Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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"Why?" asked Miss Brewer, in a tone of suspicious surprise.

"I will tell you, by-and-by. Suffice it for the present that it must be
so. Then again, it would not do to have a man, who is not a relative,
established _l'ami de la maison_. That it is not the sort of thing that
an affianced lover could be expected to like. You must introduce me to
Douglas Dale as your cousin, and by the name of Carton. It is
sufficiently like my real name to prevent the servants knowing my name
is changed, since they always bungle over the 'Carrington.' As Victor
Carrington, Dale might refuse to know me, and certainly would not form
any intimacy with me, and that he should form an intimacy with me is
essential to my purpose."

"Why?" said Miss Brewer, in exactly the same tone as before.

"I will tell you by-and-by," said Carrington. "You consent, do you
not?"

"I am not sure," she answered. "But, even supposing I do consent, there
is Paulina to be consulted. How is she to be induced to call you Mr.
Carton and my cousin?"

"I will undertake to persuade Madame Durski that it will be for her
best interests to consent," said Carrington. "And now to my
explanation. Reginald Eversleigh is a man who is not to be trusted for
a moment, even where his own interests are closely concerned. He cares
nothing for Paulina; he knows the best thing that can happen to him
would be her marriage with Dale, for he calculates upon his hold over
the wife giving him the chance of a good share of the husband's money
in some way. Yet, such is his vanity, so unmanageable is his temper,
that if he were not too much afraid of me, too much in my power, he
would indulge them both at the cost of destroying our plan. If he knew
me to be absent, or unable to present myself freely here, he would
persecute Paulina--she would never be free from him. He would
compromise his own chance with the heiress, which is, naturally, my
chief consideration, and compromise her with Douglas Dale. Again, I do
not mind admitting to you, Miss Brewer, that I am of a cautious and
suspicious temperament; and when I pay an agent liberally, as I intend
to pay you, I always like to see for myself how the work is done."

"That argument, at least, is unanswerable," she replied. "You shall, so
far as I can answer for it, pass as my cousin and Mr. Carton, and have
a free _entre_ here."

"Good," said Carrington, rising. "And now there is nothing more to be
said just at present."

"Pardon me; you have not told me why an intimacy with Mr. Dale is
essential to your purpose."

"Because I must watch his proceedings and intentions--in fact, know all
about him--in order to discover whether it will suit my interests best
to forward Eversleigh's plans with respect to Lady Verner, or to betray
them to Dale."

Miss Brewer looked at him with something like admiration. She thought
she understood him so perfectly now, that she need ask nothing farther.
So they parted with the understanding that she was to report fully on
Douglas Dale's visit, and Carrington was to call on Paulina on the day
succeeding it. When she was alone, Miss Brewer remembered that
Carrington had not explained why it was he felt certain Dale would not
form any intimacy with him as Victor Carrington. As he walked
homewards, Victor muttered to himself--

"Heavens, what a clever fool that woman is. Once more I have won, and
by boldness."

* * * * *

The feelings with which Douglas Dale prepared for his visit to Hilton
House on the day following that on which Victor Carrington had made
his full and candid explanation to Miss Brewer, were such as any
woman--the purest, the noblest, the best--might have been proud of
inspiring. They were full of love, trust, pity, and hope. Douglas Dale
had by no means ceased to feel his brother's loss. No, the death of
Lionel, and, even more, the terrible manner of that death, still
pursued him in every waking hour--still haunted him in his dreams; but
sorrow, and especially its isolating tendency, does but quicken and
intensify feelings of tenderness in true and noble hearts.

He drove up to Hilton House with glad expectancy, and his eyes were dim
as he was ushered into the drawing-room in which Paulina sat.

Madame Durski's emotions on this occasion were unspeakably painful. So
well had Miss Brewer played her part, that she had persuaded Paulina
her only chance of escape from immediate arrest lay in borrowing money,
that very day, from Douglas Dale. Paulina's pride revolted; but the
need was pressing, and the unhappy woman yielded.

As she rose to return her visitor's greeting, and stood before him in
the cold January sunset, she was indeed, in all outward seeming, worthy
of any man's admiration.

Remorse and suffering had paled her cheeks; but they had left no
disfiguring traces on her perfect face.

The ivory whiteness of her complexion was, perhaps, her greatest charm,
and her beauty would scarcely have been enhanced by those rosy tints
so necessary to some faces.

