Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

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

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It was holiday-time at "The Beeches," and almost all the pupils were
absent. Miss Beaumont was, therefore, able to devote the ensuing
fortnight to the delightful task of shopping. She drove into town
almost every day with Honoria, and hours were spent in the choice of
silks and satins, velvets and laces, and in long consultations with
milliners and dressmakers of Parisian celebrity and boundless
extravagance.

"Sir Oswald has intrusted me with the supervision of this most
important business, and I will drop down in a fainting-fit from sheer
exhaustion before the counter at Howell and James's, sooner than I
would fail in my duty to the extent of an iota," Miss Beaumont said,
when Honoria begged her to take less trouble about the wedding
_trousseau_.

It was Sir Oswald's wish that the wedding should be strictly private.
Whom could he invite to assist at his union with a nameless and
friendless bride? Miss Beaumont was the only person whom he could
trust, and even her he had deceived; for she believed that Honoria
Milford was some fourth or fifth cousin--some poor relative of Sir
Oswald's.

Early in July the wedding took place. All preparations had been made so
quietly as to baffle even the penetration of the watchful Millard. He
had perceived that the baronet was more than usually occupied, and in
higher spirits than were habitual to him; but he could not discover the
reason.

"There's something going on, sir," he said to Victor Carrington; "but
I'm blest if I know what it is. I dare say that young woman is at the
bottom of it. I never did see my master look so well or so happy. It
seems as if he was growing younger every day."

Reginald Eversleigh looked at his friend in blank despair when these
tidings reached him.

"I told you I was ruined, Victor," he said; "and now, perhaps, you will
believe me. My uncle will marry that woman."

It was only on the eve of his wedding-day that Sir Oswald Eversleigh
made any communication to his valet. While dressing for dinner that
evening, he said, quietly--

"I want my portmanteaus packed for travelling between this and two
o'clock to-morrow, Millard; and you will hold yourself in readiness to
accompany me. I shall post from London, starting from a house near
Fulham, at three o'clock. The chariot must leave here, with you and the
luggage, at two."

"You are going abroad, sir?"

"No, I am going to North Wales for a week or two; but I do not go
alone. I am going to be married to-morrow morning, Millard, and Lady
Eversleigh will accompany me."

Much as the probability of this marriage had been discussed in the
Arlington Street household, the fact came upon Joseph Millard as a
surprise. Nothing is so unwelcome to old servants as the marriage of a
master who has long been a bachelor. Let the bride be never so fair,
never so high-born, she will be looked on as an interloper; and if, as
in this case, she happens to be poor and nameless, the bridegroom is
regarded as a dupe and a fool; the bride is stigmatized as an
adventuress.

The valet was fully occupied that evening with preparations for the
journey of the following day, and could find no time to call at Mr.
Eversleigh's lodgings with his evil tidings.

"He'll hear of it soon enough, I dare say, poor, unfortunate young
man," thought Mr. Millard.

The valet was right. In a few days the announcement of the baronet's
marriage appeared in "The Times" newspaper; for, though he had
celebrated that marriage with all privacy, he had no wish to keep his
fair young wife hidden from the world.

"_On Thursday, the 4th instant, at St. Mary's Church, Fulham, Sir
Oswald Morton Vansittart Eversleigh, Bart., to Honoria daughter of the
late Thomas Milford._"

This was all; and this was the announcement which Reginald Eversleigh
read one morning, as he dawdled over his late breakfast, after a night
spent in dissipation and folly. He threw the paper away from him, with
an oath, and hurried to his toilet. He dressed himself with less care
than usual, for to-day he was in a hurry; he wanted at once to
communicate with his friend, Victor Carrington.

The young surgeon lived at the very extremity of the Maida Hill
district, in a cottage, which was then almost in the country. It was a
comfortable little residence; but Reginald Eversleigh looked at it with
supreme contempt.

"You can wait," he said to the hackney coachman; "I shall be here in
about half an hour."

The man drove away to refresh his horses at the nearest inn, and
Reginald Eversleigh strode impatiently past the trim little servant-
girl who opened the garden gate, and walked, unannounced, into the
miniature hall.

Everything in and about Victor Carrington's abode was the perfection of
neatness. The presence of poverty was visible, it is true; but poverty
was made to wear its fairest shape. In the snug drawing-room to which
Reginald Eversleigh was admitted all was bright and fresh. White muslin
curtains shaded the French window; birds sang in gilded cages, of
inexpensive quality, but elegant design; and tall glass vases of
freshly cut flowers adorned tables and mantel-piece.

