Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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troubled sleep. Carrington watched him for upwards of a quarter of an
hour as he slept thus.
“I think he is safe now—and I may venture,” murmured Victor, at the
end of that time.
He crept softly into the room, making a wide circle, and keeping
himself completely in the shadow, till he was behind the sleeping
baronet. Then he came towards the lamp-lit table.
Amongst the scattered letters and papers, there stood a claret jug, a
large carafe of water, and an empty glass. Victor drew close to the
table, and listened for some moments to the breathing of the sleeper.
Then he took a small bottle from his pocket, and dropped a few globules
of some colourless liquid into the empty glass. Having done this, he
withdrew from the apartment as silently as he had entered it. Twelve
o’clock struck as he was leaving the terrace.
“So,” he muttered, “it is little more than three-quarters of an hour
since I left the servants’ hall. It would not be difficult to prove an
alibi, with the help of a blundering village innkeeper.”
He did not attempt to leave the castle by the court-yard, which he knew
would be locked by this time. He had made himself acquainted with all
the ins and outs of the place, and had possessed himself of a key
belonging to one of the garden gates. Through this gate he passed out
into the park, climbed a low fence, and made his way into Raynham
village, where the landlord of the “Hen and Chickens” was just closing
his doors.
“I have been told by the castle servants that you can give me a bed,”
he said.
The landlord, who was always delighted to oblige his patrons in Sir
Oswald’s servants’ hall and stables, declared himself ready to give the
traveller the best accommodation his house could afford.
“It’s late, sir,” he said; “but we’ll manage to make things comfortable
for you.”
So that night the surgeon slept in the village of Raynham. He, too, was
worn out by the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours, and he slept
soundly all through the night, and slept as calmly as a child.
It was eight o’clock next morning when he went down the steep, old-fashioned staircase of the inn. He found a strange hubbub and confusion
below. Awful tidings had just been brought from the castle. Sir Oswald
Eversleigh had been found seated in his library, DEAD, with the lamp
still burning near him, in the bright summer morning. One of the grooms
had come down to the little inn, and was telling his story to all
comers, when the pedlar came into the open space before the bar.
“It was Millard that found him,” the man said. “He was sitting, quite
calm-like, with his head lying back upon the cushion of his arm-chair.
There were papers and open letters scattered all about; and they sent
off immediately for Mr. Dalton, the lawyer, to look to the papers, and
seal up the locks of drawers and desks, and so on. Mr. Dalton is busy
at it now. Mr. Eversleigh is awfully shocked, he is. I never saw such a
white face in all my life as his, when he came out into the hall after
hearing the news. It’s a rare fine thing for him, as you may say; for
they say Sir Oswald made a new will last night, and left his nephew
everything; and Mr. Eversleigh has been a regular wild one, and is deep
in debt. But, for all that, I never saw any one so cut up as he was
just now.”
“Poor Sir Oswald!” cried the bystanders. “Such a noble gentleman as he
was, too. What did he die of Mr. Kimber?—do you know?”
“The doctor says it must have been heart-disease,” answered the groom.
“A broken heart, I say; that’s the only disease Sir Oswald had. It’s my
lady’s conduct has killed him. She must have been a regular bad one,
mustn’t she?”
The story of the elopement had been fully discussed on the previous day
at the “Hen and Chickens,” and everywhere else in the village of
Raynham. The country gossips shook their heads over Lady Eversleigh’s
iniquity, but they said little. This new event was of so appalling a
nature, that it silenced even the tongue of gossip for a while.
The pedlar took his breakfast in the little parlour behind the bar, and
listened quietly to all that was said by the villagers and the groom.
“And where is my lady?” asked the innkeeper; “she came back yesterday,
didn’t she?”
“Yes, and went away again yesterday afternoon,” returned the groom.
“She’s got enough to answer for, she has.”
*
Terrible indeed was the consternation, which reigned that day at
Raynham Castle. Already Sir Oswald’s guests had been making hasty
arrangements for their departure; and many visitors had departed even
before the discovery of that awful event, which came like a thunderclap
upon all within the castle.
Few men had ever been better liked by his acquaintances than Sir Oswald
Eversleigh.
His generous nature, his honourable character, had won him every man’s
respect. His great wealth had been spent lavishly for the benefit of
others. His hand had always been open to the poor and necessitous. He
had been a kind master, a liberal landlord, an ardent and devoted
friend. There is little wonder, therefore, if the news of his sudden
death fell like an overwhelming blow on all assembled within the
castle, and on many more beyond the castle walls.
The feeling against Honoria Eversleigh was one of unmitigated
execration. No words could be too bitter for those who spoke of Sir
Oswald’s wife.
It had been thought on the previous evening that she had left the
castle for ever, banished by the command of her husband. Nothing,
therefore, could have exceeded the surprise which filled every breast
when she entered the crowded hall some minutes after the discovery of
Sir Oswald’s death.
