Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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No more was said. The tramp followed the procession with the rest of
the crowd, first to the village church, where a portion of the funeral
service was read, and then back to the park, where the melancholy
ceremonial was completed before the family mausoleum.

It was while the crowd made a circle round this mausoleum that the
tramp contrived to push his way to the front rank of the spectators. He
stood foremost amongst a group of villagers, when Lady Eversleigh
happened to look towards the spot where he was stationed.

In that moment a sudden change came over the face of the widow. Its
marble whiteness was dyed by a vivid crimson--a sudden flush of shame
or indignation, which passed away quickly; but a dark shadow remained
upon Lady Eversleigh's brow after that red glow had faded from her
cheek.

No one observed that change of countenance. The moment was a solemn
one; and even those who did not really feel its solemnity, affected to
do so.

At the last instant, when the iron doors of the mausoleum closed with a
clanging sound upon the new inmate of that dark abode, Honoria's
fortitude all at once forsook her. One long cry, which was like a
shriek wrung from the spirit of despair, broke from her colourless
lips, and in the next moment she had sunk fainting upon the ground
before those inexorable doors.

No sympathizing eyes had watched her looks, or friendly arm was
stretched forth in time to support her. But when she lay lifeless and
unconscious on the sodden grass, some touch of pity stirred the hearts
of the two brothers, Lionel and Douglas Dale.

The elder, Lionel, stepped forward, and lifted that lifeless form from
the ground. He carried the unconscious widow to the carriage, where he
seated her.

Sense returned only too quickly to that tortured brain. Honoria
Eversleigh opened her eyes, and recognized the man who stood by her
side.

"I am better now," she said. "Do not let my weakness cause you any
trouble. I do not often faint; but that last moment was too bitter."

"Are you really quite recovered? Can I venture to leave you?" asked
Lionel Dale, in a much kinder tone than he had employed before in
speaking to his uncle's widow.

"Yes, indeed, I have quite recovered. I thank you for your kindness,"
murmured Honoria, gently.

Lionel Dale went back to the carriage allotted to himself and his
brother. On his way, he encountered Reginald Eversleigh.

"I have heard it whispered that my uncle's wife was an actress," said
Reginald. "That exhibition just now was rather calculated to confirm
the idea."

"If by 'exhibition' you mean that outburst of despair, I am convinced
that it was perfectly genuine," answered Lionel, coldly.

"I am sorry you are so easily duped, my dear Lionel," returned his
cousin, with a sneer. "I did not think a pretty face would have such
influence over you."

No more was said. The two men passed to their respective carriages, and
the funeral procession moved homewards.

In the grand dining-hall of the castle, Sir Oswald's lawyer was to read
the will. Kinsmen, friends, servants, all were assembled to hear the
reading of that solemn document.

In the place of honour sat Lady Eversleigh. She sat on the right hand
of the lawyer, calm and dignified, as if no taint of suspicion had ever
tarnished her fame.

The solicitor read the will. It was that will which Sir Oswald had
executed immediately after his marriage--the will, of which he had
spoken to his nephew, Reginald.

It made Honoria Eversleigh sole mistress of the Raynham estates. It
gave to Lionel and Douglas Dale property worth ten thousand a year. It
gave to Reginald a small estate, producing an income of five hundred a
year. To Captain Copplestone the baronet left a legacy of three
thousand pounds, and an antique seal-ring which had been worn by
himself.

The old servants of Raynham were all remembered, and some curious old
plate and gold snuff-boxes were left to Mr. Wargrave, the rector, and
Gilbert Ashburne.

This was all. Five hundred a year was the amount by which Reginald had
profited by the death of a generous kinsman.

By the terms of Sir Oswald's will the estates of Lionel and Douglas
Dale would revert to Reginald Eversleigh in case the owners should die
without direct heirs. If either of these young men were to die
unmarried, his brother would succeed to his estate, worth five thousand
a year. But if both should die, Reginald Eversleigh would become the
owner of double that amount.

It was the merest chance, the shadow of a chance, for the lives of both
young men were better than his own, inasmuch as both had led healthful
and steadier lives than the dissipated Reginald Eversleigh. But even
this poor chance was something.

"They may die," he thought; "death lurks in every bush that borders the
highway of life. They or both may die, and I may regain the wealth that
should have been mine."

