Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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"And you will not desert me now that I am down in the world, eh, old
fellow?"

"No, Reginald, I will never desert you while you have the chance of
succeeding to forty thousand a year," answered the surgeon, with a
laugh.

His small black eyes flashed and sparkled as he laughed. Reginald
looked at him with a sensation that was almost fear.

"What a fellow you are, Carrington!" he exclaimed; "you don't pretend
even to have a heart."

"A heart is a luxury which a poor man must dispense with," answered
Victor, with perfect _sang froid_. "I should as soon think of setting
up a mail-phaeton and pair as of pretending to benevolent feelings or
high-flown sentiments. I have my way to make in the world, Mr.
Eversleigh, and must consider my own interests as well as those of my
friends. You see, I am no hypocrite. You needn't be alarmed, dear boy.
I'll help you, and you shall help me; and it shall go hard if you are
not restored to your uncle's favour before the year is out. But you
must be patient. Our work will be slow, for we shall have to work
underground. If Sir Oswald is still in Arlington Street, I shall make
it my business to see Mr. Millard to-morrow."

* * * * *

Sir Oswald Eversleigh had not left Arlington Street, and at dusk on the
following evening Mr. Carrington presented himself at the door of the
baronet's mansion, and asked to see Mr. Millard, the valet.

Victor Carrington had never seen his friend's kinsman; he was,
therefore, secure against all chances of recognition. He had chosen the
baronet's dinner-hour as the time for his call, knowing that during
that hour the valet must be disengaged. He sent his card to Mr.
Millard, with a line written in pencil to request an interview on
urgent business.

Millard came to the hall at once to see his visitor, and ushered Mr.
Carrington into a small room that was used occasionally by the upper
servants.

The surgeon was skilled in every science by which a man may purchase
the hearts and minds of his fellow-men. He could read Sir Oswald
Eversleigh's valet as he could have read an open book He saw that the
man was weak, irresolute, tolerably honest, but open to temptation. He
was a middle-aged man, with sandy hair, a pale face, and light,
greenish-gray eyes.

"Weak," thought the surgeon, as he examined this man's countenance,
"greedy, and avaricious. So, so; we can do what we like with Mr.
Millard."

Victor Carrington told the valet that he was the most intimate friend
of Reginald Eversleigh, and that he made this visit entirely without
that gentleman's knowledge. He dwelt much upon Mr. Eversleigh's grief--
his despair.

"But he is very proud," he added; "too proud to approach this house,
either directly or indirectly. The shock caused by his uncle's
unexpected abandonment of him has completely prostrated him. I am a
member of the medical profession, Mr. Millard, and I assure you that
during the past fortnight I have almost feared for my friend's reason.
I therefore determined upon a desperate step--a step which Reginald
Eversleigh would never forgive, were he to become aware of it. I
determined upon coming to this house, and ascertaining, if possible,
the nature of Sir Oswald's feelings towards his nephew. Is there any
hope of a reconciliation?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"That's a bad thing," said Victor, gravely; "a very bad thing. A vast
estate is at stake. It would be a bad thing for every one if that
estate were to pass into strange hands--a very bad thing for old
servants, for with strangers all old links are broken. It would be a
still worse thing for every one if Sir Oswald should take it into his
head to marry."

The valet looked very grave.

"If you had said such a thing to me a fortnight ago, I should have told
you it was impossible," he said; "but now--."

"Now, what do you say?"

"Well, sir, you're a gentleman, and, of course, you can keep a secret;
so I'll tell you candidly that nothing my master could do would
surprise me after what I've seen within the last fortnight."

This was quite enough for Victor Carrington, who did not leave
Arlington Street until he had extorted from the valet the entire
history of the baronet's adoption of the ballad-singer.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

A year and some months had passed, and the midsummer sunlight shone
upon the woods around Raynham Castle.

It was a grand pile of buildings, blackened by the darkening hand of
time. At one end Norman towers loomed, round and grim; at another
extremity the light tracery of a Gothic era was visible in window and
archway, turret and tower. The centre had been rebuilt in the reign of
Henry VIII, and a long range of noble Tudor windows looked out upon the
broad terrace, beyond which there was a garden, or _pleasaunce_,
sloping down to the park. In the centre of this long facade there was
an archway, opening into a stone quadrangle, where a fountain played
perpetually in a marble basin. This was Raynham Castle, and all the
woods and pastures as far as the eye could reach, and far beyond the
reach of any human eye, belonged to the castle estate. This was the
fair domain of which Reginald Eversleigh had been for years the
acknowledged heir, and which his own folly and dishonour had forfeited.

