Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  Is she happy? Can this cold esteem, this calm respect which she feels for the man chosen for her by another, satisfy the ardent heart of the romantic girl?

  She has been already married six weeks, and she has not seen Horace Margrave, the only friend she has in England — except, of course, her husband — since her wedding-day; not since that sunny morning on which he took her icy hand in his and gave her, as her guardian and the representative of her dead father, into her husband’s arms. She remembered that on that day when his hand touched hers it was as cold and nerveless as her own, and that his listless face was even paler than usual under the spring sunshine streaming in at the church-windows. But in spite of this he did the honours of the breakfast-table, toasted the bride and bridegroom, complimented the bridesmaids, and pleased everybody, with the finished grace and marvellous ease of the all-accomplished Horace Margrave. And if Ellinor had ever thought that she had a right, for auld lang syne, for her dead father’s sake, or for her own lovely face, to be anything more or dearer to Mr. Margrave than the most indifferent of his clients, that thought was dispelled by the gentlemanly sang-froid of his adieu, as the four prancing steeds started off on the first stage to Windermere.

  It was the end of June, and Mrs. Dalton was seated in the small drawing-room, awaiting the advent of morning visitors. Bridegroom and bride had been a week in town, and Horace Margrave had not yet called upon them. She had a weary air this morning, and sought in vain for something to occupy her. Now she strolled to the open piano, and played a few chords or a brilliant run, or softly touched the notes of some pensive air, and sang a few soft Italian syllables; now she took up an uncut novel from the table, and read a page or two-here and there, wherever the book opened. Anon she walked to an embroidery-frame, and took a great deal of trouble in selecting wools and threading needles; but when this was accomplished she did not work three stitches. After this she loitered listlessly about the room, looking at the pictures and proof engravings which adorned the pale silver-gray walls; but at last she was so utterly weary, that she sank into an easy-chair by the open window, and sat idly looking down across a liliputian forest of heliotrope and geranium into the hot sunny street.

  She was looking very lovely, but she was not looking happy. Her dark-brown hair was brushed away from her broad low brow, and secured in a coil of superb plaits at the back of her head; her white morning-dress was only ornamented by large knots of violet ribbon, and she wore no jewellery whatever, except a tiny, slender gold chain, which she twisted perpetually between her slim white fingers.

  She sat thus for about half an hour, always looking across the plants in the balcony at the pavement opposite, when she suddenly wrenched the thin chain off her fingers.

  She had seen the person for whom she had been waiting. A gentleman, who lounged along the other side of the street, crossed the road beneath the window, and knocked at the door.

  “At last!” she muttered to herself; “now, perhaps, this mystery will be explained.”

  A servant announced Mr. Margrave.

  “At last!” she said again, rising as he entered the room. “O, Mr. Margrave, I have been so anxious to see you.”

  He looked about on the crowded table to find amongst its fashionable litter a place for his hat; failed in doing so, and put it down on a chair; and then, for the first time, looked at his late ward:

  “Anxious to see me, my dear Ellinor; why anxious?”

  “Because there are two or three questions which I must ask, which you must answer.”

  That peculiar expression in Horace Margrave’s eyes, which was as it were a shiver of the eyelids, passed over them now; but it was too brief to be perceived by Ellinor Dalton. He Bank into a chair; near her own, but not opposite to it. He paused to place this chair with its back to the light, and then said, “My dear Ellinor — my dear Mrs. Dalton — what questions can you have to ask me but questions of a purely business character; and even those I imagine your husband, who is quite as practical a man as myself, could answer as well as I?”

  “Mr. Dalton is the very last person to whom I can apply for an answer to the questions which I have to ask.”

  “And why the last person?”

  “Because those questions relate to himself.”

  “O, I see! My dear Mrs. Dalton, is not this rather a bad beginning? You appeal from your husband to your solicitor.”

  “No, Mr. Margrave; I appeal to my guardian.”

  “Pardon me, my dear Ellinor, there is no such person. He is defunct; he is extinct. From the moment I placed your hand in that of your husband before the altar of St. George’s, Hanover-square, my duties, my right to advise you, and your right to consult me, expired. Henceforth you have but one guardian, one adviser, one friend, and his name is Henry Dalton.”

