Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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"Great heaven!" exclaimed Reginald, "how happy these peasants are--
these brutish creatures who have no care beyond their daily bread!"

He envied them; and at that moment would have exchanged places with the
humblest field-labourer carousing in the rustic tap-room. But it was
only now and then the anguish of a guilty conscience took this shape.
He was a man who loved the pleasures and luxuries of this world better
than he loved peace of mind; better than he loved his own soul.

He drew rein before the inn-door, and called to the people within. A
man came out, and took the bridle as he dismounted.

"What is the name of this place?" he asked.

"Frimley, sir--Frimley Common it's called by rights. But folks call it
Frimley for short."

"How far am I from the river-bank at the bottom of Thorpe Hill?"

"A good six miles, sir."

"Take my horse and rub him down. Give him a pail of gruel and a quart
of oats. I shall want to start again in less than an hour."

"Sharp work, sir," answered the ostler. "Your horse seems to have done
plenty already."

"That is my business," said Sir Reginald, haughtily.

He went into the inn.

"Is there a room in which I can dry my coat?" he asked at the bar.

He had only lately become aware of a drizzling rain which had been
falling, and had soaked through his hunting-coat.

"Were you with the Horsely hounds to-day, sir?" asked the landlord.

"Yes."

"Good sport, sir?"

"No," answered Sir Reginald, curtly.

"Show the way to the parlour, Jane," said the landlord to a
chambermaid, or barmaid, or girl-of-all-work, who emerged from the tap-
room with a tray of earthenware mugs. "There's one gentleman there,
sir; but perhaps you won't object to that, Christmas being such a
particularly busy time," added the landlord, addressing Reginald.
"You'll find a good fire."

"Send me some brandy," returned Sir Reginald, without deigning to make
any further reply to the landlord's apologetic speech.

He followed the girl, who led the way to a door at the end of a
passage, which she opened, and ushered Sir Reginald into a light and
comfortable room.

Before a large, old-fashioned fire-place sat a man, with his face
hidden by the newspaper which he was reading.

Sir Reginald Eversleigh did not condescend to look at this stranger. He
walked straight to the hearth; took off his dripping coat, and hung it
on a chair by the side of the roaring wood fire. Then he flung himself
into another chair, drew it close to the fender, and sat staring at the
fire, with a gloomy face, and eyes which seemed to look far away into
some dark and terrible region beyond those burning logs.

He sat in this attitude for some time, motionless as a statue, utterly
unconscious that his companion was closely watching him from behind the
sheltering newspaper. The inn servant brought a tray, bearing a small
decanter of brandy and a glass. But the baronet did not heed her
entrance, nor did he touch the refreshment for which he had asked.

Not once did he stir till the sudden crackling of his companion's
newspaper startled him, and he lifted his head with an impatient
gesture and an exclamation of surprise.

"You are nervous to-night, Sir Reginald Eversleigh," said the man,
whose voice was still hidden by the newspaper.

The sound of the voice in which those common-place words were spoken
was, at this moment, of all sounds the most hateful to Reginald
Eversleigh.

"You here!" he exclaimed. "But I ought to have known that."

The newspaper was lowered for the first time; and Reginald Eversleigh
found himself face to face with Victor Carrington.

"You ought, indeed, considering I told you you should find me, or hear
from me here, at the 'Wheatsheaf,' in case you wished to do so, or I
wished you should do so either. And I presume you have come by
accident, not intentionally. I had no idea of seeing you, especially at
an hour when I should have thought you would have been enjoying the
hospitality of your kinsman, the rector of Hallgrove."

"Victor Carrington!" cried Reginald, "are you the fiend himself in
human shape? Surely no other creature could delight in crime."

"I do not delight in crime, Reginald Eversleigh; and it is only a man
with your narrow intellect who could give utterance to such an
absurdity. Crime is only another name for danger. The criminal stakes
his life. I value my life too highly to hazard it lightly. But if I can
mould accident to my profit, I should be a fool indeed were I to shrink
from doing so. There is one thing I delight in, my dear Reginald, and
that is success! And now tell me why you are here to-night?"

"I cannot tell you that," answered the baronet. "I came hither,
unconscious where I was coming. There seems a strange fatality in this.
I let my horse choose his own road, and he brought me here to this
house--to you, my evil genius."

