“My dear Ellinor,” said Horace Margrave, “if anyone should come into the conservatory, they might hear us talking of your husband.”
“Everyone is dressing,” she answered carelessly. “Besides, if anyone were there, they would scarcely be surprised to hear me declare my contempt for Henry Dalton. The world does not give us credit for being a happy couple.”
“As you will; but I am sure I heard someone stirring in that conservatory. But no matter. You ask me what I think of your husband’s conduct in refusing to allow a superannuated nurse of yours more than forty pounds a-year? Don’t think me a heartless ruffian, if I tell you that I think he is perfectly right.”
“But to withhold from me my own money! to fetter my almsgiving! to control my very charities! I might forgive him if he refused me a diamond necklace or a pair of ponies; but in this matter, in which my affection is concerned, to let his economy step in to frustrate my earnestly-expressed wishes — it is too cruel.”
“My dear Mrs. Dalton, like all very impetuous and warmhearted people, you are rather given to jump at conclusions. Mr. Dalton, you say, withholds your own money from you. Now, your own money — with the exception of the Arden estate, which he sold within a year of your marriage — happens to have been entirely invested in the Three per Cents. Now, suppose — mind, I haven’t the least reason to suppose that such a thing has ever happened, but for the sake of putting a case — suppose Henry Dalton, as a clever and enterprising man of business, should have been tempted to speculate with some of your money?”
“Without consulting me?”
“Without consulting you. Decidedly. What do women know of speculation?”
“Mr. Margrave, if Henry Dalton has done this, he is no longer a miser, but he is — a cheat. The money bequeathed to me by my uncle was mine: to be shared with him, it is true, but still mine. No sophistry, no lawyer’s quibble, could ever have made it his. If, then, he has, without my consent or knowledge, speculated with that money, he is a dishonest man. Ah, Horace Margrave, you, who have noble blood in your veins — you, who are a gentleman, an honourable man — what would you think of Henry Dalton, if this were possible?”
“Ellinor Dalton, have you ever heard of the madness men have christened gambling? Do you know what a gambler is? Do you know what the man feels who hazards his wife’s fortune, his widowed mother’s slender pittance, his helpless children’s inheritance, the money that should pay for his son’s education, his daughter’s dowry, the hundreds due to his trusting creditors, or the gold intrusted to him by a confiding employer, — on the green cloth of a West-end gaming-table? Do you think that at that mad moment, when the glaring lights above the table dazzle his eyes, and the piles of gold heave up and down upon the green baize, and the croupier’s voice crying, ‘Make your game!’ is multiplied by a million, and deafens his bewildered ear like the clamour of all the fiends; do you think at that moment that he ever supposes he is going to lose the money? No; he is going to double, to treble, to quadruple it; to multiply every guinea by a hundred, and to take it back to the starving wife or the anxious children, and cry, ‘Was I so much to blame, after all?’ Have you ever stood upon the Grand Stand at Epsom, and seen the white faces of the betting-men, and heard the roar of the eager voices at the last rush for the winning-post? Every man upon that crowded stand, every creature upon that crowded course — from the great magnate of the turf, who stands to win a quarter of a million, to the wretched apprentice-lad, who has stolen half-a-crown from the till to put it upon the favourite — believes that he has backed a winning horse. That is the great madness of gaming; that is the terrible witchcraft of the gambling-house and the ring; and that is the miserable hallucination of the man who speculates with the fortune of another. Pity him, Ellinor. If the weak and wicked are ever worthy of the pity of the good, that man deserves your pity.” He had spoken with an energy unusual to him, and he sank into a chair, half-exhausted by his unwonted vehemence.
“I would rather think the man whom I am forced to call my husband a miser than a cheat, Mr. Margrave,” Ellinor said coldly; “and I am sorry to learn, that if he were indeed capable of such dishonour, his crime would find an advocate in you.”
“You are pitiless, Mrs. Dalton,” said Horace Margrave, after a pause. “God help the man who dares to wrong you!”