He looked at the two young men. Lionel, the elder, was the handsomer of
the two. He was fair, with brown curling hair, and frank blue eyes.
Reginald, as he looked at him, thought bitterly, "I must indeed be the
very fool of hope and credulity to fancy he will not marry. But, if he
were safe, I should not so much fear Douglas." The younger, Douglas,
was a man whom some people would have called plain. But the dark sallow
face, with its irregular features, was illuminated by an expression of
mingled intelligence and amiability, which possessed a charm for all
judges worth pleasing.

Lionel was the clergyman, Douglas the lawyer, or rather law-student,
for the glory of his maiden brief was yet to come.

How Reginald envied these fortunate kinsmen! He hated them with
passionate hate. He looked from them to Honoria, the woman against whom
he had plotted--the woman who triumphed in spite of him--for he could
not imagine that grief for a dead husband could have any place in the
heart of a woman who found herself mistress of such a domain as
Raynham, and its dependencies.

Lady Eversleigh's astonishment was unbounded. This will placed her in
even a loftier position than that which she had occupied when possessed
of the confidence and affection of her husband. For her pride there was
some consolation in this thought; but the triumph, which was sweet to
the proud spirit, afforded no balm for the wounded heart. He was gone--
he whose love had made her mistress of that wealth and splendour. He
was gone from her for ever, and he had died believing her false.

In the midst of her triumph the widow bowed her head upon her hands,
and sobbed convulsively. The tears wrung from her in this moment were
the first she had shed that day, and they were very bitter.

Reginald Eversleigh watched her with scorn and hatred in his heart.

"What do you say now, Lionel?" he said to his cousin, when the three
young men had left the dining-hall, and were seated at luncheon in a
smaller chamber. "You did not think my respected aunt a clever actress
when she fainted before the doors of the mausoleum. You will at least
acknowledge that the piece of acting she favoured us with just now was
superb."

"What do you mean by 'a piece of acting'?"

"That outburst of grief which my lady indulged in, when she found
herself mistress of Raynham."

"I believe that it was genuine," answered Mr. Dale, gravely.

"Oh, you think the inheritance a fitting subject for lamentation?"

"No, Reginald. I think a woman who had wronged her husband, and had
been the indirect cause of his death, might well feel sorrow when she
discovered how deeply she had been loved, and how fully she had been
trusted by that generous husband."

"Bah!" cried Reginald, contemptuously. "I tell you, man, Lady
Eversleigh is a consummate actress, though she never acted before a
better audience than the clodhoppers at a country fair. Do you know who
my lady was when Sir Oswald picked her out of the gutter? If you don't,
I'll enlighten you. She was a street ballad-singer, whom the baronet
found one night starving in the market-place of a country town. He
picked her up--out of charity; and because the creature happened to
have a pretty face, he was weak enough to marry her."

"Respect the follies of the dead," replied Lionel. "My uncle's love was
generous. I only regret that the object of it was so unworthy."

"Oh!" exclaimed Reginald, "I thought just now that you sympathized with
my lady."

"I sympathize with every remorseful sinner," said Lionel.

"Ah, that's your _shop_!" cried Reginald, who could not conceal his
bitter feelings. "You sympathize with Lady Eversleigh because she is a
wealthy sinner, and mistress of Raynham Castle. Perhaps you'll stop
here and try to step into Sir Oswald's shoes. I don't know whether
there's any law against a man marrying his uncle's widow."

"You insult me, and you insult the dead, Sir Reginald, by the tone in
which you discuss these things," answered Lionel Dale. "I shall leave
Raynham by this evening's coach, and there is little likelihood that
Lady Eversleigh and I shall ever meet again. It is not for me to judge
her sins, or penetrate the secrets of her heart. I believe that her
grief to-day was thoroughly genuine. It is not because a woman has
sinned that she must needs be incapable of any womanly feeling."

"You are in a very charitable humour, Lionel," said Sir Reginald, with
a sneer; "but you can afford to be charitable."

Mr. Dale did not reply to this insolent speech.

Sir Reginald Eversleigh and his two cousins left the village of Raynham
by the same coach. The evening was finer than the day had been, and a
full moon steeped the landscape in her soft light, as the travellers
looked their last on the grand old castle.

The baronet contemplated the scene with unmitigated rage.

"Hers!" he muttered; "hers! to have and hold so long as she lives! A
nameless woman has tricked me out of the inheritance which should have
been mine. But let her beware! Despair is bold, and I may yet discover
some mode of vengeance."

