"Ruin!" exclaimed Miss Brewer, abruptly; "starvation it may be. I know that our race is nearly run, Mr. Carrington. You need not trouble yourself to remind me of our misery."
"If I do remind you of it, I only do so in the hope that I may be able to serve you," answered Victor. "I have tasted all the bitterness of poverty, Miss Brewer. Forgive me, if I ask whether you, too, have been acquainted with its sting?"
"Have I felt its sting?" cried the poor faded creature. "Who has felt the tooth of the serpent, Poverty, more cruelly than I? It has pierced my very heart. From my childhood I have known nothing but poverty. Shall I tell you my story, Mr. Carrington? I am not apt to speak of myself, or of my youth; but you have evoked the demon, Memory, and I feel a kind of relief in speaking of that long-departed time."
"I am deeply interested in all you say, Miss Brewer. Stranger though I am, believe me that my interest is sincere."
As Victor Carrington said this, Charlotte Brewer looked at him with a sharp, penetrating glance. She was not a woman to be fooled by shallow hypocrisies. The light of the winter's day was fading; but even in the fading light Victor saw the look of sharp suspicion in her pinched face.
"Why should you be interested in me?" she asked, abruptly.
"Because I believe you may be useful to me," answered Victor, boldly. "I do not want to deceive you, Miss Brewer. Great triumphs have been achieved by the union of two powerful minds."
I know you to possess a powerful mind; I know you to be a woman above ordinary prejudices; and I want you to help me, as I am ready to help you. But you were about to tell me the story of your youth.
"It shall be told briefly," said Miss Brewer, speaking in a rapid, energetic manner that was the very reverse of the measured tones she was wont to use. "I am the daughter of a disgraced man, who was a gentleman once; but I have forgotten that time, as he forgot it long before he died.
"My father passed the last ten years of his life in a prison. He died in that prison, and within those dingy smoke-blackened walls my childhood was spent—a joyless childhood, without a hope, without a dream, haunted perpetually by the dark phantom, Poverty. I emerged from that prison to enter a new one, in the shape of a West-end boarding-school, where I became the drudge and scape-goat of rich citizens' daughters, heiresses presumptive to the scrapings of tallow-chandlers and coal-merchants, linen-drapers and cheesemongers. For six years I endured my fate patiently, uncomplainingly. Not one creature amongst that large household loved me, or cared for me, or thought whether I was happy or miserable.
"I worked like a slave. I rose early, and went to bed late, giving my youth, my health, my beauty—you will smile, perhaps, Mr. Carrington, but in those days I was accounted a handsome woman—in exchange for what? My daily bread, and the education which was to enable me to earn a livelihood hereafter. Some distant relations undertook to clothe me; and I was dressed in those days about as shabbily as I have been dressed ever since. In all my life, I never knew the innocent pleasure which every woman feels in the possession of handsome clothes.
"At eighteen, I left the boarding-school to go on the Continent, where I was to fill a situation which had been procured for me. That situation was in the household of Paulina Durski's father. Paulina was ten years of age, and I was appointed as her governess and companion. From that day to this, I have never left her. As much as I am capable of loving any one, I love her. But my mind has been embittered by the miseries of my girlhood, and I do not pretend to be capable of much womanly feeling."
"I thank you for your candour," said Victor. "It is of importance for me to understand your position, for, by so doing, I shall be the better able to assist you. I may believe, then, that there is only one person in the world for whom you care, and that person is Paulina Durski?"
"You may believe that."
"And I may also believe that you, who have drained to the dregs the bitter cup of poverty, would do much, and risk much, in order to be rich?"
"You may."
"Then, Miss Brewer, let me speak to you openly, as one sincerely interested in you, and desirous of serving you and your charming but infatuated friend. May I hope that we shall be uninterrupted for some time longer, for I am anxious to explain myself at once, and fully, now that the opportunity has arisen?"
"No one is likely to enter this room, unless summoned by me," said MissBrewer. "You may speak freely, and at any length you please, Mr.Carrington; but I warn you, you are speaking to a person who has nofaith in any profession of disinterested regard."
As she spoke, Miss Brewer leaned back in her chair, folded her hands before her, and assumed an utterly impassible expression of countenance. No less promising recipient of a confidential scheme could have been seen: but Victor Carrington was not in the least discouraged. He replied, in a cheerful, deferential, and yet business-like tone:
"I am quite aware of that, Miss Brewer; and for my part, I should not feel the respect I do feel for you if I believed you so deficient in sense and experience as to take any other view. I don't offer myself to you in the absurd disguise of apreux chevalier, anxious to espouse the unprofitable cause of two unprotected women in an equivocal position, and in circumstances rapidly tending to desperation."
Here Victor Carrington glanced at his companion; he wanted to see if the shot had told. But Miss Brewer cared no more for the almost open insult, than she had cared for the implied interest conveyed in the exordium of his discourse. She sat silent and motionless. He continued:
"I have an object to gain, which I am resolved to achieve. Two ways to the attainment of this object are open to me; the one injurious, in fact destructive, to you and Madame Durski, the other eminently beneficial. I am interested in you. I particularly like Madame Durski, though I am not one of the legion of her professed admirers."
Miss Brewer shook her head sadly. That legion was much reduced in its numbers of late.
"Therefore," continued Carrington, without seeming to observe the gesture, "I prefer to adopt the latter course, and further your interests in securing my own. I suppose you can at least understand and credit such very plain motives, so very plainly expressed, Miss Brewer?"
"Yes," she said, "that may be true; it does not seem unlikely; we shall see."
"You certainly shall. My explanation will not, I hope, be unduly tedious, but it is indispensable that it should be full. You know, Miss Brewer, that Sir Reginald Eversleigh and I are intimate friends?"
Miss Brewer smiled—a pale, prolonged, unpleasant smile, and then replied, speaking very deliberately:
"I know nothing of the kind, Mr. Carrington. I know you are much together, and have an air of familiar acquaintance, which is the true interpretation of friendship, I take it, between men of the world—ofyourworld in particular."
The hard and determined expression of her manner would have discouraged and deterred most men. It did not discourage or deter Victor Carrington.
"Put what interpretation you please upon my words," he said, "but recognize the facts. There is a strict alliance, if you prefer that phrase, between me and Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and his present intimacy, with his seeming devotion to Madame Durski, prevents him from carrying out the terms of that alliance to my satisfaction. I am therefore resolved to break off that intimacy. Do you comprehend me so far?"
"Yes, I comprehend you so far," answered Miss Brewer, "perfectly."
"Considering Madame Durski's feelings for Sir Reginald—feelings of which, I assure you, I consider him, even according to my own unpretending standard, entirely unworthy—this intimacy cannot be broken off without pain to her, but it might be destroyed without any profit, nay, with ruinous loss. Now, I cannot spare her the pain; that is necessary, indispensable, both for her good, and—which I don't pretend not to regard more urgently—my own. But I can make the pain eminently profitable to her, with your assistance—in fact, so profitable as to secure the peace and prosperity of her whole future life."
