Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  In that house there was but one person who would profit by Douglas

  Dale’s death, and she would profit largely.

  “She has never loved me,” he thought to himself. “She still loves Reginald Eversleigh. My death will give her both fortune and liberty; it will leave her free to wed the man she really loves.”

  He no longer trusted his own love. He believed that he had been made the dupe of a woman’s treachery; and that the hand which had so often been pressed passionately to his lips, was the hand which, day by day, had mingled poison with his cup, sapping his life by slow degrees. Against the worldly wisdom of his friends he had opposed the blind instinct of his love; and now that events conspired to condemn this woman, he wondered that he could ever have trusted her.

  At the end of a fortnight Douglas Dale returned from Paris, and went immediately to Paulina. He believed that he had been the dupe of an accomplished actress — the vilest and most heartless of women — and he was now acting a part, in order to fathom the depth of her iniquity.

  “Let me know her — let me know her in all her baseness,” he said to himself. “Let me tax the murderess with her crime! and then, surely, this mad love will be plucked for ever from my heart, and I shall find peace far from the false syren whose sorcery has embittered my life.”

  Douglas had received several letters from Paulina during his visit to Paris — letters breathing the most devoted and disinterested love; but to him every word seemed studied, every expression false. Those very letters would, a few short weeks ago, have seemed to Douglas the perfection of truth and artlessness.

  He returned to England wondrously restored to health. Jarvis had been his constant attendant in Paris, and had brought him every morning a cup of coffee made by his own hands.

  At the Temple, he found a note from Paulina, telling him that he was expected hourly at Hilton House.

  He lost no time in presenting himself. He endeavoured to stifle all emotion — to conquer the impatience that possessed him; but he could not.

  Madame Durski was seated by one of the windows in the drawing-room when

  Mr. Dale was announced.

  She received her lover with every appearance of affection, and with an emotion which she seemed only anxious to conceal.

  But to the jaundiced mind of Douglas Dale this suppressed emotion appeared only a superior piece of acting; and yet, as he looked at his betrothed, while she stood before him, perfect, peerless, in her refined loveliness, his heart was divided by love and hate. He hated the guilt which he believed was hers. He loved her even yet, despite that guilt.

  “You are very pale, Douglas,” she said after the first greetings were over. “But, thank heaven, there is a wonderful improvement. I can see restored health in your face. The fever has gone — the unnatural brightness has left your eyes. Oh, dearest, how happy it makes me to see this change! You can never know what I suffered when I saw you drooping, day by day.”

  “Yes, day by day, Paulina,” answered the young man, gravely. “It was a gradual decay of health and strength — my life ebbing slowly — almost imperceptibly — but not the less surely.”

  “And you are better, Douglas? You feel and know yourself that there is a change?”

  “Yes, Paulina. My recovery began in the hour in which I left London. My health has improved from that time.”

  “You required change of air, no doubt. How foolish your doctor must have been not to recommend that in the first instance! And now that you have returned, may I hope to see you as often as of old? Shall we renew all our old habits, and go back to our delightful evenings?”

  “Were those evenings really pleasant to you, Paulina?” asked Mr. Dale, earnestly.

  “Ah, Douglas, you must know they were!”

  “I cannot know the secrets of your heart, Paulina,” he replied, with unspeakable sadness in his tone. “You have seemed to me all that is bright, and pure, and true. But how do I know that it is not all seeming? How do I know that Reginald Eversleigh’s image may not still hold a place in your heart?”

  “You insult me, Douglas!” exclaimed Madame Durski, with dignity. “But I will not suffer myself to be angry with you on the day of your return. I see your health is not entirely restored, since you still harbour these gloomy thoughts and unjust suspicions.”

  His most searching scrutiny could perceive no traces of guilt in the lovely face he looked at so anxiously. For a while his suspicions were almost lulled to rest. That soft white hand, which glittered with gems that had been his gift, could not be the hand of an assassin.

  He began to feel the soothing influence of hope. Night and day he prayed that he might discover the innocence of her he so fondly loved. But just as he had begun to abandon himself to that sweet influence, despair again took possession of him. All the old symptoms — the fever, the weakness, the unnatural thirst, the dry, burning sensation in his throat — returned; and this time Jarvis was far away. His master had sent him to pay a visit to a married daughter, comfortably settled in the depths of Devonshire.

