Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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"Upon that subject I shall never change my mind," answered Honoria
Eversleigh, with perfect self-possession. "You will accept the pension
I offer you, or you will reject it, as you please--you will never
receive more, directly or indirectly, from me," she continued,
presently. "As for your threat of telling my miserable history to the
people of this place, it is a threat which can have no influence over
me. Tell these people what you choose. Happily, the opinion of the
world is of small account to me."

"You will change your mind between this and to-morrow morning," cried
Black Milsom.

He was almost beside himself with rage and mortification. He felt as if
he could have torn this woman to pieces--this proud and courageous
creature, who dared to defy him.

"I shall not change my mind," answered Honoria. "You could not conquer
me, even when I was a weak and helpless child; you must remember that."

"Humph! you were rather a queer temper in those days--a strange-looking
child, too, with your white face and your big black eyes."

"Aye; and even in those days my will was able to do battle with men and
women, and to support me even against your violence. You, and those
belonging to you, were able to break my heart, but were not strong
enough to bend my spirit. I have the same spirit yet, Thomas Milsom;
and you will find it useless to try to turn me from my purpose."

The man did not answer immediately. He looked fiercely, searchingly, at
the pale, resolute face that was turned to him in the moonlight.

"The name of my solicitor is Dunford," said Honoria, presently; "Mr.
Joseph Dunford, of Gray's Inn. If you apply to him on your arrival in
London, he will give you the first installment of your pension."

"Five and twenty pounds!" grumbled Milsom; "a very handsome amount,
upon my word! And you have fifteen thousand a year!"

"I have."

"May the curse of a black and bitter heart cling to you!" cried the
man.

Lady Eversleigh turned from her companion with a gesture of loathing.
But there was no fear in her heart. She walked slowly back to the gate
leading into the meadow, followed by Milsom, who heaped abusive
epithets upon her at every step. As she entered the meadow, the figure
of the spy drew suddenly back into the shadow of the hedge; from which
it did not emerge till Honoria had disappeared through the little gate
on the opposite side of the field, and the heavy tramp of Milsom's
footsteps had died away in the distance.

Then the figure came forth into the broad moonlight; and that subdued,
but clear radiance, revealed the pale, thin face of Jane Payland.

* * * * *

When Jane Payland was brushing her mistress's hair that night, she
ventured to sound her as to her future movements, by a few cautions and
respectful questions, to which Lady Eversleigh replied with less than
her usual reticence. From her lady's answers, the waiting-maid
ascertained that she had no idea of seeking any relaxation in change of
scene, but purposed to reside at Raynham for at least one year.

Jane Payland wondered at the decision of her mistress's manner. She had
imagined that Lady Eversleigh would be eager to leave a place in which
she found herself the object of disapprobation and contempt.

"If I were her, I would go to France, and be a great lady in Paris--
which is twenty times gayer and more delightful than any place in
stupid, straight-laced old England," thought Jane Payland. "If I had
her money, I would spend it, and enjoy life, in spite of all the
world."

"I'm afraid your health will suffer from a long residence at the
castle, my lady," said Jane, presently, determined to do all in her
power to bring about a change in her mistress's plans. "After such a
shock as you have had, some distraction must be necessary. When I had
the honour of living with the Duchess of Mountaintour, and we lost the
dear duke, the first thing I said to the duchess, after the funeral,
was--'Change of scene, your grace, change of scene; nothing like change
of scene when the mind has received a sudden blow.' The sweet duchess's
physician actually echoed my words, though he had never heard them; and
within a week of the sad ceremony we started for the Continent, where
we remained a year; at the end of which period the dear duchess was
united to the Marquis of Purpeltown."

"The duchess was speedily consoled," replied Lady Eversleigh, with a
smile which was not without bitterness. "No doubt the variety and
excitement of a Continental tour did much towards blotting out all
memory of her dead husband. But I do not wish to forget. I am in no
hurry to obliterate the image of one who was most dear to me."

Jane Payland looked very searchingly at the pale, earnest face
reflected in the glass.

"For me, that which the world calls pleasure never possessed any
powerful fascination," continued Honoria, gravely. "My childhood and
youth were steeped in sorrow--sorrow beyond anything you can imagine,
Jane Payland; though I have heard you say that you have seen much
trouble. The remembrance of it comes back to me more vividly than ever
now. Thus it is that I shrink from society, which can give me no real
pleasure. Had I no special reason for remaining at Raynham, I should
not care to leave it"

"But you have a special reason, my lady?" inquired Jane, eagerly.

