Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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poor woman when she was made aware that her brother had acknowledged
himself a criminal of the deepest dye, was intense. Calm—almost
stupor—had succeeded to her wild grief, and the clergyman had spoken
words of consolation and hope to the dying and the living. The surgeons
had seen the man for the last time; there was nothing more to be done
for him now—nothing to do but to wait for the equal foot approaching
with remorseless tread.
It was indeed a fearful catalogue of crime to which the Rev. Philip
Colburne had listened, and had written with his own hand at the dying
man’s dictation. Not often has such a revelation been made to mortal
ears, and the two who heard it—the Christian minister and the
trembling, horrified sister—felt that the scene could never be effaced
from their memories.
With only two items in that awful list this story has to do.
The first is, the murder of Valentine Jernam. As Mrs. Miller heard her
brother, with gasping breath and feeble utterance, tell that horrible
story, her heart died within her. She knew it well. Who at Allanbay had
not heard of the murder of Mrs. Jernam’s darling nephew, the bright,
popular, kind-hearted seaman, whose coming had been a jubilee in the
little port; whose disappearance had made so painful a sensation? She
had heard the story from his aunt, and Rosamond had told her how her
husband lived in the hope of finding out and punishing his brother’s
murderer. And now he was found, this murderer, this thief, this guilt-burdened criminal: and he was her only brother, and dying. Ah, well,
Valentine Jernam was avenged. Providence had exacted George Jernam’s
vengeance: the wrath of man was not needed here.
The second crime with which this story has to do was one of old date,
one of the earliest in Black Milsom’s dreadful career. The dying wretch
told Mr. Colburne how he had headed a gang of thieves, chiefly composed
of sailors who had deserted their ships, some twenty-one or two years
before this time, when retribution had come upon him, and in their
company had robbed the villa of an English lady at Florence. This crime
had been committed with the connivance and assistance of the Italian
woman who was nurse to the English lady’s child. Milsom, then a
handsome young fellow, had offered marriage to the woman, which offer
was accepted; and she had made his taking her and the child with him—
for nothing would induce her to leave the infant—a condition of her
aid. He did so; but the hardship of her new life soon killed the
Italian woman; and the child was left to the mercy of Milsom and an old
hag who acted as his drudge and accomplice. What mercy she met with at
those hands the reader knows, for that child was the future wife of Sir
Oswald Eversleigh. Mr. Colburne listened to this portion of Milsom’s
confession with intense interest.
“The name?” he asked; “the name of the lady who lived at Florence, the
mother of the child? Tell me the name!”
“Verner,” said the dying man, in a hoarse whisper, “Lady Verner; the
child’s name was Anna.”
He was very near his end when he finished his terrible story. While Mr.
Colburne was trying to speak peace to the poor darkened, frightened,
guilty soul, Mrs. Miller knelt by the bedside, sobbing convulsively.
Suddenly she remembered the child she had the care of. Had his account
of her been true? Was she also the victim of a crime? She waited, with
desperate impatience, but with the habitual respect of her class, until
Mr. Colburne had ceased to speak. Then she put her lips close to the
dying man’s ear, and said—
“Thomas, Thomas, for God’s sake tell me about the child—who is she? Is
what you told me true? If not, set it right—oh, brother, brother, set
it right—before it is too late.”
The imploring tone of her voice reached her brother’s dull ear; a faint
spasm, as though he strove in vain to speak, crossed his white drawn
lips. But the disfigured head in its ghastly bandages was motionless;
the shattered arm in its wrappings made no gesture. In terror, in
despair, his sister started to her feet, and looked eagerly, closely,
into his face. In vain the white lips parted, the eyelids quivered, a
shiver shook the broad, brawny chest—then all was still, and Black
Milsom was dead!
On the following morning Mr. Colburne took Mrs. Miller back to
Allanbay, after giving her a night’s rest in his own hospitable home.
He left her at her own cottage, and went to Mrs. Jernam’s house, as he
had promised the afflicted woman he would save her the pain of telling
the terrible story which was to clear up the mystery surrounding the
merchant captain’s fate. When the clergyman reached the house, and
lifted his hand to the bright knocker, he heard a sound of many and
gleeful voices within—a sound which died away as he knocked for
admittance.
Presently the door was opened by Mrs. Jernam’s trim maid, who replied,
when Mr. Colburne asked if he could see Mrs. Jernam, and if she were
alone—as a hint that he did not wish to see any one beside—
“Please, sir, missus is in, but she ain’t alone; Captain George and
Mrs. George’s father have just come—not half an hour ago.”
*
And so Joyce Harker’s self-imposed task was at an end, and George
Jernam’s long brooding upon his brother’s fate was over. A solemn
stillness came upon the happy party at Allanbay, and Rosamond’s tears
fell upon little Gerty, as she slept upon her bosom—slept where
George’s child was soon to slumber. Mr. Colburne asked no questions
about the child. Mrs. Miller had said nothing to him respecting her
charge, and Milsom’s death, ensuing immediately on her question, had
caused it to pass unnoticed. George Jernam, his wife, and Captain
Duncombe started for London early the next day. They had come to a
unanimous conclusion, on consultation with Mrs. Miller, that there was
a mystery about the child, and that the best thing to be done was to
communicate with the police at once. “Besides,” said George, “I must
see Mr. Larkspur, and tell him he need not trouble himself farther; now
that accident, or, as I believe Providence, has done for us what all
his skill failed to do.”
