Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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The desk was a large old-fashioned piece of furniture, which stood in
the corner of Captain Duncombe's favourite sitting-room.

"But how am I to open this ponderous piece of machinery?" asked George.
"It seems to be locked."

"It is locked," answered his wife. "Luckily I happen to have a key
which precisely fits it. There, sir, is the key; and now I leave you to
devote yourself to business, while I go to see about dinner."

She held up her pretty rosy lips to be kissed, and then tripped away,
leaving the captain to achieve a duty for which he had no particular
relish.

He unlocked the desk, and found a quire of letter-paper. He dipped a
pen in ink, tried it, and then began to write.

He wrote, "_London, July 20th_," and "_My Dear Boyd_;" and having
written thus much, he came to a stop. The easiest part of the letter
was finished.

Captain Jernam sat with his elbows resting on the table, looking
straight before him, in pure absence of mind. As he did so, his eyes
were caught suddenly by an object lying amongst the pens and pencils in
the tray before him.

That object was a bent gold coin.

His face grew pale as he snatched up the coin, and examined it closely.
It was a small Brazilian coin, bent and worn, and on one side of it was
scratched the initial "_G_."

That small battered coin was very familiar to George Jernam's gaze, and
it was scarcely strange if the warm life-blood ebbed from his cheeks,
and left them ashy pale.

The coin was a keepsake which he had given to his murdered brother,
Valentine, on the eve of their last parting.

And he found it here--here, in Joseph Duncombe's desk!

For some moments he sat aghast, motionless, powerless even to think. He
could not realize the full weight of this strange discovery. He could
only remember the warm breath of the tropical night on which he and his
brother had bidden each other farewell--the fierce light of the
tropical stars beneath which they had stood when they parted.

Then he began to ask himself how that farewell token, the golden coin,
which he had taken from his pocket in that parting hour, and upon which
he had idly scratched his own initial, had come into the possession of
Joseph Duncombe.

He was not a man of the world, and he was not able to reason calmly and
logically on the subject of his brother's untimely fate. He shared
Joyce's rooted idea, that the escape of Valentine's murderer was only
temporary, and that, sooner or later, accident would disclose the
criminal.

It seemed now as if the eventful moment had come. Here, on this spot,
near the scene of his brother's disappearance, he came upon this
token--this relic, which told that Valentine had been in some manner
associated with Joseph Duncombe.

And yet Joseph Duncombe and George had talked long and earnestly on the
subject of the murdered sailor's fate, and in all their talk Captain
Duncombe had never acknowledged any acquaintance with its details.

This was strange.

Still more incomprehensible to George Jernam was the fact that
Valentine should have parted with the farewell token, except with his
life, for his last words to his brother had been--

"I'll keep the bit of gold, George, to my dying day, in memory of your
fidelity and love."

There had been something more between these two men than a common
brotherhood: there had been the bond of a joyless childhood spent
together, and their affection for each other was more than the ordinary
love of brothers.

"I don't believe he would have parted with that piece of gold," cried
George, "not if he had been without a sixpence in the world."

"And he was rich. It was the money he carried about him which tempted
his murderer. It was near here that he met his fate--on this very spot,
perhaps. Joyce told me that before my father-in-law built this house,
there was a dilapidated building, which was a meeting-place for the
vilest scoundrels in Ratcliff Highway. But how came that coin in Joseph
Duncombe's desk?--how, unless Joseph Duncombe was concerned in my
brother's murder?"

This idea, once aroused in the mind of George Jernam, was not to be
driven away. It seemed too hideous for reality; but it took possession
of his mind, nevertheless, and he sat alone, trying to shut horrible
fancies out of his brain, but trying uselessly.

He remembered Joseph Duncombe's wealth. Had all that wealth been
honestly won?

He remembered the captain's restlessness--his feverish desire to run
away from a home in which he possessed so much to render life happy.

Might not that eagerness to return to the sailor's wild, roving life
have its root in the tortures of a guilty conscience?

"His very kindness to me may be prompted by a vague wish to make some
paltry atonement for a dark wrong done my brother," thought George.

He remembered Joseph Duncombe's seeming goodness of heart, and wondered
if such a man could possibly be concerned in the darkest crime of which
mankind can be guilty. But he remembered also that the worst and vilest
of men were often such accomplished hypocrites as to remain unsuspected
of evil until the hour when accident revealed their iniquity.

