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

itself. To drag the river by torchlight would be equally difficult and

vain. It shall be done as soon as ever there is light. Till then, there

is nothing for any of us to do but to wait. And first, let us get poor

Douglas home.”

Douglas Dale made no resistance; he knew the squire spoke truth and

common-sense. The melancholy group broke up, the members of the rectory

returned to its desolate walls, and Douglas at once shut himself up in

his room, leaving to Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Squire Mordaunt the

task of making all the arrangements for the morrow, and communicating

to the ladies the dire intelligence which must be imparted.

Early in the morning, Squire Mordaunt went to Douglas Dale’s room. He

found him stretched upon the bed in his clothes. He had made no change

in his dress, and had evidently intended to prolong his vigil until the

morning, but nature had been exhausted, and in spite of himself

Douglas? Dale slept. His old friend stole softly from the room, and

cautioning the household not to permit him who must now be regarded as

their master to be disturbed, he went out, and proceeded to the search.

Douglas Dale did not awake until nine o’clock, and then, starting up

with a terrible consciousness of sorrow, and a sense of self-reproach

because he had slept, he found Squire Mordaunt standing by his bed. The

good old gentleman took the young man’s hand in silence, and pressed it

with a pressure which told all.

They laid the disfigured dead body of him who but yesterday had been

the beloved and honoured master of the house in the library, where he

had received the ineffectual warning of the gipsy. It was while Douglas

Dale was contemplating the pale, still features of his brother, with

grief unutterable, that a servant tapped gently at the door, and called

Mr. Mordaunt out.

“‘Niagara’ is come home, sir,” said the man. “He were found, just now,

on the lower road, a-grazing, and he ain’t cut, nor hurt in any way,

sir.”

“He’s dirty and wet, I suppose?”

“Well, sir, he’s dirty, certainly; and the saddle is soaking; but he’s

pretty dry, considering.”

“Are the girths broken?”

“No, sir, there’s nothing amiss with them.”

“Very well. Take care of the horse, but say nothing about him to Mr.

Dale at present.”

The visitors at Hallgrove Rectory had received the intelligence which

Sir Reginald Eversleigh had communicated to them with the deepest

concern. Arrangements were made for the immediate departure of the

Grahams, and of Mrs. Mordaunt and her daughters. The squire and Sir

Reginald were to remain with Douglas Dale until the painful formalities

of the inquest and the funeral should be completed.

Douglas Dale was not a weak man, and no one more disliked any

exhibition of sentiment than he. Nevertheless, it was a hard task for

him to enter the breakfast-room, and bid farewell to the guests who had

been so merry only yesterday. But it had to be done, and he did it. A

few sad and solemn words were spoken between him and the Mordaunts, and

the girls left the room in tears. Then he advanced to Lydia Graham, who

was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, still, and pale as a marble

statue. There were no tears in her eyes, no traces of tears upon her

cheeks, but in her heart there was angry, bitter, raging

disappointment—almost fury, almost despair.

Douglas Dale could not look at her without seeing that in very truth

the event which was so terrible to him was terrible to her also, and

his manly heart yearned towards the woman whom he had thought but

little of until now; who had perhaps loved, and certainly now was

grieving for, his beloved brother.

“Shall we ever meet again, Mr. Dale?” she said, wonderingly.

“Why should we not?”

“You will not be able to endure England, perhaps, after this terrible

calamity. You will go abroad. You will seek distraction in change of

scene. Men are such travellers now-a-days.”

“I shall not leave England, Miss Graham,” answered Douglas, quietly; “I

am a man of the world—I venture to hope that I am also a Christian—

and I can nerve myself to endure grief as a Christian and a man of the

world should endure it. My brother’s death will make no alteration in

the plan of my life. I shall return to London almost immediately.”

“And we may hope to see you in London?”

“Captain Graham and I are members of the same club. We are very likely

to meet occasionally.”

“And am I not to see you as well as my brother?” asked Lydia, in a low

voice.

“Do you really wish to see me?”

“Can you wonder that I do so—for the sake of old times. We are friends

of long standing, remember, Mr. Dale.”

“Yes,” answered Douglas, with marked gravity. “We have known each other

for a long time.”

Captain Graham entered the room at this moment.

“The carriage which is to take us to Frimley is ready, Lydia,” he said;

“your trunks are all on the roof, and you have only to wish Mr. Dale

goodbye.”

“A very sad farewell,” murmured Miss Graham. “I can only trust that we

may meet again under happier circumstances.”

“I trust we may,” replied Douglas, earnestly.

Miss Graham was bonneted and cloaked for the journey. She had dressed

herself entirely in black, in respectful regard of the melancholy

circumstances attending her departure. Nor did she forget that the

sombre hue was peculiarly becoming to her. She wore a dress of black

silk, a voluminous cloak of black velvet trimmed with sables, and a

fashionable bonnet of the same material, with a drooping feather.

