This afforded an opportunity for that introduction to which Miss Halliday looked forward with so much interest.
“If Mr. Sheldon and your mamma will let you come with me this afternoon, dear, I shall be very pleased to take you,” said Diana; and she felt that she would appear less in the character of a lamb led to the slaughter if she could go to meet her betrothed accompanied by Charlotte.
But in this matter both the young ladies were doomed to disappointment. Mr. Sheldon showed himself a social Draco in all things relating to his stepdaughter. Being forbidden to reveal the existence of Gustave Lenoble, Charlotte could only urge a frivolous desire to accompany her friend in a pilgrimage dictated by filial duty. To the practical mind of Philip Sheldon this desire appeared altogether absurd and unreasonable, and he did not hesitate to express himself to that effect in a tête-a-tête with his stepdaughter.
“What good on earth can you do by going to see a gouty old man, who has his own daughter to dance attendance upon him?” asked Mr. Sheldon. “Really, Charlotte, I am surprised to hear such a proposition from a girl of your good sense. Miss Paget is your companion, not your visitor. It is her duty to indulge your whims, but it is not your place to give way to hers.”
“But this is a whim of mine, papa; I should really like to spend the afternoon at Chelsea. It would be a change, you know.”
Mr. Sheldon looked at his stepdaughter with a sharp and searching gaze, a gaze in which there was suspicion as well as curiosity.
“It is a very discreditable whim for a young lady in your position,” he said sternly; “and I beg that such a proposition may not be made to me again.”
This was decisive. Charlotte submitted, and Diana went alone to Omega Street. She found Gustave waiting for her. He proposed a walk, and Captain Paget was enthusiastic upon the subject of fresh air, and the benefits arising therefrom. So the lovers went out in the bleak winter afternoon, and wandered in the dreary Pimlico region as far as St. James’s Park — Gustave delighted to have Diana’s hand upon his arm, and Diana almost bewildered by a sense of happiness, which seemed unreal by reason of its very novelty.
Gustave was all enthusiasm, full of plans for the future. He would have had the marriage take place immediately, if such a thing had been possible; but Diana showed him that it would not be possible. Her first duty was to the only friends she had ever known. Gustave argued the point resolutely for nearly an hour, during which time they made their way to the very gates of St. James’s Park, but Diana was more resolute still.
“What a tyrannical wife I shall have by-and-by!” said Gustave. “I think you care for these Sheldons more than for me, Diane.”
“These Sheldons have been so good to me in the past.”
“And I mean to be so good to you in the future,” answered Gustave. “You shall be the happiest wife in Normandy, if a foolish doting husband’s devotion can make you happy.”
“What have I done to deserve so much devotion?” Diana murmured wonderingly.
“What have you done? Nothing, less than nothing. You will not even run the hazard of offending your family of Sheldon in order to make me happy. But Fate has said, ‘At the feet of that girl with the dark eyes and pale proud face shall poor Lenoble of Côtenoir put down his heart.’ Do you know what I said to myself when I saw you first in the little parlour yonder? Ah, no! How should you guess? ‘She is there,’ said I; ‘behold her! It is thy destiny, Lenoble, on which thou gazest!’ And thou, love, wert calm and voiceless as Fate. Quiet as the goddess of marble before which the pagans offered their sacrifices, across whose cold knees they laid their rich garments. I put my treasures in your lap, my love; my heart, my hopes, — all the treasures I had to offer.”
This was all very sweet, but there was a sting even mingled with that sweetness. Diana told herself that love like this should only be offered on the purest shrine; and when she remembered the many stains upon her father’s honour, it seemed to her that a part of the shame must needs cleave to her.
“Gustave,” she said presently, after an absent meditative mood, from which her lover had vainly tried to beguile her, “does it not seem to you that there is something foolish in this talk of love and confidence between you and me; and that all your promises have been a little too lightly made? What do you know of me? You see me sitting in my father’s room, and because my eyes happen to please you, or for some reason as foolish as that, you ask me to be your wife. I might have been one of the worst of women.”
