Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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Mr. Hawkins gave a sinister laugh.

"Don't you be afraid of that, sir. 'Wild Buffalo' will be fresh enough,
you may depend," he said.

"I hope he may," replied Carrington, calmly. "When you reach Frimley
Common--it's little more than a village--go to the best inn you find
there, and wait till you either see me, or hear from me. You
understand?"

"Yes, guv'nor."

"Good; and now, good-night."

With this Carrington left the "Goat and Compasses." As he went out of
the public-house, an elderly man, in the dress of a mechanic, who had
been lounging in the bar, followed him into the street, and kept behind
him until he entered Hyde Park, to cross to the Edgware Road; there the
man fell back and left him.

"He's going home, I suppose," muttered the man; "and there's nothing
more for me to do to-night."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XXI.

DOWN IN DORSETSHIRE.

There were two inns in the High Street of Frimley. The days of mail-
coaches were not yet over, and the glory of country inns had not
entirely departed. Several coaches passed through Frimley in the course
of the day, and many passengers stopped to eat and drink and refresh
themselves at the quaint old hostelries; but it was not often that the
old-fashioned bed-chambers were occupied, even for one night, by any
one but a commercial traveller; and it was a still rarer occurrence for
a visitor to linger for any time at Frimley.

There was nothing to see in the place; and any one travelling for
pleasure would have chosen rather to stay in the more picturesque
village of Hallgrove.

It was therefore a matter of considerable surprise to the landlady of
the "Rose and Crown," when a lady and her maid alighted from the
"Highflyer" coach and demanded apartments, which they would be likely
to occupy for a week or more.

The lady was so plainly attired, in a dress and cloak of dark woollen
stuff, and the simplest of black velvet bonnets, that it was only by
her distinguished manner, and especially graceful bearing, that Mrs.
Tippets, the landlady, was able to perceive any difference between the
mistress and the maid.

"I am travelling in Dorsetshire for my health," said the lady, who was
no other than Honoria Eversleigh, "and the quiet of this place suits
me. You will be good enough to prepare rooms for myself and my maid."

"You would like your maid's bed-room to be adjoining your own, no
doubt, madam?" hazarded the landlady.

"No," answered Honoria; "I do not wish that; I prefer entire privacy in
my own apartment."

"As you please, madam--we have plenty of bedrooms."

The landlady of the "Rose and Crown" ushered her visitors into the best
sitting-room the house afforded--an old-fashioned apartment, with a
wide fire-place, high wooden mantel-piece, and heavily-timbered
ceiling--a room which seemed to belong to the past rather than the
present.

Lady Eversleigh sat by the table in a thoughtful attitude, while the
fire was being lighted and a tray of tea-things arranged for that
refreshment which is most welcome of all others to an Englishwoman.
Jane Payland stood by the opposite angle of the mantel-piece, watching
her mistress with a countenance almost as thoughtful as that of Honoria
herself.

It was in the wintry dusk that these two travellers arrived at Frimley.
Jane Payland walked to one of the narrow, old-fashioned windows, and
looked out into the street, where lights were burning dimly here and
there.

"What a strange old place, ma'am," she said.

Honoria had forbidden her to say "my lady" since their departure from
Raynham.

"Yes," her mistress answered, absently; "it is a world-forgotten old
place."

"But the rest and change will, no doubt, be beneficial, ma'am," said
Miss Payland, in her most insinuating tone; "and I am sure you must
require change and fresh country air after being pent up in a London
street."

Lady Eversleigh shook off her abstraction of manner, and turned towards
her servant, with a calm, serious gaze.

"I want change of scene, and the fresh breath of country air, Jane,"
she said, gravely; "but it is not for those I came to Frimley, and you
know that it is not. Why should we try to deceive each other? The
purpose of my life is a very grave one; the secret of my coming and
going is a very bitter secret, and if I do not choose to share it with
you, I withhold nothing that you need care to know. Let me play my part
unwatched and unquestioned. You will find yourself well rewarded by and
by for your forbearance and devotion. Be faithful to me, my good girl;
but do not try to discover the motive of my actions, and believe, even
when they seem most strange to you, that they are justified by one
great purpose."

Jane Payland's eyelids drooped before the serious and penetrating gaze
of her mistress.

"You may feel sure of my being faithful, ma'am," she answered,
promptly; "and as to curiosity, I should be the very last creature upon
this earth to try to pry into your secrets."

