For a fortnight after he became an occupant of the house in which she lived, Honoria received no tidings from him. She knew that he went out early every morning, and that he returned late every night, and this was all that she knew respecting his movements.
At the end of the fortnight, he came to her late one evening, and begged to be favoured with an audience.
“I shall want at least two hours of your time, ma’am,” he said; “and, perhaps, you may find it fatiguing to listen to me so late at night. If you’d rather defer the business till to-morrow morning —”
“I would rather not defer it,” answered Lady Eversleigh; “I am ready to listen to you for as long a time as you choose. I have been anxiously expecting some tidings of your movements.”
“Very likely, ma’am,” replied Mr. Larkspur, coolly; “I know you ladies are given to impatience, as well as Berlin wool work, and steel beads, and the pianoforte, and such like. But you see, ma’am, there’s not a living creature more unlike a race-horse than a police-officer. And it’s just like you ladies to expect police-officers to be Flying Dutchmen, in a manner of speaking. I’ve been a hard worker in my time, ma’am; but I never worked harder, or stuck to my work better, than I have these last two weeks; and all I can say is, if I ain’t dead-beat, it’s only because it isn’t in circumstances to dead-beat me.”
Lady Eversleigh listened very quietly to this exordium; but a slight, nervous twitching of her lips every now and then betrayed her impatience.
“I am waiting to hear your news,” she said, presently.
“And I’m a-going to tell it, ma’am, in due course,” returned the police-officer, drawing a bloated leather book from his pocket, and opening it. “I’ve got all down here in regular order. First and foremost, the baronet — he’s a bad lot, is the baronet.”
“I do not need to hear that from your lips.”
“Very likely not, ma’am. But if you set me to watch a gentleman, you must expect I shall form an opinion about him. The baronet has lodgings in Villiers Street, uncommon shabby ones. I went in and took a good survey of him and his lodgings together, in the character of a bootmaker, taking home a pair of boots, which was intended for a Mr. Everfield in the next street, says I, and, of course, Everfield and Eversleigh being a’most the same names, was calculated to lead to inconvenient mistakes. In the character of the bootmaker, Sir Reginald Eversleigh tells me to get out of his room, and be — something uncommonly unpleasant, and unfit for the ears of ladies. In the character of the bootmaker, I scrapes acquaintance with a young person employed as housemaid, and very willing to answer questions, and be drawed out. From the young person employed as housemaid, I gets what I take the liberty to call my ground-plan of the baronet’s habits; beginning with his late breakfast, consisting chiefly of gunpowder tea and cayenne pepper, and ending with the scroop of his latch-key, to be heard any time from two in the morning to day-break. From the young person employed as housemaid, I discover that my baronet always spends his evenings out of doors, and is known to visit a lady at Fulham very constant, whereby the young person employed as housemaid supposes he is keeping company with her. From the same young person I obtain the lady’s address — which piece of information the young person has acquired in the course of taking letters to the post. The lady’s address is Hilton House, Fulham. The lady’s name has slipped my young person’s memory, but is warranted to begin with a D.”
Mr. Larkspur paused to take breath, and to consult the memoranda in the bloated leather book.
“Having ascertained this much, I had done with the young person, for the time being,” he continued, glibly; “and I felt that my next business would be at Hilton House. Here I presented myself in the character of a twopenny postman; but here I found the servants foreign, and so uncommonly close that they might as well have been so many marble monuments, for any good that was to be got out of them. Failing the servants, I fell back upon the neighbours and the tradespeople; and from the neighbours and the tradespeople I find out that my foreign lady’s name is Durski, and that my foreign lady gives a party every night, which party is made up of gentlemen. That is queer, to say the least of it, thinks I. A lady who gives a party every night, and whose visitors are all gentlemen, is an uncommonly queer customer. Having found out this much, my mouth watered to find out more; for a man who has his soul in his profession takes a pleasure in his work, ma’am; and if you were to offer to pay such a man double to waste his time, he couldn’t do it. I tried the neighbours, and I tried the tradespeople, every way; and work ’em how I would, I couldn’t get much out of ’em. You see, ma’am, there’s scarcely a human habitation within a quarter of a mile of Hilton House, so, when I say neighbours, I don’t mean neighbours in the common sense of the word. There might be assassination going on every night in Hilton House undiscovered, for there’s no one lives near enough to hear the victims’ groans; and if there was anything as good for our trade as pork-pie making out of murdered human victims going nowadays, ma’am, Hilton House would be the 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 écarté 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 conspired against me last time; but the day will come when I shall have the devil on my side. It is yet on the cards for you to become owner of ten thousand a-year; and it shall be my business to make you owner of that income.”
“Stay, Carrington, do you think I would permit —?”
“I ask your permission for nothing: I know you to be a weak and wavering coward, who of your own volition would never rise from the level of a ruined spendthrift and penniless vagabond. You forget, perhaps, that I hold a bond which gives me an interest in your fortunes. I do not forget. When my own wisdom counsels action, I shall act, without asking your advice. If I am successful, you will thank me. If I fail, you will reproach me for my folly. That is the way of the world. And now let us change the subject. When do you go down to Dorsetshire with your cousin, Douglas Dale?”
“Why do you ask me that question?”
“My curiosity is only prompted by a friendly interest in your welfare, and that of your relations. You are going to hunt with Lionel Dale, are you not?”
“Yes; he has invited me to spend the remainder of the hunting season with him?”
“At his brother’s request, I believe?”
“Precisely. I have not met Lionel since — since my uncle’s funeral — as you know.” Sir Reginald pronounced these last words with considerable hesitation. “Douglas spends Christmas with his brother, and Douglas wishes me to join the party. In order to gratify this wish, Lionel has written me a very friendly letter, inviting me down to Hallgrove Rectory, and I have accepted the invitation.”
“Nothing could be more natural. There is some talk of your buying a hunter for Lionel, is there not, by-the-bye?”
“Yes. They know I am a tolerable judge of horseflesh, and Douglas wishes me to get his brother a good mount for the winter.”
“When is the animal to be chosen?” asked Victor, carelessly.
“Immediately. We go down to Hallgrove next week, I shall select the horse whenever I can get Douglas to go with me to the dealer’s, and send him down to get used to his new quarters before his hard work begins.”
“Good. Let me know when you are going to the horse-dealer’s: but if you see me there, take no notice of me beyond a nod, and be careful not to attract Douglas Dale’s attention to me or introduce me to him.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Reginald, looking suspiciously at his companion.
“What should I mean except what I say? I do not see how even your imagination can fancy any dark meaning lurking beneath the common-place desire to waste an afternoon in a visit to a horse-dealer’s yard.”
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