“Do not let us speak of Henry Dalton any longer, Mr. Margrave. I told you that if he should refuse this favour, this — this right, I had decided on my course.”
“You did; and now, may I ask what that course is?”
“To leave him.”
“Leave him!” he exclaimed anxiously.
“Yes; leave him in the possession of the money which is so dear to him. He can never have cared for me. He has refused my every request, frustrated my every wish, devoted every hour of his life, not to me, but to his profession. My aunt will receive me. I shall leave this place to-night, and leave London for Paris to-morrow morning.”
“What will the world say of such a step, Ellinor?”
“Let the world judge between us. What can the world say of me? I shall live with my aunt, as I did before my luckless inheritance came to me. Mr. Margrave — guardian — you will accompany me to Paris, will you not? I am so inexperienced in all these sort of things, so little used to help myself, that I dare not make this journey with my maid alone. You will accompany me?”
“I, Ellinor?”
“Yes; who so fit to protect me as you, to whom, with his dying lips, my father committed my guardianship? For his sake you will do me this service, will you not?”
“Is it a service, Ellinor? Can I be doing you a service in taking you away from your husband?”
“So be it, then,” she said scornfully. “You refuse to help me; I will go alone.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone; I go to-night, and alone.”
A crimson flush mounted to Horace Margrave’s pale face, and a vivid light shone in his handsome eyes.
“Alone, Ellinor? No, no,” he said; “my poor child, my ward, my helpless orphan girl, my little Scotch lassie of the good time gone, I will protect you on this journey, place you safely in the arms of your aunt, and answer to Henry Dalton for my conduct. In this, at least, Ellinor, I will be worthy of your dear father’s confidence. Make your arrangements for the journey. You have your maid with you?”
“Yes; Ellis, a most excellent creature. Then to-night, by the mail-train.”
“I shall be ready. You must make your excuses to Lady Baldwin, and leave with as little explanation as possible.
Au revoir!”
As Ellinor Dalton and Horace Margrave left the little boudoir, a gentleman in a greatcoat, with a railway-rug flung over his shoulder, strode out on to the terrace through the door of the conservatory, and lighting a cigar, paced for about half an hour up and down the shrubbery at the side of the house, wrapped in thought.
CHAPTER V. FROM LONDON TO PARIS.
WHILE dressing, Ellinor gave her maid orders to set about packing, immediately. Ellis, a very solemn and matter-of-fact person, expressed no surprise, but went quietly to work, emptying the contents of wardrobes into capacious trunks, and fitting silver-topped bottles into their velvet-lined cases, as if there were no such thing as hurry or agitation in the world.
To Ellinor Dalton that evening seemed very long. Never had the county families appeared so stupid, or the London visitors so tiresome. The young man from the War Office took her into dinner, and insisted on telling her some very funny story about a young man in another government office, which brilliant anecdote lasted, exclusive of interruptions, from the soup to the dessert, without drawing any nearer the point of the witticism. After the dreary dinner, the eldest daughter of the oldest of the county families fastened herself and a very difficult piece of crochet upon her, and inflicted on her all the agonies of a worsted-work rose, which, as the young lady perpetually declared, would not come right. But however distraite Ellinor might be, Horace Margrave was the Horace o
f the West-end world. He talked politics with the heads of the county families; stock-exchange with the city-men; sporting-magazine and Tattersall’s with the county swells; discussed the latest débuts at her Majesty’s Theatre with the young Londoners; spoke of Sir John Herschel’s last discovery to a scientific country squire; and of the newest thing in farming-implements to an agricultural ditto; talked compliments to the young country ladies, and the freshest May-fair scandal to the young London ladies; had, in short, something to say on every subject to everybody, and contrived to please all. And let any man who has tried to do this in the crowded drawing-room of a country house, say whether or not Horace Margrave was a clever fellow.