Her face was whiter than marble, and its awful whiteness was contrasted
by the black dress which she wore.
“Is this true?” she cried, in accents of despair. “Is he really dead?”
“Yes, Lady Eversleigh,” answered General Desmond, an Indian officer,
and an old friend of the dead man, “Sir Oswald is dead.”
“Let me go to him! I cannot believe it—I cannot—I cannot!” she cried,
wildly. “Let me go to him!”
Those assembled round the door of the library looked at her with horror
and aversion. To them this semblance of agony seemed only the
consummate artifice of an accomplished hypocrite.
“Let me go to him! For pity’s sake, let me see him!” she pleaded, with
clasped hands. “I cannot believe that he is dead.”
Reginald Eversleigh was standing by the door of the library, pale as
death—more ghastly of aspect than death itself. He had been leaning
against the doorway, as if unable to support himself; but, as Honoria
approached, he aroused himself from a kind of stupor, and stretched out
his arm to bar her entrance to the death-chamber.
“This is no scene for you, Lady Eversleigh,” he said, sternly. “You
have no right to enter that chamber. You have no right to be beneath
this roof.”
“Who dares to banish me?” she asked, proudly. “And who can deny my
right?”
“I can do both, as the nearest relative of your dead husband.”
“And as the friend of Victor Carrington,” answered Honoria, looking
fixedly at her accuser. “Oh! it is a marvellous plot, Reginald
Eversleigh, and it wanted but this to complete it. My disgrace was the
first act in the drama, my husband’s death the second. Your friend’s
treachery accomplished one, you have achieved the other. Sir Oswald
Eversleigh has been murdered!”
A suppressed cry of horror broke simultaneously from every lip. As the
awful word “murder” was repeated, the doctor, who had been until this
moment beside the dead man, came to the door, and opened it.
“Who was it spoke of murder?” he asked.
“It was I,” answered Honoria. “I say that my husband’s death is no
sudden stroke from the hand of heaven! There is one here who refuses to
let me see him, lest I should lay my hand upon his corpse and call down
heaven’s vengeance on his assassin!”
“The woman is mad,” faltered Reginald Eversleigh.
“Look at the speaker,” cried Honoria. “I am not mad, Reginald
Eversleigh, though, by you and your fellow-plotter, I have been made to
suffer that which might have turned a stronger brain than mine. I am
not mad. I say that my husband has been murdered; and I ask all present
to mark my words. I have no evidence of what I say, except instinct;
but I know that it does not deceive me. As for you, Reginald
Eversleigh, I refuse to recognize your rights beneath this roof. As the
widow of Sir Oswald, I claim the place of mistress in this house, until
events show whether I have a right to it or not.”
These were bold words from one who, in the eyes of all present, was a
disgraced wife, who had been banished by her husband.
General Desmond was the person who took upon himself to reply. He was
the oldest and most important guest now remaining at the castle, and he
was a man who had been much respected by Sir Oswald.
“I certainly do not think that any one here can dispute Lady
Eversleigh’s rights, until Sir Oswald’s will has been read, and his
last wishes made known. Whatever passed between my poor friend and his
wife yesterday is known to Lady Eversleigh alone. It is for her to
settle matters with her own conscience; and if she chooses to remain
beneath this roof, no one here can presume to banish her from it,
except in obedience to the dictates of the dead.”
“The wishes of the dead will soon be known,” said Reginald; “and then
that guilty woman will no longer dare to pollute this house by her
presence.”
“I do not fear, Reginald Eversleigh,” answered Honoria, with sublime
calmness. “Let the worst come. I abide the issue of events. I wait to
see whether iniquity is to succeed; or whether, at the last moment, the
hand of Providence will be outstretched to confound the guilty. My
faith is strong in Providence, Mr. Eversleigh. And now stand aside, if
you please, and let me look upon the face of my husband.”
This time, Reginald Eversleigh did not venture to dispute the widow’s
right to enter the death-chamber. He made way for her to pass him, and
she went in and knelt by the side of the dead. Mr. Dalton, the lawyer,
was moving softly about the room, putting seals on all the locks, and
collecting the papers that had been scattered on the table. The parish
doctor, who had been summoned hastily, stood near the corpse. A groom
had been despatched to a large town, twenty miles distant, to summon a
medical man of some distinction. There were few railroads in those
days; no electric telegraph to summon a man from one end of the country
to another. But all the most distinguished doctors who ever lived could
not have restored Sir Oswald Eversleigh to an hour’s life. All that
medical science could do now, was to discover the mode of the baronet’s
death.
The crowd left the hall by and by, and the interior of the castle grew
more tranquil. All the remaining guests, with the exception of General
Desmond, made immediate
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