Birds of Prey by M.E. Braddon

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Georgina Cradock's rather insipid prettiness had developed into
matronly comeliness. Her fair complexion and pink cheeks had lost none
of their freshness. Her smooth auburn hair was as soft and bright as it
had been when she had braided it preparatory to a Barlingford tea-party
in the days of her spinsterhood. She was a pretty, weak little woman,
whose education had never gone beyond the routine of a provincial
boarding-school, and who believed that she had attained all necessary
wisdom in having mastered Pinnock's abridgments of Goldsmith's
histories and the rudiments of the French language. She was a woman who
thought that the perfection of feminine costume was a moire-antique
dress and a conspicuous gold chain. She was a woman who considered a
well-furnished house and a horse and gig the highest form of earthly
splendour or prosperity.

This was the shallow commonplace creature whom Philip Sheldon had once
admired and wooed. He looked at her now, and wondered how he could ever
have felt even as much as he had felt on her account. But he had little
leisure to devote to any such abstract and useless consideration. He
had his own affairs to think about, and they were very desperate.

In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Halliday occupied themselves in the
pursuit of pleasure or business, as the case might be. They were eager
for amusement: went to exhibitions in the day and to theatres at night,
and came home to cozy little suppers in Fitzgeorge-street, after which
Mr. Halliday was wont to waste the small hours in friendly conversation
with his quondam companion, and in the consumption of much
brandy-and-water.

Unhappily for Georgy, these halcyon days were broken by intervals of
storm and cloud. The weak little woman was afflicted with that
intermittent fever called jealousy; and the stalwart Thomas was one of
those men who can scarcely give the time of day to a feminine
acquaintance without some ornate and loud-spoken gallantry. Having no
intellectual resources wherewith to beguile the tedium of his idle
prosperous life, he was fain to seek pleasure in the companionship of
other men; and had thus become a haunter of tavern parlours and small
racecourses, being always ready for any amusement his friends proposed
to him. It followed, therefore, that he was very often absent from his
commonplace substantial home, and his pretty weak-minded wife. And poor
Georgy had ample food for her jealous fears and suspicions; for where
might a man not be who was so seldom at home? She had never been
particularly fond of her husband, but that was no reason why she should
not be particularly jealous about him; and her jealousy betrayed itself
in a peevish worrying fashion, which was harder to bear than the
vengeful ferocity of a Clytemnestra. It was in vain that Thomas
Halliday and those jolly good fellows his friends and companions
attested the Arcadian innocence of racecourses, and the perfect purity
of that smoky atmosphere peculiar to tavern parlours. Georgy's
suspicions were too vague for refutation; but they were nevertheless
sufficient ground for all the alternations of temper--from stolid
sulkiness to peevish whining, from murmured lamentations to loud
hysterics--to which the female temperament is liable.

In the meantime poor honest, loud-spoken Tom did all in his power to
demonstrate his truth and devotion. He bought his wife as many stiff
silk gowns and gaudy Barlingford bonnets as she chose to sigh for. He
made a will, in which she was sole legatee, and insured his life in
different offices to the amount of five thousand pounds.

"I'm the sort of fellow that's likely to go off the hooks suddenly, you
know, Georgy," he said, "and your poor dad was always anxious I should
make things square for you. I don't suppose you're likely to marry
again, my lass, so I've no need to tie up Lottie's little fortune. I
must trust some one, and I'd better confide in my little wife than in
some canting methodistical fellow of a trustee, who would speculate my
daughter's money upon some Stock-Exchange hazard, and levant to
Australia when it was all swamped. If you can't trust me, Georgy, I'll
let you see that I can trust you", added Tom reproachfully.

Whereupon poor weak little Mrs. Halliday murmured plaintively that she
did not want fortunes or life insurances, but that she wanted her
husband to stay at home, content with the calm and rather sleepy
delights of his own fireside. Poor Tom was wont to promise amendment,
and would keep his promise faithfully so long as no supreme temptation,
in the shape of a visit from some friend of the jolly-good-fellow
species, arose to vanquish his good resolutions. But a good-tempered,
generous-hearted young man who farms his own land, has three or four
good horses in his stable, a decent cellar of honest port and sherry--
"none of your wishy-washy sour stuff in the way of hock or claret,"
cried Tom Halliday--and a very comfortable balance at his banker's,
finds it no easy matter to shake off friends of the jolly-good-fellow
fraternity.