Sir Oswald's nephew looked contemptuously at this elegance of poverty.
For him nothing but the splendour of wealth possessed any charm.

The surgeon came to him while he stood musing thus.

"Do you mind coming to my laboratory?" he asked, after shaking hands
with his unexpected visitor. "I can see that you have something of
importance to say to me, and we shall be safer from interruption
there."

"I shouldn't have come to this fag-end of Christendom if I hadn't
wanted very much to see you, you may depend upon it, Carrington,"
answered Reginald, sulkily. "What on earth makes you live in such an
out-of-the-way hole?"

"I am a student, and an out-of-the-way hole--as you are good enough to
call it--suits my habits. Besides, this house is cheap, and the rent
suits my pocket."

"It looks like a doll's house," said Reginald, contemptuously.

"My mother likes to surround herself with birds and flowers," answered
the surgeon; "and I like to indulge any fancy of my mother's."

Victor Carrington's countenance seemed to undergo a kind of
transformation as he spoke of his mother. The bright glitter of his
eyes softened; the hard lines of his iron mouth relaxed.

The one tender sentiment of a dark and dangerous nature was this man's
affection for his widowed mother.

He opened the door of an apartment at the back of the house, and
entered, followed by Mr. Eversleigh.

Reginald stared in wonder at the chamber in which he found himself. The
room had once been a kitchen, and was much larger than any other room
in the cottage. Here there was no attempt at either comfort or
elegance. The bare, white-washed walls had no adornment but a deal
shelf here and there, loaded with strange-looking phials and gallipots.
Here all the elaborate paraphernalia of a chemist's laboratory was
visible. Here Reginald Eversleigh beheld stoves, retorts, alembics,
distilling apparatus; all the strange machinery of that science which
always seems dark and mysterious to the ignorant.

The visitor looked about him in utter bewilderment.

"Why, Victor," he exclaimed, "your room looks like the laboratory of
some alchymist of the Middle Ages--the sort of man people used to burn
as a wizard."

"I am rather an enthusiastic student of my art," answered the surgeon.

The visitor's eyes wandered round the room in amazement. Suddenly they
alighted on some object on the table near the stove. Carrington
perceived the glance, and, with a hasty movement, very unusual to him,
dropped his handkerchief upon the object.

The movement, rapid though it was, came too late, for Reginald
Eversleigh had distinguished the nature of the object which the surgeon
wished to conceal from him.

It was a mask of metal, with glass eyes.

"So you wear a mask when you are at work, eh, Carrington?" said Mr.
Eversleigh. "That looks as if you dabble in poisons."

"Half the agents employed in chemistry are poisonous," answered Victor,
coolly.

"I hope there is no danger in the atmosphere of this room just now?"

"None whatever. Come, Reginald, I am sure you have bad news to tell me,
or you would never have taken the trouble to come here."

"I have, and the worst news. My uncle has married this street ballad-
singer."

"Good; then we must try to turn this marriage to account."

"How so?"

"By making it the means of bringing about a reconciliation. You will
write a letter of congratulation to Sir Oswald--a generous letter--in
which you will speak of your penitence, your affection, the anguish you
have endured during this bitter period of estrangement. You can venture
to speak freely of these things now, you will say, for now that your
honoured uncle has found new ties you can no longer be suspected of any
mercenary motive. You can now approach him boldly, you will say, for
you have henceforward nothing to hope from him except his forgiveness.
Then you will wind up with an earnest prayer for his happiness. And if
I am not very much out in my reckoning of human nature, that letter
will bring about a reconciliation. Do you understand my tactics?"

"I do. You are a wonderful fellow, Carrington."

"Don't say that until the day when you are restored to your old
position as your uncle's heir. Then you may pay me any compliment you
please."

"If ever that day arrives, you shall not find me ungrateful."

"I hope not; and now go back to town and write your letter. I want to
see you invited to Raynham Castle to pay your respects to the bride."

"But why so?"

"I want to know what the bride is like. Our future plans will depend
much upon her."

Before leaving Lorrimore Cottage, Reginald Eversleigh was introduced to
his friend's mother, whom he had never before seen. She was very like
her son. She had the same pale, sallow face, the same glittering black
eyes. She was slim and tall, with a somewhat stately manner, and with
little of the vivacity usual to her countrywomen.

