Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

M >> M. E. Braddon >> Run to Earth

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But the eyes of the world were on Sir Oswald, and he was obliged to
meet those unpitying eyes with a smile. The long line of equipages drew
up at last on the margin of a wood; the pleasure-seekers alighted, and
wandered about in twos and threes amongst the umbrageous pathways which
led towards the Wizard's Cave.

After alighting from the barouche, Lady Eversleigh waited to see if her
husband would approach her, and offer his arm; she had a faint hope
that he would do so, even in spite of his evident estrangement; but her
hope was cruelly disappointed. Sir Oswald walked straight to a portly
dowager, and offered to escort her to the cave.

"Do you remember a pic-nic here twenty years ago, at which you and I
danced together by moon-light, Lady Hetherington?" he said. "We old
folks have pleasant memories of the past, and are the fittest
companions for each other. The young people can enjoy themselves much
better without the restraint of our society."

He said this loud enough for his wife to hear. She did hear every word,
and felt there was hidden significance in that careless speech. For a
moment she was inclined to break down the icy barrier of reserve. The
words which she wanted to speak were almost on her lips, "Let me go
with you, Oswald." But in the next instant she met her husband's eyes,
and their cold gaze chilled her heart.

At the same moment Victor Carrington offered her his arm, with his
accustomed deferential manner. She accepted the proffered arm, scarcely
knowing who offered it, so deeply did she feel her husband's
unkindness.

"What have I done to offend him?" she thought. "What is this cruel
mystery which divides us, and which is almost breaking my heart?"

"Come, Lady Eversleigh," cried several voices; "we want you to
accompany us to the Wizard's Cave."

Nothing could be more successful than the pic-nic. Elegantly dressed
women and aristocratic-looking men wandered here and there amidst the
woodland, and by the margin of the waterfall; sometimes in gay little
parties, whose talk and laughter rang out clearly on the balmy air;
sometimes strolling _tete-a-tete_, and engaged in conversations of a
more confidential character. Half-hidden by the foliage of a little
thicket of pollard oaks, there was a military band, whose services Sir
Oswald had obtained from a garrison-town some twenty miles from
Raynham, and the stirring music added much to the charm of the
festival.

Lydia Graham was as happy as it is possible for any evil-minded woman
to be. Her envious feelings were lulled to temporary rest by the
enjoyment of her own triumphs; for the young lordling seemed to be
completely subjugated by her charms, and devoted himself exclusively to
attendance upon her.

The scheming beauty's heart thrilled with a sense of triumph. She
thought that she had at last made a conquest that might be better worth
the making than any of those past conquests, which had all ended in
such bitter disappointments.

She looked at Lady Eversleigh with flashing eyes, as she remembered
that by the subjugation of this empty-headed young nobleman she might
attain a higher position and greater wealth than that enjoyed by Sir
Oswald's envied wife.

"As Lady Sumner Howden, I could look down upon the mistress of Raynham
Castle," she thought. "As Countess of Vandeluce, I should take
precedence of nobler women than Lady Eversleigh."

The day waned. The revellers lingered long over the splendid collation,
served in a marquee which had been sent from York for the occasion. The
banquet seemed a joyous one, enlivened by the sound of laughter, the
popping of champagne corks, the joyous talk that emanated alike from
the really light-hearted and those whose gaiety is only a mockery and a
sham. The sun was sloping westward when Lady Eversleigh arose, absent
and despondent, to give the signal for the withdrawal of the ladies.

As she did so, she looked to the other end of the marquee--to the table
where her husband had been seated. To her surprise, his place was
empty.

Throughout the whole day Honoria had been a prey to gloomy forebodings.
The estrangement between herself and her husband was so unexpected, so
inexplicable, that she was powerless to struggle against the sense of
misery and bewilderment which it had occasioned in her mind.

Again and again she asked herself what had she done to offend him;
again and again she pondered over the smallest and most insignificant
actions--the lightest words--of the past few weeks, in order to
discover some clue to the mystery of Sir Oswald's altered conduct.

But the past afforded her no such clue. She had said nothing, she had
done nothing, which could offend the most sensitive of men.