“You might have been? — yes, dear, but you are not. And if you had been, Gustave Lenoble would not have flung his heart into your lap, even if your eyes had been sweeter than they are. We impulsive people are people of quick perceptions, and know what we are doing better than our reflective friends imagine. I did not need to be an hour in your company, dear love, in order to know that you are noble and true. There are tones in the voice, there are expressions of the face, that tell these things better than words can tell them; for, you see, words can lie, while tones and looks are apt to be true. Yes, my angel, I knew you from that first night. My heart leapt across all conventional barriers, and found its way straight to yours.”
“I can see that you think much better of me than I deserve; but even supposing you not to be deceived as to myself, I fear you are much deceived as to my surroundings.”
“I know that your father is poor, and that the burden of his poverty weighs heavily on you. That is enough for me to know.”
“No, M. Lenoble; it is not enough for you to know. If I am to be your wife, I will not enter your family as an impostor. I told you the truth about myself the other day when you questioned me, and I am bound to tell you the truth about my father.”
And then she told him, in the plainest frankest language, the story of her father’s life. She inflicted no unnecessary shame on Captain Paget; she made no complaint of her neglected childhood and joyless youth; but she told Gustave that her father had been an adventurer, keeping doubtful company, and earning his bread by doubtful means.
“I hope and believe that if a peaceful home could be secured for his declining years, he would live the rest of his life like a gentleman and a Christian; and that, the bitter struggle for existence being ended, he would be sorry for the past. I doubt if the sense of shame ever deserted him when he was living that wretched wandering life, leaving debts and difficulties behind him everywhere — always harassed and hunted by creditors, who had good cause to be angry. Yes, Gustave, I do believe that if it should please Providence to give my father a peaceful home at last, he will be thankful for God’s mercy, and will repent the sins of life. And now I have told you the kind of heritage I can bring my husband.”
“My dear love, I will accept the heritage, for the sake of her who brings it. I never meant to be less than a son to your father; and if he is not the best of fathers, as regards the past, we will try to make him a decent kind of father as regards the future. I have long understood that Captain Paget is something — ever so little — of an adventurer. It was the pursuit of fortune that brought him to me; and without knowing it, he brought me my fortune in the shape of his daughter.”
Diana blushed as she remembered that Captain Paget had not been so innocent of any design in this matter as the Frenchman imagined.
“And you will receive even papa for my sake?” asked Diana.
“With all my heart.”
“Ah, you are indeed a generous lover!”
“A lover who is not generous is — bah! there is nothing in creation so mean as the wretch whom love does not render generous. When one sees the woman whom Fate intends for one’s wife, is one to stop to inquire the character of her father, her mother, her sister, her cousin? — for there is no stopping when you begin that. A man who loves makes no inquiries. If he finds his jewel in the gutter, he picks it out of the mud and carries it away in his bosom, too proud of his treasure to remember where he found it; always provided that the jewel is no counterfeit, but the real gem, fit for a king’s crown.
And my diamond is of the purest water. By-and-by we will try to drain the gutter — that is to say, we will try to pay those small debts of which you speak, to lodging-house keepers, and tradesmen who have trusted your father.”
“You would pay papa’s debts!” cried Diana in amazement.
“But why not? All these little debts, the thought of which is so bitter to you, might be discharged for two or three thousand pounds. Your father tells me I am to be very rich by-and-by.”
“My father tells you! Ah, then, you have allowed him to involve you in some kind of speculation!”
“He has involved me in no speculation, and in no risk that two or three hundred pounds will not cover.”
“The whole business seems very mysterious, Gustave.”
“Perhaps; it has to do with a secret which I am pledged to keep. I will not allow your father to lead me into any quagmire of speculation, believe me, dear one.”
After this they went back to Omega Street in the winter gloaming, and Diana loved and admired this man with all her heart and mind. A new life lay before her, very bright and fair. There, where had been only the barren desert, was now a fair landscape, shining in the sunlight of hope.