To-day she had dressed herself to perfection, fully conscious of the
influence which a woman's costume is apt to exercise over the heart of
the man who loves her.

Half an hour passed in conversation of a general nature, and then
luncheon was announced. When Paulina and her visitor returned to the
dreary room, they were alone; Miss Brewer had discreetly retired.

"My dear Madame Durski!" exclaimed Douglas, when the widow had seated
herself and he had placed himself opposite to her, "I cannot tell you
what intense pleasure it gives me to see you again, and most of all
because it leads me to believe that I can in some manner serve you. I
know how secluded your habits have been of late, and I fancy you would
scarcely so depart from them in my favour if you had not some real need
of my service."

This speech was peculiarly adapted to smoothe away the difficulties of
Paulina's position. Douglas had long guessed the secret of her poverty,
and had more than half divined the motive of her letter. He was eager
to save her, as far as possible, from the painfulness of the request
which he felt almost sure she was about to make to him.

"Your cordial kindness affects me deeply, Mr. Dale," said Paulina, with
a blush that was the glow of real shame. "You are right; I should be
the last woman in the world to appeal to you thus if I had not need of
your help--bitter need. I appeal to you, because I know the goodness
and generosity of your nature. I appeal to you as a beggar."

"Madame Durski, for pity's sake, do not speak thus," cried Douglas,
interrupting her. "Every penny that I possess in the world is at your
command. I am ready to begin life again, a worker for my daily bread,
rather than that you should suffer one hour's pain, one moment's
humiliation, that money can prevent."

"You are too generous, too noble," exclaimed Paulina, in a broken
voice. "The only way in which I can prove my gratitude for your
delicate goodness is by being perfectly candid. My life has been a
strange one, Mr. Dale--a life of apparent prosperity, but of real
poverty. Before I was old enough to know the value of a fortune, I was
robbed of that which should have been mine, and robbed by the father
who should have protected my interests. From that hour I have known
little except trouble. I was married to a man whom I never loved--
married at the command of the father who had robbed me. If I have not
fallen, as many other women so mated have fallen, I take no pride in my
superior strength of mind. It may be that temptation such as lures
other women to their ruin never approached me. Since my husband died,
my life, as you too well know, has been a degraded one. I have been the
companion and friend of gamesters. It is, indeed, only since I came to
England that I have myself ceased to be a gambler. Can you remember all
this, Mr. Dale, and yet pity me?"

"I can remember it all, and yet love you, Paulina," answered Douglas,
with emotion. "We are not masters of our own affections. From the hour
in which I first saw you I have loved you--loved you in spite of
myself. I will admit that your life has not been that which I would
have chosen for the woman I love; and that to remember your past
history is pain to me. But, in spite of all, I ask you to be my wife;
and it shall be the business of my future life to banish from your
remembrance every sorrow and every humiliation that you have suffered
in the past. Say that you will be my wife, Paulina. I love you as few
women are loved. I am rich, and have the power to remove you far from
every association that is painful to you. Tell me that I may be the
guardian of your future existence."

Paulina contemplated her lover for a few moments with singular
earnestness. She was deeply impressed by his generous devotion, and she
could not but compare this self-sacrificing love with the base
selfishness of Reginald Eversleigh's conduct.

"You do not ask me if I can return your affection," she said, after
that earnest look. "You offer to raise me from degradation and poverty,
and you demand nothing in return."

"No, Paulina," replied Douglas; "I would not make a _bargain_ with the
woman I love. I know that you have not yet learned to love me, and yet
I do not fear for the future, if you consent to become my wife. True
love, such as mine, rarely fails to win its reward, sooner or later. I
am content to wait. It will be sufficient happiness to me to know that
I have rescued you from a miserable and degrading position."

"You are only too generous," murmured Paulina, softly; "only too
generous."

"And now tell me the immediate object of this most welcome summons. I
will not press you for a prompt reply to my suit; I will trust that
time may be my friend. Tell me how I can serve you, and why you sent
for me to-day?"

"I sent for you that I might ask you for the loan of two hundred
pounds, to satisfy the claims of my most urgent creditors, and to
prevent the necessity of an ignominious flight."

"I will write you a cheque immediately for five hundred," said Douglas.
"You can drive to my banker's, and get it cashed there. Or stay; it
would not be so well for my banker to know that I lent you money. Let
me come again to you this evening, and bring ink sum in bank-notes.
That will give me an excuse for coming."

