Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
- Performer: -
Book online «Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗». Author Mary Elizabeth Braddon
seated in his invalid-chair—still unable to move without its aid.
“Let me answer those questions,” he repeated. “I have only just heard
of Lady Eversleigh’s painful position. I beg to be sworn immediately,
for my evidence may be of some importance to that lady.”
Reginald sat down, unable to contest the captain’s right to be heard,
though he would fain have done so.
Lady Eversleigh for the first time that day gave evidence of some
slight emotion. She raised her eyes to Captain Copplestone’s bronzed
face with a tearful glance, expressive of gratitude and confidence.
The captain was duly sworn, and then proceeded to give his evidence, in
brief, abrupt sentences, without waiting to be questioned.
“You ask where Lady Eversleigh spent the night of her husband’s death,
and how she spent it. I can answer both those questions. She spent that
night in my room, nursing a sick old man, who was mad with the tortures
of rheumatic gout, and weeping over Sir Oswald’s refusal to believe in
her innocence.
“You’ll ask, perhaps, how she came to be in my apartments on that
night. I’ll answer you in a few words. Before leaving the castle she
came to my room, and asked my old servant to admit her. She had been
very kind and attentive to me throughout my illness. My servant is a
gruff and tough old fellow, but he is grateful for any kindness that’s
shown to his master. He admitted Lady Eversleigh to see me, ill as I
was. She told me the whole story which she told her husband. ‘He
refused to believe me, Captain Copplestone,’ she said; ‘he who once
loved me so dearly refused to believe me. So I come to you, his best
and oldest friend, in the hope that you may think better of me; and
that some day, when I am far away, and time has softened my husband’s
heart towards me, you may speak a good word in my behalf.’ And I did
believe her. Yes, Mr. Eversleigh—or Sir Reginald Eversleigh—I did,
and I do, believe that lady.”
“Captain Copplestone,” said the coroner; “we really do not require all
these particulars; the question is—when did Lady Eversleigh enter your
rooms, and when did she quit them?”
“She came to me at dusk, and she did not leave my rooms until the next
morning, after the discovery of my poor friend’s death. When she had
told me her story, and her intention of leaving the castle immediately,
I begged her to remain until the next day. She would be safe in my
rooms, I told her. No one but myself and my old servant would know that
she had not really left the castle; and the next day, when Sir Oswald’s
passion had been calmed by reflection, I should be able, perhaps, to
intercede successfully for the wife whose innocence I most implicitly
believed, in spite of all the circumstances that had conspired to
condemn her. Lady Eversleigh knew my influence over her husband; and,
after some persuasion, consented to take my advice. My diabolical gout
happened to be a good deal worse than usual that night, and my friend’s
wife assisted my servant to nurse me, with the patience of an angel, or
a sister of charity. From the beginning to the end of that fatal night
she never left my apartments. She entered my room before the will could
have been executed, and she did not leave it until after her husband’s
death.”
“Your evidence is conclusive, Captain Copplestone, and it exonerates
her ladyship from all suspicion,” said the coroner.
“My evidence can be confirmed in every particular by my old servant,
Solomon Grundy,” said the captain, “if it requires confirmation.”
“It requires none, Captain Copplestone.”
Reginald Eversleigh gnawed his bearded lip savagely. This man’s
evidence proved that Lady Eversleigh had not destroyed the will. Sir
Oswald himself, therefore, must have burned the precious document. And
for what reason?
A horrible conviction now took possession of the young baronet’s mind.
He believed that Mary Goodwin’s letter had been for the second time
instrumental in the destruction of his prospects. A fatal accident had
thrown it in his uncle’s way after the execution of the will, and the
sight of that letter had recalled to Sir Oswald the stern resolution at
which he had arrived in Arlington Street.
Utter ruin stared Reginald Eversleigh in the face. The possessor of an
empty title, and of an income which, to a man of his expensive habits,
was the merest pittance, he saw before him a life of unmitigated
wretchedness. But he did not execrate his own sins and vices for the
misery which they had brought upon him. He cursed the failure of Victor
Carrington’s schemes, and thought of himself as the victim of Victor
Carrington’s blundering.
The verdict of the coroner’s jury was an open one, to the effect that
“Sir Oswald Eversleigh died by poison, but by whom administered there
was no evidence to show.”
The general opinion of those who had listened to the evidence was that
the baronet had committed suicide. Public opinion around and about
Raynham was terribly against his widow. Sir Oswald had been universally
esteemed and respected, and his melancholy end was looked on as her
work. She had been acquitted of any positive hand is his death; but she
was not acquitted of the guilt of having broken his heart by her
falsehood.
Her obscure origin, her utter friendlessness, influenced people against
her. What must be the past life of this woman, who, in the hour of her
widowhood, had not one friend to come forward to support and protect
her?
The world always chooses to see the darker side of the picture. Nobody
for a moment imagined that Honoria Eversleigh might possibly be the
innocent victim of the villany of others.
