Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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"Victor Carrington," cried Reginald, passionately, "you are the fiend
himself, in disguise! Let me pass. I will not stop to listen to your
hateful words."

"Wait to hear one question, at any rate. Why do you suppose I made you
sign that promissory note at a twelvemonth's date?"

"I don't know; but you must know, as well as I do, that the note will
be waste-paper so long as my uncle lives."

"I do know that, my dear Reginald; but I got you to date the document
as you did, because I have a kind of presentiment that before that date
you will be master of Raynham!"

"You mean that my uncle will die within the year?"

"I am subject to presentiments of that kind. I do not think Sir Oswald
will see the end of the year!"

"Carrington!" exclaimed Reginald. "Your schemes are hateful. I will
have no further dealings with you."

"Indeed! Then am I to go to Sir Oswald, and tell him the story of last
night? Am I to tell him that his wife is innocent?"

"No, no; tell him nothing. Let things stand as they are. The promise of
the estate is mine. I have suffered too much from the loss of my
position, and I cannot forego my new hopes. But let there be no more
guilt--no more plotting. We have succeeded. Let us wait patiently for
the end."

"Yes," answered the surgeon, coolly, "we will wait for the end; and if
the end should come sooner than our most sanguine hopes have led us to
expect, we will not quarrel with the handiwork of fate. Now leave me. I
see a petticoat yonder amongst the trees. It belongs to some housemaid
from the castle, I dare say; and I must see if my eloquence as a
wandering merchant cannot win me admission within the walls which I
dare not approach as Victor Carrington."

Reginald opened the gate with his pass-key, and allowed the surgeon to
go through into the gardens.

* * * * *

It was dusk when Sir Oswald left the library. He had sent a message to
the chief of his guests, excusing himself from attending the dinner-
table, on the ground of ill-health. When he knew that all his visitors
would be assembled in the dining-room, he left the library, for the
first time since he had entered it after breakfast.

He had brooded long and gloomily over his misery, and had come to a
determination as to the line of conduct which he should pursue towards
his wife. He went now to Lady Eversleigh's apartments, in order to
inform her of his decision; but, to his surprise, he found the rooms
empty. His wife's maid was sitting at needlework by one of the windows
of the dressing-room.

"Where is your mistress?" asked Sir Oswald.

"She has gone out, sir. She has left the castle for some little time, I
think, sir; for she put on the plainest of her travelling dresses, and
she took a small travelling-bag with her. There is a note, sir, on the
mantel-piece in the next room. Shall I fetch it?"

"No; I will get it myself. At what time did Lady Eversleigh leave the
castle?"

"About two hours ago, sir."

"Two hours! In time for the afternoon coach to York," thought Sir
Oswald. "Go and inquire if your mistress really left the castle at that
time," he said to the maid.

He went into the boudoir, and took the letter from the mantel-piece. He
crushed it into his breast-pocket with the seal unbroken--

"Time enough to discover what new falsehood she has tried to palm upon
me," he thought.

He looked round the empty room--which she was never more to occupy. Her
books, her music, were scattered on every side. The sound of her rich
voice seemed still to vibrate through the room. And she was gone--for
ever! Well, she was a base and guilty creature, and it was better so--
infinitely better that her polluting presence should no longer
dishonour those ancient chambers, within which generations of proud and
pure women had lived and died. But to see the rooms empty, and to know
that she was gone, gave him nevertheless a pang.

"What will become of her?" thought Sir Oswald. "She will return to her
lover, of course, and he will console her for the sacrifice she has
made by her mad folly. Let her prize him while he still lives to
console her; for she may not have him long. Why do I think of her?--why
do I trouble myself about her? I have my affairs to arrange--a new will
to make--before I think of vengeance. And those matters once settled,
vengeance shall be my only thought. I have done for ever with love!"

Sir Oswald returned to the library. A lamp burned on the table at which
he was accustomed to write. It was a shaded reading-lamp, which made a
wide circle of vivid light around the spot where it stood, but left the
rest of the room in shadow.

The night was oppressively hot--an August rather than a September
night; and, before beginning his work, Sir Oswald flung open one of the
broad windows leading out upon the terrace. Then he unlocked a carved
oak bureau, and took out a packet of papers. He seated himself at the
table, and began to examine these papers.