“By the bye, Horace,” said Sir Lionel, as the lawyer lounged against one corner of the mantelpiece, talking to a group of young men and one rather fast young lady, who had edged herself into the circle, under cover of a brother, much to the indignation of more timid spirits, who sat modestly aloof, furtively regarding Admirable Crichton Margrave, as his friends called him, from distant sofas; “by the bye, my boy, where did you hide yourself all this morning? We sadly wanted you to decide a match at billiards, and I sent people all over the house and grounds in search of you.”
“I rode over to Horton after lunch,” said Horace. “I wanted a few hours there on electioneering business.”
“You’ve been to Horton?” asked Sir Lionel, with rather an anxious expression.
“Yes, my dear Sir Lionel, to Horton. But how alarmed you look! I trust I haven’t been doing anything wrong. A client of mine is going to stand for the place. But surely you’re not going to throw over the county electors, and stand for the little borough of Horton yourself!” he said, laughing.
Sir Lionel looked a little confused, and the county families grew suddenly very grave; indeed, one young lady in pink, who was known by about seven fair confidantes to have a slight tendre for the handsome lawyer, clutched convulsively at the wrist of a younger sister in blue, and listened, with an alarmed face, to the conversation by the chimneypiece.
“Why, how silent everyone has grown!” said Horace, still laughing. “It seems as if I had launched a thunderbolt upon this hospitable hearth, in announcing my visit to the little manufacturing town of Horton. What is it — why is it — how is it?” he asked, looking round with a smile.
“Why,” said Sir Lionel hesitatingly, “the — the truth of the matter — that is — not to mystify you — in short — you know — they, they’ve a fever at Horton. The — the working classes and factory people have got it very badly, and — and — the place is in a manner tabooed. But of course,” added the old man, trying to look cheerful, “you didn’t go into any of the back streets, or amongst the lower classes. You only rode through the town, I suppose; so you’re safe enough, my dear Horace.” The county families simultaneously drew a long breath, and the young lady in pink released her sister’s wrist.
“I went, my dear Sir Lionel,” said Horace, with placid indifference, “into about twenty narrow back streets in an hour-and-a-half, and I talked to about forty different factory hands, for I wanted to find which way the political current set in the good town of Horton. They all appeared extremely dirty, and now, I remember, a good many of them looked ill; but I’m not afraid of having caught the fever, for all that,” he added, looking round at the grave faces of his hearers; “half-a-dozen cigars, and a sharp ten miles’ ride through a bleak, open country must be a thorough disinfectant. If not,” he continued bitterly, “one must die sooner or later, and why not of a fever caught at Horton?”
The young lady in pink had recourse to her sister’s wrist again at this speech.
Horace soon laughed off the idea of danger from his afternoon’s rambles, and, in a few minutes, he was singing a German-student song, and accompanying himself at the piano.
At last the long evening was over, and Ellinor, who had heard nothing from her distant work-table of the conversation about the fever, gladly welcomed the advent of a servant with a tray of glistening candlesticks. As she lit her candle at the side-table, Horace Margrave came over, and lit his own.
“I have spoken to Sir Lionel,” he said; “a carriage will be ready for us in an hour. The London mail does not start till one o’clock, and we shall reach town in time to catch the day service for Paris. But, Ellinor, it is not yet too late. Are you thoroughly determined on this step?”
“Thoroughly,” she said. “I shall be ready in an hour.” Mrs. Dalton’s apartments were at the end of a long corridor; the dressing-room opened out of the bedroom, and the door of communication was ajar as Ellinor entered her room. Her boxes stood ready packed. She looked at them hurriedly, examined the addresses which her maid had pasted upon them, and was about to pass into the dressing-room, when she stopped on the threshold with an exclamation of surprise.
Henry Dalton was seated at the table, with an open portfolio spread before him, writing busily. On a chair by the fire lay his greatcoat, railway-rug, and portmanteau.
He looked up for a moment, calmly and gravely, as Ellinor entered; and then continued writing.
“Mr. Dalton!”
“Yes,” he said, still writing; “I came down by the 5.30 train. I returned sooner than I expected.”
“By the 5.30 train,” she said anxiously; “by the trait which leaves London at half-past five, I suppose?”
