Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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"Be good enough to take a seat," said Sir Oswald: "I wish to have a
little conversation with you. I want to help you, if I can. You do not
seem fitted for the life you are leading; and I am convinced that you
possess talent which would elevate you to a far higher sphere. But
before we talk of the future, I must ask you to tell me something of
the past."

"Tell me," he continued, gently, "how is it that you are so friendless?
How is it that your father and mother allow you to lead such an
existence?"

"My mother died when I was a child," answered the girl.

"And your father?"

"My father is dead also."

"You did not tell me that last night," replied the baronet, with some
touch of suspicion in his tone, for he fancied the girl's manner had
changed when she spoke of her father.

"Did I not?" she said, quietly. "I do not think you asked me any
question about my father; but if you did, I may have answered at
random; I was confused last night from exhaustion and want of rest, and
I scarcely knew what I said."

"What was your father?"

"He was a sailor."

"There is something that is scarcely English in your face," said Sir
Oswald; "were you born in England?"

"No, I was born in Florence; my mother was a Florentine."

"Indeed."

There was a pause. It seemed evident that this girl did not care to
tell the story of her past life, and that whatever information the
baronet wanted to obtain, must be extorted from her little by little. A
common vagrant would have been eager to pour out some tale of misery,
true or false, in the hearing of the man who promised to be her
benefactor; but this girl maintained a reserve which Sir Oswald found
it very difficult to penetrate.

"I fear there is something of a painful nature in your past history,"
he said, at last; "something which you do not care to reveal."

"There is much that is painful, much that I cannot tell."

"And yet you must be aware that it will be very difficult for me to
give you assistance if I do not know to whom I am giving it. I wish to
place you in a position very different from that which you now occupy;
but it would be folly to interest myself in a person of whose history I
positively know nothing."

"Then dismiss from your mind all thoughts of me, and let me go my own
way," answered the girl, with that calm pride of manner which imparted
a singular charm to her beauty. "I shall leave this house grateful and
contented; I have asked nothing from you, nor did I intend to ask
anything. You have been very good to me; you took compassion upon me in
my misery, and I have been accustomed to see people of your class pass
me by. Let me thank you for your goodness, and go on my way." So
saying, she rose, and turned as if to leave the room.

"No!" cried Sir Oswald, impetuously; "I cannot let you go. I must help
you in some manner--even if you will throw no light upon your past
existence; even if I must act entirely in the dark."

"You are too good, sir," replied the girl, deeply touched; "but
remember that I do not ask your help. My history is a terrible one. I
have suffered from the crimes of others; but neither crime nor
dishonour have sullied my own life. I have lived amongst people I
despised, holding myself aloof as far as was possible. I have been
laughed at, hated, ill-used for that which has been called pride; but I
have at least preserved myself unpolluted by the corruption that
surrounded me. If you can believe this, if you can take me upon trust,
and stretch forth your hand to help me, knowing no more of me than I
have now told you, I shall accept your assistance proudly and
gratefully. But if you cannot believe, let me go my own way."

"I will trust you," he said; "I will help you, blindly, since it must
be so. Let me ask you two or three questions, then all questioning
between us shall be at an end."

"I am ready to answer any inquiry that it is possible for me to
answer."

"Your name?"

"My name is Honoria Milford."

"Your age?"

"Eighteen."

"Tell me, how is it that your manner of speaking, your tones of voice,
are those of a person who has received a superior education?"

"I am not entirely uneducated. An Italian priest, a cousin of my poor
mother's, bestowed some care upon me when I was in Florence. He was a
very learned man, and taught me much that is rarely taught to a girl of
fourteen or fifteen. His house was my refuge in days of cruel misery,
and his teaching was the only happiness of my life. And now, sir,
question me no further, I entreat you."

"Very well, then, I will ask no more; and I will trust you."

"I thank you, sir, for your generous confidence."

"And now I will tell you my plans for your future welfare," Sir Oswald
continued, kindly. "I was thinking much of you while I breakfasted. You
have a very magnificent voice; and it is upon that voice you must
depend for the future. Are you fond of music?"

"I am very fond of it."

There was little in the girl's words, but the tone in which they were
spoken, the look of inspiration which lighted up the speaker's face,
convinced Sir Oswald that she was an enthusiast.

"Do you play the piano?"

"A little; by ear."

"And you know nothing of the science of music?"

"Nothing."

