Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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reason, deeply in debt, and her only chance of extrication from her
difficulties lay in a brilliant marriage.
For nearly nine years she had been trying to make this brilliant
marriage. She had “come out,” as the phrase goes, at seventeen, and she
was now nine-and-twenty.
During that period she had been wooed and flattered by troops of
admirers. She had revelled in flirtations; she had triumphed in the
power of her beauty; but she had known more than one disappointment of
her fairest hopes, and she had not won the prize in the great lottery
of fashionable life—a wealthy and patrician husband.
Her nine-and-twentieth birthday had passed; and contemplating herself
earnestly in her glass, she was fain to confess that something of the
brilliancy of her beauty had faded.
“I am getting wan and sallow,” she said to herself; “what is to become
of me if I do not marry?”
The prospect was indeed a sorry one.
Lydia Graham possessed an income of two hundred a year, inherited from
her mother: but such an income was the merest pittance for a young lady
with Miss Graham’s tastes. Her brother was a captain of an expensive
regiment, selfish and extravagant, and by no means inclined to open his
purse for his sister’s benefit.
She had no home; but lived sometimes with one wealthy relation,
sometimes with another—always admired, always elegantly dressed; but
not always happy.
Amidst all Miss Graham’s matrimonial disappointments, she had endured
none more bitter than that which she had felt when she read the
announcement of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s marriage in the “Times”
newspaper.
She had met the rich baronet very frequently in society. She had
visited at Raynham with her brother. Sir Oswald had, to all appearance,
admired her beauty and accomplishments; and she had imagined that time
and opportunity alone were wanting to transform that admiration into a
warmer feeling. In plain words, Lydia Graham had hoped with a little
good management, to become Lady Eversleigh of Raynham; and no words can
fully describe her mortification when she learnt that the baronet had
bestowed his name and fortune on a woman of whom the fashionable world
knew nothing, except that she was utterly unknown.
Lydia Graham came to Raynham Castle with poisonous feelings rankling in
her heart, but she wore her brightest smiles as well as her most
elegant dresses. She congratulated the baronet in honeyed words, and
offered warmest friendship to the lovely mistress of the mansion.
“I am sure we shall suit each other delightfully, dear Lady
Eversleigh,” she said; “and we shall be fast friends henceforward-shall
we not?”
Honoria’s disposition was naturally reserved. She revolted against
frivolous and unmeaning sentimentality. She responded politely to Miss
Graham’s proffers of friendship; but not with corresponding warmth.
Lydia Graham perceived the coldness of her manner, and bitterly
resented it. She felt that she had reason to hate this woman, who had
caused the disappointment of her dearest hopes, whose beauty was
infinitely superior to her own; and who was several years younger than
herself.
There was one person at Raynham whose scrutinizing eyes perceived the
animosity of feeling lurking beneath Lydia Graham’s smooth manner. That
penetrating observer was Victor Carrington. He saw that the fashionable
beauty hated Lady Eversleigh, and he resolved to make use of her hatred
for the furtherance of his schemes.
“I fancy Miss Graham has at some time of her life cherished an idea
that she might become mistress of this place, eh, Reginald?” he said
one morning, as the two men lounged together on the terrace.
“How did you know that?” said Reginald, questioning and replying at
once.
“By no diabolical power of divination, I assure you, my dear Reginald.
I have only used my eyes. But it seems, from your exclamation, that I
am right. Miss Graham did once hope to become Lady Eversleigh.”
“Well, I believe she tried her uttermost to win my uncle for a husband.
I have watched her manoeuvres—when she was here two years ago; but
they did not give me much uneasiness, for I thought Sir Oswald was a
confirmed bachelor. She used to vary her amusements by flirting with
me. I was the acknowledged heir in those days, you know, and I have no
doubt she would have married me if I had given her the opportunity. But
she is too clever a woman for my taste; and with all her brilliancy, I
never admired her.”
“You are wise, for once in the way, my dear Reginald. Miss Graham is a
dangerous woman. She has a very beautiful smile; but she is the sort of
woman who can smile and murder while she smiles. But she may be made a
very useful tool, notwithstanding.”
“A tool?”
“Yes; a good workman takes his tools wherever he finds them. I may be
in want of just such a tool as Lydia Graham.”
All went merry as a marriage-bell at Raynham Castle during the bright
August weather. The baronet was unspeakably happy. Honoria, too, was
happy in the novelty of her position; happy in the knowledge of her
husband’s love. His noble nature had won the reward such natures should
win. He was beloved by his young wife as few men are beloved in the
heyday of their youth. Her affection was reverential, profound, and
pure. To her mind, Oswald Eversleigh was the perfection of all that is
noble in mankind, and she was proud of his devotion, grateful of his
love.
No guest at the castle was more popular than Victor Carrington, the
surgeon. His accomplishments were of so varied a nature as to make him
invaluable in a large party, and he was always ready to devote himself
to the amusement of others. Sir Oswald was astonished at the
versatility of his nephew’s friend. As a linguist, an artist, a
musician, Victor alike shone pre-eminent; but in music he was
triumphant. Professing only to be an amateur, he exhibited a scientific
knowledge, a mechanical proficiency, as rare as they were admirable.