She looked at Mr. Eversleigh with a searching glance--a glance which
was often repeated, as he stood for a few minutes talking to her.
Nothing which interested her son was without interest for her; and she
knew that this young man was his chief friend and companion.

Reginald Eversleigh went back to town in much better spirits than when
he had left the West-end that morning. He lost no time in writing the
letter suggested by his friend, and, as he was gifted with considerable
powers of persuasion, the letter was a good one.

"I believe Carrington is right," he thought, as he sealed it: "and this
letter will bring about a reconciliation. It will reach my uncle at a
time when he will be intoxicated with his new position as the husband
of a young and lovely bride; and he will be inclined to think kindly of
me, and of all the world. Yes--the letter is decidedly a fine stroke of
diplomacy."

Reginald Eversleigh awaited a reply to his epistle with feverish
impatience; but an impatience mingled with hope.

His hopes did not deceive him. The reply came by return of post, and
was even more favourable than his most sanguine expectations had led
him to anticipate.

"_Dear Reginald_," wrote the baronet, "_your generous and disinterested
letter has touched me to the heart. Let the past be forgotten and
forgiven. I do not doubt that you have suffered, as all men must
suffer, from the evil deeds of their youth_.

"_You were no doubt surprised to receive the tidings of my marriage. I
have consulted my heart alone in the choice which I have made, and I
venture to hope that choice will secure the happiness of my future
existence. I am spending the first weeks of my married life amidst the
lovely solitudes of North Wales. On the 24th of this month, Lady
Eversleigh and I go to Raynham, where we shall be glad to see you
immediately on our arrival. Come to us, my dear boy; come to me, as if
this unhappy estrangement had never arisen, and we will discuss your
future together.--Your affectionate uncle_, OSWALD EVERSLEIGH."
"_Royal Hotel, Bannerdoon, N. W._"

Nothing could be more satisfactory than this epistle. Reginald
Eversleigh and Victor Carrington dined together that evening, and the
baronet's letter was freely discussed between them.

"The ground lies all clear before you now," said the surgeon: "you will
go to Raynham, make yourself as agreeable as possible to the bride, win
your uncle's heart by an appearance of extreme remorse for the past,
and most complete disinterestedness for the future, and leave all the
rest to me."

"But how the deuce can you help me at Raynham?"

"Time alone can show. I have only one hint to give you at present.
Don't be surprised if you meet me unexpectedly amongst the Yorkshire
hills and wolds, and take care to follow suit with whatever cards you
see me playing. Whatever I do will be done in your interest, depend
upon it. Mind, by the bye, if you do see me in the north, that I know
nothing of your visit to Raynham. I shall be as much surprised to see
you as you will be to see me."

"So be it; I will fall into your plans. As your first move has been so
wonderfully successful, I shall be inclined to trust you implicitly in
the future. I suppose you will want to be paid rather stiffly by and
bye, if you do succeed in getting me any portion of Sir Oswald's
fortune?"

"Well, I shall ask for some reward, no doubt. I am a poor man, you
know, and do not pretend to be disinterested or generous. However, we
will discuss that question when we meet at Raynham."

* * * * *

On the 28th of July, Reginald Eversleigh presented himself at Raynham
Castle. He had thought never more to set foot upon that broad terrace,
never more to pass beneath the shadow of that grand old archway; and a
sense of triumph thrilled through his veins as he stood once again on
the familiar threshold.

And yet his position in life was terribly changed since he had last
stood there. He was no longer the acknowledged heir to whom all
dependents paid deferential homage. He fancied that the old servants
looked at him coldly, and that their greeting was the chilling welcome
which is accorded to a poor relation. He had never done much to win
affection or gratitude in the days of his prosperity. It may be that he
remembered this now, and regretted it, not from any kindly impulse
towards these people, but from a selfish annoyance at the chilling
reception accorded him.

"If ever I win back what I have lost, these pampered parasites shall
suffer for their insolence," thought the young man, as he walked across
the broad Gothic hall of the castle, escorted by the grave old butler.

But he had not much leisure to think about his uncle's servants.
Another and far more important person occupied his mind, and that
person was his uncle's bride.

"Lady Eversleigh is at home?" he asked, while crossing the hall.

"Yes, sir; her ladyship is in the long drawing-room."