"I have."

"May I presume to ask--"

"You may, Jane; and I think I may venture to trust you fully, for I
believe you are my friend. I mean to stay at Raynham, because, in this
hour of sorrow and desolation, Providence has not abandoned me entirely
to despair. I have one bright hope, which renders the thought of my
future endurable to me. I stay at Raynham, because I hope next spring
an heir will be born to Raynham Castle."

"Oh, what happiness! And you wish the heir to be born at the castle, my
lady?"

"I do! I have been the victim of one plot, but I will not fall
blindfold into a second snare; and there is no infamy which my enemies
are not base enough to attempt. There shall be no mystery about my
life. From the hour of my husband's death to the hour of his child's
birth, the friends of that lost husband shall know every act of my
existence. They shall see me day by day. The old servants of the family
shall attend me. I will live in the old house, surrounded by all who
knew and loved Sir Oswald. No vile plotters shall ever be able to say
that there was trick or artifice connected with the birth of that
child. If I live to protect and watch over it, that infant life shall
be guarded against every danger, and defended from every foe. And there
will be many foes ready to assail the inheritor of Raynham."

"Why so, my lady?"

"Because that young life, and my life, will stand between a villain and
a fortune. If I and my child were both to die, Reginald Eversleigh
would become possessor of the wealth to which he once was the
acknowledged heir. By the terms of Sir Oswald's will, he receives very
little in the present, but the future has many chances for him. If I
die childless, he will inherit the Raynham estates. If his two cousins,
the Dales, die without direct heirs, he will inherit ten thousand a
year."

"But that seems only a poor chance after all, my lady. There is no
reason why Sir Reginald Eversleigh should survive you or the two Mr.
Dales."

"There is no reason, except his own villany," answered Honoria,
thoughtfully. "There are some men capable of anything. But let us talk
no further on the subject. I have confided my secret to you, Jane
Payland, because I think you are faithfully devoted to my interests.
You know now why I am resolved to remain at Raynham Castle; and you
think my decision wise, do you not?"

"Well, yes; I certainly do, my lady," answered Jane, after some moments
of hesitation.

"And now leave me. Good night! I have kept you long this evening, I see
by that timepiece. But my thoughts were wandering, and I was
unconscious of the progress of time. Good night!"

Jane Payland took a respectful leave of her mistress, and departed,
absorbed in thought.

"Is she a good woman or a bad one?" she wondered, as she sat by the
fire in her own comfortable apartment. "If she is a bad woman, she's an
out-and-outer; for she looks one in the face, with those superb black
eyes of hers, as bright and clear as the image of truth itself. She
must be good and true. She must! And yet that night's absence, and that
story about Yarborough Tower--that seems too much for anybody on earth
to believe."

CHAPTER XIV.

A GHOSTLY VISITANT.

For nearly three years Thomas Milsom had been far away from London. He
had been arrested on a charge of burglary, within a month of Valentine
Jernam's death, and condemned to five years' transportation. In less
than three years, by some kind of artful management, and by the
exercise of consummate hypocrisy, Mr. Milsom had contrived to get
himself free again, and to return to England his own master.

He landed in Scotland, and tramped from Granton to Yorkshire, where an
accidental encounter with an old acquaintance tempted him to linger at
Raynham. The two tramps, scoundrels both, and both alike penniless and
shoeless, had stood side by side at the gates of the park, to see the
stately funeral train pass out.

And thus Thomas Milsom had beheld her whom he called his daughter,--the
girl who had fled, with her old grandfather, from the shelter of his
fatal roof three years before.

After that unprofitable interview with Honoria, Thomas Milsom his face
Londonwards.

"The day will come when you and I will square accounts, my lady," he
muttered, as he looked up to those battlemented turrets, with a
blasphemous curse, and then turned his back upon Raynham Castle, and
the peaceful little village beneath it.

The direction in which Mr. Milsom betook himself, after he passed the
border-land of waste ground and newly-built houses which separates
London from the country, was the direction of Ratcliff Highway. He
walked rapidly through the crowded streets, in which the crowd grew
thicker as he approached the regions of the Tower. But rapidly as he
walked, the steps of Time were faster. It had been bright noon when he
entered the quiet little town of Barnet. It was night when he first
heard the scraping fiddles and stamping feet of Ratcliff Highway. He
went straight to the 'Jolly Tar'.

