Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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For himself, the life of a seaman had lost none of its attractions. But
when he saw his fair young daughter of an age to leave school, he
determined that she should have a home.

He had made a very comfortable little fortune during five-and-thirty
years of hard service. But he had never made a sixpence the earning of
which he need blush to remember. He was known in the service as a model
of truth and honesty.

Driving about the eastern suburbs of London, he happened one day to
pass that dreary plot of waste ground on which the miser's tumble-down
dwelling had been built. It was a pleasant day in April, and the place
was looking less dreary than usual. The spring sunshine lit up the
broad river, and the rigging of the ships stood out in sharp black
lines against a bright blue sky.

A board against the dilapidated palings announced that the ground was
to be sold.

Captain Duncombe drew up his horse suddenly.

"That's the place for me!" he exclaimed; "close by the old river, whose
tide carried me down to the sea on my first voyage five-and-thirty
years ago--within view of the Pool, and all the brave old ships lying
at anchor. That's the place for me! I'll sweep away that old ramshackle
hovel, and build a smart water-tight little cottage for my pet and me
to live in; and I'll stick the Union Jack on a main-top over our heads,
and at night, when I lie awake and hear the water rippling by, I shall
fancy I'm still at sea."

A landsman would most likely have stopped to consider that the
neighbourhood was lonely, the ground damp and marshy, the approach to
this solitary cross-road through the most disreputable part of London.
Captain Duncombe considered nothing, except two facts--first the river,
then the view of the ships in the Pool.

He drove back to Wapping, where he found the house-agent who was
commissioned to sell old Screwton's dwelling. That gentleman was only
too glad to get a customer for a place which no one seemed inclined to
have on any terms. He named his price. The merchant-captain did not
attempt to make a bargain; but agreed to buy the place, and to give
ready money for it, as soon as the necessary deeds were drawn up and
signed. In a week this was done, and the captain found himself
possessor of a snug little freehold on the banks of the Thames.

He lost no time in transforming the place into an abode of comfort,
instead of desolation. It was only when the transformation was
complete, and Captain Duncombe had spent upwards of a thousand pounds
on his folly, that he became acquainted with the common report about
the place.

Sailors are proverbially superstitious. After hearing that dismal
story, Joseph Duncombe was rather inclined to regret the choice he had
made; but he resolved to keep the history of old Screwton a secret from
his daughter, though it cost him perpetual efforts to preserve silence
on this subject.

In spite of his precaution, Rosamond came to know of the ghost.
Visiting some poor cottagers, about a quarter of a mile from River
View, she heard the whole story--told her unthinkingly by a foolish old
woman, who was amongst the recipients of her charity.

Soon after this, the story reached the ears of the two servants--an
elderly woman, called Mugby, who acted as cook and housekeeper; and a
smart girl, called Susan Trott.

Mrs. Mugby pretended to ridicule the idea of Screwton's ghost.

"I've lived in a many places, and I've heard tell of a many ghostes,"
she said; "but never yet did I set eyes on one, which my opinion is
that, if people will eat cold pork for supper underdone, not to mention
crackling or seasoning, and bottled stout, which is worse, and lies
still heavier on the stomach--unless you take about as much ground
ginger as would lie on a sixpence, and as much carbonate of soda as
would lie on a fourpenny-bit--and go to bed upon it all directly
afterwards, they will see no end of ghostes. I have never trifled with
my digestion, and no ghostes have I ever seen."

The girl, Susan Trott, was by no means so strong-minded. The idea of
Miser Screwton's ghost haunted her perpetually of an evening; and she
would no more have gone out into the captain's pretty little garden
after dark, than she would have walked straight to the mouth of a
cannon.

Rosamond Duncombe affected to echo the heroic sentiments of the
housekeeper, Mrs. Mugby. There never had been such things as ghosts,
and never would be; and all the foolish stories that were told of
phantoms and apparitions, had their sole foundation in the imaginations
of the people who told them.

Such was the state of things in the household of Captain Duncombe at
the time of Black Milsom's return from Van Diemen's Land.

It was within two nights after that return, that an event occurred,
never to be forgotten by any member of Joseph Duncombe's household.

