Run to Earth - Mary Elizabeth Braddon (ebook reader .txt) 📗

found the few

young men he met at his club rather disinclined to avail themselves of

Madame Durski’s hospitality.

 

“Have you been to Fulham lately, Caversham?” he asked of a young

lordling, who was master of a good many thousands per annum, but not

the most talented of mankind.

 

“Fulham!” exclaimed Lord Caversham; “what’s Fulham? Ah, to be sure, I

remember—place by the river—very nice—villas—boat-races, and that

kind of thing. Let me see, bishops, and that kind of church-going

people live at Fulham, don’t they?”

 

“I thought you would have remembered one person who lives at Fulham—a

very handsome woman, who made a strong impression upon you.”

 

“Did she—did she, by Jove?” cried the viscount; “and yet, upon my

honour, Eversleigh, I can’t remember her. You see, I know so many

splendid women; and splendid women are perpetually making an impression

upon me—and I am perpetually making an impression upon splendid women.

It’s mutual, by Jove, Eversleigh, quite mutual. And pray, who is the

lady in question?”

 

“The beautiful Viennese, Paulina Durski.”

 

The lordling made a wry face.

 

“Paulina Durski! Yes, Paulina is a pretty woman,” he murmured,

languidly; “a very pretty woman; and you’re right, Eversleigh—she did

make a profound impression upon me. But, you see, I found the

impression cost me rather too much. Hilton House is the nicest place in

the world to visit; but if a fellow finds himself losing two or three

hundred every time he crosses the threshold, you can be scarcely

surprised if he prefers spending his evenings where he can enjoy

himself a little more cheaply. However, perhaps you’ll hardly

understand my feelings on this subject, Eversleigh; for if I remember

rightly you were always a winner when I played at Madame Durski’s.”

 

“Was I?” said Sir Reginald, with the air of a man who endeavours to

recall circumstances that are almost forgotten.

 

The lordling was not altogether without knowledge of the world and of

his fellow-men, and there had been a certain significance in his speech

which had made Eversleigh wince.

 

“Did I win when you were there?” he asked, carelessly. “Upon my word, I

have forgotten all about it.”

 

“I haven’t,” answered Lord Caversham. “I bled pretty freely on several

occasions when you and I played �cart�; and I have not forgotten the

figures on the cheques I had the pleasure of signing in your favour.

No, my dear Eversleigh, although I consider Madame Durski the most

charming of women, I don’t feel inclined to go to Hilton House again.”

 

“Ah!” said Sir Reginald, with a sneer; “there are so few men who have

the art of losing with grace. We have no Stavordales now-a-days. The

man who could win eleven thousand at a coup, and regret that he was not

playing high, since in that case he would have won millions, is an

extinct animal.”

 

“No doubt of it, dear boy; the gentlemanly art of losing placidly is

dying out; and I confess that, for my part, I prefer winning,” answered

Lord Caversham, coolly.

 

This brief conversation was a very unpleasant one for Sir Reginald

Eversleigh. It told him that his career as a gamester must soon come to

a close, or he would find himself a disgraced and branded wretch,

avoided and despised by the men he now called his friends.

 

It was evident that Viscount Caversham suspected that he had been

cheated; nor was it likely that he would keep his suspicions secret

from the men of his set.

 

The suspicion once whispered would speedily be repeated by others who

had lost money in the saloons of Madame Durski. Hints and whispers

would swell into a general cry, and Sir Reginald Eversleigh would find

himself tabooed.

 

The prospect before him looked black as night—a night illumined by one

lurid star, and that was the promise of Victor Carrington.

 

“It is time for me to have done with poverty,” he said to himself.

“Lord Caversham’s insolent innuendoes would be silenced if I had ten

thousand a year. It is clear that the game is up at Hilton House.

Paulina may as well go back to Paris or Vienna. The pigeons have taken

fright, and the hawks must seek a new quarry.”

 

Sir Reginald drove straight from his club to the little cottage beyond

Malda Hill. He scarcely expected to find the man whom he had last seen

at an inn in Dorsetshire; but, to his surprise, he was conducted

immediately to the laboratory, where he discovered Victor Carrington

bending over an alembic, which was placed on the top of a small

furnace.

 

The surgeon looked up with a start, and Reginald perceived that he wore

the metal mask which he had noticed on a former occasion.

 

“Who brought you here?” asked Victor, impatiently.

 

“The servant who admitted me,” answered Reginald. “I told her I was

your intimate friend, and that I wanted to see you immediately. She

therefore brought me here.”

 

“She had no right to do so. However, no matter. When did you return? I

scarcely expected to see you in town as soon.”

 

“I scarcely expected to find you hereafter our meeting at Frimley,”

replied the baronet.

 

“There was nothing to detain me in the country. I came back some days

ago, and have been busy with my old studios in chemistry.”

 

“You still dabble with poisons, I perceive,” said Sir Reginald,

pointing to the mask which Victor had laid aside on a table near him.

