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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Birds of Prey," M. E. Braddon weaves a gripping tale that intricately combines elements of mystery and psychological drama, reflecting the themes prevalent in Victorian literature. The novel explores the deceitful nature of human relationships, as it follows the intertwined lives of its characters, marked by ambition, betrayal, and moral ambiguity. Braddon's prose is both evocative and richly detailed, creating a vivid atmosphere that transports readers into the complex motivations of the characters, while also challenging societal norms and expectations of her time. M. E. Braddon, a prominent figure in Victorian literature, gained recognition for her contributions to the sensation novel genre. Her early career as a struggling writer and actress undoubtedly influenced her understanding of the human psyche and societal pressures. "Birds of Prey" reflects Braddon's keen observations of the intricate power dynamics in relationships, likely stemming from her own experiences navigating the male-dominated literary world. This background empowers her to craft narratives that resonate deeply with readers. This novel is highly recommended for those interested in psychological thrillers and historical contexts. Braddon's adept storytelling and in-depth character exploration not only entertain but also provoke thought on human motivations, making "Birds of Prey" a compelling read for anyone seeking to delve into the societal complexities of the Victorian era. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Birds of Prey
Table of Contents
Introduction
In Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s Birds of Prey, the glittering surfaces of Victorian respectability conceal a patient, predatory struggle in which charm, documents and rumors, and carefully staged chance become the quiet weapons by which hunters of fortune test the boundaries between self-invention and moral compromise, while the vulnerable—drawn by affection, aspiration, or necessity—learn how easily the roles of watcher and watched, victim and accomplice, can blur across drawing rooms and backstreets, where reputation operates as currency, secrecy functions as shelter, and survival depends on reading the smallest signs of deceit before the game hardens into consequences no one can fully control.
A hallmark of Victorian sensation fiction, the novel blends domestic scenes with crime-adjacent intrigue, setting its action largely in nineteenth-century England and moving between genteel households and more precarious urban spaces. First published in the late 1860s, it emerged amid the height of serial storytelling, when weekly or monthly installments shaped pacing, suspense, and reader expectations. Braddon, already a prominent popular novelist by that period, uses the conventions of the genre—surprise revelations, sudden reversals, and moral ambiguity—to explore how outward decorum can hide violent competition for wealth and status. The book reflects its era’s fascination with secrecy, scandal, and the fragility of social standing.
Without venturing beyond the novel’s initial setup, the story begins as a seasoned schemer, aided by a capable associate, identifies an opportunity that hinges on patience, close observation, and the careful manipulation of trust. Their designs intersect with the fortunes of respectable families, where affection, obligation, and ambition create openings for misreading and exploitation. The stage is set for a long game in which letters, meetings, and chance encounters accumulate pressure, and small decisions carry disproportionate weight. Rather than centering sudden violence, the opening emphasizes stealth and preparation, inviting readers into a world where danger arrives softly, over months and years.
Braddon’s narrative voice is brisk and omniscient, guiding the reader with crisp scene changes and sharply observed social detail, while the serialized architecture supplies frequent pivots and suspenseful pauses. The prose balances theatrical flourish with keen attention to everyday objects and routines, emphasizing how ordinary habits can mask extraordinary intentions. Atmosphere alternates between polished interiors and uneasy thresholds: doors ajar, whispers overheard, a carriage glimpsed at dusk. The mood is tense but lively, inviting both complicity and skepticism as clues accumulate. Readers encounter a novel as much about watching and being watched as about acts that later draw official notice.
Central themes include the power of money to reorder intimacy, the mutability of identity under social pressure, and the ways gendered expectations can be turned into tactics. The novel probes respectability as a performance sustained by documents, networks, and tirelessly managed appearances. It considers the law’s limits in policing fraud or coercion that thrive in gray zones, where nothing looks unlawful until it is too late to intervene. Throughout, Braddon asks whether sincerity can survive in a culture that prizes appearances, and what forms of self-knowledge are possible when everyone is guessing at everyone else’s motives.
Situated within the broader print culture of its day, Birds of Prey shows how sensation fiction absorbed anxieties about mobility, credit, and the expanding reach of bureaucracy, turning ledgers, signatures, and addresses into instruments of plot. Its momentum and design reflect a marketplace in which cliffhangers traveled through parlors and railway carriages, shaping communal reading and debate. The novel also exemplifies Braddon’s durable appeal: she combines accessibility with psychological shrewdness, refusing easy moral sorting even as she charts the costs of duplicity. For modern readers, the book offers a window onto Victorian media habits alongside a gripping narrative architecture.
Read now, the novel feels strikingly contemporary in its interest in confidence games, manufactured personas, and the precariousness of trust in a society obsessed with status signals. It rewards readers who enjoy intricate setups, morally complex players, and the slow burn of accruing consequence rather than spectacle. Above all, it is a study in how stories about crime can be stories about intimacy—about the small compromises that make larger betrayals possible. Birds of Prey invites reflection on what it means to see clearly in a world of polished surfaces, and why the cost of looking away can be so high.
Synopsis
Birds of Prey follows intersecting lives moving between Victorian London’s precarious Bohemian circles and its guarded, respectable suburbs. The title evokes adventurers who live by their wits, shadowing the fortunes of those better placed. The novel introduces readers to a world of small rooms, quick schemes, and fragile respectability, then juxtaposes it with drawing rooms where reputation and inheritance quietly govern conduct. Through a measured unfolding of character histories and chance encounters, the story sets up conflicts over money, status, and marriage. It begins as an ensemble narrative and gradually narrows to a set of decisions that will shape the futures of several closely linked households.
Captain Paget, a shabby-genteel adventurer, schemes to sustain a genteel veneer without stable income. His daughter, Diana, has grown up amid frequent moves, irregular schooling, and calculated social manoeuvres. She is intelligent, observant, and largely powerless within her father’s plans. Another figure of the demi-monde, Valentine Hawkehurst, operates on the edges of journalism and deception, clever but rootless. Circumstances press these characters to seek a foothold in more reliable society. An opportunity arises that places Diana in a respectable position, while Valentine sees a chance to turn his talents toward legitimate work, if he can escape old allies and a compromised reputation.
The narrative shifts to the comfortable home of Charlotte Halliday, a warm-hearted young woman whose modest fortune makes her a focus of solicitude and attention. Her widowed mother, eager for security, remarries Philip Sheldon, an orderly and ambitious man who values prudence and outward propriety. Diana becomes Charlotte’s companion, learning a new rhythm of life while navigating the subtle boundaries of class and employment. Valentine, drawn into the same orbit by practical arrangements, meets Charlotte and begins to imagine an honourable future. Domestic calm, however, is underwritten by money concerns, legal technicalities, and the watchfulness of a stepfather determined to manage outcomes.