Now all was changed. There was not a peasant in Raynham village who had
not as much right to enter the castle, and as good a chance of a
welcome, as he who had once been acknowledged heir to that proud
domain. It was scarcely strange if Reginald Eversleigh felt this bitter
change very keenly.

He had placed himself entirely in the hands of his friend and adviser,
Victor Carrington. He had sold out of the cavalry regiment, and had
taken up his abode in a modest lodging, situated in a small street at
the West-end of London. Here he had tried to live quietly, according to
his friend's advice; but he was too much the slave of his own follies
and vices to endure a quiet existence.

The sale of his commission made him rich for the time being, and, so
long as his money lasted, he pursued the old course, betting, playing
billiards, haunting all the aristocratic temples of folly and
dissipation; but, at the worst, conducting himself with greater caution
than he had done of old, and always allowing himself to be held
somewhat in check by his prudent ally and counsellor.

"Enjoy yourself as much as you please, my dear Reginald," said Victor
Carrington; "but take care that your little follies don't reach the
ears of your uncle. Remember, I count upon your being reconciled to him
before the year is out."

"That will never be," answered Mr. Eversleigh, with a tone of sullen
despair. "I am utterly ruined, Carrington. It's no use trying to shirk
the truth. I am a doomed wretch, a beggar for life, and the sooner I
throw myself over one of the bridges, and make an end of my miserable
existence, the better. According to Millard's account my uncle's
infatuation for that singing-girl grows stronger and stronger. Not a
week now passes without his visiting the school where the young
adventuress is finishing her education. As sure as fate, it will end by
his marrying her and the street ballad-singer will be my Lady
Eversleigh."

"And when she is my Lady Eversleigh, it must be our business to step
between her and the Eversleigh estates," answered Victor, quietly. "I
told you that your uncle's marriage would be an unlucky thing for you;
but I never told you that it would put an end to your chances. I think,
from what Millard tells us, there is very little doubt Sir Oswald will
make a fool of himself by marrying this girl. If he does, we must set
our wits to work to prevent his leaving her his fortune. She is utterly
friendless and obscure, so he is not likely to make any settlement upon
her. And for the rest, a man of fifty who marries a girl of nineteen is
very apt to repent of his folly. It must be our business to make your
uncle repent very soon after he has taken the fatal step."

"I don't understand you, Carrington."

"My dear Eversleigh, you very seldom do understand me," answered the
surgeon, in that half-contemptuous tone in which he was apt to address
his friend; "but that is not of the smallest consequence. Only do what
I tell you, and leave the rest to me. You shall be lord of Raynham
Castle yet, if my wits are good for anything."

* * * * *

A year had elapsed, which had been passed by Sir Oswald between Raynham
Castle and Arlington Street, and during which he had paid more visits
than he could count to "The Beeches."

On the occasion of these visits, he only saw his _protegee_ for about a
quarter of an hour, while the stately Miss Beaumont looked on, smiling
a dignified smile upon her pupil and the liberal patron who paid so
handsomely for that pupil's education. She had always a good account to
give of Sir Oswald's _protegee_--there never was so much talent united
to so much industry, according to Miss Beaumont's report. Sometimes Sir
Oswald begged to hear Miss Milford sing, and Honoria seated herself at
the piano, over whose notes her white fingers seemed to have already
acquired perfect command.

The rich and clear soprano voice had attained new power since Sir
Oswald had heard it in the moonlit market-place; the execution of the
singer improved day by day. The Italian singing-master spoke in
raptures of his pupil--never was there a finer organ or more talent.
Miss Milford could not fail to create a profound impression when her
musical education should be completed, and she should appear before the
public.

But as the year drew to its close, Sir Oswald Eversleigh talked less
and less of that public career for which he had destined his
_protegee_. He no longer reminded her that on her own industry depended
her future fortune. He no longer spoke in glowing terms of that
brilliant pathway which lay before her. His manner was entirely
changed, and he was grave and silent whenever any allusion was made by
Miss Beaumont or Honoria to the future use which was to be made of that
superb voice and exceptional genius.

