Valentine found the apartments near the Edgeware-road in every manner eligible. The situation was midway between his reading-room in Great Russell-street and the abode of his delight — a half-way house on the road between business and pleasure. The terms were very moderate, the rooms airy and pleasant; so he engaged them forthwith, his tenancy to commence at the end of the following week; and having settled this matter, he went back to Omega-street, bent on dissolving partnership with the Captain in a civil but decided manner.
A surprise, and a very agreeable one, awaited him at Chelsea. He found the sitting-room strewn with Captain Paget’s personal property, and the Captain on his knees before a portmanteau, packing.
“You’re just in time to give me a hand, Val,” he said in his most agreeable manner. “I begin to find out my age when I put my poor old bones into abnormal attitudes. I daresay packing a trunk or two will be only child’s-play to you.”
“I’ll pack half a dozen trunks if you like,” replied Valentine. “But what is the meaning of this sudden move? I did not know you were going to leave town.”
“Neither did I when you and I breakfasted together. I got an unexpected offer of a very decent position abroad this morning; a kind of agency, that will be much better than the hand-to-mouth business I’ve been doing lately.”
“What kind of agency, and where?”
“Well, so far as I can make out at present, it is something in the steam navigation way. My head-quarters will be at Rouen.” “Rouen! Well, it’s a pleasant lively old city enough, and as mediaeval as one of Sir Walter’s novels, provided they haven’t Haussmanised it by this time. I am very glad to hear you have secured a comfortable berth.”
“And I am not sorry to leave England, Yal,” answered the Captain, in rather a mournful tone.
“Why not?”
“Because I think it’s time you and I parted company. Our association begins to be rather disadvantageous to you, Val. We’ve had our ups and downs together, and we’ve got on very pleasantly, take it for all in all. But now that you’re settling down as a literary man, engaged to that young woman, hand-in-glove with Philip Sheldon, and so on, I think it’s time for me to take myself off. I’m not wanted; and sooner or later I should begin to feel myself in the way.”
The Captain grew quite pathetic as he said this; and little pangs of remorse shot through Valentine’s heart as he remembered how eager he had been to rid himself of this Old Man of the Mountain. And here was the poor old creature offering to take himself out of the way of his own accord.
Influenced by this touch of remorse, Mr. Hawkehurst held out his hand, and grasped that of his comrade and patron.
“I hope you may do well, in some — comfortable kind of business,” he said heartily. That adjective “comfortable” was a hasty substitute for the adjective “honest,” which had been almost on his lips as he uttered his friendly wish. He was too well disposed to all the world not to feel profound pity for this white-headed old man, who for so many years had eaten the bread of rogues and scoundrels.
“Come,” he cried cheerily, “I’ll take all the packing off your hands, Captain; and we’ll eat our last dinner and drink our last bottle of sparkling together at my expense, at any place you please to name.”
“Say Blanchard’s,” replied Horatio Paget. “I like a corner-window, looking out upon the glare and bustle of Regent-street. It reminds one just a little of the Maison Dorée and the boulevard. We’ll drink Charlotte Halliday’s health, Val, in bumpers. She’s a charming young person, and I only wish she were an heiress, for your sake.”
The eyes of the two men met as the Captain said this; and there was a twinkle in the cold gray orbs of that gentleman which had a very unpleasant effect upon Valentine.
“What treachery is he engaged in now?” he asked himself. “I know that look in my Horatio’s eyes; and I know it always means mischief.”
George Sheldon made his appearance at the Lawn five minutes after his brother came home from the City. He entered the domestic circle in his usual free-and-easy manner, knowing himself to be endured, rather than liked, by the two ladies, and to be only tolerated as a necessary evil by the master of the house.
“I’ve dropped in to eat a chop with you, Phil,” he said, “in order to get an hour’s comfortable talk after dinner. There’s no saying half a dozen consecutive words to you in the City, where your clerks seem to spend their lives in bouncing in upon you when you don’t want them.”
There was very little talk during dinner. Charlotte and her stepfather were thoughtful. Diana was chiefly employed in listening to the sotto voce inanities of Mrs. Sheldon, for whom the girl showed herself admirably patient. Her forbearance and gentleness towards Georgy constituted a kind of penitential sacrifice, by which she hoped to atone for the dark thoughts and bitter feelings that possessed her mind during those miserable hours in which she was obliged to witness the happiness of Charlotte and her lover.
George Sheldon devoted himself chiefly to his dinner and a certain dry sherry, which he particularly affected. He was a man who would have dined and enjoyed himself at the table of Judas Iscariot, knowing the banquet to be provided out of the thirty pieces of silver.
“That’s as good a pheasant as I ever ate, Phil,” he said, after winding up with the second leg of the bird in question. “No, Georgy; no macaroni, thanks. I don’t care about kickshaws after a good dinner. Has Hawkehurst dined with you lately, by the way, Phil?”
Charlotte blushed red as the holly-berries that decorated the chandelier. It was Christmas-eve, and her own fair hands had helped to bedeck the rooms with festal garlands of evergreen and holly.
“He dines with us to-morrow,” replied the stockbroker. “You’ll come, I suppose, as usual, George?”
“Well, I shall be very glad, if I’m not in the way.”
Mrs. Sheldon murmured some conventional protestation of the unfailing delight afforded to her by George’s society.
“Of course we’re always glad to see you,” said Philip in his most genial manner; “and now, if you’ve anything to say to me about business, the sooner you begin the better. — You and the girls needn’t stay for dessert, Georgy. Almonds and raisins can’t be much of a novelty to you; and as none of you take any wine, there’s not much to stop for. George and I will come in to tea.”
The ladies departed, by no means sorry to return to their Berlin-wool and piano. Diana took up her work with that saintly patience with which she performed all the duties of her position; and Charlotte seated herself before the piano, and began to play little bits of waltzes, and odds and ends of polkas, in a dreamy mood, and with a slurring over of dominant bass notes, which would have been torture to a musician’s ear.
She was wondering whether Valentine would call that evening, Christmas-eve — a sort of occasion for congratulation of some kind from her lover, she fancied. It was the first Christmas-eve on which she had been “engaged.” She looked back to the same period last year, and remembered herself sitting in that very room strumming on that very piano, and unconscious that there was such a creature as Valentine Hawkehurst upon this earth. And, strange to say, even in that benighted state, she had been tolerably happy.
“Now, George,” said Mr. Sheldon, when the brothers had filled their glasses and planted their chairs on the opposite sides of the hearth-rug, “what’s the nature of this business that you want to talk about?”
“Well, it is a business of considerable importance, in which you are only indirectly concerned. The actual principal in the affair is your stepdaughter, Miss Halliday.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. You know how you have always ridiculed my fancy for hunting up heirs-at-law and all that kind of thing, and you know how I have held on, hoping against hope, starting on a new scent when............