Among them was the will which he had executed since his marriage. He
read this, and then laid it aside. As he did so, a figure approached
the wide-open window; an eager face, illuminated by glittering eyes,
peered into the room. It was the face of Victor Carrington, hidden
beneath the disguise of assumed age, and completely metamorphosed by
the dark skin and grizzled beard. Had Sir Oswald looked up and seen
that face, he would not have recognized its owner.

After laying aside the document he had read, Sir Oswald began to write.
He wrote slowly, meditating upon every word; and after having written
for about half an hour, he rose and left the room. The surgeon had
never stirred from his post by the window; and as Sir Oswald closed the
door behind him, he crept stealthily into the apartment, and to the
table where the papers lay. His footstep, light always, made no sound
upon the thick velvet pile. He glanced at the contents of the paper, on
which the ink was still wet. It was a will, leaving the bulk of Sir
Oswald's fortune to his nephew, Reginald, unconditionally. Victor
Carrington did not linger a moment longer than was necessary to
convince him of this fact. He hurried back to his post by the window:
nor was he an instant too soon. The door opened before he had fairly
stepped from the apartment.

Sir Oswald re-entered, followed by two men. One was the butler, the
other was the valet, Joseph Millard. The will was executed in the
presence of these men, who affixed their signatures to it as witnesses.

"I have no wish to keep the nature of this will a secret from my
household," said Sir Oswald. "It restores my nephew, Mr. Reginald
Eversleigh, to his position as heir to this estate. You will henceforth
respect him as my successor."

The two men bowed and retired. Sir Oswald walked towards the window:
and Victor Carrington drew back into the shadow cast by a massive
abutment of stone-work.

It was not very easy for a man to conceal himself on the terrace in
that broad moonlight.

Voices sounded presently, near one of the windows; and a group of
ladies and gentlemen emerged from the drawing-room.

"It is the hottest night we have had this summer," said one of them.
"The house is really oppressive."

Miss Graham had enchanted her viscount once more, and she and that
gentleman walked side by side on the terrace.

"They will discover me if they come this way," muttered Victor, as he
shrank back into the shadow. "I have seen all that I want to see for
the present, and had better make my escape while I am safe."

He stole quietly along by the front of the castle, lurking always in
the shadow of the masonry, and descended the terrace steps. From
thence he went to the court-yard, on which the servants' hall opened;
and in a few minutes he was comfortably seated in that apartment,
listening to the gossip of the servants, who could only speak upon the
one subject of Lady Eversleigh's elopement.

* * * * *

The baronet sat with the newly-made will before him, gazing at the open
leaves with fixed and dreamy eyes.

Now that the document was signed, a feeling of doubt had taken
possession of him. He remembered how deliberately he had pondered over
the step before he had disinherited his nephew; and now that work,
which had cost him so much pain and thought, had been undone on the
impulse of a moment.

"Have I done right, I wonder?" he asked himself.

The papers which had been tied in the packet containing the old will
had been scattered on the table when the baronet unfastened the band
that secured them. He took one of these documents up in sheer absence
of mind, and opened it.

It was the letter written by the wretched girl who drowned herself in
the Seine--the letter of Reginald Eversleigh's victim--the very letter
on the evidence of which Sir Oswald had decided that his nephew was no
fitting heir to a great fortune.

The baronet's brow contracted as he read.

"And it is to the man who could abandon a wretched woman to despair and
death, that I am about to leave wealth and power," he exclaimed. "No;
the decision which I arrived at in Arlington Street was a just and wise
decision. I have been mad to-day--maddened by anger and despair; but it
is not too late to repent my folly. The seducer of Mary Goodwin shall
never be the master of Raynham Castle."

Sir Oswald folded the sheet of foolscap on which the will was written,
and held it over the flame of the lamp. He carried it over to the fire-
place, and threw it blazing on the empty hearth. He watched it
thoughtfully until the greater part of the paper was consumed by the
flame, and then went back to his seat.

"My nephews, Lionel and Douglas Dale, shall divide the estate between
them," he thought. "I will send for my solicitor to-morrow, and make a
new will."

* * * * *

Victor Carrington sat in the servants' hall at Raynham until past
eleven o'clock. He had made himself quite at home with the domestics in
his assumed character. The women were delighted with the showy goods
which he carried in his pack, and which he sold them at prices far
below those of the best bargains they had ever made before.

