Run to Earth by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (top books to read .TXT) 📕

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 not so much fear Douglas." The younger, Douglas, was a man whom some people would have called plain. But the dark sallow face, with its irregular features, was illuminated by an expression of mingled intelligence and amiability, which possessed a charm for all judges worth pleasing.

Lionel was the clergyman, Douglas the lawyer, or rather law-student, for the glory of his maiden brief was yet to come.

How Reginald envied these fortunate kinsmen! He hated them with passionate hate. He looked from them to Honoria, the woman against whom he had plotted--the woman who triumphed in spite of him--for he could not imagine that grief for a dead husband could have any place in the heart of a woman who found herself mistress of such a domain as Raynham, and its dependencies.

Lady Eversleigh's astonishment was unbounded. This will placed her in even a loftier position than that which she had occupied when possessed of the confidence and affection of her husband. For her pride there was some consolation in this thought; but the triumph, which was sweet to the proud spirit, afforded no balm for the wounded heart. He was gone-- he whose love had made her mistress of that wealth and splendour. He was gone from her for ever, and he had died believing her false.

In the midst of her triumph the widow bowed her head upon her hands, and sobbed convulsively. The tears wrung from her in this moment were the first she had shed that day, and they were very bitter.

Reginald Eversleigh watched her with scorn and hatred in his heart.

"What do you say now, Lionel?" he said to his cousin, when the three young men had left the dining-hall, and were seated at luncheon in a smaller chamber. "You did not think my respected aunt a clever actress when she fainted before the doors of the mausoleum. You will at least acknowledge that the piece of acting she favoured us with just now was superb."

"What do you mean by 'a piece of acting'?"

"That outburst of grief which my lady indulged in, when she found herself mistress of Raynham."

"I believe that it was genuine," answered Mr. Dale, gravely.

"Oh, you think the inheritance a fitting subject for lamentation?"

"No, Reginald. I think a woman who had wronged her husband, and had been the indirect cause of his death, might well feel sorrow when she discovered how deeply she had been loved, and how fully she had been trusted by that generous husband."

"Bah!" cried Reginald, contemptuously. "I tell you, man, Lady Eversleigh is a consummate actress, though she never acted before a better audience than the clodhoppers at a country fair. Do you know who my lady was when Sir Oswald picked her out of the gutter? If you don't, I'll enlighten you. She was a street ballad-singer, whom the baronet found one night starving in the market-place of a country town. He picked her up--out of charity; and because the creature happened to have a pretty face, he was weak enough to marry her."

"Respect the follies of the dead," replied Lionel. "My uncle's love was generous. I only regret that the object of it was so unworthy."

"Oh!" exclaimed Reginald, "I thought just now that you sympathized with my lady."

"I sympathize with every remorseful sinner," said Lionel.

"Ah, that's your _shop_!" cried Reginald, who could not conceal his bitter feelings. "You sympathize with Lady Eversleigh because she is a wealthy sinner, and mistress of Raynham Castle. Perhaps you'll stop here and try to step into Sir Oswald's shoes. I don't know whether there's any law against a man marrying his uncle's widow."

"You insult me, and you insult the dead, Sir Reginald, by the tone in which you discuss these things," answered Lionel Dale. "I shall leave Raynham by this evening's coach, and there is little likelihood that Lady Eversleigh and I shall ever meet again. It is not for me to judge her sins, or penetrate the secrets of her heart. I believe that her grief to-day was thoroughly genuine. It is not because a woman has sinned that she must needs be incapable of any womanly feeling."

"You are in a very charitable humour, Lionel," said Sir Reginald, with a sneer; "but you can afford to be charitable."

Mr. Dale did not reply to this insolent speech.

Sir Reginald Eversleigh and his two cousins left the village of Raynham by the same coach. The evening was finer than the day had been, and a full moon steeped the landscape in her soft light, as the travellers looked their last on the grand old castle.

The baronet contemplated the scene with unmitigated rage.

"Hers!" he muttered; "hers! to have and hold so long as she lives! A nameless woman has tricked me out of the inheritance which should have been mine. But let her beware! Despair is bold, and I may yet discover some mode of vengeance."

While the departing traveller mused thus, a pale woman stood at one of the windows of Raynham Castle, looking out upon the woods, over which the moon sailed in all her glory.

"Mine!" she said to herself; "those lands and woods belong to me!--to me, who have stood face to face with starvation!--to me, who have considered it a privilege to sleep in an empty barn! They are mine; but the possession of them brings no pleasure. My life has been blighted by a wrong so cruel, that wealth and position are worthless in my eyes."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XIII.


IN YOUR PATIENCE YE ARE STRONG.

Early upon the morning after the funeral, a lad from the village of Raynham presented himself at the principal door of the servants' offices, and asked to see Lady Eversleigh's maid.

The young woman who filled that office was summoned, and came to inquire the business of the messenger.

Her name was Jane Payland; she was a Londoner by birth, and a citizen of the world by education.

She had known very little of either comfort or prosperity before she entered the service of Lady Eversleigh. She was, therefore, in some measure at least, devoted to the interests of that mistress, and she was inclined to believe in her innocence; though, even to her, the story of the night in Yarborough Tower seemed almost too wild and improbable for belief.

Jane Payland was about twenty-four years of age, tall, slim, and active. She had no pretensions to beauty; but was the sort of person who is generally called lady-like.

This morning she went to the little lobby, in which the boy had been told to wait, indignant at the impertinence of anyone who could dare to intrude upon her mistress at such a time.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" she asked angrily.

"If you please, ma'am, I'm Widow Beckett's son," the boy answered, in evident terror of the young woman in the rustling black silk dress and smart cap; "and I've brought this letter, please; and I was only to give it to the lady's own maid, please.

"I am her own maid," answered Jane.

The boy handed her a dirty-looking letter, directed, in a bold clear hand, to Lady Eversleigh.

"Who gave you this?" asked Jane Payland, looking at the dirty envelope with extreme disgust.

"It was a tramp as give it me--a tramp as I met in the village;