He paused, and Miss Brewer looked steadily at him, but she did not speak.
"Reginald Eversleigh owes me money, Miss Brewer, and I cannot afford to allow him to remain in my debt. I don't mean that he has borrowed money from me, for I never had any to lend, and, having any, should never have lent it." He saw how the tone he was taking suited the woman's perverted mind, and pursued it. "But I have done him certain services for which he undertook to pay me money, and I want money. He has none, and the only means by which he can procure it is a rich marriage. Such a marriage is within his reach; one of the richest heiresses in London would have him for the asking—she is an ironmonger's daughter, and pines to be My Lady—but he hesitates, and loses his time in visits to Madame Durski, which are only doing them both harm. Doing her harm, because they are deceiving her, encouraging a delusion; and doing him harm, because they are wasting his time, and incurring the risk of his being 'blown upon' to the ironmonger. Vulgar people of the kind, you know, my dear Miss Brewer, give ugly names, and attach undue importance to intimacies of this kind, and—and—in short, it is on the cards that Madame Durski may spoil Sir Reginald's game. Well, as that game is also mine, you will find no difficulty in understanding that I do not intend Madame Durski shall spoil it."
"Yes, I understand that," said Miss Brewer, as plainly as before; "but I don't understand how Paulina is to be served in the affair, and I don't understand what my part is to be in it."
"I am coming to that," he said. "You cannot be unaware of the impression which Madame Durski has made upon Sir Reginald's cousin, Douglas Dale."
"I know he did admire her," said Miss Brewer, "but he has not been here since his brother's death. He is a rich man now."
"Yes, he is—but that will make no change in him in certain respects. Douglas Dale is a fool, and will always remain so. Madame Durski has completely captivated him, and I am perfectly certain he would marry her to-morrow, if she could be brought to consent."
"A striking proof that Mr. Douglas Dale deserves the character you have given him, you would say, Mr. Carrington?"
"Madam, I am at the mercy of your perspicuity," said Victor, with a mock bow; "however, a truce to badinage—Douglas Dale is a rich man, and very much in love with Madame Durski; but he is the last man in the world to interfere with his cousin, by trying to win her affections, if he believes her attached to Sir Reginald. He is a fool in some things, as I have said before, and he is much more likely, if he thinks it a case of mutual desperation, to contribute a thousand a year or so to set the couple up in a modest competence, like a princely proprietor in a play, than to advance his own claims. Now, this modest competence business would not suit Sir Reginald, or Madame Durski, or me, but the other arrangement would be a capital thing for us all."
"H—m, you see she really loves your friend, Sir Reginald," said MissBrewer.
"Tush," ejaculated Victor Carrington, contemptuously; "of course I know she does, but what does it matter? She would be the most wretched of women if Reginald married her, andhe won't,—after all, that's the great point, he won't. Now Dale will, and will give her unlimited control of his money—a very nice position,notso elevated as to ensure an undesirable raking-up of her antecedents, and the means of proving her gratitude to you, by providing for you comfortably for life."
"That is all possible," replied Miss Brewer, as calmly as before; "but what am I to do towards bringing about so desirable a state of affairs."
"You have to use the influence which your positionauprès deMadame Durski gives you. You can keep her situation constantly before her, you can perpetually harp upon its exigencies—they are pressing, are they not? Yes—then make them more pressing. Expose her to the constant worry and annoyance of poverty, make no effort to hide the inconvenience of ruin. She is a bad manager, of course—all women of her sort are bad managers. Don't help her—make the very worst of everything. Then, you can take every opportunity of pointing out Reginald's neglect, all his defalcations, the cruelty of his conduct to her, the evidence of his never intending to marry her, the selfishness which makes him indifferent to her troubles, and unwilling to help her. Work on pride, on pique, on jealousy, on the love of comfort and luxury, and the horror of poverty and privation, which are always powerful in the minds of women like Madame Durski. Don't talk much to her at first about Douglas Dale, especially until he has come to town and has resumed his visiting here; but take care that her difficulties press heavily upon her, and that she is kept in mind that help or hope from Reginald there is none. I have no doubt whatever that Dale will propose to her, if he does not see her infatuation for Reginald."
"But suppose Mr. Dale does not come here at all?" asked Miss Brewer; "he has broken through the habit now, and he may have thought it over, and determined to keep away."
"Suppose a moth flies away from a candle, Miss Brewer," returned Carrington, "and makes a refreshing excursion out of window into the cool evening air! May we not calculate with tolerable certainty on his return, and his incremation? The last thing in all this matter I should think of doubting would be the readiness of Douglas Dale to tumble head-foremost into any net we please to spread for him."
A short pause ensued—interrupted by Miss Brewer, who said, "I suppose this must all be done quickly—on account of that wealthy Philistine, the ironmonger?"
"On account of my happening to want money very badly, Miss Brewer, and Madame Durski finding herself in the same position. The more quickly the better for all parties. And now, I have spoken very plainly to you so far, let me speak still more plainly. It is manifestly for your advantage that Madame Durski should be rich and respectable, rather than that she should be poor and—under a cloud. It is no less manifestly, though not so largely, for your advantage, that I should get my money from Reginald Eversleigh, because, when I do, get it, I will hand you five hundred pounds by way of bonus."
"If there were any means by which you could be legally bound to the fulfilment of that promise, Mr. Carrington," said Miss Brewer, "I should request you to put it in writing. But I am quite aware that no such means exist. I accept it, therefore, with moderate confidence, and will adopt the course you have sketched, not because I look for the punctual payment of the money, but because Paulina's good fortune, if secured, will secure mine. But I must add," and here Miss Brewer sat upright in her chair, and a faint colour came into her sallow cheek, "I should not have anything to do with your plots and plans, if I did not believe, and see, that this one is for Paulina's real good."
Victor Carrington smiled, as he thought, "Here is a rare sample of human nature. Here is this woman, quite pleased with herself, and positively looking almost dignified, because she has succeeded in persuading herself that she is actuated by a good motive."
The conversation between Miss Brewer and Victor Carrington lasted for some time longer, and then he was left alone, while Miss Brewer went to attend thelevéeof Madame Durski. As he paced the room, Carrington smiled again, and muttered, "If Dale were only here, and she could be persuaded to borrow money of him, all would be right. So far, all is going well, and I have taken the right course. My motto is the motto of Danton—'De l'audace, de l'audace, et toujours de l'audace.'"
* * * * *
Victor Carrington dined with Madame Durski and her companion. The meal was served with elegance, but the stamp of poverty was too plainly impressed upon all things at Hilton House. The dinner served with such ceremony was but a scanty banquet—the wines were poor—and Victor perceived that, in place of the old silver which he had seen on a previous occasion, Madame Durski's table was furnished with the most worthless plated ware.
Paulina herself looked pale and haggard. She had the weary air of a woman who finds life a burden almost too heavy for endurance.
"I have consented to see you this evening, Mr. Carrington, in accordance with your very pressing message," she said, when she found herself alone in the drawing-room with Victor Carrington after dinner, Miss Brewer having discreetly retired; "but I cannot imagine what business you can have with me."
