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

She was prepared to find herself misjudged by him. But he was the

nephew of the man who had once so devotedly loved her; the husband

whose memory was hallowed for her; and she was determined to receive

him with all respect, for the sake of the beloved and honoured dead.

“You are doubtless surprised to see me here, madam,” said Mr. Dale, in

a tone whose chilling accent told Honoria that this stranger was

already prejudiced against her. “I have received no invitation to take

part in the sad ceremonial of to-day, either from you or from Sir

Reginald Eversleigh. But I loved Sir Oswald very dearly, and I am here

to pay the last poor tribute of respect to that honoured and generous

friend.”

“Permit me thank you for that tribute,” answered Lady Eversleigh. “If I

did not invite you and your brother to attend the funeral, it was from

no wish to exclude you. My desires have been in no manner consulted

with regard to the arrangements of to-day. Very bitter misery has

fallen upon me within the last fortnight—heaven alone knows how

undeserved that misery has been—and I know not whether this roof will

shelter me after to-day.”

She looked at the stranger very earnestly as she said this. It was

bitter to stand quite alone in the world; to know herself utterly

fallen in the estimation of all around her; and she looked at Lionel

Dale with a faint hope that she might discover some touch of

compassion, some shadow of doubt in his countenance.

Alas, no,—there was none. It was a frank, handsome face—a face that

was no polished mask beneath which the real man concealed himself. It

was a true and noble countenance, easy to read as an open book. Honoria

looked at it with despair in her heart, for she perceived but too

plainly that this man also despised her. She understood at once that he

had been told the story of his uncle’s death, and regarded her as the

indirect cause of that fatal event.

And she was right. He had arrived at the chief inn in Raynham two hours

before, and there he had heard the story of Lady Eversleigh’s flight

and Sir Oswald’s sudden death, with some details of the inquest. Slow

to believe evil, he had questioned Gilbert Ashburne, before accepting

the terrible story as he had heard it from the landlord of the inn. Mr.

Ashburne only confirmed that story, and admitted that, in his opinion,

the flight and disgrace of the wife had been the sole cause of the

death of the husband.

Once having heard this, and from the lips of a man whom he knew to be

the soul of truth and honour, Lionel Dale had but one feeling for his

uncle’s widow, and that feeling was abhorrence.

He saw her in her beauty and her desolation; but he had no pity for her

miserable position, and her beauty inspired him only with loathing; for

had not that beauty been the first cause of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s

melancholy fate?

“I wished to see you, madam,” said Lionel Dale, after that silence

which seemed so long, “in order to apologize for a visit which might

appear an intrusion. Having done so, I need trouble you no further.”

He bowed with chilling courtesy, and left the room. He had uttered no

word of consolation, no assurance of sympathy, to that pale widow of a

week; nothing could have been more marked than the omission of those

customary phrases, and Honoria keenly felt their absence.

The dead leaves strewed the avenue along which Sir Oswald Eversleigh

went to his last resting-place; the dead leaves fluttered slowly

downward from the giant oaks—the noble old beeches; there was not one

gleam of sunshine on the landscape, not one break in the leaden grey of

the sky. It seemed as if the funeral of departed summer was being

celebrated on this first dreary autumn day.

Lady Eversleigh occupied the second carriage in the stately procession.

She was alone. Captain Copplestone was confined to his room by the

gout. She went alone—tearless—in outward aspect calm as a statue; but

the face of the corpse hidden in the coffin could scarcely have been

whiter than hers.

As the procession passed out of the gates of Raynham, a tramp who stood

among the rest of the crowd, was strangely startled by the sight of

that beautiful face, so lovely even in its marble whiteness.

“Who is that woman sitting in yonder carriage?” he asked.

He was a rough, barefooted vagabond, with a dark evil-looking

countenance, which he did well to keep shrouded by the broad brim of

his battered hat. He looked more like a smuggler or a sailor than an

agricultural labourer, and his skin was bronzed by long exposure to the

weather.

“She’s Sir Oswald’s widow,” answered one of the bystanders; “she’s his

widow, more shame for her! It was she that brought him to his death,

with her disgraceful goings-on.”

The man who spoke was a Raynham tradesman.

“What goings-on?” asked the tramp, eagerly. “I’m a stranger in these

parts, and don’t know anything about yonder funeral.”

“More’s the pity,” replied the tradesman. “Everybody ought to know the

story of that fine madam, who just passed us by in her carriage. It

might serve as a warning for honest men not to be led away by a pretty

face. That white-faced woman yonder is Lady Eversleigh. Nobody knows

who she was, or where she came from, before Sir Oswald brought her home

here. She hadn’t been home a month before she ran away from her husband

with a young foreigner. She repented her wickedness before she’d got

very far, and begged and prayed to be took back again, and vowed and

declared that she’d been lured away by a villain; and that it was all a

mistake. That’s how I’ve heard the story from the servants, and one and

another. But Sir Oswald would not speak to her, and she would have been

turned out of doors if it hadn’t been for an old friend of his.