"It is so, perhaps, with this man," thought George Jernam. "That air of
truth and goodness may be but a mask. I know what a master-passion the
greed of gain is with some men. It has doubtless been the passion of
this man's heart. The wretches who lured Valentine Jernam to this house
were tools of Joseph Duncombe's. How otherwise could this token have
fallen into his hands?"

He tried to find some other answer to this question; but he tried in
vain. That little piece of gold seemed to fasten the dark stigma of
guilt upon the absent owner of the house.

"And I have shaken this man's hand!" cried George. "I am the husband of
his daughter. I live beneath the shelter of his roof--in this house,
which was bought perhaps with my brother's blood. Great heavens! it is
too horrible."

For two long hours George Jernam sat brooding over the strange
discovery which had changed the whole current of his life. Rosamond
came and peeped in at the door.

"Still busy, George?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, in a strange, harsh tone, "I am very busy."

That altered voice alarmed the loving wife. She crept into the room,
and stood behind her husband's chair.

"George," she said, "your voice sounded so strange just now; you are
not ill, are you, darling?"

"No, no; I only want to be alone. Go, Rosamond."

The wife could not fail to be just a little offended by her husband's
manner. The pretty rosy lips pouted, and then tears came into the
bright blue eyes.

George Jernam's head was bent upon his clasped hands, and he took no
heed of his wife's sorrow. She could not leave him without one more
anxious question.

"Is there anything amiss with you, George?" she asked.

"Nothing that you can cure."

The harshness of his tone, the coldness of his manner, wounded her
heart. She said no more, but went quietly from the room.

Never before had her beloved George spoken unkindly to her--never
before had the smallest cloud obscured the calm horizon of her married
life.

After this, the dark cloud hung black and heavy over that once happy
household; the sun never shone again upon the young wife's home.

She tried to penetrate the secret of this sudden change, but she could
not do so. She could complain of no unkindness from her husband--he
never spoke harshly to her after that first day. His manner was gentle
and indulgent; but it seemed as if his love had died, leaving in its
place only a pitiful tenderness, strangely blended with sadness and
gloom.

He asked Rosamond several questions about her father's past life; but
on that subject she could tell him very little. She had never lived
with her father until after the building of River View Cottage, and she
knew nothing of his existence before that time, except that he had only
been in England during brief intervals, and that he had always come to
see her at school when he had an opportunity of doing so.

"He is the best and dearest of fathers," she said, affectionately.

George Jernam asked if Captain Duncombe had been in England during that
spring in which Valentine met his death.

After a moment's reflection, Rosamond replied in the affirmative.

"I remember his coming to see me that spring," she said. "He came early
in March, and again in April, and it was then he began first to talk of
settling in England."

"And with that assurance my last hope vanishes," thought George.

He had asked the question in the faint hope of hearing that Joseph
Duncombe was far away from England at the time of the murder.

A fortnight after the discovery of the Brazilian coin, George Jernam
announced to his wife that he was about to leave her. He was going to
the coast of Africa, he said. He had tried to reconcile himself to a
landsman's life, and had found it unendurable.

The blow fell very heavily on poor Rosamond's loving heart.

"We seemed so happy, George, only two short weeks ago," she pleaded.

"Yes," he answered, "I tried to be happy; but you see, the life doesn't
suit me. Tour father couldn't rest in this house, though he had made
himself such a comfortable home. No more can I rest here. There is a
curse upon the house, perhaps," he added, with a bitter laugh.

Rosamond burst into tears.

"Oh, George, you will break my heart," she cried. "I thought our lives
were to be so happy; and now our happiness ends all at once like a
broken dream. It is because you are weary of me, and of my love, that
you are going away. You promised my father that you would remain with
me till his return."

"I did, Rosamond," answered her husband, gravely, "and, as I am an
honest man, I meant to keep that promise! I am not weary of your love--
that is as precious to me as ever it was. But you must not continue to
reside beneath this roof. I tell you there is a curse upon this house,
Rosamond, and neither peace nor happiness can be the lot of those who
dwell within its fatal walls. You must go down to Allanbay, where you
may find kind friends, where you may be happy, dear, while I am away."

"But, George, what is all this mystery?"