"Then you will have a great deal to learn before you can make any
profitable use of your voice. And now I will tell you what I shall do.
I shall make immediate arrangements for placing you in a first-class
boarding school in London, or the neighbourhood of London. There you
will complete your education, and there you will receive lessons from
the best masters in music and singing, and devote the greater part of
your time to the cultivation of your voice. It will be known that you
are intended for the career of a professional singer, and every
facility will be afforded you for study. You will remain in this
establishment for two years, and at the end of that time I shall place
you under the tuition of some eminent singer, who will complete your
musical education, and enable you to appear as a public singer. All the
rest will depend on your own industry and perseverance."

"And I should be a worthless creature if I were not more industrious
than ever any woman was before!" exclaimed Honoria. "Oh, sir, how can I
find words to thank you?"

"You have no need to thank me. I am a rich man, with neither wife nor
child upon whom to waste my money. Besides, if you find the obligation
too heavy to bear, you can repay me when you become a distinguished
singer."

"I will work hard to hasten that day, sir," answered the girl,
earnestly.

Sir Oswald had spoken thus lightly, in order to set his _protegee_ more
at her ease. He saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and moving to
the window to give her time to recover herself, stood for some minutes
looking out into the market-place. Then he came back to his easy chair
by the fire, and addressed her once more.

"I shall post up to town this afternoon to make the arrangements of
which I have spoken," he said; "you, in the meantime, will remain under
the care of Mrs. Willet, to whom I shall entrust the purchase of your
wardrobe. When that has been prepared, you will come straight to my
house in Arlington Street, whence I will myself conduct you to the
school I may have chosen as your residence. Remember, that from to-day
you will begin a new life. Ah, by the bye, there is one other question
I must ask. You have no relations, no associates of the past who are
likely to torment you in the future?"

"None. I have no relations who would dare approach me, and I have
always held myself aloof from all associates."

"Good, then the future lies clear before you. And now you can return to
Mrs. Willet. I will see her presently, and make all arrangements for
your comfort."

Honoria curtseyed to her benefactor, and left the room in silence. Her
every gesture and her every tone were those of a lady. Sir Oswald
looked after her with wonder, as she disappeared from the apartment.

The landlady of the "Star" was very much surprised when Sir Oswald
Eversleigh requested her to keep the ballad-singer in her charge for a
week, and to purchase for her a simple but thoroughly complete
wardrobe.

"And now," said Sir Oswald, "I confide her to you for a week, Mrs.
Willet, at the end of which time I hope her wardrobe will be ready. I
will write you a cheque for--say fifty pounds. If that is not enough,
you can have more."

"Lor' bless you, Sir Oswald, it's more than enough to set her up like a
duchess, in a manner of speaking," answered the landlady; and then,
seeing Sir Oswald had no more to say to her, she curtseyed and
withdrew.

Sir Oswald Eversleigh's carriage was at the door of the "Star" at noon;
and at ten minutes after twelve the baronet was on his way back to
town.

He visited a great many West-end boarding-schools before he found one
that satisfied him in every particular. Had his _protegee_ been his
daughter, or his affianced wife, he could not have been more difficult
to please. He wondered at his own fastidiousness.

"I am like a child with a new toy," he thought, almost ashamed of the
intense interest he felt in this unknown girl.

At last he found an establishment that pleased him; a noble old mansion
at Fulham, surrounded by splendid grounds, and presided over by two
maiden sisters. It was a thoroughly aristocratic seminary, and the
ladies who kept it knew how to charge for the advantages of their
establishment. Sir Oswald assented immediately to the Misses Beaumonts'
terms, and promised to bring the expected pupil in less than a week's
time.

"The young lady is a relation, I presume, Sir Oswald?" said the elder
Miss Beaumont.

"Yes," answered the baronet; "she is--a distant relative."

If he had not been standing with his back to the light, the two ladies
might have seen a dusky flush suffuse his face as he pronounced these
words. Never before had he told so deliberate a falsehood. But he had
feared to tell the truth.

"They will never guess her secret from her manner," he thought; "and if
they question her, she will know how to baffle their curiosity."

On the very day that ended the stipulated week, Honoria Milford made
her appearance in Arlington Street. Sir Oswald was in his library,
seated in an easy-chair before the fire-place, with a book in his hand,
but with no power to concentrate his attention to its pages. He was
sitting thus when the door was opened, and a servant announced--

"Miss Milford!"