Then a new and terrible light began to dawn upon her. She remembered
her wretched extraction--the pitiable condition in which the baronet
had discovered her, and she began to think that he repented of his
marriage. "He regrets his folly, and I am hateful in his eyes," thought
Honoria, "for he remembers my degraded position--the mystery of my past
life. He has heard sneering words and cruel innuendoes fall from the
lips of his fashionable friends, perhaps; and he is ashamed of his
marriage. He little knows how gladly I would release him from the tie
that binds us--if, indeed, it has grown hateful to him." Thus musing
and wandering alone, in one of the forest pathways--for she had
outstripped her guests, and sought a little relief for her overwrought
spirits, constrained to the courtesies of her position for the moment--
she scarcely knew whither, she came presently upon a group of grooms,
who were lounging before a rough canvas tent, which had been erected
for the accommodation of the horses.

"Is 'Orestes' in that tent, Plummer?" she asked of the old groom who
generally attended her in her rides and drives.

"No, my lady, Sir Oswald had him saddled a quarter of an hour ago, and
rode him away."

"Sir Oswald has gone away!"

"Yes, my lady. He got a message, I think, while he was sitting at
dinner, and he rode off as fast as he could go, across th' moor--it's
the nighest way to the castle, you know, my lady; though it ain't the
pleasantest."

Honoria grew very uneasy. What was the meaning of this sudden
departure?

"Do you know who brought the message from Raynham?" she asked the
groom.

"No, indeed, my lady. I don't even know for sure and certain that the
message was from Raynham. I only guess as much."

"Why did not Sir Oswald take you with him?"

"I can't say, my lady. I asked master if I wasn't to go with him, and
he said, 'No, he would rather be alone.'" This was all that Honoria
could learn from the groom. She walked back towards the marquee, whence
the sound of voices and laughter grew louder as the sun sank across the
broad expanse of moorland.

The ladies of the party had gathered together on a broad patch of
velvet greensward, near the oak thicket where the band was stationed.
Here the younger members of the party were waltzing merrily to the
accompaniment of one of Strauss's sweetest waltzes; while the elders
sat here and there on camp-stools or fallen logs of trees, and looked
on, or indulged in a little agreeable gossip.

Honoria Eversleigh made her way unobserved to the marquee, and
approached one of the openings less used and less crowded than the
others. Here she found a servant, whom she sent into the marquee with a
message for Mr. Eversleigh, to inquire if he could explain Sir Oswald's
sudden departure.

The man entered the tent, in obedience to his mistress; and Lady
Eversleigh seated herself on a camp-stool, at a little distance,
awaiting the issue of her message.

She had been waiting only a few moments, when she saw Victor Carrington
approaching her hurriedly--not from the marquee, but from the pathway
by which she herself had come. There was an unwonted agitation about
his manner as he approached her, which, in her present state of nervous
apprehension, filled her with alarm.

She went to meet him, pale and trembling.

"I have been looking for you everywhere, Lady Eversleigh," he said,
hurriedly.

"You have been looking for me? Something has happened then-Sir
Oswald--"

"Yes, it is, unhappily, of Sir Oswald I have to speak."

"Speak quickly, then. What has happened? You are agonizing me, Mr.
Carrington--for pity's sake, speak! Your face fills me with fear!"

"Your fears are, unhappily, too well founded. Sir Oswald has been
thrown from his horse, on his way across the moor, and lies dangerously
hurt, at the ruins of Yarborough Tower--that black building on the edge
of the moor yonder. A lad has just brought me the tidings."

"Let me go to him--for heaven's sake, let me go at once! Dangerously
hurt--he is dangerously hurt, you say?"

"I fear so, from the boy's account."

"And we have no medical man among our company. Yes; you are a surgeon--
you can be of assistance."

"I trust so, my dear Lady Eversleigh. I shall hurry to Sir Oswald
immediately, and in the meantime they have sent from the tower for
medical help."

"I must go to him!" said Honoria, wildly. "Call the servants, Mr.
Carrington! My carriage--this moment!"

She could scarcely utter the words in her excitement. Her voice had a
choking sound, and but for the surgeon's supporting arm she must have
fallen prone on the grass at his feet.

As she clung to his arm, as she gasped out her eager entreaties that he
would take her to her husband, a faint rustling stirred the underwood
beneath some sycamores at a little distance, and curious eyes peered
through the foliage.

Lydia Graham had happened to stroll that way. Her curiosity had been
excited by the absence of Lady Eversleigh from among her guests, and,
being no longer occupied by her flirtation with the young viscount, she
had set out in search of the missing Honoria.

She was amply rewarded for her trouble by the scene which she beheld
from her hiding-place among the sycamores.