  Douglas Dale went to one of the most distinguished physicians in London. He was determined to consult a new adviser, in order to discover whether the opinion of that other adviser would agree with the opinion of Dr. Harley Westbrook.

  Dr. Chippendale, the new physician, asked all the questions previously asked by Dr. Westbrook, and, after much deliberation, he informed his patient, with all proper delicacy and caution, that he was suffering from the influence of slow poison.

  “Is my life in danger, Dr. Chippendale?” he asked.

  “Not in immediate danger. The poison has evidently been administered in infinitesimal doses. But you cannot too soon withdraw yourself from all those who now surround you. Life is not to be tampered with. The poisoner may take it into his head to increase the doses.”

  Douglas Dale left his adviser after a long conversation. He then went to take his farewell of Paulina Durski.

  There was no longer the shadow of doubt in his mind. The horrible certainty seemed painfully clear to him. Love must be plucked for ever from his breast, and only contempt and loathing must remain where that divine sentiment had been enthroned.

  Since his interview with the physician, he had carefully recalled to memory all the details of his life in Paulina’s society.

  She had given him day by day an allotted portion of poison.

  How had she administered it?

  This was the question which he now sought to solve, for he no longer asked himself whether she was guilty or innocent. He remembered that every evening after dinner he had, in Continental fashion, taken a single glass of liqueur; and this he had received from Paulina’s own hand. It had pleased him to take the tiny, fragile glass from those taper fingers. The delicate liqueur had seemed sweeter to him because it was given by Paulina.

  He now felt convinced that it was in this glass of liqueur the poison had been administered to him.

  On more than one occasion he had at first declined taking it; but Paulina had always persuaded him, with some pretty speech, some half coquettish, half caressing action.

  He found her waiting him as usual: her toilet perfection itself; her beauty enhanced by the care with which she always strove to render herself charming in his eyes. She said playfully that it was a tribute which she offered to her benefactor.

  They dined together, with Miss Brewer for their sole companion. She seemed self-contained and emotionless as ever; but if Douglas had not been so entirely absorbed by his thoughts of Paulina, he might have perceived that she looked at him ever and anon with furtive, but searching glances.

  There was little conversation, little gaiety at that dinner. Douglas was absent-minded and gloomy. He scarcely ate anything; but the constant thirst from which he suffered obliged him to drink long draughts of water.

  After dinner, Miss Brewer brought the glasses and the liqueur to Madame

  Durski, after her customary manner.

  Paulina filled the ruby-stemmed gla
ss with curaçoa, and handed it to her lover.

  “No, Paulina, I shall take no liqueur to-night.”

  “Why not, Douglas?”

  “I am not well,” he replied, “and I am growing rather tired of curaçoa.”

  “As you please,” said Paulina, as she replaced the delicate glass in the stand from which she had just taken it.

  Miss Brewer had left the room, and the lovers were alone together. They were seated face to face at the prettily decorated table — one with utter despair in his heart.

  “Shall I tell you why I would not take that glass from your hands just now, Paulina Durski?” asked Douglas, after a brief pause, rising to leave the table as he spoke. “Or will you spare me the anguish of speaking words that must cover you with shame?”

  “I do not understand you,” murmured Paulina, looking at her lover with a gaze of mingled terror and bewilderment.

  “Oh, Paulina!” cried Douglas; “why still endeavour to sustain a deception which I have unmasked? I know all.”

  “All what?” gasped the bewildered woman.

  “All your guilt — all your baseness. Oh, Paulina, confess the treachery which would have robbed me of life; and which, failing that, has for ever destroyed my peace. If you are human, let some word of remorse, some tardy expression of regret, attest your womanhood.”

  “I can only think that he is mad,” murmured Paulina to herself, as she gazed on her accuser with wondering eyes.

  “Paulina, at least do not pretend to misunderstand me.”

  “Your words,” replied Madame Durski, “seem to me the utterances of a madman. For pity’s sake, calm yourself, and speak plainly.”

  “I think that I have spoken, very plainly.”

  “I can discover no meaning in your words. What is it you would have me regret? Of what crime do you accuse me?”