“Do you think your children will ever love me, Gustave?” she asked, not without some sense of wonder that this impulsive light-hearted lover should be the owner of children. She fancied that a responsibility so grave as paternity must needs have impressed some stamp of solemnity upon the man who bore it.
“Ever love thee!” cried Gustave. “Child, they will adore thee. They ask only some one to love. Their hearts are gardens of flowers; and thou shalt gather the flowers. But wilt thou be happy at Côtenoir, thou? It is somewhat sad, perhaps — the grave old château with the long sombre corridors. But thou shalt choose new furniture, new garnitures at Rouen, and we will make all bright and gay, like the heart of thy affianced. Thou wilt not be dull?”
“Dull, with you and yours! I shall thank God for my happy home day and night, as I never thought to thank Him a few months ago, when I was dissatisfied, wicked, tired of my life.”
“And when you thought of that other one? Ah, how he was an imbecile, that other one! But thou wilt never think of him again; it is a dream that is past,” said M. Lenoble.
That self-confidence which was an attribute of his sanguine nature rendered the idea of a rival not altogether unpleasant to him. He was gratified by the idea of his own victory, and the base rival’s annihilation.
“Diane, I want to show thee the home that is to be thine,” he said presently. “Your Sheldon family must give thee at least a holiday, if they refuse to let thee go altogether. Thou wilt come to Normandy with thy father. He is coming for a week or two, now that his gout is better. I want to show thee Côtenoir — and Beaubocage, the place where my father was born. It will seem dreary, perhaps, to thine English eyes; but to me it is very dear.”
“Nothing that is dear to you shall appear dreary to me,” said Diana.
By this time they had arrived at Omega Street. Again Miss Paget made tea for her lover. Strange to say, the operation seemed to grow more agreeable with every repetition. While taking his tea from the hands of his beloved, Gustave pressed the question of Diana’s visit to Normandy.
“About her Sheldon family she is adamant,” he said to Captain Paget, who sipped his tea and smiled at the lovers with the air of an aristocratic patriarch. “There is to be no marriage till it pleases Mrs. Sheldon to set her free. I consent to this only as man must consent to the inevitable; but I say to her, can she not come to Normandy for a fortnight — say but one short fortnight — to see her home? She will come with you. She has but to ask a holiday of her friends, and it is done.”
“Of course,” exclaimed the Captain, “she shall come with me. If necessary, I myself will ask it of Sheldon. — But it will be best not to mention where you are going, Diana. There are reasons, best known to our friend Gustave and myself, which render secrecy advisable just at present. You can say Rouen. That is quite near enough to the mark to come within the limits of truth,” added Horatio, with the tone of a man who had never quite outstepped those limits. “Yes, Rouen. And you will come with me.”
“With us,” said Gustave. “I will put off my journey for a day or two for the sake of going with you. You have to meet Fleurus in Rouen haven’t you?”
“Yes; he is to be there on the fifth of March, and this is the last day of February. I had a letter from him this morning. All goes swimmingly.”
Diana wondered what it could be which went swimmingly; but she was obliged to content herself with her lover’s assurance that he had not allowed her father to involve him in any kind of speculation.
CHAPTER III.
AGAINST WIND AND TIDE.
Between Philip Sheldon and his brother there was at this time a state of feeling somewhat akin to the relations between a subjugated country and its conqueror. The vanquished is fain to accept whatever the victor is pleased to give, though discontent and impotent rage may be gnawing his entrails. George Sheldon had been a loser in that game in which the Haygarthian inheritance was the stake. He had held good cards, and had played them with considerable cleverness; but no play could prevail against his antagonist’s ace of trumps. The ace of trumps was Charlotte Halliday; and as to his mode and matter of playing this card, Mr. Sheldon was for the present profoundly mysterious.
“I have known a good many inscrutable cards in my time,” the solicitor of Gray’s Inn observed to his elder brother, in the course of fraternal converse; “but I think for inscrutability you put the topper on the lot. What do you expect to get out of this Haygarth estate? Come, Phil, let us have your figures in plain English. I am to have a fifth — that’s all signed and sealed. But how about your share? What agreement have you got from Miss Halliday?”