  A dark shadow came over Ellinor Dalton’s face, and her eyes filled with tears as she said, “Mr. Margrave, Heaven forbid that I should say a word which could be construed into a reproach to you. Your duties of guardianship, undertaken at the prayer of my dying father, have been as truly and conscientiously discharged as such duties should be discharged by a man of your high position and unblemished character. But I will own that sometimes, with a woman’s folly, I have wished that, for the memory of my dead father, who loved and trusted you, for the memory of the old days in which we were companions and friends, some feeling a little warmer, a little kinder, a little more affectionate, something of the tenderness of an elder brother, might have mingled with your punctilious fulfilment of the duties of guardian. I would not for the world reproach you, still less reproach you for an act for which I only am responsible; yet I cannot but remember that, if it had been so, this marriage might never have taken place.”

  “It is not a happy marriage, then?”

  “It is a most unhappy one!”

  Horace Margrave was silent for a few moments, and then begun, gravely, almost sadly, “My dear Mrs. Henry Dalton,” — he seemed especially scrupulous in calling her Mrs. Dalton, as if he had been anxious to remind her every moment how much their relations had changed,—” when you accuse me of a want of tenderness in my conduct towards yourself, of an absence of regard for the memory of your father, my kind and excellent friend, you accuse me of that for which I am no more responsible than for the colour of my hair, or the outline of my face. You accuse me of that which is perhaps the bane of my existence — a heart incapable of cherishing a strong affection, or a sincere friendship, for any living being. Behold me, at five-and-thirty years of age, unloved and unloving, without one tie which I cannot as easily break as I can pay an hotel-bill or pack my portmanteau. My life, at its brightest, is a dreary one — a dreary present, which can neither look back to a fairer past, nor forward to a happier future!”

  His deep musical voice fell into a sadder cadence with these last words, and he looked down gloomily at the point of the cane with which he absently traced vague hieroglyphics upon the carpet. After a short silence, he looked up and said, “But you wished to make some inquiries of me?”

  “I did; I do. When I married Mr. Dalton, what settlements were made? You told me nothing at the time, and I, so utterly unused to business matters, asked you no questions. Besides, I had then reason to think him the most honourable of men.”

  “What settlements were made?” asked the lawyer, repeating Ellinor’s question, as if it were the last of all others which lie expected to hear.

  “Yes; what arrangements were made about my fortune? How much of it was settled on myself?”

  “Not one penny.” Mrs. Dalton gave a start of surprise, which Mr. Margrave answered in his most nonchalant manner. “Not one penny of it. There was no mention whatever of any such legal formality in your uncle’s will. He left his money to yon, but he left it to you only on condition that you shared it with his adopted son, Henry Dalton. This implied not only a strong affection for, but an implicit faith in, the young man. To tie up your money, or to settle it on yourself, would be to stultify your uncle’s will. The
man that could be trusted by him could be trusted by you. This is why I suggested no settlement. It is just possible that I acted in rather an unlawyer-like manner; but I believe that I — acted in the only manner consonant with your late uncle’s affectionate provisions for the two persons nearest and dearest to him.”

  “Then Henry Dalton is sole master of my — of the fortune?”

  “As your husband, decidedly, yes.”

  “And he may, if he pleases, sell the Arden estate?”

  “The Arden estate is not entailed. Certainly he may sell it, if he wishes.”

  “Then, Mr. Margrave, I must inform you that he does wish to sell it, that he does intend to sell it.”

  “To sell Arden Hall?”

  “Yes.”

  An angry flush crimsoned her face as she looked eagerly into the lawyer’s eyes for one flash of surprise or indignation. She looked in vain.

  “Well, my dear Mrs. Dalton, in my opinion your husband shows himself a very sensible fellow by determining on such a proceeding. Arden is one of the dreariest, draughtiest, most dilapidated old piles of building in all England. It possesses all the leading features of a country mansion; magnificent oak panelling, contemptible servants’ offices; three secret staircases, and not one register-stove; six tapestried chambers, and no bath-room; a dozen Leonardo da Vincis, and not one door that does not let in assassination, in the shape of a north-east wind; a deer-park, and no deer; three gamekeepers’ lodges, and not game enough to tempt the most fatuitous of poachers!

