For now I stand as one upon a rock,
Environ’d with a wilderness of sea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave;
Expecting ever when some envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
--Shakspere.
Mr. Grahame, after the departure of Chewkle, suffered the worst
tortures of a terrible suspense. He had no peace night nor day within
his house, or away from it. The second flight of Helen, and the
narration given of it by Lester Vane, in terms calculated to excoriate
the haughty man’s arrogant pride, were deprived of their more agonizing
features by the greater evils that threatened him.
Already had Nathan Gomer so far kept his word, that he had caused
process to be issued upon the sums last advanced: and Mr. Grahame had
the inexpressible mortification of being served with a series of writs
in his own library, and by no other person than Charles Clinton.
The firm with which he was connected had been instructed by Nathan
Gomer, and the delicate task--a very painful one, as it proved--of
serving process was entrusted to him, because Mr. Grahame had not
responded to a request made to him to name a solicitor who would accept
service for him.
Charley was quite aware of the desperate position of Mr. Grahame’s
affairs, as well as of the internal misery raging in the bosom of
one-half of the members of the family, and the inflated elevation of the
other portion, ignorant, through the most blind fatuity, of the fearful
precipice upon which they were already tottering.
His interviews with Evangeline had, since the second departure of Helen
from home, been several; for she anxiously desired not only to learn
the fate of her sister, but she formed a wild notion of leaving home
herself, and living with Helen, whatever might be the circumstances in
which she was placed.
She was wholly ignorant of the outer world; she had been brought up in
strict home seclusion, and from the almost excessive amiability of her
nature had been, as will have been seen, kept in the back ground, as a
degenerate member of a proud race. Her impulses had been sneered at or
sharply checked, but no attempt had been made to give them a direction.
She was unhappy at home, and there seemed every probability to her that
if she remained with her family she would continue to be treated ever
the same--more, indeed, like an unwelcome dependant than a child, loving
and loveable.
Now Helen--especially in her affliction--had been affectionate and
tender in her behaviour to her, and had thus raised within her bosom a
degree of attachment to her which would pause at no sacrifice to secure
her happiness. She believed that if she were with Helen, she would be
able to minister to her comforts, solace her griefs, and smoothe away
by her loving gentleness many of her heart-cankering cares. At the same
time she would be with one who would appreciate her acts, respond to
them with warmth, and not repel the tributes of a most generous nature
with the cold precepts of frigid pride.
So she formed a design to leave home too, that she might live with
Helen; happier she felt she should be in privation and poverty with her,
than surrounded by luxury and pomp at home, unaccompanied by a soft
look or a kind word. In her deep anxiety to know where Helen had hidden
herself, she applied, through the means agreed upon, to Charley Clinton
to obtain the information. Well for her it was that his heart was full
of manly honour, for he took no advantage of her formidable error in
holding clandestine meetings with him. Well for her that the bland
language addressed to her at various times by Lester Vane had not
induced her to open her heart to him respecting her sister Helen,
her own position at home, and the form her wishes had taken. The
consequences of her unwitting error would have been evidenced in her
certain ruin.
As it was, Charley Clinton fell in love with her, but he kept the
knowledge of the fact confided to his own bosom. Firstly, he would not
for the realization of his uttermost wishes have betrayed the confidence
she reposed in him. Secondly, she appeared so elevated above him in
position that, whatever might be his adoration of her, he saw it was not
for him to plead a love-tale in her aristocratic ear. He treated
her, therfore, with the very highest respect, the most thoughtful
consideration, and the gentlest deference.
Evangeline appreciated his conduct to her fully. It was unusual and
delicious. She so wished to be loved that she might prove how much she
could love, and how pure and disinterested that love could be. She had
no clear idea of the actual consequences of raising such an emotion in
the breast of Charles Clinton. After the first two or three meetings,
she began to ponder on the difference between his treatment of her and
that of others. The servants of her father’s household, taking their
tone from the conduct of Mr. and Mrs. Grahame, were less respectful or
attentive to her than to any other member of the family. In the presence
of all at home, she felt herself to be an intruder--some one who was
of necessity obliged to be kept in the family, but most unwelcome,
nevertheless.