"Pray, Sir Reginald, be good enough to drop that high tragedy tone,"
said Victor, with supreme coolness. "It is all very well to be
addressed by you as a fiend and an evil genius once in a way; but upon
frequent repetition, that sort of thing becomes tiresome. You have not
told me why you are wandering about the country instead of eating your
dinner in a Christian-like manner at the rectory?"

"Do you not know the reason, Carrington?" asked the baronet, gazing
fixedly at his companion.

"How should I know anything about it?"

"Because to-day's work has been your doing," answered Reginald,
passionately; "because you are mixed up in the dark business of this
day, as you were mixed up in that still darker treachery at Raynham
Castle. I know now why you insisted upon my choosing the horse called
'Niagara' for my cousin Lionel; I know now why you were so interested
in the appearance of that other horse, which had already caused the
death of more than one rider; I know why you are here, and why Lionel
Dale has disappeared in the course of the day."

"He has disappeared!" exclaimed Victor Carrington; "he is not dead?"

"I know nothing but that he has disappeared. We missed him in the midst
of the hunt. We returned to the rectory in the evening, expecting to
find him there."

"Did _you_ expect that, Eversleigh?"

"Others did, at any rate."

"And did you not find him ?"

"No. We left the house, after a brief delay, to seek for him; I among
the others. We were to ride by different roads; to make inquiries of
every kind; to obtain information from every source. My brain was
dazed. I let my horse take his own road."

"Fool! coward!" exclaimed Victor Harrington, with mingled scorn and
anger. "And you have abandoned your work; you have come here to waste
your time, when you should seem most active in the search--most eager
to find the missing man. Reginald Eversleigh, from first to last you
have trifled with me. You are a villain; but you are a hypocrite. You
would have the reward of guilt, and yet wear the guise of innocence,
even before me; as if it were possible to deceive one who has read you
through and through. I am tired of this trifling; I am weary of this
pretended innocence; and to-night I ask you, for the last time, to
choose the path which you mean to tread; and, once chosen, to tread it
with a firm step, prepared to meet danger--to confront destiny. This
very hour, this very moment, I call upon you to make your decision; and
it shall be a final decision. Will you grovel on in poverty--the worst
of all poverty, the gentleman's pittance? or will you make yourself
possessor of the wealth which your uncle Oswald bequeathed to others?
Look me in the face, Reginald, as you are a man, and answer me, Which
is it to be--wealth or poverty?"

"It is too late to answer poverty," replied the baronet, in a gloomy
and sullen tone. "You cannot bring my uncle back to life; you cannot
undo your work."

"I do not pretend to bring the dead to life. I am not talking of the
past--I am talking of the future."

"Suppose I say that I will endure poverty rather than plunge deeper
into the pit you have dug--what then?"

"In that case, I will bid you good speed, and leave you to your poverty
and--a clear conscience," answered Victor, coolly. "I am a poor man
myself; but I like my friends to be rich. If you do not care to grasp
the wealth which might be yours, neither do I care to preserve our
acquaintance. So we have merely to bid each other good night, and part
company."

There was a pause--Reginald Eversleigh sat with his arms folded, his
eyes fixed on the fire. Victor watched him with a sinister smile upon
his face.

"And if I choose to go on," said Reginald, at last; "if I choose to
tread farther on the dark road which I have trodden so long--what then?
Can you ensure me success, Victor Carrington?"

"I can," replied the Frenchman.

"Then I will go on. Yes; I will be your slave, your tool, your willing
coadjutor in crime and treachery; anything to obtain at last the
heritage out of which I have been cheated."

"Enough! You have made your decision. Henceforward let me hear no
repinings, no hypocritical regrets. And now, order your horse, gallop
back as fast as you can to the neighbourhood of Hallgrove, and show
yourself foremost amongst those who seek for Lionel Dale."

"Yes, yes; I will obey you--I will shake off this miserable hesitation.
I will make my nature iron, as you have made yours."

Sir Reginald rang, and ordered his horse to be brought round to the
door of the inn.

"Where and when shall I see you again?" he asked Victor, as he was
putting on the coat which had hung before the fire to be dried.

"In London, when you return there."

"You leave here soon?"

"To-morrow morning. You will write to me by to-morrow night's post to
tell me all that has occurred in the interval."

"I will do so," answered Reginald.

"Good, and now go; you have already been too long out of the way of
those who should have witnessed your affectionate anxiety about your
cousin."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XXIV.

"I AM WEARY OF MY PART."

Reginald mounted his horse, questioned the ostler respecting the way to
the appointed spot on the river-bank, and rode away in the direction
indicated. He had no difficulty in discovering the scene of the
appointed meeting. The light of the torches in the hands of the
searchers guided him to the spot.

