Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Philip Sheldon might have consented to give me his stepdaughter unpossessed of a sixpence; but would he give me his stepdaughter with a hundred thousand pounds for her fortune? Alas! no; I know the Sheldonian intellect too well to be fooled by any hope so wild and baseless. The one bright dream of my misused life faded from me in the hour in which I discovered my dearest girl’s claim to the Haygarthian inheritance. But I am not going to throw up the sponge before the fight is over. Time enough to die when I am lying face downward in the ensanguined mire, and feel the hosts of the foemen trampling above my shattered carcass. I will live in the light of my Charlotte’s smiles while I can, and for the rest—”Il ne faut pas dire, fontaine, je ne boirai pas de ton eau.” There is no cup so bitter that a man dare say, I will not drain it to the very dregs. “What must be, shall be — that’s a certain text;” and in the mean time carpe diem. I am all a Bohemian again.

  Nov. 5th. After a day’s delay I have obtained my tracing-paper, and made two tracings of the entries in the Meynell Bible. How intercourse with the Sheldonian race inclines one to the duplication of documents! I consider the copying-press of modern civilization the supreme incarnation of man’s distrust of his fellow-men.

  I spent this afternoon and evening with my dear love — my last evening in Yorkshire. To-morrow I shall see my Sheldon, and inform him of the very strange termination which has come to my researches. Will he communicate at once with his brother? Will he release me from my oath of secrecy? There is nothing of the masonic secretiveness in my organisation, and I am very weary of the seal that has been set upon my unwary lips. Will Charlotte be told that she is the reverend intestate’s next of kin? These are questions which I ask myself as I sit in the stillness of my room at the Magpie, scribbling this wretched diary of mine, while the church clock booms three solemn strokes in the distance.

  O, why did not the reverend intestate marry his housekeeper, and make a will, like other honest citizens, and leave my Charlotte to walk the obscure byways of honest poverty with me? I do believe that I could have been honest; I do believe that I could have been brave and true and steadfast for her dear sake. But it is the office of man to propose, while the Unseen disposes. Perhaps such a youth as mine admits of no redemption. I have written circulars for Horatio Paget. I have been the willing remorseless tool of a man who never eats his dinner without inflicting a wrong upon his fellow-creatures. Can a few moments of maudlin sentimentality, a vague yearning for something brighter and better, a brief impulse towards honesty, inspired by a woman’s innocent eyes — can so little virtue in the present atone for so much guilt in the past? Alas! I fear not.

  I had one last brief tête-à-tête with my dear girl while I took the tracing from the old Bible. She sat watching me, and distracting me more or less while I worked; and despite the shadow of doubt that has fallen upon me, I could not be otherwise than happy in her sweet company.

  When I came to the record of Susan Meynell’s death, my Charlotte’s manner changed all at once from her accustomed joyousness to a pensive gravity.

  “I was very sorry you spoke of Susan Meynell to uncle Joseph,” she said, thoughtfully.

  “But why sorry, my dear?”

  I had some vague notion as to the cause of this sorrow; but the instincts of the chase impelled me to press the subject. Was I not bound to know every secret in the lives of Matthew Haygarth’s descendants?

  “There is a very sad story connected with my aunt Susan — she was my great-aunt, you know,” said Charlotte, with a grave earnest face. “She went away from home, and there was great sorrow. I cannot talk of the story, even to you, Valentine, for there seems something sacred in these painful family secrets. My poor aunt Susan left all her friends, and died many years afterwards in London.”

  “She was known to have died unmarried?” I asked. This would be an important question from George Sheldon’s point of sight.

  “Yes,” Charlotte replied, blushing crimson.

  That blush told me a great deal.

  “There was some one concerned in this poor lady’s sorrow,” I said; “some one to blame for all her unhappiness.”

  “There was.”

  “One whom she loved and trusted, perhaps?”

  “Whom she loved and trusted only too well. O, Valentine, must not that be terrible? To confide with all your heart in the person you love, and to find him base and cruel! If my poor aunt had not believed Montagu Kingdon to be true and honourable, she would have trusted her friends a little, instead of trusting so entirely in him. O, Valentine, what am I telling you? I cannot bear to cast a shadow on the dead.”

