Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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rather an unpleasant interview between the milliner and her customer,
for Lydia Graham had sunk deeper in the mire of debt with every passing
year, and it was only by the payment of occasional sums of money on
account that she contrived to keep her creditors tolerably quiet.
The result of to-day’s interview was the same as usual. Madame Susanne,
the milliner, agreed to find some pretty dresses for Miss Graham’s
Christmas visit—and Miss Graham undertook to pay a large instalment of
an unreasonable bill without inspection or objection.
On this snowy Christmas morning Miss Graham stood by the side of her
host, dressed in the stylish walking costume of dark gray poplin, and
with her glowing face set off by a bonnet of blue velvet, with soft
gray plumes. Those were the days in which a bonnet was at once the
aegis and the sanctuary of beauty. If you offended her, she took refuge
in her bonnet. The police-courts have only become odious by the clamour
of feminine complainants since the disappearance of the bonnet. It was
awful as the helmet of Minerva, inviolable as the cestus of Diana. Nor
was the bonnet of thirty-years ago an unbecoming headgear—a pretty
face never looked prettier than when dimly seen in the shadowy depths
of a coal-scuttle bonnet.
Miss Graham looked her best in one of those forgotten headdresses; the
rich velvet, the drooping feathers, set off her showy face, and Laura
and Ellen Mordaunt, in their fresh young beauty and simple costume,
lost by contrast with the aristocratic belle.
The poor of Hallgrove parish looked forward eagerly to the coming of
Christmas.
Lionel Dale’s parishioners knew that they would receive ample bounty
from the hand of their wealthy and generous rector.
He loved to welcome old and young to the noble hall of his mansion, a
spacious and lofty chamber, which had formed part of the ancient manor-house, and had been of late years converted into a rectory. He loved to
see them clad in the comfortable garments which his purse had
provided—the old women in their gray woollen gowns and scarlet cloaks,
the little children brightly arrayed, like so many Red Riding hoods.
It was a pleasant sight truly, and there was a dimness in the rector’s
eyes, as he stood at the head of a long table, at two o’clock on
Christmas-day, to say grace before the dinner spread for those humble
Christmas guests.
All the poor of the parish had been invited to dine with their pastor
on Christmas-day, and this two o’clock dinner was a greater pleasure to
the rector of Hallgrove than the repast which was to be served at seven
o’clock for himself and the guests of his own rank.
There were some people in Hallgrove and its neighbourhood who said that
Lionel Dale took more pleasure in this life than a clergyman and a good
Christian should take; but surely those who had seen him seated by the
bed of sickness, or ministering to the needs of affliction, could
scarcely have grudged him the innocent happiness of his hours of
relaxation. The one thing in which he himself felt that he was perhaps
open to blame, was in his passion for the sports of the field.
No one who had stood amongst the little group at the top of the long
table in Hallgrove Manor-house on this snowy Christmas morning could
have doubted that the heart of Lionel Dale was true to the very core.
He was not alone amongst his poor parishioners. His guests had
requested permission to see the two o’clock dinner-party in the
refectory. Lydia affected to be especially anxious for this privilege.
“I long to see the dear things eating their Christmas plum-pudding,”
she said, with almost girlish enthusiasm.
Mr. Dale’s parishioners did ample justice to the splendid Christmas
fare provided for them.
Lydia Graham declared she had never witnessed anything that gave her
half so much pleasure as this humble gathering.
“I would give up a whole season of fashionable dinner-parties for such
a treat as this, Mr. Dale,” she exclaimed, with an eloquent glance at
the rector. “What a happy life yours must be! and how privileged these
people ought to think themselves!”
“I don’t know that, Miss Graham,” answered Lionel Dale. “I think the
privilege is all on my side. It is the pleasure of the rich to minister
to the wants of the poor.”
Lydia Graham made no reply; but her eyes expressed an admiration which
womanly reserve might have forbidden her lips to utter.
While the pudding was being eaten, Mr. Dale walked round amongst his
humble guests, to exchange a few kindly words here and there; to shake
hands; to pat little children’s flaxen heads; to make friendly
inquiries for the sick and absent.
As he paused to talk to one of his parishioners, his attention was
attracted by a strange face. It was the face of an old man, who sat at
the opposite side of the table, and seemed entirely absorbed by the
agreeable task of making his way through a noble slice of plum-pudding.
“Who is that old man opposite?” asked Lionel of the agricultural
labourer to whom he had been talking. “I don’t think I know his face.”
“No, sir,” answered the farm-labourer; “he don’t belong to these parts.
Gaffer Hayfield brought ‘un. I suppose as how he’s a relation of
Gaffer’s. It seems a bit of a liberty, sir; but Gaffer Hayfield always
war a cool hand.”
“I don’t think it a liberty, William. If the man is a relation of
Hayfield’s, there is no reason why he should not be here with the
Gaffer,” answered Lionel, good-naturedly, “I am glad to Bee that he is
enjoying his dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the farm-labourer, with a grin; “he seems to have
an oncommon good twist of his own, wheresoever he belongs to.”
