Run to Earth - Mary Elizabeth Braddon (ebook reader .txt) 📗

but she was too clever a woman to express her

astonishment. Sir Oswald was one of her most influential patrons, and

Sir Oswald’s custom was worth a great deal. It was, therefore, scarcely

possible that such a man could do wrong.

 

“I found this poor girl in an exhausted state in the street just now,”

said Sir Oswald. “She is quite friendless, and has no shelter for the

night, though she seems above the mendicant class. Will you put her

somewhere, and see that she is taken good care of, my dear Mrs. Willet?

In the morning I may be able to think of some plan for placing her in a

more respectable position.”

 

Mrs. Willet promised that the girl should be taken care of, and made

thoroughly comfortable. “Poor young thing,” said the landlady, “she

looks dreadfully pale and ill, and I’m sure she’ll be none the worse

for a nice little bit of supper. Come with me, my dear.”

 

The girl obeyed; but on the threshold of the hall she turned and spoke

to Sir Oswald.

 

“I thank you,” she said; “I thank you with all my heart and soul for

your goodness. I have never met with such kindness before.”

 

“The world must have been very hard for you, my poor child,” he

replied, “if such small kindness touches you so deeply. Come to me to-morrow morning, and we will talk of your future life. Goodnight!”

 

“Good night, sir, and God bless you!”

 

The baronet went slowly and thoughtfully up the broad staircase, on his

way to his rooms.

 

Sir Oswald Eversleigh passed the night of his sojourn at the ‘Star’ in

broken slumbers. The events of the preceding day haunted him

perpetually in his sleep, acting themselves over and over again in his

brain. Sometimes he was with his nephew, and the young man was pleading

with him in an agony of selfish terror; sometimes he was standing in

the market-place, with the ghost-like figure of the vagrant ballad-singer by his side.

 

When he arose in the morning, Sir Oswald resolved to dismiss all

thought of his nephew. His strange adventure of the previous night had

exercised a very powerful influence upon his mind; and it was upon that

adventure he meditated while he breakfasted.

 

“I have seen a landscape, which had no special charm in broad daylight,

transformed into a glimpse of paradise by the magic of the moon,” he

mused as he lingered over his breakfast. “Perhaps this girl is a very

ordinary creature after all—a mere street wanderer, coarse and

vulgar.”

 

But Sir Oswald stopped himself, remembering the refined tones of the

voice which he had heard last night—the perfect self-possession of the

girl’s manner.

 

“No,” he exclaimed, “she is neither coarse nor vulgar; she is no common

street ballad-singer. Whatever she is, or whoever she is, there is a

mystery around and about her—a mystery which it shall be my business

to fathom.”

 

When he had breakfasted, Sir Oswald Eversleigh sent for the ballad-singer.

 

“Be good enough to tell the young person that if she feels herself

sufficiently rested and refreshed, I should like much to have a few

minutes’ conversation with her,” said the baronet to the head-waiter.

 

In a few minutes the waiter returned, and ushered in the girl. Sir

Oswald turned to look at her, possessed by a curiosity which was

utterly unwarranted by the circumstances. It was not the first time in

his life that he had stepped aside from his pathway to perform an act

of charity; but it certainly was the first time he had ever felt so

absorbing an interest in the object of his benevolence.

 

The girl’s beauty had been no delusion engendered of the moonlight.

Standing before him, in the broad sunlight, she seemed even yet more

beautiful, for her loveliness was more fully visible.

 

The ballad-singer betrayed no signs of embarrassment under Sir Oswald’s

searching gaze. She stood before her benefactor with calm grace; and

there was something almost akin to pride in her attitude. Her garments

were threadbare and shabby: yet on her they did not appear the garments

of a vagrant. Her dress was of some rusty black stuff, patched and

mended in a dozen places; but it fitted her neatly, and a clean linen

collar surrounded her slender throat, which was almost as white as the

linen. Her waving brown hair was drawn away from her face in thick

bands, revealing the small, rosy-tinted ear. The dark brown of that

magnificent hair contrasted with the ivory white of a complexion which

was only relieved by transient blushes of faint rose-colour, that came

and went with emotion or excitement.

 

“Be good enough to take a seat,” said Sir Oswald: “I wish to have a

little conversation with you. I want to help you, if I can. You do not

seem fitted for the life you are leading; and I am convinced that you

possess talent which would elevate you to a far higher sphere. But

before we talk of the future, I must ask you to tell me something of

the past.”

 

“Tell me,” he continued, gently, “how is it that you are so friendless?

How is it that your father and mother allow you to lead such an

existence?”

 

“My mother died when I was a child,” answered the girl.

 

“And your father?”

 

“My father is dead also.”