However, the end of her wickedness was that Sir Oswald poisoned

himself, as every one knows.”

No more was said. The tramp followed the procession with the rest of

the crowd, first to the village church, where a portion of the funeral

service was read, and then back to the park, where the melancholy

ceremonial was completed before the family mausoleum.

It was while the crowd made a circle round this mausoleum that the

tramp contrived to push his way to the front rank of the spectators. He

stood foremost amongst a group of villagers, when Lady Eversleigh

happened to look towards the spot where he was stationed.

In that moment a sudden change came over the face of the widow. Its

marble whiteness was dyed by a vivid crimson—a sudden flush of shame

or indignation, which passed away quickly; but a dark shadow remained

upon Lady Eversleigh’s brow after that red glow had faded from her

cheek.

No one observed that change of countenance. The moment was a solemn

one; and even those who did not really feel its solemnity, affected to

do so.

At the last instant, when the iron doors of the mausoleum closed with a

clanging sound upon the new inmate of that dark abode, Honoria’s

fortitude all at once forsook her. One long cry, which was like a

shriek wrung from the spirit of despair, broke from her colourless

lips, and in the next moment she had sunk fainting upon the ground

before those inexorable doors.

No sympathizing eyes had watched her looks, or friendly arm was

stretched forth in time to support her. But when she lay lifeless and

unconscious on the sodden grass, some touch of pity stirred the hearts

of the two brothers, Lionel and Douglas Dale.

The elder, Lionel, stepped forward, and lifted that lifeless form from

the ground. He carried the unconscious widow to the carriage, where he

seated her.

Sense returned only too quickly to that tortured brain. Honoria

Eversleigh opened her eyes, and recognized the man who stood by her

side.

“I am better now,” she said. “Do not let my weakness cause you any

trouble. I do not often faint; but that last moment was too bitter.”

“Are you really quite recovered? Can I venture to leave you?” asked

Lionel Dale, in a much kinder tone than he had employed before in

speaking to his uncle’s widow.

“Yes, indeed, I have quite recovered. I thank you for your kindness,”

murmured Honoria, gently.

Lionel Dale went back to the carriage allotted to himself and his

brother. On his way, he encountered Reginald Eversleigh.

“I have heard it whispered that my uncle’s wife was an actress,” said

Reginald. “That exhibition just now was rather calculated to confirm

the idea.”

“If by ‘exhibition’ you mean that outburst of despair, I am convinced

that it was perfectly genuine,” answered Lionel, coldly.

“I am sorry you are so easily duped, my dear Lionel,” returned his

cousin, with a sneer. “I did not think a pretty face would have such

influence over you.”

No more was said. The two men passed to their respective carriages, and

the funeral procession moved homewards.

In the grand dining-hall of the castle, Sir Oswald’s lawyer was to read

the will. Kinsmen, friends, servants, all were assembled to hear the

reading of that solemn document.

In the place of honour sat Lady Eversleigh. She sat on the right hand

of the lawyer, calm and dignified, as if no taint of suspicion had ever

tarnished her fame.

The solicitor read the will. It was that will which Sir Oswald had

executed immediately after his marriage—the will, of which he had

spoken to his nephew, Reginald.

It made Honoria Eversleigh sole mistress of the Raynham estates. It

gave to Lionel and Douglas Dale property worth ten thousand a year. It

gave to Reginald a small estate, producing an income of five hundred a

year. To Captain Copplestone the baronet left a legacy of three

thousand pounds, and an antique seal-ring which had been worn by

himself.

The old servants of Raynham were all remembered, and some curious old

plate and gold snuff-boxes were left to Mr. Wargrave, the rector, and

Gilbert Ashburne.

This was all. Five hundred a year was the amount by which Reginald had

profited by the death of a generous kinsman.

By the terms of Sir Oswald’s will the estates of Lionel and Douglas

Dale would revert to Reginald Eversleigh in case the owners should die

without direct heirs. If either of these young men were to die

unmarried, his brother would succeed to his estate, worth five thousand

a year. But if both should die, Reginald Eversleigh would become the

owner of double that amount.

It was the merest chance, the shadow of a chance, for the lives of both

young men were better than his own, inasmuch as both had led healthful

and steadier lives than the dissipated Reginald Eversleigh. But even

this poor chance was something.

“They may die,” he thought; “death lurks in every bush that borders the

highway of life. They or both may die, and I may regain the wealth that

should have been mine.”

He looked at the two young men. Lionel, the elder, was the handsomer of

the two. He was fair, with brown curling hair, and frank blue eyes.

Reginald, as he looked at him, thought bitterly, “I must indeed be the

very fool of hope and credulity to fancy he will not marry. But, if he

were safe, I should