"Do not question my motives too closely, Madame Durski," said Victor; "there are some secrets lying deep at the root of every man's existence. Believe me, when I assure you that I take a real interest in your welfare, and that I came here to-night in the hope of serving you. Will you permit me to speak as a friend?"
"I have so few friends that I should be the last to reject any honest offer of friendship," answered Paulina, with a sigh. "And you are the friend of Reginald Eversleigh. That fact alone gives you some claim to my regard."
The widow had admitted Victor Carrington to a more intimate acquaintance than the rest of her visitors; and it was fully understood between them that he knew of the attachment between herself and Sir Reginald.
"Sir Reginald Eversleigh is my friend," replied Victor; "but do not think me treacherous, Madame Durski, when I tell you he is not worthy of your regard. Were he here at this moment, I would say the same. He is utterly selfish—it is of his own interest alone that he thinks; and were the chance of a wealthy marriage to offer itself, I firmly believe that he would seize it—ay! even if by doing so he knew that he was to break your heart. I think you know that I am speaking the truth, Madame Durski?"
"I do," answered Paulina, in a dull, half despairing tone. "Heaven help me! I know that it is the truth. I have long known as much. We women are capable of supreme folly. My folly is my regard for your friend Reginald Eversleigh."
"Let your pride work the cure of that wasted devotion, madame," said Victor, earnestly. "Do not submit any longer to be the dupe, the tool, of this man. Do you know how dearly your self-sacrifice has cost you? I am sure you do not. You do not know that this house is beginning to be talked about as a place to be shunned. You have observed, perhaps, that you have had few visitors of late. Day by day your visitors will grow fewer. This house is marked. It is talked of at the clubs; and Reginald Eversleigh will no longer be able to live upon the spoils won from his dupes and victims. The game is up, Madame Durski; and now that you can no longer be useful to Reginald Eversleigh, you will see how much his love is worth."
"I believe he loves me," murmured Paulina, "after his own fashion."
"Yes, madame, after his own fashion, which is, at the best, a strange one. May I ask how you spent your Christmas?"
"I was very lonely; this house seemed horribly cold and desolate. No one came near me. There were no congratulations; no Christmas gifts. Ah! Mr. Carrington, it is a sad thing to be quite alone in the world."
"And Reginald Eversleigh—the man whom you love—he who should have been at your side, was at Hallgrove Rectory, among a circle of visitors, flirting with the most notorious of coquettes—Miss Graham, an old friend of his boyish days."
Victor looked at Paulina's face, and saw the random shot had gone home. She grew even paler than she had been before, and there was a nervous working of the lips that betrayed her agitation.
"Were there ladies amongst the guests at Hallgrove?" he asked.
"Yes, Madame Durski, there were ladies. Did you not know that it was to be so?"
"No," replied Paulina. "Sir Reginald told me it was to be a bachelors' party."
Victor saw that this petty deception on the part of her lover stungPaulina keenly.
She had been deeply wounded by Reginald's cold and selfish policy; but until this moment she had never felt the pangs of jealousy.
"So he was flirting with one of your fashionable English coquettes, while I was lonely and friendless in a strange country," she exclaimed. And then, after a brief pause, she added, passionately, "You are right, Mr. Carrington; your friend is unworthy of one thought from me, and I will think of him no more."
"You will do wisely, and you will receive the proof of what I say ere long from the lips of Reginald Eversleigh himself. Tell me the truth dear madame, are not your pecuniary difficulties becoming daily more pressing?"
"They have become so pressing," answered Paulina, "that, unless Reginald lends me money almost immediately, I shall be compelled to fly from this country in secret, like a felon, leaving all my poor possessions behind me. Already I have parted with my plate, as you no doubt have perceived. My only hope is in Reginald."
"A broken reed on which to rely, madame. Sir Reginald Eversleigh will not lend you money. Since this house has become a place of evil odour, to be avoided by men who have money to lose, you are no longer of any use to Sir Reginald. He will not lend you money. On the contrary he will urge your immediate flight from England; and when you have gone—"
"What then?"
"There will be an obstacle removed from his pathway; and when the chance of a rich marriage arises, he will be free to grasp it."
"Oh, what utter baseness!" murmured Paulina; "what unspeakable infamy!"
"A selfish man can be very base, very infamous," replied Victor. "But do not let us speak further of this subject, dear Madame Durski. I have spoken with cruel truth; but my work has been that of the surgeon, who uses his knife freely in order to cut away the morbid spot which is poisoning the very life-blood of the sufferer. I have shown you the disease, the fatal passion, the wasted devotion, to which you are sacrificing your life; my next duty is to show you where your cure lies."
"You may be a very clever surgeon," replied Paulina, scornfully; "but in this case your skill is unavailing. For me there is no remedy."
"Nay, madame, that is the despairing cry of a romantic girl, and is unworthy the lips of an accomplished woman of the world. You complained just now of your loneliness. You said that it was very sad to be without a friend. How if I can show you that you possess one attached and devoted friend, who would be as willing to sacrifice himself for your interests as you have been willing to devote yourself to Reginald Eversleigh?"
"Who is that friend?"
"Douglas Dale."
"Douglas Dale!" exclaimed Paulina. "Yes, I know, that Mr. Dale admires me, and that he is a good and honourable man; but can I take advantage of his admiration? Can I trade upon his love? I—who have no heart to give, no affection to offer in return for the honest devotion of a good man? Do not ask me to stoop to such baseness—such degradation."
"I ask nothing from you but common sense," answered Victor impatiently. "Instead of wasting your love upon Reginald Eversleigh, who is not worthy a moment's consideration from you, give at least your esteem and respect to the honourable and unselfish man who truly loves you. Instead of flying from England, a ruined woman, branded with the name of cheat and swindler, remain as the affianced wife of Douglas Dale—remain to prove to Reginald Eversleigh that there are those in the world who know how to value the woman he has despised."
"Yes, he has despised me," murmured Paulina, speaking to herself rather than to her companion; "he has despised me. He left me alone in this dreary house; in the Christmas festival time, when friends and lovers draw nearer together all the world over, united by the sweet influences of the season; he left me to sit alone by this desolate hearth, while he made merry with his friends—while he sunned himself in the smiles of happier women. What truth can he claim from me—he who has been falsehood itself?"
She remained silent for some minutes after this, with her eyes fixed on the fire, her thoughts far away. Victor did not arouse her from that reverie. He knew that the work he had to do was progressing rapidly.
He felt that he was moulding this proud and passionate woman to his will, as the sculptor moulds the clay which is to take the form of his statue.
At last she spoke.
"I thank you for your good advice, Mr. Carrington," she said, calmly; "and I will avail myself of your worldly wisdom. What would you have me do?"
"I would have you tell Douglas Dale, when he returns to town and comes to see you, the position in which you find yourself with regard to money matters, and ask the loan of a few hundreds. The truth and depth of his love for you will be proved by his response to this appeal."