While the departing traveller mused thus, a pale woman stood at one of
the windows of Raynham Castle, looking out upon the woods, over which
the moon sailed in all her glory.

"Mine!" she said to herself; "those lands and woods belong to me!--to
me, who have stood face to face with starvation!--to me, who have
considered it a privilege to sleep in an empty barn! They are mine; but
the possession of them brings no pleasure. My life has been blighted by
a wrong so cruel, that wealth and position are worthless in my eyes."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XIII.

IN YOUR PATIENCE YE ARE STRONG.

Early upon the morning after the funeral, a lad from the village of
Raynham presented himself at the principal door of the servants'
offices, and asked to see Lady Eversleigh's maid.

The young woman who filled that office was summoned, and came to
inquire the business of the messenger.

Her name was Jane Payland; she was a Londoner by birth, and a citizen
of the world by education.

She had known very little of either comfort or prosperity before she
entered the service of Lady Eversleigh. She was, therefore, in some
measure at least, devoted to the interests of that mistress, and she
was inclined to believe in her innocence; though, even to her, the
story of the night in Yarborough Tower seemed almost too wild and
improbable for belief.

Jane Payland was about twenty-four years of age, tall, slim, and
active. She had no pretensions to beauty; but was the sort of person
who is generally called lady-like.

This morning she went to the little lobby, in which the boy had been
told to wait, indignant at the impertinence of anyone who could dare to
intrude upon her mistress at such a time.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" she asked angrily.

"If you please, ma'am, I'm Widow Beckett's son," the boy answered, in
evident terror of the young woman in the rustling black silk dress and
smart cap; "and I've brought this letter, please; and I was only to
give it to the lady's own maid, please.

"I am her own maid," answered Jane.

The boy handed her a dirty-looking letter, directed, in a bold clear
hand, to Lady Eversleigh.

"Who gave you this?" asked Jane Payland, looking at the dirty envelope
with extreme disgust.

"It was a tramp as give it me--a tramp as I met in the village; and
I'm to wait for an answer, please, and I'm to take it to him at the
'Hen and Chickens.'"

"How dare you bring Lady Eversleigh a letter given you by a tramp--a
begging letter, of course? I wonder at your impudence."

"I didn't go to do no harm," expostulated Master Beckett. "He says to
me, he says, 'If her ladyship once sets eyes upon that letter, she'll
arnswer it fast enough; and now you cut and run,' he says; 'it's a
matter of life and death, it is, and it won't do to waste time over
it.'"

These words were rather startling to the mind of Jane Payland. What was
she to do? Her own idea was, that the letter was the concoction of some
practised impostor, and that it would be an act of folly to take it to
her mistress. But what if the letter should be really of importance?
What if there should be some meaning in the boy's words? Was it not her
duty to convey the letter to Lady Eversleigh?

"Stay here till I return," she said, pointing to a bench in the lobby.

The boy seated himself on the extremest edge of the bench, with his hat
on his knees, and Jane Payland left him.

She went straight to the suite of apartments occupied by Lady
Eversleigh.

Honoria did not raise her eyes when Jane Payland entered the room.
There was a gloomy abstraction in her face, and melancholy engrossed
her thoughts.

"I beg pardon for disturbing you, my lady," said Jane; "but a lad from
the village has brought a letter, given him by a tramp; and, according
to his account, the man talked in such a very strange manner that I
thought I really ought to tell you, my lady; and--"

To the surprise of Jane Payland, Lady Eversleigh started suddenly from
her seat, and advanced towards her, awakened into sudden life and
energy as by a spell.

"Give me the letter," she cried, abruptly.

She took the soiled and crumpled envelope from her servant's hand with
a hasty gesture.

"You may go," she said; "I will ring when I want you."

Jane Payland would have given a good deal to see that letter opened;
but she had no excuse for remaining longer in the room. So she
departed, and went to her lady's dressing-room, which, as well as all
the other apartments, opened out of the corridor.

In about a quarter of an hour, Lady Eversleigh's bell rang, and Jane
hurried to the morning-room.

She found her mistress still seated by the hearth. Her desk stood open
on the table by her side; and on the desk lay a letter, so newly
addressed that the ink on the envelope was still wet.

"You will take that to the lad who is waiting," said Honoria, pointing
to this newly-written letter.

"Yes, my lady."

Jane Payland departed. On the way between Lady Eversleigh's room and
the lobby in the servants' offices, she had ample leisure to examine
the letter.