In London Mr. Halliday found the spirit of jolly-dog-ism rampant.
George Sheldon had always been his favourite of these two brothers; and
it was George who lured him from the safe shelter of Fitzgeorge-street
and took him to mysterious haunts, whence he returned long after
midnight, boisterous of manner and unsteady of gait, and with garments
reeking of stale tobacco-smoke.

He was always good-tempered, even after these diabolical orgies on some
unknown Brocken, and protested indistinctly that there was no harm,--
"'pon m' wor', ye know, ol' gur'! Geor' an' me--half-doz' oyst'r--
c'gar--botl' p'l ale--str't home," and much more to the same effect.
When did any married man ever take more than half a dozen oysters--or
take any undomestic pleasure for his own satisfaction? It is always
those incorrigible bachelors, Thomas, Richard, or Henry, who hinder the
unwilling Benedick from returning to his sacred Lares and Penates.

Poor Georgy was not to be pacified by protestations about oysters and
cigars from the lips of a husband who was thick of utterance, and who
betrayed a general imbecility of mind and unsteadiness of body. This
London excursion, which had begun in sunshine, threatened to end in
storm and darkness. Georgy Sheldon and his set had taken possession of
the young farmer; and Georgy had no better amusement in the long
blustrous March evenings than to sit at her work under the flaming gas
in Mr. Sheldon's drawing-room, while that gentleman--who rarely joined
in the dissipations of his friend and his brother--occupied himself
with mechanical dentistry in the chamber of torture below.

Fitzgeorge-street in general, always on the watch to discover evidences
of impecuniosity or doubtful morality on the part of any one citizen in
particular, could find no food for scandal in the visit of Mr. and Mrs.
Halliday to their friend and countryman. It had been noised abroad,
through the agency of Mrs. Woolper, that Mr. Sheldon had been a suitor
for the lady' hand, and had been jilted by her. The Fitzgeorgians had
been, therefore, especially on the alert to detect any sign of
backsliding in the dentist. There would have been much pleasant
discussion in kitchens and back-parlours if Mr. Sheldon had been
particularly attentive to his fair guest; but it speedily became known,
always by the agency of Mrs. Woolper and that phenomenon of idleness
and iniquity, the London "girl," that Mr. Sheldon was not by any means
attentive to the pretty young woman from Yorkshire; but that he
suffered her to sit alone hour after hour in her husband's absence,
with no amusement but her needlework wherewith to "pass the time,"
while he scraped and filed and polished those fragments of bone which
were to assist in the renovation of decayed beauty.

The third week of Mr. and Mrs. Halliday's visit was near its close, and
as yet the young farmer had arrived at no decision as to the subject
which had brought him to London. The sale of Hyley Farm was an
accomplished fact, and the purchase-money duly bestowed at Tom's
banker's; but very little had been done towards finding the new
property which was to be a substitute for the estate his father and
grandfather had farmed before him. He had seen auctioneers, and had
brought home plans of estates in Herefordshire and Devonshire, Cornwall
and Somersetshire, all of which seemed to be, in their way, the most
perfect things imaginable--land of such fertility as one would scarcely
expect to find out of Arcadia--live stock which seemed beyond all
price, to be taken at a valuation.--roads and surrounding
neighbourhood unparalleled in beauty and convenience--outbuildings
that must have been the very archetypes of barns and stables--a house
which to inhabit would be to adore. But as yet he had seen none of
these peerless domains. He was waiting for decent weather in which to
run down to the West and "look about him," as he said to himself. In
the meantime the blustrous March weather, which was so unsuited to long
railroad journeys, and all that waiting about at junctions and at
little windy stations on branch lines, incidental to the inspection of
estates scattered over a large area of country, served very well for
"jolly-dog-ism;" and what with a hand at cards in George Sheldon's
chambers, and another hand at cards in somebody else's chambers, and a
run down to an early meeting at Newmarket, and an evening at some
rooms where there was something to be seen which was as near
prize-fighting as the law allowed, and other evenings in unknown
regions, Mr. Halliday found time slipping by him, and his domestic
peace vanishing away.

It was on an evening at the end of this third week that Mr. Sheldon
abandoned his mechanical dentistry for once in a way, and ascended to
the drawing-room where poor Georgy sat busy with that eternal
needlework, but for which melancholy madness would surely overtake many
desolate matrons in houses whose common place comfort and respectable
dulness are more dismal than the picturesque dreariness of a moated
grange amid the Lincolnshire fens. To the masculine mind this
needlework seems nothing more than a purposeless stabbing and sewing of
strips of calico; but to lonely womanhood it is the prison-flower of
the captive, it is the spider of Latude.

