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

a free entr� here.”

“Good,” said Carrington, rising. “And now there is nothing more to be

said just at present.”

“Pardon me; you have not told me why an intimacy with Mr. Dale is

essential to your purpose.”

“Because I must watch his proceedings and intentions—in fact, know all

about him—in order to discover whether it will suit my interests best

to forward Eversleigh’s plans with respect to Lady Verner, or to betray

them to Dale.”

Miss Brewer looked at him with something like admiration. She thought

she understood him so perfectly now, that she need ask nothing farther.

So they parted with the understanding that she was to report fully on

Douglas Dale’s visit, and Carrington was to call on Paulina on the day

succeeding it. When she was alone, Miss Brewer remembered that

Carrington had not explained why it was he felt certain Dale would not

form any intimacy with him as Victor Carrington. As he walked

homewards, Victor muttered to himself—

“Heavens, what a clever fool that woman is. Once more I have won, and

by boldness.”

*

The feelings with which Douglas Dale prepared for his visit to Hilton

House on the day following that on which Victor Carrington had made

his full and candid explanation to Miss Brewer, were such as any

woman—the purest, the noblest, the best—might have been proud of

inspiring. They were full of love, trust, pity, and hope. Douglas Dale

had by no means ceased to feel his brother’s loss. No, the death of

Lionel, and, even more, the terrible manner of that death, still

pursued him in every waking hour—still haunted him in his dreams; but

sorrow, and especially its isolating tendency, does but quicken and

intensify feelings of tenderness in true and noble hearts.

He drove up to Hilton House with glad expectancy, and his eyes were dim

as he was ushered into the drawing-room in which Paulina sat.

Madame Durski’s emotions on this occasion were unspeakably painful. So

well had Miss Brewer played her part, that she had persuaded Paulina

her only chance of escape from immediate arrest lay in borrowing money,

that very day, from Douglas Dale. Paulina’s pride revolted; but the

need was pressing, and the unhappy woman yielded.

As she rose to return her visitor’s greeting, and stood before him in

the cold January sunset, she was indeed, in all outward seeming, worthy

of any man’s admiration.

Remorse and suffering had paled her cheeks; but they had left no

disfiguring traces on her perfect face.

The ivory whiteness of her complexion was, perhaps, her greatest charm,

and her beauty would scarcely have been enhanced by those rosy tints

so necessary to some faces.

To-day she had dressed herself to perfection, fully conscious of the

influence which a woman’s costume is apt to exercise over the heart of

the man who loves her.

Half an hour passed in conversation of a general nature, and then

luncheon was announced. When Paulina and her visitor returned to the

dreary room, they were alone; Miss Brewer had discreetly retired.

“My dear Madame Durski!” exclaimed Douglas, when the widow had seated

herself and he had placed himself opposite to her, “I cannot tell you

what intense pleasure it gives me to see you again, and most of all

because it leads me to believe that I can in some manner serve you. I

know how secluded your habits have been of late, and I fancy you would

scarcely so depart from them in my favour if you had not some real need

of my service.”

This speech was peculiarly adapted to smoothe away the difficulties of

Paulina’s position. Douglas had long guessed the secret of her poverty,

and had more than half divined the motive of her letter. He was eager

to save her, as far as possible, from the painfulness of the request

which he felt almost sure she was about to make to him.

“Your cordial kindness affects me deeply, Mr. Dale,” said Paulina, with

a blush that was the glow of real shame. “You are right; I should be

the last woman in the world to appeal to you thus if I had not need of

your help—bitter need. I appeal to you, because I know the goodness

and generosity of your nature. I appeal to you as a beggar.”

“Madame Durski, for pity’s sake, do not speak thus,” cried Douglas,

interrupting her. “Every penny that I possess in the world is at your

command. I am ready to begin life again, a worker for my daily bread,

rather than that you should suffer one hour’s pain, one moment’s

humiliation, that money can prevent.”

“You are too generous, too noble,” exclaimed Paulina, in a broken

voice. “The only way in which I can prove my gratitude for your

delicate goodness is by being perfectly candid. My life has been a

strange one, Mr. Dale—a life of apparent prosperity, but of real

poverty. Before I was old enough to know the value of a fortune, I was

robbed of that which should have been mine, and robbed by the father

who should have protected my interests. From that hour I have known

little except trouble. I was married to a man whom I never loved—

married at the command of the father who had robbed me. If I have not

fallen, as many other women so mated have fallen, I take no pride in my

superior strength of mind. It may be that temptation such as lures

other women to their ruin never approached me. Since my husband died,

my life, as you too well know, has been a degraded one. I have been the

companion and friend of gamesters. It is, indeed, only since I came to

England that I have myself ceased to be a gambler. Can you remember all

this, Mr. Dale, and yet pity me?”