"How came you to suspect his love for me?" asked Paulina. "It has never yet shaped itself in words. A woman's own instinct generally tells her when she is truly loved; but how came you, a bystander, a mere looker-on, to discover Douglas Dale's secret?"
"Simply because I am a man of the world, and somewhat of an observer, and I will pledge my reputation as both upon the issue of your interview with Douglas Dale."
"So be it," said Paulina; "I will appeal to him. It is a new degradation; but what has my whole life been except a series of humiliations? And now, Mr. Carrington, this interview has been very painful to me. Pardon me, if I ask you to leave me to myself."
Victor complied immediately, and took leave of Madame Durski with many apologies for his intrusion. Before leaving the house he encountered Miss Brewer, who came out of a small sitting-room as he entered the hall.
"You are going away, Mr. Carrington?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered; "but I shall call again in a day or two. Meantime, let me hear from you, if Dale presents himself here. I have had some talk with your friend, and am surprised at the ease with which the work we have to do may be done. She despises Reginald now; she won't love him long. Good night, Miss Brewer."
After the lapse of a few days, during which Victor Carrington carefully matured his plans, while apparently only pursuing his ordinary business, and leading his ordinary life of dutiful attention to his mother and quiet domestic routine, he received a letter in a handwriting which was unfamiliar to him. It contained the following words:
"In accordance with your desire, and my promise, I write to inform you that, D. D. has notified his return to London and his intention to visit P. He did not know whether she was in town, and, therefore, wrote before coming. She seemed much affected by his letter, and has replied to it, appointing Wednesday after-noon for receiving him, and inviting him to luncheon. No communication has been received from R. E., and she takes the fact easily. If you have any advice, or I suppose I should say instructions, to give me, you had better come here to-morrow (Tuesday), when I can see you alone.—C. B."
Victor Carrington read this note with a smile of satisfaction, which faithfully interpreted the feelings it produced. There was a business-like tone in his correspondent's letter which exactly suited his ideas of what it was advisable his agent should be.
"She is really admirable," he said, as he destroyed Miss Brewer's note; "just clever enough to be useful, just shrewd enough to understand the precise force and weight of an argument, but not clever enough, or shrewd enough, to find out that she is used for any purpose but the one for which she has bargained."
And then Victor Carrington wrote a few lines to Miss Brewer, in which he thanked her for her note, and prepared her to receive a visit from him on the following day. This written and posted, he walked up and down his laboratory, in deep thought for some time, and then once more seated himself at his desk. This time his communication was addressed to Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and merely consisted of a request that that gentleman should call upon him—Victor Carrington—on a certain day, at a week's distance from the present date.
"I shall have more trouble with this shallow fool than with all the rest of them," said Victor to himself, as he sealed his letter; and, as he said it, he permitted his countenance to assume a very unusual expression of vexation; "his vanity will make him kick against letting Paulina turn him off; and he will run the risk of destroying the game sooner than suffer that mortification. But I will take care heshallsuffer it, andnotdestroy the game.
"No, no, Sir Reginald Eversleigh,youshall not be my stumbling-block in this instance. How horribly afraid he is of me," thought Victor Carrington, and a smile of cruel satisfaction, which might have become a demon, lighted his pale face at the reflection; "he is dying to know exactly how that business of Dale the elder was managed; he has the haziest notions in connection with it, and, by Jove, he dare not ask me. And yet, I am only his agent,—histo be paidagent,—and he shakes in his shoes before me. Yes, and I will be paid too, richly paid, Sir Reginald, not only in money, but in power. In power—the best and most enjoyable thing that money has to buy."
Victor Carrington sent his letter to the post, and joined his mother in her sitting-room, where her life passed placidly away, among her birds and her flowers. Mrs. Carrington had none of the vivacity about her which is so general an attribute of French women. She liked her quiet life, and had little sympathy with her son's restless ambition and devouring discontent. A cold, silent, self-contained woman, she shut herself up in her own occupations, and cared for nothing beyond them. She had the French national taste and talent for needlework, and generally listened to her son, as he talked or read to her, with a piece of elaborate embroidery in her hand. On the present occasion, she was engaged as usual, and Victor looked at her work and praised it, according to his custom.
"What is it for, mother?" he asked.
"An altar-cloth," she replied. "I cannot give money, you know, Victor, and so I am glad to give my work."
The young man's dark eyes flashed, as he replied;—
"True, mother, but the time will come—it is not far off now—when you and I shall both be set free from poverty, when we shall once more take our place in our own rank—when we shall be what the Champfontaines were, and do as the Champfontaines did—when this hateful English name shall be thrown aside, and this squalid English home abandoned, and the past restored to us, we to the past." He rose as he spoke, and walked about the room. A faint flush brightened his sallow face, an unwonted light glittered in his deep-set eyes. His mother continued to ply her needle, with downcast eyes, and a face which showed no sign of sympathy with her son's enthusiasm.
"Industry and talent are good, my Victor," she said, "and they bring comfort, they bringle bienêtrein their train; but I do not think all the industry and talent you can display as a surgeon in London will ever enable you to restore the dignity and emulate the wealth of the old Champfontaines."
Victor Carrington glanced at his mother almost angrily, and for an instant felt the impulse rise within him which prompted him to tell her that it was not only by the employment of means so tame and common-place that he designed to realize the cherished vision of his ambition. But he checked it instantly, and only said, with the reverential inflection which his voice never failed to take when he addressed his mother, "What, then, would you advise me to try, in addition?"
"Marry a rich woman, my Victor; marry one of these moneyed English girls, who are, for the most part, permitted to follow their inclinations—inclinations which would surely, if encouraged, lead many of them your way." Mrs. Carrington spoke in the calmest tone possible.
"Marry—I marry?" said Victor, in a tone of surprise, in which a quick ear would have noticed something also of disappointment. "I thought you would never like that, mother. It would part us, you know, and then what would you do?"
"There is always the convent for me, Victor," said his mother, "if you no longer needed me." And she composedly threaded her needle, and began a very minute leaf in the pattern of her embroidery.
Victor Carrington looked at his mother with surprise, and some vague sense of pain. Shecouldmake up her mind to part with him—she had thought of the possibility, and with complacence. He muttered something about having something to do, and left her, strangely moved, while she calmly worked in at her embroidery.
On the following day Victor Carrington presented himself at Hilton House, and was received by Miss Brewer alone. She was pale, chilly, and ungracious, as usual, and the understanding which had been arrived at between Carrington and herself did not move her to the manifestation of the smallest additional cordiality in her reception of him.
"I have to thank you for your prompt compliance with my request, MissBrewer," said Victor.
She made no sound nor sign of encouragement, and he continued. "Since I saw you, another complication has arisen in this matter, which makes our game doubly safe and secure. In order to explain this complication thoroughly, I must ask you to let me put you through a kind of catechism. Have I your permission, Miss Brewer?"
"You may ask me any questions you please," returned Miss Brewer, in a hard, cold, even voice; "and I will answer them as truthfully as I can."