"How can I ever thank you sufficiently?"

"Do not thank me at all. Only let me love you, looking forward
hopefully to the day in-which you may learn to love me." "That day must
surely come ere long," replied Paulina, thoughtfully. "Gratitude so
profound as mine, esteem so sincere, must needs grow into a warmer
feeling."

"Yes, Paulina," said Douglas, "if your heart is free. Forgive me if I
approach a subject painful to you and to me. Reginald Eversleigh--my
cousin--have you seen him often lately?"

"I have not seen him since he left London for Hallgrove. I am not
likely to see him again."

"I am very glad of that. There is but one fear in my mind when I think
of our future, Paulina."

"And that is?"

"The fear that Reginald Eversleigh may come between you and me."

"You need no longer fear that," replied Madame Durski. "You have been
so noble, so devoted in your conduct to me, that I must be indeed a
worthless wretch if I shrink from the painful duty of laying my heart
bare before you. I have loved your cousin Reginald, foolishly, blindly;
but there must come an end to all folly; there must come a day when the
bandage falls from the eyes that have obstinately shunned the light.
That day has come for me; and Sir Reginald Eversleigh is henceforward
nothing more to me than the veriest stranger."

"A thousand thanks, dearest, for that assurance," exclaimed Douglas;
"and now trust in me. Tour future shall be so bright and happy that the
past will seem to you no more than a troubled dream."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

PREPARING THE GROUND.

Black Milsom made his appearance in the little village of Raynham
immediately after Lady Eversleigh's departure from the castle. But on
this occasion it would have been very difficult for those who had seen
him at the date of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's funeral to recognize, in the
respectable-looking, well-dressed citizen of to-day, the ragged tramp
of that period.

While Honoria Eversleigh was living under a false name in Percy Street,
Tottenham Court Road, the man who called himself her father,
established himself in a little river-side public-house, under the
shadow of Raynham Castle. The house in question had never borne too
good a character; and its reputation was in nowise improved when, on
the death of its owner, it passed into the custody of Mr. Milsom, who
came down to Raynham one November morning, almost immediately after
Lady Eversleigh's departure, saw the "Cat and Fiddle" public-house
vacant, and went straight to the attorney who had the letting of it, to
offer himself as a tenant, announcing himself to the lawyer as Thomas
Maunders.

The attorney at first looked rather suspiciously at the gentleman who
had earned for himself the ominous nickname of Black Milsom; but when
the would-be tenant offered to pay a year's rent in advance down on the
nail, the man of law melted, and took the money.

Thomas Milsom lost no time in taking possession of his new abode. It
was the haunt of the lower class of agricultural labourers, and of the
bargemen, who moored their barges sometimes beneath the shadow of
Raynham Bridge, while they dawdled away a few lazy hours in the village
public-house.

Any one who had cared to study Mr. Milsom's face and manners during his
residence at Raynham, would have speedily perceived that the life did
not suit him. He lounged at the door of the low-gabled cottage, looking
out into the village street with a moody and sullen countenance.

He drank a great deal, and swore not a little, and led altogether as
dissolute a life as it was possible to lead in that peaceful village.

No sooner had Mr. Milsom established himself at Raynham, than he made
it his business to find out the exact state of affairs at the castle.
He contrived to entice one of the under-servants into his bar-parlour,
and entertained the man so liberally, with a smoking jorum of strong
rum-punch, that a friendly acquaintance was established between the two
on the spot.

"There's nothing in my place you ain't welcome to, James Harwood," he
said. "You're uncommonly like a favourite brother of mine that died
young of the measles; and I've taken a fancy to you on account of that
likeness. Come when you like, and as often as you like, and call for
what you like; and there shan't be no talk of scores between you and
me. I'm a bitter foe, and a firm friend. When I like a man there's
nothing I couldn't do to prove my liking; when I hate him--"

Here Mr. Milsom's speech died away into an ominous growl; and James
Harwood, who was rather a timid young man, felt as if drops of cold
water had been running down his back. But the rum-punch was very nice;
and he saw no reason why he should refuse Mr. Milsom's offer of
friendship.

He did drop in very often, having plenty of leisure evenings in which
to amuse himself; and through him Thomas Milsom was enabled to become
familiar with every detail of the household at Raynham Castle.

