Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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enjoyed by that low-born and nameless creature, Sir Oswald’s widow. But
it is much for one who has drained poverty’s bitter cup to the very
dregs as I have. Yes, to the dregs; for though I have never known the
want of life’s common necessaries, I have known humiliations which are
at least as hard to bear.”
The many windows of the manor-house were all a-blaze with light as the
hunting-party entered the gates. Fires burned brightly in all the
rooms, and the interior of that comfortable house formed a very
pleasant contrast to the cheerless darkness of the night, the muddy
roads, and damp atmosphere.
The butler stood in the hall ready to welcome the returning guests with
stately ceremony; while the under-servants bustled about, attending to
the wants of the mud-bespattered huntsmen.
“Mr. Dale is at home, I suppose?” Douglas said, as he warmed his hands
before the great wood fire.
“At home, sir!” replied the butler; “hasn’t he come home with you,
sir?”
“No; we never saw him after the meet. I imagine he must have been
called away on parish business.”
“I don’t know, sir,” answered the butler; “my master has certainly not
been home since the morning.”
A feeling of vague alarm took possession of almost everyone present.
“It is very strange,” exclaimed Squire Mordaunt. “Did no one come here
to inquire after your master this morning?”
“No one, sir,” replied the butler.
“Send to the stables to see if my brother’s horse has been brought
home,” cried Douglas, with alarm very evident in his face and manner.
“Or, stay, I will go myself.”
He ran out of the hall, and in a few moments returned.
“The horse has not been brought back,” he cried; “there must be
something wrong.”
“Stop,” cried the squire; “pray, my dear Mr. Douglas Dale, do not let
us give way to unnecessary alarm. There may be no cause whatever for
fear or agitation. If Mr. Dale was summoned away from the hunt to
attend the bed of a dying parishioner, he would be the last man to
think of sending his horse home, or to count the hours which he devoted
to his duty.”
“But he would surely send a messenger here to prevent the alarm which
his absence would be likely to cause amongst us all,” replied Douglas;
“do not let us deceive ourselves, Mr. Mordaunt. There is something
wrong—an accident of some kind has happened to my brother. Andrews,
order fresh horses to be saddled immediately. If you will ride one way,
squire, I will take another road, first stopping in the village to make
all possible inquires there. Reginald, you will help us, will you not?”
“With all my heart,” answered Reginald, with energy, but in a voice
which was thick and husky.
Douglas Dale looked at his cousin, startled, even in the midst of his
excitement, by the strange tone of Reginald’s voice.
“Great heavens! how ghastly pale you look, Reginald!” he cried; “you
apprehend some great misfortune—some dreadful accident?”
“I scarcely know,” gasped the baronet; “but I own that I feel
considerable alarm—the—the river—the current was so strong after the
thaw—the stream so swollen by melted snow. If—if Lionel’s horse
should have tried to swim the river—and failed—”
“And we are lingering here!” cried Douglas, passionately; “lingering
here and talking, instead of acting! Are those horses ready there?” he
shouted, rushing out to the portico.
His voice was heard in the darkness without, urging on the grooms as
they led out fresh horses from the quadrangle.
“Gordon!” cried Lydia Graham, “you will go out with the others. You
will do your uttermost in the search for Mr. Lionel Dale!”
She said this in a loud, ringing voice, with the imperious tone of a
woman accustomed to command. She was leaning against one angle of the
great chimney-piece, pale as ashes, breathless, but not fainting. To
her, the idea that any calamity had befallen Lionel Dale was very
dreadful—almost as dreadful as it could be to the brother who so truly
loved him; for her own interest was involved in this man’s life, and
with her that was ever paramount.
She was well-nigh fainting; but she was too much a woman of the world
not to know that if she had given way to her emotion at that moment,
she would have given rise to disgust and annoyance, rather than
interest, in the minds of the gentlemen present. She knew this, and she
wished to please every one; for in pleasing the many lies the secret of
a woman’s success with the few.
Even in that moment of confusion and excitement, the scheming woman
determined to stand well in the eyes of Douglas Dale.
As he appeared on the threshold of the great hall-door, she went up to
him very quietly, with her head uncovered, and her pale, clearly-cut
face revealed by the light of the lamp above her. She laid her hand
gently on the young man’s arm.
“Mr. Dale.” she said, “command my brother Gordon; he will be proud to
obey you. I will go out myself to aid in the search, if you will let me
do so.”
Douglas Dale clasped her hand in both his with grateful emotion.
“You are a noble girl,” he cried; “but you cannot help me in this. Your
brother Gordon may, perhaps, and I will call upon his friendship
without reserve. And now leave us, Miss Graham; this is no fitting
scene for a lady. Come, gentlemen!” he exclaimed, “the horses are
ready. I go by the village, and thence to the river; you will each take
different roads, and will all meet me on the river-bank, at the spot
where we crossed to-day.”