In the society of Charles Clinton she was a wholly different being. She
was elevated in her own estimation, for she saw that she was in his.
She could perceive by his words, his looks, his manner, how highly he
appreciated the affection she had displayed towards her sister
Helen, and how his zeal and his behaviour, still tempered by the most
respectful propriety towards her, increased. It was the first time she
had experienced the gratification of being held in high estimation by
any human creature. She was fascinated by it, and she desired heartily
to retain that estimation. The desire to learn Helen’s fate began to
be accompanied by the wish to learn it from no other lips than those of
Charles Clinton. The hope that she should eventually be able to discover
her sister and to reside with her, came to be interpenetrated by
anticipations that Charles through his sister might be an occasional
visitor at her new abode. His name, out of gratefulness for his
exertions, took its place in her prayers. The intervals between their
meetings grew fewer, and the term of the duration of the latter longer.
Even those intervals were broken by correspondence, though neither in
their interviews nor in their notes did one word of love arise.
Evangeline grew anxious and eager for the time of meeting after it
had been appointed, and loth to part with Charley when the moment for
separation arrived. She hung on his arm when they were about to part,
and with a strange pleasure suffered her hand to linger in his when the
word “farewell” was spoken; and as she felt his fingers tremble while
they held hers, she seemed to know intuitively that they did so out
of his great respect for her. A crimson hectic burned her cheek, as an
unbidden but ungratified prompting rose up in her breast to kiss them,
for their flattering testimony of his estimation of her.
Such was the position between Charles Clinton and Evangeline when he was
called upon to proceed to the mansion in the Regent’s Park, to execute
his--at all times unpleasant, and now from what had passed between him
and the gentle girl--most painful task.
The whole establishment was brilliantly lighted up. A splendid
dinner-party and rout was that evening to be given by the direction of
Mrs. Grahame.
Mr. Grahame had demurred, alleging that circumstances would render it
inconvenient to him; but as he had not revealed to his lady the true
reason for not wishing the entertainment to be given, the lady treated
his suggestions with contempt, and issued her invitations and her
instructions for the feast.
The fact was, that the Duke of St. Allborne had been caught in the
web of Margaret Grahame. She had met him at _soirées_, at balls, at
entertainments, and frequently at the opera. She had paused at nothing
to create in him a belief that he had obtained the most entire control
over her affections. She flattered his vanity by making him imagine
that she deemed him an Admirable Crichton, and his weaker and viler
propensities by leading him to fancy that beneath her cold exterior
there dwelt an ardent passion which would urge her to withhold scarcely
any favour to him whom she so well affected.
The party given this night was solely on his account; a conference
between mother and daughter having led to the belief on both sides that
an _éclaircissement_ could be brought about--that, in short, the Duke
could be made successfully to acknowledge that he had been fairly
hooked--that he was prepared to bestow the ring and coronet, and
confess to captivity for life; his chains being those forged by Margaret
Claverhouse Grahame.
Charley Clinton had at first some difficulty to obtain an interview with
Mr. Grahame. The guests had not yet arrived, and Mr. Grahame was said to
be very busy in his library. The usual method of palming had, however,
the desired effect. After some _pro_ and _con_., and when Mr. Grahame
understood that the gentleman who desired to see him was from the
solicitors of Nathan Gomer, he had a shrewd suspicion of the object of
his visit, and to save any chance of exposure by refusing to see him, he
ordered him to be admitted.
When Charley entered, Mr. Grahame received him in his haughtiest and
grandest manner, and motioned him to a seat. Charley, however, declined
it, and opened the purport of his visit in a manner which was calculated
to have its weight with Grahame.