She saw Victor and Lady Eversleigh talking to each other with every
appearance of agitation; she saw the baronet's wife clinging, in some
wild terror, to the arm of the surgeon; and she began to think that
Honoria Eversleigh was indeed the base and guilty wretch she would fain
have represented her.

Lydia Graham was too far from the two figures to hear a word that was
spoken. She could only watch their gestures, and draw her own
inferences therefrom.

"My carriage, Mr. Carrington!" repeated Honoria; "why don't you call
the servants?"

"One moment, Lady Eversleigh," said the surgeon, calmly. "You must
remember, that on such an occasion as this, there is nothing so
important as presence of mind--self-command. If I alarm your servants,
all the guests assembled here will take the alarm; and they will rush
helter-skelter to Yarborough Tower, to testify their devotion to Sir
Oswald, and to do him all the harm they possibly can. What would be the
effect of a crowd of half-drunken men, clustering round him, with their
noisy expressions of sympathy? What I have to propose is this: I am
going to Sir Oswald immediately in my medical capacity. I have a gig
and horse ready, under that group of fir-trees yonder--the fastest
horse and lightest vehicle I could find. If you will trust yourself in
that vehicle behind that horse, I will drive you across the moor, and
we shall reach the ruins in half an hour. Have you courage to come with
me thus, Lady Eversleigh, quietly, unobserved by any one?--or will you
wait for your barouche; and wait until the revellers yonder are all
ready to start with you?"

The voices came loudly from the marquee as the surgeon spoke; and
Honoria felt that he spoke wisely.

"You are right," she said; "these people must know nothing of the
accident until my husband is safely back at Raynham. But you had better
go and tell Plummer, the groom, to send the barouche after us. A
carriage will be wanted to convey Sir Oswald from the tower, if he is
fit to be moved."

"True," answered Victor; "I will see to it."

"And quickly!" cried Lady Eversleigh; "go quickly, I implore. You will
find me by the fir-trees when you return, ready to start with you! Do
not waste time in words, Mr. Carrington. Remember, it is a matter of
life and death."

Victor left her, and she walked to the little grove of firs, where she
found the gig of which he had spoken, and the horse standing near it,
ready harnessed, and with his bridle fastened to a tree.

Two pathways led to this fir-grove--a lower and an upper--the upper
completely screened by brushwood. Along this upper pathway, which was
on the edge of a sloping bank, Lydia Graham made her way, careless what
injury she inflicted on her costly dress, so eager was she to discover
whither lady Eversleigh was going. Completely hidden from Honoria,
though at only a few paces' distance, Miss Graham waited to watch the
proceedings of the baronet's wife.

She was mystified by the appearance of the gig and horse, stationed in
this out-of-the-way spot. She was still more mystified when she saw
Lady Eversleigh clasp her hands before her face, and stand for a few
moments, motionless and statue-like, as if abandoned to despair.

"What does it all mean?" Miss Graham asked herself. "Surely she cannot
intend to elope with this Carrington. She may be wicked; but she cannot
be so insane as to throw away wealth and position for the sake of this
foreign adventurer."

She waited, almost breathless with excitement, crouching amongst the
brushwood at the top of the woody bank, and looking downward towards
the fir-grove, with watchful eyes. She had not to wait long. Victor
appeared in a few minutes, out of breath from running.

"Have you given orders about the carriage?"

"Yes, I have given all necessary orders."

No more was said. Victor handed Lady Eversleigh into the vehicle, and
drove away--slowly while they were still on the edge of the wood; but
accelerating his pace as they emerged upon the moorland.

"It _is_ an elopement!" exclaimed Miss Graham, whose astonishment was
unbounded. "It _is_ an elopement! The infamous creature has gone off
with that penniless young man. And now, Sir Oswald, I think you will
have good reason to repent your fine romantic marriage with a base-born
adventuress, whom nobody ever heard of until she burst forth upon the
world as Lady Eversleigh of Raynham Castle."

Filled with the triumphant delight of gratified malice, Lydia Graham
went back to the broad greensward by the Wizard's Cave. The gentlemen
had now left the marquee; the full moon was rising, round and yellow,
on the horizon, like a great globe of molten gold. Preparations had
already commenced for the return, and the younger members of the party
were busy discussing the arrangements of the homeward drive.