  Sell Arden Hall! Nothing could be more desirable. But, alas, my dear Ellinor, your husband is not the man I take him for, if he calculates upon finding a purchaser.”

  Mrs. Dalton regarded the lawyer with not a little contempt, as she said, “But the want of feeling, the outrage upon the memory of my poor uncle!”

  “Your poor uncle will not be remembered a day the longer through your retaining possession of a draughty and uncomfortable house. When did Dalton tell you this intention of his?”

  “On our return from our tour. I suggested that we should live there — that is, of course, out of the season.”

  “And he — ?”

  “Replied that it was out of the question our ever residing there, as the place must be sold.”

  “You asked him his reasons?”

  “I did. He told me that he was unable to reveal those reasons to me, and might never be able to reveal them. He said, that if I loved him, I could trust him and believe in him, and believe that the course he took, however strange it might appear to me, was in reality the best and wisest course he could take.”

  “But, in spite of this, you doubt him?” asked Horace earnestly.

  “How can I do otherwise? He refuses me the slightest freedom in my use of the fortune which I have brought to him. He, the husband of a rich woman, enjoins economy — economy even in the smallest details. I dare not order a jewel, a picture, an elegant piece of furniture, a stand of hothouse flowers; for, if I do so, I am told that the expenditure is beyond his present means, and that I must wait till we have more money at our command. Then, again, his profession is a thousand times dearer to him than I. No briefless, penniless barrister, with a mother and sister to support, ever worked harder than he works, ever devoted himself more religiously than he devotes himself to the drudging routine of the bar.”

  “Ellinor Dalton, your husband is as high-minded and conscientious a man as ever lived upon this earth. I seldom take the trouble of making a vehement assertion; so believe me, if you can, now that I do. Believe me, even if you cannot believe him.”

  “You too, against me?” cried Ellinor mournfully. “O, believe me, it is not the money I want, it is not the possession of the money which I grudge him; it is only that my heart sinks at the thought of being united to a man I cannot respect or esteem. I did not ask to love him,” she added, half ta herself; “but I did pray that I might be able to esteem him.”

  “I can only say, Ellinor, that you are mistaken in him.” At this moment came the sound of a quick firm step on the stairs, and Henry Dalton himself entered the room. His face was bright and cheerful, and he advanced to his wife eagerly; but at the sight of Horace Margrave he fell back with a frown.

  “Mr. Margrave, I thought it was part of our agreement that—”

  The lawyer interrupted him.

  “That I should never darken this threshold. Yes.”

  Ellinor looked from one to the other with a pale, frightened face.

  “Mr. Dalton,” she exclaimed, “what, in Heaven’s name, does this mean?”

  “Nothing that in the least can affect you, Ellinor. A business disagreement between myself and Mr. Margrave; nothing more.”

  His wife turned from him scornfully, and approaching Horace Margrave, rested her hand on the scroll-work at the back of the chair on which he sat.

  It was so small an action in itself, but it said, as plainly as words could speak, “This is the man I trust, in spite of you, in spite of the world.”

  It was not lost on Henry Dalton, who looked at his wife with a grave, reproachful glance, and said, “Under these circumstances, then, Mr. Margrave—”

  “I had no right to come here. Granted; and I should not have come, but—”

  He hesitated a moment, and Ellinor interrupted him.

  “I wrote to my guardian, requesting him to call on me. Mr. Dalton, what is the meaning of this? What mystery does all this conceal? Am I to see my best and oldest friend insulted in my own house?”

  “A married woman has no friend but her husband: and I may not choose to receive Mr. Margrave as a visitor in our house,” Henry Dalton replied, coldly and gravely.

  “You shall not be troubled any longer with Horace Mar grave’s society, Mr. Dalton,” said the lawyer, rising, and walking slowly to the door. “Good-morning.” His hand was upon the lock, when he turned, and with a tone of suppressed emotion addressed Mrs. Dalton: “Ellinor, shake hands with me,” he said. That was all. His sometime ward extended both her hands to him. He took them in his, bent his dark head over them for a moment as he held them in his grasp, and murmured hoarsely, “Forgive me, Ellinor, and farewell.”

