CHAPTER VI.—THE NOBLE GUESTS.
“You have deserted me; where am I now?
Not in your heart, while care weighs on your brow;
No, no! you have dismissed me, and I go
From your breast houseless; ay, ay, it must be so,”
He answered.
—John Keats.
Mr. Grahame, though greatly agitated at the sudden appearance and abrupt disappearance of Nathan Gomer, at a moment of such dread importance, did not make any comment upon it to Mr. Chewkle. He felt unequal to such a task, and perhaps, too, he thought that it would be better not to suppose that the strange little moneyed man had either observed or suspected any foul play in the act he must have seen in commission. So he folded his arms, and remained silent, assuming the aspect of profound meditation.
Mr. Chewkle, finding the coast clear of the small enemy, would have given free vent to the feelings which were turbulent and in turmoil within him, but Mr. Grahame repressed the very first outbreak.
“Pray be silent on the matter,” he observed, hastily, as if aroused suddenly from a fit of abstraction, “our speculations upon the situation are worth nothing, and may lead us astray if suffered to have the rein. Keep what you know safely locked within your own breast. Trust the key in my keeping alone. Your reward shall not certainly be less than your expectations. Mr. Gomer doubtless saw me affixing a signature to a deed, and would presume it to be my own; he could not imagine the truth; and therefore, though startled at the moment, I do not, upon reflection, see any occasion for alarm. Let me see you again in a few days, my good friend, and in the meantime endeavour to suggest a mode of bringing that wretchedly obstinate old man, Wilton, to reason.”
Mr. Grahame rang a hand-bell sharply, and Whelks instantly was in the room. Mr. Chewkle “had a thing to say,” which had strong reference to an immediate pecuniary supply; but Mr. Grahame did not afford him the opportunity, for he addressed Whelks as he entered, and bade him escort Mr. Chewkle to the door. He tendered a finger to the commission agent as a parting salute, honoured him with a stiff bow, and retired promptly to the further end of the library.
“This way if you please!” exclaimed Whelks to Chewkle, as with head erect and shoulders back, he, with the stateliness of a Tartar soldier in an Astley’s drama, marched out of the room.
Mr. Chewkle glanced at Mr. Grahame and at Whelks; he had a pressing occasion for a few pounds; but though he had quite made up his mind to ask for and have a sum, and indeed in a private self-communion on his way thither that morning, he had composed the conversation which was to take place between himself and Mr. Grahame, and which was to terminate in a princely act of munificence towards him on the part of the latter personage, he found himself sneaking out, treading tip-toe on the shadow of Whelks, without having uttered a word or having obtained a penny.
The princely act of munificence did not come off upon this occasion, but he promised himself that before long it should; and, ere he was out of the house, he had flung his friendship for Grahame to the winds, and had carved for himself an antagonistic attitude, in which he played the part of one who, having in his possession a dreadful secret, by which the safety of another is compromised, makes money by it frequently.
As the door closed upon him, Mr. Grahame turned a fitful gaze in that direction, and quickly, but silently, turned the key in the lock.
Then he paced up and down the library, almost convulsed by a fierce, mental struggle. He pressed his burning palm upon his aching forehead, and muttered rapidly and wildly—
“It must be done now; there is no escape—no escape—none—retreat is utterly impossible, and the advance must be swift, or, in spite of crime, utter crushing ruin must be the result. No; there is no stopping now. That forgery is useless, worthless, while he lives to prove it what it is. But how dispose of him without having any apparent connection with his death? Let me see! I must have no accomplice. I already have one too many; he will be a thorn in my side, I can see that; but there is time enough to think of the plan by which I shall get rid of him. But this Wilton; he must die, and that immediately. Yes, he must die! he must die! or I perish! but how to kill him—how? how?”
He threw himself in his chair, and racked his brain for a device by which to accomplish his devilish purpose without compromising himself. But as he did so, the magnitude of the crime he proposed to effect was not lost upon him. He felt that his face was livid, his hands cold and clammy, while drops of icy sweat trickled from his temples on to his cheek bones. His teeth, too, chattered, and his limbs trembled, as though he had been suddenly nipped by a frost.
