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

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 façade 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 _protégée_ 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 _protégée_--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 _protégée_. 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 _protégée'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