Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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General Desmond declared his intention of remaining until after the
funeral.
“I may be of some use in watching the interests of my dear friend,” he
said to Reginald Eversleigh. “There is only one person who will feel
your uncle’s death more deeply than I shall, and that is poor old
Copplestone. He is still in the castle, I suppose?”
“Yes, he is confined to his rooms still by the gout.”
Reginald Eversleigh was by no means pleased by the general’s decision.
He would rather have been alone in the castle. It seemed as if his
uncle’s old friend was inclined to take the place of master in the
household. The young man’s pride revolted against the general’s love of
dictation; and his fears—strange and terrible fears—made the presence
of the general very painful to him.
Joseph Millard had come to Reginald a little time after the discovery
of the baronet’s death, and had told him the contents of the new will.
“Master told us with his own lips that he had left you heir to the
estates, sir,” said the valet. “There was no need for it to be kept a
secret, he said; and we signed the will as witnesses—Peterson, the
butler, and me.”
“And you are sure you have made no mistake, Millard. Sir Oswald—my
poor, poor uncle, said that?”
“He said those very words, Mr. Eversleigh; and I hope, sir, now that
you are master of Raynham, you won’t forget that I was always anxious
for your interests, and gave you valuable information, sir, when I
little thought you would ever inherit the estate, sir.”
“Yes, yes—you will not find me ungrateful, Millard,” answered
Reginald, impatiently; for in the terrible agitation of his mind, this
man’s talk jarred upon him. “I shall reward you liberally for past
services, you may depend upon it,” he added.
“Thank you very much, sir,” murmured the valet, about to retire.
“Stay, Millard,” said the young man. “You have been with my uncle
twenty years. You must know everything about his health. Did you ever
hear that he suffered from heart-disease?”
“No, sir; he never did suffer from anything of the kind. There never
was a stronger gentleman than Sir Oswald. In all the years that I have
known him, I don’t recollect his having a day’s serious illness. And as
to his dying of disease of the heart, I can’t believe it, Mr.
Eversleigh.”
“But in heart-complaint death is almost always sudden, and the disease
is generally unsuspected until death reveals it.”
“Well, I don’t know, sir. Of course the medical gentlemen understand
such things; but I must say that I don’t understand Sir Oswald going
off sudden like that.”
“You’d better keep your opinions to yourself down stairs, Millard. If
an idea of that kind were to get about in the servants’ hall, it might
do mischief.”
“I should be the last to speak, Mr. Eversleigh. You asked me for my
opinion, and I gave it you, candid. But as to expressing my sentiments
in the servants’ hall, I should as soon think of standing on my head.
In the first place, I don’t take my meals in the servants’ hall, but in
the steward’s room; and it’s very seldom I hold any communication
whatever with under-servants. It don’t do, Mr. Eversleigh—you may
think me ‘aughty; but it don’t do. If upper-servants want to be
respected by under-servants, they must first respect themselves.”
“Well, well, Millard; I know I can rely upon your discretion. You can
leave me now—my mind is quite unhinged by this dreadful event.”
No sooner had the valet departed than Reginald hurried from the castle,
and walked across the garden to the gate by which he had encountered
Victor Carrington on the previous day. He had no appointment with
Victor, and did not even know if he were still in the neighbourhood;
but he fancied it was just possible the surgeon might be waiting for
him somewhere without the boundary of the garden.
He was not mistaken. A few minutes after passing through the gateway,
he saw the figure of the pedlar approaching him under the shade of the
spreading beeches.
“I am glad you are here,” said Reginald; “I fancied I might find you
somewhere hereabouts.”
“And I have been waiting and watching about here for the last two
hours. I dared not trust a messenger, and could only take my chance of
seeing you.”
“You have heard of—of—”
“I have heard everything, I believe.”
“What does it mean, Victor?—what does it all mean?”
“It means that you are a wonderfully lucky fellow; and that, instead of
waiting thirty years to see your uncle grow a semi-idiotic old dotard,
you will step at once into one of the finest estates in England.”
“You knew, then, that the will was made last night?”
“Well, I guessed as much.”
“You have seen Millard?”
“No, I have not seen Millard.”
“How could you know of my uncle’s will, then? It was only executed last
night.”
“Never mind how I know it, my dear Reginald. I do know it. Let that be
enough for you.”
“It is too terrible,” murmured the young man, after a pause; “it is too
terrible.”
“What is too terrible?”
“This sudden death.”
“Is it?” cried Victor Carrington, looking full in his companion’s face,
with an expression of supreme scorn. “Would you rather have waited
thirty years for these estates? Would you rather have waited twenty
years?—ten years? No, Reginald Eversleigh, you would not. I know you
better than you know yourself, and I will answer for you in this
matter. If your uncle’s life had lain in your open palm last night, and
the closing of your hand would have ended it, your hand would have
closed, Mr. Eversleigh, affectionate nephew though you be. You are a
hypocrite, Reginald. You palter with your own conscience. Better to be
like me and have no conscience, than to have one and palter with it as
you do.”