 

“You did not tell me that last night,” replied the baronet, with some

touch of suspicion in his tone, for he fancied the girl’s manner had

changed when she spoke of her father.

 

“Did I not?” she said, quietly. “I do not think you asked me any

question about my father; but if you did, I may have answered at

random; I was confused last night from exhaustion and want of rest, and

I scarcely knew what I said.”

 

“What was your father?”

 

“He was a sailor.”

 

“There is something that is scarcely English in your face,” said Sir

Oswald; “were you born in England?”

 

“No, I was born in Florence; my mother was a Florentine.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

There was a pause. It seemed evident that this girl did not care to

tell the story of her past life, and that whatever information the

baronet wanted to obtain, must be extorted from her little by little. A

common vagrant would have been eager to pour out some tale of misery,

true or false, in the hearing of the man who promised to be her

benefactor; but this girl maintained a reserve which Sir Oswald found

it very difficult to penetrate.

 

“I fear there is something of a painful nature in your past history,”

he said, at last; “something which you do not care to reveal.”

 

“There is much that is painful, much that I cannot tell.”

 

“And yet you must be aware that it will be very difficult for me to

give you assistance if I do not know to whom I am giving it. I wish to

place you in a position very different from that which you now occupy;

but it would be folly to interest myself in a person of whose history I

positively know nothing.”

 

“Then dismiss from your mind all thoughts of me, and let me go my own

way,” answered the girl, with that calm pride of manner which imparted

a singular charm to her beauty. “I shall leave this house grateful and

contented; I have asked nothing from you, nor did I intend to ask

anything. You have been very good to me; you took compassion upon me in

my misery, and I have been accustomed to see people of your class pass

me by. Let me thank you for your goodness, and go on my way.” So

saying, she rose, and turned as if to leave the room.

 

“No!” cried Sir Oswald, impetuously; “I cannot let you go. I must help

you in some manner—even if you will throw no light upon your past

existence; even if I must act entirely in the dark.”

 

“You are too good, sir,” replied the girl, deeply touched; “but

remember that I do not ask your help. My history is a terrible one. I

have suffered from the crimes of others; but neither crime nor

dishonour have sullied my own life. I have lived amongst people I

despised, holding myself aloof as far as was possible. I have been

laughed at, hated, ill-used for that which has been called pride; but I

have at least preserved myself unpolluted by the corruption that

surrounded me. If you can believe this, if you can take me upon trust,

and stretch forth your hand to help me, knowing no more of me than I

have now told you, I shall accept your assistance proudly and

gratefully. But if you cannot believe, let me go my own way.”

 

“I will trust you,” he said; “I will help you, blindly, since it must

be so. Let me ask you two or three questions, then all questioning

between us shall be at an end.”

 

“I am ready to answer any inquiry that it is possible for me to

answer.”

 

“Your name?”

 

“My name is Honoria Milford.”

 

“Your age?”

 

“Eighteen.”

 

“Tell me, how is it that your manner of speaking, your tones of voice,

are those of a person who has received a superior education?”

 

“I am not entirely uneducated. An Italian priest, a cousin of my poor

mother’s, bestowed some care upon me when I was in Florence. He was a

very learned man, and taught me much that is rarely taught to a girl of

fourteen or fifteen. His house was my refuge in days of cruel misery,

and his teaching was the only happiness of my life. And now, sir,

question me no further, I entreat you.”

 

“Very well, then, I will ask no more; and I will trust you.”

 

“I thank you, sir, for your generous confidence.”

 

“And now I will tell you my plans for your future welfare,” Sir Oswald

continued, kindly. “I was thinking much of you while I breakfasted. You

have a very magnificent voice; and it is upon that voice you must

depend for the future. Are you fond of music?”

 

“I am very fond of it.”

 

There was little in the girl’s words, but the tone in which they were

spoken, the look of inspiration which lighted up the speaker’s face,

convinced Sir Oswald that she was an enthusiast.

 

“Do you play the piano?”

 

“A little; by ear.”

 

“And you know nothing of the science of music?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Then you will have a great deal to learn before you can make any

profitable use of your voice. And now I will tell you what I shall do.

I shall make immediate arrangements for placing you in a first-class

boarding school in London, or the neighbourhood of London. There you

will complete your education, and there you will receive lessons from

the best masters in music and singing, and devote the greater part of

your time to the cultivation of your voice. It will be known that you

are intended for the career of a professional singer, and every

facility will be afforded you for study. You will remain in this

establishment for two years, and at the end of that time I shall place

you under the tuition of some eminent singer, who will complete your

musical education, and enable you to appear as a public singer. All the

rest will depend on your own industry and perseverance.”

 

“And I should be a worthless creature if I were not more industrious

than ever any woman was before!” exclaimed Honoria. “Oh, sir,