  He was gone. She hurried out on to the landing-place, and called after him, “Mr. Margrave, guardian, Horace, come back! if only for one moment, come back!”

  Her husband followed her, and led her back to the drawingroom.

  “Ellinor Dalton, choose between that man and me. Seek to renew your acquaintance with him, or hold any communication whatsoever with him that does not pass through my hands; and we part for ever.”

  The young wife fell sobbing into her chair.

  “My only friend!” she cried; “my only, only friend! and to be parted from him thus!”

  Her husband stood at a little distance from her, earnestly, sadly watching her, as she gave full sway to her emotion.

  “What wretchedness! what utter wretchedness!” he said aloud; “and no hope of a termination to it, no chance of an end to our misery.”

  CHAPTER IV. AT BALDWIN COURT.

  HENRY DALTON prospered in his profession. Gray-headed old judges talked over their after-dinner port of the wonderful acumen displayed by the rising junior in the most important and difficult cases. One, two, three years passed away, and the name of Dalton began to be one of mark upon the Northern Circuit. The dawn often found him working in his chambers in Paper-buildings, while his handsome wife was dancing at some brilliant assembly, or listening to the vapid platitudes of one of her numerous admirers and silent adorers. With Ellinor Dalton, to be unhappy was to be reckless. Hers was that impulsive and emotional nature which cannot brood upon its griefs in the quiet circle of a solitary home. She considered herself wronged by her husband’s parsimony, still more deeply wronged by his cold reserve; and she sought in the gayest circles of fashionable London for the peace which had never dwelt at her cold and deserted hearth.

  “His profession is all in all to him,” she said; “but there is at least the world
left for me; and if I cannot be loved I will prove to him that I can be admired.”

  At many of the houses in which she was a constant visitor Horace Margrave was also a familiar guest. The wealthy bachelor lawyer was sure of a welcome wherever mamma had daughters to marry, and wherever papa had money to invest or mortgages to effect. To her old guardian Ellinor’s manner never underwent the shadow of a change.

  “You may refuse to admit him here, you may forbid my correspondence with him. I acknowledge the right you exercise so harshly,” she would say to her husband; “but you cannot shake my faith in my dead father’s friend; you cannot control my sentiments towards the guardian of my childhood.” But by degrees she found that Horace Margrave was to be seen less frequently every day at those houses in which she visited. It was growing a rare thing now for her to see the dark handsome head overtopping the crowd in which the lawyer mingled; and even when she did meet him, though his voice had still its old gentleness, there was a tacit avoidance of her in his manner, which effectually checked any confidence between them. This was for the first two years after her marriage. In the third she heard accidentally that Horace Margrave was travelling in Switzerland, and had left the entire management of his very extensive business to a junior partner.

  In the autumn of the third year, Ellinor was staying with her husband at the country house of his friend, Sir Lionel Baldwin. Since that day on which the scene with Horace Margrave had taken place in the little drawing-room in Hertford-street, Ellinor Dalton and her husband had had no explanation whatever. On that day, the young man had fallen on his knees at the feet of his sobbing wife, and had most earnestly implored her to believe in his faith and honour, and to believe that, in everything he did, he had a motive so strong and so disinterested as to justify his conduct. He begged her to believe also that the marriage, on his part, had been wholly a love-match; that he had been actuated by no mercenary considerations whatever; and that if he now withheld the money to which, in all appearance, she had so good a right, it was because it was not in his power to lavish it upon her. But he implored in vain. Prejudiced against him from the very first, she had only trusted him for a brief period, to doubt him more completely than ever at the first suspicion that suggested itself. Wounded in her affection for another — an affection whose strength, perhaps, she scarcely dared to confess to herself — her feeling for Henry Dalton became one almost bordering on aversion. His simple, practical good sense; his plain, unpolished manners; his persevering, energetic, and untiring pursuit of a vocation with which she had no sympathy — all these qualities jarred upon her enthusiastic temperament, and blinded her to his actual merits. The world, which always contrives to know every thing, very soon made itself completely acquainted with the eccentric conditions of Mr. Arden’s will, and the circumstances of Henry Dalton’s marriage.