The butler opened a ponderous oaken door, and ushered Reginald into one
of the finest apartments in the castle.

In the centre of this room, by the side of a grand piano, from which
she had just risen, stood the new mistress of the castle. She was
simply dressed in pale gray silk, relieved only by a scarlet ribbon
twisted in the masses of her raven hair. Her beauty had the same effect
upon Reginald Eversleigh which it exercised on almost all who looked at
her for the first time. He was dazzled, bewildered, by the singular
loveliness.

"And this divinity--this goddess of grace and beauty, is my uncle's
wife," he thought; "this is the street ballad-singer whom he picked up
out of the gutter."

For some moments the elegant and accomplished Reginald Eversleigh stood
abashed before the calm presence of the nameless girl his uncle had
married.

Sir Oswald welcomed his nephew with perfect cordiality. He was happy,
and in the hour of his happiness he could cherish no unkind feeling
towards the adopted son who had once been so dear to him. But while
ready to open his arms to the repentant prodigal, his intentions with
regard to the disposition of his wealth had undergone no change. He had
arrived, calmly and deliberately, at a certain resolve, and he intended
to adhere to that decision.

The baronet told his nephew this frankly in the first confidential
conversation which they had after the young man's arrival at Raynham.

"You may think me harsh and severe," he said, gravely; "but the
resolution which I announced to you in Arlington Street cost me much
thought and care. I believe that I have acted for the best. I think
that my over-indulgence was the bane of your youth, Reginald, and that
you would have been a better man had you been more roughly reared.
Since you have left the army, I have heard no more of your follies; and
I trust that you have at last struck out a better path for yourself,
and separated yourself from all dangerous associates. But you must
choose a new profession. You must not live an idle life on the small
income which you receive from me. I only intended that annuity as a
safeguard against poverty, not as a sufficient means of life. You must
select a new career, Reginald; and whatever it may be, I will give you
some help to smooth your pathway. Your first cousin, Douglas Dale, is
studying for the law--would not that profession suit you?"

"I am in your hands, sir, and am ready to obey you in everything."

"Well, think over what I have said; and if you choose to enter yourself
as a student in the Temple, I will assist you with all necessary
funds."

"My dear uncle, you are too good."

"I wish to serve you as far as I can with justice to others. And now,
Reginald, we will speak no more of the past. What do you think of my
wife?"

"She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld."

"And she is as good and true as she is beautiful--a pearl of price,
Reginald. I thank Providence for giving me so great a treasure."

"And this treasure will be possessor of Raynham Castle, I suppose,"
thought the young man, savagely.

Sir Oswald spoke presently, almost as if in answer to his nephew's
thoughts.

"As I have been thoroughly candid with you, Reginald," he said, "I may
as well tell you even more. I am at an age which some call the prime of
life, and I feel all my old vigour. But death sometimes comes suddenly
to men whose life seems as full of promise as mine seems to me now. I
wish that when I die there may be no possible disappointment as to the
disposal of my fortune. Other men make a mystery of the contents of
their wills. I wish the terms of my will to be known by all interested
in it."

"I have no desire to be enlightened, sir," murmured Reginald, who felt
that his uncle's words boded no good to himself.

"My will has been made since my marriage," continued Sir Oswald,
without noticing his nephew's interruption; "any previous will would,
indeed, have been invalidated by that event Two-thirds--more than two-
thirds--of my property has been left to my wife, who will be a very
rich woman when I am dead and gone. Should she have a son, the landed
estates will, of course, go to him; but in any case, Lady Eversleigh
will be mistress of a large fortune. I leave five thousand a year to
each of my nephews. As for you, Reginald, you will, perhaps, consider
yourself bitterly wronged; but you must, in justice, remember that you
have been your own enemy. The annuity of two hundred a year which you
now possess will, after my death, become an income of five hundred a
year, derived from a small estate called Morton Grange, in
Lincolnshire. You have nothing more than a modest competency to hope
for, therefore; and it rests with yourself to win wealth and
distinction by the exercise of your own talents."

The pallor of Reginald Eversleigh's face alone revealed the passion
which consumed him as he received these most unwelcome statements from
his uncle's lips. Fortunately for the young man, Sir Oswald did not
observe his countenance, for at this moment Lady Eversleigh appeared on
the terrace-walk outside the open window of her husband's study, and he
hurried to her.