Philip Sheldon’s rise—from a practical profession to speculative ventures—signals his determination to convert prudence into power. He manages household matters with method, while cultivating financial prospects outside the home. His brother, George Sheldon, operates as an heir-hunter, tracing dormant claims and assembling proofs from scattered records. George enlists Valentine as a resourceful assistant: someone quick with a pen, fluent in pretexts, and ready to travel. This arrangement offers Valentine wages, respectability, and distance from past associates. It also threads the household’s private hopes into a public legal chase, where a successful claim could shift futures and redraw loyalties across families and borders.
The hunt for a missing title and fortune leads across the Channel. Parish registers, family legends, and half-remembered names point toward a Norman estate known as Côtenoir and the Lenoble family. Diana, seeking independence from her father’s schemes, accepts a post connected with a French household. The calmer routine broadens her experience and reveals a different standard of integrity and affection. Gustave Lenoble emerges as an honourable figure whose straightforward nature contrasts with the English adventurers who filled Diana’s youth. Yet even in this more tranquil setting, class expectations, maternal anxieties, and the lingering shadow of Captain Paget complicate any prospect of secure happiness.
Back in London, Charlotte’s circle consolidates. Valentine, now working to verify genealogies and gather affidavits, struggles to balance ambition with candour about his history. Affection grows between him and Charlotte, tested by differences in standing and by the vigilance of those who manage her affairs. Philip Sheldon observes quietly, guiding callers, opportunities, and silences. George Sheldon keeps the legal machinery in motion, while Diana’s letters home reveal steady progress and new dilemmas abroad. Friendships deepen among the sympathetic characters, who begin to imagine futures anchored in honest work rather than expediency, though each path remains contingent on documents, timing, and guarded approvals.
As proofs accumulate, pressure mounts. Business fluctuations unsettle London, rumours disturb calm households, and a sudden illness in the wider circle prompts uneasy scrutiny. The legal case demands exacting corroboration; miscopied names and missing certificates threaten months of effort. Captain Paget manoeuvres to derive advantage from any outcome, while George Sheldon’s professional zeal strains alliances. Philip Sheldon faces converging strains at home and in the market, his reserve hardening into calculation. Against this backdrop, Diana weighs duty against self-respect in France, and Valentine chooses between discretion and full disclosure. The narrative tightens, highlighting how fortune, health, and reputation can shift with a single decision.
The story advances toward settlements of money and marriage without disclosing every peril in detail. Engagements are contemplated, obstacles tested, and a contested inheritance nears formal recognition. A hazardous plan—quietly prepared under the guise of prudence—threatens to undo the hopes of the more generous characters. Vigilant friends and timely interventions check the worst possibilities, while the law confirms some claims and postpones others. Certain futures brighten; others are left dependent on continuing caution. The close leaves several relationships clarified and a few uncertainties intact, preparing the ground for later developments that will be pursued beyond this volume in the connected narrative.
Birds of Prey presents a study of predation and protection within the apparatus of Victorian respectability. It shows how money, identity, and marriage can be negotiated, disguised, or defended through documents as much as through feeling. By pairing a Bohemian underworld with a guarded domestic sphere, the novel examines the costs of social ascent and the possibility of reform. Its central message emphasises the difference between cleverness used to consume and courage used to sustain. Without resolving every thread, it completes an arc from opportunism toward earned security, while pointing ahead to further trials that will test whether integrity can hold its ground.
Historical Context
Set in the middle decades of the nineteenth century, Birds of Prey unfolds chiefly in London, moving between the speculative bustle of the City and the anxious respectability of emerging suburbs such as Bayswater and Kensington. Its timescape spans the 1840s to the later 1860s, a period of rapid urban growth, railway expansion, and volatile finance. The novel’s characters navigate counting-houses, brokers’ offices, boarding houses, and genteel villas, while the plot also glances toward Continental resorts frequented by British visitors. Telegraph lines, suburban commuter trains, and a steadily professionalizing police presence form the modern backdrop. Braddon’s tableau captures a society in which reputation, credit, and legal status are as consequential as cash, inheritance, or birth.
The Victorian financial system’s booms and crashes decisively shaped the era. Railway Mania (1845–1847) drew in middle-class investors across Britain, while the Joint Stock Companies Act (1844), the Limited Liability Act (1855), and the Companies Act (1862) expanded corporate activity and speculation. The collapse of Overend, Gurney & Co. on 10 May 1866—"Black Friday"—triggered a City-wide panic; the Bank of England raised the discount rate to 10 percent on 11 May, and failures rippled through Lombard Street. This volatility imperiled household fortunes and suburban respectability. Birds of Prey mirrors these conditions through its scrutiny of stock speculation, precarious credit, and the desperate measures taken when investments sour, binding domestic security to the hazards of the market.
A dramatic expansion of life assurance accompanied urban mortality fears and new actuarial science. Firms such as the Equitable Life (founded 1762) and the Prudential (1848, Hatton Garden) popularized policies among clerks and shopkeepers, while coroner’s inquests and medical certificates formalized death verification. High-profile poisoning scandals exposed vulnerabilities: Dr. William Palmer of Rugeley was tried in May 1856 for killing John Parsons Cook (strychnine suspected) and executed on 14 June 1856, amid debates over toxicology and insurance motives. The Arsenic Act (1851) and Pharmacy Act (1868) tightened poison sales. Birds of Prey exploits these anxieties, depicting how policy values, medical attestations, and access to botanical toxins could convert illness into a ledger entry—and temptation into lethal design.
Victorian inheritance law and document culture furnished fertile ground for fraud. The Wills Act (1837) standardized testamentary form; the Court of Probate (established 1858) removed will validation from ecclesiastical courts; and the Forgery Act (1861) consolidated penalties. The notorious case of William Roupell, MP for Lambeth, who in 1862 was convicted of forging deeds and a will to misappropriate South London estates, revealed how forged signatures, backdated instruments, and sham trusteeships could divert fortunes. Chancery suits over trusts and guardianship often immobilized property for years. Birds of Prey draws directly on this milieu: forged or concealed documents, contested heirships, and manipulative guardians connect private treachery to very public, bureaucratic mechanisms of property transfer.
Modern policing expanded the state’s reach into private life. The Metropolitan Police were founded in 1829, and a Detective Branch at Scotland Yard was created in 1842 to pursue fraud, forgery, and poisoning cases. Criminal law consolidation in 1861 and the Habitual Criminals Act (1869) built registries and surveillance practices, while coroner’s juries and magistrates refined evidentiary routines; toxicological advances, from the Marsh test (1836) to the Stas-Otto method (1851), reshaped trials. Birds of Prey reflects this apparatus through inquests, watchful officials, and pursuit across social thresholds. The novel’s blend of amateur inquiry and official scrutiny echoes a city where respectability could be audited, and where the paper trail—ledgers, letters, policies—was as probative as eyewitnesses.
