Run to Earth - Mary Elizabeth Braddon (classic reads .TXT) 📗

not been prepared for a similar line of proceeding on her part, and it hurt his vanity much. She had ceased to write. Could she have ceased to care for him? Could any one else, richer--more disinterested--have usurped his place in her heart?

The baronet remembered what Victor Carrington had said about Douglas Dale; but he could not for one moment believe that his cousin--a man whom he considered infinitely beneath him--had the power to win Paulina Durski's affection.

"She may perhaps encourage him," he said to himself, "especially now that his income is doubled. She might even accept him as a husband-- women are so mercenary. But her heart will never cease to be mine."

Sir Reginald waited a week, a fortnight, but there came no letter from Paulina. He called on Carrington, according to appointment, but his friend had changed his mind, or his tactics, and gave him no explanation.

Victor had been a daily visitor at Hilton House during the week which had intervened since the day he had dined there and been introduced to Douglas Dale. His observation had enabled him to decide upon accelerating the progress of his designs. The hold which Paulina had obtained upon Douglas Dale's affection was secure; he had proposed to her much sooner than Victor had anticipated; the perfect understanding and confidence subsisting between them rendered the cautious game which he had intended to play unnecessary, and he did not now care how soon a final rupture between Paulina and Reginald should take place. Indeed, for two of his purposes--the establishment of an avowed quarrel between Douglas Dale and his cousin, Sir Reginald, and the infliction of ever- growing injury on Paulina's reputation,--the sooner such a rupture could be brought about the better. Therefore Victor Carrington assumed a tone of reserve and mystery, which did not fail to exasperate Sir Reginald.

"Do not question me, Reginald," he said. "You are afflicted with a lack of moral courage, and your want of nerve would only enfeeble my hand. Know nothing--expect nothing. Those who are at work for you know how to do their work quietly. Oh, by the way, I want you to sign a little document--very much the style of thing you gave me at Raynham Castle."

Nothing could be more careless than the Frenchman's tone and manner as he said this; but the document in question was a deed of gift, by which Reginald Eversleigh bestowed upon Victor Carrington the clear half of whatever income should arise to him, from real or personal property, from the date of the first day of June following.

"I am to give you half my income?"

"Yes, my dear Reginald, after the first of next June. You know that I am working laboriously to bring about good fortune for you. You cannot suppose that I am working for nothing. If you do not choose to sign this document, neither do I choose to devote myself any longer to your interest."

"And what if you fail?"

"If I fail, the document in question is so much waste paper, since you have no income at present, nor are likely to have any income between this and next June, unless by my agency."

The result was the same as usual. Reginald signed the deed, without even taking the trouble to study its full bearing.

"Have you seen Paulina lately?" he asked, afterwards.

"Not very lately."

"I don't know what's amiss with her," exclaimed Reginald, peevishly; "she has not written to me to ask explanation of my absence and silence."

"Perhaps she grew tired of writing to a person who valued her letters so lightly."

"I was glad enough to hear from her," answered Reginald; "but I could not be expected to find time to answer all her letters. Women have nothing better to do than to scribble long epistles."

"Perhaps Madame Durski has found some one who will take the trouble to answer her letters," said Victor.

After this, the two men parted, and Reginald Eversleigh called a cab, in which he drove down to Hilton House.

He might have stayed away much longer, in self-interested obedience to Carrington, had he been sure of Paulina's unabated devotion; but he was piqued by her silence, and he wanted to discover whether there was a rival in the field.

He knew Madame Durski's habits, and that it was not till late in the afternoon that she was to be seen.

It was nearly six o'clock when he drove up to the door of Hilton House. Carlo Toas admitted him, and favoured him with a searching and somewhat severe scrutiny, as he led the way to the drawing-room in which Paulina was wont to receive her guests.

Here Sir Reginald felt some little surprise, and a touch of mortification, on beholding the aspect of things. He had expected to find Paulina pensive, unhappy, perhaps ill. He had expected to see her agitated at his coming. He had pondered much upon the cessation of her letters; and he had told himself that she had ceased to write because she was angry with him--with that anger which exists only where there is love.

To his surprise, he found her brilliant, radiant, dressed in her most charming style.

Never had he seen her looking more beautiful or more happy.

He pressed the widow's hand tenderly, and contemplated her for some moments in silence.

"My dear Paulina," he said at last, "I never saw you looking more lovely than to-night. And yet to-night I almost feared to find you ill."

"Indeed; and why so?" she asked. Her tone was the ordinary tone of society, from which it was impossible to draw any inference.

"Because it is so long since I heard from you."