“By the train which arrives here at half-past five,” answered her husband, without looking up; “or should reach here by that time, rather; for it’s generally five minutes late.”
“You have been here since six o’clock?”
“Since ten minutes to six, my dear Ellinor. I gave my valise to a porter, and walked over from the station in a quarter of an hour.”
“You have been here since six, and have neither told me of your arrival nor shown yourself in the house!”
“I have shown myself to Sir Lionel. I had some very important business to arrange.”
“Important business?” she asked.
“Yes, to prepare for this journey to Paris, which you are so bent upon taking.”
“Mr. Dalton!”
“Yes,” he said quietly, folding and sealing a letter as he spoke, “it is very contemptible, is it not? Coming unexpectedly into the house by the conservatory entrance — which, as you know, to anyone arriving from the station, saves about two hundred yards — I heard involuntarily a part of a conversation, which had so great an effect upon me as to induce me to remain where I was, and voluntarily hear the remainder.”
“A listener?” she said, with a sneer.
“Yes, it is on a par with all the rest, is it not? An avaricious man, a money-grubbing miser; or, perhaps, even worse, a dishonest speculator. O, Ellinor Dalton, if ever the day should come (God forbid that I should wish to hasten it by an hour!) when I shall be free to speak one little sentence, how bitterly you will regret your expressions of to-day! But I do not wish to reproach you: it is our bad fortune — yours and mine — to be involved in a very painful situation, from which, perhaps, nothing but an open rupture could extricate us. You have taken the initiative. You wish to leave me, and return to your aunt in Paris. So be it. Go!”
“Mr. Dalton!”
Something in his manner, in spite of her long-cherished prejudices against him, impressed and affected her, and she stretched out her hand deprecatingly.
“Go, Ellinor! I, too, am weary of this long struggle T this long conflict with appearances which, in spite of myself, condemn me. I am sick to the very heart of these perpetual appeals to your generosity and confidence — tired of trying to win the love of a woman who despises me.”
“But, Henry, if — if — I have misconstrued—” she said, with a tenderness unusual to her in addressing her husband.
“If you have misconstrued—” he exclaimed passionately. “No, Ellinor, no; it is too late now for explanations; besides, I could give you none better than those you have already heard — too late for reconciliation; the breach has been slowly widening
for three long years; and to-night I look at you across an impassable abyss, and wonder that I could have ever dreamed, as I have dreamed, of ultimately winning your love.”
There was a break in his voice as he said these last words, and the emotion, so strange to the ordinary manner of the young barrister, melted Ellinor.
“Mr. Dalton! Henry!”
“You wish to go to Paris, Ellinor. You shall go. But the man who accompanies you thither must be Henry Dalton.”
“You will take me there?” she asked.
“Yes; and will place you under your aunt’s protection. From that moment you are free of me for ever. You will have about three hundred a-year to live upon. It is not much out of the three thousand, is it?” he said, laughing bitterly; “but I give you my honour it is all I can afford, as I shall want the rest for myself.” He looked at his watch. “A quarter-past twelve,” he said. “Dress yourself warmly, Ellinor; it will be a cold journey. I will ring for the people to take your trunks down to the carriage.”
“But, Henry,” she took his hand in hers; “Henry, something in your manner to-night makes me think that I have wronged you. I won’t go to Paris. I will remain with you; I will trust you.”
He pressed the little hand lying in his very gently, and said, looking at her gravely and sadly, with thoughtful blue eyes:
“You cannot, Ellinor! No, no; it is far better, believe me, as it is. I have borne the struggle for three years. I do not think that I could endure it for another day. — Ellis?” he said, as the maid entered the room in answer to his summons, “you will see that this letter is taken to Mr. Margrave immediately, and then see that those trunks are carried downstairs. — Now, Ellinor, if you are ready.”
She had muffled herself hurriedly in a large velvet cloak, while Ellis brought her bonnet and arranged the wraps, which she was too agitated to arrange herself.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 1064
