Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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in his vulture-like beak. He was followed by a tall, stalwart, fine-looking man, with the unmistakeable gait and air of a sailor. As Lady
Eversleigh looked at him in astonishment, Mr. Larkspur said:—
“I ain’t much of a believer in Fate in general, but there’s surely a
Fate in this. My lady, this is Captain George Jernam!”
*
The time had passed slowly and wearily for Rosamond Jernam, and all the
efforts conscientiously made by her husband’s aunt, who liked the girl
better the more she saw of her, and entirely acquitted her of blame in
the mysterious estrangement of the young couple, failed to make her
cheerful. She was wont to roam disconsolately for hours about the
secluded coast, giving free course to her sadness, and cherishing one
dear secret. Rosamond was so much changed in appearance of late that
Susan Jernam began to feel seriously uneasy about her. She had lost her
pretty fresh colour, and her face wore a haggard, weary look; it was
plain to every eye that some hidden grief was preying on her mind. Mrs.
Jernam, though a quiet person, and given to the minding of her own
affairs, was not quite without “cronies,” and to one of these she
confided her anxiety about her niece. The confidante was a certain
Mrs. Miller, a respectable person, but lower in the social scale than
Mrs. Jernam. She was a widow, and lived in a tiny cottage, close to the
beach at Allanbay; she kept no servant, but her trim little dwelling
was always the very pink and pattern of neatness. She was of a silent,
though not a morose temperament. It was generally understood that Mrs.
Miller’s husband had been a seafaring man, and had been drowned many
years before she went to live at Allanbay. She had no relatives, and no
previous acquaintances in that quiet nook; and if she had been a little
higher in the social scale, belonging to that class which requires
introductions, she might have lived a life of unbroken solitude. As it
was, the neighbours made friends with her by degrees, and the poor
widow’s life was not an unhappy or solitary one. Mrs. Jernam had early
learned the particulars of her case, and a friendship had grown up
between them, of which Mrs. Miller duly acknowledged the condescension
on Mrs. Jernam’s part.
Mrs. Jernam called on her humble friend one day, to bestow some small
favour, and, to her surprise, found her, not alone as usual, but in the
act of taking leave of a man whose appearance was by no means
prepossessing, and who was apparently very much disconcerted by Mrs.
Jernam’s arrival. Mrs. Jernam immediately proposed to go away and
return on another occasion, but the man, who did not hear her name
mentioned, said, gruffly:
“No call, ma’am, no call; I’m going away. Goodbye, Polly. Remember
what you’ve got to do, and do it.” Then he turned off from the cottage-door, and was out of sight in a few moments.
Mrs. Miller stood looking at her guest, rather awkwardly, but said at
length:
“Pray sit down, ma’am. That’s my brother; the only creature I have
belonging to me in the world.” And here Mrs. Miller sighed, and looked
as if the possession were not an unqualified advantage.
“Has he been here long?” asked Mrs. Jernam.
“No, ma’am; he only came last night, and is gone again. He came to
bring me a child to take care of, and a great tax it is.”
“A child!” said Mrs. Jernam, “whose child?”
“That’s more than I can tell you, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Miller; “and
more than he told me. She’s an orphan, he says, and her father was a
seafaring man, like your nephew, as I’ve heard you speak of. And I’m to
have the charge of her for a year, and thirty pounds—it’s handsome, I
don’t deny, but he knows that I’d take good care of any child—and
she’s a pretty dear, to tell the truth, as sweet a little creature as
ever walked. She don’t talk very plain yet, and she says, as well as I
can make it out, as her name is Gerty.”
And then Mrs. Miller asked Mrs. Jernam to walk into her little bedroom,
and showed her, lying on a neat humble bed, carefully covered with a
white coverlet, and in the deep sleep of childhood, the infant heiress
of Raynham! If either of the women had only known at whom she was
looking, as they scrutinized the child’s fair face and talked of her
beauty and her innocence in tearful whispers, looking away from the
sleeping form, pitifully, at a little heap of black clothes on a chair
by the bed!
“I suppose she’s the child of one of my brother’s old shipmates, as
rose to be better off,” said Mrs. Miller, “for she’s fretted about a
captain, and cried bitter to go to him when I put her to bed.” Then the
two returned to the little parlour, and talked long and earnestly about
the child, about the necessity for Mrs. Miller’s now employing the
services of “a girl,” and about Rosamond Jernam.
Rosamond was greatly delighted with the child left in Mrs. Miller’s
care. The little girl interested her deeply, and every day she passed
many hours with her, either at Mrs. Miller’s house or her own. The
grace and beauty of the child were remarkable; and as, with the happy
facility of childhood, she began to recover from the first feeling of
strangeness and fear, the little creature was soon happy in her new,
humble home. She was too young to appreciate and lament the change in
her lot; and, as she was well fed, well cared for, and treated with the
most caressing affection, she was perfectly happy. Rosamond began to
feel hopeful under the influence of the child’s smiles and playful
talk. The time must pass, she told herself, her husband must return to
her, and soon there would be for them a household angel like this one,
to bring peace and happiness permanently to their home.