Mr. Sheldon brought his guest an evening newspaper.

"There's an account of the opening of Parliament," he said, "which you
may perhaps like to see. I wish I had a piano, or some female
acquaintances to drop in upon you. I am afraid you must be dull in
these long evenings when Tom is out of the way."

"I am indeed dull," Mrs. Halliday answered peevishly; "and if Tom cared
for me, he wouldn't leave me like this evening after evening. But he
doesn't care for me."

Mr Sheldon laid down the newspaper, and seated himself opposite his
guest. He sat for a few minutes in silence, beating time to some
imaginary air with the tips of his fingers on the old-fashioned
mahogany table. Then he said, with a half-smile upon his face,--

"But surely Tom is the best of husbands! He has been a little wild
since his coming to London, I know; but then you see he doesn't often
come to town."

"He's just as bad in Yorkshire," Georgy answered gloomily; "he's always
going to Barlingford with somebody or other, or to meet some of his old
friends. I'm sure, if I had known what he was, I would never have
married him."

"Why, I thought he was such a good husband. He was telling me only a
few days ago how he had made a will leaving you every sixpence he
possesses, without reservation, and how he has insured his life for
five thousand pounds."

"O yes, I know that; but I don't call _that_ being a good husband. I
don't want him to leave me his money. I don't want him to die. I want
him to stay at home."

"Poor Tom! I'm afraid he's not the sort of man for that kind of thing.
He likes change and amusement. You married a rich man, Mrs. Halliday;
you made your choice, you know, without regard to the feelings of any
one else. You sacrificed truth and honour to your own inclination, or
your own interest, I do not know, and do not ask which. If the bargain
has turned out a bad one, that's your look-out."

Philip Sheldon sat with his folded arms resting on the little table and
his eyes fixed on Georgy's face. They could be very stern and hard and
cruel, those bright black eyes, and Mrs. Halliday grew first red and
then pale under their searching gaze. She had seen Mr. Sheldon very
often during the years of her married life, but this was the first time
he had ever said anything to her that sounded like a reproach. The
dentist's eyes softened a little as he watched her, not with any
special tenderness, but with an expression of half-disdainful
compassion--such as a strong stern man might feel for a foolish child.
He could see that this woman was afraid of him, and it served his
interests that she should fear him. He had a purpose in everything he
did, and his purpose to-night was to test the strength of his influence
over Georgina Halliday. In the old time before her marriage that
influence had been very strong. It was for him, to discover now whether
it still endured.

"You made your choice, Mrs. Halliday," he went on presently, "and it
was a choice which all prudent people must have approved. What chance
had a man, who was only heir to a practice worth four or five hundred
pounds, against the inheritor of Hyley Farm with its two hundred and
fifty acres, and three thousand pounds' worth of live stock, plant, and
working capital? When do the prudent people ever stop to consider truth
and honour, or old promises, or an affection that dates from childhood?
They calculate everything by pounds, shillings, and pence; and
according to their mode of reckoning you were in the right when you
jilted me to marry Tom Halliday."

Georgy laid down her work and took out her handkerchief. She was one of
those women who take refuge in tears when they find themselves at a
disadvantage. Tears had always melted honest Tom, was his wrath never
so dire, and tears would no doubt subdue Philip Sheldon.

But Georgy had to discover that the dentist was made of a stuff very
different from that softer clay which composed the rollicking
good-tempered farmer. Mr. Sheldon watched her tears with the
cold-blooded deliberation of a scientific experimentalist. He was glad
to find that he could make her cry. She was a necessary instrument in
the working out of certain plans that he had made for himself, and he
was anxious to discover whether she was likely to be a plastic
instrument. He knew that her love for him had never been worth much at
its best, and that the poor little flickering flame had been utterly
extinguished by nine years of commonplace domesticity and petty
jealousy. But his purpose was one that would be served as well by her
fear as by her love, and he had set himself to-night to gauge his
power in relation to this poor weak creature.

"It's very unkind of you to say such dreadful things, Mr. Sheldon," she
whimpered presently; "you know very well that my marriage with Tom was
pa's doing, and not mine. I'm sure if I'd known how he would stay out
night after night, and come home in such dreadful states time after
time, I never would have consented to marry him."

