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

naturally into their position; and, looking on them in their calm

dignity, their unstudied grace, it is difficult to believe they have

not been born in the purple.

Such a woman was Honoria, Lady Eversleigh. The novelty of her position

gave her no embarrassment; the splendour around her charmed and

delighted her sense of the beautiful, but it caused her no

bewilderment; it did not dazzle her unaccustomed eyes. She received her

husband’s nephew with the friendly, yet dignified, bearing which it was

fitting Sir Oswald’s wife should display towards his kinsman; and the

scrutinizing eyes of the young man sought in vain to detect some secret

hidden beneath that placid and patrician exterior.

“The woman is a mystery,” he thought; “one would think she were some

princess in disguise. Does she really love my uncle, I wonder? She acts

her part well, if it is a false one. But, then, who would not act a

part for such a prize as she is likely to win? I wish Victor were here.

He, perhaps, might be able to penetrate the secret of her existence.

She is a hypocrite, no doubt; and an accomplished one. I would give a

great deal for the power to strip the veil from her beautiful face, and

show my lady in her true colours!”

Such bitter thoughts as these continually harassed the ambitious and

disappointed man. And yet he was able to bear himself with studied

courtesy towards Lady Eversleigh. The best people in the county had

come to Raynham to pay their homage to Sir Oswald’s bride. Nothing

could exceed her husband’s pride as he beheld her courted and admired.

No shadow of jealousy obscured his pleasure when he saw younger men

flock round her to worship and admire. He felt secure of her love, for

she had again and again assured him that her heart had been entirely

his even before he declared himself to her. He felt an implicit faith

in her purity and innocence.

Such a man as Oswald Eversleigh is not easily moved to jealousy; but

with such a man, one breath of suspicion, one word of slander, against

the creature he loves, is horrible as the agony of death.

Reginald Eversleigh had shared in all the pleasures and amusements of

Sir Oswald and his wife. They had gone nowhere without him since his

arrival at the castle; for at present he was the only visitor staying

in the house, and the baronet was too courteous to leave him alone.

“After the twelfth we shall have plenty of bachelor visitors,” said Sir

Oswald; “and you will find the old place more to your taste, I dare

say, Reginald. In the meantime, you must content yourself with our

society.”

“I am more than contented, my dear uncle, and do not sigh for the

arrival of your bachelor friends; though I dare say I shall on very

well with them when they do come.”

“I expect a bevy of pretty girls as well. Do you remember Lydia Graham,

the sister of Gordon Graham, of the Fusiliers?”

“Yes, I remember her perfectly.”

“I think there used to be something like a flirtation between you and

her.”

Sir Oswald and Lady Eversleigh seated themselves in the barouche;

Reginald rode by their side, on a thorough-bred hack out of the Raynham

stables.

The scenery within twenty miles of the castle was varied in character

and rich in beauty. In the purple distance, to the west of the castle,

there was a range of heather-clad hills; and between those hills and

the village of Raynham there flowed a noble river, crossed at intervals

by quaint old bridges, and bordered by little villages, nestling amid

green pastures.

The calm beauty of a rustic landscape, and the grandeur of wilder

scenery, were alike within reach of the explorer from the castle.

On this bright August afternoon, Sir Oswald had chosen for the special

object of their drive the summit of a wooded hill, whence a superb

range of country was to be seen. This hill was called Thorpe Peak, and

was about seven miles from the castle.

The barouche stopped at the foot of the hill; the baronet and his wife

alighted, and walked up a woody pathway leading to the summit,

accompanied by Reginald, who left his horse with the servants.

They ascended the hill slowly, Lady Eversleigh leaning upon her

husband’s arm. The pathway wound upward, through plantations of fir,

and it was only on the summit that the open country burst on the view

of the pedestrian. On the summit they found a gentleman seated on the

trunk of a fallen tree, sketching. A light portable colour-box lay open

by his side, and a small portfolio rested on his knees.

He seemed completely absorbed in his occupation, for he did not raise

his eyes from his work as Sir Oswald and his companions approached. He

wore a loose travelling dress, which, in its picturesque carelessness

of style, was not without elegance.

A horse was grazing under a group of firs near at hand, fastened to one

of the trees by the bridle.

This traveller was Victor Carrington.

“Carrington!” exclaimed Mr. Eversleigh; “whoever would have thought of

finding you up here? Sketching too!”

The surgeon lifted his head suddenly, looked at his friend, and burst

out laughing, as he rose to shake hands. He looked handsomer in his

artistic costume than ever Reginald Eversleigh had seen him look

before. The loose velvet coat, the wide linen collar and neckerchief of

dark-blue silk, set off the slim figure and pale foreign face.

“You are surprised to see me; but I have still more right to be

surprised at seeing you. What brings you here?”

