Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [classic literature books txt] 📗

and to-night I ask you, for the last time, to choose the path which you mean to tread; and, once chosen, to tread it with a firm step, prepared to meet danger--to confront destiny. This very hour, this very moment, I call upon you to make your decision; and it shall be a final decision. Will you grovel on in poverty--the worst of all poverty, the gentleman's pittance? or will you make yourself possessor of the wealth which your uncle Oswald bequeathed to others? Look me in the face, Reginald, as you are a man, and answer me, Which is it to be--wealth or poverty?"

"It is too late to answer poverty," replied the baronet, in a gloomy and sullen tone. "You cannot bring my uncle back to life; you cannot undo your work."

"I do not pretend to bring the dead to life. I am not talking of the past--I am talking of the future."

"Suppose I say that I will endure poverty rather than plunge deeper into the pit you have dug--what then?"

"In that case, I will bid you good speed, and leave you to your poverty and--a clear conscience," answered Victor, coolly. "I am a poor man myself; but I like my friends to be rich. If you do not care to grasp the wealth which might be yours, neither do I care to preserve our acquaintance. So we have merely to bid each other good night, and part company."

There was a pause--Reginald Eversleigh sat with his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the fire. Victor watched him with a sinister smile upon his face.

"And if I choose to go on," said Reginald, at last; "if I choose to tread farther on the dark road which I have trodden so long--what then? Can you ensure me success, Victor Carrington?"

"I can," replied the Frenchman.

"Then I will go on. Yes; I will be your slave, your tool, your willing coadjutor in crime and treachery; anything to obtain at last the heritage out of which I have been cheated."

"Enough! You have made your decision. Henceforward let me hear no repinings, no hypocritical regrets. And now, order your horse, gallop back as fast as you can to the neighbourhood of Hallgrove, and show yourself foremost amongst those who seek for Lionel Dale."

"Yes, yes; I will obey you--I will shake off this miserable hesitation. I will make my nature iron, as you have made yours."

Sir Reginald rang, and ordered his horse to be brought round to the door of the inn.

"Where and when shall I see you again?" he asked Victor, as he was putting on the coat which had hung before the fire to be dried.

"In London, when you return there."

"You leave here soon?"

"To-morrow morning. You will write to me by to-morrow night's post to tell me all that has occurred in the interval."

"I will do so," answered Reginald.

"Good, and now go; you have already been too long out of the way of those who should have witnessed your affectionate anxiety about your cousin."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XXIV.


"I AM WEARY OF MY PART."

Reginald mounted his horse, questioned the ostler respecting the way to the appointed spot on the river-bank, and rode away in the direction indicated. He had no difficulty in discovering the scene of the appointed meeting. The light of the torches in the hands of the searchers guided him to the spot.

Here he found gentlemen and grooms, huntsmen and farmers, on horseback, riding up and down the river-bank; some carrying lighted torches, whose lurid glare shone red against the darkness of the night; all busy, all excited.

Amongst these the baronet found Douglas Dale, who rode up to meet his cousin, as the other approached.

"Any news, Reginald?" he asked, in a voice that was hoarse with fatigue and excitement.

"None," answered Sir Reginald: "I have ridden miles, and made many inquiries, but have been able to discover no traces. Have you no tidings?"

"None but evil ones," replied Douglas Dale, in a tone of despair "we have found a battered hat on the edge of the river--hat which my brother's valet identifies as that worn by his master. We fear the worst, Reginald--the very worst. All inquiries have been made in the village, at every farm-house in the parish, and far beyond the parish. My brother has been seen nowhere. Since we rode down the hill, it seems as if no human eye had rested on him. In that moment he vanished as utterly as if the earth had opened to swallow him up alive."

"What is it that you fear?"

"We fear that he tried to cross the river at some point higher up, where the stream is swollen to a perilous extent, and that both horse and rider were swept away by the current."

"In that case both horse and rider must be found--alive or dead."

"Ultimately, perhaps, but not easily," answered Douglas; "the bed of the stream is a mass of tangled weeds. I have heard Lionel say that men have been drowned in that river whose bodies have never been discovered."

"It is horrible!" exclaimed Reginald; "but let us still hope for the best. All this may be needless misery."

"I fear not, Reginald," answered Douglas; "my brother Lionel is not a man to be careless about giving anxiety to those who love him."

"I will ride farther along the bank," said the baronet; "I may hear something."

"And I will wait here," replied Douglas, with the dull apathy of despair. "The news of my brother's death will reach me soon enough."