Honoria made no reply to this protestation. She took her tea in
silence, and seemed as if weighed down by grave and anxious thoughts.
After tea she dismissed Jane, who retired to the bed-room allotted to
her, which had been made very comfortable, and enlivened by a wood
fire, that blazed cheerily in the wide grate.

Jane Payland's bedroom opened out of a corridor, at the end of which
was the door of the sitting-room occupied by Honoria. Jane was,
therefore, able to keep watch upon all who went to and fro from the
sitting-room to the other part of the house. She sat with her door a
little way open for this purpose.

"My lady expects some one to-night, I know," she thought to herself, as
she seated herself at a little table, and began some piece of fancy-
work.

She had observed that during tea Lady Eversleigh had twice looked at
her watch. Why should she be so anxious about the time, if she were not
awaiting some visitor, or message, or letter?

For a long time Jane Payland waited, and watched, and listened, without
avail. No one went along the corridor to the blue parlour, except the
chambermaid who removed the tea-things.

Jane looked at her own watch, and found that it was past nine o'clock.
"Surely my lady can have no visitor to-night?" she thought.

A quarter of an hour after this, she was startled by the creaking sound
of a footstep on the uncarpeted floor of the corridor. She rose hastily
and softly from her chair, crept to the door, and peeped put into the
passage. As she did so, she saw a man approaching, dressed like a
countryman, in a clumsy frieze coat, and with his chin so muffled in a
woollen scarf, and his felt hat drawn so low over his eyes, that there
was nothing visible of him but the end of a long nose.

That long, beak-like nose seemed strangely familiar to Miss Payland;
and yet she could not tell where she had seen it before.

The countryman went straight to the blue parlour, opened the door, and
went in. The door closed behind him, and then Jane Payland heard the
faint sound of voices within the apartment.

It was evident that this countryman was Lady Eversleigh's expected
guest.

Jane's wonderment was redoubled by this extraordinary proceeding.

"What does it all mean?" she asked herself. "Is this man some humble
relation of my lady's? Everyone knows that her birth was obscure; but
no one can tell where she came from. Perhaps this is her native place,
and it is to see her own people she comes here."

Jane was obliged to be satisfied with this explanation, for no other
was within her reach; but it did not altogether allay her curiosity.
The interview between Lady Eversleigh and her visitor was a long one.
It was half-past ten o'clock before the strange-looking countryman
quitted the blue parlour.

This occurred three days before Christmas-day. On the following evening
another stranger arrived at Frimley by the mail-coach, which passed
through the quiet town at about seven o'clock.

This traveller did not patronise the "Rose and Crown" inn, though the
coach changed horses at that hostelry. He alighted from the outside of
the coach while it stood before the door of the "Rose and Crown,"
waited until his small valise had been fished out of the boot, and then
departed through the falling snow, carrying this valise, which was his
only luggage.

He walked at a rapid pace to the other end of the long, straggling
street, where there was a humbler inn, called the "Cross Keys." Here he
entered, and asked for a bed-room, with a good fire, and something or
other in the way of supper.

It was not till he had entered the room that the traveller took off the
rough outer coat, the collar of which had almost entirely concealed his
face. When he did so, he revealed the sallow countenance of Victor
Carrington, and the flashing black eyes, which to-night shone with a
peculiar brightness.

After he had eaten a hasty meal, he went out into the inn-yard, despite
the fast-falling snow, to smoke a cigar, he said, to one of the
servants whom he encountered on his way.

He had not been long in the yard, when a man emerged from one of the
adjacent buildings, and approached him in a slow and stealthy manner.

"All right, guv'nor," said the man, in a low voice; "I've been on the
look-out for you for the last two days."

The man was Jim Hawkins, Mr. Spavin's groom.

"Is 'Wild Buffalo' here?" asked Victor.

"Yes, sir; as safe and as comfortable as if he'd been foaled here."

"And none the worse for his journey?"

"Not a bit of it, sir. I brought him down by easy stages, knowing you
wanted him kept fresh. And fresh he is--oncommon. P'raps you'd like to
have a look at him."

"I should."

The groom led Mr. Carrington to a loose box, and the surgeon had the
pleasure of beholding the bay horse by the uncertain light of a stable
lantern.

The animal was, indeed, a noble specimen of his race.

It was only in the projecting eye-ball, the dilated nostril, the
defiant carriage of the head, that his evil temper exhibited itself.
Victor Carrington stood at a little distance from him, contemplating
him in silence for some minutes.

"Have you ever noticed that spot?" asked Victor, presently, pointing to
the white patch inside the animal's hock.