"No news of your lady, I suppose, Mr. Harwood?" Milsom said to him one
Sunday evening in January. "Not coming home yet, I suppose?"

"No, Mr. Maunders," answered the groom; "not to my knowledge. And as to
news, there ain't anymore news of her than if she and Miss Payland had
gone off to the very wildest part of Africa, where, if you feel
lonesome, and want company, your only choice lies between tigers and
rattlesnakes."

"Never mind Africa! What was it that you were going to say about your
lady?"

"Well, I was about to inform you," replied the groom, with offended
dignity, "when you took me up so uncommon short as to prevent me--I was
about to observe that, although we haven't received no news whatsoever
from my lady direct, we have received a little bit of news promiscuous
that is rather puzzling, in a manner of speaking."

"What is it?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Maunders," began James Harwood, with extreme
solemnity, "it is given out that Lady Eversleigh is gone abroad to the
Continent--wherever that place may be situated--and a very nice place
I dare say it is, when you get there; and it is likewise given out that
Miss Payland have gone with her."

"Well, what then?"

"I really wish you hadn't such a habit of taking people up short, Mr.
Maunders," remonstrated the groom. "I was on the point of telling you
that our head-coachman had a holiday this Christmas; and where does he
go but up to London, to see his friends, which live there; and while in
London where does he go but to Drury Lane Theatre; and while coming out
of Drury Lane Theatre who does he set his eyes on but Miss Payland,
Lady Eversleigh's own maid, as large as life, and hanging on the arm of
a respectable elderly man, which might be her father. Our head-coachman
warn't near enough to her to speak to her; and though he tried to catch
her eye he couldn't catch it; but he'll take his Bible oath that the
young woman he saw was Jane Payland, Lady Eversleigh's own maid. Now,
that's rather a curious circumstance, is it not, Mr. Maunders?"

"It is, rather," answered the landlord; "but it seems to me your
mistress, Lady Eversleigh, is rather a strange person altogether. It's
a strange thing for a mother to run away to foreign parts--if she has
gone to foreign parts--and leave her only child behind her."

"Yes; and a child she was so fond of too; that's the strangest part of
the whole business," said the groom. "I'm sure to see that mother and
child together, you'd have thought there was no power on earth would
part them; and yet, all of a sudden, my lady goes off, and leaves Miss
Gertrude behind her. But if Miss Gertrude was a royal princess, she
couldn't be more watched over, or taken more care of, than she is. To
see Mrs. Morden, the governess, with her, you'd think as the little
girl was made of barley-sugar, and would melt away with a drop of rain;
and to see Captain Copplestone with her, you'd think as she was the
crown-jewels of England, and that everybody was on the watch to get the
chance of stealing her."

Black Milsom smiled as the groom said this. It was a grim smile, not by
any means pleasant to see; but James Harwood was not an observer, and
he was looking tenderly at his last spoonful of rum-punch, and
wondering within himself whether Mr. Milsom was likely to offer him
another glass of that delicious beverage.

"And pray what sort of a customer is Captain Copplestone?" asked
Milsom, thoughtfully.

"An uncommonly tough customer," replied James Harwood; "that's what he
is. If it wasn't for his rheumatic gout, he's a man that would be ready
to fight the champion of England any day in the week. There's very few
things the captain wouldn't do in the way of downright pluck; but, you
see, whatever pluck a man may have, it can't help him much when he's
laid by the heels with the rheumatic gout, as the captain is very
often."

"Ha! and who takes care of little missy then?"

"Why, the captain. He's like a watch-dog, and his kennel is at little
missy's door. That's what he says himself, in his queer way. Miss
Gertrude and her governess live in three handsome rooms in the south
wing--my lady's own rooms--and the principal way to these rooms is
along a wide corridor. So what does the captain do when my lady goes
away, but order a great iron door down from London, and has the
corridor shut off with this iron door, bolted, and locked, and barred,
so that the cleverest burglar that ever were couldn't get it open."

"But how do people get to the little girl's rooms, then?" asked Thomas
Milsom.

"Why, through a small bed-room, intended for Lady Eversleigh's maid;
and a little bit of a dressing-room, that poor Sir Oswald used to keep
his boots, and hat-boxes, and such like in. These rooms open on to the
second staircase; and what does the captain do but have these two small
rooms fitted up for hisself and his servant, Solomon Grundy, with a
thin wooden partition, with little glass spy-holes in it, put across
the two rooms, to make a kind of passage to the rooms beyond; so that
night and day he can hear every footstep that goes by to Miss
Gertrude's rooms. Now, what do you think of such whims and fancies?"