Reginald Eversleigh rode on by the river brink, following a group of horsemen carrying torches. Douglas waited, with his ear on the alert to catch every sound, his heart beating tumultuously, in the terrible expectation that each moment would bring him the news he dreaded to hear.

Endless as that interval of expectation and suspense appeared to Douglas Dale, in reality it was not of very long duration. The cold of the winter's night did not affect him, the burning fever of fear devoured him. Soon he lost sight of the glimmering of the torches, as the bearers followed the bend of the river, and the sound of the men's voices died out of his ears. But after a while he heard a shout, then another, and then two men came running towards him, as fast as they could in the darkness. Douglas Dale knew them both, and called out, "What is it, Freeman? What is it, Carey? Bad news, I fear."

"Yes, Mr. Douglas, bad news. We've found the rector's hunting-whip."

"Where?" stammered Douglas.

"Below the bridge, sir, close by the ash-tree; and the bank is broken. I'm afraid it's all up, sir; if he went in there, the horse and he are both gone, sir."

Like a man walking in a dream, Douglas Dale accompanied the bearers of the evil tidings to the spot where the group of searchers was collected together. In the midst stood Squire Mordaunt, holding in his hand a heavy hunting-whip, which all present recognized, and many had seen in the rector's hand only that morning. They all made way for Douglas Dale; they were very silent now, and hopeless conviction was on every face.

"This makes it too plain, Douglas," said Squire Mordaunt, as he handed the whip to the rector's brother; "bear it as well as you can, my dear fellow. There's nothing to be done now till daylight."

"Nothing more?" said Reginald, while Douglas covered his face, and groaned in unrestrained anguish; "the drags can surely be used? the--"

"Wait a minute, Sir Reginald," said the squire, holding up his hand; "of course your impatience is very natural, but it would only defeat itself. To drag the river by torchlight would be equally difficult and vain. It shall be done as soon as ever there is light. Till then, there is nothing for any of us to do but to wait. And first, let us get poor Douglas home."

Douglas Dale made no resistance; he knew the squire spoke truth and common-sense. The melancholy group broke up, the members of the rectory returned to its desolate walls, and Douglas at once shut himself up in his room, leaving to Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Squire Mordaunt the task of making all the arrangements for the morrow, and communicating to the ladies the dire intelligence which must be imparted.

Early in the morning, Squire Mordaunt went to Douglas Dale's room. He found him stretched upon the bed in his clothes. He had made no change in his dress, and had evidently intended to prolong his vigil until the morning, but nature had been exhausted, and in spite of himself Douglas? Dale slept. His old friend stole softly from the room, and cautioning the household not to permit him who must now be regarded as their master to be disturbed, he went out, and proceeded to the search.

Douglas Dale did not awake until nine o'clock, and then, starting up with a terrible consciousness of sorrow, and a sense of self-reproach because he had slept, he found Squire Mordaunt standing by his bed. The good old gentleman took the young man's hand in silence, and pressed it with a pressure which told all.

They laid the disfigured dead body of him who but yesterday had been the beloved and honoured master of the house in the library, where he had received the ineffectual warning of the gipsy. It was while Douglas Dale was contemplating the pale, still features of his brother, with grief unutterable, that a servant tapped gently at the door, and called Mr. Mordaunt out.

"'Niagara' is come home, sir," said the man. "He were found, just now, on the lower road, a-grazing, and he ain't cut, nor hurt in any way, sir."

"He's dirty and wet, I suppose?"

"Well, sir, he's dirty, certainly; and the saddle is soaking; but he's pretty dry, considering."

"Are the girths broken?"

"No, sir, there's nothing amiss with them."

"Very well. Take care of the horse, but say nothing about him to Mr. Dale at present."

The visitors at Hallgrove Rectory had received the intelligence which Sir Reginald Eversleigh had communicated to them with the deepest concern. Arrangements were made for the immediate departure of the Grahams, and of Mrs. Mordaunt and her daughters. The squire and Sir Reginald were to remain with Douglas Dale until the painful formalities of the inquest and the funeral should be completed.

Douglas Dale was not a weak man, and no one more disliked any exhibition of sentiment than he. Nevertheless, it was a hard task for him to enter the breakfast-room, and bid farewell to the guests who had been so merry only yesterday. But it had to be done, and he did it. A few sad and solemn words were spoken between him and the Mordaunts, and the girls left the room in tears. Then he advanced to Lydia Graham, who was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, still, and pale as a marble statue. There were no tears in her eyes, no traces of tears upon her cheeks, but in her heart there was angry, bitter, raging disappointment--almost fury, almost despair.

Douglas Dale