"Well, sir, one can't help noticing it when one knows where to look for
it, though p'raps a stranger mightn't see it. That there spot's a kind
of a blemish, you see, to my mind; for, if it wasn't for that, the
brute wouldn't have a white hair about him."

"That's just what I've been thinking," answered Victor. "Now, my friend
is just the sort of man to turn up his nose at a horse with anything in
the way of a blemish about him, especially if he sees it before he has
tried the animal, and found out his merits. But I've hit upon a plan
for getting the better of him, and I want you to carry it out for me."

"I'm your man, guv'nor, whatever it is."

The surgeon produced a phial from his pocket, and with the phial a
small painters' brush.

"In this bottle there's a brown dye," he said; "and I want you to paint
the white spot with that brown dye after you've groomed the 'Buffalo,'
so that whenever my friend comes to claim the horse the brute may be
ready for him. You must apply the dye three or four times, at short
intervals. It's a pretty fast one, and it'll take a good many pails of
water to wash it out."

Jim Hawkins laughed heartily at the idea of this manoeuvre.

"Why you are a rare deep one, guv'nor," he exclaimed; "that there game
is just like the canary dodge, what they do so well down Seven Dials
way. You ketches yer sparrer, and you paints him a lively yeller, and
then you sells him to your innocent customer for the finest canary as
ever wabbled in the grove--a little apt to be mopish at first, but
warranted to sing beautiful as soon as ever he gets used to his new
master and missus. And, oh! don't he just sing beautiful--not at all
neither."

"There's the bottle, Hawkins, and there's the brush. You know what
you've got to do."

"All right, guv'nor."

"Good night, then," said Victor, as he left the stable.

He did not stay to finish his cigar under the fast-falling snow; but
walked back to his own room, where he slept soundly.

He was astir very early the next morning. He went down stairs, after
breakfasting in his own room, saw the landlord, and hired a good strong
horse, commonly used by the proprietor of the "Cross Keys" on all his
journeys to and from the market-town and outlying villages.

Victor Carrington mounted this horse, and rode across the Common to the
village of Hallgrove.

He stopped to give his horse a drink of water before a village inn, and
while stopping to do this he asked a few questions of the ostler.

"Whereabouts is Hallgrove Rectory?" he asked.

"About a quarter of a mile farther on, sir," answered the man; "you
can't miss it if you keep along that road. A big red house, by the side
of a river."

"Thanks. This is a great place for hunting, isn't it?"

"Yes, that it be, sir. The Horsley foxhounds are a'most allus meeting
somewheres about here."

"When do they meet next?"

"The day arter to-morrow--Boxing-day, sir. They're to meet in the field
by Hallgrove Ferry, a mile and a quarter beyond the rectory, at ten
o'clock in the morning. It's to be a reg'lar grand day's sport, I've
heard say. Our rector is to ride a new horse, wot's been given to him
by his brother."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, sir; I war down at the rectory stables yesterday arternoon, and
see the animal--a splendid bay, rising sixteen hands."

Carrington turned his horse's head in the direction of Hallgrove
Rectory. He knew enough of the character of Lionel Dale to be aware
that no opposition would be made to his loitering about the premises.
He rode boldly up to the door, and asked for the rector. He was out,
the servant said, but would the gentleman walk in and wait, or would he
leave his name. Mr. Dale would be in soon; he had gone out with Captain
and Miss Graham. Victor Carrington smiled involuntarily as he heard
mention made of Lydia. "So you are here, too," he thought; "it is just
as well you should not see me on this occasion, as I am not helping
your game now, as I did in the case of Sir Oswald, but spoiling it."

No, the stranger gentleman thanked the man; he would not wait to see
Mr. Dale (he had carefully ascertained that he was out before riding up
to the house); but if the servant would show him the way, he would be
glad, to get out on the lower road; he understood the rectory grounds
opened upon it, at a little distance from the house. Certainly the man
could show him--nothing easier, if the gentleman would take the path to
the left, and the turn by the shrubbery, he would pass by the stables,
and the lower road lay straight before him. Victor Carrington complied
with these directions, but his after-conduct did not bear out the
impression of his being in a hurry, which his words and manner had
conveyed to the footman. It was at least an hour after he had held the
above-mentioned colloquy, when Victor Carrington, having made himself
thoroughly acquainted with the topography of the rector's premises,
issued from a side-gate, and took the lower road, leading back to
Frimley.

Then he went straight to the stable-yard, saw Mr. Spavin's groom, and
dismissed him.

