Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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"Oh! if this night were only ended!" she murmured: "if it were only
ended without harm!"

The words were still upon her lips, when the voices sounded loud and
harsh from the room below. The girl started to her feet, white and
trembling. Louder with every moment grew those angry voices. Then came
a struggle; some article of furniture fell with a crash; there was the
sound of shivered glass, and then a dull heavy noise, which echoed
through the house, and shook the weather-beaten wooden walls to their
foundations.

After the fall there came the sound of one loud groan, and then subdued
murmurs, cautious whispers.

The window of Jenny Milsom's room looked towards the road. From that
window she could see nothing of the sluggish ditch or the river.

She tried the door of her room. It was securely locked, as she had
expected to find it.

"They would kill me, if I tried to come between them and their victim,"
she said; "and I am afraid to die."

She crept to her wretched bed, and flung herself down, dressed as she
was. She drew the thin patchwork coverlet round her.

Ten minutes after she had thrown herself upon the bed, a key turned in
the lock, and the door was opened by a stealthy hand. Black Milsom
looked into the room.

The cold glimmer of day fell full upon the girl's pale face. Her eyes
were closed, and her breathing was loud and regular.

"Asleep," he whispered to some one outside; "as safe as a rock."

He drew back and closed the door softly.

* * * * *

Joyce Harker worked his hardest on board the 'Pizarro', and the repairs
were duly completed by the 4th of April. On the morning of the 5th the
vessel was a picture, and Joyce surveyed her with the pride of a man
who feels that he has not worked in vain.

He had set his heart upon the brothers celebrating the first day of
their re-union on board the trim little craft: and he had made
arrangements for the preparation of a dinner which was to be a triumph
in its way.

Joyce presented himself at the bar of the 'Jolly Tar' at half-past
eleven on the appointed morning. He expected that the brothers would be
punctual; but he did not expect either of them to appear before the
stroke of noon.

All was very quiet at the 'Jolly Tar' at this hour of the day. The
landlord was alone in the bar, reading a paper. He looked up as Joyce
entered; but did not appear to recognize him.

"Can I step through into your private room?" asked Joyce; "I expect
Captain Jernam and his brother to meet me here in half an hour."

"To be sure you can, mate. There's no one in the private room at this
time of day. Jernam--Jernam, did you say? What Jernam is that? I don't
recollect the name."

"You've a short memory," answered Joyce; "you might remember Captain
Jernam of the 'Pizarro'; for it isn't above a week since he was here
with me. He dined here, and slept here, and left early in the morning,
though you were uncommonly pressing for him to stay."

"We've so many captains and sailors in and out from year's end to
year's end, that I don't remember them by name," said Dennis Wayman;
"but I do remember your friend, mate, now you remind me of him; and I
remember you, too."

"Yes," said Joyce, with a grin; "there ain't so many of my pattern.
I'll take a glass of rum for the good of the house; and if you can lend
me a paper, I'll skim the news of the day while I'm waiting."

Joyce passed into the little room, where Dennis took him the newspaper
and the rum.

Twelve o'clock struck, and the clerk began to watch and to listen for
the opening of the door, or the sound of a footstep in the passage
outside. The time seemed very long to him, watching and listening. The
minute-hand of the Dutch clock moved slowly on. He turned every now and
then towards the dusky corner where the clock hung, to see what
progress that slow hand had made upon the discoloured dial.

He waited thus for an hour.

"What does it mean?" he thought. "Valentine Jernam so faithfully
promised to be punctual. And then he's so fond of his brother. He'd
scarcely care to be a minute behindhand, when he has the chance of
seeing Captain George."

Joyce went into the bar. The landlord was scrutinizing the address of a
letter--a foreign letter.

"Didn't you say your friend's name was Jernam?" he asked.

"I did."

"Then this letter must be for him. It has been lying here for the last
two or three days; but I forgot all about it till just this minute."

Joyce took the letter. It was addressed to Captain Valentine Jernam, of
the 'Pizarro', at the 'Jolly Tar', care of the landlord, and it came
from the Cape of Good Hope.

Joyce recognized George Jernam's writing.

"This means a disappointment," he thought, as he turned the letter over
and over slowly; "there'll be no meeting yet awhile. Captain George is
off to the East Indies on some new venture, I dare say. But what can
have become of Captain Valentine? I'll go down to the 'Golden Cross,'
and see if he's there."

