Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

M >> M. E. Braddon >> Run to Earth

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42

"And you consented?"

"I ask you, Reginald Eversleigh, could I refuse? For me, love was a
word which had no meaning. Leopold Durski was more than double my age;
but in outward seeming he was a gentleman. He was reported to be
wealthy; he had a high position at the Austrian Court. I was so utterly
helpless, so desolate, so despairing, that it is scarcely strange if I
accepted the fate my father pressed upon me, careless as to a future
which held no joy for me, beyond the pleasure of the gaming-table. I
left the house of one gambler to ally myself to the fortunes of
another, for Leopold Durski was my father's companion and friend, and
the same master-passion swayed both. It was strange that my father,
himself a ruined gamester, should have become the dupe of a man whose
reported wealth was as great a sham as his own. But so it was. I
exchanged poverty with one master for poverty with another master. My
new life was an existence of perpetual falsehood and trickery. I
occupied a splendid house in the most fashionable quarter of Vienna;
but that house was maintained by my husband's winnings at the gaming-
table; and it was my task to draw together the dupes whose money was to
support the false semblance of grandeur which surrounded me. The dupes
came. I had my little court of flatterers; but the courtiers paid
dearly for their allegiance to their queen. I was the snare which was
set to entrap the birds whose feathers my husband was to pluck. If I
had been like other women, my position would have been utterly
intolerable to me. I should have found some means of escape from a life
so hateful--a degradation so shameful."

"And you made no attempt to escape?"

"None. I was a gambler; the vice which had degraded my husband had
degraded me. We had both sunk to the same level, and I had no right to
reproach him for infamy which I shared. We had little affection for
each other. Colonel Durski had sought me only because I was fitted to
adorn his reception-rooms, and attract the dupes who were to suffer by
their acquaintance with him. But if there was little love between us,
we at least never quarrelled. He treated me always with studied
courtesy, and I never upbraided him for the deception by which he had
obtained my hand. My father disappeared suddenly from Vienna, and only
after his departure was it discovered that his fortune had long
vanished, and that he had for several years been completely insolvent.
His creditors tittered a cry of execration; but in great cities the
cries of such victims are scarcely heard. My reception-rooms were still
thronged by aristocratic guests, and no one cared to remember my
father's infamy. This life had lasted three years, when my husband died
and left me penniless. I sold my jewels, and came to this city, where
for a year and a half I have lived, as my husband lived in Vienna, on
the fortune of the gaming-table. I am growing weary of Paris, and it
may be that Paris is growing weary of me. I suppose I shall go to
London next. And next? Who knows? Ah, Reginald Eversleigh, believe me
there are many moments of my life in which I think that the little walk
from here to the river would cut the knot of all my difficulties. To-
night I am surrounded with anxieties, steeped in degradation, hemmed in
by obstacles that shut me out of all peaceful resting-places. To-morrow
I might be lying very quietly in the Morgue."

"Paulina, for pity's sake--"

"Ah, me! these are idle words, are they not?" said Madame Durski, with
a weary sigh. "And now I have told you my history, Reginald Eversleigh,
and it is for you to judge whether there is any excuse for such a
creature as I am."

Sir Reginald pitied this hopeless, friendless, woman as much as it was
in him to pity any one except himself, and tried to utter some words of
consolation.

She looked up at him, as he spoke to her, with a glance in which he saw
a deeper feeling than gratitude.

Then it was that Reginald declared himself the devoted lover of the
woman who had revealed to him the strange story of her life. He told
her of the influence which she exercised over him, the fascination
which he had sought in vain to resist. He declared himself attached to
her by an affection which would know no change, come what might. But he
did not offer this friendless woman the shelter of his name, the
ostensible position which would have been hers had she become his wife.

Even when beneath the sway of a woman's fascination Reginald Eversleigh
was cold and calculating. Paulina Durski was poor, and doubtless deeply
in debt. She was a gambler, and the companion of gamblers. She was,
therefore, no fitting wife for a man who looked upon marriage as a
stepping-stone by which he might yet redeem his fallen fortunes.

Paulina received his declaration with an air of simulated coldness; but
Reginald Eversleigh could perceive that it was only simulated, and that
he had awakened a real affection in the heart of this desolate woman.

