Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “I will,” answered Herr von Volterchoker readily; “I don’t often do a good-natured thing, but I’ll do this. It’ll be like most people’s good-nature in this world — it won’t cost me anything.”

  Early the next morning, while most of the party were still fast asleep on the spot they had chosen at midnight for their resting-place, Gervoise Gilbert peeped into the van and called to his son. The children had been awake for some time, and Georgey came out at the sound of his father’s voice. The boy was very happy with his new friends. “It is better than being with mamma,” he said; “I don’t get beaten now.”

  Herr von Volterchoker was up and stirring ready to fulfil his promise. The two men seated themselves side by side upon the grass at the back of the van. Here they were completely secluded from the rest of the party.

  Gervoise Gilbert took the child on his knees, and bared the fair little arm, pushing the sleeve of the boy’s threadbare frock high above his shoulder.

  “What we’re going to do will hurt you a little, Georgey,” he said, “ but you’ll try to bear the pain, won’t you — you’ll be a brave little man, for papa’s sake?”

  “Yes, papa,” the boy answered firmly, lifting his bright, innocent eyes to his father’s face.

  “What marks do you want me to tattoo upon his arm?” the clown asked.

  “An earl’s coronet, and the initials ‘G. P.’”

  CHAPTER IV. THE FOSTER-BROTHERS.

  BEFORE the end of August, Mr. Cadgers’s company had penetrated into the leafy depths of beautiful Warwickshire. There was to be a fair held at Avondale, that pleasant, old-fashioned market-town, in the heart of that picturesque region which is sacred to the memory of William Shakespeare, and thither Mr. Cadgers conducted his troupe, with a view to astonishing the simple rustics with the combined efforts of the Desert Whirlwind, Monsieur Montmorency, Herr von Volterchoker, and the ladies.

  Geryoise Gilbert and little Georgey wandered happily together through the shady lanes and fair high-roads of beautiful England.

  Mr. Cadgers knew all the short cuts and by-lanes in the land, it seemed to Geryoise, for he led his band across heathery patches of common, by purple moorland and wandering streams, under the shadow of grassy hills, by wood and water, and through long, sheltered lanes, where there were comfortable nooks in which to rest at night It was a pleasant journey altogether, and Geryoise Gilbert was happier than he had been for years past. He had put away ambition: that bright attribute of manhood, without which man seems less than man, had been starved out of him. He had put away all thoughts of future greatness, or even future wealth, and was resigned to cast in his lot with these low-born associates, and to get his living amongst them as best he might, for the sake of his child. He smiled when first he heard from Mr. Cadgers that Avondale was the destination of the troupe.

  “You must know Avondale, eh?” exclaimed the sagacious proprietor.

  “I knew it once,” Gervoise answered thoughtfully.

  “Then if you knew it once, you know it always,” cried Mr. Cadgers, “for I’m blessed if you’ll find any alteration there. Avondale is a town as stopped growin’ when it was very young — in the time of Queen Elizabeth, or thereabouts — and it’s never growed any more since. It throw’d out a sort of hexcrescience, in the shape of a terrace of red-brick houses, two year ago; but the owdacious builder as put ’em up went mad, and hung hisself in one of the attics, d’reckly he see what he’d done, and that cast a shade of melancholy over the houses, which most of ’em have been to let ever since. And so you know Avondale, do you?” exclaimed Mr. Cadgers, slapping his knee with one hand, and shifting his pipe to the other side of his mouth with the other; “well, that’s queer now, ain’t it?”

  “It is queer,” Gervoise answered, with a strange shadow npon his face; “it is very queer that I should go into that town, as I shall go into it with you, considering—”

  “Considerin’ what, Mr. Jarvis?”

  Gervoise had called himself Jarvis in his dealings with Mr. Cadgers and that gentleman’s gifted company.

  “Never mind what. Every man has a corner of his mind that he likes to keep dark. That’s my dark comer,” the young man answered, stooping to light his pipe with the burning tobacco in the bowl of Mr. Cadgers’s short, blackened meerschaum.

  The faces of the two men were close together as Gervoise said this. Mr. Cadgers looked at him scrutinisingly.

