Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
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settling in England.”
“And with that assurance my last hope vanishes,” thought George.
He had asked the question in the faint hope of hearing that Joseph
Duncombe was far away from England at the time of the murder.
A fortnight after the discovery of the Brazilian coin, George Jernam
announced to his wife that he was about to leave her. He was going to
the coast of Africa, he said. He had tried to reconcile himself to a
landsman’s life, and had found it unendurable.
The blow fell very heavily on poor Rosamond’s loving heart.
“We seemed so happy, George, only two short weeks ago,” she pleaded.
“Yes,” he answered, “I tried to be happy; but you see, the life doesn’t
suit me. Tour father couldn’t rest in this house, though he had made
himself such a comfortable home. No more can I rest here. There is a
curse upon the house, perhaps,” he added, with a bitter laugh.
Rosamond burst into tears.
“Oh, George, you will break my heart,” she cried. “I thought our lives
were to be so happy; and now our happiness ends all at once like a
broken dream. It is because you are weary of me, and of my love, that
you are going away. You promised my father that you would remain with
me till his return.”
“I did, Rosamond,” answered her husband, gravely, “and, as I am an
honest man, I meant to keep that promise! I am not weary of your love—
that is as precious to me as ever it was. But you must not continue to
reside beneath this roof. I tell you there is a curse upon this house,
Rosamond, and neither peace nor happiness can be the lot of those who
dwell within its fatal walls. You must go down to Allanbay, where you
may find kind friends, where you may be happy, dear, while I am away.”
“But, George, what is all this mystery?”
“Ask me no questions, Rosamond, for I can answer none. Believe me when
I tell you that you have no share in the change that has come upon me.
My feelings towards you remain unaltered; but within the last few
weeks I have made a discovery which has struck a death-blow to my
happiness. I go out once more a homeless wanderer, because the quiet of
domestic life has become unbearable to me. I want bustle, danger, hard
work. I want to get away from my own thoughts.”
Rosamond in vain implored her husband to tell her more than this. He,
so yielding of old, was on this point inflexible.
Before the leaves had begun to fall in the dreary autumn days the
“Albatross” was ready for a new voyage. The first mate took her down to
Plymouth Harbour, there to wait the coming of her captain, who
travelled into Devonshire by mail-coach, taking Rosamond to her future
abode.
At any other time Rosamond would have been delighted with the romantic
beauty of that Devonian village, where her husband had selected a
pleasant cottage for her, near his aunt’s abode; but a settled
melancholy had taken possession of the once joyous girl. She had
brooded continually over her husband’s altered conduct, and she had at
last arrived at a terrible conclusion.
She believed that he was mad. What but sudden insanity could have
produced so great a change?—a change for which it was impossible to
imagine a cause.
“If he had been absent from me for some time, and had returned an
altered creature, I should not be so much bewildered by the change,”
Rosamond said to herself. “But the transformation occurred in an hour.
He saw no strange visitor; he received no letter. No tidings of any
kind could possibly have reached him. He entered my father’s sitting-room a light-hearted, happy man; he came out of it gloomy and
miserable. Can I doubt that the change is something more than any
ordinary alteration of feeling or character?”
Poor Rosamond remembered having heard of the fatal effects of
sunstrokes—effects which have sometimes revealed themselves long after
the occurrence of the calamity that caused them; and she told herself
that the change in George Jernam’s nature must needs be the result of
such a calamity.
She entreated her husband to consult an eminent physician as to the
state of his health; but she dared not press her request, so coldly was
it received.
“Who told you that I was ill?” he asked; “I am not ill. All the
physicians in Christendom could do nothing for me.”
After this, Rosamond could say no more. For worlds she would not have
revealed to a stranger her sad suspicion of George Jernam’s insanity.
She could only pray that Providence would protect and guide him in his
roving life.
“The excitement and hard work of his existence on board ship may work a
cure,” she thought, trying to be hopeful. “It is very possible that the
calm monotony of a landsman’s life may have produced a bad effect upon
his brain. I can only trust in Providence—I can only pray night and
day for the welfare of him I love so fondly.”
And so they parted. George Jernam left his wife with sadness in his
heart; but it was a kind of sadness in which love had little share.
“I have thought too much of my own happiness,” he said to himself, “and
I have left my brother’s death unavenged. Have I forgotten the time
when he carried me along the lonely sea-shore in his loving arms? Have
I forgotten the years in which he was father, mother—all the world to
me? No; by heaven! I have not. The time has come when the one thought
of my life must be revenge—revenge upon the murderer of my brother,
whosoever he may be.”
*
CHAPTER XX.
ON GUARD.
Mr. Andrew Larkspur, the police-officer, took up his abode in Percy
Street a week after his interview with Lady Eversleigh.