"Do you know anything of Douglas Dale's family connections and antecedents?"
"I know that his mother was Sir Oswald Eversleigh's sister, and that he and Lionel Dale, who was drowned on St. Stephen's day, were left large incomes by their uncle, in addition to some inconsiderable family property which they inherited from their father, Mr. Melville Dale, who was a lawyer, and, I believe, a not very successful one."
"Did you ever hear anything of the family history of this Mr. MelvilleDale, the father of Lionel and Douglas?"
"I never heard more than his name, and the circumstance I have already mentioned."
"Listen, then. Melville Dale had a sister, towards whom their father conceived undue and unjust partiality (according to the popular version) from their earliest childhood. This sister, Henrietta Dale, married, when very young, a country baronet of good fortune, one Sir George Verner, and thereby still further pleased her father, and secured his favour. Melville Dale, on the contrary, opposed the old gentleman in everything, and ultimately crowned the edifice of his offences by publishing a deistical treatise, which made a considerable sensation at the time of its appearance, and caused the author's expulsion from Balliol, where he had already attained a bad eminence by numerous escapades of the Shelley order. This proceeding so incensed his father that he made a will, in the heat of his anger, by which he disinherited Melville Dale, and left the whole of his fortune to his daughter, Lady Verner. If he repented this summary and vindictive proceeding, neither I nor any one else can tell. The disinherited son reformed his life very soon after the breach between himself and his father, and was lucky enough to win the affections of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's sister. But he was too proud to ask for his father's forgiveness, and the father died a year after Douglas Dale's birth—never having seen Mrs. Dale or his grandchildren. At the time of her father's death, Lady Verner had no children, and she was, I believe, disposed to treat her brother very generously; but he was an obstinate, headstrong man, and persisted in believing that she had purposely done him injury with his father. He would not see her. He refused to accept any favour at her hands, and a complete estrangement took place. The brother and sister never met again; and it was only through the medium of the newspapers that Lionel and Douglas Dale learned, some time after their father's death (Melville Dale died young), that severe affliction had befallen their aunt, Lady Verner. The bitter and deadly breach between father and son, and between brother and sister, was destined never to be healed. Lionel and Douglas grew up knowing nothing of their father's family, but treated always with persistent kindness by their uncle, Sir Oswald Eversleigh, who insisted upon their making Raynham Castle a second home."
"Their cousin Reginald must have likedthat, I fancy," remarked MissBrewer, in her coldest tone.
"Hedid, as you suppose," said Carrington; "he hated the Dales, and I fancy they had but little intimacy with him. He was early taken up by Sir Oswald, and acknowledged and treated as his heir. You know, of course, how all that came to grief, and how Sir Oswald married a nobody, and left her the bulk of his fortune?"
"Yes, I have heard all that," said Miss Brewer. "Sir Reginald did not spare us the details of the injustice Sir Oswald had done him, or the expression of his feelings regarding it. Sir Reginald is the most egotistical man I know."
"Well, then, as you are in possession of the family relations so far, let me return to Lady Verner, of whom her nephews knew nothing during their father's lifetime. She had lost her husband shortly after the birth of her only child, and continued to live at Naples, whither Sir George had been taken, in the vain hope of prolonging his life. A short time after Sir George Verner's death, and while his child was almost an infant, Lady Verner's villa was robbed, and the little girl, with her nurse, disappeared. The general theory was, that the nurse had connived at the robbery, and gone off with the thieves; and being, after the fashion of Italian nurses, extraordinarily fond of the child, had refused to be parted from her. Be that as it may, the nurse and child were never heard of again, and though the case was put into the hands of the cleverest of the police, in Paris and London, no discovery has ever been made. Lady Verner fell into a state of hopeless melancholy, in which she continued for many years, and during that period, of course, her wealth accumulated, and is now very great indeed. I see by your face, Miss Brewer, that you are growing impatient, and are disposed to wonder what the family history of the Dales, and the troubles of Lady Verner, have to do with Paulina Durski and our designs for her future. Bear with my explanation a little longer, and you will perceive the importance of the connection between them."
Miss Brewer gave her shoulders a slight shrug, expressive of supreme resignation, and Victor continued.
"Lady Verner has now recovered, under the influence of time and medical skill, and has come to London with the avowed purpose of arranging the affairs of her large property. She has heard of Lionel Dale's death, and, therefore, knows that there is a candidate the less in the field. Sir Reginald Eversleigh has obtained access to this lady, and he has carefully nipped in the bud certain symptoms of interest which she betrayed in the fate of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's widow and orphan daughter. Lady Verner is an exceedingly proud woman, and you may suppose her maternal instincts are powerful, when the loss of her child caused her years of melancholy madness. My gifted friend speedily discovered these characteristics, and practised on them. Lady Verner was made aware that the widow of Sir Oswald Eversleigh was a person of low origin, and dubious reputation, and cared so little for her child that she had gone abroad, for an indefinite time, leaving the little girl at Raynham, in the care of servants. The result of this representation was, that Lady Verner felt and expressed extreme disgust, and considerable satisfaction that she had not committed herself to a course from which she must have receded, by opening any communication with Lady Eversleigh. One danger thus disposed of—and I must say I think Reginald did it well—he was very enthusiastic, he tells me, on the virtues of his uncle, and his inextinguishable regret for that benefactor of his youth."
Miss Brewer's cold smile, and glittering, baleful eye, attractedCarrington's attention at this point.
"That shocks you, does it, Miss Brewer?" he asked.
"Shock me? Oh no! It rather interests me; there's an eminence of baseness in it."
"So there is," said Carrington, with pleased assent, "especially to one who knows, as I do, how Reginald hated his uncle, living-how he hates his memory, dead. However, he did this, and did it well; but it was only half his task. Lady Verner would keep herself clear of Lady Eversleigh, but she must be kept clear of Douglas Dale."
"Ha!" said Miss Brewer, with a slight change of attitude and expression, "I see now; she must be turned against him by means of Paulina—poor Paulina! She says she is fatal to him; she says he ought to fly from her. This looks still more like her being right."
"It does, indeed, Miss Brewer," said Carrington, gravely. "You are right. It was by means of Madame Durski that the trick was done; but neither you nor I—and I assure you I like your friend immensely—can afford to take objection to the manner of doing it. Lady Verner was made to understand that by extending her countenance to, or enriching Douglas Dale, she would only be giving additional security andeclâtto a marriage scarcely less disgraceful than that which Sir Oswald Eversleigh had contracted. The device has been successful, so far. And now comes the third portion of Sir Reginald's game—the substitution of himself in Lady Verner's good graces for the nephew he has ousted. This is only fair, after all. Dale cut him out with his uncle—he means to cut Dale out with his aunt. You understand our programme now, Miss Brewer, don't you?"
"Yes," she replied, slowly, "but I don't see why I should lend him any assistance. It would be more to my interest that Douglas Dale should inherit this lady's fortune; the richer Paulina's husband is, the better for me."