“A poor man is obliged to study many arts,” he said, carelessly, when
Sir Oswald complimented him on his musical powers. “My life has been
one of laborious industry; and the cultivation of music has been almost
the only relaxation I have allowed myself. I am not, like Lady
Eversleigh, a musical genius. I only pretend to be a patient student of
the great masters.”
The baronet was delighted with the musical talents of his guest because
they assisted much in the display of Lady Eversleigh’s exceptional
power. Victor Carrington’s brilliant playing set off the magnificent
singing of Honoria. With him as her accompanyist, she sang as she could
not sing without his aid. Every evening there was an impromptu concert
in the long drawing-room; every evening Lady Eversleigh sang to Victor
Carrington’s accompaniment.
One evening, in the summer dusk, when she had been singing even more
superbly than usual, Lydia Graham happened to be seated near Sir
Oswald, in one of the broad open windows.
“Lady Eversleigh is indeed a genius,” said Miss Graham, at the close of
a superb bravura; “but how delightful for her to have that
accomplished Mr. Carrington to accompany her—though some people prefer
to play their own accompaniments. I do, for instance; but when one has
a relative who plays so well, it is, of course, a different thing.”
“A relative! I don’t understand you, my dear Miss Graham.”
“I mean that it is very nice for Lady Eversleigh to have a cousin who
is so accomplished a musician.”
“A cousin?”
“Yes. Mr. Carrington is Lady Eversleigh’s cousin—is he not? Or, I beg
your pardon, perhaps he is her brother. I don’t know your wife’s maiden
name.”
“My wife’s maiden name was Milford,” answered the baronet, with some
displeasure in his tone. “And Mr. Carrington is neither her brother nor
her cousin; he is no relation whatever to her.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Graham.
There was a strange significance in that word “indeed”; and after
having uttered it, the young lady seemed seized with a sudden sense of
embarrassment.
Sir Oswald looked at her sharply; but her face was half averted from
him, as if she had turned away in confusion. “You seem surprised,” he
said, haughtily, “and yet I do not see anything surprising in the fact
that my wife and Mr. Carrington are not related to each other.”
“Oh, dear no, Sir Oswald; of course not,” replied Lydia, with a light
laugh, which had the artificial sound of a laugh intended to disguise
some painful embarrassment. “Of course not. It was very absurd of me to
appear surprised, if I did really appear so; but I was not aware of it.
You see, it was scarcely strange if I thought Lady Eversleigh and Mr.
Carrington were nearly related; for, when people are very old friends,
they seem like relations: it is only in name that there is any
difference.”
“You seemed determined to make mistakes this evening, Miss Graham,”
answered the baronet, with icy sternness. “Lady Eversleigh and Mr.
Carrington are by no means old friends. Neither my wife nor I have
known the gentleman more than a fortnight. He happens to be a very
accomplished musician, and is good enough to make himself useful in
accompanying Lady Eversleigh when she sings. That is the only claim
which he has on her friendship; and it is one of only a few days’
standing.”
“Indeed!” said Miss Graham, repeating the exclamation which had sounded
so disagreeable to Sir Oswald. “I certainly should have mistaken them
for old friends; but then dear Lady Eversleigh is of Italian
extraction, and there is always a warmth of manner, an absence of
reserve, in the southern temperament which is foreign to our colder
natures.”
Lady Eversleigh rose from her seat just at this moment, in compliance
with the entreaties of the circle about her.
She approached the grand piano, where Victor Carrington was still
sitting, turning over the leaves of some music, and at the same moment
Sir Oswald rose also, and hurried towards her.
“Do not sing any more to-night, Honoria,” he said; “you will fatigue
yourself.”
There was some lack of politeness in this speech, as Lady Eversleigh
was about to sing in compliance with the entreaties of her guests. She
turned to her husband with a smile—
“I am not in the least tired, my dear Oswald,” she said; “and if our
friends really wish for another song, I am quite ready to sing one.
That is to say, if Mr. Carrington is not tired of accompanying me.”
Victor Carrington declared that nothing gave him greater pleasure than
to play Lady Eversleigh’s accompaniments.
“Mr. Carrington is very good,” answered the baronet, coldly, “but I do
not wish you to tire yourself by singing all the evening; and I beg
that you will not sing again to-night, Honoria.”
Never before had the baronet addressed his wife with such cold decision
of manner. There was something almost severe in his tone, and Honoria
looked at him with wondering eyes.
“I have no greater pleasure than in obeying you,” she said, gently, as
she withdrew from the piano.
She seated herself by one of the tables, and opened a portfolio of
sketches. Her head drooped over the book, and she seemed absorbed in
the contemplation of the drawings. Glancing at her furtively, Sir
Oswald could see that she was wounded; and yet he—the adoring husband,
the devoted lover—did not approach her. His mind was disturbed—his
thoughts confused. He passed through one of the open windows, and went
out upon the terrace. There all was calm
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