Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “Mind? Why in my eyes you are the loveliest little woman in England.”

  Mrs. Hawberk, having made up her mind that her eldest daughter was to inherit a fortune as Sir John’s only niece, was somewhat disappointed at the turn affairs had taken; but Adela’s less worldly nature was incapable of any such unworthy feeling, and when her uncle helped to bring about her marriage with the man she loved by a gift of five thousand pounds she felt that she had every reason to be satisfied and grateful.

  And what of bachelor Danby, without kindred or belongings in the world, drifting lightly down the river of life, like a withered leaf upon a forest stream? Who shall say that Mr. Danby has neither home nor home ties when they see the welcome that awaits his coming, the grief that attends his going, at Penlyon Place?

  THE END

  The Shorter Fiction

  Blackhouse Farm in Beverley, Yorkshire, where Braddon lived in the 1850s and where she wrote her first novel

  RALPH THE BAILIFF AND OTHER TALES

  This short story collection was first published in 1862. It contains a mixture of sensational and supernatural stories, previously published in numerous periodicals. The collection includes Braddon’s celebrated ghost story, ‘The Cold Embrace’, involving the memorable apparition of a macabre dancing partner. Also included is the novella-length ‘Lost and Found’, comprising a complete deleted subplot from her novel Henry Dunbar.

  Title page of the first edition

  CONTENTS

  RALPH THE BAILIFF

  CHAPTER I. THE FUNERAL OF THE ELDER SON.

  CHAPTER II. A SHADOW THAT HEARS.

  CHAPTER III. THE VISITOR AT THE RECTORY.

  CHAPTER IV. THE WEDDING-DAY.

  CHAPTER V. A CHEERLESS HEARTH.

  CHAPTER VI. IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT.

  CHAPTER VII. MASTER AND SLAVE.

  CHAPTER VIII. THE LAST CHANCE.

  CAPTAIN THOMAS

  THE COLD EMBRACE

  MY DAUGHTERS

  THE MYSTERY AT FERNWOOD

  SAMUEL LOWGOOD’S REVENGE

  THE LAWYER’S SECRET

  CHAPTER I. IN A LAWYER’S OFFICE.

  CHAPTER II. IN WHICH A SECRET IS REVEALED.

  CHAPTER III. AFTER THE HONEYMOON.

  CHAPTER IV. AT BALDWIN COURT.

  CHAPTER V. FROM LONDON TO PARIS.

  CHAPTER VI. HORACE MARGRAVE’S CONFESSION.

  MY FIRST HAPPY CHRISTMAS

  LOST AND FOUND

  CHAPTER I. PICTURE-DEALING.

  CHAPTER II. GIN.

  CHAPTER III. THE MARK UPON GEORGEY’S ARM

  CHAPTER IV. THE FOSTER-BROTHERS.

  CHAPTER V. THE GENTLEMAN JOCKEY WHO BODE DEVILSHOOF.

  CHAPTER VI. THE KING IS DEAD: LONG LIVE THE KING!

  CHAPTER VII. LOST.

  CHAPTER VIII. A NEW LIFE AND A NEW LOVE.

  CHAPTER IX. A PRECAUTIONARY STEP.

  CHAPTER X. THE DIE IS CAST.

  CHAPTER XI. BEFORE THE WEDDING.

  CHAPTER XII. GERVOISE PALGRAVE’S CURSE.

  CHAPTER XIII. THE SOUND OF THE WATERFALL.

  CHAPTER XIV. AN UNINVITED GUEST.

  CHAPTER XV. HIDDEN IN THE DEAD WOMAN’S HAND.

  CHAPTER XVI. THE DETECTIVE SCIENCE.

  CHAPTER XVII. HUNTING UP THE PAST.

  CHAPTER XVIII. ETHEL’S VISITOR.

  CHAPTER XIX. A FRIEND IN NEED.

  CHAPTER XX. HUMPHREY’S CONFESSION.

  CHAPTER XXI. IDENTIFIED.

  CHAPTER XXII. THE PARTING OF THE FOSTER-BROTHERS.

  CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAST OF GERVOISE PALGRAVE.