Continental gambling resorts formed an Anglo-European circuit for risk and reinvention. After Britain’s Gaming Act (1845) and the Betting Houses Act (1853) curtailed domestic gaming, British visitors flocked to Homburg, where François Blanc established the Kurhaus casino in 1841, and to Baden-Baden, whose rooms flourished until Germany banned casinos in 1872. In 1863 Blanc shifted his operations to Monaco, inaugurating Monte Carlo’s rise. These spas combined high-stakes play, romantic intrigue, and cosmopolitan anonymity. Birds of Prey invokes this world of professional adventurers—"birds of prey"—whose fortunes and alliances are made at the card table, then laundered through marriages, investments, or fraud, linking London’s credit economy to transnational circuits of chance.
Urban modernization and social agitation reconfigured class and gender relations. The Great Stink (1858) and Bazalgette’s sewers (underway 1859–1875) exemplified state-led urban engineering; the Metropolitan Railway opened in 1863, binding suburbs to the City. Political pressure peaked with the Reform League’s Hyde Park demonstration on 23 July 1866, presaging the Second Reform Act (1867) that enlarged the male franchise. Yet women’s property remained constrained by coverture until the Married Women’s Property Act (1870). Birds of Prey scrutinizes this asymmetry: heiresses, companions, and governesses face legal dependence on male guardians and suitors, while suburban decorum masks economic precarity. The novel’s conflicts map directly onto these structural forces—credit, franchise, infrastructure—governing who may decide, inherit, and belong.
As social and political critique, the book indicts a system where speculative finance, patriarchal law, and bureaucratic formalities collude to imperil the vulnerable. It exposes how credit and reputation can be weaponized, how guardianship and marriage serve as instruments for extracting women’s wealth, and how the mechanisms of probate, insurance, and policing can be manipulated by the skilled and ruthless. By tracing the porous boundary between the respectable suburb and the gambling room, the counting-house and the sickroom, Birds of Prey portrays Victorian modernity as a regime of paperwork and risk that rewards audacity over virtue and leaves justice contingent on evidence that the powerful help to define.
Birds of Prey
BOOK THE FIRST.
FATAL FRIENDSHIP.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY.
"What about?" There are some houses whereof the outward aspect is sealed with the seal of respectability—houses which inspire confidence in the minds of the most sceptical of butchers and bakers—houses at whose area-gates the tradesman delivers his goods undoubtingly, and from whose spotless door-steps the vagabond children of the neighbourhood recoil as from a shrine too sacred for their gambols.
Such a house made its presence obvious, some years ago, in one of the smaller streets of that west-central region which lies between Holborn and St. Pancras Church. It is perhaps the nature of ultra-respectability to be disagreeably conspicuous. The unsullied brightness of No. 14 Fitzgeorge-street[1] was a standing reproach to every other house in the dingy thorough-fare. That one spot of cleanliness made the surrounding dirt cruelly palpable. The muslin curtains[2] in the parlour windows of No. 15 would not have appeared of such a smoky yellow if the curtains of No. 14 had not been of such a pharisaical whiteness. Mrs. Magson, at No. 13, was a humble letter of lodgings, always more or less in arrear with the demands of quarter-day; and it seemed a hard thing that her door-steps, whereon were expended much labour and hearthstone—not to mention house-flannel, which was in itself no unimportant item in the annual expenses—should be always thrown in the shade by the surpassing purity of the steps before No. 14.
Not satisfied with being the very pink and pattern of respectability, the objectionable house even aspired to a kind of prettiness. It was as bright, and pleasant, and rural of aspect as any house within earshot of the roar and rattle of Holborn can be. There were flowers in the windows; gaudy scarlet geraniums, which seemed to enjoy an immunity from all the ills to which geraniums are subject, so impossible was it to discover a faded leaf amongst their greenness, or the presence of blight amidst their wealth of blossom. There were birdcages within the shadow of the muslin curtains, and the colouring of the newly-pointed brickwork was agreeably relieved by the vivid green of Venetian blinds. The freshly-varnished street-door bore a brass-plate, on which to look was to be dazzled; and the effect produced by this combination of white door-step, scarlet geranium, green blind, and brass-plate was obtrusively brilliant.
Those who had been so privileged as to behold the interior of the house in Fitzgeorge-street brought away with them a sense of admiration that was the next thing to envy. The pink and pattern of propriety within, as it was the pink and pattern of propriety without, it excited in every breast alike a wondering awe, as of a habitation tenanted by some mysterious being, infinitely superior to the common order of householders.
The inscription on the brass-plate informed the neighbourhood that No. 14 was occupied by Mr. Sheldon, surgeon-dentist[3]; and the dwellers in Fitzgeorge-street amused themselves in their leisure hours by speculative discussions upon the character and pursuits, belongings and surroundings, of this gentleman.
Of course he was eminently respectable. On that question no Fitzgeorgian had ever hazarded a doubt. A householder with such a door-step and such muslin curtains could not be other than the most correct of mankind; for, if there is any external evidence by which a dissolute life or an ill-regulated mind will infallibly betray itself, that evidence is to be found in the yellowness and limpness of muslin window-curtains. The eyes are the windows of the soul[1q], says the poet; but if a man's eyes are not open to your inspection, the windows of his house will help you to discover his character as an individual, and his solidity as a citizen. At least such was the opinion cherished in Fitzgeorge-street, Russell-square.
The person and habits of Mr. Sheldon were in perfect harmony with the aspect of the house. The unsullied snow of the door-step reproduced itself in the unsullied snow of his shirt-front; the brilliancy of the brass-plate was reflected in the glittering brightness of his gold-studs; the varnish on the door was equalled by the lustrous surface of his black-satin waistcoat; the careful pointing of the brickwork was in a manner imitated by the perfect order of his polished finger-nails and the irreproachable neatness of his hair and whiskers. No dentist or medical practitioner of any denomination had inhabited the house in Fitzgeorge-street before the coming of Philip Sheldon. The house had been unoccupied for upwards of a year, and was in the last stage of shabbiness and decay, when the bills disappeared all at once from the windows, and busy painters and bricklayers set their ladders against the dingy brickwork. Mr. Sheldon took the house on a long lease, and spent two or three hundred pounds in the embellishment of it. Upon the completion of all repairs and decorations, two great waggon-loads of furniture, distinguished by that old fashioned clumsiness which is eminently suggestive of respectability, arrived from the Euston-square terminus, while a young man of meditative aspect might have been seen on his knees, now in one empty chamber, anon in another, performing some species of indoor surveying, with a three-foot rule, a loose little oblong memorandum-book, and the merest stump of a square lead-pencil. This was an emissary from the carpet warehouse; and before nightfall it was known to more than one inhabitant in Fitzgeorge-street that the stranger was going to lay down new carpets. The new-comer was evidently of an active and energetic temperament, for within three days of his arrival the brass-plate on his street-door announced his profession, while a neat little glass-case, on a level with the eye of the passing pedestrian, exhibited specimens of his skill in mechanical dentistry, and afforded instruction and amusement to the boys of the neighbourhood, who criticised the glistening white teeth and impossibly red gums, displayed behind the plate-glass, with a like vigour and freedom of language. Nor did Mr. Sheldon's announcement of his profession confine itself to the brass-plate and the glass-case. A shabby-genteel young man pervaded the neighbourhood for some days after the surgeon-dentist's advent, knocking a postman's knock, which only lacked the galvanic sharpness of the professional touch, and delivering neatly-printed circulars to the effect that Mr. Sheldon, surgeon-dentist, of 14 Fitzgeorge-street, had invented some novel method of adjusting false teeth, incomparably superior to any existing method, and that he had, further, patented an improvement on nature in the way of coral gums, the name whereof was an unpronounceable compound of Greek and Latin, calculated to awaken an awful reverence in the unprofessional and unclassical mind.