Here he found gentlemen and grooms, huntsmen and farmers, on horseback,
riding up and down the river-bank; some carrying lighted torches, whose
lurid glare shone red against the darkness of the night; all busy, all
excited.

Amongst these the baronet found Douglas Dale, who rode up to meet his
cousin, as the other approached.

"Any news, Reginald?" he asked, in a voice that was hoarse with fatigue
and excitement.

"None," answered Sir Reginald: "I have ridden miles, and made many
inquiries, but have been able to discover no traces. Have you no
tidings?"

"None but evil ones," replied Douglas Dale, in a tone of despair "we
have found a battered hat on the edge of the river--hat which my
brother's valet identifies as that worn by his master. We fear the
worst, Reginald--the very worst. All inquiries have been made in the
village, at every farm-house in the parish, and far beyond the parish.
My brother has been seen nowhere. Since we rode down the hill, it seems
as if no human eye had rested on him. In that moment he vanished as
utterly as if the earth had opened to swallow him up alive."

"What is it that you fear?"

"We fear that he tried to cross the river at some point higher up,
where the stream is swollen to a perilous extent, and that both horse
and rider were swept away by the current."

"In that case both horse and rider must be found--alive or dead."

"Ultimately, perhaps, but not easily," answered Douglas; "the bed of
the stream is a mass of tangled weeds. I have heard Lionel say that men
have been drowned in that river whose bodies have never been
discovered."

"It is horrible!" exclaimed Reginald; "but let us still hope for the
best. All this may be needless misery."

"I fear not, Reginald," answered Douglas; "my brother Lionel is not a
man to be careless about giving anxiety to those who love him."

"I will ride farther along the bank," said the baronet; "I may hear
something."

"And I will wait here," replied Douglas, with the dull apathy of
despair. "The news of my brother's death will reach me soon enough."

Reginald Eversleigh rode on by the river brink, following a group of
horsemen carrying torches. Douglas waited, with his ear on the alert to
catch every sound, his heart beating tumultuously, in the terrible
expectation that each moment would bring him the news he dreaded to
hear.

Endless as that interval of expectation and suspense appeared to
Douglas Dale, in reality it was not of very long duration. The cold of
the winter's night did not affect him, the burning fever of fear
devoured him. Soon he lost sight of the glimmering of the torches, as
the bearers followed the bend of the river, and the sound of the men's
voices died out of his ears. But after a while he heard a shout, then
another, and then two men came running towards him, as fast as they
could in the darkness. Douglas Dale knew them both, and called out,
"What is it, Freeman? What is it, Carey? Bad news, I fear."

"Yes, Mr. Douglas, bad news. We've found the rector's hunting-whip."

"Where?" stammered Douglas.

"Below the bridge, sir, close by the ash-tree; and the bank is broken.
I'm afraid it's all up, sir; if he went in there, the horse and he are
both gone, sir."

Like a man walking in a dream, Douglas Dale accompanied the bearers of
the evil tidings to the spot where the group of searchers was collected
together. In the midst stood Squire Mordaunt, holding in his hand a
heavy hunting-whip, which all present recognized, and many had seen in
the rector's hand only that morning. They all made way for Douglas
Dale; they were very silent now, and hopeless conviction was on every
face.

"This makes it too plain, Douglas," said Squire Mordaunt, as he handed
the whip to the rector's brother; "bear it as well as you can, my dear
fellow. There's nothing to be done now till daylight."

"Nothing more?" said Reginald, while Douglas covered his face, and
groaned in unrestrained anguish; "the drags can surely be used? the--"

"Wait a minute, Sir Reginald," said the squire, holding up his hand;
"of course your impatience is very natural, but it would only defeat
itself. To drag the river by torchlight would be equally difficult and
vain. It shall be done as soon as ever there is light. Till then, there
is nothing for any of us to do but to wait. And first, let us get poor
Douglas home."

Douglas Dale made no resistance; he knew the squire spoke truth and
common-sense. The melancholy group broke up, the members of the rectory
returned to its desolate walls, and Douglas at once shut himself up in
his room, leaving to Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Squire Mordaunt the
task of making all the arrangements for the morrow, and communicating
to the ladies the dire intelligence which must be imparted.