"Do not speak to me of love," she said; "to me such words can promise
no happiness. My love could only bring shame and misery on the man to
whom it was given. Let me tread my dreary pathway alone, Reginald--
alone to the very end."

Much was said after this by Reginald and the woman who loved him, and
who was yet too proud to confess her love. Paulina Durski was not an
inexperienced girl, to be persuaded by romantic speeches. She had
acquired knowledge of the world in a hard and bitter school. She could
fully fathom the base selfishness of the man who pretended to love her,
and she understood why it was that he shrank from offering her the only
real pledge of his truth.

"I will speak frankly to you, Paulina," he said. "I am too poor to
marry."

"Yes," she answered, bitterly; "I comprehend. You are too poor to marry
a penniless wife."

"And I am not likely to find a rich one. But, believe me, that my love
is none the less sincere because I shrink from asking you to ally
yourself to misery."

"So be it, Sir Reginald. I am willing to accept your love for what it
is--a wise and prudent affection--such as a man of the world may freely
indulge in without fear that his folly may cost him too dearly. You
will come to my house; I shall see you night after night amongst the
reckless idlers who gather round me; you will pay me compliments all
the year round, and bring me bon-bons on New Year's Day; and some day,
when I have grown old and haggard, you will all at once forget the fact
of our acquaintance, and I shall see you no more. Let it be so. It is
pleasant for a woman to fancy herself beloved, however false the fancy
may be. I will shut my eyes, and dream that you love me, Reginald."

And this was all. No more was ever said of love between these two; but
from that hour Reginald was more constant than ever in his attendance
on the beautiful widow. The time came when she grew weary of Paris, and
when those who had lost money began to shun the seductive delights of
her nightly receptions. Reginald Eversleigh was not slow to perceive
that the brilliant throng grew thin--the most distinguished guests
"conspicuous by their absence." He urged Paulina to leave Paris for
London; and he himself selected the lonely villa on the banks of the
Thames, in which he found a billiard-room, lighted from the roof, that
was easily converted into a secret chamber.

It was by his advice that Paulina Durski altered her line of conduct on
taking up her abode in England, and refrained altogether from any
active share in the ruinous amusements for which men frequented her
receptions.

"It was all very well for you to take a hand at _ecarte_, or to take
your place at the _rouge et noir_ table, in Paris," Reginald said, when
he discussed this question; "but here it will not do. The English are
full of childish prejudices, and to see a woman at the gaming-table
would shock these prejudices. Let me play for you. I will find the
capital, and we will divide the profits of each night's speculation.
For your part, you will have only to look beautiful, and to lure the
golden-feathered birds into the net; and sometimes, perhaps, when I am
playing _ecarte_ with one of your admirers, behind whose chair you may
happen to be standing, you may contrive to combine a flattering
interest in _his_ play with a substantial benefit to _mine_."

Paulina's eyelids fell, and a crimson flush dyed her face: but she
uttered no exclamation of anger or disgust. And yet she understood only
too well the meaning of Sir Reginald's words. She knew that he wished
her to aid him in a deliberate system of cheating. She knew this, and
she did not withdraw her friendship from this man.

Alas, no! she loved him. Not because she believed him to be good and
honourable--not because she was blinded to the baseness of his nature.
She loved him in spite of her knowledge of his real character--she
yielded to the influence of an infatuation which she was so powerless
to resist that she might almost be pardoned for believing herself the
victim of a baleful destiny.

"It is my fate," she murmured to herself, after this last revelation of
her lover's infamy. "It must needs be my fate, since women with less
claim to be loved than I possess are so happy as to win the devotion of
good and brave men. It is my fate to love a cheat and trickster, on
whose constancy I have so poor a hold that a breath may sever the
miserable bond that unites us."

Victor Carrington was one of the first persons whom Reginald Eversleigh
introduced to Madame Durski after her arrival in England. She was
pleased with the quiet and graceful manners of the Frenchman; but she
was at a loss to understand Sir Reginald's intimate association with a
man who was at once poor and obscure.

She told Sir Reginald as much the next time she saw him alone.

"I know that in most of your friendships convenience and self-interest
reign paramount over what you call sentimentality; and yet you choose
for your friend this Carrington, whom no one knows; and who is, you
tell me, even poorer than yourself. You must have a hidden motive,
Reginald; and a strong one."