The funeral of Sir Oswald Eversleigh was conducted with all the pomp
and splendour befitting the burial of a man whose race had held the
land for centuries, with untarnished fame and honour. The day of the
funeral was dark, cold, and gloomy; stormy winds howled and shrieked
among the oaks and beeches of Raynham Park. The tall firs in the avenue
were tossed to and fro in the blast, like the funereal plumes of that
stately hearse which was to issue at noon from the quadrangle of the
castle.
It was difficult to believe that less than a fortnight had elapsed
since that bright and balmy day on which the picnic had been held at
the Wizard’s Cave.
Lady Eversleigh had declared her intention of following her husband to
his last resting-place. She had been told that it was unusual for women
of the higher classes to take part in a funeral cort�ge; but she had
stedfastly adhered to her resolution.
“You tell me it is not the fashion!” she said to Mr. Ashburne. “I do
not care for fashion, I would offer the last mark of respect and
affection to the husband who was my dearest and truest friend upon this
earth, and without whom the earth is very desolate for me. If the dead
pass at once into those heavenly regions were Divine Wisdom reigns
supreme over all mortal weakness, the emancipated spirit of him who
goes to his tomb this day knows that my love, my faith, never faltered.
If I had wronged him as the world believes, Mr. Ashburne, I must,
indeed, be the most hardened of wretches to insult the dead by my
presence. Accept my determination as a proof of my innocence, if you
can.”
“The question of your guilt or innocence is a dark enigma which I
cannot take upon myself to solve, Lady Eversleigh,” answered Gilbert
Ashburne, gravely. “It would be an unspeakable relief to my mind if I
could think you innocent. Unhappily, circumstances combine to condemn
you in such a manner that even Christian charity can scarcely admit the
possibility of your innocence.”
“Yes,” murmured the widow, sadly, “I am the victim of a plot so
skilfully devised, so subtly woven, that I can scarcely wonder if the
world refuses to believe me guiltless. And yet you see that honourable
soldier, that brave and true-hearted gentleman, Captain Copplestone,
does not think me the wretch I seem to be.
“Captain Copplestone is a man who allows himself to be guided by his
instincts and impulses, and who takes a pride in differing from his
fellow-men. I am a man of the world, and I am unable to form any
judgment which is not justified by facts. If facts combine to condemn
you, Lady Eversleigh, you must not think me harsh or cruel if I cannot
bring myself to acquit you.”
During the preceding conversation Honoria Eversleigh had revealed the
most gentle, the most womanly side of her character. There had been a
pleading tone in her voice, an appealing softness in her glances. But
now the expression of her face changed all at once; the beautiful
countenance grew cold and stern, the haughty lip quivered with the
agony of offended pride.
“Enough!” she said. “I will never again trouble you, Mr. Ashburne, by
entreating your merciful consideration. Let your judgment be the
judgment of the world. I am content to await the hour of my
justification; I am content to trust in Time, the avenger of all
wrongs, and the consoler of all sorrows. In the meanwhile, I will stand
alone—a woman without a friend, a woman who has to fight her own
battles with the world.”
Gilbert Ashburne could not withhold his respect from the woman who
stood before him, queen-like in her calm dignity.
“She may be the basest and vilest of her sex,” he thought to himself,
as he left her presence; “but she is a woman whom it is impossible to
despise.”
The funeral procession was to leave Raynham at noon. At eleven o’clock
the arrival of Mr. Dale and Mr. Douglas Dale was announced. These two
gentlemen had just arrived at the castle, and the elder of the two
requested the favour of an interview with his uncle’s widow.
She was seated in one of the apartments which had been allotted to her
especial use when she arrived, a proud and happy bride, from her brief
honeymoon tour. It was the spacious morning-room which had been sacred
to the late Lady Eversleigh, Sir Oswald’s mother.
Here the widow sat in the hour of her desolation, unhonoured, unloved,
without friend or counsellor; unless, indeed, the gallant soldier who
had defended her from the suspicion of a hideous crime might stoop to
befriend her further in her bitter need. She sat alone, uncertain,
after the reading of the dead man’s will, whether she might not be
thrust forth from the doors of Raynham Castle, shelterless, homeless,
penniless, once more a beggar and an outcast.
Her heart was so cruelly stricken by the crushing blow that had fallen
upon her; the grief she felt for her husband’s untimely fate was so
deep and sincere, that she thought but little of her own future. She
had ceased to feel either hope or fear. Let fate do its worst. No
sorrow that could come to her in the future, no disgrace, no
humiliation, could equal in bitterness that fiery ordeal through which
she had passed during the last few days.
Lionel Dale was ushered into the morning-room while Lady Eversleigh sat
by the hearth, absorbed in gloomy thought.
She rose as Lionel Dale entered the room, and received him with stately
courtesy.
She was prepared to find herself despised by this young man, who would,
in all probability, very speedily learn, or who had perhaps already
learned, the
Comments (0)