The Fitzgeorgians shook their heads with prophetic solemnity as they read these circulars. Struggling householders, who find it a hard task to keep the two ends which never have met and never will meet from growing farther and farther asunder every year, are apt to derive a dreary kind of satisfaction from the contemplation of another man's impending ruin. Fitzgeorge-street and its neighbourhood had existed without the services of a dentist, but it was very doubtful that a dentist would be able to exist on the custom to be obtained in Fitzgeorge-street. Mr. Sheldon may, perhaps, have pitched his tent under the impression that wherever there was mankind there was likely to be toothache, and that the healer of an ill so common to frail humanity could scarcely fail to earn his bread, let him establish his abode of horror where he might. For some time after his arrival people watched him and wondered about him, and regarded him a little suspiciously, in spite of the substantial clumsiness of his furniture and the unwinking brightness of his windows. His neighbours asked one another how long all that outward semblance of prosperity would last; and there was sinister meaning in the question.
The Fitzgeorgians were not a little surprised, and were perhaps just a little disappointed, on finding that the newly-established dentist did manage to hold his ground somehow or other, and that the muslin curtains were renewed again and again in all their spotless purity; that the supplies of rotten-stone and oil[4], hearthstone and house-flannel, were unfailing as a perennial spring; and that the unsullied snow of Mr. Sheldon's shirt-fronts retained its primeval whiteness. Wonderland suspicion gave place to a half-envious respect. Whether much custom came to the dentist no one could decide. There is no trade or profession in which the struggling man will not receive some faint show of encouragement. Pedestrians of agonised aspect, with handkerchiefs held convulsively before their mouths, were seen to rush wildly towards the dentist's door, then pause for a moment, stricken by a sudden terror, and anon feebly pull the handle of an inflexible bell. Cabs had been heard to approach that fatal door—generally on wet days; for there seems to be a kind of fitness in the choice of damp and dismal weather for the extraction of teeth. Elderly ladies and gentlemen had been known to come many times to the Fitzgeorgian mansion. There was a legend of an old lady who had been seen to arrive in a brougham, especially weird and nut-crackery of aspect, and to depart half an hour afterwards a beautified and renovated creature. One half of the Fitzgeorgians declared that Mr. Sheldon had established a very nice little practice, and was saving money; while the other half were still despondent, and opined that the dentist had private property, and was eating up his little capital. It transpired in course of time that Mr. Sheldon had left his native town of Little Barlingford, in Yorkshire, where his father and grandfather had been surgeon-dentists before him, to establish himself in London. He had disposed advantageously of an excellent practice, and had transferred his household goods—the ponderous chairs and tables, the wood whereof had deepened and mellowed in tint under the indefatigable hand of his grandmother—to the metropolis, speculating on the chance that his talents and appearance, address and industry, could scarcely fail to achieve a position. It was further known that he had a brother, an attorney in Gray's Inn, who visited him very frequently; that he had few other friends or acquaintance; that he was a shining example of steadiness and sobriety; that he was on the sunnier side of thirty, a bachelor, and very good-looking; and that his household was comprised of a grim-visaged active old woman imported from Barlingford, a girl who ran errands, and a boy who opened the door, attended to the consulting-room, and did some mysterious work at odd times with a file and sundry queer lumps of plaster-of-paris, beeswax, and bone, in a dark little shed abutting on the yard at the back of the house. This much had the inhabitants of Fitzgeorge-street discovered respecting Mr. Sheldon when he had been amongst them four years; but they had discovered no more. He had made no local acquaintances, nor had he sought to make any. Those of his neighbours who had seen the interior of his house had entered it as patients. They left it as much pleased with Mr. Sheldon as one can be with a man at whose hands one has just undergone martyrdom, and circulated a very flattering report of the dentist's agreeable manners and delicate white handkerchief, fragrant with the odour of eau-de-Cologne. For the rest, Philip Sheldon lived his own life, and dreamed his own dreams. His opposite neighbours, who watched him on sultry summer evenings as he lounged near an open window smoking his cigar, had no more knowledge of his thoughts and fancies than they might have had if he had been a Calmuck Tartar or an Abyssinian chief.
CHAPTER II.
PHILIP SHELDON READS THE "LANCET."
Fitzgeorge-street was chill and dreary of aspect, under a gray March sky, when Mr. Sheldon returned to it after a week's absence from London. He had been to Little Barlingford, and had spent his brief holiday among old friends and acquaintance. The weather had not been in favour of that driving hither and thither in dog-carts, or riding rakish horses long distances to beat up old companions, which is accounted pleasure on such occasions. The blustrous winds of an unusually bitter March had buffeted Mr. Sheldon in the streets of his native town, and had almost blown him off the door-steps of his kindred. So it is scarcely strange if he returned to town looking none the better for his excursion. He looked considerably the worse for his week's absence, the old Yorkshire-woman said, as she waited upon him while he ate a chop and drank two large cups of very strong tea.
Mr. Sheldon made short work of his impromptu meal. He seemed anxious to put an end to his housekeeper's affectionate interest in himself and his health, and to get her out of the room. She had nursed him nearly thirty years before, and the recollection that she had been very familiar with him when he was a handsome black-eyed baby, with a tendency to become suddenly stiff of body and crimson of visage without any obvious provocation, inclined her to take occasional liberties now. She watched him furtively as he sat in a big high-backed arm-chair staring moodily at the struggling fire, and would fain have questioned him a little about Barlingford and Barlingford people.