  “My dear love, do you think I cannot pity this injured lady? Do you think I am likely to play the Pharisee, and be eager to bespatter the grave of this poor sufferer? I can almost guess the story which you shrink from telling me — it is one of those sad histories so often acted, so often told. Your aunt loved a person called Montagu Kingdon — her superior in station, perhaps?”

  I looked at Charlotte as I said this, and her face told me that I had guessed rightly.

  “This Montagu Kingdon admired and loved her,” I said. “He seemed eager to make her his wife, but no doubt imposed secrecy as to his intentions. She accepted his word as that of a true-hearted lover and a gentleman, and in the end had bitter reason to repent her confidence. That is an outline of the story, is it not, Charlotte?”

  “I am sure that it was so. I am sure that when she left Newhall she went away to be married,” cried Charlotte, eagerly; “I have seen a letter that proves it — to me, at least. And yet I have heard even mamma speak harshly of her — so long dead and gone off the face of this earth — as if she had deliberately chosen the sad fate which came to her.”

  “Is it not possible that Mr. Kingdon did marry Miss Meynell, after all?”

  “No,” replied Charlotte, very sadly; “there is no hope of that. I have seen a letter written by my poor aunt years afterwards — a letter that tells much of the cruel truth; and I have heard that Mr. Kingdon came back to Yorkshire and married a rich lady during my aunt’s lifetime.”

  “I should like to see that letter,” I said, involuntarily.

  “Why, Valentine?” asked my darling, looking at me with sorrowful, wondering eyes, “To me it seems so painful to talk of these things: it is like reopening an old wound.”

  “But if the interests of other people require—” I began, in a very blundering manner.

  “Whose interest can be served by my showing you my poor aunt’s letter?

  It would seem like an act of dishonour to the dead.”

  What could I say after this — bound hand and foot as I am by my promise to Sheldon?

  After a long talk with my sweet one, I borrowed uncle Joe’s dog-cart, and spun across to Barngrave, where I found the little church, beneath whose gray old roof Charlotte Meynell plighted her troth to James Halliday. I took a copy of all entries in the register concerning Mrs. Meynell Halliday and her children, and then went back to Newhall to restore the dog-cart, and to take my last Yorkshire tea at the hospitable old farm-house.

  To-morrow I am off to Barlingford, fifteen miles from this village, to take more copies from registries concerning my sweet young heiress — the registries of her father’s marriage, and her own birth. After that I think my case will be tolerably complete, and I can present myself to Sheldon in the guise of a conqueror.

  Is it not a great conquest to have made? Is it not almost an act of chivalry for these prosaic days to go forth into the world as a private inquirer, and win a hundred thousand pounds for the lady of one’s love? And yet I wish any one rather than my Charlotte were the lineal descendant of Matthew Haygarth.

  Nov. 10th. Here I am in London once more, with my Sheldon in ecstatics, and our affairs progressing marvellously well, as he informs me; but with that ponderous slowness peculiar to all mortal affairs in which the authorities of the realm are in any way concerned.

  My work is finished. Hawkehurst the genealogist and antiquarian sinks into Ha
wkehurst the private individual. I have no more to do but to mind my own business and await the fruition of time in the shape of my reward.

  Can I accept three thousand pounds for giving my dearest her birthright? Can I take payment for a service done to her? Surely not: and, on the other hand, can I continue to woo my sweet one, conscious that she is the rightful claimant to a great estate? Can I take advantage of her ignorance, and may it not be said that I traded on my secret knowledge?

  Before leaving Yorkshire, I stole one more day from the Sheldon business, in order to loiter just a few hours longer in that northern Arcadia called Newhall farm. What assurance have I that I shall ever re-enter that pleasant dwelling? What hold have I, a wanderer and vagabond, on the future which respectable people map out for themselves with such mathematical precision? And even the respectable people are sometimes out in their reckoning. To snatch the joys of to-day must always be the policy of the adventurer. So I took one more happy afternoon at Newhall. Nor was the afternoon entirely wasted; for, in the course of my farewell visit, I heard more of poor Susan Meynell’s history from honest uncle Joseph. He told me the story during an after-dinner walk, in which he took me the round of his pig-styes and cattle-sheds for the last time, as if he would fain have had them leave their impress on my heart.

  “You may see plenty of cattle in Yorkshire,” he remarked, complacently, “but you won’t see many beasts to beat that.”