Early in the morning, Squire Mordaunt went to Douglas Dale's room. He
found him stretched upon the bed in his clothes. He had made no change
in his dress, and had evidently intended to prolong his vigil until the
morning, but nature had been exhausted, and in spite of himself
Douglas? Dale slept. His old friend stole softly from the room, and
cautioning the household not to permit him who must now be regarded as
their master to be disturbed, he went out, and proceeded to the search.

Douglas Dale did not awake until nine o'clock, and then, starting up
with a terrible consciousness of sorrow, and a sense of self-reproach
because he had slept, he found Squire Mordaunt standing by his bed. The
good old gentleman took the young man's hand in silence, and pressed it
with a pressure which told all.

They laid the disfigured dead body of him who but yesterday had been
the beloved and honoured master of the house in the library, where he
had received the ineffectual warning of the gipsy. It was while Douglas
Dale was contemplating the pale, still features of his brother, with
grief unutterable, that a servant tapped gently at the door, and called
Mr. Mordaunt out.

"'Niagara' is come home, sir," said the man. "He were found, just now,
on the lower road, a-grazing, and he ain't cut, nor hurt in any way,
sir."

"He's dirty and wet, I suppose?"

"Well, sir, he's dirty, certainly; and the saddle is soaking; but he's
pretty dry, considering."

"Are the girths broken?"

"No, sir, there's nothing amiss with them."

"Very well. Take care of the horse, but say nothing about him to Mr.
Dale at present."

The visitors at Hallgrove Rectory had received the intelligence which
Sir Reginald Eversleigh had communicated to them with the deepest
concern. Arrangements were made for the immediate departure of the
Grahams, and of Mrs. Mordaunt and her daughters. The squire and Sir
Reginald were to remain with Douglas Dale until the painful formalities
of the inquest and the funeral should be completed.

Douglas Dale was not a weak man, and no one more disliked any
exhibition of sentiment than he. Nevertheless, it was a hard task for
him to enter the breakfast-room, and bid farewell to the guests who had
been so merry only yesterday. But it had to be done, and he did it. A
few sad and solemn words were spoken between him and the Mordaunts, and
the girls left the room in tears. Then he advanced to Lydia Graham, who
was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, still, and pale as a marble
statue. There were no tears in her eyes, no traces of tears upon her
cheeks, but in her heart there was angry, bitter, raging
disappointment--almost fury, almost despair.

Douglas Dale could not look at her without seeing that in very truth
the event which was so terrible to him was terrible to her also, and
his manly heart yearned towards the woman whom he had thought but
little of until now; who had perhaps loved, and certainly now was
grieving for, his beloved brother.

"Shall we ever meet again, Mr. Dale?" she said, wonderingly.

"Why should we not?"

"You will not be able to endure England, perhaps, after this terrible
calamity. You will go abroad. You will seek distraction in change of
scene. Men are such travellers now-a-days."

"I shall not leave England, Miss Graham," answered Douglas, quietly; "I
am a man of the world--I venture to hope that I am also a Christian--
and I can nerve myself to endure grief as a Christian and a man of the
world should endure it. My brother's death will make no alteration in
the plan of my life. I shall return to London almost immediately."

"And we may hope to see you in London?"

"Captain Graham and I are members of the same club. We are very likely
to meet occasionally."

"And am I not to see you as well as my brother?" asked Lydia, in a low
voice.

"Do you really wish to see me?"

"Can you wonder that I do so--for the sake of old times. We are friends
of long standing, remember, Mr. Dale."

"Yes," answered Douglas, with marked gravity. "We have known each other
for a long time."

Captain Graham entered the room at this moment.

"The carriage which is to take us to Frimley is ready, Lydia," he said;
"your trunks are all on the roof, and you have only to wish Mr. Dale
good-bye."

"A very sad farewell," murmured Miss Graham. "I can only trust that we
may meet again under happier circumstances."

"I trust we may," replied Douglas, earnestly.

Miss Graham was bonneted and cloaked for the journey. She had dressed
herself entirely in black, in respectful regard of the melancholy
circumstances attending her departure. Nor did she forget that the
sombre hue was peculiarly becoming to her. She wore a dress of black
silk, a voluminous cloak of black velvet trimmed with sables, and a
fashionable bonnet of the same material, with a drooping feather.

Douglas conducted his guests to the carriage, and saw Miss Graham
comfortably seated, with her shawls and travelling-bags on the seat
opposite.

It was with a glance of mournful tenderness that Miss Graham uttered
her final adieu; but there was no responsive glance in the eyes of
Douglas Dale. His manner was serious and subdued; but it was a manner
not easy to penetrate.