  EVELINE’S VISITANT

  FOUND IN THE MUNIMENT CHEST

  HOW I HEARD MY OWN WILL READ

  Opening of Braddon’s classic ghost story, ‘The Cold Embrace’, as it appears in the first edition

  RALPH THE BAILIFF

  CHAPTER I. THE FUNERAL OF THE ELDER SON.

  A DRIZZLING rain fell upon the long grass and the moss-grown tombstones of the churchyard of Olney, a village in Lincolnshire, Every now and then, beaten down by this incessant rain, a dead leaf fell from one of a row of sycamores, which bordered the low churchyard wall, and dropped heavily upon the graves beneath the trees.

  No gleam of sunshine relieved the dull gray of the September sky.

  A cluster of villagers and village children, grouped together at one angle of the irregular stone-wall, drew their wet clothes closer round them, and shivered as if this September had been January.

  From one side of the churchyard sounded the monotonous voice of the curate, reading the funeral service.

  At the white gate, on the other side of the church, waited three mourning-coaches, surrounded by another group of village children, who, regardless of the perpetual rain, stood staring open-mouthed at the long-tailed black horses and the solemn-visaged charioteers.

  The funeral service ended, the chief mourner walked slowly through the churchyard, followed by the seven or eight gentlemen who had been present at the ceremony, The grief of that chief mourner was evident to all; his hollow eyes were dry and tearless, and he walked along the narrow path, looking straight before him, with an air of gloomy abstraction. He took his seat in one of the coaches, accompanied by his uncle, a gray-haired old farmer, and the village attorney.

  “You must bear up — you must bear up, my dear Dudley,” said the gray-haired man, as the mourning-coach lumbered along the uneven paving of Olney High-street.

  “I will, Uncle Richard; but it’s harder to bear than I ever thought it would be,” said the chief mourner; and to the surprise of his companions he let down the window at his side, and, putting out his head, looked back at the churchyard they had left. He remained in this position till a turn in the street completely hid the burial-ground from his view, and then drawing in his head, he closed the window with a short sigh.

  “Poor boy, he wants to have a last look at his brother’s grave,” said the gray-haired man to the lawyer, while his nephew looked out of the carriage-window.

  After this the chief mourner sat silent and motionless, looking fixedly out at the flat high-road, and the dripping leaves and shivering cattle in the wet fields.

  He was a man of one-and-twenty, but looked much older.

  He had a fair complexion, a small straight nose, very red, womanish lips, a slightly-receding chin, a low forehead, large blue eyes, and light auburn hair. He was rather handsome, and was generally said to have a most prepossessing countenance.

  He was the younger son of the late Arthur Carleon, gentleman farmer, and proprietor of the Grey Farm, an estate of some importance in the estimation of the simple Olney folks.

  The dwelling-house of this Grey Farm stood a mile away from the high-road, and the pathway leading to it lay by the side of a river — a narrow, dismal river, on which coal-barges went up and down between Grimsby and Lincoln.

  The lands of the farm, which consisted of three hundred and eighty acres, lay flat and low on the border of this river, stretching down to the shelving bank, and only divided by this bank from the water, which constantly overflowed the meadows nearest to the river-side.

  Along this bank the three mourning-coaches drove slowly and carefully, — a road dangerous at the best of times; at night doubly dangerous.

  Half-an-hour’s driving brought the dismal cortège to the gates of the garden in front of the farmhouse. The mourners alighted, and silently assembled in a long, low, oak-panelled apartment, furnished in the ponderous fashion of half a century ago.

  The Carleons were one of the oldest families in Lincolnshire. The house of the Grey Farm was filled with portraits of fine gentlemen, in doublets and hose; soldiers who had fallen at Bosworth and Flodden; cavaliers who had fought at Worcester, and brave soldiers and loyal gentlemen who had helped to beat the rebels on Marston Moor; but for the last hundred and fifty years the sword had been exchanged for the ploughshare, and the Carleons had been farmers from father to son.

  The estate of the Grey Farm — which was s
o called from having originally belonged to a body of the order of Grey Friars, who built an abbey upon the land — was bought, in 1700, by a younger son of the house of Carleon, the elder branch of which becoming extinct, all other estates belonging to the family had fallen into Chancery, and the Carleons had sunk into simple gentlemen farmers.

