with a self-indulgent nature, that had led him into wrong-doing very often during the last ten years of his life. He had an easy temper, a habit of looking at the pleasanter side of things, so long as there was any pleasantness in them, and a chronic avoidance of all serious thought, qualities which do not serve to make up a strong character. But the charm of his manner was none the less because of this latent weakness of character, and he was better liked than many better men.

  The train stopped at a little rustic station, forty miles westward of Exeter, about an hour after midnight, a dreary building with an open platform, across which the wind blew and the snow drifted as John Treverton alighted, the one solitary passenger to be deposited at this out of the way place. He knew that the house to which he had to go was some miles from the station, and he applied himself at once to the sleepy stationmaster to ascertain if there were any possibility of procuring a conveyance at that time of night.

  ‘There’s a gig waiting for a gentleman from London,’ the man answered, stifling a yawn, ‘I suppose you are the party, sir.’

  ‘A gig from Treverton Manor?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thanks, yes, I am the person that is expected. Civil, at any rate,’ John Treverton added to himself, as he walked off to the gig, wrapped to the eyes in his great coat, and with a railway rug across his shoulder.

  He found a gig, with a rough looking individual of the gardener sp
ecies waiting for him in the snow.

  ‘Here I am, my man,’ he cried cheerily, ‘have you been waiting long?’

  ‘No, sir. Miss Malcolm said as how you’d come by this train.’

  ‘Miss Malcolm sent you for me then?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And how is Mr. Treverton, to-night?’

  ‘Mortal bad, sir. The doctors say as th’ old gentleman hasn’t many hours to live. And Miss Malcolm, she says to me, “Jacob, you’re to drive home as fast as th’ horse can go, for papa is very anxious to see Mr. John before he dies.” She allus calls the old gentleman papa, you see, sir, he having adopted of her ten years ago, and brought her up as his own daughter like, ever since.’

  They had jolted over the uneven stones of a narrow street, the high street of a small settlement which evidently called itself a town, for here, at a point where two narrow lanes branched off from the central thoroughfare, there stood a dilapidated old building of the town hall species, and a vaulted market-place with iron railings, and closely-locked gates shutting in emptiness. John Treverton perceived dimly through the winter darkness an old stone church, and at least three Methodist chapels. Then, all in a moment, the town was gone, and the gig was rattling along a Devonshire lane, between high banks and still higher hedges, above which rose a world of hill and moor, that melted far off into the midnight sky.

  ‘And your master is very fond of this young lady, Miss Malcolm?’ John Treverton inquired presently, when the horse, after rattling along for a mile and a half at a tremendous pace, was slowly climbing a hill which seemed to lead nowhere in particular, for one could hardly imagine any definite end or aim in a lane that went undulating like a snake amidst a chaos of hills.