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

my sympathy for your sorrow—”

“Reserve your sympathy until it is needed,” answered the baronet,

abruptly. “I dare say you mean well, my dear Reginald; but there are

some subjects which I will suffer no man to approach.”

“I beg your pardon, sir. Then, in that case, I can tell you nothing. I

fancied that it was my duty to bring you any information that reached

me; but I defer to you entirely. The subject is a most unhappy one, and

I am glad to be spared the pain involved in speaking of it.”

“What do you mean?” said the baronet. “If you have anything to tell

me—anything that can throw light upon the mystery of my wife’s

flight—speak out, and speak quickly. I am almost mad, Reginald.

Forgive me, if I spoke harshly just now. You are my nephew, and the

mask I wear before the world may be dropped in your presence.”

“I know nothing personally of Lady Eversleigh’s disappearance,” said

Reginald; “but I have good reason to believe that Miss Graham could

tell you much, if she chose to speak out. She has hinted at being in

the secret, and I think it only right you should question her.”

“I will question her,” answered sir Oswald, starting to his feet. “Send

her to me, Reginald.”

Mr. Eversleigh left his uncle, and Miss Graham very speedily appeared—

looking the very image of unconscious innocence—and quite unable to

imagine what “dear Sir Oswald” could want with her.

The baronet came to the point very quickly, and before Lydia had time

for consideration, she had been made to give a full account of the

scene which she had witnessed on the previous evening between Victor

Carrington and Honoria.

Of course, Miss Graham told Sir Oswald that she had witnessed this

strange scene in the most accidental manner. She had happened to be in

a walk that commanded a view of the fir-grove.

“And you saw my wife agitated, clinging to that man?”

“Lady Eversleigh was terribly agitated.”

“And then you saw her take her place in the gig, of her own free will?”

“I did, Sir Oswald.”

“Oh, what infamy!” murmured the baronet; “what hideous infamy!”

It was to himself that he spoke rather than to Miss Graham. His eyes

were fixed on vacancy, and it seemed as if he were scarcely aware of

the young lady’s presence.

Lydia was almost terrified by that blank, awful look. She waited for a

few moments, and then, finding that Sir Oswald questioned her no

further, she crept quietly from the room, glad to escape from the

sorrow-stricken husband. Malicious though she was, she believed that

this time she had spoken the truth.

“He has reason to repent his romantic choice,” she thought as she left

the library. “Perhaps now he will think that he might have done better

by choosing a wife from his own set.”

The day wore on; Sir Oswald remained alone in the library, seated

before a table, with his arms folded, his gaze fixed on empty space—a

picture of despair.

The clock had struck many times; the hot afternoon sun blazed full upon

the broad Tudor windows, when the door was opened gently, and some one

came into the room. Sir Oswald looked up angrily, thinking it was one

of the servants who had intruded on him.

It was his wife who stood before him, dressed in the white robes she

had worn at the picnic; but wan and haggard, white as the dress she

wore.

“Oswald,” she cried, with outstretched hands, and the look of one who

did not doubt she would be welcome.

The baronet sprang to his feet, and looked at that pale face with a

gaze of unspeakable indignation.

“And you dare to come back?” he exclaimed. “False-hearted adventuress—

actress—hypocrite—you dare to come to me with that lying smile upon

your face—after your infamy of last night!”

“I am neither adventuress, nor hypocrite, Oswald. Oh, where have your

love and confidence vanished that you can condemn me unheard? I have

done no wrong—not by so much as one thought that is not full of love

for you! I am the helpless victim of the vilest plot that was ever

concocted for the destruction of a woman’s happiness.”

A mocking laugh burst from the lips of Sir Oswald.

“Oh,” he cried, “so that is your story. You are the victim of a plot,

are you? You were carried away by ruffians, I suppose? You did not go

willingly with your paramour? Woman, you stand convicted of your

treachery by the fullest evidence. You were seen to leave the Wizard’s

Cave! You were seen clinging to Victor Carrington—were seen to go with

him, willingly. And then you come and tell me you are the victim of a

plot! Oh, Lady Eversleigh, this is too poor a story. I should have

given you credit for greater powers of invention.”

“If I am guilty, why am I here?” asked Honoria.

“Shall I tell you why you are here?” cried Sir Oswald, passionately,

“Look yonder, madam! look at those wide woodlands, the deer-park, the

lakes and gardens; this is only one side of Raynham Castle. It was for

those you returned, Lady Eversleigh, for the love of those—and those

alone. Influenced by a mad and wicked passion, you fled with your lover

last night; but no sooner did you remember the wealth you had lost, the

position you had sacrificed, than you repented your folly. You

determined to come back. Your doting husband would doubtless open his

arms to receive you. A few imploring words, a tear or so, and the poor,

weak dupe would be melted. This is how you argued; but you were wrong.