  Dudley Carleon walked to the wide fireplace, in which a dull flame struggled with the thick smoke from a mass of black coal. The young man leant against the angle of the high chimney-piece, and turned his face away from the other gentlemen, whom his gloomy silence considerably embarrassed.

  A young woman, the principal female servant, dressed, like her master, in the deepest mourning, busied herself in handing about wine and cake. After taking it to the visitors, she offered it to Dudley Carleon; but the young man, hearing the jingle of the glasses at his elbow, looked up suddenly, and shook his head with an impatient gesture. He was very pale, and his eyes were surrounded by dark circles, which gave the light-blue eyes a strangely-haggard appearance.

  One of the gentlemen, an attorney from Olney, read the will of the deceased. It was very simple. Martin Carleon had had nothing to bestow but the farm and homestead, on which he was born, and on which he had lived his short life of three-and-twenty years. He had died of an ague, produced, according to the doctors, by the fatal dampness of the Grey Farm. Young, handsome, vigorous, and athletic, the farmer had succumbed, after a lingering illness, under this painful and exhausting disease. He had never married, and Dudley was his only brother; so no one had ever felt any doubt as to who would inherit his property. The estate, though it had gone straight down from father to son for a hundred and fifty years, had never been entailed, and the will of Martin’s father had left no provision for the event of the young man’s dying childless; but the attachment between the brothers was known to have been so sincere, that this will was looked upon as a mere form. It was worded as everyone had expected:

  “I, Martin Carleon, being at this time of sound mind, though weak in bodily health, do hereby give, will, and bequeath, to my beloved brother, Dudley Carleon, all those lands, tenements, and out-buildings, known as the Grey Farm, together with all live stock, farming implements,” &c. &c.

  A few trifling legacies followed: a gold snuff-box to his uncle, Richard Weston, the gray-haired old man present at the reading of the will; his watch and chain to a young lady to whom he had been engaged to be married; and some bequests to the servants.

  During the reading of the will the young man had never once lifted his head from its recumbent position against the angle of the chimney-piece; but when it was quite finished, and the visitors rose from their chairs, and approached Dudley, prior to taking their departure, he looked up at them with the same expression his face had worn at the gate of the churchyard — an expression that seemed to say, “What ought I to do next?”

  “You are very kind,” he stammered in answer to the consolatory speeches addressed to him. “Yes, I will do my best to bear his loss.”

  He said these words again and again, in an absent, helpless manner, and breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed upon the funeral party, and he was left alone with his uncle. For some time he remained silent, his face buried in his hands, while the old man sat looking at him furtively, as if almost afraid to speak. Presently he looked up and said, with strange abruptness, “Do you know if Agnes Marlow is very sorry?”

  Agnes Marlow was the daughter of the Rector of Olney, and had been the promised wife of Martin Carleon.

  “They say so at Olney,” answered Mr. Weston, “They say that she is very ill, and has seen no one but her father since your brother’s death.”

  “She came here the night before he died. When her father was sent for, she heard the message, and stole out of the house after him, and followed him down here. I shall never forget her white face as she stood at the door of Martin’s room. I shall never forget her white face — it haunts me to-day more than his.”

  “My poor boy, these are silly fancies. Agnes Marlow’s grief has nothing to do with you. You did your duty to your poor brother from the first to the last.”

  “That’s something,” muttered Dudley.

  “Something! Everything. Martin was a good brother to you—”

  Dudley Carleon shivered involuntarily.

  “A very good brother. He had hard work to keep up your allowance at college, I can tell you, Dudley. But he always said that one farmer at a time was quite enough in the Carleon family, and that you should be a man of education, and a polished gentleman.”

  “And a dependent on my brother’s bounty,” said Dudley bitterly.

  “No, Dudley. Martin never thought anything he did for you a bounty or a favour.”

  “Not Martin, perhaps; but other people thought so.”

  Mr. Weston gave a little murmur of deprecation, and then, not knowing what further remark to make, lapsed into silence.

  The old man was to dine and spend the night at the Grey Farm, as Thorpe Grange, his own house, was ten miles on the other side of Olney. The uncle and nephew dined in a room adjoining the oak parlour in which the will had been read, and were waited on by a maid-servant.