  “The worst and darkest of all crimes,” replied Douglas; “the crime of murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “Yes; the crime of the secret poisoner!”

  “Douglas!” cried Paulina, with a stifled shriek of terror; and then, recoiling from him suddenly, she fell half fainting into a chair. “Oh, why do I try to reason with him?” she murmured, piteously; “he is mad — he is mad! My poor Douglas!” continued Paulina, sobbing hysterically, “you are mad yourself, and you will drive me mad. Do not speak to me. Leave me to myself. You have terrified me by your wild denunciations. Leave me, Douglas: for pity’s sake, leave me.”

  “I will leave you, Paulina,” answered her lover, in a grave, sad voice; “and our parting will be for ever. You cannot deny your guilt, and you can no longer deceive me.”

  “Do as you please,” replied Madame Durski, her passionate indignation changing suddenly to an icy calmness. “You have wronged me so deeply, you have insulted me so shamefully, that it matters little what further wrong or insult I suffer at your hands. In my own justification, I will say but this — I am as incapable of the guilt you talk of as I am of understanding how such a wild and groundless accusation can come from you, Douglas Dale, my affianced husband — the man I have loved and trusted, the man whom I have believed the very model of honour and generosity. But this must be madness, and I am not bound to endure the ravings of a lunatic. You have said our farewell was to be spoken to-night. Let it be so. I could not endure a repetition of the scene with which you have just favoured me. I regret most deeply that your generosity has burthened me with, pecuniary obligations which I may never be able to repay, and has, in some measure, deprived me of independence. But even at the hazard of being considered ungrateful, I must tell you that I trust we may meet no more.”

  No one can tell the anguish which Paulina Durski endured as she uttered these words in cold, measured accents. It was the supreme effort of a proud, but generous-minded woman, and there was a kind of heroism in that subjugation of a stricken and loving heart.

  “Let it be so, Paulina,” answered Douglas, with emotion. “I have no wish to see your fair, false face again. My heart has been broken by your treachery; and my best hope lies in the chance that your hand may have already done its wicked work, and that my life may be forfeited to my confidence in your affection. Let no thought of my gifts trouble you. The fortune which was to have been shared with you is henceforth powerless to purchase one blessing for me. And of the law which you have outraged you need have no few; your secret will never be revealed to mortal ears by me. No investigation will drag to light the details of your crime.”

  “You may seek no investigation, Douglas Dale,” cried Paulina, with sudden passion; “but I shall do so, and without delay. You have accused me of a foul and treacherous crime — on what proof I know not. It is for me to prove myself innocent of that black iniquity; and if human ingenuity can fathom the mystery, it shall be fathomed. I will bring you to my feet — yes, to my feet; and you shall beseech my pardon for the wicked wrong you have done me. But even then this breach of your own making shall for ever separate us. I may learn to forgive you, Douglas, but I can never trust you again. And now go.”

  She pointed to the door with an imperious gesture. There was a quiet dignity in her manner and her bearing which impressed her accuser in spite of himself.

  He bowed, and without another word left the presence of the woman who for so long had been the idol of his heart.

  He went from her presence bowed to the very dust by a sorrow which was too deep for tears.

  “She is an accomplished actress,” he said to himself; “and to the very last her policy has been defiance. And now my dream is ended, and I awake to a blank, joyless life. A strange fatality seems to have attended Sir Oswald Eversleigh and the inheritors of his wealth. He died broken-hearted by a woman’s falsehood; my brother Lionel bestowed his best affections on the mercenary, fashionable coquette, Lydia Graham, who was ready to accept another lover within a few weeks of her pretended devotion to him; and lastly comes my misery at the hands of a wicked adventuress.”

  Douglas Dale resolved to leave London early next day. He returned to his Temple chambers, intending to start for the Continent the next morning.

  But when the next day came he did not carry out his intention. He found himself disinclined to seek change of scene, which he felt could bring him no relief of mind. Go where he would, he could not separate himself from the bitter memories of the past few months.

  He determined to remain in London; for, to the man who wishes to avoid the companionship of his fellow-men, there is no hermitage more secure than a lodging in the heart of busy, selfish London. He determined to remain, for in London he could obtain information as to the conduct of Paulina.