But Philip Sheldon was not a man with whom even a superannuated nurse can venture to take many liberties. He was a good master, paid his servants their wages with unfailing punctuality, and gave very little trouble. But he was the last person in the world upon whom a garrulous woman could venture to inflict her rambling discourse; as Nancy Woolper—by courtesy, Mrs. Woolper—was fain to confess to her next-door neighbour, Mrs. Magson, when her master was the subject of an afternoon gossip. The heads of a household may inhabit a neighbourhood for years without becoming acquainted even with the outward aspect of their neighbours; but in the lordly servants' halls of the West, or the modest kitchens of Bloomsbury, there will be interchange of civilities and friendly "droppings in" to tea or supper, let the master of the house be never so ungregarious a creature.
"You can take the tea-things, Nancy," Mr. Sheldon said presently, arousing himself suddenly from that sombre reverie in which he had been absorbed for the last ten minutes; "I am going to be very busy to-night, and I expect Mr. George in the course of the evening. Mind, I am not at home to anybody but him."
The old woman arranged the tea-things on her tray, but still kept a furtive watch on her master, who sat with his head a little bent, and his bright black eyes fixed on the fire with that intensity of gaze peculiar to eyes which see something far away from the object they seem to contemplate. She was in the habit of watching Mr. Sheldon rather curiously at all times, for she had never quite got over a difficulty in realising the fact that the black-eyed baby with whom she had been so intimate could have developed into this self-contained inflexible young man, whose thoughts were so very far away from her. To-night she watched him more intently than she was accustomed to do, for to-night there was some change in his face which she was trying in a dim way to account for.
He looked up from the fire suddenly, and found her eyes fixed upon him. It may be that he had been disturbed by a semi-consciousness of that curious gaze, for he looked at her angrily,—"What are you staring at, Nancy?"
It was not the first time he had encountered her watchful eyes and asked the same impatient question. But Mrs. Woolper possessed that north-country quickness of intellect which is generally equal to an emergency, and was always ready with some question or suggestion which went to prove that she had just fixed her eyes on her master, inspired by some anxiety about his interests.
"I was just a-thinking, sir," she said, meeting his stern glance unflinchingly with her little sharp gray eyes, "I was just a-thinking—you said not at home to any one, except Mr. George. If it should be a person in a cab wanting their teeth out sudden—and if anything could make toothache more general in this neighbourhood it would be these March winds—if it should be a patient, sir, in a cab——"
The dentist interrupted her with a short bitter laugh.
"Neither March winds nor April showers are likely to bring me patients, Nancy, on foot or in cabs, and you ought to know it. If it's a patient, ask him in, by all means, and give him last Saturday week's Times to read, while I rub the rust off my forceps. There, that will do; take your tray—or, stop; I've some news to tell you." He rose, and stood with his back to the fire and his eyes bent upon the hearthrug, while Mrs. Woolper waited by the table, with the tray packed ready for removal. Her master kept her waiting so for some minutes, and then turned his face half away from her, and contemplated himself absently in the glass while he spoke.
"You remember Mrs. Halliday?" he asked.
"I should think I did, sir; Miss Georgina Cradock that was—Miss Georgy they called her; your first sweetheart. And how she could ever marry that big awkward Halliday is more than I can make out. Poor fondy! I suppose she was took with those great round blue eyes and red whiskers of his."
"Her mother and father were 'took' by his comfortable farmhouse and well-stocked farm, Nancy," answered Mr. Sheldon, still contemplating himself in the glass. "Georgy had very little to do with it. She is one of those women who let other people think for them. However, Tom is an excellent fellow, and Georgy was a lucky girl to catch such a husband. Any little flirtation there may have been between her and me was over and done with long before she married Tom. It never was more than a flirtation; and I've flirted with a good many Barlingford girls in my time, as you know, Nancy."
It was not often that Mr. Sheldon condescended to be so communicative to his housekeeper. The old woman nodded and chuckled, delighted by her master's unwonted friendliness.
"I drove over to Hyley while I was at home, Nancy," continued the dentist—he called Barlingford home still, though he had broken most of the links that had bound him to it—"and dined with the Hallidays. Georgy is as pretty as ever, and she and Tom get on capitally."
"Any children, sir?"
"One girl," answered Mr. Sheldon carelessly. "She's at school in Scarborough, and I didn't see her; but I hear she's a fine bouncing lass. I had a very pleasant day with the Hallidays. Tom has sold his farm; that part of the world doesn't suit him, it seems—too cold and bleak for him. He's one of those big burly-looking men who seem as if they could knock you down with a little finger, and who shiver at every puff of wind. I don't think he'll make old bones, Nancy. But that's neither here nor there. I daresay he's good for another ten years; or I'm sure I hope so, on Georgy's account."
"It was right down soft of him to sell Hyley Farm[5], though," said Nancy reflectively; "I've heard tell as it's the best land for forty mile round Barlingford. But he got a rare good price for it, I'll lay."
"O, yes; he sold the property uncommonly well, he tells me. You know if a north-countryman gets the chance of making a profit, he never lets it slip through his fingers."
Mrs. Woolper received this compliment to her countrymen with a gratified grin, and Mr. Sheldon went on talking, still looking at the reflection of his handsome face in the glass, and pulling his whiskers meditatively.
"Now as Tom was made for a farmer and nothing but a farmer, he must find land somewhere in a climate that does suit him; so his friends have advised him to try a place in Devonshire or Cornwall, where he may train his myrtles and roses over his roof, and grow green peas for the London markets as late as November. There are such places to be had if he bides his time, and he's coming to town next week to look about him. So, as Georgy and he would be about as capable of taking care of themselves in London as a couple of children, I have recommended them to take up their quarters here. They'll have their lodgings for nothing, and we shall chum together on the Yorkshire system[6]; for of course I can't afford to keep a couple of visitors for a month at a stretch. Do you think you shall be able to manage for us, Nancy?"
"O, yes, I'll manage well enough. I'm not one of your lazy London lasses that take half an hour to wipe a teacup. I'll manage easy enough. Mr. and Mrs. Halliday will be having your room, I'll lay."
"Yes; give them the best room, by all means. I can sleep anywhere. And now go downstairs and think it over, Nancy. I must get to my work. I've some letters that must be written to-night."
Mrs. Woolper departed with her tray, gratified by her master's unwonted familiarity, and not ill pleased by the thought of visitors. They would cause a great deal of trouble, certainly; but the monotony of Nancy's easy life had grown so oppressive to her as to render the idea of any variety pleasing. And then there would be the pleasure of making that iniquitous creature the London lass bestir herself, and there would be furthermore the advantage of certain little perquisites which a clever manager always secures to herself in a house where there is much eating and drinking. Mr. Sheldon himself had lived like a modern anchorite for the last four years; and Mrs. Woolper, who was pretty well acquainted with the state of his finances, had pinched and contrived for his benefit, or rather for the benefit of the black-eyed baby she had nursed nine-and-twenty years before. For his sake she had been careful and honest, willing to forego all the small profits to which she held herself entitled; but if well-to-do people were going to share her master's expenses, there would be no longer need for such scrupulous integrity; and if things were rightly managed, Thomas Halliday might be made to bear the entire cost of the household during his month's visit on the Yorkshire system.