  He pointed to a brown and mountainous mass of inert matter, which he gave me to understand was something in the way of cattle.

  “Would you like to see him standing?” he asked, giving the mass a prod with the handle of his walking-stick, which to my cockney mind seemed rather cruel, but which, taken from an agricultural point of view, was no doubt the correct thing. “He can stand. Coom up, Brownie!”

  I humbly entreated that the ill-used mass might be allowed to sprawl in undisturbed misery.

  “Thorley!” exclaimed Mr. Mercer, laying his finger significantly against the side of his unpretending nose.

  I had not the faintest comprehension of my revered uncle-in-law’s meaning; but I said, “O, indeed!” with the accents of admiration.

  “Thorley’s Condiment,” said my uncle. “You’ll see some fine animate at the Cattle-show; but if you see a two-year-old ox to beat him, my name is not Joe Mercer.”

  After this I had to pay my respects to numerous specimens of the bovine race, all more or less prostrate under the burden of superabundant flesh, all seeming to cry aloud for the treatment of some Banting of the agricultural world.

  After we had “done” the cattle-sheds, with heroic resignation on my part, and with enthusiasm on the part of Mr. Mercer, we went a long way to see some rarities in the way of mutton, which commodity was to be found cropping the short grass on a distant upland.

  With very little appreciation of the zoological varieties, and with the consciousness that my dear one was sitting in the farm-house parlour, wondering at my prolonged absence, this excursion could not be otherwise than a bore to me. But it was a small thing to sacrifice my own pleasure for once in a way, when by so doing I might gratify the kindest of men and of uncles; so I plodded briskly across the fields with the friendly farmer.

  I had my reward; for, in the course of this walk, Mr. Mercer gave me the history of poor Susan Meynell.

  “I didn’t care to talk about the story the other night before the young lass,” he said, gravely; “for her heart’s so full of pity and tenderness, pretty dear, that any tale such as that is like to upset her. But the story’s known to almost all the folks in these parts; so there’s no particular reason against my telling it to you. I’ve heard my poor mother talk of Susan Meynell many a time. She was a regular beauty, it seems; prettier than her sister Charlotte, and she was a pretty woman, as you may guess by looking at our Charlotte, who is thought the image of her grandmother. But Susan was one of those beauties that you don’t see very often — more like a picture than flesh and blood. The gentry used to turn round to look at her at Barngrave church, I’ve heard my mother say. She was a rare one for dress, too; for she had a few hundreds left her by her father and mother, who had both of them been very well-to-do people. The mother was daughter to William Rand, of Barngrave, a man who farmed above a thousand acres of his own land; and the father kept a carpet warehouse in Aldersgate-street.”

  This information I received with respectful deference, and a hypocritical assumption of ignorance respecting Miss Meynell’s antecedents.

  Mr. Mercer paused to take breath, and then continued the story after his own rambling fashion.

  “Well, my lad, what with her fine dress, and what with her pretty looks, Susan Meynell seems to have thought a little too much of herself; so that when Montagu Kingdon, of Kingdon-place, younger brother to Lord Durnsville, fell in love with her, and courted her — not exactly openly, but with the knowledge of her sister, Mrs. Halliday — she thought it no more than natural that he should intend to make her his wife. Mr. Kingdon was ten years older than Susan, and had served in Spain, and had not borne too good a character abroad. He had been in a hard-drinking cavalry regiment, and had spent all his money, and sold out directly the war was over. There was very little of all this known down hereabouts, where Mr. Kingdon stood very high, on account of his being Lord Durnsville’s brother. But it was known that he was poor, and that the Durnsville estates were heavily encumbered into the bargain.”

  “Then this gentleman would have been no grand match for Miss Meynell, if—”