"Unquestionably, my dear Miss Brewer," said Carrington. "But Dale will not marry Paulina if Sir Reginald Eversleigh chooses to prevent it; and Douglas Dale will not give you five hundred pounds for any services whatever, because there are none which you can render him. I think you can see that pretty plainly, Miss Brewer. And you can also see, I presume, that, providedIgetmymoney from Eversleigh, it is a manner of total indifference to me whether he getsLady Verner'smoney, or whether Dale gets it. The only means by which I can get my money is by detaching Sir Reginald from Paulina, and making him marry the ironmonger's heiress. When that is done, and the money is paid, I am perfectly satisfied that Dale should get the fortune, and I think it very likely he will; but you must perceive that I cannot play my own game except by appearing to play Reginald's."
"Is Lady Verner likely to think the ironmonger's heiress a good match for Sir Reginald Eversleigh?" Miss Brewer asked, in a coldly sarcastic tone.
"How is she to know anything of her origin?" returned Carrington, who was, however, disconcerted by the question. "She lives a most retired life; no one but Reginald has any access to her, and he can make her believe anything he likes."
"That's fortunate," said Miss Brewer, drily; "pray proceed."
"Well, then, you see these points as clearly as I do—the next thing to be done is to secure Paulina's marriage with Douglas Dale."
"I don't think that needs much securing," said Miss Brewer. "Judging from his manner before he left town, and from the tone of his letter, I should think very little encouragement from her would ensure a proposal of marriage from him."
"And will she give him that encouragement?"
"Undoubtedly—I fully believe she will marry Douglas Dale. She has certainly learned to despise Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and I think Mr. Dale has caught her heart in the rebound."
"Have you attended to my instructions about impressing her money difficulties on her mind—have you made things as bad as possible?"
"Certainly," answered Miss Brewer. "Only this morning I have sent into her room several pressing and impertinent letters from her tradespeople, and I put some accounts of the most dispiriting character before her last night. She is in dreadfully low spirits."
"So much the better! If we can but induce her to borrow money from Dale, all will be well; he will take that as a convincing proof of regard and confidence, and will propose to her at once. I am sure of it. So sure, that I will pass that matter by, and take it for granted. And now—if this comes to pass, and Douglas Dale is here as the accepted lover of Paulina, I must have constant access to the house, and he must not know me as Victor Carrington. He has never seen me, though I am familiar with his appearance."
"Why?" asked Miss Brewer, in a tone of suspicious surprise.
"I will tell you, by-and-by. Suffice it for the present that it must be so. Then again, it would not do to have a man, who is not a relative, establishedl'ami de la maison. That it is not the sort of thing that an affianced lover could be expected to like. You must introduce me to Douglas Dale as your cousin, and by the name of Carton. It is sufficiently like my real name to prevent the servants knowing my name is changed, since they always bungle over the 'Carrington.' As Victor Carrington, Dale might refuse to know me, and certainly would not form any intimacy with me, and that he should form an intimacy with me is essential to my purpose."
"Why?" said Miss Brewer, in exactly the same tone as before.
"I will tell you by-and-by," said Carrington. "You consent, do you not?"
"I am not sure," she answered. "But, even supposing I do consent, there is Paulina to be consulted. How is she to be induced to call you Mr. Carton and my cousin?"
"I will undertake to persuade Madame Durski that it will be for her best interests to consent," said Carrington. "And now to my explanation. Reginald Eversleigh is a man who is not to be trusted for a moment, even where his own interests are closely concerned. He cares nothing for Paulina; he knows the best thing that can happen to him would be her marriage with Dale, for he calculates upon his hold over the wife giving him the chance of a good share of the husband's money in some way. Yet, such is his vanity, so unmanageable is his temper, that if he were not too much afraid of me, too much in my power, he would indulge them both at the cost of destroying our plan. If he knew me to be absent, or unable to present myself freely here, he would persecute Paulina—she would never be free from him. He would compromise his own chance with the heiress, which is, naturally, my chief consideration, and compromise her with Douglas Dale. Again, I do not mind admitting to you, Miss Brewer, that I am of a cautious and suspicious temperament; and when I pay an agent liberally, as I intend to pay you, I always like to see for myself how the work is done."
"That argument, at least, is unanswerable," she replied. "You shall, so far as I can answer for it, pass as my cousin and Mr. Carton, and have a freeentréhere."
"Good," said Carrington, rising. "And now there is nothing more to be said just at present."
"Pardon me; you have not told me why an intimacy with Mr. Dale is essential to your purpose."
"Because I must watch his proceedings and intentions—in fact, know all about him—in order to discover whether it will suit my interests best to forward Eversleigh's plans with respect to Lady Verner, or to betray them to Dale."
Miss Brewer looked at him with something like admiration. She thought she understood him so perfectly now, that she need ask nothing farther. So they parted with the understanding that she was to report fully on Douglas Dale's visit, and Carrington was to call on Paulina on the day succeeding it. When she was alone, Miss Brewer remembered that Carrington had not explained why it was he felt certain Dale would not form any intimacy with him as Victor Carrington. As he walked homewards, Victor muttered to himself—
"Heavens, what a clever fool that woman is. Once more I have won, and by boldness."
* * * * *
The feelings with which Douglas Dale prepared for his visit to Hilton House on the day following that on which Victor Carrington had made his full and candid explanation to Miss Brewer, were such as any woman—the purest, the noblest, the best—might have been proud of inspiring. They were full of love, trust, pity, and hope. Douglas Dale had by no means ceased to feel his brother's loss. No, the death of Lionel, and, even more, the terrible manner of that death, still pursued him in every waking hour—still haunted him in his dreams; but sorrow, and especially its isolating tendency, does but quicken and intensify feelings of tenderness in true and noble hearts.
He drove up to Hilton House with glad expectancy, and his eyes were dim as he was ushered into the drawing-room in which Paulina sat.
Madame Durski's emotions on this occasion were unspeakably painful. So well had Miss Brewer played her part, that she had persuaded Paulina her only chance of escape from immediate arrest lay in borrowing money, that very day, from Douglas Dale. Paulina's pride revolted; but the need was pressing, and the unhappy woman yielded.
As she rose to return her visitor's greeting, and stood before him in the cold January sunset, she was indeed, in all outward seeming, worthy of any man's admiration.
Remorse and suffering had paled her cheeks; but they had left no disfiguring traces on her perfect face.
The ivory whiteness of her complexion was, perhaps, her greatest charm, and her beauty would scarcely have been enhanced by those rosy tints so necessary to some faces.
To-day she had dressed herself to perfection, fully conscious of the influence which a woman's costume is apt to exercise over the heart of the man who loves her.
Half an hour passed in conversation of a general nature, and then luncheon was announced. When Paulina and her visitor returned to the dreary room, they were alone; Miss Brewer had discreetly retired.
"My dear Madame Durski!" exclaimed Douglas, when the widow had seated herself and he had placed himself opposite to her, "I cannot tell you what intense pleasure it gives me to see you again, and most of all because it leads me to believe that I can in some manner serve you. I know how secluded your habits have been of late, and I fancy you would scarcely so depart from them in my favour if you had not some real need of my service."