A dark shade passed over the face of the baronet.

"I have my reasons," he said. "Victor Carrington was once useful to
me--at least he endeavoured to be so. If he failed, the obligation is
none the less; and he is a man who will have his bond."

CHAPTER XVIII.

AT ANCHOR.

The current of life flowed on at River View Cottage without so much as
a ripple in the shape of an event, after the appalling midnight visit
of Miser Screwton's ghost, until one summer evening, when Captain
Duncombe came home in very high spirits, bringing with him an old
friend, of whom Miss Duncombe had heard her father talk very often; but
whom she had hitherto never seen.

This was no other than George Jernam, the captain of the "Albatross,"
and the owner of the "Stormy Petrel" and "Pizarro."

In London the captain of the "Albatross" found plenty of business to
occupy him. He had just returned from an African cruise, and though he
had not forgotten the circumstances which had made his last intended
visit to England only a memorable and melancholy failure, he was in
high spirits.

The first few days hardly sufficed for the talks between George Jernam
and Joyce Harker, who aided him vigorously in the refitting of his
vessel. He had been in London about a week before he fell in with
honest Joe Duncombe. The two men had been fast friends ever since the
day on which George, while still a youngster, had served as second-mate
under the owner of the "Vixen."

They met accidentally in one of the streets about Wapping. Joseph
Buncombe was delighted to encounter a sea-faring friend, and insisted
on taking George Jernam down to River View Cottage to eat what he
called a homely bit of dinner.

The homely bit of dinner turned out to be a very excellent repast; for
Mrs. Mugby prided herself upon her powers as a cook and housekeeper,
and to produce a good dinner at a short notice was a triumph she much
enjoyed.

Susan Trott waited at table in her prettiest cotton gown and smartest
cap.

Rosamond Duncombe sat by her father's side during the meal; and after
dinner, when the curtains were drawn, and the lamp lighted, the captain
of the "Vixen" set himself to brew a jorum of punch in a large old
Japanese china bowl, the composition of which punch was his strong
point.

Altogether that little dinner and cheerful evening entertainment seemed
the perfection of home comfort. George Jernam had been too long a
stranger to home and home pleasures not to feel the cheerful influence
of that hospitable abode.

For Joseph Duncombe the companionship of his old friend was delightful.
The society of the sailor was as invigorating to the nostrils of a
seaman as the fresh breeze of ocean after a long residence inland.

"You don't know what a treat it is to me to have an old shipmate with
me once more, George," he said. "My little Rosy and I live here pretty
comfortably, though I keep a tight hand over her, I can tell you," he
added, with pretended severity; "but it's dull work for a man who has
lived the best part of his life on the sea to find himself amongst a
pack of spooney landsmen. Never you marry a landsman, Rosy, if you
don't want me to cut you off with a shilling," he cried, turning to his
daughter.

Of course Miss Rosamond Duncombe blushed on hearing herself thus
apostrophized, as young ladies of eighteen have a knack of blushing
when the possibility of their falling in love is mentioned.

George Jernam saw the blush, and thought that Miss Duncombe was the
prettiest girl he had ever seen.

George Jernam stayed late at the cottage, for its hospitable owner was
loth to let his friend depart.

"How long do you stay in London, George?" he asked, as the young man
was going away.

"A month, at least--perhaps two months."

"Then be sure you come down here very often. You can dine with us every
Sunday, of course, for I know you haven't a creature belonging to you
in London except Harker; and you can run down of an evening sometimes,
and bring him with you, and smoke your cigar in my garden, with the
bright water rippling past you, and all the ships in the Pool spreading
their rigging against the calm grey sky; and I'll brew you a jorum of
punch, and Rosy shall sing us a song while we drink it."

It is not to be supposed that George Jernam, who had a good deal of
idle time on his hands, could refuse to oblige his old captain, or
shrink from availing himself of hospitality so cordially pressed upon
him.

He went very often in the autumn dusk to spend an hour or two at River
View Cottage, where he always found a hearty welcome. He strolled in
the garden with Captain Duncombe and Rosamond, talking of strange lands
and stranger adventures.