It was addressed--

"_Mr. Brown, at the 'Hen and Chickens_.'"

It was sealed with a plain seal. Jane Payland was very well acquainted
with the writing of her mistress, and she perceived at once that this
letter was not directed in Lady Eversleigh's usual hand.

The writing had been disguised. It was evident, therefore, that this
was a letter which Lady Eversleigh would have shrunk from avowing as
her own.

Every moment the mystery grew darker. Jane Payland liked her mistress;
but there were two things which she liked still better. Those two
things were power and gain. She perceived in the possession of her
lady's secrets a high-road to the mastery of both. Thus it happened
that, when she had very nearly arrived at the lobby where the boy was
waiting, Jane Payland suddenly changed her mind, and darted off in
another direction.

She hurried along a narrow passage, up the servants' staircase, and
into her own room. Here she remained for some fifteen or twenty
minutes, occupied with some task which required the aid of a lighted
candle.

At the end of that time she emerged, with a triumphant smile upon her
thin lips, and Lady Eversleigh's letter in her hand.

The seal which secured the envelope was a blank seal; but it was not
the same as the one with which Honoria Eversleigh had fastened her
letter half an hour before.

The abigail carried the letter to the boy, and the boy departed, very
well pleased to get clear of the castle without having received any
further reproof.

He went at his best speed to the little inn, where he inquired for Mr.
Brown.

That gentleman emerged presently from the inn-yard, where he had been
hanging about, listening to all that was to be heard, and talking to
the ostler.

He took the letter from the boy's hand, and rewarded him with the
promised shilling. Then he left the yard, and walked down a lane
leading towards the river.

In this unfrequented lane he tore open the envelope, and read his
letter.

It was very brief:

"_Since my only chance of escaping persecution is to accede, in some
measure, to your demands, I will consent to see you. If you will wait
for me to-night, at nine o'clock, by the water-side, to the left of the
bridge, I will try to come to that spot at that hour. Heaven grant the
meeting may be our last_!"

Exactly as the village church clock struck nine, a dark figure crossed
a low, flat meadow, lying near the water, and appeared upon the narrow
towing-path by the river's edge. A man was walking on this pathway, his
face half hidden by a slouched hat, and a short pipe in his month.

He lifted his hat presently, and bared his head to the cool night
breeze. His hair was closely cropped, like that of a convict. The broad
moonlight shining fall upon his face, revealed a dark, weather-beaten
countenance--the face of the tramp who had stood at the park-gates to
watch the passing of Sir Oswald's funeral train--the face of the tramp
who had loitered in the stable-yard of the "Hen and Chickens"--the face
of the man who had been known in Ratcliff Highway by the ominous name
of Black Milsom.

This was the man who waited for Honoria Eversleigh in the moonlight by
the quiet river.

He advanced to meet her as she came out of the meadow and appeared upon
the pathway.

"Good evening, my lady," he said. "I suppose I ought to be humbly
beholden to such a grand lady as you for coming here to meet the likes
of me. But it seems rather strange you must needs come out here in
secret to see such a very intimate acquaintance as I am, considering as
you're the mistress of that great castle up yonder. I must say it seems
uncommon hard a man can't pay a visit to his own--"

"Hush!" cried Lady Eversleigh. "Do not call me by _that_ name, if you
do not wish to inspire me with a deeper loathing than that which I
already feel for you."

"Well, I'm blest!" muttered Mr. Milsom; "that's uncommon civil language
from a young woman to--"

Honoria stopped him by a sudden gesture.

"I suppose you expect to profit by this interview?" she said.

"That I most decidedly do expect," answered the tramp.

"In that case, you will carefully avoid all mention of the past, for
otherwise you will get nothing from me."

The man responded at first only with a sulky growl. Then, after a brief
pause, he muttered--

"I don't want to talk about the past any more than you do, my fine,
proud madam. If it isn't a pleasant time for you to remember, it isn't
a pleasant time for me to remember. It's all very well for a young
woman who has her victuals found for her to give herself airs about the
manner other people find _their_ victuals; but a man must live somehow
or other. If he can't get his living in a pleasant way, he must get it
in an unpleasant way."

After this there was a silence which lasted for some minutes. Lady
Eversleigh was trying to control the agitation which oppressed her,
despite the apparent calmness of her manner. Black Milsom walked by her
side in sullen silence, waiting for her to speak.

The spot was lonely. Lady Eversleigh and her companion were justified
in believing themselves unobserved.