This speech was peculiarly adapted to smoothe away the difficulties of Paulina's position. Douglas had long guessed the secret of her poverty, and had more than half divined the motive of her letter. He was eager to save her, as far as possible, from the painfulness of the request which he felt almost sure she was about to make to him.
"Your cordial kindness affects me deeply, Mr. Dale," said Paulina, with a blush that was the glow of real shame. "You are right; I should be the last woman in the world to appeal to you thus if I had not need of your help—bitter need. I appeal to you, because I know the goodness and generosity of your nature. I appeal to you as a beggar."
"Madame Durski, for pity's sake, do not speak thus," cried Douglas, interrupting her. "Every penny that I possess in the world is at your command. I am ready to begin life again, a worker for my daily bread, rather than that you should suffer one hour's pain, one moment's humiliation, that money can prevent."
"You are too generous, too noble," exclaimed Paulina, in a broken voice. "The only way in which I can prove my gratitude for your delicate goodness is by being perfectly candid. My life has been a strange one, Mr. Dale—a life of apparent prosperity, but of real poverty. Before I was old enough to know the value of a fortune, I was robbed of that which should have been mine, and robbed by the father who should have protected my interests. From that hour I have known little except trouble. I was married to a man whom I never loved—married at the command of the father who had robbed me. If I have not fallen, as many other women so mated have fallen, I take no pride in my superior strength of mind. It may be that temptation such as lures other women to their ruin never approached me. Since my husband died, my life, as you too well know, has been a degraded one. I have been the companion and friend of gamesters. It is, indeed, only since I came to England that I have myself ceased to be a gambler. Can you remember all this, Mr. Dale, and yet pity me?"
"I can remember it all, and yet love you, Paulina," answered Douglas, with emotion. "We are not masters of our own affections. From the hour in which I first saw you I have loved you—loved you in spite of myself. I will admit that your life has not been that which I would have chosen for the woman I love; and that to remember your past history is pain to me. But, in spite of all, I ask you to be my wife; and it shall be the business of my future life to banish from your remembrance every sorrow and every humiliation that you have suffered in the past. Say that you will be my wife, Paulina. I love you as few women are loved. I am rich, and have the power to remove you far from every association that is painful to you. Tell me that I may be the guardian of your future existence."
Paulina contemplated her lover for a few moments with singular earnestness. She was deeply impressed by his generous devotion, and she could not but compare this self-sacrificing love with the base selfishness of Reginald Eversleigh's conduct.
"You do not ask me if I can return your affection," she said, after that earnest look. "You offer to raise me from degradation and poverty, and you demand nothing in return."
"No, Paulina," replied Douglas; "I would not make abargainwith the woman I love. I know that you have not yet learned to love me, and yet I do not fear for the future, if you consent to become my wife. True love, such as mine, rarely fails to win its reward, sooner or later. I am content to wait. It will be sufficient happiness to me to know that I have rescued you from a miserable and degrading position."
"You are only too generous," murmured Paulina, softly; "only too generous."
"And now tell me the immediate object of this most welcome summons. I will not press you for a prompt reply to my suit; I will trust that time may be my friend. Tell me how I can serve you, and why you sent for me to-day?"
"I sent for you that I might ask you for the loan of two hundred pounds, to satisfy the claims of my most urgent creditors, and to prevent the necessity of an ignominious flight."
"I will write you a cheque immediately for five hundred," said Douglas. "You can drive to my banker's, and get it cashed there. Or stay; it would not be so well for my banker to know that I lent you money. Let me come again to you this evening, and bring ink sum in bank-notes. That will give me an excuse for coming."
"How can I ever thank you sufficiently?"
"Do not thank me at all. Only let me love you, looking forward hopefully to the day in-which you may learn to love me." "That day must surely come ere long," replied Paulina, thoughtfully. "Gratitude so profound as mine, esteem so sincere, must needs grow into a warmer feeling."
"Yes, Paulina," said Douglas, "if your heart is free. Forgive me if I approach a subject painful to you and to me. Reginald Eversleigh—my cousin—have you seen him often lately?"
"I have not seen him since he left London for Hallgrove. I am not likely to see him again."
"I am very glad of that. There is but one fear in my mind when I think of our future, Paulina."
"And that is?"
"The fear that Reginald Eversleigh may come between you and me."
"You need no longer fear that," replied Madame Durski. "You have been so noble, so devoted in your conduct to me, that I must be indeed a worthless wretch if I shrink from the painful duty of laying my heart bare before you. I have loved your cousin Reginald, foolishly, blindly; but there must come an end to all folly; there must come a day when the bandage falls from the eyes that have obstinately shunned the light. That day has come for me; and Sir Reginald Eversleigh is henceforward nothing more to me than the veriest stranger."
"A thousand thanks, dearest, for that assurance," exclaimed Douglas; "and now trust in me. Tour future shall be so bright and happy that the past will seem to you no more than a troubled dream."
Black Milsom made his appearance in the little village of Raynham immediately after Lady Eversleigh's departure from the castle. But on this occasion it would have been very difficult for those who had seen him at the date of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's funeral to recognize, in the respectable-looking, well-dressed citizen of to-day, the ragged tramp of that period.
While Honoria Eversleigh was living under a false name in Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road, the man who called himself her father, established himself in a little river-side public-house, under the shadow of Raynham Castle. The house in question had never borne too good a character; and its reputation was in nowise improved when, on the death of its owner, it passed into the custody of Mr. Milsom, who came down to Raynham one November morning, almost immediately after Lady Eversleigh's departure, saw the "Cat and Fiddle" public-house vacant, and went straight to the attorney who had the letting of it, to offer himself as a tenant, announcing himself to the lawyer as Thomas Maunders.
The attorney at first looked rather suspiciously at the gentleman who had earned for himself the ominous nickname of Black Milsom; but when the would-be tenant offered to pay a year's rent in advance down on the nail, the man of law melted, and took the money.
Thomas Milsom lost no time in taking possession of his new abode. It was the haunt of the lower class of agricultural labourers, and of the bargemen, who moored their barges sometimes beneath the shadow of Raynham Bridge, while they dawdled away a few lazy hours in the village public-house.
Any one who had cared to study Mr. Milsom's face and manners during his residence at Raynham, would have speedily perceived that the life did not suit him. He lounged at the door of the low-gabled cottage, looking out into the village street with a moody and sullen countenance.
He drank a great deal, and swore not a little, and led altogether as dissolute a life as it was possible to lead in that peaceful village.
No sooner had Mr. Milsom established himself at Raynham, than he made it his business to find out the exact state of affairs at the castle. He contrived to entice one of the under-servants into his bar-parlour, and entertained the man so liberally, with a smoking jorum of strong rum-punch, that a friendly acquaintance was established between the two on the spot.