At a few minutes after eleven he rose to bid them good night.

"I suppose I shall find the gates open?" he said.

"Yes; the gates of the court-yard are never locked till half-past
eleven," answered a sturdy old coachman.

The pedlar took his leave; but he did not go out by the court-yard. He
went straight to the terrace, along which he crept with stealthy
footsteps. Many lights twinkled in the upper windows of the terrace
front, for at this hour the greater number of Sir Oswald's guests had
retired to their rooms.

The broad window of the library was still open; but a curtain had been
drawn before it, on one side of which there remained a crevice. Through
this crevice Victor Carrington could watch the interior of the chamber
with very little risk of being discovered.

The baronet was still sitting by the writing-table, with the light of
the library-lamp shining full upon him. An open letter was in his hand.
It was the letter his wife had left for him. It was not like the letter
of a guilty woman. It was quiet, subdued; full of sadness and
resignation, rather than of passionate despair.

"_I know now that I ought never to have married you, Oswald_," wrote
Lady Eversleigh. "_The sacrifice which you made for my sake was too
great a one. No happiness could well come of such an unequal bargain.
You gave me everything, and I could give you so little. The cloud upon
my past life was black and impenetrable. You took me nameless,
friendless, unknown; and I can scarcely wonder if, at the first breath
of suspicion, your faith wavered and your love failed. Farewell,
dearest and best of men! You never can know how truly I have loved you;
how I have reverenced your noble nature. In all that has come to pass
between us since the first hour of our miserable estrangement, nothing
has grieved me so deeply as to see your generous soul overclouded by
suspicions and doubts, as unworthy of you as they are needless and
unfounded. Farewell! I go back to the obscurity from whence you took
me. You need not fear for my future. The musical education which I owe
to your generous help will enable me to live; and I have no wish to
live otherwise than humbly. May heaven bless you_!"

HONORIA.

This was all. There were no complaints, no entreaties. The letter
seemed instinct with the dignity of truth.

"And she has gone forth alone, unprotected. She has gone back to her
lonely and desolate life," thought the baronet, inclined, for a moment
at least, to believe in his wife's words.

But in the next instant he remembered the evidence of Lydia Graham--the
wild and improbable story by which Honoria had tried to account for her
absence.

"No no," he exclaimed; "it is all treachery from first to last. She is
hiding herself somewhere near at hand, no doubt to wait the result of
this artful letter. And when she finds that her artifices are thrown
away--when she discovers that my heart has been changed to adamant by
her infamy--she will go back to her lover, if he still lives to shelter
her."

A hundred conflicting ideas confused Sir Oswald's brain. But one
thought was paramount--and that was the thought of revenge. He resolved
to send for his lawyer early the next morning, to make a new will in
favour of his sister's two sons, and then to start in search of the man
who had robbed him of his wife's affection. Reginald would, of course,
be able to assist him in finding Victor Carrington.

While Sir Oswald mused thus, the man of whom he was thinking watched
him through the narrow space between the curtains.

"Shall it be to-night?" thought Carrington. "It cannot be too soon. He
might change his mind about his will at any moment; and if it should
happen to-night, people will say the shock of his wife's flight has
killed him."

Sir Oswald's folded arms rested on the table; his head sank forward on
his arms. The passionate emotions of the day, the previous night of
agony, had at last exhausted him. He fell into a doze--a feverish,
troubled sleep. Carrington watched him for upwards of a quarter of an
hour as he slept thus.

"I think he is safe now--and I may venture," murmured Victor, at the
end of that time.

He crept softly into the room, making a wide circle, and keeping
himself completely in the shadow, till he was behind the sleeping
baronet. Then he came towards the lamp-lit table.

Amongst the scattered letters and papers, there stood a claret jug, a
large carafe of water, and an empty glass. Victor drew close to the
table, and listened for some moments to the breathing of the sleeper.
Then he took a small bottle from his pocket, and dropped a few globules
of some colourless liquid into the empty glass. Having done this, he
withdrew from the apartment as silently as he had entered it. Twelve
o'clock struck as he was leaving the terrace.

"So," he muttered, "it is little more than three-quarters of an hour
since I left the servants' hall. It would not be difficult to prove an
_alibi_, with the help of a blundering village innkeeper."