But it was not so. Lonely as the spot was, those two were not alone. A
stealthy, gliding, female figure, dark and shadowy in the uncertain
light, had followed Lady Eversleigh from the castle gates, and that
figure was beside her now, as she walked with Black Milsom upon the
river bank.

The spy crept by the side of the hedge that separated the river bank
from the meadow; and sheltered thus, she was able to distinguish almost
every word spoken by the two upon the bank, so clearly sounded their
voices in the still night air.

"How did you find me here?" asked Lady Eversleigh, at last.

"By accident. You gave us the slip so cleverly that time you took it
into your precious head to cut and run, that, hunt where we would, we
were never able to find you. I gave it up for a bad job; and then
things went agen me, and I got sent away. But I'm my own master again
now; and I mean to make good use of my liberty, I can tell you, my
lady. I little knew how you'd feathered your nest while I was on the
other side of the water. I little thought how you would turn up at
last, when I least expected to see you. You might have knocked me down
with a feather yesterday, when that fine funeral came out of the park
gates, and I saw your face at the window of one of the coaches. You
must have been an uncommonly clever young woman, and an uncommonly sly
one, to get a baronite for your husband, and to get a spooney old cove
to leave you all his fortune, after behaving so precious bad to him.
Did your husband know who you were when he married you?"

"He found me starving in the street of a country town. He knew that I
was friendless, homeless, penniless. That knowledge did not prevent him
making me his wife."

"Ah! but there was something more he didn't know. He didn't know that
you were Black Milsom's daughter; you didn't tell him that, I'll lay a
wager."

"I did not tell him that which I know to be a lie," replied Honoria,
calmly.

"Oh, it's a lie, is it? You are not my daughter, I suppose?"

"No, Thomas Milsom, I am not--I know and feel that I am not"

"Humph!" muttered Black Milsom, savagely; "if you were not my daughter,
how was it that you grew up to call me father?"

"Because I was forced to do so. I remember being told to call you
father. I remember being beaten because I refused to do so--
beaten till I submitted from very fear of being beaten to death. Oh, it
was a bright and happy childhood, was it not, Thomas Milsom? A
childhood to look back to with love and regret. And now, finding that
fortune has lifted me out of the gutter into which you flung me, you
come to me to demand your share of my good fortune, I suppose?"

"That's about it, my lady," answered Mr. Milsom, with supreme coolness.
"I don't mind a few hard words, more or less--they break no bones; and,
what's more, I'm used to 'em. What I want is money, ready money, down
on the nail, and plenty of it. You may pelt me as hard as you like with
fine speeches, as long as you cash up liberally; but cash I must have,
by fair means or foul, and I want a pretty good sum to start with."

"You want a large sum," said Honoria, quietly; "how much do you want?"

"Well, I don't want to take a mean advantage of your generosity, so
I'll be moderate. Say five thousand pounds--to begin with."

"And you expect to get that from me?"

"Of course I do."

"Five thousand pounds?"

"Five thousand pounds, ready money."

Lady Eversleigh stopped suddenly, and looked the man full in the face.

"You shall not have five thousand pence," she exclaimed, "not five
thousand pence. My dead husband's money shall never pass into your
hands, to be squandered in scenes of vice and crime. If you choose to
live an honest life, I will allow you a hundred a year--a pension which
shall be paid you quarterly--through the hands of my London solicitors.
Beyond this, I will not give you a halfpenny."

"What!" roared Black Milsom, in an infuriated tone. "What, Jenny
Milsom, Honoria, Lady Eversleigh, or whatever you may please to call
yourself, do you think I will stand that? Do you think I will hold my
tongue unless you pay me handsomely to keep silence? You don't know the
kind of man you have to deal with. To-morrow every one in the village
shall know what a high-born lady lives up at the old castle--they shall
know what a dutiful daughter the lady of Raynham is, and how she
suffers her father to tramp barefoot in the mud, while she rides in her
carriage!"

"You may tell them what you please."

"I'll tell them plenty, you may depend upon it."

"Will you tell them how Valentine Jernam came by his death?" asked
Honoria, in a strange tone.

The tramp started, and for a few moments seemed at a loss for words in
which to reply. But he recovered himself very quickly, and exclaimed,
savagely--

"I'm not going to tell them any of your senseless dreams and fancies;
but I mean to tell them who you are. That will be quite enough for
them; and before I do let them know so much, you'd better change your
mind, and act generously towards me."