"Wouldn't you?--O yes, you would. If you were a widow to-morrow, and
free to marry again, you would choose just such another man as Tom--a
man who laughs loud, and pays flourishing compliments, and drives a gig
with a high-stepping horse. That's the sort of man women like, and
that's the sort of man you'd marry."

"I'm sure I shouldn't marry at all," answered Mrs. Halliday, in a
voice that was broken by little gasping sobs. "I have seen enough of
the misery of married life. But I don't want Tom to die, unkind as he
is to me. People are always saying that he won't make old bones--how
horrid it is to talk of a person's bones!--and I'm sure I sometimes
make myself wretched about him, as he knows, though he doesn't thank me
for it."

And here Mrs Halliday's sobs got the better of her utterance, and Mr.
Sheldon was fain to say something of a consolatory nature.

"Come, come," he said, "I won't tease you any more. That's against the
laws of hospitality, isn't it?--only there are some things which you
can't expect a man to forget, you know. However, let bygones be
bygones. As for poor old Tom, I daresay he'll live to be a hale, hearty
old man, in spite of the croakers. People always will croak about
something; and it's a kind of fashion to say that a big, hearty,
six-foot man is a fragile blossom likely to be nipped by any wintry
blast. Come, come, Mrs. Halliday, your husband mustn't discover that
I've been making you cry when he comes home. He may be home early this
evening, perhaps; and if he is, we'll have an oyster supper, and a
chat about old times."

Mrs. Halliday shook her head dolefully.

"It's past ten o'clock already," she said, "and I don't suppose Tom
will be home till after twelve. He doesn't like my sitting up for him;
but I wonder _what_ time he would come home if I didn't sit up for
him?"

"Let's hope for the best," exclaimed Mr. Sheldon cheerfully. "I'll go
and see about the oysters."

"Don't get them for me, or for Tom," protested Mrs. Halliday; "he will
have had his supper when he comes home, you may be sure, and I couldn't
eat a morsel of anything."

To this resolution Mrs. Halliday adhered; so the dentist was fain to
abandon all jovial ideas in relation to oysters and pale ale. But he
did not go back to his mechanical dentistry. He sat opposite his
visitor, and watched her, silently and thoughtfully, for some time as
she worked. She had brushed away her tears, but she looked very peevish
and miserable, and took out her watch several times in an hour. Mr.
Sheldon made two or three feeble attempts at conversation, but the talk
languished and expired on each occasion, and they sat on in silence.

Little by little the dentist's attention seemed to wander away from his
guest. He wheeled his chair round, and sat looking at the fire with the
same fixed gloom upon his face which had darkened it on the night of
his return from Yorkshire. Things had been so desperate with him of
late, that he had lost his old orderly habit of thinking out a business
at one sitting, and making an end of all deliberation and hesitation
about it. There were subjects that forced themselves upon his thoughts,
and certain ideas which repeated themselves with a stupid persistence.
He was such an eminently practical man, that this disorder of his brain
troubled him more even than the thoughts that made the disorder. He sat
in the same attitude for a long while, scarcely conscious of Mrs.
Halliday's presence, not at all conscious of the progress of time.
Georgy had been right in her gloomy forebodings of bad behaviour on the
part of Mr. Halliday. It was nearly one o'clock when a loud double
knock announced that gentleman's return. The wind had been howling
drearily, and a sharp, slanting rain had been pattering against the
windows for the last half-hour, while Mrs. Halliday's breast had been
racked by the contending emotions of anxiety and indignation.

"I suppose he couldn't get a cab," she exclaimed, as the knock startled
her from her listening attitude--for however intently a midnight
watcher may be listening for the returning wanderer's knock, it is not
the less startling when it comes?--"and he has walked home through the
wet, and now he'll have a violent cold, I daresay," added Georgy
peevishly.

"Then it's lucky for him he's in a doctor's house," answered Mr.
Sheldon, with a smile. He was a handsome man, no doubt, according to
the popular idea of masculine perfection, but he had not a pleasant
smile. "I went through the regular routine, you know, and am as well
able to see a patient safely through a cold or fever as I am to make
him a set of teeth."