Reginald made no reply to this disdainful speech. His own weakness of
character placed him entirely in the power of his friend. The two men
walked on together in silence.
“You do not know all that has occurred since last night at the castle,”
said Reginald, at last; “Lady Eversleigh has reappeared.”
“Lady Eversleigh! I thought she left Raynham yesterday afternoon.”
“So it was generally supposed; but this morning she came into the hall,
and demanded to be admitted to see her dead husband. Nor was this all.
She publicly declared that he had been murdered, and accused me of the
crime. This is terrible, Victor.”
“It is terrible, and it must be put an end to at once.”
“But how is it to be put an end to?” asked Reginald. “If this woman
repeats her accusations, who is to seal her lips?”
“The tables must be turned upon her. If she again accuses you, you must
accuse her. If Sir Oswald were indeed murdered, who so likely to have
committed the murder as this woman—whose hatred and revenge were, no
doubt, excited by her husband’s refusal to receive her back, after her
disgraceful flight? This is what you have to say; and as every one’s
opinion is against Lady Eversleigh, she will find herself in rather an
unpleasant position, and will be glad to hold her peace for the future
upon the subject of Sir Oswald’s death.”
“You do not doubt my uncle died a natural death, do you, Victor?” asked
Reginald, with a strange eagerness. “You do not think that he was
murdered?”
“No, indeed. Why should I think so?” returned the surgeon, with perfect
calmness of manner. “No one in the castle, but you and Lady Eversleigh,
had any interest in his life or death. If he came to his end by any
foul means, she must be the guilty person, and on her the deed must be
fixed. You must hold firm, Reginald, remember.”
The two men parted soon after this; but not before they had appointed
to meet on the following day, at the same hour, and on the same spot.
Reginald Eversleigh returned to the castle, gloomy and ill at ease, and
on entering the house he discovered that the doctor from Plimborough
had arrived during his absence, and was to remain until the following
day, when his evidence would be required at the inquest.
It was Joseph Millard who told him this.
“The inquest! What inquest?” asked Reginald.
“The coroner’s inquest, sir. It is to be held to-morrow in the great
dining-room. Sir Oswald died so suddenly, you see, sir, that it’s only
natural there should be an inquest. I’m sorry to say there’s a talk
about his having committed suicide, poor gentleman!”
“Suicide—yes—yes—that is possible; he may have committed suicide,”
murmured Reginald.
“It’s very dreadful, isn’t it, sir? The two doctors and Mr. Dalton, the
lawyer, are together in the library. The body has been moved into the
state bedroom.”
The lawyer emerged from the library at this moment, and approached
Reginald.
“Can I speak with you for a few minutes, Mr. Eversleigh?” he asked.
“Certainly.”
He went into the library, where he found the two doctors, and another
person, whom he had not expected to see.
This was a country gentleman—a wealthy landed squire and magistrate—
whom Reginald Eversleigh had known from his boyhood. His name was
Gilbert Ashburne; and he was an individual of considerable importance
in the neighbourhood of Raynham, near which village he had a fine
estate.
Mr. Ashburne was standing with his back to the empty fireplace, in
conversation with one of the medical men, when Reginald entered the
room. He advanced a few paces, to shake hands with the young man, and
then resumed his favourite magisterial attitude, leaning against the
chimney-piece, with his hands in his trousers’ pockets.
“My dear Eversleigh,” he said, “this is a very terrible affair—very
terrible!”
“Yes, Mr. Ashburne, my uncle’s sudden death is indeed terrible.”
“But the manner of his death! It is not the suddenness only, but the
nature—”
“You forget, Mr. Ashburne,” interposed one of the medical men, “Mr.
Eversleigh knows nothing of the facts which I have stated to you.”
“Ah, he does not! I was not aware of that. You have no suspicion of any
foul play in this sad business, eh, Mr. Eversleigh?” asked the
magistrate.
“No,” answered Reginald. “There is only one person I could possibly
suspect; and that person has herself given utterance to suspicions that
sound like the ravings of madness.”
“You mean Lady Eversleigh?” said the Raynham doctor.
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Ashburne; “but this business is altogether so
painful that it obliges me to touch upon painful subjects. Is there any
truth in the report which I have heard of Lady Eversleigh’s flight on
the evening of some rustic gathering?”
“Unhappily, the report has only too good a foundation. My uncle’s wife
did take flight with a lover on the night before last; but she returned
yesterday, and had an interview with her husband. What took place at
that interview I cannot tell you; but I imagine that my uncle forbade
her to remain beneath his roof. Immediately after she had left him, he
sent for me, and announced his determination to reinstate me in my old
position as his heir. He would not, I am sure, have done this, had he
believed his wife innocent.”
“And she left the castle at his bidding?”
“It was supposed that she left the castle; but
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