"I shall take the 'Buffalo' down to my friend's place this afternoon,"
he said to Hawkins. "Here's your money, and you can get back to London
as soon as you like. I think my friend will be very well pleased with
his bargain."

"Ay, ay," said Mr. Hawkins, whose repeated potations of execrable
brandy had rendered him tolerably indifferent to all that passed around
him, and who was actuated by no other feeling than a lively desire to
obtain, the future favours of a liberal employer; "he's got to take
care of hisself, and we've got to take care of ourselves, and that's
all about it."

And then Mr. Hawkins, with something additional to the stipulated
reward in his pocket, and a pint bottle of his favourite stimulant to
refresh him on the way, took himself off, and Carrington saw no more of
him. The people about the inn saw very little of Carrington, but it was
with some surprise that the ostler received his directions to saddle
the horse which stood in the stable, just when the last gleam of the
short winter's daylight was dying out on Christmas-day. Carrington had
not stirred beyond the precincts of the inn all the morning and
afternoon. The strange visitor was all uninfluenced either by the
devotional or the festive aspects of the season. He was quite alone,
and as he sat in his cheerless little bedroom at the small country inn,
and brooded, now over a pocket volume, thickly noted in his small, neat
handwriting, now over the plans which were so near their
accomplishment, he exulted in that solitude--he gave loose to the
cynicism which was the chief characteristic of his mind. He cursed the
folly of the idiots for whom Christmas-time had any special meaning,
and secretly worshipped his own idols--money and power.

The horse was brought to him, and Carrington mounted him without any
difficulty, and rode away in the gathering gloom. "Wild Buffalo" gave
him no trouble, and he began to feel some misgivings as to the truth of
the exceedingly bad character he had received with the animal.
Supposing he should not be the unmanageable devil he was
represented,--supposing all his schemes came to grief, what then? Why,
then, there were other ways of getting rid of Lionel Dale, and he
should only be the poorer by the purchase of a horse. On the other
hand, "Wild Buffalo," plodding along a heavy country road, almost in
the dark, and after the probably not too honestly dispensed feeding of
a village inn, which Carrington had not personally superintended, was
no doubt a very different animal to what he might be expected to prove
himself in the hunting-field. Pondering upon these probabilities,
Victor Carrington rode slowly on towards Hallgrove. He had taken
accurate observations; he had nicely calculated time and place. All the
servants, tenants, and villagers were gathered together under Lionel
Dale's hospitable roof. To the feasting had succeeded games and
story-telling, and the absorbing gossip of such a reunion. That which
Victor Carrington had come to do, he did successfully; and when he
returned to his inn, and gave over his horse to the care of the ostler,
no one but he, not even the man who was there listening to every word
spoken among the servants at the rectory, and eagerly scanning every
face there, knew that "Niagara" was in the inn-stable, and "Wild
Buffalo" in the stall at Hallgrove.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XXII.

ARCH-TRAITOR WITHIN, ARCH-PLOTTER WITHOUT.

The guests at Hallgrove Rectory this Christmas-time were Douglas Dale,
Sir Reginald Eversleigh, a lady and gentleman called Mordaunt, and
their two pretty, fair-faced daughters, and two other old friends of
the rector's, one of whom is very familiar to us.

Those two were Gordon Graham and his sister Lydia--the woman whose
envious hatred had aided in that vile scheme by which Sir Oswald
Eversleigh's happiness had been suddenly blighted. The Dales and Gordon
Graham had been intimate from boyhood, when they had been school-
fellows at Eton. Since Sir Oswald's death had enriched the two
brothers, Gordon Graham had taken care that his acquaintance with them
should not be allowed to lapse, but should rather be strengthened. It
was by means of his manoeuvring that the invitation for Christmas had
been given, and that he and his sister were comfortable domiciled for
the winter season beneath the rector's hospitably roof.

Gordon Graham had been very anxious to secure this invitation. Every
day that passed made him more and more anxious that his sister should
make a good marriage. Her thirtieth birthday was alarmingly near at
hand. Careful as she was of her good looks, the day must soon come when
her beauty would fade, and she would find herself among the ranks of
confirmed old maids.

If Gordon Graham found her a burden now, how much greater burden would
she be to him then! As the cruel years stole by, and brought her no
triumph, no success, her temper grew more imperious, while the quarrels
which marred the harmony of the brother and sister's affection became
more frequent and more violent.