"Ask me no questions, Rosamond, for I can answer none. Believe me when
I tell you that you have no share in the change that has come upon me.
My feelings towards you remain unaltered; but within the last few
weeks I have made a discovery which has struck a death-blow to my
happiness. I go out once more a homeless wanderer, because the quiet of
domestic life has become unbearable to me. I want bustle, danger, hard
work. I want to get away from my own thoughts."

Rosamond in vain implored her husband to tell her more than this. He,
so yielding of old, was on this point inflexible.

Before the leaves had begun to fall in the dreary autumn days the
"Albatross" was ready for a new voyage. The first mate took her down to
Plymouth Harbour, there to wait the coming of her captain, who
travelled into Devonshire by mail-coach, taking Rosamond to her future
abode.

At any other time Rosamond would have been delighted with the romantic
beauty of that Devonian village, where her husband had selected a
pleasant cottage for her, near his aunt's abode; but a settled
melancholy had taken possession of the once joyous girl. She had
brooded continually over her husband's altered conduct, and she had at
last arrived at a terrible conclusion.

She believed that he was mad. What but sudden insanity could have
produced so great a change?--a change for which it was impossible to
imagine a cause.

"If he had been absent from me for some time, and had returned an
altered creature, I should not be so much bewildered by the change,"
Rosamond said to herself. "But the transformation occurred in an hour.
He saw no strange visitor; he received no letter. No tidings of any
kind could possibly have reached him. He entered my father's sitting-
room a light-hearted, happy man; he came out of it gloomy and
miserable. Can I doubt that the change is something more than any
ordinary alteration of feeling or character?"

Poor Rosamond remembered having heard of the fatal effects of
sunstrokes--effects which have sometimes revealed themselves long after
the occurrence of the calamity that caused them; and she told herself
that the change in George Jernam's nature must needs be the result of
such a calamity.

She entreated her husband to consult an eminent physician as to the
state of his health; but she dared not press her request, so coldly was
it received.

"Who told you that I was ill?" he asked; "I am not ill. All the
physicians in Christendom could do nothing for me."

After this, Rosamond could say no more. For worlds she would not have
revealed to a stranger her sad suspicion of George Jernam's insanity.
She could only pray that Providence would protect and guide him in his
roving life.

"The excitement and hard work of his existence on board ship may work a
cure," she thought, trying to be hopeful. "It is very possible that the
calm monotony of a landsman's life may have produced a bad effect upon
his brain. I can only trust in Providence--I can only pray night and
day for the welfare of him I love so fondly."

And so they parted. George Jernam left his wife with sadness in his
heart; but it was a kind of sadness in which love had little share.

"I have thought too much of my own happiness," he said to himself, "and
I have left my brother's death unavenged. Have I forgotten the time
when he carried me along the lonely sea-shore in his loving arms? Have
I forgotten the years in which he was father, mother--all the world to
me? No; by heaven! I have not. The time has come when the one thought
of my life must be revenge--revenge upon the murderer of my brother,
whosoever he may be."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XX.

ON GUARD.

Mr. Andrew Larkspur, the police-officer, took up his abode in Percy
Street a week after his interview with Lady Eversleigh.

For a fortnight after he became an occupant of the house in which she
lived, Honoria received no tidings from him. She knew that he went out
early every morning, and that he returned late every night, and this
was all that she knew respecting his movements.

At the end of the fortnight, he came to her late one evening, and
begged to be favoured with an audience.

"I shall want at least two hours of your time, ma'am," he said; "and,
perhaps, you may find it fatiguing to listen to me so late at night. If
you'd rather defer the business till to-morrow morning--"

"I would rather not defer it," answered Lady Eversleigh; "I am ready to
listen to you for as long a time as you choose. I have been anxiously
expecting some tidings of your movements."

"Very likely, ma'am," replied Mr. Larkspur, coolly; "I know you ladies
are given to impatience, as well as Berlin wool work, and steel beads,
and the pianoforte, and such like. But you see, ma'am, there's not a
living creature more unlike a race-horse than a police-officer. And
it's just like you ladies to expect police-officers to be Flying
Dutchmen, in a manner of speaking. I've been a hard worker in my time,
ma'am; but I never worked harder, or stuck to my work better, than I
have these last two weeks; and all I can say is, if I ain't dead-beat,
it's only because it isn't in circumstances to dead-beat me."

Lady Eversleigh listened very quietly to this exordium; but a slight,
nervous twitching of her lips every now and then betrayed her
impatience.

