Run to Earth by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (ready player one ebook TXT) 📕

early celebration of the marriage—and Honoria, accustomed to obey him

in all things, did not oppose his wish in this crisis of his life. Once

more Sir Oswald wrote a cheque for the wardrobe of his prot�g�e, and

Miss Beaumont swelled with pomposity as she thought of the grandeur

which might be derived from the expenditure of a large sum of money at

certain West-end emporiums where she was in the habit of making

purchases for her pupils, and where she was already considered a person

of some importance.

It was holiday-time at “The Beeches,” and almost all the pupils were

absent. Miss Beaumont was, therefore, able to devote the ensuing

fortnight to the delightful task of shopping. She drove into town

almost every day with Honoria, and hours were spent in the choice of

silks and satins, velvets and laces, and in long consultations with

milliners and dressmakers of Parisian celebrity and boundless

extravagance.

“Sir Oswald has intrusted me with the supervision of this most

important business, and I will drop down in a fainting-fit from sheer

exhaustion before the counter at Howell and James’s, sooner than I

would fail in my duty to the extent of an iota,” Miss Beaumont said,

when Honoria begged her to take less trouble about the wedding

trousseau.

It was Sir Oswald’s wish that the wedding should be strictly private.

Whom could he invite to assist at his union with a nameless and

friendless bride? Miss Beaumont was the only person whom he could

trust, and even her he had deceived; for she believed that Honoria

Milford was some fourth or fifth cousin—some poor relative of Sir

Oswald’s.

Early in July the wedding took place. All preparations had been made so

quietly as to baffle even the penetration of the watchful Millard. He

had perceived that the baronet was more than usually occupied, and in

higher spirits than were habitual to him; but he could not discover the

reason.

“There’s something going on, sir,” he said to Victor Carrington; “but

I’m blest if I know what it is. I dare say that young woman is at the

bottom of it. I never did see my master look so well or so happy. It

seems as if he was growing younger every day.”

Reginald Eversleigh looked at his friend in blank despair when these

tidings reached him.

“I told you I was ruined, Victor,” he said; “and now, perhaps, you will

believe me. My uncle will marry that woman.”

It was only on the eve of his wedding-day that Sir Oswald Eversleigh

made any communication to his valet. While dressing for dinner that

evening, he said, quietly—

“I want my portmanteaus packed for travelling between this and two

o’clock to-morrow, Millard; and you will hold yourself in readiness to

accompany me. I shall post from London, starting from a house near

Fulham, at three o’clock. The chariot must leave here, with you and the

luggage, at two.”

“You are going abroad, sir?”

“No, I am going to North Wales for a week or two; but I do not go

alone. I am going to be married to-morrow morning, Millard, and Lady

Eversleigh will accompany me.”

Much as the probability of this marriage had been discussed in the

Arlington Street household, the fact came upon Joseph Millard as a

surprise. Nothing is so unwelcome to old servants as the marriage of a

master who has long been a bachelor. Let the bride be never so fair,

never so high-born, she will be looked on as an interloper; and if, as

in this case, she happens to be poor and nameless, the bridegroom is

regarded as a dupe and a fool; the bride is stigmatized as an

adventuress.

The valet was fully occupied that evening with preparations for the

journey of the following day, and could find no time to call at Mr.

Eversleigh’s lodgings with his evil tidings.

“He’ll hear of it soon enough, I dare say, poor, unfortunate young

man,” thought Mr. Millard.

The valet was right. In a few days the announcement of the baronet’s

marriage appeared in “The Times” newspaper; for, though he had

celebrated that marriage with all privacy, he had no wish to keep his

fair young wife hidden from the world.

“_On Thursday, the 4th instant, at St. Mary’s Church, Fulham, Sir

Oswald Morton Vansittart Eversleigh, Bart., to Honoria daughter of the

late Thomas Milford._”

This was all; and this was the announcement which Reginald Eversleigh

read one morning, as he dawdled over his late breakfast, after a night

spent in dissipation and folly. He threw the paper away from him, with

an oath, and hurried to his toilet. He dressed himself with less care

than usual, for to-day he was in a hurry; he wanted at once to

communicate with his friend, Victor Carrington.

The young surgeon lived at the very extremity of the Maida Hill

district, in a cottage, which was then almost in the country. It was a

comfortable little residence; but Reginald Eversleigh looked at it with

supreme contempt.

“You can wait,” he said to the hackney coachman; “I shall be here in

about half an hour.”

The man drove away to refresh his horses at the nearest inn, and

Reginald Eversleigh strode impatiently past the trim little servant-girl who opened the garden gate, and walked, unannounced, into the

miniature hall.

Everything in and about Victor Carrington’s abode was the perfection of

neatness. The presence of poverty was visible, it is true; but poverty

was made to wear its fairest shape. In the snug drawing-room to which

Reginald Eversleigh was admitted all was bright and fresh. White muslin

curtains shaded the French window; birds sang in gilded cages, of

inexpensive quality, but elegant design; and tall glass vases of

freshly cut flowers adorned tables and mantel-piece.