He did not for a moment assume that pecuniary inability to comply with
the demand upon Mr. Grahame by Nathan Gomer was the true occasion of
the issuing of process, but that some disputed point had led to a
determination to proceed to a trial to decide the question at issue. Mr.
Grahame, therefore, received the writs with more apparent complacency
than he would have done; tendering, as an explanation for not writing
in answer to the renewal of the application for a settlement of Nathan
Gomer’s claim, that he had been out of town, an assertion which Charley
knew to be false.
Mr. Grahame gave a scarcely perceptible shiver when he received the
writs, but he made an unequivocal start, when Charley said--
“There is said to be in existence a deed, Mr. Grahame, professing to be
a waiver in your favour to Mr. Wilton’s claim to the Eglinton estates,
and bearing his signature. Can you throw any light upon the subject?”
“Pray, may I ask your reason for putting that question?” said Mr.
Grahame, loftily.
“Mr. Wilton denies the signature, and has instructed us to discover the
deed, if possible.”
Mr. Grahame felt the roots of his hair vibrate.
“Upon what ground do you assume such a deed to be in existence?” he
asked, striving to appear calm.
“It is registered,” replied Clinton.
Mr. Grahame remained silent; his lips trembled; he could not have spoken
if he would.
“There can be no doubt that there either is or was such a deed,”
continued Charley, “or that, under the most positive and vehement
denials of Mr. Wilton, the signature it bears is a forgery. It is
assumed therefore, sir, directly by Mr. Wilton and indirectly by Mr.
Nathan Gomer, that the instrument, being exclusively in your interest,
could scarcely have had the false signature attached without your
cognizance.”
Mr. Grahame felt as though a poisoned barb had pierced his soul. It was
not alone that the surmise was just that he winced under the accusation,
but his pride was acutely wounded at the readiness with which he was
connected with an act so base.
With blanched cheeks, but a cold and haughty manner, he said, with
knitted brows--
“When the deed of which you have spoken--if such there is--be
produced, it will be time to discuss the truth or falsity of so foul an
imputation.”
“When Mr. Wilton was sued by you, sir, for a large sum,” returned
Charley, gravely, “the very instrument of which I speak was tendered to
him to sign. He did not sign it, and yet that deed has been registered
as being completed. I believe--though I cannot speak with exact
certainty--that Mr. Nathan Gomer derived his information on this head
from a scoundrel name d Chewkle.”
Mr. Grahame’s hair slowly lifted up.
“Chewkle?” he breathed faintly.
“Yes,” replied Charley, observing the ghastly paleness which had spread
itself over Mr. Grahame’s visage; “a mercenary wretch, who would pause
at no employment, however villanous. In proof of which I may tell
you--although I may be stepping out of my path of strict duty in doing
so--that a telegraphic message had just reached our office, with the
terrible news that the ruffian Chewkle, of whom I have just spoken,
encountering, early this morning, Mr. Wilton in the woods at Harley
dale, discharged a pistol at him, and severely wounded him. He was
seized in the attempt to consummate the murderous act, and is at
the present moment in safe custody. It is expected he will make some
important revelations.”
A rush of ringing sounds surged through Mr. Grahame’s brain; his eyes
dilated, and glared at Charley with a frightful expression. The veins
upon his temples swelled as though they would burst, and his throat
expanded and contracted with a horrible spasmodic action.
Charley took a step towards him, alarmed by his agitation, but Mr.
Grahame waved him imperiously off. He wiped the large drops of clammy
perspiration, thickly clustered, from his brow, and in a hoarse voice
said, hastily--
“But Wilton--Wilton--is he dead?”
“No,” returned Charley, trembling under a terrible suspicion; he yet
lives. “The communication stated his wound to be severe, but not fatal.
