Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
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propensity for strong drink to the uttermost extent of his means, and
could drown his sorrows, and drink destruction to his enemies, in fiery
draughts of cognac.
For some years he inhabited the same dirty garret, keeping the key of
his wretched chamber, going up and down the crumbling old staircase
uncared for and unnoticed. Few who had known him in the past would have
recognized the once elegant young man in this latter stage of his
existence. Form and features, complexion and expression, were alike
degraded. The garments worn by him, who had once been the boasted
patron of crack West-end tailors, were now shapeless and hideous. The
dandy of the clubs had become a perambulating mass of rags.
Every day when the sun shone he buttoned his greasy, threadbare
overcoat across his breast, and crawled to the public garden of the
Luxembourg, where he might be seen shuffling slipshod along the
sunniest walk, an object of contempt and aversion in the eyes of
nursery-maids and grisettes—a butt for the dare-devil students of
the quarter.
Had he any consciousness of his degradation?
Yes; that was the undying vulture which preyed upon his entrails—the
consuming fire that was never quenched.
During the brief interval of each day in which he was sober, Sir
Reginald Eversleigh was wont to reflect upon the past. He knew himself
to be the wretch and outcast he was; and, looking back at his start in
life, he could but remember how different his career might have been
had he so chosen.
In those hours the slow tears made furrows in his haggard cheeks—the
tears of remorse, vain repentance, that came too late for earth; but
not, perhaps, utterly too late for heaven, since, even for this last
and worst of sinners, there might be mercy.
Thus his life passed—a changeless routine, unbroken by one bright
interval, one friendly visit, one sign or token to show that there was
any link between this lonely wretch and the rest of humanity.
One day the porter, who lived in a little den at the bottom of the
lodging-house staircase, suddenly missed the familiar figure which had
gone by his rabbit-hutch every day for the last six years; the besotted
face that had stared at him morning and evening with the blank,
unseeing gaze of the habitual drunkard.
“What has become of the old toper who lives up yonder among the
chimney-pots?” cried the porter, suddenly, to the wife of his bosom. “I
have not seen him to-day nor yesterday, nor for many days. He must be
ill. I will go upstairs and make inquiries by-and-by, when I have
leisure.”
The porter waited for a leisure half-hour after dark, and then tramped
wearily up the steep old staircase with a lighted candle to see after
the missing lodger. He might have waited even longer without detriment
to Sir Reginald Eversleigh.
The baronet had been dead many days, suffocated by the fumes of his
poor little charcoal stove. A trap-door in the roof, which he had been
accustomed to open for the ventilation of his garret, had been closed
by the wind, and the baronet had passed unconsciously from sleep to
death.
He had died, and no one had been aware of his death. The people of the
house did not know either his name or his country. His burial was that
of an unknown pauper; and the bones of the last male scion of the house
of Eversleigh were mingled with the bones of Parisian paupers in the
cemetery of P�re la Chaise.
While Sir Reginald Eversleigh dragged out the wretched remnant of his
existence in a dingy Parisian alley, there was perfect peace and
tranquil happiness for the woman against whose fair fame he and Victor
Carrington had so basely conspired.
Yes, Anna was at peace; surrounded by friends; delighted day by day to
watch the budding loveliness, the sportive grace of Gertrude
Eversleigh, the idolized heiress of Raynham. As Lady Eversleigh paced
the terraces of an Italian garden, her mother by her side, with
Gertrude clinging to her side; as she looked out over the vast domain
which owned her as mistress—it might seem that fortune had lavished
her fairest gifts into the lap of her who had been once a friendless
stranger, singing in the taverns of Wapping.
Wonderful indeed had been the transitions which had befallen her; but
even now, when the horizon seemed so fair before her, there were dark
shadows upon the past which, in some measure, clouded the brightness of
the present, and dimmed the radiance of the future.
She could not forget her night of agony in the house amongst the
marshes beyond Ratcliff Highway; she could not cease to lament the loss
of that noble friend who had rescued her in the hour of her despair.
The world wondered at the prolonged widowhood of the mistress of
Raynham. People were surprised to find that a woman in the golden prime
of womanhood and beauty could be constant to the memory of a husband
old enough to have been her father. But in due time society learned to
accept the fact as a matter of course, and Lady Eversleigh was no
longer the subject of hopes and speculations.
Her constant gratitude and friendship for the Jernams suffered no
diminution as time went on. The difference in their social position
made no difference to her; and no more frequent or more welcome guests
were seen at Raynham than Captain Duncombe, his daughter and son-in-law, and honest Joyce Harker. Lady Eversleigh had a particular regard
for the man who had so true and faithful a heart, and she would often
talk to him; but she never mentioned the subject of that miserable
night on which he had seen her down at Wapping. That subject was
tacitly avoided by both. There was a pain too intense, a memory too
dark, associated with the events of that period.
And so the story ends. There is no sound of pleasant wedding bells to
close my record with their merry, jangling chorus. Is it not the fate
of the innocent to suffer in this life for the sins of the wicked? Lady
Eversleigh’s widowhood, Douglas Dale’s lonely life, are the work of
Victor Carrington—a work not to be undone upon this earth. If he has
failed in all else, he has succeeded at least in this: he has ruined
the happiness of two lives. For both his victims time brings peace—a
sober gladness that is not without its charm. For one a child’s
affection—a child’s growing grace of mind and form, bring a happiness
on, clouded at intervals by the dark shadows of past sorrow. But in the
heart of Douglas Dale there is an empty place which can never be filled
upon earth.
“Will the Eternal and all-seeing One forgive her for her reckless,
useless life, and shall I meet her among the blest in heaven?” he asks
himself sometimes, and then he remembers the holy words of comfort
unspeakable: “Come unto me, ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I
will give you rest.”
Had not Paulina been “weary, and heavy laden,” bowed down by the burden
of a false accusation, friendless, hopeless, from her very cradle?
He thought of the illimitable Mercy, and he dared to hope for the day
in which he should meet her he loved “Beyond the Veil.”
THE END.
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