“I can remember it all, and yet love you, Paulina,” answered Douglas,

with emotion. “We are not masters of our own affections. From the hour

in which I first saw you I have loved you—loved you in spite of

myself. I will admit that your life has not been that which I would

have chosen for the woman I love; and that to remember your past

history is pain to me. But, in spite of all, I ask you to be my wife;

and it shall be the business of my future life to banish from your

remembrance every sorrow and every humiliation that you have suffered

in the past. Say that you will be my wife, Paulina. I love you as few

women are loved. I am rich, and have the power to remove you far from

every association that is painful to you. Tell me that I may be the

guardian of your future existence.”

Paulina contemplated her lover for a few moments with singular

earnestness. She was deeply impressed by his generous devotion, and she

could not but compare this self-sacrificing love with the base

selfishness of Reginald Eversleigh’s conduct.

“You do not ask me if I can return your affection,” she said, after

that earnest look. “You offer to raise me from degradation and poverty,

and you demand nothing in return.”

“No, Paulina,” replied Douglas; “I would not make a bargain with the

woman I love. I know that you have not yet learned to love me, and yet

I do not fear for the future, if you consent to become my wife. True

love, such as mine, rarely fails to win its reward, sooner or later. I

am content to wait. It will be sufficient happiness to me to know that

I have rescued you from a miserable and degrading position.”

“You are only too generous,” murmured Paulina, softly; “only too

generous.”

“And now tell me the immediate object of this most welcome summons. I

will not press you for a prompt reply to my suit; I will trust that

time may be my friend. Tell me how I can serve you, and why you sent

for me to-day?”

“I sent for you that I might ask you for the loan of two hundred

pounds, to satisfy the claims of my most urgent creditors, and to

prevent the necessity of an ignominious flight.”

“I will write you a cheque immediately for five hundred,” said Douglas.

“You can drive to my banker’s, and get it cashed there. Or stay; it

would not be so well for my banker to know that I lent you money. Let

me come again to you this evening, and bring ink sum in bank-notes.

That will give me an excuse for coming.”

“How can I ever thank you sufficiently?”

“Do not thank me at all. Only let me love you, looking forward

hopefully to the day in-which you may learn to love me.” “That day must

surely come ere long,” replied Paulina, thoughtfully. “Gratitude so

profound as mine, esteem so sincere, must needs grow into a warmer

feeling.”

“Yes, Paulina,” said Douglas, “if your heart is free. Forgive me if I

approach a subject painful to you and to me. Reginald Eversleigh—my

cousin—have you seen him often lately?”

“I have not seen him since he left London for Hallgrove. I am not

likely to see him again.”

“I am very glad of that. There is but one fear in my mind when I think

of our future, Paulina.”

“And that is?”

“The fear that Reginald Eversleigh may come between you and me.”

“You need no longer fear that,” replied Madame Durski. “You have been

so noble, so devoted in your conduct to me, that I must be indeed a

worthless wretch if I shrink from the painful duty of laying my heart

bare before you. I have loved your cousin Reginald, foolishly, blindly;

but there must come an end to all folly; there must come a day when the

bandage falls from the eyes that have obstinately shunned the light.

That day has come for me; and Sir Reginald Eversleigh is henceforward

nothing more to me than the veriest stranger.”

“A thousand thanks, dearest, for that assurance,” exclaimed Douglas;

“and now trust in me. Tour future shall be so bright and happy that the

past will seem to you no more than a troubled dream.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

PREPARING THE GROUND.

Black Milsom made his appearance in the little village of Raynham

immediately after Lady Eversleigh’s departure from the castle. But on

this occasion it would have been very difficult for those who had seen

him at the date of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s funeral to recognize, in the

respectable-looking, well-dressed citizen of to-day, the ragged tramp

of that period.

While Honoria Eversleigh was living under a false name in Percy Street,

Tottenham Court Road, the man who called himself her father,

established himself in a little river-side public-house, under the

shadow of Raynham Castle. The house in question had never borne too

good a character; and its reputation was in nowise improved when, on

the death of its owner, it passed into the custody of Mr. Milsom, who

came down to Raynham one November morning, almost immediately after

Lady Eversleigh’s departure, saw the “Cat and Fiddle” public-house

vacant, and went straight to the attorney who had the letting of it, to

offer himself as a tenant, announcing himself to the lawyer as Thomas

Maunders.

The attorney at first looked rather suspiciously at the gentleman who

had earned for himself the ominous nickname of Black Milsom; but when

the would-be tenant offered to pay a year’s rent in advance down on the

nail, the man of law melted, and took