"I think the captain must be stark staring mad," answered Milsom; but
it was to be observed that he said this in rather an absent manner, and
appeared to be thinking deeply.

"Oh no, he ain't," said James Harwood; "there ain't a sharper customer
going."

And then, finding that the landlord of the "Cat and Fiddle" did not
offer anything more in the way of refreshment, Mr. Harwood departed.

There was a full moon that January night, and when Mr. Milsom had
attended to the wants of his customers, seen the last of them to the
door a little before twelve o'clock, shut his shutters, and
extinguished the lights, he stole quietly out of his house, went forth
into the deserted street, and made his way towards the summit of the
hill on which the castle stood, like an ancient fortress, frowning
darkly upon the humble habitations beneath it.

He passed the archway and the noble gothic gates, and crept along by
the fine old wall that enclosed the park, where the interlaced
branches of giant oaks and beeches were white under the snow that had
fallen upon them, and formed a picture that was almost like a scene in
Fairyland.

He climbed the wall at a spot where a thick curtain of ivy afforded him
a safe footing, and dropped softly upon the ground beneath, where the
snow had drifted into a heap, and made a soft bed for him to fall on.

"There will be more snow before daylight to-morrow," he muttered to
himself, "if I'm any judge of the weather; and there'll be no trace of
my footsteps to give the hint of mischief." He ran across the park,
leaped the light, invisible fence dividing the park from the gardens,
and crept cautiously along a shrubberied pathway, where the evergreens
afforded him an impenetrable screen.

Thus concealed from the eyes of any chance watcher, he contrived to
approach one end of the terraced slope which formed the garden front of
the castle. Each terrace was adorned with stone balustrades, surmounted
by large vases, also of stone; and, sheltered by these vases, Milsom
ascended to the southern angle of the great pile of building.

Seven lighted windows at this southern end of the castle indicated the
apartments occupied by the heiress of Raynham and her eccentric
guardian. The lights burned but dimly, like the night-lamps left
burning during the hours of rest; and Milsom had ascertained from Mr.
Harwood that the household retired before eleven o'clock, at the
latest.

The apartments occupied by the little girl were on the first floor. The
massive stone walls here were unadorned with ivy, nor were there any of
those elaborate decorations in stonework which might have afforded a
hold for the foot of the climber. The bare stone wall frowned down upon
Thomas Milsom, impregnable as the walls of Newgate itself.

"No," he muttered to himself, after a long and thoughtful scrutiny; "no
man will ever get at those rooms from the outside; no, not if he had
the power of changing himself into a cat or a monkey. Whoever wants to
have a peep at the heiress of Raynham must go through this valiant
captain's chamber. Well, well, I've heard of tricks played upon
faithful watch-dogs before to-day. There's very few things a man can't
do, if he only tries hard enough; and I mean to be revenged upon my
Lady Eversleigh!" He paused for a few moments, standing close against
the wall of the castle, sheltered by its black shadow, and looking down
upon the broad domain beneath.

"And this is all hers, is it P--lands and houses; horses and carriages;
powdered footmen to fetch and carry for her; jewels to wear; plates and
dishes of solid gold to eat her dinner off, if she likes! All hers! And
she refuses me a few hundred pounds, and defies me, does she? We'll see
whether that's a safe game. I've sworn to have my revenge, and I'll
have it," he muttered, shaking his brawny fist, as if some phantom
figure were standing before him in the wintry moonlight. "I can afford
to wait; I wouldn't mind waiting years to get it; but I'll have it, if
I grow old and gray while I'm watching and plotting for it. I'll be
patient as Time, but I'll have it. She has refused me a few hundreds,
has she? I'll see her there, on the ground at my feet, grovelling like
a beaten dog, offering me half her fortune--all her fortune--her very
life itself! I'll humble her proud spirit! I'll bring her grandeur down
to the the dust. She won't own me for a father, won't she! Why, if I
choose, she shall tramp barefoot through the mud after me, singing
street-ballads in every town in England, and going round with my
battered old hat to beg for halfpence afterwards. I'll humble her! I'll
do it--I'll do it--as sure as there's a moon in the sky!"