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

The man departed; and the Misses Mordaunt finished their duet, and rose

from the piano, to receive the usual thanks and acknowledgments from

their hearers.

Again Miss Graham was asked to sing, and again she seated herself

before the instrument, triumphant in the consciousness that she could

excel the timid girls who had just left the piano.

But this time Lionel Dale did not place himself beside the instrument.

He stood near the door of the apartment, ready to receive the servant,

if he should return with a second message from the gipsy woman.

The servant did return, and this time he begged his master to step

outside the room before he delivered his message. Lionel complied

immediately, and followed the man into the corridor without.

“I was almost afraid to speak in there, sir,” said the man, in an awe-stricken whisper; “folks have such ears. The woman says she must see

you, sir, and this very night. It is a matter of life and death, she

says.”

“Then in that case I will see this woman. Go into the drawing-room,

Jackson, and tell Mrs. Mordaunt, with my compliments, that I find

myself compelled to receive one of my parishioners; and that she and

the other ladies must be so good as to excuse my absence for half an

hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

The rector went to the hall, where, cowering by the fire, he found an

old gipsy woman.

She was so muffled from head to foot in her garments of woollen stuff,

strange and garish in colour, and fantastical in form, that it was

almost impossible to discover what she really was like. Her shoulders

were bent and contracted as if with extreme age. Loose tresses of gray

hair fell low over her forehead. Her skin was dark and tawny; and

contrasted strangely with the gray hair and the dark lustrous eyes.

The gipsy woman rose as Lionel Dale entered the hall. She bent her head

in response to his kindly salutation; but she did not curtsey as before

a superior in rank and station.

“Come with me, my good woman,” said the rector, “and let me hear all

about this very important business of yours.”

He led the way to the library—a low-roofed but spacious chamber, lined

from ceiling to floor with books. A large reading-lamp, with a Parian

shade, stood on a small writing-table near the fire, casting a subdued

light on objects near at hand, and leaving the rest of the room in

shadow. A pile of logs burnt cheerily on the hearth. On one side of the

fire was the chair in which the rector usually sat; on the other, a

large, old-fashioned, easy-chair.

“Sit down, my good woman,” said the rector, pointing to the latter; “I

suppose you have some long story to tell me.”

He seated himself as he spoke, and leaned upon the writing-table,

playing idly with a carved ivory paper-knife.

“I have much to say to you, Lionel Dale,” answered the old woman, in a

voice which had a solemn music, that impressed the hearer in spite of

himself; “I have much to say to you, and it will be well for you to

mark what I say, and be warned by what I tell you.”

The rector looked at the speaker earnestly, and yet with a half-contemptuous smile upon his face. She was seated in shadow, and he

could only see the glitter of her dark eyes as the fitful light of the

fire flashed on them.

There was something almost supernatural, it seemed to him, in the

brilliancy of those eyes.

He laughed at himself for his folly in the next instant. What was this

woman but a vulgar impostor, who was doubtless trying to trade upon his

fears in some manner or other?

“You have come here to give some kind of warning, then?” he said, after

a few moments of consideration.

“I have—a warning which may save your life—if you hear me patiently,

and obey when you have heard.”

“That is the cant of your class, my good woman; and you can scarcely

expect me to listen to that kind of thing. If you come here to me,

hoping to delude me by the language with which you tell the country

people their fortunes at fairs and races, the sooner you go away the

better. I am ready to listen to you patiently: if you need help, I am

ready to give it you; but it is time and labour lost to practise gipsy

jargon upon me.”

“I need no help from you,” cried the gipsy woman, scornfully; “I tell

you again, I come here to serve you.”

“In what manner can you serve me? Speak out, and speak quickly!” said

Lionel; “I must return to my guests almost immediately.”

“Your guests!” cried the gipsy, with a mocking laugh; “pleasant guests

to gather round your hearth at this holy festival-time. Sir Reginald

Eversleigh is amongst them, I suppose?”

“He is. You know his name very well, it seems.”

“I do.”

“Do you know him?”

“Do you know him, Lionel Dale?” demanded the old woman with sudden

intensity.

“I have good reason to know him—he is my first-cousin,” answered the

rector.

“You have good reason to know him—a reason that you are ignorant of.

Shall I tell you that reason, Mr. Dale?”

“I am ready to hear what you have to say; but I must warn you that I

shall be but little affected by it.”

“Beware how you regard my solemn warning as the raving of a lunatic. It

is your life that is at stake, Lionel Dale—your life! The reason you

ought to know Reginald Eversleigh is, that in him you have a deadly

enemy.”

“An enemy! My cousin Reginald, a man whom I never injured by deed or

word in my life! Has he ever tried to injure me?”

