Run to Earth by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (have you read this book TXT) 📖

>place where I should look for pork-pies. Well, I was almost beginning

to lose patience, when I sat down in a fancy-stationer’s shop to rest

myself. I sat down in this shop because I was really tired, not with

any hope of making use of my time, for I was too far away from Hilton

House to expect any luck in the way of information from the gentleman

behind the counter. However, when a man has devoted his life to

ferreting out information, the habit of ferreting is apt to be very

strong upon him; so I pass the time of day to my fancy-stationer, and

then begins to ferret. ‘Madame Durski, at Hilton House yonder, is an

uncommonly handsome woman,’ I throw out, by way of an opening.

‘Uncommonly,’ replies my fancy-stationer, by which I perceive he knows

her. ‘A customer of yours, perhaps?’ I throw out, promiscuous. ‘Yes,’

answers my fancy-stationer. ‘A good one, too, I’ll be bound,’ I throw

out, in a lively, conversational way. My fancy-stationer smiles, and

being accustomed to study smiles, I see significance in his smile. ‘A

very good one in some things,’ replies my fancy-stationer, laying a

tremendous stress upon the word some. ‘Oh,’ says I, ‘gilt-edged note-paper and cream-coloured sealing-wax, for instance.’ ‘I don’t sell her

a quire of paper in a month,’ answers my stationer. ‘If she was as fond

of writing letters as she is of playing cards, I think it would be

better for her.’ ‘Oh, she’s fond of card-playing is she?’ I ask. ‘Yes,’

replies my fancy-stationer, ‘I rather think she is. Your hair would

stand on end if I were to tell you how many packs of playing-cards I’ve

sold her lady-companion within the last three months. The lady-companion comes here at dusk with a thick black veil over her face, and

she thinks I don’t know who she is; but I do know her, and know where

she lives, and whom she lives with.’ After this I buy myself a quire of

writing-paper, which I don’t want, and I wish my fancy-stationer good

afternoon. ‘Oh, oh,’ I say to myself when I get outside, ‘I know the

meaning of Madame Durski’s parties now. Madame Durski’s house is a

flash gambling crib, and all those fine gentlemen in cabs and broughams

go there to play cards.’”

 

“The mistress of a gaming-house!” exclaimed Honoria. “A fitting

companion for Reginald Eversleigh!”

 

“Just so, ma’am; and a fitting companion for Mr. Victor Carrington

likewise.”

 

“Have you found out anything about him?” cried Lady Eversleigh,

eagerly.

 

“No, ma’am, I haven’t. At least, nothing in my way. I’ve tried his

neighbours, and his tradespeople also, in the character of a postman,

which is respectable, and calculated to inspire confidence. But out of

his tradespeople I can get nothing more than the fact that he is a

remarkably praiseworthy young man, who pays his debts regular, and is

the very best of sons to a highly-respectable mother. There’s nothing

much in that, you know, ma’am.”

 

“Hypocrite!” murmured Lady Eversleigh. “A hypocrite so skilled in the

vile arts of hypocrisy that he will contrive to have the world always

on his side. And this is all your utmost address has been able to

achieve?”

 

“All at present, ma’am; but I live in hopes. And now I’ve got a bit of

news about the baronet, which I think will astonish you. I’ve been

improving my acquaintance with the young person employed as housemaid

in Villiers Street for the last fortnight, and I find from her that my

baronet is on very friendly terms with his first cousin, Mr. Dale, of

the Temple.”

 

“Indeed!” exclaimed Honoria. “These two men are the last between whom I

should have imagined a friendship impossible.”

 

“Yes, ma’am; but so it is, notwithstanding. Mr. Douglas Dale,

barrister-at-law, dined with his cousin, Sir Reginald, twice last week;

and on each occasion the two gentlemen left Villiers Street together in

a hack cab, between eight and nine o’clock. My friend, the housemaid,

happened to hear the address given to the cabmen on both occasions; and

on both occasions the address was Hilton House, Fulham.”

 

“Douglas Dale a gambler!” cried Honoria; “the companion of his infamous

cousin! That is indeed ruin.”

 

“Well, certainly, ma’am, it does not seem a very lively prospect for my

friend, D. D.,” answered Mr. Larkspur, with irrepressible flippancy.

 

“Do you know any more respecting this acquaintance?” asked Honoria.

 

“Not yet, ma’am; but I mean to know more.”

 

“Watch then,” she cried; “watch those two men. There is danger for Mr.

Dale in any association with his cousin, Sir Reginald Eversleigh. Do

not forget that. There is peril for him—the deadliest it may be.

Watch them, Mr. Larkspur; watch them by day and night.”

 

“I’ll do my duty, ma’am, depend upon it,” replied the police officer;

“and I’ll do it well. I take a pride in my profession, and to me duty

is a pleasure.”

 

“I will trust you.”

 

“You may, ma’am. Oh, by-the-bye, I must tell you that in this house my

name is Andrews. Please remember that, ma’am.”

 

“Mr. Andrews, lawyer’s clerk. The name of Larkspur smells too strong of

Bow Street.”

 

*

 

The information acquired by Andrew Larkspur was perfectly correct. An

intimacy and companionship had arisen between Douglas Dale and his

cousin, Reginald Eversleigh, and the two men spent much of their time

together.