“I am staying with my uncle, Sir Oswald Eversleigh, at Raynham Castle.”

“Ah, to be sure; that superb place within four miles of the village of

Abbey wood, where I have taken up my quarters.”

The baronet and his wife had been standing at a little distance from

the two young men; but Sir Oswald advanced, with Honoria still upon his

arm.

“Introduce me to your friend, Reginald,” he said, in his most cordial

manner.

Reginald obeyed, and Victor was presented to Sir Oswald and his wife.

His easy and graceful bearing was calculated to make an agreeable

impression at the outset, and Sir Oswald was evidently pleased with the

appearance and manners of his nephew’s friend.

“You are an artist, I see, Mr. Carrington,” he said, after glancing at

the young man’s sketch, which, even in its unfinished state, was no

contemptible performance.

“An amateur only, Sir Oswald,” answered Victor. “I am by profession a

surgeon; but as yet I have not practised. I find independence so

agreeable that I can scarcely bring myself to resign it. I have been

wandering about this delightful county for the last week or two, with

my sketch-book under my arm—halting for a day or two in any

picturesque spot I came upon, and hiring a horse whenever I could get a

decent animal. It is a very simple mode of enjoying a holiday; but it

suits me.”

“Your taste does you credit. But if you are in my neighbourhood, you

must take your horses from the Raynham stables. Where are your present

quarters?”

“At the little inn by Abbeywood Bridge.”

“Four miles from the castle. We are near neighbours, Mr. Carrington,

according to country habits. You must ride back with us, and dine at

Raynham.”

“You are very kind, Sir Oswald; but my dress will preclude—”

“No consequence whatever. We are quite alone just now; and I am sure

Lady Eversleigh will excuse a traveller’s toilet. If you are not bent

upon finishing this very charming sketch, I shall insist on your

returning with us; and you join me in the request, eh, Honoria?”

Lady Eversleigh smiled an assent, and the surgeon murmured his thanks.

As yet he had looked little at the baronet’s beautiful wife. He had

come to Yorkshire with the intention of studying this woman as a man

studies an abstruse and difficult science; but he was too great a

tactician to betray any unwonted interest in her. The policy of his

life was patience, and in this as in everything else, he waited his

opportunity.

“She is very beautiful,” he thought, “and she has made a good market

out of her beauty; but it is only the beginning of the story yet—the

middle and the end have still to come.”

*

After this meeting on Thorpe Peak, the surgeon became a constant

visitor at Raynham. Sir Oswald was delighted with the young man’s

talents and accomplishments; and Victor contrived to win credit by the

apparently accidental revelation of his early struggles, his mother’s

poverty, his patient studies, and indomitable perseverance. He told of

these things without seeming to tell them; a word now, a chance

allusion then, revealed the story of his friendless youth. Sir Oswald

fancied that such a companion was eminently adapted to urge his nephew

onward in the difficult road that leads to fortune and distinction.

“If Reginald had only half your industry, half your perseverance, I

should not fear for his future career, Mr. Carrington,” said the

baronet, in the course of a confidential conversation with his visitor.

“That will come in good time, Sir Oswald,” answered Victor. “Reginald

is a noble fellow, and has a far nobler nature than I can pretend to

possess. The very qualities which you are good enough to praise in me

are qualities which you cannot expect to find in him. I was a pupil in

the stern school of poverty from my earliest infancy, while Reginald

was reared in the lap of luxury. Pardon me, Sir Oswald, if I speak

plainly; but I must remind you that there are few young men who would

have passed honourably through the ordeal of such a change of fortune

as that which has fallen on your nephew.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that with most men such a reverse would have been utter ruin of

soul and body. An ordinary man, finding all the hopes of his future,

all the expectations, which had been a part of his very life, taken

suddenly from him, would have abandoned himself to a career of vice; he

would have become a blackleg, a swindler, a drunkard, a beggar at the

doors of the kinsman who had cast him off. But it was not so with

Reginald Eversleigh. From the moment in which he found himself cast

adrift by the benefactor who had been more than a father to him, he

confronted evil fortune calmly and bravely. He cut the link between

himself and extravagant companions. He disappeared from the circles in

which he had been admired and courted; and the only grief which preyed

upon his generous heart sprang from the knowledge that he had forfeited

his uncle’s affection.”

Sir Oswald sighed. For the first time he began to think that it was

just possible he had treated his nephew with injustice.

“You are right, Mr. Carrington,” he said, after a pause; “it was a hard

trial for any man; and I am proud to think that Reginald passed

unscathed through so severe an ordeal. But the resolution at which I

arrived a year and a half ago is one that I cannot alter now. I have

formed new ties; I have new hopes for the future. My nephew must pay

the penalty of his past errors, and must look to his own exertions for

wealth and honour. If I die without a direct heir, he will succeed to

the baronetcy, and I