The evening was cold, but fine; the moon, still at its full, shone
bright and clear upon the neat garden of River View Cottage. Captain
Duncombe and his daughter were alone in their comfortable sitting-room,
playing the Captain's favourite game of backgammon, before a cheery
fire. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mugby, had complained all day of a touch of
rheumatism, and had gone to bed after the kitchen tea, leaving Susan
Trott, the smart little parlour-maid, to carry in the pretty pink and
gold china tea-service, and hissing silver tea-kettle, to Miss Rosamond
and her papa in the sitting-room.

Thus it was that, after having removed the tea-tray, and washed the
pretty china cups and saucers, Susan Trott seated herself before the
fire, and set herself to trim a new cap, which was designed for the
especial bewilderment of a dashing young baker.

The dashing young baker had a habit of lingering at the gate of River
View Cottage a good deal longer than was required for the transaction
of his business; and the dashing young baker had more than once hinted
at an honourable attachment for Miss Susan Trott.

Thinking of the baker, and of all the tender things and bright promises
of a happy future which he had murmured in her ear, as they walked home
from church on the last Sunday evening, Susan found the solitary hours
pass quickly enough. She looked up suddenly as the clock struck ten,
and found that she had let the fire burn out.

It was rather an awful sensation to be alone in the lower part of the
house after every one else had gone to bed; but Susan Trott was very
anxious to finish the making of the new cap; so she went back to the
kitchen, and seated herself once more at the table.

She had scarcely taken up her scissors to cut an end of ribbon, when a
low, stealthy tapping sounded on the outer wooden shutter of the window
behind her.

Susan gave a little shriek of terror, and dropped the scissors as if
they had been red-hot. What could that awful sound mean at ten o'clock
at night?

For some moments the little parlour-maid was completely overcome by
terror. Then, all at once, her thoughts flew back to the person whose
image had occupied her mind all that evening. Was it not just possible
that the dashing young baker might have something very particular to
say to her, and that he had come in this mysterious manner to say it?

Again the same low, stealthy tapping sounded on the shutter.

This time Susan Trott plucked up a spirit, took the bright brass
candlestick in her hand, and went to the little door leading from the
scullery to the back garden.

She opened the door and peered cautiously out. No one was to be seen--
that tiresome baker was indulging in some practical joke, no doubt, and
trying to frighten her.

Susan was determined not to be frightened by her sweet-heart's tricks,
so she tripped boldly out into the garden, still carrying the brass
candlestick.

At the first step the wind blew out the candle; but, of course, that
was of very little consequence when the bright moonlight made
everything as clearly visible as at noon.

"I know who it is," cried Susan, in a voice intended to reach the
baker; "and it's a great shame to try and frighten a poor girl when
she's sitting all alone by herself."

She had scarcely uttered the words when the candlestick fell from her
extended hand, and she stood rooted to the gravel pathway--a statue of
fear.

Exactly opposite to her, slowly advancing towards the open door of the
scullery, she saw an awful figure--whose description was too familiar
to her.

There it was. The ghost--the shadowy image of the man who had destroyed
himself in that house. A tall, spectral figure, robed in a long garment
of grey serge; a scarlet handkerchief twisted round the head rendered
the white face whiter by contrast with it.

As this awful figure approached, Susan Trott stepped backwards on the
grass, leaving the pathway clear for the dreadful visitant.

The ghostly form stalked on with slow and solemn steps, and entered the
house by the scullery door. For some minutes Susan remained standing on
the grass, horror-struck, powerless to move. Then all at once feminine
curiosity got the better even of terror, and she followed the phantom
figure into the house.

From the kitchen doorway she beheld the figure standing on the hearth,
his arms stretched above the fireplace, as if groping for something in
the chimney.

Doubtless this had been the miser's hiding-place for his hoarded gold,
and the ghost returned to the spot where the living man had been
accustomed to conceal his treasures.

Susan darted across the hall, and ran upstairs to her master's room.
She knocked loudly on the door, crying,--

"The ghost, master! the ghost! the old miser's ghost is in the
kitchen!"

"What?" roared the captain, starting suddenly from his peaceful
slumbers.

The girl repeated her awful announcement. The captain sprang out of
bed, dressed himself in trousers and dressing-gown, and ran down-
stairs, the girl close behind him.

They were just in time to see the figure, in the red head-gear and long
grey dressing-gown, slowly stalking from the scullery door.