  “Then you will manage the farm yourself, Dudley?” said Mr. Weston, as they sat over their wine, the room only lighted by a blazing fire, and the sky outside the windows darkening with the September twilight.

  “Yes. I may not know as much of agriculture as poor Martin, but I know a little, and I can learn more. In short, I’ll accept the fate of the Carleons, and turn gentleman farmer.”

  “There’s only one thing I’m afraid of, Dudley—”

  “And that is—”

  “Your chance of falling ill of the ague and fever that killed Martin. The doctors attribute his illness to the air of the Grey Farm.”

  “Then why is it that the men who live upon the premises, and are at work in the fields from sunrise to sunset, from the first of January to the thirty-first of December, have never fallen ill of the ague that killed poor Martin? Take my word for it, it was not the Grey Farm that caused my brother’s death; his constitution could not have been a strong one.”

  “But such a tall, broad-chested, powerful young man,” said his uncle.

  “Is often the first to sink under an illness which the ignorance of his medical attendant attributes to a wrong cause. Martin had lived on the Grey Farm for three-and-twenty years, and if this autumn has been cold and rainy, other autumns have been cold and rainy; if the farm has been half under water this year, it has been half under water many a year. It’s my opinion, Uncle Weston, that Martin’s life might hare been saved if his doctor had not been an inefficient blockhead. That’s partly the cause of my grief for my brother. I consider him a sacrifice to the ignorance of two medical practitioners, and I shall never forgive myself for not having sent to London for a physician before it was too late.”

  “What, you did send, then?”

  “I telegraphed to London half an hour before he died.”

  “My dear boy, you have done your duty. But tell me,” continued the old man, anxious to change the conversation, “about your domestic arrangements. You retain all the servants?”

  “Every labourer on the farm, every maid-servant in the kitchen. No servant ever leaves the Carleons — except for the churchyard.”

  “That young woman who handed the wine round after the funeral — she looks rather superior to the rest — who is she?”

  “O, I suppose it was Martha. She was my brother’s housekeeper. She is the sister of my bailiff, a very clever young man.”

  “She is rather a handsome girl.”

  “You think so? Too pale, too dark, too heavy. She has never been young, I think, that girl; I can always remember her equally grave and puritanical, with a pale solemn face and straight hair plastered over her forehead; but she is an excellent housekeeper.”

  “She is a very young housekeeper, Dudley. I should be rather afraid of her, if I were you. Bachelor farmers sometimes
marry their housekeepers, nowadays. It has grown into a fashion; and the women know it, and play their cards accordingly.”

  “She must play a deeper game than I give her credit for, clever as she is, if she wants to catch me,” said Dudley. “I have a little of the ambition of the old Carleons, and there is no record of any of them having married their servants.”

  A little after ten o’clock Dudley Carleon led his uncle up the wide oak staircase to the apartment prepared for him.

  To reach this room they had to pass through a long corridor, on one side of which was a row of solid oak doors, leading into the bedrooms. Before the first of these doors Dudley Carleon stopped, with a ghastly face, and leaned for support against the wall behind him.

  “Martin’s room,” he muttered hoarsely; “the room he died in. This is the very spot on which Agnes Marlow stood on the night of my brother’s death. Talk of ghosts,” he said with a hollow laugh; “if you can fancy a corpse galvanised into life, you can fancy how she looked.”

  “Come, come, my dear boy—”

  “Don’t pity me. I’m a coward — a miserable, superstitious coward. I never thought this was in me.”

  The young man brushed his hand across his forehead, drew himself to his fullest height, and walked before his uncle to the end of the corridor. He opened a door, led the way’ into a comfortable, old-fashioned apartment, communicating with another room of about the same size. Fires had been lighted in both bedchambers, and a cheerful blaze was reflected in every panel of the wainscot. Richard Weston, farmer, slept as well on the night after his eldest nephew’s funeral as he always slept under his own roof at the Grange. Once or twice, however, in the dismal hours of the long autumnal night, he was awoke by the monotonous step of the new owner of the Grey Farm, pacing up and down the oak floor of his bedroom. “Poor fellow,” muttered the old man, as he buried his head in the pillows and dropped off again to sleep—” poor fellow, what a sincere affection there has been between those two boys!”