Here all was unchanged. There were the flaring tallow candles, set in a
tin hoop that hung from the low ceiling, dropping hot grease ever and
anon on the loungers at the bar. There was the music--the same Scotch
reels and Irish jigs, played on squeaking fiddles, which were made more
inharmonious by the accompaniment of shrill Pandean pipes. There was
the same crowd of sailors and bare-headed, bare-armed, loud-voiced
women assembled in the stifling bar, the same cloud of tobacco-smoke,
the same Babel of voices to be heard from the concert-room within;
while now and then, amongst the shouts and the laughter, the oaths and
the riot, there sounded the tinkling of the old piano, and the feeble
upper notes of a very poor soprano voice.

Black Milsom had drawn his hat over his eyes before entering the "Jolly
Tar."

The bar of that tavern was sunk considerably below the level of the
street, and standing on the uppermost of the steps by which Mr.
Wayman's customers descended to his hospitable abode, Black Milsom was
able to look across the heads of the crowd to the face of the landlord
busy behind his bar.

In that elevated position Black Milsom waited until Dennis Wayman
happened to look up and perceive the stranger on the threshold.

As he did so, Thomas Milsom drew the back of his hand rapidly across
his mouth, with a gesture that was evidently intended as a signal.

The signal was answered by a nod from Wayman, and then Black Milsom
descended the three steps, and pushed his way to the bar.

"Can I have a bed, mate, and a bit of supper?" he asked, in a voice
that was carefully disguised.

"Ay, ay, to be sure you can," answered Wayman; "you can have everything
that is comfortable and friendly by paying for it. This house is one of
the most hospitable places there is--to those that can pay the
reckoning."

This rather clumsy joke was received with an applauding guffaw by the
sailors and women next the bar.

"If you'll step through that door yonder, you'll find a snug little
room, mate," said Dennis Wayman, in the tone which he might have used
in speaking to a stranger; "I'll send you a steak and a potato as soon
as they can be cooked."

Thomas Milsom nodded. He pushed open the rough wooden door which was so
familiar to him, and went into the dingy little den which, in the
'Jolly Tar', was known as the private parlour.

It was the room in which he had first seen Valentine Jernam. Two years
and a half had passed since he had last entered it; and during that
time Mr. Milsom had been paying the penalty of his misdeeds in Van
Dieman's Land. This dingy little den, with its greasy walls and low,
smoky ceiling, was a kind of paradise to the returned wanderer. Here,
at least, was freedom. Here, at least, he was his own master: free to
enjoy strong drinks and strong tobacco--free to be lazy when he
pleased, and to work after the fashion that suited him best.

He seated himself in one chair, and planted his legs on another. Then
he took a short clay pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it, and
began to smoke, in a slow meditative manner, stopping every now and
then to mutter to himself, between the puffs of tobacco.

Mr. Milsom had finished his second pipe of shag tobacco, and had given
utterance to more than one exclamation of anger and impatience, when
the door was opened, and Dennis Wayman made his appearance, bearing a
tray with a couple of covered dishes and a large pewter pot.

"I thought I'd bring you your grub myself, mate," he said; "though I'm
precious busy in yonder. I'm uncommonly glad to see you back again.
I've been wondering where you was ever since you disappeared."

"You'd have left off wondering if you'd known I was on the other side
of this blessed world of ours. I thought you knew I was--"

Mr. Milsom's delicacy of feeling prevented his finishing this speech.

"I knew you had got into trouble," answered Mr. Wayman. "At least, I
didn't know for certain, but I guessed as much; though sometimes I was
half inclined to think you had turned cheat, and given me the slip."

"Bolted with the swag, I suppose you mean?"

"Precisely!" answered Dennis Wayman, coolly.

"Which shows your suspicious nature," returned Milsom, in a sulky tone.
"When an unlucky chap turns his back upon his comrades, the worst word
in their mouths isn't half bad enough for him. That's the way of the
world, that is. No, Dennis Wayman; I didn't bolt with the swag--not
sixpence of Valentine Jernam's money have I had the spending of; no
even what I won from him at cards. I was nobbled one day, without a
moment's warning, on a twopenny-halfpenny charge of burglary--never you
mind whether it was true, or whether it was false--that ain't worth
going into. I was took under a false name, and I stuck to that false
name, thinking it more convenient. I should have sent to let you know,
if I could have found a safe hand to take my message; but I couldn't
find a living creature that was anything like safe--so there I was,
remanded on a Monday, tried on a Tuesday, and then a fortnight after
shipped off like a bullock, along of so many other bullocks; and that's
the long and the short of it."