Mr. Halliday burst into the room at this moment, singing a fragment of
the "Chough and Crow" chorus, very much out of tune. He was in
boisterously high spirits, and very little the worse for liquor. He had
only walked from Covent Garden, he said, and had taken nothing but a
tankard of stout and a Welsh rarebit. He had been hearing the divinest
singing--boys with the voices of angels--and had been taking his supper
in a place which duchesses themselves did not disdain to peep at from
the sacred recesses of a loge grillee, George Sheldon had told him. But
poor country-bred Georgina Halliday would not believe in the duchesses,
or the angelic singing boys, or the primitive simplicity of Welsh
rarebits. She had a vision of beautiful women, and halls of dazzling
light, where there was the mad music of perpetual Post-horn Galops,
with a riotous accompaniment of huzzas and the popping of champagne
corks--where the sheen of satin and the glitter of gems bewildered the
eye of the beholder. She had seen such a picture once on the stage, and
had vaguely associated it with all Tom's midnight roisterings ever
afterwards.

The roisterer's garments were very wet, and it was in vain that his
wife and Philip Sheldon entreated him to change them for dry ones, or
to go to bed immediately. He stood before the fire relating his
innocent adventures, and trying to dispel the cloud from Georgy's fair
young brow; and, when he did at last consent to go to his room, the
dentist shook his head ominously.

"You'll have a severe cold to-morrow, depend upon it, Tom, and you'll
have yourself to thank for it," he said, as he bade the good-tempered
reprobate good night. "Never mind, old fellow," answered Tom; "if I am
ill, you shall nurse me. If one is doomed to die by doctors' stuff,
it's better to have a doctor one does know than a doctor one doesn't
know for one's executioner."

After which graceful piece of humour Mr. Halliday went blundering up
the staircase, followed by his aggrieved wife.

Philip Sheldon stood on the landing looking after his visitors for some
minutes. Then he went slowly back to the sitting-room, where he
replenished the fire, and seated himself before it with a newspaper in
his hand.

"What's the use of going to bed, if I can't sleep?" he muttered, in a
discontented tone.

CHAPTER IV.

A PERPLEXING ILLNESS.

Mr. Sheldon's prophecy was fully realised. Tom Halliday awoke the next
day with a violent cold in his head. Like most big boisterous men of
herculean build, he was the veriest craven in the hour of physical
ailment; so he succumbed at once to the malady which a man obliged to
face the world and fight for his daily bread must needs have made light
of.

The dentist rallied his invalid friend.

"Keep your bed, if you like, Tom," he said, "but there's no necessity
for any such coddling. As your hands are hot, and your tongue rather
queer, I may as well give you a saline draught. You'll be all right by
dinner-time, and I'll get George to look round in the evening for a
hand at cards."

Tom obeyed his professional friend--took his medicine, read the paper,
and slept away the best part of the dull March day. At half-past five
he got up and dressed for dinner, and the evening passed very
pleasantly--so pleasantly, indeed, that Georgy was half inclined to
wish that her husband might be afflicted with chronic influenza,
whereby he would be compelled to stop at home. She sighed when Philip
Sheldon slapped his friend's broad shoulder, and told him cheerily that
he would be "all right to-morrow." He would be well again, and there
would be more midnight roistering, and she would be again tormented by
that vision of lighted halls and beautiful diabolical creatures
revolving madly to the music of the Post-horn Galop.

It seemed, however, that poor jealous Mrs. Halliday was to be spared
her nightly agony for some time to come. Tom's cold lasted longer than
he had expected, and the cold was succeeded by a low fever--a bilious
fever, Mr. Sheldon said. There was not the least occasion for alarm, of
course. The invalid and the invalid's wife trusted implicitly in the
friendly doctor who assured them both that Tom's attack was the most
ordinary kind of thing; a little wearing, no doubt, but entirely
without danger. He had to repeat this assurance very often to Georgy,
whose angry feelings had given place to extreme tenderness and
affection now that Tom was an invalid, quite unfitted for the society
of jolly good fellows, and willing to receive basins of beef-tea and
arrow-root meekly from his wife's hands, instead of those edibles of
iniquity, oysters and toasted cheese.

Mr. Halliday's illness was very tiresome. It was one of those
perplexing complaints which keep the patient himself, and the patient's
friends and attendants, in perpetual uncertainty. A little worse one
day and a shade better the next; now gaining a little strength, now
losing a trifle more than he had gained. The patient declined in so
imperceptible a manner that he had been ill three weeks, and was no
longer able to leave his bed, and had lost alike his appetite and his
spirits, before Georgy awoke to the fact that this illness, hitherto
considered so lightly, must be very serious.

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