No more was said about the strange guest—who was an old man, with very
white hair, which hung low over his eyebrows; and very white whiskers,
which almost covered his cheeks. He had a queer, bird-like aspect, and
a nose that was as sharp as the beak of any of the rooks cawing
hoarsely amongst the elms of Hallgrove that snowy Christmas-day.
After the dinner in the old hall, Lionel Dale and his guests returned
to their own quarters; Mrs. Mordaunt and the three younger ladies
walked in the grounds, with Douglas Dale and Sir Reginald Eversleigh in
attendance upon them.
Miss Graham was the last woman in the world to forget that the income
of Douglas Dale was almost as large as that of his brother, the rector;
and that in this instance she might have two strings to her bow. She
contrived to be by the side of Douglas as they walked in the
shrubberies, and lingered on the rustic bridge across the river; but
she had not been with him long before she perceived that all her
fascinations were thrown away upon him; and that, attentive and polite
though he was, his heart was far away.
It was indeed so. In that pleasant garden, where the dark evergreens
glistened in the red radiance of the winter sunset, Douglas Dale’s
thoughts wandered away from the scene before him to the lovely Austrian
woman—the fair widow, whose life was so strange a mystery to him; the
woman whom he could neither respect nor trust; but whom, in spite of
himself, he loved better than any other creature upon earth.
“I had rather be by her side than here,” he said to himself. “How is
she spending this season, which should be so happy? Perhaps in utter
loneliness; or in the midst of that artificial gaiety which is more
wretched than solitude.”
*
The rector of Hallgrove and his guests assembled in the old-fashioned
drawing-room of the manor-house rectory at seven o’clock on that snowy
Christmas-night. The snowflakes fell thick and fast as night closed in
upon the gardens and shrubberies, the swift-flowing river, and distant
hills.
The rectory drawing-room, beautified by the soft light of wax-candles,
and the rich hues of flowers, was a pleasant picture—a picture which
was made all the more charming by the female figures which filled its
foreground.
Chief among these, and radiant with beauty and high spirits, was Lydia
Graham.
She had contrived to draw Lionel Dale to her side. She was seated by a
table scattered with volumes of engravings, and he was bending over her
as she turned the leaves.
Her smiles, her flatteries, her cleverly simulated interest in the
rector’s charities and pensioners, had exercised a considerable
influence upon him—an influence which grew stronger with every hour.
There was a sweetness and simplicity in the manners of the two Misses
Mordaunt which pleased him; but the country-bred girls lost much by
contrast with the brilliant Lydia.
“I hope you are going to give us a real old-fashioned Christmas
evening, Mr. Dale,” said Miss Graham.
“I don’t quite know what you mean by an old-fashioned Christmas
evening.”
“Nor am I quite clear as to whether I know what I mean myself,”
answered the young lady, gaily. “I think, after dinner, we ought to sit
round that noble old fireplace and tell stories, ought we not?”
“Yes, I believe that is the sort of thing,” replied the rector. “For my
own part, I am ready to be Miss Graham’s slave for the whole of the
evening; and in that capacity will hold myself bound to perform her
behests, however tyrannical she may be.”
When dinner was announced, Lionel Dale was obliged to leave the
bewitching Lydia in order to offer his arm to Mrs. Mordaunt, while that
young lady was fain to be satisfied with the escort of the disinherited
Sir Reginald Eversleigh.
At the dinner-table, however, she found herself seated on the left hand
of her host; and she took care to secure to herself the greater share
of his attention during the progress of dinner.
Gordon Graham watched his sister from his place near the foot of the
table, and was well satisfied with her success.
“If she plays her cards well she may sit at the head of this table next
Christmas-day,” he said to himself.
After less than half-an-hour’s interval, the gentlemen followed the
ladies into the drawing-room, and the usual musical evening set in.
Lydia Graham had nothing to fear from comparison with the Misses
Mordaunt. They were tolerable performers. She was a brilliant
proficient in music, and she had the satisfaction of observing that
Lionel Dale perceived and appreciated her superiority. She could
afford, therefore, to be as amiable to the girls as she was captivating
to the gentlemen.
The Misses Mordaunt were singing a duet, when a servant entered, and
approached Lionel Dale.
“There is a person in the hall who asks to see you, sir,” said the man,
“on most particular business.”
“What kind of person?” asked the rector.
“Well, sir, she looks like an old gipsy woman.”
“A gipsy woman! The gipsies about here do not bear the best character.”
“No, sir,” replied the man. “I bore that in mind, sir, with a view to
the plate, and I told John Andrew to keep an eye upon her while I came
to speak to you; and John Andrew is keeping an eye upon her at this
present moment, sir.”
“Very good, Jackson. You can tell the gipsy woman that, if she needs
immediate help of any kind, she can apply in the village, to Rawlins,
but that I cannot see her to-night.”
“Yes, sir.”
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