However, his son has just quitted London to proceed to his bedside,
accompanied by an eminent surgeon----”
“His son--what son?” gasped Grahame, in a hollow tone,
“His eldest child, and only son. He has not long since returned to
England from South America,” returned Charley. “I fortunately met with
him on my way hither, and informed him of what had taken place. He at
once proceeded to obtain a surgeon of great skill, and, upon securing
his services, he intended that together they should immediately hasten
to Harleydale.”
Mr. Grahame sank into a chair. It was plain he was in the throes of a
violent spasm. Charley was pained to see his agonized prostration. He
had already gone farther than, in his capacity, he ought strictly to
have done. He knew that, for the advantage of his firm, he ought not to
have revealed what he had disclosed; but it had been for Evangeline’s
sake he had been thus communicative; and he was at the same time
convinced that the actual interests of Wilton and Gomer had not been
compromised by his act. In truth, he could not refrain from preparing
Mr. Grahame, in some degree, for the bursting of the dense and
threatening cloud hanging over his head.
He gazed with saddened commiseration upon the stupified man who sat
before him, with clasped hands, gazing wildly into vacancy; and then in
a soft, kindly tone, he said--
“I will no longer obtrude my presence, sir, upon you. I feel that it is
as unwelcome as the tidings I have communicated. Yet, before I depart,
permit me to suggest that your opposition to the claim of Mr. Nathan
Gomer can be but of brief duration, while the expense of going to trial
will be enormous. Mr. Gomer’s securities are so indisputable that a jury
would be certain to give a verdict in his favour, and the Court would
unhesitatingly grant instant execution. Pardon me, if I appear officious
or impertinent by my suggestions; I have no such intent; I am only
sincerely desirous of acquainting you with the aspect affairs are
assuming; and I would so prepare you that you may know how to properly
confront them.”
In Charley’s voice there was a tone of genuine sympathy which there was
no mistaking or misunderstanding; and the heart of the criminal
must have been callous indeed could it have resisted its softening
influences. Mr. Grahame was too unused to it to remain unaffected by
it. At one time he would have spurned its display, now it fell like balm
upon his burning thoughts. He rose up suddenly and wrung Charley’s hand,
and then, with an almost frantic gesture, he waved to him to leave.
Charley bowed and quitted the library with a heavy weight about his
heart. As he closed the door and prepared to pass along the corridor, he
paused for an instant.
“And this it is,” he muttered, “to live in splendour, in pomp, and proud
luxury. How magnificent, how superb to gaze at! what foul festering
corrosion beneath! How I have longed to achieve such a position as this!
but oh, how I should shrink from it if it were to be only obtained on
the conditions which are throttling the proud head of this house, and
hurling him into earthly, if not eternal perdition.”
While the last words were on his lips he heard the rustling of silk in
his vicinity. He stood aside to allow the coming female to pass, and
almost the next instant he saw the fair sweet face of Evangeline looking
up to his own. She stopped in evident surprise.
“_You_ here, Mr. Clinton,” she said, in a low tone of astonishment; then
she added, hastily, “have you heard anything of my sister Helen--have
you come to bring me tidings of her?”
She was full dressed; her attire, mainly composed of faint blue, silver
and lace, was eminently suited to her fair complexion; upon her head
she wore a wreath of white star-like flowers, and in Charley’s eyes she
seemed to be one of those exquisitely lovely fairy spirits of whom with
such passionate interest he had read in German legends.
He sighed as he thought how hopelessly she was out of the pale of his
companionship, but he concealed the emotion the thought occasioned. He
merely raised his finger warningly, and said, in a very low voice--“I am
most loth to affright or afflict you, dear Miss Grahame, but there is
a storm hovering over your house; and, unless I am greatly deceived,
it will burst with a terrible crash almost immediately. I cannot--dare
not--explain myself, but I would have you prepared when the bolt does
fall. I would have you call up your energies and sustain yourself
under the trial. At least I would not have it descend upon you without
preparation or warning. I cannot avert it, but I may be able to be of
service in the hour of your affliction; you know how to summon me; fear
not but I will appear at your bidding.”