After having said which, Mr. Milsom applied himself to his supper,
which consisted of a smoking steak, and a dish of still more smoking
potatoes.

Dennis Wayman sat watching him for some minutes in thoughtful silence.
The intent gaze with which he regarded the face of his friend, was that
of a man who was by no means inclined to believe every syllable he had
heard. After Milsom had devoured about a pound of steak, and at least
two pounds of potatoes, Mr. Wayman ventured to interrupt his operations
by a question.

"If you didn't collar the money, what became of it?" he asked.

"Put away," returned the other man, shortly; "and as safe as a church,
unless my bad luck goes against me harder than it ever went yet."

"You hid it?" said Wayman, interrogatively.

"I did."

"Where?"

Mr. Milsom looked at his friend with a glance of profound cunning.

"Wouldn't you like to know--oh, wouldn't you just like to know, Mr.
Wayman?" he said. "And wouldn't you just dose me with a cup of drugged
coffee, and cut off to ransack my hiding-place while I was lying
helpless in your hospitable abode. That's the sort of thing you'd do,
if I happened to be a born innocent, isn't it, Mr. Wayman? But you see
I'm not a born innocent, so you won't get the chance of doing anything
of the kind."

"Don't be a fool," returned Dennis Wayman, in a surly tone. "You'll
please to remember that one half of Valentine Jernam's money belongs to
me, and ought to have been in my possession long before this. I was an
idiot to trust it in your keeping."

"You trusted it in my keeping because you were obliged to do so,"
answered Black Milsom, "and I owe you no gratitude for your
confidence. I happened to know a Jew who was willing to give cash for
the notes and bills of exchange; and you trusted them to me because it
was the only way to get them turned into cash."

The landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' nodded a surly assent to this rather
cynical statement.

"I saw my friend the Jew, and made a very decent bargain," resumed
Milsom. "I hid the money in a convenient place, intending to bring you
your share at the earliest opportunity. I was lagged that very night,
and had no chance of touching the cash after I had once stowed it away.
So, you see, it was no fault of mine that you didn't get the money."

"Humph!" muttered Mr. Wayman. "It has been rather hard lines for me to
be kept out of it so long. And now you have come back, I suppose you
can take me at once to the hiding place. I want money very badly just
now."

"Do you?" said Thomas Milsom, with a sneer. "That's a complaint you're
rather subject to, isn't it--the want of money? Now, as I've answered
your questions, perhaps you'll answer mine. Has there been much stir
down this way while I've been over the water?"

"Very little; things have been as dull as they well could be."

"Ah! so _you'll_ say, of course. Can you tell me whether any one has
lived in my old place while my back has been turned?"

The landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' started with a gesture of alarm.

"It wasn't _there_ you hid the money, was it?" he asked, eagerly.

"Suppose it was, what then?"

"Why every farthing of it is lost. The place has been taken by a man,
who has pulled the best part of it down, and rebuilt it. If you hid
your money _there_, there's little chance of your ever seeing it
again," said Wayman.

Black Milsom's dark face grew livid, as he started from his chair and
dragged on the crater coat which he had taken off on entering the room.

"It would be like my luck to lose that money," he said; "it would be
just like my luck. Come, Wayman. What are you staring at, man?" he
cried impatiently. "Come."

"Where?"

"To my old place. You can tell me all about the changes at we go. I
must see to this business at once."

The moon was shining over the masts and rigging in the Pool, and over
the house-tops of Bermondsey and Wapping, as Black Milsom and his
companion started on their way to the old house by the water.

They went, as on a former occasion, in that vehicle which Mr. Wayman
called his trap; and as they drove along the lonely road, across the
marshy flat by the river, Dennis Wayman told his companion what had
happened in his absence.

"For a year the house stood empty," he said; "but at the end of that
time an old sea-captain took a fancy to it because of the water about
it, and the view of the Pool from the top windows. He bought it, and
pulled it almost all to pieces, rebuilt it, and I doubt if there is any
of the old house standing. He has made quite a smart little place of
it. He's a queer old chap, this Cap'en Duncombe, I'm told, and rather a
tough customer."