I have been foolish. I have abandoned myself to the dream of a dotard;

but the dream is past. The awakening has been rude, but it has been

efficacious. I shall never dream again.”

“Oswald, will you not listen to my story?”

“No, madam, I will not give you the opportunity of making me a second

time your dupe. Go—go back to your lover, Victor Carrington. Your

repentance comes too late. The Raynham heritage will never be yours. Go

back to your lover; or, if he will not receive you, go back to the

gutter from which I took you.”

“Oswald!”

The cry of reproach went like a dagger to the heart of the baronet. But

he steeled himself against those imploring tones. He believed that he

had been wronged—that this woman was as false as she was beautiful.

“Oswald,” cried Honoria, “you must and shall hear my story. I demand a

hearing as a right—a right which you could not withhold from the

vilest criminal, and which you shall not withhold from me, your

lawfully wedded and faithful wife. You may disbelieve my story, if you

please—heaven knows it seems wild and improbable!—but you shall hear

it. Yes, Oswald, you shall!”

She stood before him, drawn to her fullest height, confronting him

proudly. If this was guilt, it was, indeed, shameless guilt. Unhappily,

the baronet believed in the evidence of Lydia Graham, rather than in

the witness of his wife’s truth. Why should Lydia have deceived him? he

asked himself. What possible motive could she have for seeking to

blight his wife’s fair name?

Honoria told her story from first to last; she told the history of her

night of anguish. She spoke with her eyes fixed on her husband’s face,

in which she could read the indications of his every feeling. As her

story drew to a close, her own countenance grew rigid with despair, for

she saw that her words had made no impression on the obdurate heart to

which she appealed.

“I do not ask you if you believe me,” she said, when her story was

finished. “I can see that you do not. All is over between us, Sir

Oswald,” she added, in a tone of intense sadness—“all is over. You are

right in what you said just now, cruel though your words were. You did

take me from the gutter; you accepted me in ignorance of my past

history; you gave your love and your name to a friendless, nameless

creature; and now that circumstances conspire to condemn me, can I

wonder if you, too, condemn—if you refuse to believe my declaration of

my innocence? I do not wonder. I am only grieved that it should be so.

I should have been so proud of your love if it could have survived this

fiery ordeal—so proud! But let that pass. I would not remain an hour

beneath this roof on sufferance. I am quite ready to go from this house

to-day, at an hour’s warning, never to re-enter it. Raynham Castle is

no more to me than that desolate tower in which I spent last night—

without your love. I will leave you without one word of reproach, and

you shall never hear my name, or see my face again.”

She moved towards the door as she spoke. There was a quiet earnestness

in her manner which might have gone far to convince Oswald Eversleigh

of her truth; but his mind was too deeply imbued with a belief in her

falsehood. This dignified calm, this subdued resignation, seemed to him

only the consummate art of a finished actress.

“She is steeped in falsehood to the very lips,” he thought. “Doubtless,

the little she told me of the history of her childhood was as false as

all the rest. Heaven only knows what shameful secrets may have been

hidden in her past life!”

She had crossed the threshold of the door, when some sudden impulse

moved him to follow her.

“Do not leave Raynham till you have heard further from me, Lady

Eversleigh,” he said. “It will be my task to make all arrangements for

your future life.”

His wife did not answer him. She walked towards the hall, her head

bent, her eyes fixed on the ground.

“She will not leave the castle until she is obliged to do so,” thought

Sir Oswald, as he returned to the library. “Oh, what a tissue of

falsehood she tried to palm upon me! And she would have blackened my

nephew’s name, in order to screen her own guilt!”

He rang a bell, and told the servant who answered it to fetch Mr.

Eversleigh. His nephew appeared five minutes afterwards, still very

pale and anxious-looking.

“I have sent for you, Reginald,” said the baronet, “because I have a

duty to perform—a very painful duty—but one which I do not care to

delay. It is now nearly a year and a half since I made a will which

disinherited you. I had good reason for that step, as you know; but I

have heard no further talk of your vices or your follies; and, so far

as I can judge, you have undergone a reformation. It is not for me,

therefore, to hold sternly to a determination which I had made in a

moment of extreme anger: and I should perhaps have restored you to your

old position ere this, had not a new interest absorbed my heart and

mind. I have had cruel reason to repent my folly. I might feel

resentment against you, on account of your friend’s infamy, but I am

not weak enough for that. Victor Carrington and I have a terrible

account to settle, and it shall be settled to the uttermost. I need

hardly tell you that, if you hold any further communication with him,

you will for ever forfeit my friendship.”

“My dear sir, you surely cannot suppose—”

“Do not