 

“Every chemist must dabble in poisons, since poison forms an element of

all medicines,” replied Victor. “And now tell me to what new dilemma of

yours do I owe the honour of this visit. You rarely enter this house

except when you find yourself desperately in need of my humble

services. What is the last misfortune?”

 

“I have just come from the Phoenix, where I met Caversham, I thought I

should be able to get a hundred or so out of him at �cart� to-night;

but the game is up in that quarter.”

 

“He suspects that he has been—_singularly_ unfortunate?”

 

“He knows it. No man who was not certain of the fact would have dared

to say what he said to me. He insulted me, Carrington-insulted me

grossly; and I was not able to resent his insolence.”

 

“Never mind his insolence,” answered Victor; “in six months your

position will be such that no man will presume to insult you. So the

game is up at Hilton House, is it? I thought you were going on a little

too fast. And pray what is to be the next move?”

 

“What can we do? Paulina’s creditors are impatient, and she has very

little money to give them. My own debts are too pressing to permit of

my helping her; and such being the case, the best thing she can do will

be to get back to the Continent as soon as she can.”

 

“On no account, my dear Reginald!” exclaimed Carrington. “Madame Durski

must not leave Hilton House.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Never mind the why. I tell you, Reginald, she must stay. You and I

must find enough money to stave off the demands of her sharpest

creditors.”

 

“I have not a sixpence to give her,” answered the baronet; “I can

scarcely afford to pay for the lodging that shelters me, and can still

less afford to lend money to other people.”

 

“Not even to the woman who loves you, and whom you profess to love?”

said Victor, with a sneer. “What a noble-minded creature you are, Sir

Reginald Eversleigh—a pattern of chivalry and devotion! However,

Madame Durski must remain; that is essential to the carrying out of my

plans. If you will not find the money, I know who will.”

 

“And pray who is this generous knight-errant so ready to rush to the

rescue of beauty in distress?”

 

“Douglas Dale. He is over head and ears in love with the Austrian

widow, and will lend her the money she wants. I shall go at once to

Madame Durski and give her a few hints as to her line of conduct.”

 

There was a pause, during which the baronet seemed to be thinking

deeply.

 

“Do you think that a wise course?” he asked, at last.

 

“Do I think what course wise?” demanded his friend.

 

“The line of conduct you propose. You say Douglas is in love with

Paulina, and I myself have seen enough to convince me that you are

right. If he is in love with her, he is just the man to sacrifice every

other consideration for her sake. What if he should marry her? Would

not that be a bad look-out for us?”

 

“You are a fool, Reginald Eversleigh,” cried Victor contemptuously;

“you ought to know me better than to fear my discretion. Douglas Dale

loves Paulina Durski, and is the very man to sacrifice all worldly

interests for her sake; the man to marry her, even were she more

unworthy of his love than she is. But he never will marry her,

notwithstanding.”

 

“How will you prevent such a marriage?”

 

“That is my secret. Depend upon it I will prevent it. You remember our

compact the night we met at Frimley.”

 

“I do,” answered Reginald, in a voice that was scarcely above a

whisper.

 

“Very well; I will be true to my part of that compact, depend upon it.

Before this new-born year is out you shall be a rich man.”

 

“I have need of wealth, Victor,” replied the baronet, eagerly; “I have

bitter need of it. There are men who can endure poverty; but I am not

one of them. If my position does not change speedily I may find myself

branded with the stigma of dishonour—an outlaw from society. I must be

rich at any cost—at any cost, Victor.”

 

“You have told me that before,” answered the Frenchman, coolly, “and I

have promised that you shall be rich. But if I am to keep my promise,

you must submit yourself with unquestioning faith to my guidance. If

the path we must tread together is a dark one, tread it blindly. The

end will be success. And now tell me when you expect to see Douglas

Dale in London.”

 

Sir Reginald explained his cousin’s plans, and after a brief

conversation left the cottage. He heard Mrs. Carrington’s birds

twittering in the cold January sunshine, and a passing glimpse through

the open doorway of the drawing-room revealed to him the exquisite

neatness and purity of the apartment, which even at this season was

adorned with a few flowers.

 

“Strange!” he thought to himself, as he left the house; “any stranger

entering that abode would imagine it the very shrine of domestic peace

and simple happiness, and yet it is inhabited by a fiend.”

 

He went back to town. He dined alone in his dingy lodging, scarcely

daring to show himself at his club—Lord Caversham had spoken so

plainly; and had, no doubt, spoken to others still more plainly.

Reginald Eversleigh’s face grew hot with shame as he remembered the

insults he had been obliged to endure with pretended unconsciousness.

 

He feared to encounter other men who also had been losers at Hilton

House, and who might speak as significantly as the viscount had spoken.

This man, who violated the laws of heaven and earth with little terror

of the Divine vengeance, feared above all to be cut by the men of his

set.

 

This is the slavery which the man of fashion creates for himself—these

are the fetters which such men as Reginald Eversleigh forge for their

own souls.

 

But before we trace the progress of Sir Reginald from step to