"What are to be our plans for this afternoon, darling?" he asked. "I
have transacted all my business, and am quite at your service for the
rest of the day."

"Very well, then, you cannot please me better than by showing me some
more of the beauties of your native county."

"You make that proposition because you know it pleases me, artful puss;
but I obey. Shall we ride or drive? Perhaps, as the afternoon is hot,
we had better take the barouche," continued Sir Oswald, while Honoria
hesitated. "Come to luncheon. I will give all necessary orders."

They went to the dining-room, whither Reginald accompanied them.
Already he had contrived to banish the traces of emotion from his
countenance: but his uncle's words were still ringing in his ears.

Five hundred a year!--he was to receive a pitiful five hundred a year;
whilst his cousins--struggling men of the world, unaccustomed to luxury
and splendour--were each to have an income of five thousand. And this
woman--this base, unknown, friendless creature, who had nothing but her
diabolical beauty to recommend her--was to have a splendid fortune!

These were the thoughts which tormented Reginald Eversleigh as he took
his place at the luncheon-table. He had been now a fortnight at Raynham
Castle, and had become, to all outward appearance, perfectly at his
ease with the fair young mistress of the mansion. There are some women
who seem fitted to occupy any station, however lofty. They need no
teaching; they are in no way bewildered by the novelty of wealth or
splendour; they make no errors. They possess an instinctive tact, which
all the teaching possible cannot always impart to others. They glide
naturally into their position; and, looking on them in their calm
dignity, their unstudied grace, it is difficult to believe they have
not been born in the purple.

Such a woman was Honoria, Lady Eversleigh. The novelty of her position
gave her no embarrassment; the splendour around her charmed and
delighted her sense of the beautiful, but it caused her no
bewilderment; it did not dazzle her unaccustomed eyes. She received her
husband's nephew with the friendly, yet dignified, bearing which it was
fitting Sir Oswald's wife should display towards his kinsman; and the
scrutinizing eyes of the young man sought in vain to detect some secret
hidden beneath that placid and patrician exterior.

"The woman is a mystery," he thought; "one would think she were some
princess in disguise. Does she really love my uncle, I wonder? She acts
her part well, if it is a false one. But, then, who would not act a
part for such a prize as she is likely to win? I wish Victor were here.
He, perhaps, might be able to penetrate the secret of her existence.
She is a hypocrite, no doubt; and an accomplished one. I would give a
great deal for the power to strip the veil from her beautiful face, and
show my lady in her true colours!"

Such bitter thoughts as these continually harassed the ambitious and
disappointed man. And yet he was able to bear himself with studied
courtesy towards Lady Eversleigh. The best people in the county had
come to Raynham to pay their homage to Sir Oswald's bride. Nothing
could exceed her husband's pride as he beheld her courted and admired.
No shadow of jealousy obscured his pleasure when he saw younger men
flock round her to worship and admire. He felt secure of her love, for
she had again and again assured him that her heart had been entirely
his even before he declared himself to her. He felt an implicit faith
in her purity and innocence.

Such a man as Oswald Eversleigh is not easily moved to jealousy; but
with such a man, one breath of suspicion, one word of slander, against
the creature he loves, is horrible as the agony of death.

Reginald Eversleigh had shared in all the pleasures and amusements of
Sir Oswald and his wife. They had gone nowhere without him since his
arrival at the castle; for at present he was the only visitor staying
in the house, and the baronet was too courteous to leave him alone.

"After the twelfth we shall have plenty of bachelor visitors," said Sir
Oswald; "and you will find the old place more to your taste, I dare
say, Reginald. In the meantime, you must content yourself with our
society."

"I am more than contented, my dear uncle, and do not sigh for the
arrival of your bachelor friends; though I dare say I shall on very
well with them when they do come."

"I expect a bevy of pretty girls as well. Do you remember Lydia Graham,
the sister of Gordon Graham, of the Fusiliers?"

"Yes, I remember her perfectly."

"I think there used to be something like a flirtation between you and
her."

Sir Oswald and Lady Eversleigh seated themselves in the barouche;
Reginald rode by their side, on a thorough-bred hack out of the Raynham
stables.

The scenery within twenty miles of the castle was varied in character
and rich in beauty. In the purple distance, to the west of the castle,
there was a range of heather-clad hills; and between those hills and
the village of Raynham there flowed a noble river, crossed at intervals
by quaint old bridges, and bordered by little villages, nestling amid
green pastures.