Gordon Graham flung himself back in his seat with a despairing groan.

"Well, Lydia," he said, "this accident in the hunting-field has been
the ruin of all our hopes. I really think you are the most unlucky
woman I ever encountered. After angling for something like ten years in
the matrimonial fisheries, you were just on the point of landing a
valuable fish, and at the last moment your husband that is to be goes
and gets drowned during a day's pleasure."

"What should you say if this accident, which you think unlucky, should,
after all, be a fortunate event for us?" asked Lydia, with
significance.

"What the deuce do you mean?"

"How very slow of comprehension you are to-day, Gordon!" exclaimed the
lady, impatiently; "Lionel Dale's income was only five thousand a
year--very little, after all, for a woman with my views of life."

"And with your genius for running into debt," muttered her brother.

"Do you happen to remember the terms of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's will?"
"I should think I do, indeed," replied the captain; "the will was
sufficiently talked about at the time of the baronet's death."

"That will left five thousand a year to each of the two brothers,
Lionel and Douglas. If either should die unmarried, the fortune left to
him was to go to the survivor. Lionel Dale's death doubles Douglas
Dale's income. A husband with ten thousand a year would suit me very
well indeed. And why should I not win Douglas as easily as I won
Lionel?"

"Because you are not likely to have the same opportunities."

"I have asked Douglas to visit us in London."

"An invitation which must be very flattering to him, but which he may
or may not accept. However, my dear Lydia, I have the most profound
respect for your courage and perseverance; and if you can win a husband
with ten thousand a year instead of five, so much the better for you,
and so much the better for me, as I shall have a richer brother-in-law
to whom to apply when I find myself in difficulties."

The carriage had reached Frimley by this time. The brother and sister
took their places in the coach which was to convey them to London.

Lydia drew down her veil, and settled herself comfortably in a corner
of the vehicle, where she slept through the tedium of the journey.

At thirty years of age a woman of Miss Graham's character is apt to be
studiously careful of her beauty; and Lydia felt that she needed much
repose after the fever and excitement of her visit to Hallgrove
Rectory.

* * * * *

Sir Reginald Eversleigh played his part well during the few days in
which he remained at the rectory. No mourner could have seemed more
sincere than he, and everybody agreed that the spendthrift baronet
exhibited an unaffected sorrow for his cousin's fate, which proved him
to be a very noble-hearted fellow, in spite of all the dark stories
that had been told of his youth.

Before leaving Hallgrove, Reginald took care to make himself thoroughly
acquainted with his cousin's plans for the future. Douglas, with ten
thousand a year, was, of course, a more valuable acquaintance than he
had been as the possessor of half that income, even if there had been
no dark influence ever busy weaving its secret and fatal web.

"You will go back to your old life in London, Douglas, I suppose?"
said Sir Reginald. "There you will soonest forget the sad affliction
that has befallen you. In the hurrying whirlpool of modern life there
is no leisure for sorrow."

"Yes, I shall come to London," answered Douglas.

"And you will occupy your old quarters?"

"Decidedly."

"And we shall see as much of each other as ever--eh, Douglas?" said Sir
Reginald. "You must not let poor Lionel's fate prey upon your mind, you
know, my dear fellow; or your health, as well as your spirits, will
suffer. You must go down to Hilton House, and mix with the old set
again. That sort of thing will cheer you up a little."

"Yes," answered Douglas. "I know how far I may rely upon your
friendship, Reginald. I shall place myself quite in your hands."

"My dear fellow, you will not find me unworthy of your confidence."

"I ought not to find you so, Reginald."

Sir Reginald looked at his kinsman thoughtfully for a moment, fancying
there was some hidden meaning in Douglas Dale's words. But the tone in
which he had uttered them was perfectly careless; and Reginald's
suspicion was dispelled by the frank expression of his face.

Sir Reginald left Hallgrove a few days after the fatal accident in the
hunting-field, and went back to his London lodging, which seemed very
shabby and comfortless after the luxury of Hallgrove Rectory. He did
not care to spend his evenings at Hilton House, for he shrank from
hearing Paulina's complaints about her loneliness and poverty. The
London season had not yet begun, and there were few dupes whom the
gamester could victimize by those skilful manoeuvres which so often
helped him to success. It may be that some of the victims had
complained of their losses, and the villa inhabited by the elegant
Austrian widow had begun to be known amongst men of fashion as a place
to be avoided.