He told Dennis Wayman where he was going, and left a message for his
captain. From Ratcliff Highway to Charing Cross was a long journey for
Joyce; but he had no idea of indulging in any such luxury as a hackney-
coach. It was late in the afternoon when he reached the hotel; and
there he was doomed to encounter a new disappointment.

Captain Jernam had been there on the second of the month, and had never
been there since. He had left in the forenoon, after saying that he
should return at night; and in evidence that such had been his
intention, the waiter told Joyce that the captain had left a carpet-
bag, containing clean linen and a change of clothes.

"He's broken his word to me, and he's got into bad hands," thought
Harker. "He's as simple as a child, and he's got into bad hands. But
how and where? He'd never, surely, go back to the 'Jolly Tar', after
what I said to him. And where else can he have gone? I know no more
where to look for him in this great overgrown London than if I was a
new-born baby."

In his perfect ignorance of his captain's movements, there was only one
thing that Joyce Harker could do, and that was to go back to the "Jolly
Tar," with a faint hope of finding Valentine Jernam there.

It was dusk by the time he got back to Ratcliff Highway, and the
flaring gas-lamps were lighted. The bar of the tavern was crowded, and
the tinkling notes of the old piano sounded feebly from the inner room.

Dennis Wayman was serving his customers, and Thomas Milsom was drinking
at the bar. Joyce pushed his way to the landlord.

"Have you seen anything of the captain?" he asked.

"No, he hasn't been here since you left."

"You're sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

"He's not been here to day; but he's been here within the week, hasn't
he? He was here on Tuesday, if I'm not misinformed."

"Then you _are_ misinformed," Wayman said, coolly; "for your seafaring
friend hasn't darkened my doors since the morning you and he left to go
to the coach-office."

Joyce could say nothing further. He passed through the passage into the
public room, where the so-called concert had begun. Jenny Milsom was
singing to the noisy audience.

The girl was very pale, and her manner and attitude, as she sat by the
piano, were even more listless than usual.

Joyce Harker did not stop long in the concert-room. He went back to the
bar. This time there was no one but Milsom and Wayman in the bar, and
the two seemed to be talking earnestly as Joyce entered.

They left off, and looked up at the sound of the clerk's footsteps.

"Tired of the music already?" asked Wayman.

"I didn't come here to hear music," answered Joyce; "I came to look for
my captain. He had an appointment to meet his brother here to-day at
twelve o'clock, and it isn't like him to break it. I'm beginning to get
uneasy about him."

"But why should you be uneasy? The captain is big enough, and old
enough, to take care of himself," said the landlord, with a laugh.

"Yes; but then you see, mate, there are some men who never know how to
take care of themselves when they get into bad company. There isn't a
better sailor than Valentine Jernam, or a finer fellow at sea; but I
don't think, if you searched from one end of this city to the other,
you'd find a greater innocent on shore. I'm afraid of his having fallen
into bad hands, Mr. Wayman, for he had a goodish bit of money about
him; and there's land-sharks as dangerous as those you meet with on the
sea."

"So there are, mate," answered the landlord; "and there's some queer
characters about this neighbourhood, for the matter of that."

"I dare say you're right, Mr. Wayman," returned Joyce; "and I'll tell
you what it is. If any harm has come to Valentine Jernam, let those
that have done the harm look out for themselves. Perhaps they don't
know what it is to hurt a man that's got a faithful dog at his heels.
Let them hide themselves where they will, and let them be as cunning as
they will, the dog will smell them out, sooner or later, and will tear
them to pieces when he finds them. I'm Captain Jernam's dog, Mr. Dennis
Wayman; and if I don't find my master, I'll hunt till I do find those
that have got him out of the way. I don't know what's amiss with me to-
night; but I've got a feeling come over me that I shall never look in
Valentine Jernam's honest face again. If I'm right, Lord help the
scoundrels who have plotted against him, for it'll be the business of
my life to track them down, and bring their crime home to them--and
I'll do it."

After having said this, slowly and deliberately, with an appalling
earnestness of voice and manner, Joyce Harker looked from Dennis Wayman
to Black Milsom, and this time the masks they were accustomed to wear
did not serve these scoundrels so well as usual, for in the faces of
both there was a look of fear.

"I am going to search for my captain," said Joyce. "Good night, mates."

He left the tavern. The two men looked at each other earnestly as the
door closed upon him.

"A dangerous man," said Dennis Wayman.

"Bah!" muttered Black Milsom, savagely; "who's afraid of a hunchback's
bluster? I dare say he wanted the handling of the money himself."