Harker did not always accompany him; but sometimes he did, and on such
occasions Rosamond seemed unaccountably glad to see him. Harker paid
her no more attention than usual, and invariably devoted himself to Joe
Duncombe, who was frequently lazy, and inclined to smoke his cigar in
the comfortable parlour. On these occasions George Jernam and Rosamond
Duncombe strolled side by side in the garden; and the sailor
entertained his fair companion by the description of all the strangest
scenes he had beheld, and the most romantic adventures he had been
engaged in. It was like the talk of some sea-faring Othello; and never
did Desdemona more "seriously incline" to hear her valiant Moor than
did Miss Duncombe to hear her captain.

One of the windows of Joseph Duncombe's favourite sitting-room
commanded the garden; and from this window the captain of the "Vixen"
could see his daughter and the captain of the "Albatross" walking side
by side upon the smoothly kept lawn. He used to look unutterably sly as
he watched the two figures; and on one occasion went so far as to tap
his nose significantly several times with his ponderous fore-finger.

"It's a match!" he muttered to himself; "it's a match, or my name is
not Joe Duncombe."

Susan Trott was not slow to notice those evening walks in the garden.
She told the dashing young baker that she thought there would be a
wedding at the cottage before long.

"Yours, of course," cried the baker.

"For shame, now, you impitent creature!" exclaimed Susan, blushing till
she was rosier than the cherry-coloured ribbons in her cap; "you know
what I mean well enough."

Neither Captain Duncombe nor Susan Trott were very far wrong. The
"Albatross" was not ready for her next cruise till three months after
George Jernam's first visit to River View Cottage, nor did the captain
of the vessel seem particularly anxious to hasten the completion of the
repairs.

When the "Albatross" did drop down into the Channel, she sailed on a
cruise that was to last less than six months; and when George Jernam
touched English ground again, he was to return to claim Rosamond
Duncombe as his plighted wife. This arrangement had Joyce Harker's
hearty approbation; but when he, too, had taken leave of George Jernam,
he turned away muttering, "I think he really _has_ forgotten Captain
Valentine now; but I have not, I have not. No, I remember him better
than ever now, when there's no one but me."

* * * * *

The "Albatross" came safely back to the Pool in the early spring
weather. George Jernam had promised Rosamond that she should know of
his coming before ever he set foot on shore, and he contrived to keep
his word.

One fine March day she saw a vessel sailing up the river, with a white
flag flying from the main-mast. On the white flag blazed, in bright red
letters, the name, "_Rosamond_!"

When Miss Duncombe saw this, she knew at once that her lover had
returned. No other vessel than the "Albatross" was likely to sport such
a piece of bunting.

George Jernam came back braver, truer, handsomer even than when he went
away, as it seemed to Rosamond. He came back more devoted to her than
ever, she thought; and a man must have been indeed cold of heart who
could be ungrateful for the innocent, girlish affection which Rosamond
revealed in every word and look.

The wedding took place within a month of the sailor's return; and,
after some discussion, George Jernam consented that he and his wife
should continue to live at the cottage.

"I can't come here to take possession of your house," he had said,
addressing himself to his future father-in-law; "that would be rather
too much of a good thing. I know you'd like to keep Rosy in the
neighbourhood, and so you shall. I'll do as you did. I'll find a little
bit of ground near here, and build myself a comfortable crib, with a
view of the river."

"Stuff and nonsense!" replied Captain Duncombe. "If that's what you are
going to do, you shall not have my Rosy. I've no objection to her
having a husband on the premises; but the day she leaves my roof for
the sake of any man in Christendom, I'll cut her off with a shilling--
and the shilling shall be a bad one."

The captain of the "Albatross" took his young wife into Devonshire for
a brief honeymoon; and during this pleasant spring-time holiday,
Rosamond made the acquaintance of her husband's aunt. Susan Jernam was
pleased with the bright-eyed, pure-minded, modest girl, and in the few
days they were together, learned to regard her with a motherly feeling,
which was destined to be of priceless value to Rosy at an unforeseen
crisis of the new life that began so fairly.

Never did a married couple begin their new life with a fairer prospect
than that which lay before George Jernam and his wife when they
returned to River View Cottage. Captain Duncombe received his son-in-
law with the hearty welcome of a true seaman; but a few days after
George Jernam's return, the old sailor took him aside, and made an
announcement which filled him with surprise.