Beyond this one all-sufficient reason, Gordon Graham had his own
selfish motives for seeking to secure his sister a rich husband. The
purse of a wealthy brother-in-law must, of course, be always more or
less open to himself; and he was not the man to refrain from obtaining
all he could from such a source.

In Lionel Dale he saw a man who would be the easy victim of a woman's
fascinations, the generous dupe of an adventurer. Lionel Dale was,
therefore, the prize which Lydia should try to win.

The brother and sister were in the habit of talking to each other very
plainly.

"Now, Lydia," said the captain, after he had read Lionel Dale's letter
for the young lady's benefit, "it will be your fault if you do not come
back from Hallgrove the affianced wife of this man. There was a time
when you might have tried for heavier stakes; but at thirty, a husband
with five thousand a year is not to be sneezed at."

"You need not be so fond of reminding me of my age," Lydia returned
with a look of anger. "You seem to forget that you are five years my
senior."

"I forget nothing, my dear girl. But there is no parallel between your
case and mine. For a man, age is nothing--for a woman, everything; and
I regret to be obliged to remember that you are approaching your
thirtieth birthday. Fortunately, you don't look more than seven-and-
twenty; and I really think, if you play your cards well, you may secure
this country rector. A country rector is not much for a woman who has
set her cap at a duke, but he is better than nothing; and as the case
is really growing rather desperate, you must play your cards with
unusual discrimination this time, Lydia. You must, upon my word."

"I am tired of playing my cards," answered Miss Graham, contemptuously.
"It seems as if life was always to be a losing game for me, let me play
my cards how I will. I begin to think there is a curse upon me, and
that no act of mine will ever prosper. Who was that man, in your Greek
play, who guessed some inane conundrum, and was always getting into
trouble afterwards? I begin to think there really is a fatality in
these things."

She turned away from her brother impatiently, and seated herself at her
piano. She played a few bars of a waltz with a listless air, while the
captain lighted a cigar, and stepped out upon the little balcony,
overhanging the dull, foggy street.

The brother and sister occupied lodgings in one of the narrow streets
of Mayfair. The apartments were small, shabbily furnished,
inconvenient, and expensive; but the situation was irreproachable, and
the haughty Lydia could only exist in an irreproachable situation.

Captain Graham finished his cigar, and went out to his club, leaving
his sister alone, discontented, gloomy, sullen, to get through the day
as best she might.

The time had been when the prospect of a visit to Hallgrove Rectory
would have seemed very pleasant to her. But that time was gone. The
haughty spirit was soured by disappointment, the selfish nature
embittered by defeat.

There was a glass over the mantel-piece. Lydia leaned her arms upon the
marble slab, and contemplated the dark face in the mirror.

It was a handsome face: but a cloud of sullen pride obscured its
beauty.

"I shall never prosper," she said, as she looked at herself. "There is
some mysterious ban upon me, and on my beauty. All my life I have been
passed by for the sake of women in every attribute my inferiors. If I
was unloved in the freshness of my youth and beauty, how can I expect
to be loved now, when youth is past and beauty is on the wane? And yet
my brother expects me to go through the old stage-play, in the futile
hope of winning a rich husband!"

She shrugged her shoulders with a contemptuous gesture, and turned away
from the glass. But, although she affected to despise her brother's
schemes, she was not slow to lend herself to them. She went out that
morning, and walked to her milliner's house. There was a long and
rather an unpleasant interview between the milliner and her customer,
for Lydia Graham had sunk deeper in the mire of debt with every passing
year, and it was only by the payment of occasional sums of money on
account that she contrived to keep her creditors tolerably quiet.

The result of to-day's interview was the same as usual. Madame Susanne,
the milliner, agreed to find some pretty dresses for Miss Graham's
Christmas visit--and Miss Graham undertook to pay a large instalment of
an unreasonable bill without inspection or objection.

On this snowy Christmas morning Miss Graham stood by the side of her
host, dressed in the stylish walking costume of dark gray poplin, and
with her glowing face set off by a bonnet of blue velvet, with soft
gray plumes. Those were the days in which a bonnet was at once the
aegis and the sanctuary of beauty. If you offended her, she took refuge
in her bonnet. The police-courts have only become odious by the clamour
of feminine complainants since the disappearance of the bonnet. It was
awful as the helmet of Minerva, inviolable as the cestus of Diana. Nor
was the bonnet of thirty-years ago an unbecoming headgear--a pretty
face never looked prettier than when dimly seen in the shadowy depths
of a coal-scuttle bonnet.