For a fortnight after he became an occupant of the house in which she
lived, Honoria received no tidings from him. She knew that he went out
early every morning, and that he returned late every night, and this
was all that she knew respecting his movements.
At the end of the fortnight, he came to her late one evening, and
begged to be favoured with an audience.
“I shall want at least two hours of your time, ma’am,” he said; “and,
perhaps, you may find it fatiguing to listen to me so late at night. If
you’d rather defer the business till to-morrow morning—”
“I would rather not defer it,” answered Lady Eversleigh; “I am ready to
listen to you for as long a time as you choose. I have been anxiously
expecting some tidings of your movements.”
“Very likely, ma’am,” replied Mr. Larkspur, coolly; “I know you ladies
are given to impatience, as well as Berlin wool work, and steel beads,
and the pianoforte, and such like. But you see, ma’am, there’s not a
living creature more unlike a race-horse than a police-officer. And
it’s just like you ladies to expect police-officers to be Flying
Dutchmen, in a manner of speaking. I’ve been a hard worker in my time,
ma’am; but I never worked harder, or stuck to my work better, than I
have these last two weeks; and all I can say is, if I ain’t dead-beat,
it’s only because it isn’t in circumstances to dead-beat me.”
Lady Eversleigh listened very quietly to this exordium; but a slight,
nervous twitching of her lips every now and then betrayed her
impatience.
“I am waiting to hear your news,” she said, presently.
“And I’m a-going to tell it, ma’am, in due course,” returned the
police-officer, drawing a bloated leather book from his pocket, and
opening it. “I’ve got all down here in regular order. First and
foremost, the baronet—he’s a bad lot, is the baronet.”
“I do not need to hear that from your lips.”
“Very likely not, ma’am. But if you set me to watch a gentleman, you
must expect I shall form an opinion about him. The baronet has lodgings
in Villiers Street, uncommon shabby ones. I went in and took a good
survey of him and his lodgings together, in the character of a
bootmaker, taking home a pair of boots, which was intended for a Mr.
Everfield in the next street, says I, and, of course, Everfield and
Eversleigh being a’most the same names, was calculated to lead to
inconvenient mistakes. In the character of the bootmaker, Sir Reginald
Eversleigh tells me to get out of his room, and be—something
uncommonly unpleasant, and unfit for the ears of ladies. In the
character of the bootmaker, I scrapes acquaintance with a young person
employed as housemaid, and very willing to answer questions, and be
drawed out. From the young person employed as housemaid, I gets what I
take the liberty to call my ground-plan of the baronet’s habits;
beginning with his late breakfast, consisting chiefly of gunpowder tea
and cayenne pepper, and ending with the scroop of his latch-key, to be
heard any time from two in the morning to daybreak. From the young
person employed as housemaid, I discover that my baronet always spends
his evenings out of doors, and is known to visit a lady at Fulham very
constant, whereby the young person employed as housemaid supposes he is
keeping company with her. From the same young person I obtain the
lady’s address—which piece of information the young person has
acquired in the course of taking letters to the post. The lady’s
address is Hilton House, Fulham. The lady’s name has slipped my young
person’s memory, but is warranted to begin with a D.”
Mr. Larkspur paused to take breath, and to consult the memoranda in the
bloated leather book.
“Having ascertained this much, I had done with the young person, for
the time being,” he continued, glibly; “and I felt that my next
business would be at Hilton House. Here I presented myself in the
character of a twopenny postman; but here I found the servants foreign,
and so uncommonly close that they might as well have been so many
marble monuments, for any good that was to be got out of them. Failing
the servants, I fell back upon the neighbours and the tradespeople; and
from the neighbours and the tradespeople I find out that my foreign
lady’s name is Durski, and that my foreign lady gives a party every
night, which party is made up of gentlemen. That is queer, to say the
least of it, thinks I. A lady who gives a party every night, and whose
visitors are all gentlemen, is an uncommonly queer customer. Having
found out this much, my mouth watered to find out more; for a man who
has his soul in his profession takes a pleasure in his work, ma’am; and
if you were to offer to pay such a man double to waste his time, he
couldn’t do it. I tried the neighbours, and I tried the tradespeople,
every way; and work ‘em how I would, I couldn’t get much out of ‘em.
You see, ma’am, there’s scarcely a human habitation within a quarter of
a mile of Hilton House, so, when I say neighbours, I don’t mean
neighbours in the common sense of the word. There might be
assassination going on every night in Hilton House undiscovered, for
there’s no one lives near enough to hear the victims’ groans; and if
there was anything as good for our trade as pork-pie making out of
murdered human victims going nowadays, ma’am, Hilton House would be the
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