The schoolmistress remarked upon this alteration one day, when talking
to her pupil.

"Do you know, my dear Miss Milford, I am really inclined to believe
that Sir Oswald Eversleigh has changed his mind with regard to your
future career, and that he does not intend you to be an opera-singer."

"Surely, dear Miss Beaumont, that is impossible," answered Honoria,
quietly; "my education is costing my kind bene--relative a great deal
of money, which would be wasted if I were not to make music my
profession. Besides, what else have I to look to in the future?
Remember, Sir Oswald has always told you that I have my own fortune to
achieve. I have no claim on any one, and it is to his generosity alone
I owe my present position."

"Well, I don't know how it may be, my dear," answered Miss Beaumont, "I
may be mistaken; but I cannot help thinking that Sir Oswald has changed
his mind about you. I need not tell you that my opinions are opposed to
a professional career for any young lady brought up in my
establishment, however highly gifted. I'm sure my blood actually
freezes in my veins, when I think of any pupil of mine standing on a
public stage, to be gazed at by the common herd; and I told Sir Oswald,
when he first proposed bringing you here, that it would be necessary to
keep your destiny a profound secret from your fellow-pupils; for I
assure you, my love, there are mammas and papas who would come to this
house in the dead of the night and carry off their children, without a
moment's warning, if they were informed that a young person intended to
appear on the stage of the Italian Opera was receiving her education
within these walls. In short, nothing but your own discreet conduct,
and Sir Oswald's very liberal terms, could have reconciled me to the
risk which I have run in receiving you."

The first year of Honoria Milford's residence at "The Beeches" expired,
and another year began. Sir Oswald's visits became more and more
frequent. When the accounts of his _protegee's_ progress were more than
usually enthusiastic, his visits were generally followed very speedily
by the arrival of some costly gift for Miss Beaumont's pupil--a ring--a
bracelet--a locket--always in perfect taste, and such as a young lady
at a boarding-school might wear, but always of the most valuable
description.

Honoria Milford must have possessed a heart of stone, if she had not
been grateful to so noble a benefactor. She was grateful, and her
gratitude was obvious to her generous protector. Her beautiful face was
illuminated with an unwonted radiance when she entered the drawing-room
where he awaited her coming: and the pleasure with which she received
his brief visits was as palpable as if it had been expressed in words.

It was midsummer, and Honoria Milford had been a year and a quarter at
"The Beeches." She had acquired much during that period; new
accomplishments, new graces; and her beauty had developed into fresh
splendour in the calm repose of that comfortable abode. She was liked
by her fellow-pupils; but she had made neither friends nor
_confidantes_. The dark secrets of her past life shut her out from all
intimate companionship with girls of her own age.

She had, in a manner, lived a lonely life amongst all these companions,
and her chief happiness had been derived from her studies. Thus it was,
perhaps, that she had made double progress during her residence with
the Misses Beaumont.

One bright afternoon in June, Sir Oswald's mail-phaeton and pair drove
past the windows of the school-room.

"Visitors for Miss Milford!" exclaimed the pupils seated near the
windows, as they recognized the elegant equipage.

Honoria rose from her desk, awaiting the summons of the schoolroom-
maid. She had not long to wait. The young woman appeared at the door in
a few moments, and Miss Milford was requested to go to the drawing-
room.

She went, and found Sir Oswald Eversleigh awaiting her alone. It was
the first time that she had ever known Miss Beaumont to be absent from
the reception-room on the visit of the baronet.

He rose to receive her, and took the hand which she extended towards
him.

"I am alone, you see, Honoria," he said; "I told Miss Beaumont that I
had something of a serious nature to say to you, and she left me to
receive you alone."

"Something of a serious nature," repeated the girl, looking at her
benefactor with surprise. "Oh, I think I can guess what you are going
to say," she added, after a moment's hesitation; "my musical education
is now sufficiently advanced for me to take some new step in the
pathway which you wish me to tread."

"No, Honoria, you are mistaken," answered the baronet, gravely; "so far
from wishing to hasten your musical education, I am about to entreat
you to abandon all thought of a professional career."

"To abandon all thought of a professional career! You would ask me
this, Sir Oswald--_you_ who have so often told me that all my hopes for
the future depended on my cultivation of the art I love?"

"You love your art very much then, Honoria?"

"More than I love life itself."