"There's nothing in my place you ain't welcome to, James Harwood," he said. "You're uncommonly like a favourite brother of mine that died young of the measles; and I've taken a fancy to you on account of that likeness. Come when you like, and as often as you like, and call for what you like; and there shan't be no talk of scores between you and me. I'm a bitter foe, and a firm friend. When I like a man there's nothing I couldn't do to prove my liking; when I hate him—"
Here Mr. Milsom's speech died away into an ominous growl; and James Harwood, who was rather a timid young man, felt as if drops of cold water had been running down his back. But the rum-punch was very nice; and he saw no reason why he should refuse Mr. Milsom's offer of friendship.
He did drop in very often, having plenty of leisure evenings in which to amuse himself; and through him Thomas Milsom was enabled to become familiar with every detail of the household at Raynham Castle.
"No news of your lady, I suppose, Mr. Harwood?" Milsom said to him oneSunday evening in January. "Not coming home yet, I suppose?"
"No, Mr. Maunders," answered the groom; "not to my knowledge. And as to news, there ain't anymore news of her than if she and Miss Payland had gone off to the very wildest part of Africa, where, if you feel lonesome, and want company, your only choice lies between tigers and rattlesnakes."
"Never mind Africa! What was it that you were going to say about your lady?"
"Well, I was about to inform you," replied the groom, with offended dignity, "when you took me up so uncommon short as to prevent me—I was about to observe that, although we haven't received no news whatsoever from my lady direct, we have received a little bit of news promiscuous that is rather puzzling, in a manner of speaking."
"What is it?"
"Well, you see, Mr. Maunders," began James Harwood, with extreme solemnity, "it is given out that Lady Eversleigh is gone abroad to the Continent—wherever that place may be situated—and a very nice place I dare say it is, when you get there; and it is likewise given out that Miss Payland have gone with her."
"Well, what then?"
"I really wish you hadn't such a habit of taking people up short, Mr. Maunders," remonstrated the groom. "I was on the point of telling you that our head-coachman had a holiday this Christmas; and where does he go but up to London, to see his friends, which live there; and while in London where does he go but to Drury Lane Theatre; and while coming out of Drury Lane Theatre who does he set his eyes on but Miss Payland, Lady Eversleigh's own maid, as large as life, and hanging on the arm of a respectable elderly man, which might be her father. Our head-coachman warn't near enough to her to speak to her; and though he tried to catch her eye he couldn't catch it; but he'll take his Bible oath that the young woman he saw was Jane Payland, Lady Eversleigh's own maid. Now, that's rather a curious circumstance, is it not, Mr. Maunders?"
"It is, rather," answered the landlord; "but it seems to me your mistress, Lady Eversleigh, is rather a strange person altogether. It's a strange thing for a mother to run away to foreign parts—if she has gone to foreign parts—and leave her only child behind her."
"Yes; and a child she was so fond of too; that's the strangest part of the whole business," said the groom. "I'm sure to see that mother and child together, you'd have thought there was no power on earth would part them; and yet, all of a sudden, my lady goes off, and leaves Miss Gertrude behind her. But if Miss Gertrude was a royal princess, she couldn't be more watched over, or taken more care of, than she is. To see Mrs. Morden, the governess, with her, you'd think as the little girl was made of barley-sugar, and would melt away with a drop of rain; and to see Captain Copplestone with her, you'd think as she was the crown-jewels of England, and that everybody was on the watch to get the chance of stealing her."
Black Milsom smiled as the groom said this. It was a grim smile, not by any means pleasant to see; but James Harwood was not an observer, and he was looking tenderly at his last spoonful of rum-punch, and wondering within himself whether Mr. Milsom was likely to offer him another glass of that delicious beverage.
"And pray what sort of a customer is Captain Copplestone?" askedMilsom, thoughtfully.
"An uncommonly tough customer," replied James Harwood; "that's what he is. If it wasn't for his rheumatic gout, he's a man that would be ready to fight the champion of England any day in the week. There's very few things the captain wouldn't do in the way of downright pluck; but, you see, whatever pluck a man may have, it can't help him much when he's laid by the heels with the rheumatic gout, as the captain is very often."
"Ha! and who takes care of little missy then?"
"Why, the captain. He's like a watch-dog, and his kennel is at little missy's door. That's what he says himself, in his queer way. Miss Gertrude and her governess live in three handsome rooms in the south wing—my lady's own rooms—and the principal way to these rooms is along a wide corridor. So what does the captain do when my lady goes away, but order a great iron door down from London, and has the corridor shut off with this iron door, bolted, and locked, and barred, so that the cleverest burglar that ever were couldn't get it open."
"But how do people get to the little girl's rooms, then?" asked ThomasMilsom.
"Why, through a small bed-room, intended for Lady Eversleigh's maid; and a little bit of a dressing-room, that poor Sir Oswald used to keep his boots, and hat-boxes, and such like in. These rooms open on to the second staircase; and what does the captain do but have these two small rooms fitted up for hisself and his servant, Solomon Grundy, with a thin wooden partition, with little glass spy-holes in it, put across the two rooms, to make a kind of passage to the rooms beyond; so that night and day he can hear every footstep that goes by to Miss Gertrude's rooms. Now, what do you think of such whims and fancies?"
"I think the captain must be stark staring mad," answered Milsom; but it was to be observed that he said this in rather an absent manner, and appeared to be thinking deeply.
"Oh no, he ain't," said James Harwood; "there ain't a sharper customer going."
And then, finding that the landlord of the "Cat and Fiddle" did not offer anything more in the way of refreshment, Mr. Harwood departed.
There was a full moon that January night, and when Mr. Milsom had attended to the wants of his customers, seen the last of them to the door a little before twelve o'clock, shut his shutters, and extinguished the lights, he stole quietly out of his house, went forth into the deserted street, and made his way towards the summit of the hill on which the castle stood, like an ancient fortress, frowning darkly upon the humble habitations beneath it.
He passed the archway and the noble gothic gates, and crept along by the fine old wall that enclosed the park, where the interlaced branches of giant oaks and beeches were white under the snow that had fallen upon them, and formed a picture that was almost like a scene in Fairyland.
He climbed the wall at a spot where a thick curtain of ivy afforded him a safe footing, and dropped softly upon the ground beneath, where the snow had drifted into a heap, and made a soft bed for him to fall on.
"There will be more snow before daylight to-morrow," he muttered to himself, "if I'm any judge of the weather; and there'll be no trace of my footsteps to give the hint of mischief." He ran across the park, leaped the light, invisible fence dividing the park from the gardens, and crept cautiously along a shrubberied pathway, where the evergreens afforded him an impenetrable screen.
Thus concealed from the eyes of any chance watcher, he contrived to approach one end of the terraced slope which formed the garden front of the castle. Each terrace was adorned with stone balustrades, surmounted by large vases, also of stone; and, sheltered by these vases, Milsom ascended to the southern angle of the great pile of building.
Seven lighted windows at this southern end of the castle indicated the apartments occupied by the heiress of Raynham and her eccentric guardian. The lights burned but dimly, like the night-lamps left burning during the hours of rest; and Milsom had ascertained from Mr. Harwood that the household retired before eleven o'clock, at the latest.