That moonlight drive was looked forward to as one of the chief
pleasures of the excursion; it would afford such glorious opportunities
for flirtation. It would enable romantic young ladies to quote so much
poetry about the moon and the summer night, while poetically-disposed
young gentlemen replied in the same strain. All was animation and
excitement. The champagne and burgundy, the sparkling hock and moselle,
which had been consumed in the marquee, had only rendered the majority
of the gentlemen more gallant and agreeable; and softly-spoken
compliments, and tender pressures of pretty little delicately-gloved
hands, testified to the devotion of the cavaliers who were to escort
the band of fair ones homeward.

Lydia Graham hoped that she would be able to take up the thread of her
flirtation with Lord Howden exactly where it had dropped when she had
risen to leave the dinner-table. She had thought it even possible that,
if she could secure a _tete-a-tete_ drive home with the weak-brained
young nobleman, she might lure him on until he made a formal proposal,
from which he would find it no easy matter to recede; for Captain
Graham was at his sister's call, and was a gentleman of no very
yielding temper where his own interests were at stake. He had long been
anxious that his sister should make a wealthy marriage, for her debts
and difficulties annoyed him; and he felt that if she were well
married, he would be able to borrow money of her, instead of being
pestered by her applications for assistance.

Miss Graham was doomed to endure a disappointment. Lord Sumner Howden
was one of the few gentleman upon whom iced champagne and moselle had
produced anything but an exhilarating effect. He was dull and stupid,
pallid and sleepy; like some great, greedy school-boy who has over-
eaten himself, and is suffering the consequences of his gluttony.

The fair Lydia had the mortification of hearing him tell one of the
grooms to put him into a close carriage, where he could have a nap on
his way home.

Reginald Eversleigh took the lordling's seat in the barouche, which was
the first in the line of carriages for the homeward journey, in spite
of Honoria's entreaties to Victor Carrington. The young man was almost
as dull and stupid, to all appearance, as Lord Sumner Howden; but,
although he had been drinking deeply, intoxication had nothing to do
with his gloomy silence.

He knew that Carrington's scheme had been ripening day by day; and he
knew also that within a few hours the final blow was to be struck. He
did not know the nature of that intended stroke of treachery; but he
was aware that it would involve misery and humiliation for Sir Oswald,
utter ruin and disgrace for Honoria. The very uncertainty as to the
nature of the cruel plot made it all the more dreadful; and he waited
with no very pleasant feelings for the development of his friend's
scheme.

When all was ready for the start, it was discovered that "dear Lady
Eversleigh" was missing. Servants were sent in every direction to
search for her; but with no avail. Sir Oswald was also missed; but
Plummer, the old groom, informed Mr. Eversleigh that his uncle had left
some hours before; and as some of the party had seen the baronet leave
the dinner-table, in compliance with a sudden summons, this occasioned
little surprise.

The next person missed was Victor Carrington. It was Lydia who drew
attention to the fact of his absence.

The party waited an hour, while search for Lady Eversleigh was renewed
in every direction, while many of the guests expressed their fears that
something must have happened to her--that she had wandered too far,
and lost her way in the wood--or that she had missed her footing on
the edge of one of the deep pools by the cavern, and had fallen into
the water--or that she had been attacked by ruffians.

But in due time it was discovered that Mr. Carrington had been seen to
take a gig from amongst the vehicles; and a lad, who had been in charge
of the gig and the horse belonging to it, told the other servants that
Mr. Carrington had said he wanted the vehicle to drive Lady Eversleigh
home. She was tired, Mr. Carrington had said, and wanted to go home
quietly.

This information was brought to Reginald by one of the upper servants;
and the question of Lady Eversleigh's disappearance being at once set
at rest, the procession of carriages moved away in the moonlight.

"It was really too bad of dear Lady Eversleigh to give us such
unnecessary alarm," said Lydia Graham.

The lady who had taken the second place in the barouche agreed with
this remark.

"I never was more alarmed in my life," she said. "I felt sure that
something very dreadful must have happened."

"And to think that Lady Eversleigh should prefer going home in a gig,"
said Lydia, maliciously; "for my part, I think a gig a most unpleasant
vehicle."

The other lady whispered something about Lady Eversleigh's humble
extraction, and her ignorance of the usages of society.

"You can't wonder at it, my dear," she murmured. "For my part, I was
surprised to see her so much at her ease in her new position. But, you
see, her ignorance has now betrayed her into a terrible breach of the
proprieties. Her conduct is, to say the least of it, most eccentric;
and you may depend, no one here will ever forget this ride home in a
gig with that clever young surgeon. I don't suppose Sir Oswald will
very much approve of such conduct."