He did not attempt to leave the castle by the court-yard, which he knew
would be locked by this time. He had made himself acquainted with all
the ins and outs of the place, and had possessed himself of a key
belonging to one of the garden gates. Through this gate he passed out
into the park, climbed a low fence, and made his way into Raynham
village, where the landlord of the "Hen and Chickens" was just closing
his doors.

"I have been told by the castle servants that you can give me a bed,"
he said.

The landlord, who was always delighted to oblige his patrons in Sir
Oswald's servants' hall and stables, declared himself ready to give the
traveller the best accommodation his house could afford.

"It's late, sir," he said; "but we'll manage to make things comfortable
for you."

So that night the surgeon slept in the village of Raynham. He, too, was
worn out by the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours, and he slept
soundly all through the night, and slept as calmly as a child.

It was eight o'clock next morning when he went down the steep, old-
fashioned staircase of the inn. He found a strange hubbub and confusion
below. Awful tidings had just been brought from the castle. Sir Oswald
Eversleigh had been found seated in his library, DEAD, with the lamp
still burning near him, in the bright summer morning. One of the grooms
had come down to the little inn, and was telling his story to all
comers, when the pedlar came into the open space before the bar.

"It was Millard that found him," the man said. "He was sitting, quite
calm-like, with his head lying back upon the cushion of his arm-chair.
There were papers and open letters scattered all about; and they sent
off immediately for Mr. Dalton, the lawyer, to look to the papers, and
seal up the locks of drawers and desks, and so on. Mr. Dalton is busy
at it now. Mr. Eversleigh is awfully shocked, he is. I never saw such a
white face in all my life as his, when he came out into the hall after
hearing the news. It's a rare fine thing for him, as you may say; for
they say Sir Oswald made a new will last night, and left his nephew
everything; and Mr. Eversleigh has been a regular wild one, and is deep
in debt. But, for all that, I never saw any one so cut up as he was
just now."

"Poor Sir Oswald!" cried the bystanders. "Such a noble gentleman as he
was, too. What did he die of Mr. Kimber?--do you know?"

"The doctor says it must have been heart-disease," answered the groom.
"A broken heart, I say; that's the only disease Sir Oswald had. It's my
lady's conduct has killed him. She must have been a regular bad one,
mustn't she?"

The story of the elopement had been fully discussed on the previous day
at the "Hen and Chickens," and everywhere else in the village of
Raynham. The country gossips shook their heads over Lady Eversleigh's
iniquity, but they said little. This new event was of so appalling a
nature, that it silenced even the tongue of gossip for a while.

The pedlar took his breakfast in the little parlour behind the bar, and
listened quietly to all that was said by the villagers and the groom.

"And where is my lady?" asked the innkeeper; "she came back yesterday,
didn't she?"

"Yes, and went away again yesterday afternoon," returned the groom.
"She's got enough to answer for, she has."

* * * * *

Terrible indeed was the consternation, which reigned that day at
Raynham Castle. Already Sir Oswald's guests had been making hasty
arrangements for their departure; and many visitors had departed even
before the discovery of that awful event, which came like a thunderclap
upon all within the castle.

Few men had ever been better liked by his acquaintances than Sir Oswald
Eversleigh.

His generous nature, his honourable character, had won him every man's
respect. His great wealth had been spent lavishly for the benefit of
others. His hand had always been open to the poor and necessitous. He
had been a kind master, a liberal landlord, an ardent and devoted
friend. There is little wonder, therefore, if the news of his sudden
death fell like an overwhelming blow on all assembled within the
castle, and on many more beyond the castle walls.

The feeling against Honoria Eversleigh was one of unmitigated
execration. No words could be too bitter for those who spoke of Sir
Oswald's wife.

It had been thought on the previous evening that she had left the
castle for ever, banished by the command of her husband. Nothing,
therefore, could have exceeded the surprise which filled every breast
when she entered the crowded hall some minutes after the discovery of
Sir Oswald's death.

Her face was whiter than marble, and its awful whiteness was contrasted
by the black dress which she wore.

"Is this true?" she cried, in accents of despair. "Is he really dead?"

"Yes, Lady Eversleigh," answered General Desmond, an Indian officer,
and an old friend of the dead man, "Sir Oswald is dead."