In less than five minutes all had mounted, and the trampling of hoofs
announced their departure. Reginald was amongst them, hardly conscious
of the scene or his companions.
Sight, hearing, perception of himself, and of the world around him, all
seemed annihilated. He rode on through dense black shadows, dark clouds
which hemmed him in on every side, as if a gigantic pall had fallen
from heaven to cover him.
How he became separated from his companions he never knew; but when his
senses awoke from that dreadful stupor, he found himself alone, on a
common, and in the far distance he saw the glimmer of lights—very
feeble and wan beneath the starless sky.
It seemed as if the horse knew his desolate ground, and was going
straight towards these lights. The animal belonged to the rector, and
was, no doubt, familiar with the country.
Reginald Eversleigh had just sufficient consciousness of surrounding
circumstances to remember this. He made no attempt to guide the horse.
What did it matter whither he went? He had forgotten his promise to
meet the other men on the river-brink; he had forgotten everything,
except that the work of a demon had progressed in silence, and that its
fatal issue was about to burst like a thunderclap upon him.
“Victor Carrington has told me that this fortune shall be mine; he has
failed once, but will not fail always,” he said to himself.
The disappearance of Lionel Dale had struck like a thunderbolt on the
baronet; but it was a thunderbolt whose falling he had anticipated with
shuddering horror during every day and every hour since his arrival at
Hallgrove.
The lights grew more distinct—feeble lamps in a village street,
glimmering candles in cottage windows scattered here and there. The
horse reached the edge of the common and turned into a high road. Five
minutes afterwards Reginald Eversleigh found himself at the beginning
of a little country town.
Lights were burning cheerily in the windows of an inn. The door was
open, and from within there came the sound of voices that rang out
merrily on the night air.
“Great heaven!” exclaimed Reginald, “how happy these peasants are—
these brutish creatures who have no care beyond their daily bread!”
He envied them; and at that moment would have exchanged places with the
humblest field-labourer carousing in the rustic tap-room. But it was
only now and then the anguish of a guilty conscience took this shape.
He was a man who loved the pleasures and luxuries of this world better
than he loved peace of mind; better than he loved his own soul.
He drew rein before the inn-door, and called to the people within. A
man came out, and took the bridle as he dismounted.
“What is the name of this place?” he asked.
“Frimley, sir—Frimley Common it’s called by rights. But folks call it
Frimley for short.”
“How far am I from the river-bank at the bottom of Thorpe Hill?”
“A good six miles, sir.”
“Take my horse and rub him down. Give him a pail of gruel and a quart
of oats. I shall want to start again in less than an hour.”
“Sharp work, sir,” answered the ostler. “Your horse seems to have done
plenty already.”
“That is my business,” said Sir Reginald, haughtily.
He went into the inn.
“Is there a room in which I can dry my coat?” he asked at the bar.
He had only lately become aware of a drizzling rain which had been
falling, and had soaked through his hunting-coat.
“Were you with the Horsely hounds to-day, sir?” asked the landlord.
“Yes.”
“Good sport, sir?”
“No,” answered Sir Reginald, curtly.
“Show the way to the parlour, Jane,” said the landlord to a
chambermaid, or barmaid, or girl-of-all-work, who emerged from the tap-room with a tray of earthenware mugs. “There’s one gentleman there,
sir; but perhaps you won’t object to that, Christmas being such a
particularly busy time,” added the landlord, addressing Reginald.
“You’ll find a good fire.”
“Send me some brandy,” returned Sir Reginald, without deigning to make
any further reply to the landlord’s apologetic speech.
He followed the girl, who led the way to a door at the end of a
passage, which she opened, and ushered Sir Reginald into a light and
comfortable room.
Before a large, old-fashioned fireplace sat a man, with his face
hidden by the newspaper which he was reading.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh did not condescend to look at this stranger. He
walked straight to the hearth; took off his dripping coat, and hung it
on a chair by the side of the roaring wood fire. Then he flung himself
into another chair, drew it close to the fender, and sat staring at the
fire, with a gloomy face, and eyes which seemed to look far away into
some dark and terrible region beyond those burning logs.
He sat in this attitude for some time, motionless as a statue, utterly
unconscious that his companion was closely watching him from behind the
sheltering newspaper. The inn servant brought a tray, bearing a small
decanter of brandy and a glass. But the baronet did not heed her
entrance, nor did he touch the refreshment for which he had asked.
Not once did he stir till the sudden crackling of his companion’s
newspaper startled him, and he lifted his head with an impatient
gesture and an exclamation of surprise.
“You are nervous to-night, Sir Reginald Eversleigh,” said the man,
whose voice was still hidden by the newspaper.
The sound of the voice in which those common-place words were spoken
was, at this moment, of all sounds the most hateful to Reginald
Eversleigh.
“You here!” he exclaimed. “But I ought to have known that.”
The newspaper was lowered for the first time; and Reginald Eversleigh
found himself face to face
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