Some hours elapsed before his torturing reverie terminated—even then he had only an indistinct notion of the course which he calculated upon, as the best to be adopted. The vulgar modes of knife or poison, he foresaw could not be employed by him, because he would have to be connected, however remotely, with the deed; and how to accomplish his design without the aid of one or the other, was a problem harder for him to work out than the most difficult in the “first four books” to an indifferent mathematician.
He certainly hit upon a scheme, but he was not sure that it would accomplish the object in view. There was not, however, time to project a plan, requiring consummate skill in its details, and rare ability to execute. Need was driving, and the ground was such as the devil must cover without the option of a choice; and he made up his mind to act at once, for he required immediately the funds which the successful execution of his infamous purpose would place at his disposal.
As if to sustain him in the resolution he had formed, he was aroused by the arrival of Whelks at the library door, who, when it was opened, informed him that his son had just returned home, accompanied by the Duke of St. Allborne, and the Honorable Lester Vane, and that they awaited him in the drawing-room.
Dismissing Whelks with a message to the effect that he would immediately join them, he hastened to his dressing-room, to obliterate all traces of the mental struggle he had for so many hours endured, and, making a slight alteration in his attire, he descended,
With solemn step and slow,
to welcome his son’s guests upon their arrival from college.
He found, on entering the gorgeously furnished apartment, his wife and daughters entertaining the new arrivals after the manner of the House—always excepting Evangeline, who sat back in a window recess, as if she had no business there.
A few words of stately congratulation and welcome from Mr. Grahame, and the whole party returned to the position which it occupied when he entered.
The keen eye of Mr. Grahame ran over the forms of the two young men who were thus introduced into his family for the first time, and naturally the young Duke was the first to attract his attention.
He was tall—over six feet, and stout with his height. He was fair, with round blue eyes, a small mouth, and no whiskers upon his cheeks or moustache upon his upper lip, or the sign of a hair in the vicinity.
His hands and feet were small, but there was a bulky, plethoric character about his frame, and his legs had an ungraceful leaning to knock-kneeism.
The tone of his voice was rich and not unmusical; but, like many members of the aristocracy, his tongue refused to have anything to do with the letter r, and, as a not unusual consequence, he used words containing that letter more frequently than did persons who could sound it like the roll of a drumstick upon a kettle-drum.
He was dressed elegantly. The jewellery he wore, though spare in quantity, was superb in material, and super-eminently costly.
The Honorable Lester Vane was of an entirely different stamp; and could, perhaps, have better sustained the character of a duke than his friend. Standing about five feet ten, he was remarkably well-formed and erect, and seemed to be at least six feet high. He was dark; and, though not a military man, wore a handsomely-shaped and trimmed moustache: his features were regular and well-shaped: his eyes were a very dark blue, and shaded by long black eyelashes: his hair and whiskers being of the same hue as the latter. His hands were white and small, and his feet were equally neat in their proportions. He was dressed with consummate taste and care, and of all men was calculated to attract the notice of women.
Malcolm Grahame, short in stature, was a rather ugly likeness of his sister Margaret, possessing all her pride, but not enough of her studied coldness to prevent it becoming vulgar arrogance. He was rather overdressed, too; and, altogether, presented a remarkable contrast to his college companions. It was soon perceptible that he toadied them, and that they both held him at no very flattering height in their estimation.
Why, then, did they accompany him home? An answer to that question might have been found in the glances bestowed by both the young men on the beautiful Helen Grahame, who, conscious of her own charms, received the homage of their eyes as simply her due. They were both, very shortly after their introduction, aware that she interpreted their looks of admiration, rather steadfastly bestowed—that they did not surprise nor did they abash her—nay, when, to show her power, she flashed those brilliant orbs upon them by turns, with a clear, steadfast gaze, they were fain to let their eyelids fall, to screen their unsteady eyes from the direct, unfaltering look she bent upon them.
Both regarded her in the light of a prize worth having, though each looked on the achievement from a different point of view. One seriously hoped to win it without the formulary of the wedding ring—the other with that aid, but with the addition also of a golden store.