While Mrs. Woolper meditated upon her domestic duties, the master of the domicile abandoned himself to reflections which were apparently of a very serious character. He brought a leathern desk from a side-table, unlocked it, and took out a quire of paper; but he made no further advance towards the writing of those letters on account of which he had dismissed his housekeeper. He sat, with his elbows on the table, nibbling the end of a wooden penholder, and staring at the opposite wall. His face looked pale and haggard in the light of the gas, and the eyes, fixed in that vacant stare, had a feverish brightness.
Mr. Sheldon was a handsome man—eminently handsome, according to the popular notion of masculine beauty; and if the popular ideal has been a little vulgarised by the waxen gentlemen on whose finely-moulded foreheads the wig-maker is wont to display the specimens of his art, that is no discredit to Mr. Sheldon. His features were regular; the nose a handsome aquiline; the mouth firm and well modelled; the chin and jaw rather heavier than in the waxen ideal of the hair-dresser; the forehead very prominent in the region of the perceptives, but obviously wanting in the higher faculties. The eye of the phrenologist, unaided by his fingers, must have failed to discover the secrets of Mr. Sheldon's organisation; for one of the dentist's strong points was his hair, which was very luxuriant, and which he wore in artfully-arranged masses that passed for curls, but which owed their undulating grace rather to a skilful manipulation than to any natural tendency. It has been said that the rulers of the world are straight-haired men; and Mr. Sheldon might have been a Napoleon III. so far as regards this special attribute. His hair was of a dense black, and his whiskers of the same sombre hue. These carefully-arranged whiskers were another of the dentist's strong points; and the third strong point was his teeth, the perfection whereof was a fine advertisement when considered in a professional light. The teeth were rather too large and square for a painter's or a poet's notion of beauty, and were apt to suggest an unpleasant image of some sleek brindled creature crunching human bones in an Indian jungle. But they were handsome teeth notwithstanding, and their flashing whiteness made an effective contrast to the clear sallow tint of the dentist's complexion.
Mr. Sheldon was a man of industrious habits,—fond indeed of work, and distinguished by a persistent activity in the carrying out of any labour he had planned for himself. He was not prone to the indulgence of idle reveries or agreeable day-dreams. Thought with him was labour; it was the "thinking out" of future work to be done, and it was an operation as precise and mathematical as the actual labour that resulted therefrom. The contents of his brain were as well kept as a careful trader's ledger. He had his thoughts docketed and indexed, and rarely wasted the smallest portion of his time in searching for an idea. Tonight he sat thinking until he was interrupted by a loud double knock, which was evidently familiar to him, for he muttered "George!" pushed aside his desk, and took up his stand upon the hearthrug, ready to receive the expected visitor.
There was the sound of a man's voice below,—very like Philip Sheldon's own voice; then a quick firm tread on the stairs; and then the door was opened, and a man, who himself was very like Philip Sheldon, came into the room. This was the dentist's brother George, two years his junior. The likeness between the two men was in no way marvellous, but it was nevertheless very obvious. You could scarcely have mistaken one man for the other, but you could hardly have failed to perceive that the two men were brothers. They resembled each other more closely in form than in face. They were of the same height—both tall and strongly built. Both had black eyes with a hard brightness in them, black whiskers, black hair, sinewy hands with prominent knuckles, square finger-tops, and bony wrists. Each man seemed the personification of savage health and vigour, smoothed and shapened in accordance with the prejudices of civilised life. Looking at these two men for the first time, you might approve or disapprove their appearance; they might impress you favourably or unfavourably; but you could scarcely fail to be reminded vaguely of strong, bright-eyed, savage creatures, beautiful and graceful after their kind, but dangerous and fatal to man.
The brothers greeted each other with a friendly nod. They were a great deal too practical to indulge in any sentimental display of fraternal affection. They liked each other very well, and were useful to each other, and took their pleasure together on those rare occasions when they were weak enough to waste time upon unprofitable pleasure; but neither of them would have comprehended the possibility of anything beyond this.
"Well, old fellow," said George, "I'm glad you're back again. You're looking rather seedy, though. I suppose you knocked about a good deal down there?"
"I had a night or two of it with Halliday and the old set. He's going it rather fast."
"Humph!" muttered Mr. Sheldon the younger; "it's a pity he doesn't go it a little faster, and go off the hooks altogether, so that you might marry Georgy."
"How do I know that Georgy would have me, if he did leave her a widow?" asked Philip dubiously.
"O, she'd have you fast enough. She used to be very sweet upon you before she married Tom; and even if she has forgotten all that, she'd have you if you asked her. She'd be afraid to say no. She was always more or less afraid of you, you know, Phil."
"I don't know about that. She was a nice little thing enough; but she knew how to drop a poor sweetheart and take up with a rich one, in spite of her simplicity."
"O, that was the old parties' doing. Georgy would have jumped into a cauldron of boiling oil if her mother and father had told her she must do it. Don't you remember when we were children together how afraid she used to be of spoiling her frocks? I don't believe she married Tom Halliday of her own free will, any more than she stood in the corner of her own free will after she'd torn her frock, as I've seen her stand twenty times. She stood in the corner because they told her she must; and she married Tom for the same reason, and I don't suppose she's been particularly happy with him."
"Well, that's her look-out," answered Philip gloomily; "I know I want a rich wife badly enough. Things are about as bad with me as they can be."
"I suppose they are rather piscatorial. The elderly dowagers don't come up to time, eh? Very few orders for the complete set at ten-pound-ten?"
"I took about seventy pounds last year," said the dentist, "and my expenses are something like five pounds a week. I've been making up the deficiency out of the money I got for the Barlingford business, thinking I should be able to stand out and make a connection; but the connection gets more disconnected every year. I suppose people came to me at first for the novelty of the thing, for I had a sprinkling of decent patients for the first twelve months or so. But now I might as well throw my money into the gutter as spend it on circulars or advertisements."
"And a young woman with twenty thousand pounds and something amiss with her jaw hasn't turned up yet!"
"No, nor an old woman either. I wouldn't stick at the age, if the money was all right," answered Mr. Sheldon bitterly.