"Let me go to him! I cannot believe it--I cannot--I cannot!" she cried,
wildly. "Let me go to him!"

Those assembled round the door of the library looked at her with horror
and aversion. To them this semblance of agony seemed only the
consummate artifice of an accomplished hypocrite.

"Let me go to him! For pity's sake, let me see him!" she pleaded, with
clasped hands. "I cannot believe that he is dead."

Reginald Eversleigh was standing by the door of the library, pale as
death--more ghastly of aspect than death itself. He had been leaning
against the doorway, as if unable to support himself; but, as Honoria
approached, he aroused himself from a kind of stupor, and stretched out
his arm to bar her entrance to the death-chamber.

"This is no scene for you, Lady Eversleigh," he said, sternly. "You
have no right to enter that chamber. You have no right to be beneath
this roof."

"Who dares to banish me?" she asked, proudly. "And who can deny my
right?"

"I can do both, as the nearest relative of your dead husband."

"And as the friend of Victor Carrington," answered Honoria, looking
fixedly at her accuser. "Oh! it is a marvellous plot, Reginald
Eversleigh, and it wanted but this to complete it. My disgrace was the
first act in the drama, my husband's death the second. Your friend's
treachery accomplished one, you have achieved the other. Sir Oswald
Eversleigh has been murdered!"

A suppressed cry of horror broke simultaneously from every lip. As the
awful word "murder" was repeated, the doctor, who had been until this
moment beside the dead man, came to the door, and opened it.

"Who was it spoke of murder?" he asked.

"It was I," answered Honoria. "I say that my husband's death is no
sudden stroke from the hand of heaven! There is one here who refuses to
let me see him, lest I should lay my hand upon his corpse and call down
heaven's vengeance on his assassin!"

"The woman is mad," faltered Reginald Eversleigh.

"Look at the speaker," cried Honoria. "I am not mad, Reginald
Eversleigh, though, by you and your fellow-plotter, I have been made to
suffer that which might have turned a stronger brain than mine. I am
not mad. I say that my husband has been murdered; and I ask all present
to mark my words. I have no evidence of what I say, except instinct;
but I know that it does not deceive me. As for you, Reginald
Eversleigh, I refuse to recognize your rights beneath this roof. As the
widow of Sir Oswald, I claim the place of mistress in this house, until
events show whether I have a right to it or not."

These were bold words from one who, in the eyes of all present, was a
disgraced wife, who had been banished by her husband.

General Desmond was the person who took upon himself to reply. He was
the oldest and most important guest now remaining at the castle, and he
was a man who had been much respected by Sir Oswald.

"I certainly do not think that any one here can dispute Lady
Eversleigh's rights, until Sir Oswald's will has been read, and his
last wishes made known. Whatever passed between my poor friend and his
wife yesterday is known to Lady Eversleigh alone. It is for her to
settle matters with her own conscience; and if she chooses to remain
beneath this roof, no one here can presume to banish her from it,
except in obedience to the dictates of the dead."

"The wishes of the dead will soon be known," said Reginald; "and then
that guilty woman will no longer dare to pollute this house by her
presence."

"I do not fear, Reginald Eversleigh," answered Honoria, with sublime
calmness. "Let the worst come. I abide the issue of events. I wait to
see whether iniquity is to succeed; or whether, at the last moment, the
hand of Providence will be outstretched to confound the guilty. My
faith is strong in Providence, Mr. Eversleigh. And now stand aside, if
you please, and let me look upon the face of my husband."

This time, Reginald Eversleigh did not venture to dispute the widow's
right to enter the death-chamber. He made way for her to pass him, and
she went in and knelt by the side of the dead. Mr. Dalton, the lawyer,
was moving softly about the room, putting seals on all the locks, and
collecting the papers that had been scattered on the table. The parish
doctor, who had been summoned hastily, stood near the corpse. A groom
had been despatched to a large town, twenty miles distant, to summon a
medical man of some distinction. There were few railroads in those
days; no electric telegraph to summon a man from one end of the country
to another. But all the most distinguished doctors who ever lived could
not have restored Sir Oswald Eversleigh to an hour's life. All that
medical science could do now, was to discover the mode of the baronet's
death.

The crowd left the hall by and by, and the interior of the castle grew
more tranquil. All the remaining guests, with the exception of General
Desmond, made immediate arrangements for leaving the house of death.