Sir Oswald rose from his chair, and beheld an elegant young lady, who
approached him with a graceful timidity of manner. She was simply
dressed in gray merino, a black silk mantle, and a straw bonnet,
trimmed with white ribbon. Nothing could have been more Quaker-like
than the simplicity of this costume, and yet there was an elegance
about the wearer which the baronet had seldom seen surpassed.

He rose to welcome her.

"You have just arrived in town?" he said.

"Yes, Sir Oswald; a hackney-coach brought me here from the coach-
office."

"I am very glad to see you," said the baronet, holding out his hand,
which Honoria Milford touched lightly with her own neatly gloved
fingers; "and I am happy to tell you that I have secured you a home
which I think you will like."

"Oh, Sir Oswald, you are only too good to me. I shall never know how to
thank you."

"Then do not thank me at all. Believe me, I desire no thanks. I have
done nothing worthy of gratitude. An influence stronger than my own
will has drawn me towards you; and in doing what I can to befriend you,
I am only giving way to an impulse which I am powerless to resist."

The girl looked at her benefactor with a bewildered expression, and Sir
Oswald interpreted the look.

"Yes," he said, "you may well be astonished by what I tell you. I am
astonished myself. There is something mysterious in the interest which
you have inspired in my mind."

Although the baronet had thought continually of his _protegee_ during
the past week, he had never asked himself if there might not be some
simple and easy solution possible for this bewildering enigma. He had
never asked himself if it were not just within the limits of
possibility that a man of fifty might fall a victim to that fatal fever
called love.

He looked at the girl's beautiful face with the admiration which every
man feels for the perfection of beauty--the pure, calm, reverential
feeling of an artist, or a poet--and he never supposed it possible that
the day might not be far distant when he would contemplate that lovely
countenance with altered sentiments, with a deeper emotion.

"Come to the dining-room, Miss Milford," he said; "I expected you to-
day--I have made all my arrangements accordingly. You must be hungry
after your journey; and as I have not yet lunched, I hope you will
share my luncheon?"

Honoria assented. Her manner towards her benefactor was charming in its
quiet grace, deferential without being sycophantic--the manner of a
daughter rather than a dependent Before leaving the library, she looked
round at the books, the bronzes, the pictures, with admiring eyes.
Never before had she seen so splendid an apartment: and she possessed
that intuitive love of beautiful objects which is the attribute of all
refined and richly endowed natures.

The baronet placed his ward on one side of the table, and seated
himself opposite to her.

No servant waited upon them. Sir Oswald himself attended to the wants
of his guest. He heaped her plate with dainties; he filled her glass
with rare old wine; but she ate only a few mouthfuls, and she could
drink nothing. The novelty of her present position was too full of
excitement.

During the whole of the repast the baronet asked her no questions. He
talked as if they had long been known to each other, explaining to her
the merits of the different pictures and statues which she admired,
pleased to find her intelligence always on a level with his own.

"She is a wonderful creature," he thought; "a wonderful creature--a
priceless pearl picked up out of the gutter."

After luncheon Sir Oswald rang for his carriage, and presently Honoria
Milford found herself on her way to her new home.

The mansion inhabited by the Misses Beaumont was called "The Beeches."
It had of old been the seat of a nobleman, and the grounds which
encircled it were such as are rarely to be found within a few miles of
the metropolis; and they would in vain be sought for now. Shabby little
streets and terraces cover the ground where grand old cedars of Lebanon
cast their dark shadows on the smooth turf seven-and-twenty years ago.

Honoria Milford was enraptured with the beauty of her new home. That
stately mansion, shut in by noble old trees from all the dust and
clamour of the outer world; those smooth lawns, and exquisitely kept
beds, filled with flowers even in this chill spring weather, must have
seemed beautiful to those accustomed to handsome habitations. What must
they have been then to the wanderer of the streets--the friendless
tramp--who a week ago had depended for a night's rest on the chance of
finding an empty barn.

She looked at her benefactor with eyes that were dim with tears, as the
carriage approached this delightful retreat.

"If I were your daughter, you could not have chosen a better place than
this," she said.

"If you were my daughter, I doubt if I could feel a deeper interest in
your fate than I feel now," answered Sir Oswald, quietly.

Miss Beaumont the elder received her pupil with ceremonious kindness.
She looked at the girl with the keen glance of examination which
becomes habitual to the eye of the schoolmistress; but the most severe
scrutiny would have failed to detect anything unladylike or ungraceful
in the deportment of Honoria Milford.