All that night Joyce Harker wandered to and fro amidst the haunts of
sailors and merchant captains; but wander where he would, and inquire
of whom he would, he could obtain no tidings of the missing man.

Towards daybreak, he took a couple of hours' sleep in a tavern at
Shadwell, and with the day his search began again.

Throughout that day the same patient search continued, the same
inquiries were repeated with indomitable perseverance, in every likely
and unlikely place; but everywhere the result was failure.

It was towards dusk that Joyce Harker turned his back upon a tavern in
Rotherhithe, and set his face towards the river bank.

"I have looked long enough for him among the living," he said; "I must
look for him now amongst the dead."

Before midnight the search was ended. Amongst the printed bills
flapping on dreary walls in that river-side neighbourhood, Joyce Harker
had discovered the description of a man "found drowned." The
description fitted Valentine Jernam, and the body had been found within
the last two days.

Joyce went to the police-office where the man was lying. He had no need
to look at the poor dead face--the dark, handsome face, which was so
familiar to him.

"I expected as much," he said to the official who had admitted him to
see the body; "he had money about him, and he has fallen into the hands
of scoundrels."

"You don't think it was an accident?"

"No; he has been murdered, sir. And I think I know the men who did it."

"You know the men?"

"Yes; but my knowledge won't help to avenge his death, if I can't bring
it home to them--and I don't suppose I can. There'll be a coroner's
inquest, won't there?"

At the inquest, next day, Joyce Harker told his story; but that story
threw very little light on the circumstances of Valentine Jernam's
death.

The investigation before the coroner set at rest all question as to the
means by which the captain had met his death. A medical examination
demonstrated that he had been murdered by a blow on the back of the
head, inflicted by some sharp heavy instrument. The unfortunate man
must have died before he was thrown into the water.

The verdict of the coroner's jury was to the effect that Valentine
Jernam had been wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown.
And with this verdict Joyce Harker was obliged to be content. His
suspicions he dared not mention in open court. They were too vague and
shadowy. But he called upon a celebrated Bow Street officer, and
submitted the case to him. It was a case for secret inquiry, for
careful investigation; and Joyce offered a handsome reward out of his
own savings.

While this secret investigation was in progress, Joyce opened the
letter addressed to Valentine by his brother George.

"DEAR VAL," wrote the sailor: "_I have been tempted to make another
trip to Calcutta with a cargo shipped at Lisbon, and shall not be able
to meet you in London on the 5th of April. It will be ten or twelve
months before I see England again; but when I do come back, I hope to
add something handsome to our joint fortunes. I long to see your honest
face, and grasp your hand again; but the chance of a big prize lures me
out yonder. We are both young, and have all the world before us, so we
can afford to wait a year or two. Bank the money; Joyce will tell you
where, and how to do it; and let me know your plans before you leave
London. A letter addressed to me, care of Riverdale and Co., Calcutta,
will be safe. Good luck to you, dear old boy, now and always, and every
good wish.--From your affectionate brother_," "GEORGE JERNAM."

It was Joyce Harker's melancholy task to tell Valentine Jernam's
younger brother the story of the seaman's death. He wrote a long
letter, recording everything that had happened within his knowledge,
from the moment of the 'Pizarro' reaching Gravesend to the discovery of
Valentine's body in the river-side police office. He told George the
impression that had been made upon his brother by the ballad-singer's
beauty.

"_I think that this girl and these two men, her father, Thomas Milsom,
and Dennis Wayman, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar', are in the secret--
are, between them, the murderers of your brother. I think that when he
broke his promise to me, and came back to this end of London, before
the fifth, he came lured by that girl's beauty. It is to the girl we
must look for a key to the secret of his death. I do not expect to
extort anything from the fears of the men. They are both hardened
villains; and if, as I believe, they are guilty of this crime, it is
not likely to be the first in which they have been engaged. The police
are on the watch, and I have promised a liberal reward for any
discoveries they may make; but it is very slow work_."

This, and much more, Joyce Harker wrote to George Jernam. The letter
was written immediately after the inquest; and on the night succeeding
that inquiry, Joyce went to the 'Jolly Tar', in the hope of seeing
Jenny Milsom. But he was doomed to disappointment; for in the concert-
room at Dennis Wayman's tavern he found a new singer--a fat, middle-
aged woman, with red hair.

"What has become of the pretty girl who used to sing here?" he asked
the landlord.