"I am waiting to hear your news," she said, presently.

"And I'm a-going to tell it, ma'am, in due course," returned the
police-officer, drawing a bloated leather book from his pocket, and
opening it. "I've got all down here in regular order. First and
foremost, the baronet--he's a bad lot, is the baronet."

"I do not need to hear that from your lips."

"Very likely not, ma'am. But if you set me to watch a gentleman, you
must expect I shall form an opinion about him. The baronet has lodgings
in Villiers Street, uncommon shabby ones. I went in and took a good
survey of him and his lodgings together, in the character of a
bootmaker, taking home a pair of boots, which was intended for a Mr.
Everfield in the next street, says I, and, of course, Everfield and
Eversleigh being a'most the same names, was calculated to lead to
inconvenient mistakes. In the character of the bootmaker, Sir Reginald
Eversleigh tells me to get out of his room, and be--something
uncommonly unpleasant, and unfit for the ears of ladies. In the
character of the bootmaker, I scrapes acquaintance with a young person
employed as housemaid, and very willing to answer questions, and be
drawed out. From the young person employed as housemaid, I gets what I
take the liberty to call my ground-plan of the baronet's habits;
beginning with his late breakfast, consisting chiefly of gunpowder tea
and cayenne pepper, and ending with the scroop of his latch-key, to be
heard any time from two in the morning to day-break. From the young
person employed as housemaid, I discover that my baronet always spends
his evenings out of doors, and is known to visit a lady at Fulham very
constant, whereby the young person employed as housemaid supposes he is
keeping company with her. From the same young person I obtain the
lady's address--which piece of information the young person has
acquired in the course of taking letters to the post. The lady's
address is Hilton House, Fulham. The lady's name has slipped my young
person's memory, but is warranted to begin with a D."

Mr. Larkspur paused to take breath, and to consult the memoranda in the
bloated leather book.

"Having ascertained this much, I had done with the young person, for
the time being," he continued, glibly; "and I felt that my next
business would be at Hilton House. Here I presented myself in the
character of a twopenny postman; but here I found the servants foreign,
and so uncommonly close that they might as well have been so many
marble monuments, for any good that was to be got out of them. Failing
the servants, I fell back upon the neighbours and the tradespeople; and
from the neighbours and the tradespeople I find out that my foreign
lady's name is Durski, and that my foreign lady gives a party every
night, which party is made up of gentlemen. That is queer, to say the
least of it, thinks I. A lady who gives a party every night, and whose
visitors are all gentlemen, is an uncommonly queer customer. Having
found out this much, my mouth watered to find out more; for a man who
has his soul in his profession takes a pleasure in his work, ma'am; and
if you were to offer to pay such a man double to waste his time, he
couldn't do it. I tried the neighbours, and I tried the tradespeople,
every way; and work 'em how I would, I couldn't get much out of 'em.
You see, ma'am, there's scarcely a human habitation within a quarter of
a mile of Hilton House, so, when I say neighbours, I don't mean
neighbours in the common sense of the word. There might be
assassination going on every night in Hilton House undiscovered, for
there's no one lives near enough to hear the victims' groans; and if
there was anything as good for our trade as pork-pie making out of
murdered human victims going nowadays, ma'am, Hilton House would be the
place where I should look for pork-pies. Well, I was almost beginning
to lose patience, when I sat down in a fancy-stationer's shop to rest
myself. I sat down in this shop because I was really tired, not with
any hope of making use of my time, for I was too far away from Hilton
House to expect any luck in the way of information from the gentleman
behind the counter. However, when a man has devoted his life to
ferreting out information, the habit of ferreting is apt to be very
strong upon him; so I pass the time of day to my fancy-stationer, and
then begins to ferret. 'Madame Durski, at Hilton House yonder, is an
uncommonly handsome woman,' I throw out, by way of an opening.
'Uncommonly,' replies my fancy-stationer, by which I perceive he knows
her. 'A customer of yours, perhaps?' I throw out, promiscuous. 'Yes,'
answers my fancy-stationer. 'A good one, too, I'll be bound,' I throw
out, in a lively, conversational way. My fancy-stationer smiles, and
being accustomed to study smiles, I see significance in his smile. 'A
very good one in _some_ things,' replies my fancy-stationer, laying a
tremendous stress upon the word _some_. 'Oh,' says I, 'gilt-edged note-
paper and cream-coloured sealing-wax, for instance.' 'I don't sell her
a quire of paper in a month,' answers my stationer. 'If she was as fond
of writing letters as she is of playing cards, I think it would be
better for her.' 'Oh, she's fond of card-playing is she?' I ask. 'Yes,'
replies my fancy-stationer, 'I rather think she is. Your hair would
stand on end if I were to tell you how many packs of playing-cards I've
sold her lady-companion within the last three months. The lady-
companion comes here at dusk with a thick black veil over her face, and
she thinks I don't know who she is; but I do know her, and know where
she lives, and whom she lives with.' After this I buy myself a quire of
writing-paper, which I don't want, and I wish my fancy-stationer good
afternoon. 'Oh, oh,' I say to myself when I get outside, 'I know the
meaning of Madame Durski's parties now. Madame Durski's house is a
flash gambling crib, and all those fine gentlemen in cabs and broughams
go there to play cards.'"