"The young lady is charming," said Miss Beaumont, confidentially, as
the baronet was taking leave; "any one could guess that she was an
Eversleigh. She is so elegant, so patrician in face and manner. Ah, Sir
Oswald, the good old blood will show itself."

The baronet smiled as he bade adieu to the schoolmistress. He had told
Honoria that policy had compelled him to speak of her as a distant
relative of his own; and there was no fear that the girl would betray
herself or him by any awkward admissions.

Sir Oswald felt depressed and gloomy as he drove back to town. It
seemed to him as if, in parting from his _protegee_, he had lost
something that was necessary to his happiness.

"I have not spent half a dozen hours in her society," he thought, "and
yet she occupies my mind more than my nephew, Reginald, who for fifteen
years of my life has been the object of so much hope, so many cares.
What does it all mean? What is the key to this mystery?"

* * * * *

CHAPTER V.

"EVIL, BE THOU MY GOOD."

Reginald Eversleigh was handsome, accomplished, agreeable--irresistible
when he chose, many people said; but he was not richly endowed with
those intellectual gifts which lift a man to either the good or bad
eminence. He was weak and vacillating--one minute swayed by a good
influence, a transient touch of penitence, affection, or generosity; in
the next given over entirely to his own selfishness, thinking only of
his own enjoyment. He was apt to be influenced by any friend or
companion endowed with intellectual superiority; and he possessed such
a friend in the person of Victor Carrington, a young surgeon, a man
infinitely below Mr. Eversleigh in social status, but whose talents,
united to tact, had lifted him above his natural level.

The young surgeon was a slim, elegant-looking young man, with a pale,
sallow face, and flashing black eyes. His appearance was altogether
foreign, and although his own name was English, he was half a
Frenchman, his mother being a native of Bordeaux. This widowed mother
now lived with him, dependent on him, and loving him with a devoted
affection.

From a chance meeting in a public billiard-room, an intimacy arose
between Victor Carrington and Reginald Eversleigh, which speedily
ripened into friendship. The weaker nature was glad to find a stronger
on which to lean. Reginald Eversleigh invited his new friend to his
rooms--to champagne breakfasts, to suppers of broiled bones, eaten long
after midnight: to card-parties, at which large sums of money were lost
and won; but the losers were never Victor Carrington or Reginald
Eversleigh, and there were men who said that Eversleigh was a more
dangerous opponent at loo and whist since he had picked up that fellow
Carrington.

"I always feel afraid of Eversleigh, when that sallow-faced surgeon is
his partner at whist, or hangs about his chair at _ecarte_," said one
of the officers in Reginald Eversleigh's regiment. "It's my opinion
that black-eyed Frenchman is Mephistopheles in person. I never saw a
countenance that so fully realized my idea of the devil."

People laughed at the dragoon's notion: but there were few of Mr.
Eversleigh's guests who liked his new acquaintance, and there were some
who kept altogether aloof from the young cornet's rooms, after two or
three evenings spent in the society of Mr. Carrington.

"The fellow is too clever," said one of Eversleigh's brother-officers;
"these very clever men are almost invariably scoundrels. I respect a
man who is great in one thing--a great surgeon, a great lawyer, a great
soldier--but your fellow who knows everything better than anybody else
is always a villain."

Victor Carrington was the only person to whom Reginald Eversleigh told
the real story of his breach with his uncle. He trusted Victor: not
because he cared to confide in him--for the story was too humiliating
to be told without pain--but because he wanted counsel from a stronger
mind than his own.

"It's rather a hard thing to drop from the chance of forty thousand a
year to a pension of a couple of hundred, isn't it, Carrington?" said
Reginald, as the two young men dined together in the cornet's quarters,
a fortnight after the scene in Arlington Street. "It's rather hard,
isn't it, Carrington?"

"Yes, it _would be_ rather hard, if such a contingency were possible,"
replied the surgeon, coolly; "but we don't mean to drop from forty
thousand to two hundred. The generous old uncle may choose to draw his
purse-strings, and cast us off to 'beggarly divorcement,' as Desdemona
remarks; but we don't mean to let him have his own way. We must take
things quietly, and manage matters with a little tact. You want my
advice, I suppose, my dear Reginald?"

"I do."

