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
She was prepared to find herself misjudged by him. But he was the
nephew of the man who had once so devotedly loved her; the husband
whose memory was hallowed for her; and she was determined to receive
him with all respect, for the sake of the beloved and honoured dead.
“You are doubtless surprised to see me here, madam,” said Mr. Dale, in
a tone whose chilling accent told Honoria that this stranger was
already prejudiced against her. “I have received no invitation to take
part in the sad ceremonial of to-day, either from you or from Sir
Reginald Eversleigh. But I loved Sir Oswald very dearly, and I am here
to pay the last poor tribute of respect to that honoured and generous
friend.”
“Permit me thank you for that tribute,” answered Lady Eversleigh. “If I
did not invite you and your brother to attend the funeral, it was from
no wish to exclude you. My desires have been in no manner consulted
with regard to the arrangements of to-day. Very bitter misery has
fallen upon me within the last fortnight—heaven alone knows how
undeserved that misery has been—and I know not whether this roof will
shelter me after to-day.”
She looked at the stranger very earnestly as she said this. It was
bitter to stand quite alone in the world; to know herself utterly
fallen in the estimation of all around her; and she looked at Lionel
Dale with a faint hope that she might discover some touch of
compassion, some shadow of doubt in his countenance.
Alas, no,—there was none. It was a frank, handsome face—a face that
was no polished mask beneath which the real man concealed himself. It
was a true and noble countenance, easy to read as an open book. Honoria
looked at it with despair in her heart, for she perceived but too
plainly that this man also despised her. She understood at once that he
had been told the story of his uncle’s death, and regarded her as the
indirect cause of that fatal event.
And she was right. He had arrived at the chief inn in Raynham two hours
before, and there he had heard the story of Lady Eversleigh’s flight
and Sir Oswald’s sudden death, with some details of the inquest. Slow
to believe evil, he had questioned Gilbert Ashburne, before accepting
the terrible story as he had heard it from the landlord of the inn. Mr.
Ashburne only confirmed that story, and admitted that, in his opinion,
the flight and disgrace of the wife had been the sole cause of the
death of the husband.
Once having heard this, and from the lips of a man whom he knew to be
the soul of truth and honour, Lionel Dale had but one feeling for his
uncle’s widow, and that feeling was abhorrence.
He saw her in her beauty and her desolation; but he had no pity for her
miserable position, and her beauty inspired him only with loathing; for
had not that beauty been the first cause of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s
melancholy fate?
“I wished to see you, madam,” said Lionel Dale, after that silence
which seemed so long, “in order to apologize for a visit which might
appear an intrusion. Having done so, I need trouble you no further.”
He bowed with chilling courtesy, and left the room. He had uttered no
word of consolation, no assurance of sympathy, to that pale widow of a
week; nothing could have been more marked than the omission of those
customary phrases, and Honoria keenly felt their absence.
The dead leaves strewed the avenue along which Sir Oswald Eversleigh
went to his last resting-place; the dead leaves fluttered slowly
downward from the giant oaks—the noble old beeches; there was not one
gleam of sunshine on the landscape, not one break in the leaden grey of
the sky. It seemed as if the funeral of departed summer was being
celebrated on this first dreary autumn day.
Lady Eversleigh occupied the second carriage in the stately procession.
She was alone. Captain Copplestone was confined to his room by the
gout. She went alone—tearless—in outward aspect calm as a statue; but
the face of the corpse hidden in the coffin could scarcely have been
whiter than hers.
As the procession passed out of the gates of Raynham, a tramp who stood
among the rest of the crowd, was strangely startled by the sight of
that beautiful face, so lovely even in its marble whiteness.
“Who is that woman sitting in yonder carriage?” he asked.
He was a rough, barefooted vagabond, with a dark evil-looking
countenance, which he did well to keep shrouded by the broad brim of
his battered hat. He looked more like a smuggler or a sailor than an
agricultural labourer, and his skin was bronzed by long exposure to the
weather.
“She’s Sir Oswald’s widow,” answered one of the bystanders; “she’s his
widow, more shame for her! It was she that brought him to his death,
with her disgraceful goings-on.”
The man who spoke was a Raynham tradesman.
“What goings-on?” asked the tramp, eagerly. “I’m a stranger in these
parts, and don’t know anything about yonder funeral.”
“More’s the pity,” replied the tradesman. “Everybody ought to know the
story of that fine madam, who just passed us by in her carriage. It
might serve as a warning for honest men not to be led away by a pretty
face. That white-faced woman yonder is Lady Eversleigh. Nobody knows
who she was, or where she came from, before Sir Oswald brought her home
here. She hadn’t been home a month before she ran away from her husband
with a young foreigner. She repented her wickedness before she’d got
very far, and begged and prayed to be took back again, and vowed and
declared that she’d been lured away by a villain; and that it was all a
mistake. That’s how I’ve heard the story from the servants, and one and
another. But Sir Oswald would not speak to her, and she would have been
turned out of doors if it hadn’t been for an old friend of his.