“None.”
“None!”
“What would the world think of me if I extorted money, or the promise of money, from my wife’s daughter? Do you think I could enforce any deed between her and me?”
“Ah, I see; you go in for respectability. And you are going to leave the settlement of your claims to your stepdaughter’s generosity. You will let her marry Hawkehurst, with her hundred thousand pounds; and then you will say to those two, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Hawkehurst, be so kind as to hand over my share of the plunder.’ That is not like you, Phil.”
“Perhaps you will be good enough to spare yourself the trouble of speculating about my motives. Go your way, and leave me to go mine.”
“But this is a case in which I have an interest. If Charlotte marries Hawkehurst, I don’t see how you are to profit, to any extent that you would care about, by the Haygarth fortune. But, on the other hand, if she should die unmarried, without a will, the money would go to your wife. O my God! Philip Sheldon, is THAT what you mean?”
The question was so sudden, the tone of horror in which it was spoken so undisguised, that Mr. Sheldon the stockbroker was for one moment thrown off his guard. His breath thickened; he tried to speak, but his dry lips could shape no word. It was only one moment that he faltered. In the next he turned upon his brother angrily, and asked what he meant.
“You’ve been promised your reward,” he said; “leave me to look after mine. You’ll take those papers round to Greenwood and Greenwood; they want to talk to you about them.”
“Yes, I’ll take the papers.”
Greenwood and Greenwood were Mr. Sheldon’s own solicitors — a firm of some distinction, on whose acumen and experience the stockbroker placed implicit reliance. They were men of unblemished respectability, and to them Mr. Sheldon had confided the care of his stepdaughter’s interests, always reserving the chief power in his own hands. These gentlemen thought well of the young lady’s prospects, and were handling the case in that slow and stately manner which marks the handling of such cases by eminent firms of the slow-and-stately class.
Mr. Sheldon wished his brother good-day, and was about to depart, when
George plan
ted himself suddenly before the door.
“Look you here, Phil,” he said, with an intensity of manner that was by no means common to him; “I want to say a few words to you, and I will say them. There was an occasion, ten years ago, on which I ought to have spoken out, and didn’t. I have never ceased to regret my cowardice. Yes, by Jove! I hate myself for it; and there are times when I feel as if my share in that wretched business was almost as bad as yours.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course not. That’s your text, and you’ll stick to it. But you do know what I mean, and you shall know what I mean, if plain words can tell you. You and I had a friend, Phil. He was a good friend to me, and I liked him as much as a man of the world can afford to like anybody. If I had been down in the world, and had asked him for a hundred pounds to give me a new start in life, I think he’d have said, ‘George, here’s a cheque for you.’ That’s my notion of a friend. And yet I stood by that man’s deathbed, and saw him sinking, and knew what ailed him, and didn’t stretch out my hand to save him.”
“Be so good as to move away from that door,” said Mr. Sheldon, livid to the lips with smothered fury, but able to put on a bold front nevertheless. “I didn’t come here to listen to rhodomontade of this kind, or to bandy words with you. Get out of my way.”
“Not till I’ve said my say. There shall be no rhodomontade this time. I stood by and saw my best friend murdered — by you. I kept my counsel for your sake, and when you had made your fortune — by his death — I asked you for a little money. You know how much you gave me, and how graciously you gave it. If you had given me twenty times the sum you gained by Tom Halliday’s death, I would give it back, and twenty times as much again, to bring him back to life, and to feel that I had never aided and abetted a murderer. Yes, by God, I would! though I’m not straitlaced or over-scrupulous at the best of times. But that’s past, and all the money in the Bank of England wouldn’t undo what you did in Fitzgeorge Street. But if you try on any such tricks with Tom Halliday’s daughter, if that’s the scheme you’ve hatched for getting hold of this money, as surely as we two live, I’ll let in the light upon your doings, and save the girl whose father you murdered. I will, Philip, let come what may. You can’t get me out of the way when it suits you, you see. I know you. That’s the best antidote against your medicines.”
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 392