"Milsom's daughter?" said Wayman. "Oh, we've lost her She was a regular
she-devil, it seems. Her father and she had a row, and the girl ran
away. She can get her living anywhere with that voice of hers; and I
don't suppose Milsom treated her over well. He's a rough fellow, but an
honest one."

"Yes," answered Joyce, with a sneer; "he seems uncommonly honest.
There's a good deal of that sort of honesty about this neighbourhood, I
think, mate. I suppose you've heard about my captain?"

"Not a syllable. Is there anything wrong with him?"

"Ah! news seems to travel slowly down here. There was an inquest held
this morning, not so many miles from this house."

The landlord shrugged his shoulders.

"I've been busy in-doors all day, and I haven't heard anything," he
said.

Joyce told the story of his captain's fate, to which Dennis Wayman
listened with every appearance of sympathy.

"And you've no idea what has become of the girl?" Harker asked, after
having concluded his story.

"No more than the dead. She's cut and run, that's all I know."

"Has her father gone after her?"

"Not a bit of it. He's not that sort of man. She has chosen to take
herself off, and her father will let her go her own way."

"And her grandfather, the old blind man?"

"He has gone with her."

There was no more to be said about the girl after this.

"I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Wayman," said Joyce, "I'm likely to be a
good bit down in this neighbourhood, while I'm waiting for directions
about my poor captain's ship from his brother Captain George, and as
your house suits me as well as any other, I may as well take up my
quarters here. I know you've got plenty of room, and you'll find me a
quiet lodger."

"So be it," answered the landlord, promptly. "I'm agreeable."

Joyce deliberated profoundly as he walked away from the 'Jolly Tar'
that night.

"He's too deep to be caught easily," he thought. "He'll let me into his
house, because he knows there's nothing I can find out, watch as I may.
Such a murder as that leaves no trace behind it. If I had been able to
get hold of the girl, I might have frightened her into telling me
something; but it's clear to me she has really bolted, or Wayman would
never let me into his house."

For weeks Joyce Harker was a lodger at the 'Jolly Tar'; always on the
watch; always ready to seize upon the smallest clue to the mystery of
Valentine Jernam's death; but nothing came of his watching.

The police did their best to discover the key to the dreadful secret;
but they worked in vain. The dead man's money had been partly in notes
and gold, partly in bills of exchange. It was easy enough to dispose of
such bills in the City. There were men ready to take them at a certain
price, and to send them abroad; men who never ask questions of their
customers.

So there was little chance of any light being thrown on this dark and
evil mystery. Joyce watched and waited with dog-like fidelity, ready to
seize upon the faintest clue; but he waited and watched in vain.

* * * * *

CHAPTER III.

DISINHERITED.

Nearly a year had elapsed since the murder of Valentine Jernam, and the
March winds were blowing amongst the leafless branches of the trees in
the Green Park.

In the library of one of the finest houses in Arlington Street, a
gentleman paced restlessly to and fro, stopping before one of the
windows every now and then, to look, with a fretful glance, at the dull
sky. "What weather!" he muttered: "what execrable weather!"

The speaker was a man of some fifty years of age--a man who had been
very handsome and who was handsome still--a man with a haughty
patrician countenance--not easily forgotten by those who looked upon
it. Sir Oswald Eversleigh, Baronet, was a descendant of one of the
oldest families in Yorkshire. He was the owner of Raynham Castle, in
Yorkshire; Eversleigh Manor, in Lincolnshire; and his property in those
two counties constituted a rent-roll of forty thousand per annum.

He was a bachelor, and having nearly reached his fiftieth year it was
considered unlikely that he would marry.

Such at least was the fixed idea of those who considered themselves the
likely inheritors of the baronet's wealth. The chief of these was
Reginald Eversleigh, his favourite nephew, the only son of a younger
brother, who had fallen gloriously on an Indian battle-field.

There were two other nephews who had some right to look forward to a
share in the baronet's fortune. These were the two sons of Sir Oswald's
only sister, who had married a country rector, called Dale. But Lionel
and Douglas Dale were not the sort of young men who care to wait for
dead men's shoes. They were sincerely attached to their uncle; but they
carefully abstained from any demonstration of affection which could
seem like worship of his wealth. The elder was preparing himself for
the Church; the younger was established in chambers in the Temple,
reading for the bar.

It was otherwise with Reginald Eversleigh. From his early boyhood this
young man had occupied the position of an adopted son rather than a
nephew.

There are some who can bear indulgence, some flowers that flourish best
with tender rearing; but Reginald Eversleigh was not one of these.