  “You’re very close, Mr. Jarvis,” he said; “but as far as that goes, you’re welcome to be close. You mind your business, and I mind mine; that’s true Christianity, to my thinkin’. But there’s some things people can’t help guessin’ at, if you keep ’em never so close; and, of course, I know well enough you’re not one of our sort. You’re a gentleman, you are; and a gentleman as has it in him to hold his head pretty high, but as has been put upon by the world somehow, I take it. Is that it?”

  “That’s about it,” Gervoise answered.

  “Precisely. Now, do you know, Mr. Jarvis, as you was a-stoopin’ over me to light your pipe just this minute, a hidea came into my ‘ed?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Yes; and that hidea was, that I’d seen you before the other day. Whether it’s someone like you as I’ve seen, or whether it’s you yourself, I can’t tell.”

  “You must have seen someone like me,” said Gervoise; “I don’t think it’s likely you ever saw me until that night upon Putney-heath.”

  “I’ve got it,” said Mr. Cadgers, slapping his knee so violently that he nearly jerked himself off the five-barred gate upon which he was sitting. It was Mr. Cadgers’s habit to sit upon the shaft of his van, the top-rail of a five-barred gate, the stump of a tree, or anything of the like uncomfortable nature, in preference to those vulgar chairs and benches on which the common run of mankind repose. “I’ve got it, and it’s talking of Avondale that’s put it into my mind. You’re the livin’ image of the old Earl of Haughton what died two year ago.”

  Gervoise Gilbert started, and turned very pale.

  “Is the old Earl of Haughton dead?” he said.

  “I flatter myself that he is,” answered Mr. Cadgers, “and died uncommon hard, too, I’ve heard say. Just as he’d lived, the old rapscallion; which I called upon him three years ago, askin’ him to give us his name for a bespeak, and lend us one of his meadders to perform in, and he told me he’d see me all manner of uncivil things fust, and offered to have me kicked out of doors by his butler. Yes, the old varmint has hooked it; and don’t my young lord go it, that’s all; huntin’ and steeplechasin’, and the dooce knows what! He’s a regular wild un, is Lord Haughton. He’ll give us a bespeak, I’ll lay anything, and, as you’ve got such a géntlemanly way with you, you might do the good-natured thing by us, and go and ask for it — mightn’t you, now?”

  Gervoise looked at Mr. Cadgers with a strange smile.

  “No,” he said; “of all the things that are to be done upon this earth, the last I’ll do is to ask a favour of Lord Haughton.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I knew him once; when I was a lad.”

  “And uncommon like the Haughton family you are, too,” exclaimed Mr. Cadgers; “uncommon like ‘em. You ain’t a hillegit—”

  “What?” cried Gervoise, turning so suddenly upon Mr, Cadgers, that the latter gentleman nearly tumbled backwards into the meadow behind him. “ What?”

  “Why, of course you ain’t!” cried Mr. Cadgers very hastily; “who said you was? I should like to know who said you was? You needn’t fly at a feller as if you was a-goin’ to choke him with his own front teeth, just because he asks you a civil question. But you are uncommon like the Haughton family, for all that!”

  “Perhaps I am. There have been accidental likenesses before to-day.”

  “So there has. I’ve seen a many sich; and very orkard accidents they’ve been, too, some of ‘em; so let’s say no more about it,” answered Mr. Cadgers, with quiet dignity.

  No more was said, but this convers
ation had taken place in the hearing of Herr von Volterchoker, who lay at full length upon the grass at Gervoise Gilbert’s feet, smoking quietly, and listening to everything that was said.

  The silent clown had a retentive memory, and was a close observer into the bargain. He knew how to read a man’s looks, as well as his words. He knew the value of the tone in which a word was spoken, as well as of the word itself.

  The troupe arrived at a hilly patch of common land outside Avondale in the dusk of the evening; and, while Mr. Cadgers and his associates were busy with their preparations for the next day, Gervoise Gilbert, with his hat slouched over his forehead, and the collar of his coat turned up so as to conceal the lower part of his face, went out into the quiet little town.

