Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
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his arms stretched above the fireplace, as if groping for something in
the chimney.
Doubtless this had been the miser’s hiding-place for his hoarded gold,
and the ghost returned to the spot where the living man had been
accustomed to conceal his treasures.
Susan darted across the hall, and ran upstairs to her master’s room.
She knocked loudly on the door, crying,—
“The ghost, master! the ghost! the old miser’s ghost is in the
kitchen!”
“What?” roared the captain, starting suddenly from his peaceful
slumbers.
The girl repeated her awful announcement. The captain sprang out of
bed, dressed himself in trousers and dressing-gown, and ran downstairs, the girl close behind him.
They were just in time to see the figure, in the red headgear and long
grey dressing-gown, slowly stalking from the scullery door.
The captain followed the phantom into the garden; but held himself at a
respectful distance from the figure, as it slowly paced along the
smooth gravel pathway leading towards the laurel hedge.
The figure reached the low boundary that divided the garden from the
river bank, crossed it, and vanished amongst the thick white mists that
rose from the water.
Joseph Duncombe trembled. A ghost was just the one thing which could
strike terror to the seaman’s bold heart.
When the figure had vanished, Captain Duncombe went to the spot where
it had passed out of the garden.
Here he found the young laurels beaten and trampled down, as if by the
heavy feet of human intruders.
This was strange.
He then went to the kitchen, accompanied by Susan Trott, who, although
shivering like an aspen tree, had just sufficient strength of mind to
find a lucifer and light her candle.
By the light of this candle Captain Buncombe examined the kitchen.
On the hearth, at his feet, he saw something gleaming in the uncertain
light. He stooped to pick up this object, and found that it was a
curious gold coin—a foreign coin, bent in a peculiar manner.
This was even yet more strange.
The captain put the coin in his pocket.
“I’ll take good care of this, my girl,” he said. “It isn’t often a
ghost leaves anything behind him.”
*
CHAPTER XV.
A TERRIBLE RESOLVE.
When the hawthorns were blooming in the woods of Raynham, a new life
dawned in the stately chambers of the castle.
A daughter was born to the beautiful widow-lady—a sweet consoler in
the hour of her loneliness and desolation. Honoria Eversleigh lifted
her heart to heaven, and rendered thanks for the priceless treasure
which had been bestowed upon her. She had kept her word. From the hour
of her husband’s death she had never quitted Raynham Castle. She had
lived alone, unvisited, unknown; content to dwell in stately solitude,
rarely extending her walks and drives beyond the boundary of the park
and forest.
Some few of the county gentry would have visited her; but she would not
consent to be visited by a few. Honoria Eversleigh’s was a proud
spirit; and until the whole county should acknowledge her innocence,
she would receive no one.
“Let them think of me or talk of me as they please,” she said; “I can
live my own life without them.”
Thus the long winter months passed by, and Honoria was alone in that
abode whose splendour must have seemed cold and dreary to the
friendless woman.
But when she held her infant in her arms all was changed She looked
down upon the baby-girl, and murmured softly—
“Your life shall be bright and peaceful, dearest, whatever mine may be.
The future looks bleak and terrible for me; but for you, sweet one, it
may be bright and fair.”
The young mother loved her child with a passionate intensity; but even
that love could not exclude darker passions from her breast.
There was much that was noble in the nature of this woman; but there
was also much that was terrible. From her childhood she had been gifted
with a power of intellect—a strength of will—that lifted her high
above the common ranks of womanhood.
A fatal passion had taken possession of her soul after the untimely
death of Sir Oswald; and that passion was a craving for revenge. She
had been deeply wronged, and she could not forgive. She did not even
try to forgive. She believed that revenge was a kind of duty which she
owed, not only to herself, but to the noble husband whom she had lost.
The memory of that night of anguish in Yarborough Tower, and that still
darker hour of shame and despair in which Sit Oswald had refused to
believe her innocent, was never absent from the mind of Honoria
Eversleigh. She brooded upon these dark memories. Time could not lessen
their bitterness. Even the soft influence of her infant’s love could
not banish those fatal recollections.
Time passed. The child grew and flourished, beautiful to her mother’s
enraptured eyes; and yet, even by the side of that fair baby’s face
arose the dark image of Victor Carrington.
For a long time the county people had kept close watch upon the
proceedings of the lady at the castle.
The county people discovered that Lady Eversleigh never left Raynham;
that she devoted herself to the rearing of her child as entirely as if
she had been the humblest peasant-woman; and that she expended more
money upon solid works of charity than had ever before been so spent by
any member of the Eversleigh family, though that family had been
distinguished by much generosity and benevolence.
The county people shrugged their shoulders contemptuously. They could
not believe in the goodness of this woman, whose parentage no one knew,
and whom every one had condemned.