"I'll see the inside of his house, however tough he may be," answered
Milsom, in a dogged tone. "If he's a tough customer, he'll find me a
tougher. Has he got any family?"

"One daughter--as pretty a girl as you'll see within twenty miles of
London!"

"Well, we'll go and have a look at his place to-night. We'd better put
up your trap at the 'Pilot Boat.'"

Mr. Wayman assented to the wisdom of this arrangement. The "Pilot Boat"
was a dilapidated-looking, low-roofed little inn, where there were some
tumble-down stables, which were more often inhabited by bloated grey
water-rats than by horses. In these stables Mr. Wayman lodged his pony
and vehicle, while he and Milsom walked on to the cottage.

"Why I shouldn't have known the place!" cried Milsom, as his companion
pointed to the captain's habitation.

The transformation was, indeed, complete. The dismal dwelling, which
had looked as if it were, in all truth, haunted by a ghost, had been
changed into one of the smartest little cottages to be seen in the
suburbs of eastern London.

The ditch had been narrowed and embanked, and two tiny rustic bridges,
of fantastical wood-work, spanned its dark water. The dreary pollard-
willows had vanished, and evergreens occupied their places. The black
rushes had been exchanged for flowers. A trim little garden appeared
where all had once been waste ground; and a flag-staff, with a bit of
bunting, gave a naval aspect to the spot.

All was dark; not one glimmer of light to be seen in any of the
windows.

The garden was secured by an iron gate, and surrounded by iron rails on
all sides, except that nearest the river. Here, the only boundary was a
hedge of laurels, which were still low and thin; and here Dennis Wayman
and his companion found easy access to the neatly-kept pleasure-ground.

With stealthy footsteps they invaded Captain Duncombe's little domain,
and walked slowly round the house, examining every door and window as
they went.

"Is the captain a rich man?" asked Milsom.

"Yes; I believe he's pretty well off--some say uncommonly well off. He
spent over a thousand pounds on this place."

"Curse him for his pains!" returned Black Milsom, savagely. "He knows
how to take care of his property. It would be a very clever burglar
that would get into that house. The windows are all secured with
outside shutters, that seem as solid as if they were made of iron, and
the doors don't yield the twentieth part of an inch."

Then, after completing his examination of the house, Milsom exclaimed,
in the same savage tone--

"Why, the man has swept away every timber of the place I lived in."

"I told you as much," answered Wayman; "I've heard say there was
nothing left of old Screwton's house but a few solid timbers and a
stack of chimneys."

Screwton was the name of the miser whose ghost had been supposed to
haunt the old place.

Black Milsom gave a start as Dennis uttered the words "stack of
chimneys."

"Oh!" he said, in an altered tone; "so they left the chimney-stack, did
they?"

Mr. Wayman perceived that change of tone.

"I begin to understand," he said; "you hid that money in one of the
chimneys."

"Never you mind where I hid it. There's little chance of its being
found there, after bricklayers pulling the place to pieces. I must get
into that house, come what may."

"You'll find that difficult," answered Wayman.

"Perhaps. But I'll do it, or my name's not Black Milsom."

* * * * *

Captain Joseph Duncombe, or Joe Duncombe, as he generally called
himself, was a burly, rosy-faced man of fifty years of age; a hearty,
honest fellow. He was a widower, with only one child, a daughter, whom
he idolized.

Any father might have been forgiven for being devotedly fond of such a
daughter as Rosamond Duncombe.

Rosamond was one of those light-hearted, womanly creatures who seem
born to make home a paradise. She had a sweet temper; a laugh which was
like music; a manner which was fascination itself.

When it is also taken into consideration that she had a pretty little
nose, lips that were fresh and rosy as ripe red cherries, cheeks that
were like dewy roses, newly-gathered, and large, liquid eyes, of the
deepest, clearest blue, it must be confessed that Rosamond Duncombe was
a very charming girl.

If Joseph Duncombe doted on this bright-haired, blue-eyed daughter, his
love was not unrecompensed. Rosamond idolized her father, whom she
believed to be the best and noblest of created beings.

Rosamond's remembrance of her mother was but shadowy. She had lost that
tender protector at a very early age.

Within the last year and a half her father had retired from active
service, after selling his vessel, the "Vixen," for a large price, so
goodly a name had she borne in the merchant service.

This retirement of Captain Duncombe's was a sacrifice which he made for
his beloved daughter.