He cast one passionate glance upon her beautiful countenance, overspread
with a terrified amazement, and hurried away, for once more the rustling
of silks announced the approach of females, and Evangeline almost ran
into the reception-room, to avoid the scrutiny of her mother and sister.
The dinner party was large and brilliant. Mr. Grahame, dressed as it
seemed with studied care, presided. The company were unusually animated.
The Honorable Lester Vane was present, though uninvited by Mrs. Grahame
or her husband; but the Duke of St. Allborne had been honoured with
a _carte-blanche_ for friends, who might add to the distinguished
character of the assembly, and with a particular motive he had used his
privilege to bring Vane with him. The latter accepted his offer, for he
had his motives too, and despite the omission of his name from the list
of the formally invited, he made his appearance. Looking Mrs. Grahame
defiantly in the eyes, when she received him with stiff politeness,
he deprecated in studied words--every one of which stung her to the
quick--any apology for the oversight; as he expressed himself certain
the unfortunate circumstances attendant upon the absence of her eldest
daughter had naturally disturbed her usually calm and retentive memory.
He looked sallow and savage; his large dark eyes glittered like a
tiger’s upon the spring. There was a dull red mark upon his forehead,
where Hugh Rivers dale’s blow had fallen, when he felled him to the
earth, and he apparently took no pains to conceal it. He seemed to
wear it as a badge of distinction, that might attract all eyes and many
questions, enabling him thus to answer them in terms which would tear
all Mrs. Grahame’s panoply of pride into shreds, and trample them
scornfully under foot.
How troubled she felt on seeing him!--how disqustedly she listened
to his words!--with what sickening apprehension she gazed upon the
cicatrised wound upon his forehead! She felt, as he passed into the
room beyond, that her expectations of a proud triumph were likely to be
turned into torturing anticipations of shame and degradation.
Her pride now changed her from a Juno to an Ate. There was no telling
into what extravagances, during this man’s presence, it might hurry her.
As Lester Vane sauntered on, he caught sight of Evangeline, who looked
pale and abstracted. He advanced towards her, and spoke to her with
low musical tones. He bent his eyes upon her with the fascination of
a serpent’s gaze, but she shrank from him in undisguised
aversion--horrified aversion--there could certainly be no mistaking the
expression; so decided was it in character, that he, in the fullness of
his immeasurable conceit, actually looked over his shoulder, expecting
there to see some hugely-moustached, be-whiskered object as the real
cause of her disgust, but there was no one but himself to fasten upon,
and he grated his teeth at the conviction.
“Sweet Miss Evangeline,” he lisped, “I hail our _réunion_ with a
gratification I am unable to express.”
He tendered his hand, but she recoiled from it and him as though he
were indeed a noxious reptile. Helen had spoken of him to her in hot and
blistering words. She now feared and loathed him.
She moved hastily to the side of her mother, and Lester Vane, muttering
an oath, sallied into the reception-room.
The dinner was announced--was eaten; and, at a somewhat late hour,
dancing commenced. Lester Vane sought Evangeline for a partner. She
distinctly declined to dance with him, and he turned away infuriated.
Not that she danced at all: her brain was in a whirl of confusion. She
was alarmed by the agitation displayed by her mother, who, flushed and
excited as she had never seen her before, followed Lester Vane like a
shadow; and, whenever he commenced conversation with a group of guests,
interposed and broke it up, to follow him still.
She was much startled and nervously frightened, too, by her father’s
aspect. He seemed to walk like a somnambulist through the saloons. He
appeared to be wandering as in search of some one, and eventually he
disappeared.
The admirable quadrille band played its most enlivening airs, and the
dancing went on with spirit.