  It was a quaint, old-fashioned place, and seemed, as Mr. Cadgers had said, very much as if no change had come to it since good Queen Bess rode with her favourite by her side along the stony street, while loyal voices gave her clamorous welcome, and loyal children strewed sweet English flowers under her horse’s feet. You went into the town by a grim stone archway, and you went out of it by another archway, grimmer and stonier, if possible, and half borne down by a lop-sided church-tower, in which poor persecuted Charles I. once found a sorry lodging. The traveller who should fall asleep in that old town, and on awakening find Leicester’s varlets carousing in the low tavern parlour, and William Shakespeare lounging in the market-place, would scarcely be surprised. Beyond the grim stone gate, there was a winding river and a buttressed bridge; and above the bridge there towered tall, ivy-mantled castle-walls, within whose ponderous shelter a new sleeping beauty might have slumbered, with her retainers round her, waiting for the coming of the chosen prince foredoomed to awaken her.

  In the dusky summer twilight, Gervoise Gilbert strolled along the narrow High-street, into the market-place, where the townspeople, grouped here and there, talked of the fair that was to be held upon the morrow.

  They had something more than the fair to talk about. Avondale races also were to take place the next day, and the great event was to be a steeplechase with gentleman riders; and the crack rider was the young Earl of Haughton. Gervoise came upon a group of gossips who were discussing this event with considerable animation.

  “They do say as the young countess went down upon her knees implorin’ of my lord not to ride,” an old woman said; “but he’s that obstinate, there’s no more turning him than you could bend the iron battle-axes in the great hall at Palgrave Chase.”

  “That’s hard, too, upon the countess,” said another woman; “for she’s a sweet young creature, and my lord expects an heir to the estate very soon, I’ve heard say.”

  “Yes, and then there’ll be fine doin’s in Avondale, I suppose; for whatever Lord Haughton’s faults may be, his worst enemies can’t say that he doesn’t do things handsomely.”

  Gervoise Gilbert stopped to read the programme of the races, in the window of a low, gable-roofed public-house, near the corner where these gossips stood. Yes, there it was sure enough:

  “At 30 minutes after 3, a steeplechase: gentlemen riders.

  Devilshoof b c.... The Earl of Haughton.

  Meg Merrilies, br f... Captain Clifford.

  Pepper-box, gr f.... Stephen Constable, Esq.”

  There were only three riders for this steeplechase; and some boys standing near Gervoise were talking of the double ditches and double fences that had been constructed on the course.

  The young man was turning away from the lighted tavern-window, when a hand was suddenly laid upon his shoulder.

  He turned quickly round, and found himself face to face with a man of about his own age — a daredevil-looking fellow, with a dark, sunburnt face, and bright black eyes. He looked half-gipsy, half-brigand, and was dressed in a velveteen coat with plated buttons, a gaudy cashmere waistcoat, a wideawake hat, corduroy breeches, and leathern gaiters.

  He was a reformed poacher who had turned gamekeeper, and he was Gervoise Gilbert’s foster-brother. His name was Humphrey Melwood.

  “T couldn’t be mistaken in you, Mr. Gervoise,” he said, holding out his broad, muscular hand.

  He was taller by half a foot than Gervoise Gilbert, and he was big and broad-shouldered, a handsome young Hercules, with a fierce sparkle in his black eyes that promised no good to anyone who provoked his resentment.

  Gervoise shook hands with him.

  “I thought you had gone abroad, Humphrey,” he said.

  “Well, I was going to Australia, Mr. Gervoise; but mother took on dreadful at the notion of my going; and just about that time the earl died, and the young lord said he’d give me one more chance; so now I’m under-gamekeeper at the Chase; and I’m pretty comfortable, sir, and so’s mother, now that I’ve turned steady. And there’s only one thing as I wish for in this blessed world, and that’s for you to be my master, instead of him that now is Earl of Haughton. Not but what he’s kind and generous, sir; but there’s that between you and me, Mr. Gervoise, that’s more than blood, I sometimes think.”

  The young man looked at him with a mournful smile.

  “Yes, Humphrey,” he said; “we slept upon the same breast when we were children together. Perhaps it would have been better for one of us if he had died then.”

