Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [classic literature books txt] 📗

now," said Sir Oswald. "She is quite friendless, and has no shelter for the night, though she seems above the mendicant class. Will you put her somewhere, and see that she is taken good care of, my dear Mrs. Willet? In the morning I may be able to think of some plan for placing her in a more respectable position."

Mrs. Willet promised that the girl should be taken care of, and made thoroughly comfortable. "Poor young thing," said the landlady, "she looks dreadfully pale and ill, and I'm sure she'll be none the worse for a nice little bit of supper. Come with me, my dear."

The girl obeyed; but on the threshold of the hall she turned and spoke to Sir Oswald.

"I thank you," she said; "I thank you with all my heart and soul for your goodness. I have never met with such kindness before."

"The world must have been very hard for you, my poor child," he replied, "if such small kindness touches you so deeply. Come to me to- morrow morning, and we will talk of your future life. Goodnight!"

"Good night, sir, and God bless you!"

The baronet went slowly and thoughtfully up the broad staircase, on his way to his rooms.

Sir Oswald Eversleigh passed the night of his sojourn at the 'Star' in broken slumbers. The events of the preceding day haunted him perpetually in his sleep, acting themselves over and over again in his brain. Sometimes he was with his nephew, and the young man was pleading with him in an agony of selfish terror; sometimes he was standing in the market-place, with the ghost-like figure of the vagrant ballad- singer by his side.

When he arose in the morning, Sir Oswald resolved to dismiss all thought of his nephew. His strange adventure of the previous night had exercised a very powerful influence upon his mind; and it was upon that adventure he meditated while he breakfasted.

"I have seen a landscape, which had no special charm in broad daylight, transformed into a glimpse of paradise by the magic of the moon," he mused as he lingered over his breakfast. "Perhaps this girl is a very ordinary creature after all--a mere street wanderer, coarse and vulgar."

But Sir Oswald stopped himself, remembering the refined tones of the voice which he had heard last night--the perfect self-possession of the girl's manner.

"No," he exclaimed, "she is neither coarse nor vulgar; she is no common street ballad-singer. Whatever she is, or whoever she is, there is a mystery around and about her--a mystery which it shall be my business to fathom."

When he had breakfasted, Sir Oswald Eversleigh sent for the ballad- singer.

"Be good enough to tell the young person that if she feels herself sufficiently rested and refreshed, I should like much to have a few minutes' conversation with her," said the baronet to the head-waiter.

In a few minutes the waiter returned, and ushered in the girl. Sir Oswald turned to look at her, possessed by a curiosity which was utterly unwarranted by the circumstances. It was not the first time in his life that he had stepped aside from his pathway to perform an act of charity; but it certainly was the first time he had ever felt so absorbing an interest in the object of his benevolence.

The girl's beauty had been no delusion engendered of the moonlight. Standing before him, in the broad sunlight, she seemed even yet more beautiful, for her loveliness was more fully visible.

The ballad-singer betrayed no signs of embarrassment under Sir Oswald's searching gaze. She stood before her benefactor with calm grace; and there was something almost akin to pride in her attitude. Her garments were threadbare and shabby: yet on her they did not appear the garments of a vagrant. Her dress was of some rusty black stuff, patched and mended in a dozen places; but it fitted her neatly, and a clean linen collar surrounded her slender throat, which was almost as white as the linen. Her waving brown hair was drawn away from her face in thick bands, revealing the small, rosy-tinted ear. The dark brown of that magnificent hair contrasted with the ivory white of a complexion which was only relieved by transient blushes of faint rose-colour, that came and went with emotion or excitement.

"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."