  What would she do now that the stage-play was ended, and deception could no longer avail? Would she once more resume her old habits — open her saloons to the patrician gamblers of West-end London, and steep her weary, guilt-burdened soul in the mad intoxication of the gaming-table?

  Would Sir Reginald Eversleigh again assume his old position in her household? — again become her friend and flatterer? She had affected to despise him; but that might have been only a part of the great deception of which Douglas had been the victim.

  These were the questions the lonely, heartbroken man asked himself that night, as he sat brooding by his solitary hearth, no longer able to find pleasure in the nightly studies which had once been so delightful to him.

  Ah! how deeply he must have loved that woman, when the memory of her guilt poisoned his existence! How madly he still clung to the thought of her! — how intensely he desired to penetrate the secrets of her life!

  CHAPTER XXXVIII.

  “THY DAY IS COME!”

  “What is it, Jane?” asked Lady Eversleigh, rather impatiently, of her maid, when her knock at the door of her sitting-room in Percy Street interrupted the conversation between herself and the detective officer, a conversation intensely and painfully interesting.

  “A person, ma’am, who wants to see Mr. Andrews, and will take no denial.”

  “Indeed,
” said Mr. Larkspur; “that’s very odd: I know of nothing up at present for which they should send any one to me here. However,” and he rose as he spoke, “I suppose I had better see this person. Where is he?”

  “In the hall,” replied Jane.

  But Lady Eversleigh interposed to prevent Mr. Larkspur’s departure. “Pray do not go,” she said, “unless it concerns this business, unless it is news of my child. This may be something to rob me of your time and attention; and remember I alone have a right to your services.”

  “Lor’ bless you, my lady,” said Mr. Larkspur, “I haven’t forgot that; and that’s just what puzzles me. There’s only one man who knows the lay I’m on, and the name I go by, and he knows I would not take anything else till I have reckoned up this; and it would be no good sending anybody after me, unless it were something in some way concerning this business.”

  In an instant Lady Eversleigh was as anxious that Mr. Larkspur should see the unknown man as she had been unwilling he should do so. “Pray go to him at once,” she urged; “don’t lose a moment.”

  Mr. Larkspur left the room, and Lady Eversleigh dismissed Jane Payland, and awaited his return in an agony of impatience. After the lapse of half an hour, Mr. Larkspur appeared. There were actually some slight traces of emotion in his face, and the colour had lessened considerably in his vulture-like beak. He was followed by a tall, stalwart, fine-looking man, with the unmistakeable gait and air of a sailor. As Lady Eversleigh looked at him in astonishment, Mr. Larkspur said: —

  “I ain’t much of a believer in Fate in general, but there’s surely a

  Fate in this. My lady, this is Captain George Jernam!”

  * * * * *

  The time had passed slowly and wearily for Rosamond Jernam, and all the efforts conscientiously made by her husband’s aunt, who liked the girl better the more she saw of her, and entirely acquitted her of blame in the mysterious estrangement of the young couple, failed to make her cheerful. She was wont to roam disconsolately for hours about the secluded coast, giving free course to her sadness, and cherishing one dear secret. Rosamond was so much changed in appearance of late that Susan Jernam began to feel seriously uneasy about her. She had lost her pretty fresh colour, and her face wore a haggard, weary look; it was plain to every eye that some hidden grief was preying on her mind. Mrs. Jernam, though a quiet person, and given to the minding of her own affairs, was not quite without “cronies,” and to one of these she confided her anxiety about her niece. The confidante was a certain Mrs. Miller, a respectable person, but lower in the social scale than Mrs. Jernam. She was a widow, and lived in a tiny cottage, close to the beach at Allanbay; she kept no servant, but her trim little dwelling was always the very pink and pattern of neatness. She was of a silent, though not a morose temperament. It was generally understood that Mrs. Miller’s husband had been a seafaring man, and had been drowned many years before she went to live at Allanbay. She had no relatives, and no previous acquaintances in that quiet nook; and if she had been a little higher in the social scale, belonging to that class which requires introductions, she might have lived a life of unbroken solitude. As it was, the neighbours made friends with her by degrees, and the poor widow’s life was not an unhappy or solitary one. Mrs. Jernam had early learned the particulars of her case, and a friendship had grown up between them, of which Mrs. Miller duly acknowledged the condescension on Mrs. Jernam’s part.