 

Douglas Dale was still the same simple-minded, true-hearted young man

that he had been before his uncle Oswald’s death endowed him with an

income of five thousand a year; but with the accession of wealth the

necessity for industry ceased; and instead of a hard-working student,

Douglas became one of the upper million, who have nothing to think of

but the humour of the moment—now Alpine tourist, now Norwegian angler;

anon idler in clubs and drawing-rooms; anon book collector, or amateur

litterateur.

 

He still occupied chambers in the Temple; he still called himself a

barrister; but he had no longer any desire to succeed at the bar.

 

His brother Lionel had become rector of Hallgrove, a village in

Dorsetshire, where there was a very fine old church and a very small

congregation. It was one of those fat livings which seem only to fall

to the lot of rich men.

 

Lionel had the tastes of a typical country gentleman, and he found

ample leisure to indulge in his favourite amusement of hunting, after

having conscientiously discharged his duties.

 

The poor of Hallgrove had good reason to congratulate themselves on the

fact that their rector was a rich man. Mr. Dale’s charities seemed

almost boundless to his happy parishioners.

 

The rectory was a fine old house, situated in one of those romantic

spots which one scarcely hopes to see out of a picture. Hill, wood, and

water combined to make the beauty of the landscape; and amid verdant

woods and fields the old red-brick mansion looked the perfection of an

English homestead. It had been originally a manor-house, and some

portions of it were very old.

 

Douglas Dale called Hallgrove the Happy Valley. Neither of the brothers

had yet married, and the barrister paid frequent visits to the rector.

He was glad to find repose after the fatigue and excitement of London

life. Like his brother, he delighted in the adventures and perils of

the hunting field, and he was rarely absent from Hallgrove during the

hunting season.

 

In London he had his clubs, and the houses of friends. The manoeuvring

mammas of the West End were very glad to welcome Mr. Dale at their

parties. He might have danced with the prettiest girls in London every

night of his life had he pleased.

 

To an unmarried man, with unlimited means and no particular occupation,

the pleasures of a life of fashionable amusement are apt to grow

“weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable,” after a certain time. Douglas

Dale was beginning to be very tired of balls and dinner parties,

flower-shows and morning concerts, when he happened to meet his cousin,

Reginald Eversleigh, at a club to which both men belonged.

 

Eversleigh could make himself very agreeable when he chose; and on this

occasion he exerted himself to the utmost to produce a good impression

upon the mind of Douglas Dale. Hitherto Douglas had not liked his

cousin, Reginald; but he now began to fancy that he had been prejudiced

against his kinsman. He felt that Reginald had some reason to consider

himself ill-used; and with the impulsive kindness of a generous nature,

he was ready to extend the hand of friendship to a man who had been

beaten in the battle of life.

 

The two men dined together at their club; they met again and again;

sometimes by accident—sometimes by appointment. The club was one at

which there was a good deal of quiet gambling amongst scientific whist-players; but until his meeting with Reginald Eversleigh, Douglas Dale

had never been tempted to take part in a rubber.

 

His habits changed gradually under the influence of his cousin and

Victor Carrington. He consented to take a hand at �cart� after dinner

on one day; on another day to join at a whist-party. Three months after

his first meeting with Reginald, he accompanied the baronet to Hilton

House, where he was introduced to the beautiful Austrian widow.

 

Sir Reginald Eversleigh played his cards very cautiously. It was only

after he had instilled a taste for gambling into his kinsman’s breast

that he ventured to introduce him to the fashionable gaming-house

presided over by Paulina Durski.

 

The introduction had a sinister effect upon his destiny. He had passed

unscathed through the furnace of London life; many women had sought to

obtain power over him; but his heart was still in his own keeping when

he first crossed the threshold of Hilton House.

 

He saw Paulina Durski, and loved her. He loved her from the very first

with a deep and faithful affection, as far above the selfish fancy of

Reginald Eversleigh as the heaven is above the earth.

 

But she was no longer mistress of her heart. That was given to the man

whose baseness she knew, and whom she loved despite her better reason.

 

Sir Reginald speedily discovered the state of his cousin’s feelings. He

had laid his plans for this result. Douglas Dale, as the adoring slave

of Madame Durski, would be an easy dupe, and much of Sir Oswald’s

wealth might yet enrich his disinherited nephew. Victor Carrington

looked on, and shared his spoils; but he watched Eversleigh’s schemes

with a half-contemptuous air.

 

“You think you are doing wonders, my dear Reginald,” he said; “and

certainly, by means of Mr. Dale’s losses, you and I contrive to live—

to say nothing of our dear Madame Durski, who comes in for her share of

the plunder. But after all, what is it? a few hundreds more or less, at

the best. I think you may by-and-by play a better and a deeper game

than that, Reginald, and I think I can show you how to play it.”

 

“I do not want to be mixed up in any more of your schemes,” answered

Sir Reginald, “I have had enough of them. What have they done for me?”

 

The two men were seated in Sir Reginald’s dingy sitting-room in

Villiers Street when this conversation took place.

 

They were sitting opposite to each other, with a little table between

them. Victor Carrington rested his folded arms upon the table, and

leaned across them, looking full in the face of his companion.

 

“Look you, Reginald Eversleigh,” he said, “because I have failed once,

there is no reason that I am to fail always. The devil himself