"I have grown tired of writing letters that were rarely honoured by your notice."

"So, so," thought the baronet; "I was right. She is offended."

"To what do I owe this visit?" asked Madame Durski.

"She is desperately angry," thought the baronet. "My dear Paulina," he said, aloud, "can you imagine that your letters were indifferent to me? I have been busy, and, as you know, I have been away from London."

"Yes," she said; "you spent your Christmas very agreeably, I believe."

"Not at all, I assure you. A bachelors' party in a country parsonage is one of the dullest things possible, to say nothing of the tragical event which ended my visit," added Reginald, his cheek paling as he spoke.

"A bachelors' party!" repeated Paulina; "there were no ladies, then, at your cousin's house?"

"None."

"Indeed!"

Paulina Durski's lip curled contemptuously, but she did not openly convict Sir Reginald of the deliberate falsehood he had uttered.

"I am very glad you have come to me," she said, presently, "because I have urgent need of your help."

"My dear Paulina, believe me--" began the baronet

"Do not make your protest till you have heard what I have to ask," said Madame Durski. "You know how troublesome my creditors had become before Christmas. The time has arrived when they must be paid, or when I--"

She stopped, and looked searchingly at the face of her companion.

"When you--what?" he asked. "What is the alternative, Paulina?"

"I think you ought to know as well as I," she answered. "I must either pay those debts or fly from this place, and from this country, disgraced. I appeal to you in this bitter hour of need. Can you not help me--you, who have professed to love me?"

"Surely, Paulina, you cannot doubt my love," replied Sir Reginald; "unhappily, there is no magical process by which the truest and purest love can transform itself into money. I have not a twenty-pound note in the world."

"Indeed; and the four hundred and fifty pounds you won from Lord Caversham just before Christmas--is that money gone?"

"Every shilling of it," answered Reginald, coolly.

He had notes to the amount of nearly two hundred pounds in his desk; but he was the last man in Christendom to sacrifice money which he himself required, and his luxurious habits kept him always deeply in debt.

"You must have disposed of it very speedily. Surely, it is not all gone, Reginald. I think a hundred would satisfy my creditors, for a time at least."

"I tell you it is gone, Paulina. I gave you a considerable sum at the time I won the money--you should remember."

"Yes, I remember perfectly. You gave me fifty pounds--fifty pounds for the support of the house which enabled you to entrap your dupes, while I was the bait to lure them to their ruin. Oh, you have been very generous, very noble; and now that your dupes are tired of being cheated--now that your cat's paw has become useless to you--I am to leave the country, because you will not sacrifice one selfish desire to save me from disgrace."

"This is absurd, Paulina," exclaimed the baronet, impatiently; "you talk the usual nonsense women indulge in when they can't have everything their own way. It is not in my power to help you to pay your creditors, and you had much better slip quietly away while you are free to do so, and before they contrive to get you into prison. You know what Sheridan said about frittering away his money in paying his debts. There's no knowing where to leave off if you once begin that sort of thing."

"You would have me steal away in secret, like what you English call a swindler!"

"You needn't dwell upon unpleasant names. Some of the best people in England have been obliged to cross the water for the same reasons that render your residence here unpleasant. There's nothing to be gained by sentimental talk about the business, my dear Paulina. My friends at the clubs have begun to grow suspicious of this house, and I don't think there's a chance of my ever winning another sovereign in these rooms. Why, then, should you remain to be tormented by your creditors? Return to Paris, where you have twice as many devoted slaves and admirers as in this detestable straight-laced land of ours. I will slip across as soon as ever I can settle my affairs here some way or other, and once more you may be queen of a brilliant _salon_, while I--"

"While you may find a convenient cat's paw for getting hold of new plunder," cried Paulina, with unmitigated scorn. Then, with a sudden burst of passion, she exclaimed, "Oh, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, I thank Providence for this interview. At last--at last, I understand you completely. I have been testing you, Sir Reginald--I have been sounding your character. I have stooped to beg for help from you, in order that I might know the broken reed on which I have leaned. And now I can laugh at you, and despise you. Go, Sir Reginald Eversleigh; this house is mine--my home--no longer a private gambling-house--no longer a snare for the delusion of your rich friends. I am no longer friendless. My debts have been paid--paid by one who, if he had owned but one sixpence, would have given it to me, content to be penniless himself for my sake. I have no need of your help. I am not obliged to creep away in the night like a felon, from the house that has sheltered me. I can now dare to call myself mistress of this house, unfettered by debt, untrammelled by the shameful secrets that made my life odious to me; and my first act as mistress of this house shall be to forbid its doors to you."

"Indeed,