"And it would grieve you much, no doubt, to resign all idea of a public
career--to abandon your dream of becoming a public singer?"

There was a pause, and then the girl answered, in a dreamy tone--

"I don't know. I have never thought of the public. I have never
imagined the hour in which I should stand before a great crowd, as I
have stood in the cruel streets, amongst all the noise and confusion,
singing to people who cared so little to hear me. I have never thought
of that--I love music for its own sake, and feel as much pleasure when
I sing alone in my own room, as I could feel in the grandest opera-
house that ever was built."

"And the applause, the admiration, the worship, which your beauty, as
well as your voice, would win--does the idea of resigning such
intoxicating incense give you no pain, Honoria?"

The girl shook her head sadly.

"You forget what I was when you rescued me from the pitiless stones of
the market-place, or you would scarcely ask me such a question. I have
confronted the public--not the brilliant throng of the opera-house, but
the squalid crowd which gathers before the door of a gin-shop, to
listen to a vagrant ballad-singer. I have sung at races, where the rich
and the high-born were congregated, and have received their admiration.
I know what it is worth, Sir Oswald. The same benefactor who throws a
handful of half-pence, offers an insult with his donation."

Sir Oswald contemplated his _protegee_ in silent admiration, and it was
some moments before he continued the conversation.

"Will you walk with me in the garden?" he asked, presently; "that
avenue of beeches is delightful, and--and I think I shall be better
able to say what I wish there, than in this room. At any rate, I shall
feel less afraid of interruption."

Honoria rose to comply with her benefactor's wish, with that
deferential manner which she always preserved in her intercourse with
him, and they walked out upon the velvet lawn. Across the lawn lay the
beech-avenue, and it was thither Sir Oswald directed his steps.

"Honoria," he said, after a silence of some duration, "if you knew how
much doubt--how much hesitation I experienced before I came here to-
day--how much I still question the wisdom of my coming--I think you
would pity me. But I am here, and I must needs speak plainly, if I am
to speak at all. Long ago I tried to think that my interest in your
fate was only a natural impulse of charity--only an ordinary tribute to
gifts so far above the common. I tried to think this, and I acted with
the cold, calculating wisdom of a man of the world, when I marked out
for you a career by which you might win distinction for yourself, and
placed you in the way of following that career. I meant to spend last
year upon the Continent. I did not expect to see you once in twelve
months; but the strange influence which possessed me in the hour of our
first meeting grew stronger upon me day by day. In spite of myself, I
thought of you; in spite of myself I came here again and again, to look
upon your face, to hear your voice, for a few brief moments, and then
to go out into the world, to find it darker and colder by contrast with
the brightness of your beauty. Little by little, the idea of your
becoming a public singer became odious to me," continued Sir Oswald.
"At first I thought with pride of the success which would be yours, the
worship which would be offered at your shrine; but my feeling changed
completely before long, and I shuddered at the image of your triumphs,
for those triumphs must, doubtless, separate us for ever. Why should I
dwell upon this change of feeling? You must have already guessed the
secret of my heart. Tell me that you do not despise me!"

"Despise you, Sir Oswald!--you, the noblest and most generous of men!
Surely, you must know that I admire and reverence you for all your
noble qualities, as well as for your goodness to a wretched creature
like me."

"But, Honoria, I want something more than your esteem. Do you remember
the night I first heard you singing in the market-place on the north
road?"

"Can I ever forget that miserable night?" cried the girl, in a tone of
surprise--the question seemed so strange to her--"that bitter hour, in
which you came to my rescue?"

"Do you remember the song you were singing--the last song you ever sang
in the streets?"

Honoria Milford paused for some moments before answering It was evident
that she could not at first recall the memory of that last song.

"My brain was almost bewildered that night," she said; "I was so weary,
so miserable; and yet, stay, I do remember the song. It was 'Auld Robin
Gray.'"

"Yes, Honoria, the story of an old man's love for a woman young enough
to be his daughter. I was sitting by my cheerless fire-side, meditating
very gloomily upon the events of the day, which had been a sad one for
me, when your thrilling tones stole upon my ear, and roused me from my
reverie. I listened to every note of that old ballad. Although those
words had long been familiar to me, they seemed new and strange that
night. An irresistible impulse led me to the spot where you had sunk
down in your helplessness. From that hour to this you have been the
ruling influence of my life. I have loved you with a devotion which few
men have power to feel. Tell me, Honoria, have I loved in vain? The
happiness of my life trembles in the balance. It is for you to decide
whether my existence henceforward is to be worthless to me, or whether
I am to be the proudest and happiest of men."