"You know how fond I am of Rosy," he said, "and you know that if
Providence had blessed me with a son of my own, he couldn't have been
much dearer to me than you are; so come what may, neither you or Rosy
must doubt my affection for both of you. Come now, George, promise me
you won't."

"I promise, with all my heart," answered Captain Jernam; "I should no
more think of doubting your goodness or your love for us, than I should
think of doubting that there's a sun shining up aloft yonder. But why
do you speak of this?"

"Because, George, the truth of the matter is, I'm going to leave you."

"You are going to leave us?"

"Yes, old fellow. You see, a lazy, land-lubber's life doesn't suit me.
I've tried it, and it don't answer. I thought the sound of the water
washing against the bank at the bottom of my garden, and the sight of
the ships in the Pool, would be consolation enough for me, but they
ain't, and I've been sickening for the sea for the last six mouths. As
long as my little Rosy had nobody in the world but me to take care of
her, I stayed with her, and I should have gone on staying with her till
I died at my post. But she's got a husband now, and two trust-worthy
women-servants, who would protect her if you left her--as I suppose you
must leave her, sooner or later--so there's no reason why I should stop
on shore any longer, pining for a sight of blue water."

"And you really mean to leave us!" exclaimed George Jernam. "I am
afraid your going will break poor Rosy's heart."

"No it won't, George," answered Captain Duncombe. "When a young woman's
married, her heart is uncommonly tough with regard to everybody except
her husband. I dare say poor little Rosy-posy will be sorry to lose her
old father; but she'll have you to console her, and she won't grieve
long. Besides, I'm not going away for ever, you know. I'm only just
going to take a little cruise to the Indies, with a cargo of dry goods,
make a bit of money for my grandchildren that are to be, and then come
home again, fresher than ever, and settle down in the bosom of my
family. I've seen a neat little craft that will suit me to a T; and I
shall fit her out, and be off for blue water before the month is
ended."

It was evident that the old sailor was in earnest, and George Jernam
did not attempt to overrule his determination. Rosamond pleaded against
her father's departure, but she pleaded in vain. Early in June Captain
Duncombe left England on board a neat little craft, which he christened
the "Young Wife," in compliment to his daughter.

Before he went, George promised that he would himself await the return
of his father-in-law before he started on a new voyage.

"I can afford to be idle for twelve months, or so," he said; "and my
dear little wife shall not be left without a protector."

So the young couple settled down comfortably in the commodious cottage,
which was now all their own.

To Rosamond, her new existence was all unbroken joy. She had loved her
husband with all the romantic devotion of inexperienced girlhood. To
her poetic fancy he seemed the noblest and bravest of created beings;
and she wondered at her own good fortune when she saw him by her side,
fond and devoted, consent to sacrifice all the delights of his free,
roving life for her sake.

"I don't think such happiness _can_ last, George," she said to him one
day.

That vague foreboding was soon to be too sadly realized! The sunshine
and the bright summer peace had promised to last for ever; but a dark
cloud arose which in one moment overshadowed all that summer sky, and
Rosamond Jernam's happiness vanished as if it had been indeed a dream.

CHAPTER XIX.

A FAMILIAR TOKEN.

Joseph Duncombe had been absent from River View Cottage little more
than a month, and the life of its inmates had been smooth and
changeless as the placid surface of a lake. They sought no society but
that of each other. Existence glided by, and the eventless days left
little to remember except the sweet tranquillity of a happy home.

It was on a wet, dull, unsettled July day that Rosamond Jernam found
her life changed all at once, while the cause for that dark change
remained a mystery to her.

After idling away half the morning, Captain Jernam discovered that he
had an important business letter to write to the captain of his trading
ship, the "Pizarro."

On opening his portfolio, the captain found himself without a single
sheet of foreign letter-paper. He told this difficulty to his wife, as
it was his habit to tell her all his difficulties; and he found her, as
usual, able to give him assistance.

"There is always foreign letter-paper in papa's desk," she said; "you
can use that."

"But, my dear Rosy, I could not think of opening your father's desk in
his absence."

"And why not?" cried Rosamond, laughing. "Do you think papa has any
secrets hidden there; or that he keeps some mysterious packet of old
love-letters tied up with a blue ribbon, which he would not like your
prying eyes to discover? You may open the desk, George. I give you my
permission; and if papa should be angry, the blame shall fall upon me
alone."