Douglas conducted his guests to the carriage, and saw Miss Graham

comfortably seated, with her shawls and travelling-bags on the seat

opposite.

It was with a glance of mournful tenderness that Miss Graham uttered

her final adieu; but there was no responsive glance in the eyes of

Douglas Dale. His manner was serious and subdued; but it was a manner

not easy to penetrate.

Gordon Graham flung himself back in his seat with a despairing groan.

“Well, Lydia,” he said, “this accident in the hunting-field has been

the ruin of all our hopes. I really think you are the most unlucky

woman I ever encountered. After angling for something like ten years in

the matrimonial fisheries, you were just on the point of landing a

valuable fish, and at the last moment your husband that is to be goes

and gets drowned during a day’s pleasure.”

“What should you say if this accident, which you think unlucky, should,

after all, be a fortunate event for us?” asked Lydia, with

significance.

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“How very slow of comprehension you are to-day, Gordon!” exclaimed the

lady, impatiently; “Lionel Dale’s income was only five thousand a

year—very little, after all, for a woman with my views of life.”

“And with your genius for running into debt,” muttered her brother.

“Do you happen to remember the terms of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s will?”

“I should think I do, indeed,” replied the captain; “the will was

sufficiently talked about at the time of the baronet’s death.”

“That will left five thousand a year to each of the two brothers,

Lionel and Douglas. If either should die unmarried, the fortune left to

him was to go to the survivor. Lionel Dale’s death doubles Douglas

Dale’s income. A husband with ten thousand a year would suit me very

well indeed. And why should I not win Douglas as easily as I won

Lionel?”

“Because you are not likely to have the same opportunities.”

“I have asked Douglas to visit us in London.”

“An invitation which must be very flattering to him, but which he may

or may not accept. However, my dear Lydia, I have the most profound

respect for your courage and perseverance; and if you can win a husband

with ten thousand a year instead of five, so much the better for you,

and so much the better for me, as I shall have a richer brother-in-law

to whom to apply when I find myself in difficulties.”

The carriage had reached Frimley by this time. The brother and sister

took their places in the coach which was to convey them to London.

Lydia drew down her veil, and settled herself comfortably in a corner

of the vehicle, where she slept through the tedium of the journey.

At thirty years of age a woman of Miss Graham’s character is apt to be

studiously careful of her beauty; and Lydia felt that she needed much

repose after the fever and excitement of her visit to Hallgrove

Rectory.

*

Sir Reginald Eversleigh played his part well during the few days in

which he remained at the rectory. No mourner could have seemed more

sincere than he, and everybody agreed that the spendthrift baronet

exhibited an unaffected sorrow for his cousin’s fate, which proved him

to be a very noble-hearted fellow, in spite of all the dark stories

that had been told of his youth.

Before leaving Hallgrove, Reginald took care to make himself thoroughly

acquainted with his cousin’s plans for the future. Douglas, with ten

thousand a year, was, of course, a more valuable acquaintance than he

had been as the possessor of half that income, even if there had been

no dark influence ever busy weaving its secret and fatal web.

“You will go back to your old life in London, Douglas, I suppose?”

said Sir Reginald. “There you will soonest forget the sad affliction

that has befallen you. In the hurrying whirlpool of modern life there

is no leisure for sorrow.”

“Yes, I shall come to London,” answered Douglas.

“And you will occupy your old quarters?”

“Decidedly.”

“And we shall see as much of each other as ever—eh, Douglas?” said Sir

Reginald. “You must not let poor Lionel’s fate prey upon your mind, you

know, my dear fellow; or your health, as well as your spirits, will

suffer. You must go down to Hilton House, and mix with the old set

again. That sort of thing will cheer you up a little.”

“Yes,” answered Douglas. “I know how far I may rely upon your

friendship, Reginald. I shall place myself quite in your hands.”

“My dear fellow, you will not find me unworthy of your confidence.”

“I ought not to find you so, Reginald.”

Sir Reginald looked at his kinsman thoughtfully for a moment, fancying

there was some hidden meaning in Douglas Dale’s words. But the tone in

which he had uttered them was perfectly careless; and Reginald’s

suspicion was dispelled by the frank expression of his face.

Sir Reginald left Hallgrove a few days after the fatal accident in the

hunting-field, and went back to his London lodging, which seemed very

shabby and comfortless after the luxury of Hallgrove Rectory. He did

not care to spend his evenings at Hilton House, for he shrank from

hearing Paulina’s complaints about her loneliness and poverty. The

London season had not yet begun, and there were few dupes whom the

gamester could victimize by those skilful manoeuvres which so often

helped him to success. It may be that some of the victims had

complained of their losses, and the villa inhabited by the elegant

Austrian widow had begun to be known amongst men of fashion as a place

to be avoided.

Reginald Eversleigh feared that it must be so, when he