The younger brother shrugged his shoulders and plunged his hands into his trousers-pockets with a gesture of seriocomic despair. He was the livelier of the two, and affected a slanginess of dress and talk and manner, a certain "horsey" style, very different from his elder brother's studied respectability of costume and bearing. His clothes were of a loose sporting cut, and always odorous with stale tobacco. He wore a good deal of finery in the shape of studs and pins and dangling lockets and fusee-boxes; his whiskers were more obtrusive than his brother's, and he wore a moustache in addition—a thick ragged black moustache, which would have become a guerilla chieftain rather than a dweller amidst the quiet courts and squares of Gray's Inn. His position as a lawyer was not much better than that of Philip as a dentist; but he had his own plans for making a fortune, and hoped to win for himself a larger fortune than is often made in the law. He was a hunter of genealogies, a grubber-up of forgotten facts, a joiner of broken links, a kind of legal resurrectionist, a digger in the dust and ashes of the past; and he expected in due time to dig up a treasure rich enough to reward the labour and patience of half a lifetime.
"I can afford to wait till I'm forty for my good luck," he said to his brother sometimes in moments of expansion; "and then I shall have ten years in which to enjoy myself, and twenty more in which I shall have life enough left to eat good dinners and drink good wine, and grumble about the degeneracy of things in general, after the manner of elderly human nature."
The men stood one on each side of the hearth; George looking at his brother, Philip looking down at the fire, with his eyes shaded by their thick black lashes. The fire had become dull and hollow. George bent down presently and stirred the coals impatiently.
"If there's one thing I hate more than, another—and I hate a good many things—it's a bad fire," he said. "How's Barlingford—lively as ever, I suppose?"
"Not much livelier than it was when we left it. Things have gone amiss with me in London, and I've been more than once sorely tempted to make an end of my difficulties with a razor or a few drops of prussic acid; but when I saw the dull gray streets and the square gray houses, and the empty market-place, and the Baptist chapel, and the Unitarian chapel, and the big stony church, and heard the dreary bells ding-donging for evening service, I wondered how I could ever have existed a week in such a place. I had rather sweep a crossing in London than occupy the best house in Barlingford, and I told Tom Halliday so."
"And Tom is coming to London I understand by your letter."
"Yes, he has sold Hyley, and wants to find a place in the west of England. The north doesn't suit his chest. He and Georgy are coming up to town for a few weeks, so I've asked them to stay here. I may as well make some use of the house, for it's very little good in a professional sense."
"Humph!" muttered George; "I don't see your motive."
"I have no particular motive. Tom's a good fellow, and his company will be better than an empty house. The visit won't cost me anything—Halliday is to go shares in the housekeeping."
"Well, you may find it answer that way," replied Mr. Sheldon the younger, who considered that every action of a man's life ought to be made to "answer" in some way. "But I should think you would be rather bored by the arrangement: Tom's a very good fellow in his way, and a great friend of mine, but he's rather an empty-headed animal."
The subject dropped here, and the brothers went on talking of Barlingford and Barlingford people—the few remaining kindred whose existence made a kind of link between the two men and their native town, and the boon companions of their early manhood. The dentist produced the remnant of a bottle of whisky from the sideboard, and rang for hot water and sugar, wherewith to brew grog, for his own and his brother's refreshment; but the conversation flagged nevertheless. Philip Sheldon was dull and absent, answering his companion at random every now and then, much to that gentleman's aggravation; and he owned at last to being thoroughly tired and worn out.
"The journey from Barlingford in a slow train is no joke, you know, George, and I couldn't afford the express," he said apologetically, when his brother upbraided him for his distraction of manner.
"Then I should think you'd better go to bed," answered Mr. Sheldon the younger, who had smoked a couple of cigars, and consumed the contents of the whisky-bottle; "so I'll take myself off. I told you how uncommonly seedy you were looking when I first came in. When do you expect Tom and his wife?"
"At the beginning of next week."
"So soon! Well, good-night, old fellow; I shall see you before they come, I daresay. You might as well drop in upon me at my place to-morrow night. I'm hard at work on a job."
"Your old kind of work?"
"O, yes. I don't get much work of any other kind."
"And I'm afraid you'll never get much good out of that."
"I don't know. A man who sits down to whist may have a run of ill-luck before he gets a decent hand; but the good cards are sure to come if he only sits long enough. Every man has his chance, depend upon it, Phil, if he knows how to watch for it; but there are so many men who get tired and go to sleep before their chances come to them. I've wasted a good deal of time, and a good deal of labour; but the ace of trumps is in the pack, and it must turn up sooner or later. Ta-ta."
George Sheldon nodded and departed, whistling gaily as he walked away from his brother's door. Philip heard him, and turned his chair to the fire with a movement of impatience.
"You may be uncommonly clever, my dear George," soliloquised the dentist, "but you'll never make a fortune by reading wills and hunting in parish-registers for heirs-at-law. A big lump of money is not very likely to go a-begging while any one who can fudge up the faintest pretence of a claim to it is above ground. No, no, my lad, you must find a better way than that before you'll make your fortune."
The fire had burnt low again, and Mr. Sheldon sat staring gloomily at the blackening coals. Things were very bad with him—he had not cared to confess how bad they were, when he had discussed his affairs with his brother. Those neighbours and passers-by who admired the trim brightness of the dentist's abode had no suspicion that the master of that respectable house was in the hands of the Jews, and that the hearthstone which whitened his door-step was paid for out of Israelitish coffers. The dentist's philosophy was all of this world, and he knew that the soldier of fortune, who would fain be a conqueror in the great battle, must needs keep his plumage undrabbled and the golden facings of his uniform untarnished, let his wounds be never so desperate.
Having found his attempt to establish a practice in Fitzgeorge-street a failure, the only course open to Mr. Sheldon, as a man of the world, was to transfer his failure to somebody else, with more or less profit to himself. To this end he preserved the spotless purity of his muslin curtains, though the starch that stiffened them and the bleaching-powder that whitened them were bought with money for which he was to pay sixty per cent. To this end he nursed that wan shadow of a practice, and sustained that appearance of respectability which, in a world where appearance stands for so much, is in itself a kind of capital. It certainly was dull dreary work to hold the citadel of No. 14 Fitzgeorge-street, against the besieger Poverty; but the dentist stood his ground pertinaciously, knowing that if he only waited long enough, the dupe who was to be his victim would come, and knowing also that there might arrive a day when it would be very useful for him to be able to refer to four years' unblemished respectability as a Bloomsbury householder. He had his lines set in several shady places for that unhappy fish with a small capital, and he had been tantalised by more than one nibble; but he made no open show of his desire to sell his business—since a business that is obviously in the market seems scarcely worth any man's purchase.
Things had of late grown worse with him every day; for every interval of twenty-four hours sinks a man so much the deeper in the mire when renewed accommodation-bills with his name upon them are ripening in the iron safes of Judah. Philip Sheldon found himself sinking gradually and almost imperceptibly into that bottomless pit of difficulty in whose black depths the demon Insolvency holds his dreary court. While his little capital lasted he had kept himself clear of debt, but that being exhausted, and his practice growing worse day by day, he had been fain to seek assistance from money-lenders; and now even the money-lenders were tired of him. The chair in which he sat, the poker which he swung slowly to and fro as he bent over his hearth, were not his own. One of his Jewish creditors had a bill of sale on his furniture, and he might come home any day to find the auctioneer's bills plastered against the wall of his house, and the auctioneer's clerk busy with the catalogue of his possessions. If the expected victim came now to buy his practice, the sacrifice would be made too late to serve his interest. The men who had lent him the money would be the sole gainers by the bargain.