"Nor I," said Lydia, in the same subdued tone. "Poor Sir Oswald! What
could he expect when he disgraced himself by such a marriage?"

Reginald Eversleigh leaned back in the carriage, with his arum folded,
and his eyes fixed on vacancy, while the ladies gossipped in whispers.

* * * * *

CHAPTER IX.

ON YARBOROUGH TOWER.

No sooner had Victor Carrington got completely clear of the wood, than
he drove his horse at a gallop.

The light gig swayed from side to side, and jolted violently several
times on crossing some obstruction in the way.

"You are not afraid?" asked Victor.

"I am only afraid of delay," answered Honoria, calmly; for by this time
she had recovered much of her ordinary firmness, and was prepared to
face her sorrow with at least outward tranquillity. "Tell me, Mr.
Carrington, have you reason to think that my husband is in great
danger?"

"I can tell you nothing for certain. You know how stupid the country
people are. The boy who brought the message told me that the gentleman
had been thrown from his horse, and was very much hurt. He was
insensible, and was injured about the head. I gathered from this, and
from the boy's manner, rather than his words, that the injuries were
very serious."

"Why was Sir Oswald taken to such a wretched place as a ruined tower?"

"Because the accident happened near the ruin; and your husband was
found by the people who have charge of the tower."

"And could they take him to no better place?"

"No. There is no habitation of any kind within three miles."

No more was said. It was not very easy to talk while flying through the
air at the utmost speed of a spirited horse.

The moon bathed the broad moorland in mellow light. The wide expanse of
level turf looked like a sea of black water that had suddenly been
frozen into stillness. Not a tree--not a patch of brushwood, or a
solitary bush--broke the monotony of the scene: but far away against
the moonlit horizon rose a wild and craggy steep, and on the summit of
that steep appeared a massive tower, with black and ruined battlements,
that stood out grimly against the luminous sky.

This was Yarborough Tower--a stronghold that had defied many a
besieging force in the obscure past; but of the origin of which little
was now known.

Victor Carrington drove the gig up a rough and narrow road that curved
around the sides of the craggy hill, and wound gradually towards the
top.

He was obliged to drive slowly here, and Lady Eversleigh had ample
leisure to gaze upwards at the dreary-looking ruin, whose walls seemed
more densely black as they grew nearer and nearer.

"What a horrible place!" she murmured. "To think of my husband lying
there--with no better shelter than those ruined walls in the hour of
his suffering."

Honoria Eversleigh looked around her with a shudder, as the gig passed
across a narrow wooden drawbridge that spanned an enormous chasm in the
craggy hill-side.

She looked up at the tower. All was dark, and the dismal cry of a raven
suddenly broke the awful stillness with a sound that was even yet more
awful.

"Why are there no lights in the windows?" she asked; "surely Sir Oswald
is not lying in the darkness?"

"I don't know. The chamber in which they have placed him may be on the
other side of the tower," answered Victor, briefly. "And now, Lady
Eversleigh, you must alight. We can go no further with the vehicle, and
I must take it back to the other side of the drawbridge."

They had reached the entrance of the tower, an archway of solid
masonry, over which the ivy hung like a sombre curtain.

Honoria alighted, and passed under the black shadow of the arch.

"You had better wait till I return, Lady Eversleigh," said Victor. "You
will scarcely find your way without my help."

Honoria obeyed. Anxious as she was to reach Sir Oswald without a
moment's unnecessary delay, she felt herself powerless to proceed
without a guide--so dark was the interior of the tower. She heard the
ravens shrieking hoarsely in the battlements above, and the ivy
flapping in the evening wind; but she could hear nothing else.

Victor came back to her in a few minutes. As he rejoined her, there was
a noise of some ponderous object falling, with a grating and rattling
of heavy chains; but Lady Eversleigh was too much absorbed by her own
anxieties to feel any curiosity as to the origin of the sound.

"Come," said Victor; "give me your hand, Lady Eversleigh, and let me
guide you."

She placed her hand in that of the surgeon. He led her to a steep
staircase, formed by blocks of solid stone, which were rendered
slippery by the moss that had gathered on them. It was a winding
staircase, built in a turret which formed one angle of the tower.
Looking upwards, Honoria saw a gap in the roof, through which the
moonlight shone bright. But there was no sign of any other light.