"The mistress of a gaming-house!" exclaimed Honoria. "A fitting
companion for Reginald Eversleigh!"

"Just so, ma'am; and a fitting companion for Mr. Victor Carrington
likewise."

"Have you found out anything about _him_?" cried Lady Eversleigh,
eagerly.

"No, ma'am, I haven't. At least, nothing in my way. I've tried his
neighbours, and his tradespeople also, in the character of a postman,
which is respectable, and calculated to inspire confidence. But out of
his tradespeople I can get nothing more than the fact that he is a
remarkably praiseworthy young man, who pays his debts regular, and is
the very best of sons to a highly-respectable mother. There's nothing
much in that, you know, ma'am."

"Hypocrite!" murmured Lady Eversleigh. "A hypocrite so skilled in the
vile arts of hypocrisy that he will contrive to have the world always
on his side. And this is all your utmost address has been able to
achieve?"

"All at present, ma'am; but I live in hopes. And now I've got a bit of
news about the baronet, which I think will astonish you. I've been
improving my acquaintance with the young person employed as housemaid
in Villiers Street for the last fortnight, and I find from her that my
baronet is on very friendly terms with his first cousin, Mr. Dale, of
the Temple."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Honoria. "These two men are the last between whom I
should have imagined a friendship impossible."

"Yes, ma'am; but so it is, notwithstanding. Mr. Douglas Dale,
barrister-at-law, dined with his cousin, Sir Reginald, twice last week;
and on each occasion the two gentlemen left Villiers Street together in
a hack cab, between eight and nine o'clock. My friend, the housemaid,
happened to hear the address given to the cabmen on both occasions; and
on both occasions the address was Hilton House, Fulham."

"Douglas Dale a gambler!" cried Honoria; "the companion of his infamous
cousin! That is indeed ruin."

"Well, certainly, ma'am, it does not seem a very lively prospect for my
friend, D. D.," answered Mr. Larkspur, with irrepressible flippancy.

"Do you know any more respecting this acquaintance?" asked Honoria.

"Not yet, ma'am; but I mean to know more."

"Watch then," she cried; "watch those two men. There is danger for Mr.
Dale in any association with his cousin, Sir Reginald Eversleigh. Do
not forget that. There is peril for him--the deadliest it may be.
Watch them, Mr. Larkspur; watch them by day and night."

"I'll do my duty, ma'am, depend upon it," replied the police officer;
"and I'll do it well. I take a pride in my profession, and to me duty
is a pleasure."

"I will trust you."

"You may, ma'am. Oh, by-the-bye, I must tell you that in this house my
name is Andrews. Please remember that, ma'am."

"Mr. Andrews, lawyer's clerk. The name of Larkspur smells too strong of
Bow Street."

* * * * *

The information acquired by Andrew Larkspur was perfectly correct. An
intimacy and companionship had arisen between Douglas Dale and his
cousin, Reginald Eversleigh, and the two men spent much of their time
together.

Douglas Dale was still the same simple-minded, true-hearted young man
that he had been before his uncle Oswald's death endowed him with an
income of five thousand a year; but with the accession of wealth the
necessity for industry ceased; and instead of a hard-working student,
Douglas became one of the upper million, who have nothing to think of
but the humour of the moment--now Alpine tourist, now Norwegian angler;
anon idler in clubs and drawing-rooms; anon book collector, or amateur
litterateur.