The captain followed the phantom into the garden; but held himself at a
respectful distance from the figure, as it slowly paced along the
smooth gravel pathway leading towards the laurel hedge.

The figure reached the low boundary that divided the garden from the
river bank, crossed it, and vanished amongst the thick white mists that
rose from the water.

Joseph Duncombe trembled. A ghost was just the one thing which could
strike terror to the seaman's bold heart.

When the figure had vanished, Captain Duncombe went to the spot where
it had passed out of the garden.

Here he found the young laurels beaten and trampled down, as if by the
heavy feet of human intruders.

This was strange.

He then went to the kitchen, accompanied by Susan Trott, who, although
shivering like an aspen tree, had just sufficient strength of mind to
find a lucifer and light her candle.

By the light of this candle Captain Buncombe examined the kitchen.

On the hearth, at his feet, he saw something gleaming in the uncertain
light. He stooped to pick up this object, and found that it was a
curious gold coin--a foreign coin, bent in a peculiar manner.

This was even yet more strange.

The captain put the coin in his pocket.

"I'll take good care of this, my girl," he said. "It isn't often a
ghost leaves anything behind him."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XV.

A TERRIBLE RESOLVE.

When the hawthorns were blooming in the woods of Raynham, a new life
dawned in the stately chambers of the castle.

A daughter was born to the beautiful widow-lady--a sweet consoler in
the hour of her loneliness and desolation. Honoria Eversleigh lifted
her heart to heaven, and rendered thanks for the priceless treasure
which had been bestowed upon her. She had kept her word. From the hour
of her husband's death she had never quitted Raynham Castle. She had
lived alone, unvisited, unknown; content to dwell in stately solitude,
rarely extending her walks and drives beyond the boundary of the park
and forest.

Some few of the county gentry would have visited her; but she would not
consent to be visited by a few. Honoria Eversleigh's was a proud
spirit; and until the whole county should acknowledge her innocence,
she would receive no one.

"Let them think of me or talk of me as they please," she said; "I can
live my own life without them."

Thus the long winter months passed by, and Honoria was alone in that
abode whose splendour must have seemed cold and dreary to the
friendless woman.

But when she held her infant in her arms all was changed She looked
down upon the baby-girl, and murmured softly--

"Your life shall be bright and peaceful, dearest, whatever mine may be.
The future looks bleak and terrible for me; but for you, sweet one, it
may be bright and fair."

The young mother loved her child with a passionate intensity; but even
that love could not exclude darker passions from her breast.

There was much that was noble in the nature of this woman; but there
was also much that was terrible. From her childhood she had been gifted
with a power of intellect--a strength of will--that lifted her high
above the common ranks of womanhood.

A fatal passion had taken possession of her soul after the untimely
death of Sir Oswald; and that passion was a craving for revenge. She
had been deeply wronged, and she could not forgive. She did not even
try to forgive. She believed that revenge was a kind of duty which she
owed, not only to herself, but to the noble husband whom she had lost.

The memory of that night of anguish in Yarborough Tower, and that still
darker hour of shame and despair in which Sit Oswald had refused to
believe her innocent, was never absent from the mind of Honoria
Eversleigh. She brooded upon these dark memories. Time could not lessen
their bitterness. Even the soft influence of her infant's love could
not banish those fatal recollections.

Time passed. The child grew and flourished, beautiful to her mother's
enraptured eyes; and yet, even by the side of that fair baby's face
arose the dark image of Victor Carrington.

For a long time the county people had kept close watch upon the
proceedings of the lady at the castle.

The county people discovered that Lady Eversleigh never left Raynham;
that she devoted herself to the rearing of her child as entirely as if
she had been the humblest peasant-woman; and that she expended more
money upon solid works of charity than had ever before been so spent by
any member of the Eversleigh family, though that family had been
distinguished by much generosity and benevolence.

The county people shrugged their shoulders contemptuously. They could
not believe in the goodness of this woman, whose parentage no one knew,
and whom every one had condemned.

She is playing a part, they thought; she wishes to impress us with the
idea that she is a persecuted martyr--a suffering angel; and she hopes
thus to regain her old footing amongst us, and queen it over the whole
county, as she did when that poor infatuated Sir Oswald first brought
her to Raynham. This was what the county people thought; until one day
the tidings flew far and wide that Lady Eversleigh had left the castle
for the Continent, and that she intended to remain absent for some
years.