However, the end of her wickedness was that Sir Oswald poisoned
himself, as every one knows.”
No more was said. The tramp followed the procession with the rest of
the crowd, first to the village church, where a portion of the funeral
service was read, and then back to the park, where the melancholy
ceremonial was completed before the family mausoleum.
It was while the crowd made a circle round this mausoleum that the
tramp contrived to push his way to the front rank of the spectators. He
stood foremost amongst a group of villagers, when Lady Eversleigh
happened to look towards the spot where he was stationed.
In that moment a sudden change came over the face of the widow. Its
marble whiteness was dyed by a vivid crimson—a sudden flush of shame
or indignation, which passed away quickly; but a dark shadow remained
upon Lady Eversleigh’s brow after that red glow had faded from her
cheek.
No one observed that change of countenance. The moment was a solemn
one; and even those who did not really feel its solemnity, affected to
do so.
At the last instant, when the iron doors of the mausoleum closed with a
clanging sound upon the new inmate of that dark abode, Honoria’s
fortitude all at once forsook her. One long cry, which was like a
shriek wrung from the spirit of despair, broke from her colourless
lips, and in the next moment she had sunk fainting upon the ground
before those inexorable doors.
No sympathizing eyes had watched her looks, or friendly arm was
stretched forth in time to support her. But when she lay lifeless and
unconscious on the sodden grass, some touch of pity stirred the hearts
of the two brothers, Lionel and Douglas Dale.
The elder, Lionel, stepped forward, and lifted that lifeless form from
the ground. He carried the unconscious widow to the carriage, where he
seated her.
Sense returned only too quickly to that tortured brain. Honoria
Eversleigh opened her eyes, and recognized the man who stood by her
side.
“I am better now,” she said. “Do not let my weakness cause you any
trouble. I do not often faint; but that last moment was too bitter.”
“Are you really quite recovered? Can I venture to leave you?” asked
Lionel Dale, in a much kinder tone than he had employed before in
speaking to his uncle’s widow.
“Yes, indeed, I have quite recovered. I thank you for your kindness,”
murmured Honoria, gently.
Lionel Dale went back to the carriage allotted to himself and his
brother. On his way, he encountered Reginald Eversleigh.
“I have heard it whispered that my uncle’s wife was an actress,” said
Reginald. “That exhibition just now was rather calculated to confirm
the idea.”
“If by ‘exhibition’ you mean that outburst of despair, I am convinced
that it was perfectly genuine,” answered Lionel, coldly.
“I am sorry you are so easily duped, my dear Lionel,” returned his
cousin, with a sneer. “I did not think a pretty face would have such
influence over you.”
No more was said. The two men passed to their respective carriages, and
the funeral procession moved homewards.
In the grand dining-hall of the castle, Sir Oswald’s lawyer was to read
the will. Kinsmen, friends, servants, all were assembled to hear the
reading of that solemn document.
In the place of honour sat Lady Eversleigh. She sat on the right hand
of the lawyer, calm and dignified, as if no taint of suspicion had ever
tarnished her fame.
The solicitor read the will. It was that will which Sir Oswald had
executed immediately after his marriage—the will, of which he had
spoken to his nephew, Reginald.
It made Honoria Eversleigh sole mistress of the Raynham estates. It
gave to Lionel and Douglas Dale property worth ten thousand a year. It
gave to Reginald a small estate, producing an income of five hundred a
year. To Captain Copplestone the baronet left a legacy of three
thousand pounds, and an antique seal-ring which had been worn by
himself.
The old servants of Raynham were all remembered, and some curious old
plate and gold snuff-boxes were left to Mr. Wargrave, the rector, and
Gilbert Ashburne.
This was all. Five hundred a year was the amount by which Reginald had
profited by the death of a generous kinsman.
By the terms of Sir Oswald’s will the estates of Lionel and Douglas
Dale would revert to Reginald Eversleigh in case the owners should die
without direct heirs. If either of these young men were to die
unmarried, his brother would succeed to his estate, worth five thousand
a year. But if both should die, Reginald Eversleigh would become the
owner of double that amount.
It was the merest chance, the shadow of a chance, for the lives of both
young men were better than his own, inasmuch as both had led healthful
and steadier lives than the dissipated Reginald Eversleigh. But even
this poor chance was something.
“They may die,” he thought; “death lurks in every bush that borders the
highway of life. They or both may die, and I may regain the wealth that
should have been mine.”
He looked at the two young men. Lionel, the elder, was the handsomer of
the two. He was fair, with brown curling hair, and frank blue eyes.
Reginald, as he looked at him, thought bitterly, “I must indeed be the
very fool of hope and credulity to fancy he will not marry. But, if he
were safe, I should
Comments (0)