Helen Grahame was unquestionably beautiful. The heightened colour of her cheek, the sparkling dancing of her brilliant eye, as she observed the impression her personal attractions had made upon the two young highborn men, greatly enhanced that beauty, which excited admiration even when in repose. It kept them at her side, and engrossed the largest share of their attention.
With a woman’s quickness of perception, Helen saw that she should soon have both these men suitors for her favour, sighing at her feet for her love. The gracefully fashioned form of Lester Vane pleased her eye and taste—the ducal coronet of his bulky friend roused her ambition and dazzled her; and she foresaw that she should be perplexed, when, as she instinctively knew would be the case, both wooed her, which to prefer. It was something to have a handsome “Honorable” for a husband—but to be a duchess!—ah!
Why at the moment did she sigh so sharply?—why did a spasm run through her frame, and make her clutch convulsively at a chair for support? Was it that this momentary pang reminded her that in neither decision would her heart be enlisted, or that there was another and more grave consideration which rendered such a speculation a forbidden subject?
After the common-places which usually attend an introduction, Mr. Grahame suggested that the guests should be shown to their respective rooms, where they might remove the traces of their journey, and prepare their toilet for dinner, to be served at half-past eight—a suggestion which was somewhat readily accepted, and appeared to be grateful to all parties.
The Duke and the Honorable Lester Vane had heard Malcolm Grahame boast of his beautiful sister Helen and his proud sister Meg. They had availed themselves of his apparently unlimited command of money, and they considered that his family were enormously wealthy, but vulgar and common-place. When Malcolm invited them home to spend a week with him, at his “place” in London, they both, having “places” of their own in the great city, looked upon the invitation as a good joke, and accepted it in the same spirit. They each resolved to add to the favours they had bestowed upon him, by permitting him always to pay, by borrowing his money in return for their company, and by running off with the pretty sister, of whom he spoke so enthusiastically. They had even entered into a bet with each other as to which would prove successful.
They were, however, not a little surprised to find the Grahames living in a style of elegant luxury, and the members of it displaying a pride of bearing not even surpassed by the ineffably proud Somerset himself, whose wife—a Percy—never attempted the liberty of kissing him. They were equally posed to find the pretty sister a brilliant beauty, who could only be approached with deference and humility; who was not to be gained with a glance of passion, or won by the pretended asseverations of a love having no existence.
Lester Vane saw his course at once. His income was narrow, and during his father’s life would not be increased by inheritances or bequests from any branch of his family, near or remote. To gain a beautiful wife, with an enormous dowry, was precisely the means by which he purposed elevating himself to wealth, and within a few minutes after his introduction to Helen, he abandoned his criminal project, and took up the matrimonial one. He formed the determination, too, of thwarting, promptly and effectually, the Duke’s designs, without appearing to do so, until he was sure of the lady, because he knew not when and how he might require his interest and service.
The young Duke was quite thrown out, too, by what was presented to his astonished eyes. Malcolm Grahame, after all, was not the parvenu he had fancied him to be, and his sister, instead of being merely a pretty, silly girl, was one to grace a throne. His was not a nature easily to abandon a resolution once formed, and he thought of Helen as a mistress with a gratified emotion not to be described. A passion for her was at once raised in his heart. He, too, remembering his bet with Lester Vane, made his resolutions in respect to the intentions of his friend, but as his own in that particular remained unchanged, he decided upon preserving silence respecting it for the present.
Both the young men were therefore glad to escape to their rooms, to recover their surprise on finding themselves in an atmosphere they had not expected, and in contact with persons differing materially from the conceptions they had formed of them. They were anxious to reflect upon their line of conduct during their stay, and having well considered the path to choose, to follow it out.
The two girls and their mother were glad of an opportunity of comparing notes and devising plans, to be carried out so long as their guests remained.
Mr. Grahame seemed to be in a dream, glad to be away from everybody, yet hating to be alone.