“He has.”

“How?”

“He schemed and plotted against you and others before your uncle Sir

Oswald’s death. His dearest hope was to bring to pass the destruction

of the will which left you five thousand a year.”

“Indeed! You seem familiar with my family history,” exclaimed Lionel.

“I know the secrets of your family as well as I know those of my own.”

“Then you pretend to be a sorceress?”

“I pretend to be nothing but your friend. Sir Reginald Eversleigh has

been your foe ever since the day which disinherited him and made you

rich. Your death would make him master of the wealth which you now

enjoy; your death would give him fortune, position in the world—all

which he most covets. Can you doubt, therefore, that he wishes your

death?”

“I cannot believe it!” cried Lionel Dale; “it is too horrible. What!

he, my first cousin! he can profess for me the warmest friendship, and

yet can wish to profit by my death!”

“He can do worse than that,” said the gipsy woman, in an impressive

voice; “he can try to compass your death!”

“No! no! no!” cried the rector. “It is not possible!”

“It is true. Sir Reginald Eversleigh is a coward; but he is helped by

one who knows no human weakness—whose cruel heart was never softened

by one touch of pity—whose iron hand never falters. Sir Reginald

Eversleigh is little more than the tool of that man, and between those

two there is ruin for you.”

“Your words have the accent of truth,” said the rector, after a long

pause; “and yet their meaning is so terrible that I can scarcely bring

myself to believe in them. How is it that you, a stranger, are so

familiar with the private details of my life?”

“Do not ask me that, Mr. Dale,” replied the gipsy woman, sternly; “when

a stranger comes to you to warn you of a great danger, accept the

warning, and let your nameless friend depart unquestioned. I have told

you that an unseen danger menaces you. I know not yet the exact form

which that danger may take. To-morrow I expect to know more.”

“I can pledge myself to nothing.”

“As you will,” answered the gipsy, proudly. “I have done my duty. The

rest is with Providence. If in your blind obstinacy you disregard my

warning, I cannot help it. Will you, for your own sake, not for mine,

let me see you to-morrow; or will you promise to see anyone who shall

ask to see you, in the name of the gipsy woman who was here to-night?

Promise me this, I entreat you. I have nothing to ask of you, nothing

to gain by my prayer; but I do entreat you most earnestly to do this

thing. I am working in the dark to a certain extent. I know something,

but not all, and I may have learned much more by to-morrow. I may bring

or send you information then, which will convince you I am speaking the

truth. Stay, will you promise me this, for my sake, for the sake of

justice? You will, Mr. Dale, I know you will; you are a just, a good

man. You suspect me of practising upon you a vulgar imposition. To-morrow I may have the power of convincing you that I have not done so.

You will give me the opportunity, Mr. Dale?”

The pleading, earnest voice, the mournful, dark eyes, stirred Lionel

Dale’s heart strangely. An impulse moved him towards trust in this

woman, this outcast,—curiosity even impelled him to ask her, in such

terms as would ensure her compliance, for a full explanation of her

mysterious conduct. But he checked the impulse, he silenced the

promptings of curiosity, sacrificing them to his ever-present sense of

his professional and personal dignity. While the momentary struggle

lasted, the gipsy woman closely scanned his face. At length he said

coldly:

“I will do as you ask. I place no reliance on your statements, but you

are right in asking for the means of substantiating them. I will see

you, or any one you may send to-morrow.”

“You will be at home?” she asked, anxiously. “The hunt?”

“The hunt will hardly take place; the weather is too much against us,”

replied Lionel Dale. “Except there should be a very decided change,

there will be no hunt, and I shall be at home.” Having said this,

Lionel Dale rose, with a decided air of dismissal. The gipsy rose too,

and stood unshrinkingly before him, as she said:

“And now I will leave you. Good night. You think me a mad woman, or an

impostor. This is the second occasion on which you have misjudged me,

Mr. Dale.”

As the rector met the earnest gaze of her brilliant eyes, a strange

feeling took possession of his mind. It seemed to him, as if he had

before encountered that earnest and profound gaze.

“I must have seen such a face in a dream,” he thought to himself;

“where else but in a dream?”

The fancy had a powerful influence over him, and occupied his mind as

he preceded the gipsy woman to the hall, and opened the door for her to

pass out.

The snow had ceased to fall; the bright wintry moon rode high in the

heaven, amidst black, hurrying clouds. That cold light shone on the

white range of hills sleeping beneath a shroud of untrodden snow.

On the threshold of the door the gipsy woman turned and addressed

Lionel Dale—

“There will be no hunting while this weather lasts.”

“None.”

“Then your grand meeting of to-morrow will be put off?”

“Yes, unless the weather changes in