  “If he had married her? No, my lad; and it might have been the knowledge of his poverty that made Susan and her sister think less of the difference between his station and the girl’s. The two women favoured him, anyhow; and they kept the secret from James Halliday, who was a regular upstraight-and-downright kind of fellow, as proud as any lord in his own way. The secret was kept safe enough for some time, and Mr. Kingdon was always dropping in at Newhall when Jim was out of the way; but folks in these parts are very inquisitive, and, lonesome as our place is, there are plenty of people go by between Monday and Saturday; so by-and-by it got to be noticed that there was very often a gentleman’s horse standing at Newhall gate, with the bridle tied to one of the gate-posts; and those that knew anything, knew that the horse belonged to Montagu Kingdon. A friend of Jim Halliday’s told him as much one day, and warned him that Mr. Kingdon was a scamp, and was said to have a Spanish wife somewhere beyond seas. This was quite enough for James Halliday, who flew into a roaring rage at the notion of any man, most of all Lord Durnsville’s brother, going to his house and courting his sister-in-law in secret. It was at Barngrave he was told this, one market-day, as he was lounging with his friends in the old yard of the Black Bull inn, where the corn exchange used to be held in those days. He called for his horse the next minute, and left the town at a gallop. When he came to Newhall, he found Montagu Kingdon’s chestnut mare tied to the gate-post, and he found Mr. Kingdon himself, dawdling about the garden with Miss Meynell.”

  “And then I suppose there was a scene?” I suggested, with unfeigned interest in this domestic story.

  “Well, I believe there was, my lad. I’ve heard all about it from my poor Molly, who had the story from her mother. James Halliday didn’t mince matters; he gave Mr. Kingdon a bit of his mind, in his own rough outspoken way, and told him it would be the worse for him if he ever crossed the threshold of Newhall gate again. ‘If you meant well by that foolish girl, you wouldn’t come sneaking here behind my back,’ he said; ‘but you don’t mean well by her, and you’ve a Spanish wife hidden away somewhere in the Peninsula.’ Mr. Kingdon gave the lie to this; but he said he shouldn’t stoop to justify himself to an unmannerly yeoman. ‘If you were a gentleman,’ he said, ‘you should pay dearly for your insolence.’ ‘I’m ready to pay any price you like,’ answered James Halliday, as bold as brass; ‘but as you weren’t over fond of fighting abroad, where there was plenty to be got for it, I don’t suppose you want to fight at home, where th
ere’s nothing to be got for it.’”

  “And did Susan Meynell hear this?” I asked. I could fancy this ill-fated girl standing by and looking on aghast while hard things were said to the man she loved, while the silver veil of sweet romance was plucked so roughly from the countenance of her idol by an angry rustic’s rude hand.

  “Well, I don’t quite know whether she heard all,” answered Mr. Mercer, thoughtfully. “Of course, James Halliday told his wife all about the row afterwards. He was very kind to his sister-in-law, in spite of her having deceived him; and he talked to her very seriously, telling her all he had heard in Barngrave against Montagu Kingdon. She listened to him quietly enough, but it was quite clear that she didn’t believe a word he said. ‘I know you have heard all that, James,’ she said; ‘but the people who said it knew they were not telling the truth. Lord Durnsville and his brother are not popular in the country, and there are no falsehoods too cruel for the malice of his enemies.’ She answered him with some such fine speech as that, and when the next morning came she was gone.”

  “She eloped with Mr. Kingdon?”

  “Yes. She left a letter for her sister, full of romantic stuff about loving him all the better because people spoke ill of him; regular woman’s talk, you know, bless their poor silly hearts!” murmured Mr. Mercer, with tender compassion. “She was going to London to be married to Mr. Kingdon, she wrote. They were to be married at the old church in the city where she had been christened, and she was going to stay with an old friend — a young woman who had once been her brother’s sweetheart, and who was married to a butcher in Newgate-market — till the bans were given out, or the license bought. The butcher’s wife had a country-house out at Edmonton, and it was there Susan was going to stay.”

  “All that seemed straightforward enough,” said I.

  “Yes,” replied uncle Joe; “but if Mr. Kingdon had meant fairly by Susan Meynell, it would have been as easy for him to marry her at Barngrave as in London. He was as poor as a church mouse, but he was his own master, and there was no one to prevent him doing just what he pleased. This is about what James Halliday thought, I suppose; for he tore off to London, as fast as post-horses could carry him, in pursuit of his wife’s sister and Mr. Kingdon. But though he made inquiries all along the road he could not hear that they had passed before him, and for the best of all reasons. He went to the butcher’s house at Edmonton; but there he found no trace of Susan Meynell, except a letter posted in Yorkshire, on the day of the row between James and Mr. Kingdon, telling her intention of visiting her old friend within the next few days, and hinting at an approaching marriage. There was the letter announcing the visit, but the visitor had not come.”