Susan Jernam and Rosamond were much puzzled about this lovely child,
Gerty Smith, as she was called. Not only her looks, but certain little
ways she had, contradicted Mrs. Miller’s theory of her birth, and
though they fully credited the good woman’s statement, and believed her
as ignorant of the truth as themselves, they became convinced that
there was some mystery about this child. Mrs. Miller had never spoken
of her brother until he made his sudden and brief appearance at
Allanbay; and unsuspicious and unlearned in the ways of the world as
Mrs. Jernam was, she had perceived that he belonged to the doubtful
classes. The truth was, that Mrs. Miller could have told them nothing
about her brother beyond the general fact of his being “a bad lot.” She
had heard of him only at rare intervals since he had left his father’s
honest home, in his scampish, incorrigible boyhood, and ran away to
sea. She had heard little good of him, and years had sometimes passed
over during which she knew nothing of his fate. But even in Black
Milsom—thief, murderer, villain, though he was—there was one little
trace of good left. He did care a little for his sister; he did “look
her up” at intervals in his career of crime; he did send her small sums
of money—whence derived she had, happily, no suspicion—when he was
“flush;” and he did hope “Old Polly” would never find out how bad a
fellow he had been. Mrs. Miller’s nature was a very simple and
confiding one, and she never speculated much upon her brother’s doings.
She was pleased to have the charge of the child, and she fulfilled it
to the best of her ability; but those signs and tokens of a higher
station, which Susan Jernam and Rosamond recognized, were quite beyond
her ken.
One morning the little household at Susan Jernam’s cottage, consisting
only of the mistress and her maid, was roused by a violent knocking at
the door. Mrs. Jernam was the first to open it, and to her surprise and
alarm, she found Mrs. Miller standing at the door, her face expressing
alarm and grief, and little Gerty, wrapped in a large woollen shawl, in
her arms. Her explanation of what had occurred thus to upset her was at
first incoherent enough, but by degrees Mrs. Jernam learned that Mrs.
Miller had come to entreat her to take care of the child for a day or
two as she was obliged to go to Plymouth at once.
“To Plymouth!” said Mrs. Jernam—“how’s that?—but come in, come in”—
and they went into Mrs. Jernam’s spotlessly neat parlour, that parlour
in which Valentine Jernam had been permitted to smoke, and had told his
aunt all his adventures, little recking of the final one then so close
upon him. In the parlour, Mrs. Miller set little Gerty down, and the
child, giddy and confused with her sudden waking, and being thus
carried through the chill morning air, climbed up on the trim little
sofa, and curling herself into a corner of it, sat quite motionless.
Then, her agitation finding vent in tears, Mrs. Miller told Susan
Jernam what had befallen. It was this:—
Just as day was dawning, a dog-cart, driven by a gentleman’s servant,
had come to her door—the dog-cart was now standing at a little
distance from Mrs. Jernam’s house—and she had been called out by the
servant, and told that he had been sent to bring her over to Plymouth,
with as little delay as possible. It appeared that her brother, who had
gone to Plymouth after depositing the child with her, had been run over
in the street by a heavy coal-waggon, and severely injured. He had been
carried to a hospital, and was for some time insensible. When he
recovered his speech he was delirious, and the surgeons pronounced his
case hopeless. He was now in a dying state, but conscious; and had been
visited by a clergyman named Colburne, the man’s master, who had
induced him to express contrition for his past life, and to make such
reparation as now lay in his power. The first step towards this, as he
informed Mr. Colburne, was seeing his sister. There was no time to be
lost; the man’s life was fast ebbing; it was only a matter of hours;
and the good clergyman, who had been with the dying man far into the
night before he had succeeded in inducing him to consent to this step,
hurried home, and sent his servant off to Allanbay before daybreak.
There was little delay. A few words of earnest sympathy from Mrs.
Jernam, an assurance that the child should be well cared for, and Mrs.
Miller left the house, ran down the road to the dog-cart, climbed into
it, and was driven away.
Rosamond came in from her own little dwelling to her aunt’s, at an
early hour that day, and when the first surprise and pleasure of
finding the child there had passed away, the two women fell to
speculating on what kind of revelation it might be which awaited Mrs.
Miller.
“Depend upon it, aunt,” said Susan, “we shall hear the truth about
little Gerty now.”
*
The hours wore solemnly away in the great building, consecrated to
suffering and its relief, in which Black Milsom lay dying, with his
sister kneeling by his bed, while the good clergyman, who had had pity
on the soul of the sinner, sat on the other side, gravely and
compassionately looking at them both. The meeting between the brother
and sister had been very distressing, and
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