A brilliant dinner was served at the appointed hour. As there was no point of resemblance in the characters of those present, save in those of Margaret Grahame and her mother, the conversation was certainly not monotonous. It afforded, however, an opportunity for those interested in such a task to observe and mentally comment upon their companions, and to draw conclusions to be treasured up for future use.
The Duke of St. Allborne was placed on the right hand of Mr. Grahame, the Honorable Lester Vane on the right of Mrs. Grahame, the Duke enjoyed the pleasure of having the fair Helen as his right hand neighbour, and Lester Vane was honoured with the company of Margaret, for which he was not disposed to be especially grateful.
Evangeline faced her brother Malcolm, and thus arranged they proceeded to discuss the various courses, to partake of the choicest wines, to converse, and to gaze upon each other.
The last item was by no means the least important. The Duke did his best to engross the conversation of Helen, and to keep his round light blue eyes settled upon her, which she affected only to observe now and then by accident. Then a scarcely perceptible smile turned the corners of her mouth.
The deep blue eyes of Lester Vane rarely left her face, even when he was addressed by others. As often as she turned hers in his direction, which, with a motive, she did occasionally, she perceived his earnest, dreamy gaze fixed upon her. Twice or thrice it made her shudder, she knew not why. It was fixed, expressive, teeming with passion, but, if it possessed fascination, it was that of the serpent. Insensibly, every now and then her eyes wandered towards his, and settled for a moment upon them, each was conscious of the effect they were creating, and when Helen averted hers, a strange dread thrilled through her frame.
Now, although the beautiful face of this girl absorbed so much of Vane’s gaze, he was not ignorant of the fact that there was another face possessing great claims to loveliness at the table.
At first the timid reserve of Evangeline had caused him to pass her over unnoticed, but now that she sat almost opposite to him, he could not fail to notice her.
She was attired in a dinner dress of pale blue and silver, and, being very fair, looked charming. Her gentleness and quietness prevented her attracting much attention. To the Duke she was mixed up with the lights, the plate, and Malcolm Grahame, but the eye of Vane marked her down.
“I must fall in with her when she is alone,” he thought; “early in the morning or in byeways. She can be made, I am sure, to believe and to keep a secret, at any self-sacrifice.”
Once more his eye fell upon Helen, who was turning her dark, bright eyes upon the Duke, and electrifying him with her beauty, while she confused him by the smartness of her sallies.
“I will have her,” mused Lester Vane. “It may be a task surrounded with almost insuperable difficulties, but I will have her.”
Margaret Claverhouse Grahame divided her attentions between her plate and the young Duke. She had estimated Lester Vane at pretty much his value, and therefore did not trouble her head any more about him. She fastened her gray eyes upon the Duke as often as her dinner would admit, and she came to the same conclusion respecting him that Lester Vane had with her sister Helen.
“He must be mine. He is fat and awkward,” she thought, “but he is a duke, and I am born to bear the rank of a duchess.”
On the period appointed by etiquette for the ladies to retire arriving, the young ladies, led by Mrs. Grahame, quitted the apartment, to leave the gentlemen to their wine. They were now on much more familiar terms with each other, and, as the ladies retired, the Duke rising with the gentlemen, said to Helen—
“Weally, Miss Gwahame, I gwow evwy day moah and moah convinced that the wegulation which dwove the ladies fwom our society, though only faw a time, was absolutely bawbawous; and the pwesent fashion which pwescwibes a limit to the sepawation, an intwo-duction of the most admiwable kind. Believe me, I shall, with all wespect to my hospitable host, count the minutes until we join you in the dwawing woom.”
“And I!” exclaimed Lester Vane, in a tone of voice which compelled Helen to turn towards him; their eyes met—again she felt a strange, thrilling dread pass over her frame; she turned her eyes away.
“I am grateful!” she responded with a bow, and hastily quitted the room with her mother and sisters.
She did not enter the drawing-room, but ran into her own dressing-room, and, throwing herself in a chair, buried her face in a handkerchief.
She gave way to a passionate burst of tears; presently she drew from her bosom a small note, broke the seal, and perused its contents many times, and then she crushed it in her hand.