"Would my love make you happy, Sir Oswald?"

"Unutterably happy."

"Then it is yours."

"You love me--in spite of the difference between our ages?"

"Yes, Sir Oswald, I honour and love you with all my heart," answered
Honoria Milford. "Whom have I seen so worthy of a woman's affection?
From the first hour in which some guardian angel threw me across your
pathway, what have I seen in you but nobility of soul and generosity of
heart? Is it strange, therefore, if my gratitude has ripened into
love?"

"Honoria," murmured Sir Oswald, bending over the drooping head, and
pressing his lips gently on the pure brow--"Honoria, you have made me
too happy. I can scarcely believe that this happiness is not some
dream, which will melt away presently, and leave me alone and
desolate--the fool of my own fancy."

He led Honoria back towards the house. Even in this moment of supreme
happiness he was obliged to remember Miss Beaumont, who would, no
doubt, be lurking somewhere on the watch for her pupil.

"Then you will give up all thought of a professional career, Honoria?"
said the baronet, as they walked slowly back.

"I will obey you in everything."

"My dearest girl--and when you leave this house, you will leave it as
Lady Eversleigh."

Miss Beaumont was waiting in the drawing-room, and was evidently
somewhat astonished by the duration of the interview between Sir Oswald
and her pupil.

"You have been admiring the grounds, I see, Sir Oswald," she said, very
graciously. "It is not quite usual for a gentleman visitor and a pupil
to promenade in the grounds _tete-a-tete_; but I suppose, in the case
of a gentleman of your time of life, we must relax the severity of our
rules in some measure."

The baronet bowed stiffly. A man of fifty does not care to be reminded
of his time of life at the very moment when he has just been accepted
as the husband of a girl of nineteen.

"It may, perhaps, be the last opportunity which I may have of admiring
your grounds, Miss Beaumont," he said, presently, "for I think of
removing your pupil very shortly."

"Indeed!" cried the governess, reddening with suppressed indignation.
"I trust Miss Milford has not found occasion to make any complaint; she
has enjoyed especial privileges under this roof--a separate bed-room,
silver forks and spoons, roast veal or lamb on Sundays, throughout the
summer season--to say nothing of the most unremitting supervision of a
positively maternal character, and I should really consider Miss
Milford wanting in common gratitude if she had complained."

"You are mistaken, my dear madam; Miss Milford has uttered no word of
complaint. On the contrary, I am sure she has been perfectly happy in
your establishment; but changes occur every day, and an important
change will, I trust, speedily occur in my life, and in that of Miss
Milford. When I first proposed bringing her to you, you asked me if she
was a relation; I told you he was distantly related to me. I hope soon
to be able to say that distant relationship has been transformed into a
very near one. I hope soon to call Honoria Milford my wife."

Miss Beaumont's astonishment on hearing this announcement was extreme;
but as surprise was one of the emotions peculiar to the common herd,
the governess did her best to suppress all signs of that feeling. Sir
Oswald told her that, as Miss Milford was an orphan, and without any
near relative, he would wish to take her straight from "The Beeches" to
the church in which he would make her his wife, and he begged Miss
Beaumont to give him her assistance in the arrangement of the wedding.

The mistress of "The Beeches" possessed a really kind heart beneath the
ice of her ultra-gentility, and she was pleased with the idea of
assisting in the bringing about of a genuine love-match. Besides, the
affair, if well managed, would reflect considerable importance upon
herself, and she would be able by and bye to talk of "my pupil, Lady
Eversleigh;" or, "that sweet girl, Miss Milford, who afterwards married
the wealthy baronet, Sir Oswald Eversleigh." Sir Oswald pleaded for an
early celebration of the marriage--and Honoria, accustomed to obey him
in all things, did not oppose his wish in this crisis of his life. Once
more Sir Oswald wrote a cheque for the wardrobe of his _protegee_, and
Miss Beaumont swelled with pomposity as she thought of the grandeur
which might be derived from the expenditure of a large sum of money at
certain West-end emporiums where she was in the habit of making
purchases for her pupils, and where she was already considered a person
of some importance.