The surgeon almost always addressed his friends by their Christian
names, more especially when those friends were of higher standing than
himself. There was a depth of pride, which few understood, lurking
beneath his quiet and unobtrusive manner; and he had a way of his own
by which he let people know that he considered himself in every respect
their equal, and in some respects their superior.

"You want my advice. Very well, then, my advice is that you play the
penitent prodigal. It is not a difficult part to perform, if you take
care what you're about. Sir Oswald has advised you to exchange into the
line. Instead of doing that, you will sell out altogether. It will look
like a stroke of prudence, and will leave you free to play your cards
cleverly, and keep your eye upon this dear uncle."

"Sell out!" exclaimed Reginald. "Leave the army! I have sworn never to
do that."

"But you will find yourself obliged to do it, nevertheless. Your
regiment is too expensive for a man who has only a pitiful two hundred
a year beyond his pay. Your mail-phaeton would cost the whole of your
income; your tailor's bill can hardly be covered by another two
hundred; and then, where are you to get your gloves, your hot-house
flowers, your wines, your cigars? You can't go on upon credit for ever;
tradesmen have such a tiresome habit of wanting money, if it's only a
hundred or so now and then on account. The Jews are beginning to be
suspicious of your paper. The news of your quarrel with Sir Oswald is
pretty sure to get about somehow or other, and then where are you?
Cards and billiards are all very well in their way; but you can't live
by them, without turning a regular black-leg, and as a black-leg you
would have no chance of the Raynham estates. No, my dear Reginald,
retrenchment is the word. You must sell out, keep yourself very quiet,
and watch your uncle."

"What do you mean by watching him?" asked Mr. Eversleigh, peevishly.

His friend's advice was by no means palatable to him. He sat in a moody
attitude, with his elbows on his knees, and his head bent forward,
staring at the fire. His wine stood untasted on the table by his side.

"I mean that you must keep your eye upon him, in order to see that he
don't play you a trick," answered the surgeon, at his own leisure.

"What trick should he play me?"

"Well, you see, when a man quarrels with his heir, he is apt to turn
desperate. Sir Oswald might marry."

"Marry! at fifty years of age?"

"Yes. Men of fifty have been known to fall as desperately in love as
any of your heroes of two or three and twenty. Sir Oswald would be a
splendid match, and depend upon it, there are plenty of beautiful and
high-born women who would be glad to call themselves Lady Eversleigh.
Take my advice, Reginald, dear boy, and keep your eye on the baronet."

"But he has turned me out of his house. He has severed every link
between us."

"Then it must be our business to establish a secret chain of
communication with his household," answered Victor. "He has some
confidential servant, I suppose?"

"Yes; he has a valet, called Millard, whom he trusts as far as he
trusts any dependent; but he is not a man who talks to his servants."

"Perhaps not; but servants have a way of their own of getting at
information, and depend upon it, Mr. Millard knows more of your uncle's
business than Sir Oswald would wish him to know. We must get hold of
this faithful Millard."

"But he is a very faithful fellow--honesty itself--the pink of
fidelity."

"Humph!" muttered the young surgeon; "did you ever try the effect of a
bribe on this pink of fidelity?"

"Never."

"Then you know nothing about him. Remember what Sir Robert Walpole
said, 'Every man has his price.' We must find out the price of Mr.
Millard."

"You are a wonderful fellow, Carrington."

"You think so? Bah, I keep my eyes open, that's all; other men go
through the world with their eyes half-shut. I graduated in a good
school, and I may, perhaps, have been a tolerably apt pupil?"

"What school?"

"The school of poverty. That's the sort of education that sharpens a
man's intellect. My father was a reprobate and a gamester, and I knew
at an early age that I had nothing to hope for from him. I have had my
own way to carve in life, and if I have as yet made small progress, I
have fought against terrible odds."

"I wonder you don't set up in a professional career," said Mr.
Eversleigh; "you have finished your education; obtained your degree.
What are you waiting for?"

"I am waiting for my chances," answered Victor; "I don't care to begin
the jog-trot career in which other men toil for twenty years or so,
before they attain anything like prosperity. I have studied as few men
of five-and-twenty have studied,--chemistry as well as surgery. I can
afford to wait my chances. I pick up a few pounds a week by writing for
the medical journals, and with that resource and occasional luck with
cards, I can very easily support the simple home in which my mother and
I live. In the meantime, I am free, and believe me, my dear Reginald,
there is nothing so precious as freedom."