This seemed very strange; but what seemed still more strange, was the
fact that the devoted mother was not accompanied by her child.

The little girl, Gertrude, so named after the mother of the late
baronet, remained at Raynham under the care of two persons.

These two guardians were Captain Copplestone, and a widow lady of forty
years of age, Mrs. Morden, a person of unblemished integrity, who had
been selected as protectress and governess of the young heiress.

The child was at this time two and a half years of age. Very young, she
seemed, to be thus left by a mother who had appeared to idolize her.

The county people shook their heads. They told each other that Lady
Eversleigh was a hypocrite and an actress. She had never really loved
her child--she had played the part of a sorrowing widow and a devoted
mother for two years and a half, in the hope that by this means she
would regain her position in society.

And now, finding that this was impossible, she had all of a sudden
grown tired of playing her part, and had gone off to the Continent to
spend her money, and enjoy her life after her own fashion.

This was what the world said of Honoria Eversleigh; but if those who
spoke of her could have possessed themselves of her secrets, they would
have discovered something very different from that which they imagined.

Lady Eversleigh left the castle in the early part of November
accompanied only by her maid, Jane Payland.

A strange time of the year in which to start for the Continent, people
said. It seemed still more strange that a woman of Lady Eversleigh's
rank and fortune should go on a Continental journey with no other
attendant than a maid-servant.

If the eyes of the world could have followed Lady Eversleigh, they
would have made startling discoveries.

While it was generally supposed that the baronet's widow was on her way
to Rome or Naples, two plainly-dressed women took possession of
unpretending lodgings in Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road.

The apartments were taken by a lady who called herself Mrs. Eden, and
who required them only for herself and maid. The apartments consisted
of two large drawing-rooms, two bedrooms on the floor above, and a
dressing-room adjoining the best bedroom.

The proprietor of the house was a Belgian merchant, called Jacob
Mulck--a sedate old bachelor, who took a great deal of snuff, and
Disquieted himself very little about the world in general, so long as
life went smoothly for himself.

The remaining occupant of the house was a medical student, who rented
one of the rooms on the third floor. Another room on the same floor was
to let.

Such was the arrangement of the house when Mrs. Eden and her maid took
possession of their apartments.

Mr. Jacob Mulck thought he had never seen such a beautiful woman as his
new lodger, when he entered her apartment, to ascertain whether she was
satisfied with the accommodation provided for her.

She was sitting in the full light of an unshaded lamp as he entered the
room. Her black silk dress was the perfection of simplicity; its sombre
hues relieved only by the white collar which encircled her slender
throat. Her pale face looked of an ivory whiteness, in contrast to the
dark, deep eyes, and arched brows of sombre brown.

The lady pronounced herself perfectly satisfied with all the
arrangements that had been made for her comfort.

"I am in London on business of importance," she said; "and shall,
therefore, receive very little company; but I may have to hold many
interviews with men of business, and I trust that my affairs may not be
made the subject of curiosity or gossip, either in this house or
outside it."

Mr. Mulck declared that he was the last person in the world to talk;
and that his two servants were both elderly women, the very pink of
steadiness and propriety.

Having said this, he took his leave; and as he did so, stole one more
glance at the beautiful stranger.

She had fallen into an attitude which betrayed complete abstraction of
mind. Her elbow rested on the table by her side; her eyes were shaded
by her hand.

Upon that white, slender hand, Jacob Mulck saw diamonds such as are not
often seen upon the fingers of the inhabitants of Percy Street. Mr.
Mulck occasionally dealt in diamonds; and he knew enough about them to
perceive at a glance that the rings worn by his lodger were worth a
small fortune.

"Humph!" muttered Mr. Mulck, as he returned to his comfortable sitting-
room; "those diamonds tell a tale. There's something mysterious about
this lodger of mine. However, my rent will be safe--that's one
comfort."

While the landlord was musing thus, the lodger was employed in a manner
which might well have awakened his curiosity, could he have beheld her
at that moment.

She had fallen on her knees before a low easy-chair--her face buried in
her hands, her slender frame shaken by passionate sobs.