Sir Oswald was too generous a man to require much display of gratitude
from the lad on whom he so freely lavished his wealth and his
affection. When the boy showed himself proud and imperious, the baronet
admired that high, and haughty spirit. When the boy showed himself
reckless and extravagant in his expenditure of money, the baronet
fancied that extravagance the proof of a generous disposition,
overlooking the fact that it was only on his own pleasures that
Reginald wasted his kinsman's money. When bad accounts came from the
Eton masters and the Oxford tutors, Sir Oswald deluded himself with the
belief that it was only natural for a high-spirited lad to be idle, and
that, indeed, youthful idleness was often a proof of genius.

But even the moral blindness of love cannot last for ever. The day came
when the baronet awoke to the knowledge that his dead brother's only
son was unworthy of his affection.

The young man entered the army. His uncle purchased for him a
commission in a crack cavalry regiment, and he began his military
career under the most brilliant auspices. But from the day of his
leaving his military tutor, until the present hour, Sir Oswald had been
perpetually subject to the demands of his extravagance, and had of late
suffered most bitterly from discoveries which had at last convinced him
that his nephew was a villain.

In ordinary matters, Sir Oswald Eversleigh was by no means a patient or
long-suffering man; but he had exhibited extraordinary endurance in all
his dealings with his nephew. The hour had now come when he could be
patient no longer.

He had written to his nephew, desiring him to call upon him at three
o'clock on this day.

The idea of this interview was most painful to him, for he had resolved
that it should be the last between himself and Reginald Eversleigh. In
this matter he had acted with no undue haste; for it had been
unspeakably distressing to him to decide upon a step which would
separate him for ever from the young man.

As the timepiece struck three, Mr. Eversleigh was announced. He was a
very handsome man; of a refined and aristocratic type, but of a type
rather effeminate than powerful. And pervading his beauty, there was a
winning charm of expression which few could resist. It was difficult to
believe that Reginald Eversleigh could be mean or base. People liked
him, and trusted him, in spite of themselves; and it was only when
their confidence had been imposed upon, and their trust betrayed, that
they learned to know how despicable the handsome young officer could
be. Women did their best to spoil him; and his personal charms of face
and manner, added to his brilliant expectations, rendered him an
universal favourite in fashionable circles.

He came to Arlington Street prepared to receive a lecture, and a severe
one, for he knew that some of his late delinquencies had become known
to Sir Oswald; but he trusted in the influence which he had always been
able to exercise over his uncle, and he was determined to face the
difficulty boldly, as he had faced it before.

He entered the room with a smile, and advanced towards his uncle, with
his hand outstretched.

But Sir Oswald drew back, refusing that proffered hand.

"I shake hands only with gentlemen and honest men," he said, haughtily.
"You are neither, Mr. Eversleigh."

Reginald had been used to hear his uncle address him in anger; but
never before had Sir Oswald spoken to him in that tone of cool
contempt. The colour faded from the young man's face, and he looked at
his uncle with an expression of alarm.

"My dear uncle!" he exclaimed.

"Be pleased to forget that you have ever addressed me by that name, or
that any relationship exists between us, Mr. Eversleigh," answered Sir
Oswald, with unaltered sternness. "Sit down, if you please. Our
interview is likely to be a long one."

The young man seated himself in silence.

"I have sent for you, Mr. Eversleigh," said the baronet, "because I
wished to tell you, without passion, that the tie which has hitherto
bound us has been completely broken. Heaven knows I have been patient;
I have endured your misdoings, hoping that they were the thoughtless
errors of youth, and not the deliberate sins of a hardened and wicked
nature. I have trusted till I can trust no longer; I have hoped till I
can hope no more. Within the past week I have learned to know you. An
old friend, whose word I cannot doubt, whose honour is beyond all
question, has considered it a duty to acquaint me with certain facts
that have reached his knowledge, and has opened my eyes to your real
character. I have given much time to reflection before determining on
the course I shall pursue with one who has been so dear to me. You know
me well enough to be aware that when once I do arrive at a decision,
that decision is irrevocable. I wish to act with justice, even towards
a scoundrel. I have brought you up with the habits of a rich man, and
it is my duty to save you from absolute poverty. I have, therefore,
ordered my solicitors to prepare a deed by which an income of two
hundred a year will be secured to you for life, unconditionally. After
the execution of that deed I shall have no further interest in your
fate. You will go your own way, Mr. Eversleigh, and choose your own
companions, without remonstrance or interference from the foolish
kinsman who has loved you too well."