  “Not for you, Mr. Gervoise; don’t say that,” the gamekeeper answered entreatingly. “While there’s life there’s hope, you know. I’m only a poor good-for-nothing scoundrel, that never did a good turn for anybody in all my life; but I think you know, Mr. Gervoise, that I’d lay down my life for you, and welcome, if the loss of such a useless life as mine could be any gain to you.”

  The two men walked away from the market-place, and down under the gloomy archway, and out upon the gray stone bridge. They leaned upon the moss-grown parapet as they talked. The rippling water shone silver-bright in the moonlight, except where the great towers of the castle cast their broad black shadows on the river.

  In the good old times that are for ever gone, lonely prisoners, rotting in damp cells level with the river-bed, had listened to the plashing of that water, and the waving of the willows as they dipped into the stream.

  “I’d lay down my life for you, and think it naught, Mr. Gervoise,” said Humphrey Melwood; “and mother and me have thought sometimes that it would have been but kind of you if you’d written to tell us what you were doing in London. I went up there once to look for you; but I’m a rough, ignorant country fellow, and the place seemed strange to me. I walked about the streets till my feet ached, and I was always losin’ myself, and it seemed like lookin’ for a needle in a haystack, so I gave it up; but you might have wrote to us, Mr. Gervoise. If neither mother nor I could have read your letter, we would have found those as could have read it for us.”

  “And it was for that very reason I didn’t write to you, Humphrey,” answered Gervoise; “I didn’t want anybody about the Chasê to know how low I’d sunk.”

  “You’ve been unlucky, then, Mr. Gervoise?”

  “I’ve had all the ill-luck that could fall to a man, I think. After my father’s death I dropped the name of Palgrave, and called myself Gervoise Gilbert. Gilbert was my mother’s name, you know. From that time to this I’ve been trying to support myself by painting. Heaven help me! I have failed in that, as I have failed in everything else. I am tramping through the country now, Humphrey, with a troop of strollers. I am an outcast and a reprobate, whom my cousin, Lord Haughton, would turn from his doors.”

  “When did you hear of your uncle’s death, Mr. Gervoise?”

  “Not until the day before yesterday. How long has he been dead?”

  “Two years. The present earl married six months after his father’s death; and there’s an heir or an heiress expected at the Chase. Have you married, Mr. Gervoise?”

  “Yes,” answered the young man, “I have been married, and I have a son, a boy of three years old; but for him I might have been lying at the bottom of a river before now.”

  “Don’t say that, Mr. Gervoise.”<
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  “What else should I say?” cried the painter fiercely; “what hope is there for me in life, that I should wish to live?” Humphrey Melwood shook his head.

  “It’s rather a dark look-out, certainly, sir,” he said; “but you mustn’t despair — you mustn’t despair.”

  “How can I do otherwise than despair?” answered Gervoise. “My father reared me to look forward to the possession of my uncle’s title and fortune, though he must have known that I might be disappointed of it. He taught me no profession, he gave me no useful knowledge. My own taste made me a painter; but he did nothing to foster that taste.

  ‘Your uncle’s brat may die, boy,’ he said, ‘ and then you will be master of Palgrave Chase.’ After my father’s death I went out into the world, and faced it boldly; but it has been too strong for me; and sometimes, when the day has been darkest, I have felt a strange wild hope that my boy might live to inherit rank and fortune; but I know that hope is madness.” —

  He stood with folded arms looking down at the moonlit water. Humphrey Melwood, watching his profile, saw the settled melancholy of his countenance.

  “Do you mean to stay long at Avondale, Mr. Gervoise?” he asked.

  “To stay long? Heaven forbid! I shall only stay so long as my companions remain here; and I shall take care to hide myself from everyone while I do stay. I came out to-night after dark to see the old place, for it seemed as if something that was stronger than myself drew me into the familiar streets; but I didn’t think I should be recognised — I didn’t wish to be recognised.”

  “But don’t say you’re sorry that you met me, Mr. Gervoise!” cried Humphrey Melwood eagerly. “It’s hard that you should be sorry to see one that was your foster-brother, and that loves you as well as ever a brother was loved. The difference between our rank can’t alter the feelings of our hearts, you know, Mr. Gervoise. I’ve been a bad fellow, a bad son, and a bad servant; but I’ve been true to you; I’ve been true to you.”