Seldom does a man find himself face to face with a blacker prospect than that which lay before Philip Sheldon; and yet his manner to-night was not the dull blank apathy of despair. It was the manner of a man whose brain is occupied by busy thoughts; who has some elaborate scheme to map out and arrange before he is called upon to carry his plans into action.
"It would be a good business for me," he muttered, "if I had pluck enough to carry it through."
The fire went out as he sat swinging the poker backwards and forwards. The clocks of Bloomsbury and St. Pancras struck twelve, and still Philip Sheldon pondered and plotted by that dreary hearth. The servants had retired at eleven, after a good deal of blundering with bars and shutters, and unnecessary banging of doors. That unearthly silence peculiar to houses after midnight reigned in Mr. Sheldon's domicile, and he could hear the voices of distant roisterers, and the miauling of neighbouring cats, with a painful distinctness as he sat brooding in his silent room. The fact that a mahogany chiffonier in a corner gave utterance to a faint groan occasionally, as of some feeble creature in pain, afforded him no annoyance. He was superior to superstitious fancies, and all the rappings and scratchings of spirit-land would have failed to disturb his equanimity. He was a strictly practical man—one of those men who are always ready, with a stump of lead-pencil and the back of a letter, to reduce everything in creation to figures.
"I had better read up that business before they come," he said, when he had to all appearance "thought out" the subject of his reverie. "No time so good as this for doing it quietly. One never knows who is spying about in the daytime." He looked at his watch, and then went to a cupboard, where there were bundles of wood and matches and old newspapers,—for it was his habit to light his own fire occasionally when he worked unusually late at night or early in the morning. He relighted his fire now as cleverly as any housemaid in Bloomsbury, and stood watching it till it burned briskly. Then he lit a taper, and went downstairs to the professional torture-chamber. The tall horsehair chair looked unutterably awful in the dim glimmer of the taper, and a nervous person could almost have fancied it occupied by the ghost of some patient who had expired under the agony of the forceps. Mr. Sheldon lighted the gas in a movable branch which he was in the habit of turning almost into the mouths of the patients who consulted him at night. There was a cupboard on each side of the mantelpiece, and it was in these two cupboards that the dentist kept his professional library. His books did not form a very valuable collection, but he kept the cupboards constantly locked nevertheless.
He took the key from his waistcoat-pocket, opened one of the cupboards, and selected a book from a row of dingy-looking volumes. He carried the book to the room above, where he seated himself under the gas, and opened the volume at a place in which there was a scrap of paper, evidently left there as a mark. The book was a volume of the Lancet, and in this book he read with close attention until the Bloomsbury clocks struck three.
CHAPTER III.
MR. AND MRS. HALLIDAY.
Mr. Sheldon's visitors arrived in due course. They were provincial people of the middle class, accounted monstrously genteel in their own neighbourhood, but in nowise resembling Londoners of the same rank.
Mr. Thomas Halliday was a big, loud-spoken, good-tempered Yorkshireman, who had inherited a comfortable little estate from a plodding, money-making father, and for whom life had been very easy. He was a farmer, and nothing but a farmer; a man for whom the supremest pleasure of existence was a cattle-show or a country horse-fair. The farm upon which he had been born and brought up was situated about six miles from Barlingford, and all the delights of his boyhood and youth were associated with that small market town. He and the two Sheldons had been schoolfellows, and afterwards boon companions, taking such pleasure as was obtainable in Barlingford together; flirting with the same provincial beauties at prim tea-parties in the winter, and getting up friendly picnics in the summer—picnics at which eating and drinking were the leading features of the day's entertainment. Mr. Halliday had always regarded George and Philip Sheldon with that reverential admiration which a stupid man, who is conscious of his own mental inferiority, generally feels for a clever friend and companion. But he was also fully aware of the advantage which a rich man possesses over a poor one, and would not have exchanged the fertile acres of Hyley for the intellectual gifts of his schoolfellows. He had found the substantial value of his comfortably furnished house and well-stocked farm when he and his friend Philip Sheldon became suitors for the hand of Georgina Cradock, youngest daughter of a Barlingford attorney, who lived next door to the Barlingford dentist, Philip Sheldon's father. Philip and the girl had been playfellows in the long-walled gardens behind the two houses, and there had been a brotherly and sisterly intimacy between the juvenile members of the two families. But when Philip and Georgina met at the Barlingford tea-parties in later years, the parental powers frowned upon any renewal of that childish friendship. Miss Cradock had no portion, and the worthy solicitor her father was a prudent man, who was apt to look for the promise of domestic happiness in the plate-basket and the linen-press, rather than for such superficial qualifications as black whiskers and white teeth. So poor Philip was "thrown over the bridge," as he said himself, and Georgy Cradock married Mr. Halliday, with all attendant ceremony and splendour, according to the "lights" of Barlingford gentry.
But this provincial bride's story was no passionate record of anguish and tears. The Barlingford Juliet had liked Romeo as much as she was capable of liking any one; but when Papa Capulet insisted on her union with Paris, she accepted her destiny with decent resignation, and, in the absence of any sympathetic father confessor, was fain to seek consolation from a more mundane individual in the person of the Barlingford milliner. Nor did Philip Sheldon give evidence of any extravagant despair. His father was something of a doctor as well as a dentist; and there were plenty of dark little phials lurking on the shelves of his surgery in which the young man could have found "mortal drugs" without the aid of the apothecary, had he been so minded. Happily no such desperate idea ever occurred to him in connection with his grief. He held himself sulkily aloof from Mr. and Mrs. Halliday for some time after their marriage, and allowed people to see that he considered himself very hardly used; but Prudence, which had always been Philip Sheldon's counsellor, proved herself also his consoler in this crisis of his life. A careful consideration of his own interests led him to perceive that the successful result of his love-suit would have been about the worst thing that could have happened to him.
Georgina had no money. All was said in that. As the young dentist's worldly wisdom ripened with experience, he discovered that the worldly ease of the best man in Barlingford was something like that of a canary-bird who inhabits a clean cage and is supplied with abundant seed and water. The cage is eminently comfortable, and the sleepy, respectable, elderly bird sighs for no better abiding-place, no wider prospect than that patch of the universe which he sees between the bars. But now and then there is hatched a wild young fledgeling, which beats its wings against the inexorable wires, and would fain soar away into that wide outer world, to prosper or perish in its freedom.