Evangeline looked among the dancers for her sister Margaret; for, in
spite of her repellant coldness, she thought that she would lend an
ear to her forebodings respecting both parents. Indeed, she was growing
distracted; for, what with Charles Clinton’s vague warning, her father’s
ghastly aberration, and her mother’s flushed excitement, she felt each
coming instant would produce some event of a frightful kind.
But Margaret was not to be seen; Evangeline searched the saloons in
vain.
No; she was in the garden, with a thick shawl muffled round her,
listening to the pleadings of the Duke of St. Allborne.
What had they been saying to each other?
“The jeuce take the wauld!” cried the Duke. “You will be my Duchess
some day, and you will be coawted and _feted_ as othaw Duchesses and
Countawesses have befaw you, who have had the spiwit to seize such a
glowious oppawtunity as this!”
Margaret hesitated a moment.
The coronet danced in her eyes--to part with him now was to lose that
bauble.
“I will go with you, St. Allborne,” she said, in a trembling tone.
“My angel!” said the Duke, enrapturedly.
The woman rose up in her heart at last. She laid upon his arm her gloved
and jewelled hand.
“You will be faithful and kind to me, and always love me, St. Allborne?”
she faltered; yet the words were uttered with anxious earnestness.
“Love you, my pwecious little wogue,” he responded, with nervous
excitement, though he had no ultimate intention of keeping his promise,
“why I adaw you now, and when you weveal to me the disintawested
chawacter of youaw love faw me by living with me until the distwessing
hut wigowous impediments to ouaw mawiage aw wemoved, what can I do
but waw-ship you. Come, let us be off befaw we aw missed from the
ball-woom.”
He folded her shawl tightly round her trembling frame, and, placing his
arms close about her waist, he drew her to the same spot from whence
Hugh Riversdale had conveyed her sister Helen away.
They stood upon the brink of the winding stream, so charming in its
ornamental character, so facile for mischief. At a signal from the Duke,
a boat swiftly appeared. A boat-cloak was handed up by the man in charge
of the boat, and Margaret was closely muffled in it; she was then lifted
into the small vessel, and the Duke stepped lightly in after her--one
moment more, and the boat glided silently but swiftly away.
The lights streamed brilliantly from the windows of the villa mansion.
Strains of joyous music issued from the crowded saloons, and in noisy
hilarity the dancers whirled with rapid steps round the gorgeously
decorated apartments. All within their scope seemed to be instinct with
joy and happiness.
When the boat disappeared, there came from the shadow of the trees in
the garden the figure of a man.
It was Mr. Grahame. He had wandered as in a dream from the heated rooms
thronged with gay visitors, not one of whom he cared for or who cared
for him, and while leaning thoughtfully, brooding over his desperate
position, against a tree, he had witnessed the meeting of the Duke and
his daughter Margaret.
He cared not to interrupt them, but glided back into his house like a
thief; no one observed him enter. He slunk to his dressing-room; his
valet was not there. He hastily divested himself of his full-dress
habiliments, and put on some plain clothing. When thus attired he crept
down the servants’ staircase, darted through the basement passage, and
passed unobserved, by the servants’ entrance, into the front of his
mansion, and made his way through the throng of carriages assembled
there.
He went on through the Regent’s Park up towards Hampstead, passed over
its dreary heath--the earth and shrubs looking black beneath the gloomy
sky.
He paused when he reached the “Castle,” and turned his bloodshot eyes
towards the spot he had left thus abruptly and secretly. He shuddered,
and struck down the hill towards Hendon, passing, with shivering frame
and tottering steps, along the narrow pathway between the prickly,
scrubby heath-bushes.
“I have been advised,” he muttered, “never to inhale chloroform, as it
would inevitably prove fatal to me. It is well my chemist included it
in the articles in my medicine chest; it will afford me an easy release
from life and its horrors, and, if I manage well, leave no clue to the
manner of my death.”
At a lone spot, by the side of a pool, he sat him down, and bowing his
head upon his knees, pressed his hands upon his scorching forehead, and
wept scalding, bitter, bitter tears.