“How inopportune!” she exclaimed, in a vexed tone; “any night but this; still the terms are so peremptory; what is to be done?” She looked at her watch. “It is the hour,” she said; “what if I let it pass by, and go not? we part then to meet no more—no, no, that must not be—oh, fickle heart, to what fate will you drive me!”
At this moment her maid entered the room, and she hastily secreted the note. She mused for a second, and then she said—
“Chayter, give me a shawl; I will walk in the garden; my head aches.”
“It is very dark, miss,” returned the girl, “and the air is getting cold. It will be dangerous to your health to walk there now.”
“Give me a shawl, Chayter,” cried Helen, impatiently. “It is my pleasure to walk there—my brain burns.”
The girl knew it was useless to remonstrate further, and handed her a thick shawl, which she threw hastily over her head, and left the room. In a moment she returned, and said—
“Chayter, that dress I bade you alter this morning, you may keep.”
“Oh thank you, miss,” exclaimed the girl, joyfully, for it was a rich one.
“And, Chayter, remain here until you see me. Remember that if I am sent for, to say that I am lying upon my couch for a few minutes, and do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Do not mention a word to any one that I have gone to the garden.”
“Not to a soul, miss.”
“There’s a good girl; I will reward you on my return.”
As she concluded, she hastened down the private staircase.
“She’s got a sweetheart, I’ll swear!” murmured Chayter reflectively. “I’ll find that out, see if I don’t that will be many a dress in my way.”
Helen hurried on tiptoe until she reached one of the parlours which had a window opening on to the lawn. She passed out thence, closing the window silently after her.
She kept upon the lawn, in the shadow of the house, for a short distance, and then pursuing a winding path, did not pause until she reached a small thicket of trees planted on the banks of a tongue of land curving the ornamental waters.
Here she stood still for a moment, and then she coughed thrice. A voice whispered, “Helen!” and she clapped her hand. The next instant there issued from the thicket a young man, who immediately placed himself at her side.
“I feared you would not come, dearest!” he said, in a low tone.
“Oh, Hugh!” she answered; “it was indeed a task difficult to execute, but you so earnestly wished me to meet you that I am here.”
“It is shameful of me to doubt you, Helen, after the proofs of affection which you have bestowed upon me, yet I know the full value of my prize, and I so fear to lose it.”
“And you still love me, Hugh?” she asked, thoughtfully.
“Love you!—oh, Helen! why do you ask that terrible question? Have I changed in look, in word, in thought, in act?” he exclaimed, earnestly.
“No!” she said, “oh, no! yet do you not think a time may come when your love for me will be diverted to another?”
“Helen!”
“Can you not, Hugh, imagine a time when one fairer, less exacting, more gentle, than myself, may win from me that love you say I now alone possess?”
“Helen, this language affrights me—I do not understand it!” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise; and then added, passionately, “surely it is not for you to hazard such a terrible supposition! I love you, Helen—I have sworn it! I shall never change, never swerve from that adoration, that idolatry, with which I worship you. Oh! we are about to part for a time, Helen, and is this a moment to raise such doubts?”
She remained silent.
He pressed his clenched hand upon his heart, and said, with deep emotion—
“Helen, I repeat, we are about to part: you cannot have met me to tell me that the love you have declared for me, the love which you have proved, and which I have, oh! so fondly, so dearly cherished, has faded suddenly away at a moment, and you wish that the separation commencing now should last for ever? You dare not do it!”
“Oh! no, no, Hugh, no!” she cried earnestly.
“Helen!” he ejaculated, in low but deep tones, as though his very existence depended upon her answer, “you have, as I believe, proved to me that you loved me; you love me still, do you not?”
“Oh! yes, yes, Hugh,” she returned, with fervour, “I do, indeed, Hugh, love you with my whole soul.”
She sank upon his breast, and he pressed his lips to hers, passionately.
At this instant there was the sound of a footstep upon the gravel path.
She sprang from his embrace.
“For Heaven’s sake, be silent!” she whispered.
She turned her eyes in the direction of the advancing footsteps, and saw, approaching the spot where she stood with her companion, the Honorable Lester Vane.