Sir Oswald’s nephew looked contemptuously at this elegance of poverty.

For him nothing but the splendour of wealth possessed any charm.

The surgeon came to him while he stood musing thus.

“Do you mind coming to my laboratory?” he asked, after shaking hands

with his unexpected visitor. “I can see that you have something of

importance to say to me, and we shall be safer from interruption

there.”

“I shouldn’t have come to this fag-end of Christendom if I hadn’t

wanted very much to see you, you may depend upon it, Carrington,”

answered Reginald, sulkily. “What on earth makes you live in such an

out-of-the-way hole?”

“I am a student, and an out-of-the-way hole—as you are good enough to

call it—suits my habits. Besides, this house is cheap, and the rent

suits my pocket.”

“It looks like a doll’s house,” said Reginald, contemptuously.

“My mother likes to surround herself with birds and flowers,” answered

the surgeon; “and I like to indulge any fancy of my mother’s.”

Victor Carrington’s countenance seemed to undergo a kind of

transformation as he spoke of his mother. The bright glitter of his

eyes softened; the hard lines of his iron mouth relaxed.

The one tender sentiment of a dark and dangerous nature was this man’s

affection for his widowed mother.

He opened the door of an apartment at the back of the house, and

entered, followed by Mr. Eversleigh.

Reginald stared in wonder at the chamber in which he found himself. The

room had once been a kitchen, and was much larger than any other room

in the cottage. Here there was no attempt at either comfort or

elegance. The bare, white-washed walls had no adornment but a deal

shelf here and there, loaded with strange-looking phials and gallipots.

Here all the elaborate paraphernalia of a chemist’s laboratory was

visible. Here Reginald Eversleigh beheld stoves, retorts, alembics,

distilling apparatus; all the strange machinery of that science which

always seems dark and mysterious to the ignorant.

The visitor looked about him in utter bewilderment.

“Why, Victor,” he exclaimed, “your room looks like the laboratory of

some alchymist of the Middle Ages—the sort of man people used to burn

as a wizard.”

“I am rather an enthusiastic student of my art,” answered the surgeon.

The visitor’s eyes wandered round the room in amazement. Suddenly they

alighted on some object on the table near the stove. Carrington

perceived the glance, and, with a hasty movement, very unusual to him,

dropped his handkerchief upon the object.

The movement, rapid though it was, came too late, for Reginald

Eversleigh had distinguished the nature of the object which the surgeon

wished to conceal from him.

It was a mask of metal, with glass eyes.

“So you wear a mask when you are at work, eh, Carrington?” said Mr.

Eversleigh. “That looks as if you dabble in poisons.”

“Half the agents employed in chemistry are poisonous,” answered Victor,

coolly.

“I hope there is no danger in the atmosphere of this room just now?”

“None whatever. Come, Reginald, I am sure you have bad news to tell me,

or you would never have taken the trouble to come here.”

“I have, and the worst news. My uncle has married this street ballad-singer.”

“Good; then we must try to turn this marriage to account.”

“How so?”

“By making it the means of bringing about a reconciliation. You will

write a letter of congratulation to Sir Oswald—a generous letter—in

which you will speak of your penitence, your affection, the anguish you

have endured during this bitter period of estrangement. You can venture

to speak freely of these things now, you will say, for now that your

honoured uncle has found new ties you can no longer be suspected of any

mercenary motive. You can now approach him boldly, you will say, for

you have henceforward nothing to hope from him except his forgiveness.

Then you will wind up with an earnest prayer for his happiness. And if

I am not very much out in my reckoning of human nature, that letter

will bring about a reconciliation. Do you understand my tactics?”

“I do. You are a wonderful fellow, Carrington.”

“Don’t say that until the day when you are restored to your old

position as your uncle’s heir. Then you may pay me any compliment you

please.”

“If ever that day arrives, you shall not find me ungrateful.”

“I hope not; and now go back to town and write your letter. I want to

see you invited to Raynham Castle to pay your respects to the bride.”

“But why so?”

“I want to know what the bride is like. Our future plans will depend

much upon her.”

Before leaving Lorrimore Cottage, Reginald Eversleigh was introduced to

his friend’s mother, whom he had never before seen. She was very like

her son. She had the same pale, sallow face, the same glittering black

eyes. She was slim and tall, with a somewhat stately manner, and with

little of the vivacity usual to her countrywomen.

She looked at Mr. Eversleigh with a searching glance—a glance which

was often repeated, as he stood for a few minutes talking to her.

Nothing which interested her son was without interest for her; and she

knew that this young man was his chief friend and companion.

Reginald Eversleigh went back to town in much better spirits than when

he had left the West-end that morning. He lost no time in writing the

letter suggested by his friend, and, as he was gifted with considerable

powers of persuasion, the letter was a good one.

“I believe Carrington is right,” he thought, as he sealed it: “and this

letter will bring about a reconciliation. It will reach my uncle at a

time when he will be intoxicated with his new position as