"My child!" she exclaimed, in almost inarticulate murmurs; "my beloved,
my idol!--it is so bitter to be absent from you! so bitter! so bitter!"

* * * * *

Early on the morning after her arrival in London, Honoria Eversleigh,
otherwise Mrs. Eden, went in a cab to the office of an individual
called Andrew Larkspur, who occupied dingy chambers in Lyon's Inn.

The science of the detective officer had not, at that time, reached its
present state of perfection; but even then there were men who devoted
their lives to the work of private investigations, and the elucidation
of the strange secrets and mysteries of social life.

Such a man was Andrew Larkspur, late Bow Street runner, now hanger-on
of the new detective police. He was renowned for his skill in the
prosecution of secret service; and it was rumoured that he had amassed
a considerable fortune by his mysterious employment.

He was not a man who openly sought employers. His services were in
great request among a certain set of people, and he had little idle
time on his hands. His name was painted in dirty white letters on the
black door of his dingy chambers on a fourth story. On this door he
called himself, "_Andrew Larkspur, Commission Agent_."

It will be seen by-and-by how Honoria Eversleigh had become acquainted
with the fact of this man's existence.

She went alone to seek an interview with him. She had found herself
compelled to confide in Jane Payland to a very considerable extent; but
she did not tell that attendant more than she was obliged to tell of
the dark business which had brought her to London.

She was fortunate enough to find Mr. Andrew Larkspur alone, and
disengaged. He was a little, sandy-haired man, of some sixty years of
age, spare and wizened, with a sharp nose, like a beak, and thin, long
arms, ending in large, claw-like hands, that were like the talons of a
bird of prey. Altogether, Mr. Lark spur had very much of the aspect of
an elderly vulture which had undergone partial transformation into a
human being.

Honoria was in no way repelled by the aspect of this man. She saw that
he was clever; and fancied him the kind of person who would be likely
to serve her faithfully.

"I have been informed that you are skilled in the prosecution of secret
investigations," she said; "and I wish to secure your services
immediately. Are you at liberty to devote yourself to the task I wish
to be performed by you?"

Mr. Larkspur was a man who rarely answered even the simplest question
until he had turned the subject over in his mind, and carefully studied
every word that had been said to him.

He was a man who made caution the ruling principle of his life, and he
looked at every creature he encountered in the course of his career as
an individual more or less likely to take him in.

The boast of Mr. Larkspur was, that he never had been taken in.

"I've been very near it more than once," he said to his particular
friends, when he unbent so far as to be confidential.

"I've had some very narrow escapes of being taken in and done for as
neatly as you please. There are some artful dodgers, whose artful
dodging the oldest hand can scarcely guard against; but I'm proud to
say not one of those artful dodgers has ever yet been able to get the
better of me. Perhaps my time is to come, and I shall be bamboozled in
my old age."

Before replying to Honoria's inquiry, Andrew Larkspur studied her from
head to foot, with eyes whose sharp scrutiny would have been very
unpleasant to anyone who had occasion for concealment.

The result of the scrutiny seemed to be tolerably satisfactory, for Mr.
Larkspur at last replied to his visitor's question in a tone which for
him was extremely gracious.

"You want to know whether you can engage my services," he said; "that
depends upon circumstances."

"Upon what circumstances?"

"Whether you will be able to pay me. My hands are very full just now,
and I've about as much business as I can possibly get through."

"I shall want you to abandon all such business, and to devote yourself
exclusively to my service," said Honoria.

"The deuce you will!" exclaimed Mr. Larkspur. "Do you happen to know
what my time is worth?"

Mr. Larkspur looked positively outraged by the idea that any one could
suppose they could secure a monopoly of his valuable services.

"That is a question with which I have no concern," answered Honoria,
coolly. "The work which I require you to do will most likely occupy all
your time, and entirely absorb your attention. I am quite prepared to
pay you liberally for your services, and I shall leave you to name your
own terms. I shall rely on your honour as a man of business that those
terms will not be exorbitant, and I shall accede to them without
further question."

"Humph!" muttered the suspicious Andrew. "Do you know, ma'am, that
sounds almost too liberal? I'm an old stager, ma'am, and have seen a
good deal of life, and I have generally found that people who are ready
to promise so much beforehand, are apt not to give anything when their
work has been done."