She is playing a part, they thought; she wishes to impress us with the
idea that she is a persecuted martyr—a suffering angel; and she hopes
thus to regain her old footing amongst us, and queen it over the whole
county, as she did when that poor infatuated Sir Oswald first brought
her to Raynham. This was what the county people thought; until one day
the tidings flew far and wide that Lady Eversleigh had left the castle
for the Continent, and that she intended to remain absent for some
years.
This seemed very strange; but what seemed still more strange, was the
fact that the devoted mother was not accompanied by her child.
The little girl, Gertrude, so named after the mother of the late
baronet, remained at Raynham under the care of two persons.
These two guardians were Captain Copplestone, and a widow lady of forty
years of age, Mrs. Morden, a person of unblemished integrity, who had
been selected as protectress and governess of the young heiress.
The child was at this time two and a half years of age. Very young, she
seemed, to be thus left by a mother who had appeared to idolize her.
The county people shook their heads. They told each other that Lady
Eversleigh was a hypocrite and an actress. She had never really loved
her child—she had played the part of a sorrowing widow and a devoted
mother for two years and a half, in the hope that by this means she
would regain her position in society.
And now, finding that this was impossible, she had all of a sudden
grown tired of playing her part, and had gone off to the Continent to
spend her money, and enjoy her life after her own fashion.
This was what the world said of Honoria Eversleigh; but if those who
spoke of her could have possessed themselves of her secrets, they would
have discovered something very different from that which they imagined.
Lady Eversleigh left the castle in the early part of November
accompanied only by her maid, Jane Payland.
A strange time of the year in which to start for the Continent, people
said. It seemed still more strange that a woman of Lady Eversleigh’s
rank and fortune should go on a Continental journey with no other
attendant than a maid-servant.
If the eyes of the world could have followed Lady Eversleigh, they
would have made startling discoveries.
While it was generally supposed that the baronet’s widow was on her way
to Rome or Naples, two plainly-dressed women took possession of
unpretending lodgings in Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road.
The apartments were taken by a lady who called herself Mrs. Eden, and
who required them only for herself and maid. The apartments consisted
of two large drawing-rooms, two bedrooms on the floor above, and a
dressing-room adjoining the best bedroom.
The proprietor of the house was a Belgian merchant, called Jacob
Mulck—a sedate old bachelor, who took a great deal of snuff, and
Disquieted himself very little about the world in general, so long as
life went smoothly for himself.
The remaining occupant of the house was a medical student, who rented
one of the rooms on the third floor. Another room on the same floor was
to let.
Such was the arrangement of the house when Mrs. Eden and her maid took
possession of their apartments.
Mr. Jacob Mulck thought he had never seen such a beautiful woman as his
new lodger, when he entered her apartment, to ascertain whether she was
satisfied with the accommodation provided for her.
She was sitting in the full light of an unshaded lamp as he entered the
room. Her black silk dress was the perfection of simplicity; its sombre
hues relieved only by the white collar which encircled her slender
throat. Her pale face looked of an ivory whiteness, in contrast to the
dark, deep eyes, and arched brows of sombre brown.
The lady pronounced herself perfectly satisfied with all the
arrangements that had been made for her comfort.
“I am in London on business of importance,” she said; “and shall,
therefore, receive very little company; but I may have to hold many
interviews with men of business, and I trust that my affairs may not be
made the subject of curiosity or gossip, either in this house or
outside it.”
Mr. Mulck declared that he was the last person in the world to talk;
and that his two servants were both elderly women, the very pink of
steadiness and propriety.
Having said this, he took his leave; and as he did so, stole one more
glance at the beautiful stranger.
She had fallen into an attitude which betrayed complete abstraction of
mind. Her elbow rested on the table by her side; her eyes were shaded
by her hand.
Upon that white, slender hand, Jacob Mulck saw diamonds such as are not
often seen upon the fingers of the inhabitants of Percy Street. Mr.
Mulck occasionally dealt in diamonds; and he knew enough about them to
perceive at a glance that the rings worn by his lodger were worth a
small fortune.
“Humph!” muttered Mr. Mulck, as he returned to his comfortable sitting-room; “those diamonds tell a tale. There’s something mysterious about
this lodger of mine. However, my rent will be safe—that’s one
comfort.”
While the landlord was musing thus, the lodger was employed in a manner
which might well have awakened his curiosity, could he have beheld her
at that moment.
She had fallen on her knees before a low easy-chair—her face buried in
her hands, her slender frame shaken by passionate sobs.
“My child!” she exclaimed, in almost inarticulate murmurs; “my beloved,
my idol!—it is so bitter to be absent from you! so bitter! so bitter!”
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