When George Jernam presented himself at Mr. Larkspur’s office he
underwent a rigid inspection by that gentleman’s “deputy,” and having,
by a few hints as to the nature of his business, led that astute person
to think that it bore on his principal’s present quest, he was
entrusted with the address of Mr. Andrews, in Percy Street.
*
“So, you see, I don’t get my five hundred, because I didn’t find out
Captain Jernam’s murderer,” said Mr. Larkspur, after a long and
agitating explanation had put Lady Eversleigh in possession of all the
foregoing circumstances. “And here’s Captain Jernam’s brother comes and
takes the job of finding little missy out of my hands—does my work for
me as clean as a whistle.”
“But I did not know I was doing it, Mr. Larkspur,” said George. “I did
not know the little Gerty that my Rosamond is so sorry to part with,
was Miss Eversleigh; you found it out, from what I told you.”
“As if any fool could fail to find out that,” said Mr. Larkspur good-humouredly. He had a strong conviction that neither the relinquishment
of Lady Eversleigh’s designs of punishing her enemies, nor the finding
of the heiress by other than his agency, would inflict any injury upon
him—a conviction which was amply justified by his future experience.
“My good friend,” said Lady Eversleigh, “if I do not need your aid to
restore my child to me, I need it to restore me to my mother. I cannot
realize the truth that I have a mother, I can only feel it. I can only
feel how she must have suffered by remembering my own anguish. And
hers, how much more cruel, how prolonged, how hopeless! You will see to
this at once, Mr. Larkspur, while I go to my child.”
“Lord bless you, my lady,” said Mr. Larkspur, cheerily, “there’s no
occasion to look very far. You have not forgotten the lady, she that
lives so quiet, yet so stylish, near Richmond, and that Sir Reginald
Eversleigh pays such attention to? You remember all I told you about
her, and how I found out that she was Mr. Dale’s aunt, and he know
nothing about her?”
“Yes, yes,” said Lady Eversleigh, breathlessly, “I remember.”
“Well, my lady, that party near Richmond is Lady Verner, your
ladyship’s mother.”
Lady Eversleigh was well nigh overwhelmed by the throng of feelings
which pressed upon her. She, the despised outcast, the first-cousin of
the man who had scorned her, a connection of the great family into
which she had married, her husband’s equal in rank, and in fortune!
She, the woman whose beauty had been used to lure Valentine Jernam to
his death, she who had almost witnessed his murder; she owed to
Valentine’s brother the discovery of her parentage, the defeat of her
calumniators, her restoration to a high place in society, and to family
ties, the destruction of Reginald Eversleigh’s designs on Lady Verner’s
property, and—greatest, best boon of all—the recovery of her child.
Her own devices, her own wilfulness had but led her into deeper danger,
into more bitter sorrow; but Providence had done great things for her
by the hands of this stranger, between whom and herself there existed
so sinister a link.
“Can you ever forgive me, Captain Jernam,” she said, “for my share in
your brother’s fate? Must I always be hateful in your sight? Will Mrs.
Jernam ever permit me to thank her for her goodness to my child?”
For the answer, George Jernam stooped and kissed her hand, with all the
natural grace inspired by natural good-feeling, and Lady Eversleigh
felt that she had gained a friend where she had feared to meet a
relentless foe. The little party remained long in consultation, and it
was decided that nothing was to be done about Lady Verner until Lady
Eversleigh had reclaimed her child. George Jernam entreated her to
permit him to go to Allanbay and bring the little girl to her mother,
but she would not consent. She insisted upon George’s bringing his wife
to see her immediately, as the preparations for departure did not admit
of her calling upon Mrs. Jernam. The gentle, happy Rosamond complied
willingly, and so thoroughly had the beautiful lady won the girl’s
heart before they were long together, that Rosamond herself proposed
that George should accompany Lady Eversleigh to Allanbay. With pretty
imperiousness she bore down Lady Eversleigh’s grateful scruples, and
the result was, that the two started that same evening, travelled as
fast as post-horses could carry them, and arrived at Allanbay before
even Lady Eversleigh’s impatience could find the journey long. Susan
Jernam had kept the child with her, and she it was who put little Gerty
into her mother’s arms. Rarely in her life had Lady Eversleigh lain
down to rest with do tranquil a heart as that with which she slept
under the humble roof of Captain Jernam’s aunt.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
“CONFUSION WORSE THAN DEATH.”
Sir Reginald Eversleigh had paid Victor Carrington a long visit, at the
cottage at Maida Hill, on the day which had witnessed the distressing
interview and angry parting between Douglas Dale and Madame Durski.
They had talked a great deal, and Reginald had been struck
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