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

divides us, and which is almost breaking my heart?”

 

“Come, Lady Eversleigh,” cried several voices; “we want you to

accompany us to the Wizard’s Cave.”

 

Nothing could be more successful than the pic-nic. Elegantly dressed

women and aristocratic-looking men wandered here and there amidst the

woodland, and by the margin of the waterfall; sometimes in gay little

parties, whose talk and laughter rang out clearly on the balmy air;

sometimes strolling t�te-�-t�te, and engaged in conversations of a

more confidential character. Half-hidden by the foliage of a little

thicket of pollard oaks, there was a military band, whose services Sir

Oswald had obtained from a garrison-town some twenty miles from

Raynham, and the stirring music added much to the charm of the

festival.

 

Lydia Graham was as happy as it is possible for any evil-minded woman

to be. Her envious feelings were lulled to temporary rest by the

enjoyment of her own triumphs; for the young lordling seemed to be

completely subjugated by her charms, and devoted himself exclusively to

attendance upon her.

 

The scheming beauty’s heart thrilled with a sense of triumph. She

thought that she had at last made a conquest that might be better worth

the making than any of those past conquests, which had all ended in

such bitter disappointments.

 

She looked at Lady Eversleigh with flashing eyes, as she remembered

that by the subjugation of this empty-headed young nobleman she might

attain a higher position and greater wealth than that enjoyed by Sir

Oswald’s envied wife.

 

“As Lady Sumner Howden, I could look down upon the mistress of Raynham

Castle,” she thought. “As Countess of Vandeluce, I should take

precedence of nobler women than Lady Eversleigh.”

 

The day waned. The revellers lingered long over the splendid collation,

served in a marquee which had been sent from York for the occasion. The

banquet seemed a joyous one, enlivened by the sound of laughter, the

popping of champagne corks, the joyous talk that emanated alike from

the really light-hearted and those whose gaiety is only a mockery and a

sham. The sun was sloping westward when Lady Eversleigh arose, absent

and despondent, to give the signal for the withdrawal of the ladies.

 

As she did so, she looked to the other end of the marquee—to the table

where her husband had been seated. To her surprise, his place was

empty.

 

Throughout the whole day Honoria had been a prey to gloomy forebodings.

The estrangement between herself and her husband was so unexpected, so

inexplicable, that she was powerless to struggle against the sense of

misery and bewilderment which it had occasioned in her mind.

 

Again and again she asked herself what had she done to offend him;

again and again she pondered over the smallest and most insignificant

actions—the lightest words—of the past few weeks, in order to

discover some clue to the mystery of Sir Oswald’s altered conduct.

 

But the past afforded her no such clue. She had said nothing, she had

done nothing, which could offend the most sensitive of men.

 

Then a new and terrible light began to dawn upon her. She remembered

her wretched extraction—the pitiable condition in which the baronet

had discovered her, and she began to think that he repented of his

marriage. “He regrets his folly, and I am hateful in his eyes,” thought

Honoria, “for he remembers my degraded position—the mystery of my past

life. He has heard sneering words and cruel innuendoes fall from the

lips of his fashionable friends, perhaps; and he is ashamed of his

marriage. He little knows how gladly I would release him from the tie

that binds us—if, indeed, it has grown hateful to him.” Thus musing

and wandering alone, in one of the forest pathways—for she had

outstripped her guests, and sought a little relief for her overwrought

spirits, constrained to the courtesies of her position for the moment—

she scarcely knew whither, she came presently upon a group of grooms,

who were lounging before a rough canvas tent, which had been erected

for the accommodation of the horses.

 

“Is ‘Orestes’ in that tent, Plummer?” she asked of the old groom who

generally attended her in her rides and drives.

 

“No, my lady, Sir Oswald had him saddled a quarter of an hour ago, and

rode him away.”

 

“Sir Oswald has gone away!”

 

“Yes, my lady. He got a message, I think, while he was sitting at

dinner, and he rode off as fast as he could go, across th’ moor—it’s

the nighest way to the castle, you know, my lady; though it ain’t the

pleasantest.”

 

Honoria grew very uneasy. What was the meaning of this sudden

departure?

 

“Do you know who brought the message from Raynham?” she asked the

groom.

 

“No, indeed, my lady. I don’t even know for sure and certain that the

message was from Raynham. I only guess as much.”

 

“Why did not Sir Oswald take you with him?”

 

“I can’t say, my lady. I asked master if I wasn’t to go with him, and

he said, ‘No, he would rather be alone.’” This was all that Honoria

could learn from the groom. She walked back towards the marquee, whence

the sound of voices and laughter grew louder as the sun sank across the

broad expanse of moorland.

 

The ladies of the party had gathered together on a broad patch of

velvet greensward, near the oak thicket where the band was stationed.

Here the younger members of the party were waltzing merrily to the

accompaniment of one of Strauss’s sweetest waltzes; while the elders

sat here and there on camp-stools or fallen logs of trees, and looked

on, or indulged in a little agreeable gossip.

 

Honoria Eversleigh made her way unobserved to the marquee, and

approached one of the openings less used and less crowded than the

others. Here she found a servant, whom she sent into the marquee with a

message for Mr. Eversleigh, to inquire if he could explain Sir Oswald’s

sudden departure.

 

The man entered the tent, in obedience to his mistress; and Lady

Eversleigh seated herself on a camp-stool, at a little distance,

awaiting the issue of her message.

 

She had been waiting only a few moments, when she saw Victor Carrington

approaching her hurriedly—not from the marquee, but from the pathway

by which she herself had come. There was an unwonted agitation about

his manner as he approached her, which, in her present state of nervous

apprehension, filled her with alarm.

 

She went to meet him, pale and trembling.

 

“I have been looking for you everywhere, Lady Eversleigh,” he said,

hurriedly.

 

“You have been looking for me? Something has happened then-Sir

Oswald—”

 

“Yes, it is, unhappily, of Sir Oswald I have to speak.”

 

“Speak quickly, then. What has happened? You are agonizing me, Mr.

Carrington—for pity’s sake, speak! Your face fills me with fear!”

 

“Your fears are, unhappily, too well founded. Sir Oswald has been

thrown from his horse, on his way across the moor, and lies dangerously

hurt, at the ruins of Yarborough Tower—that black building on the edge

of the moor yonder. A lad has just brought me the tidings.”

 

“Let me go to him—for heaven’s sake, let me go at once! Dangerously

hurt—he is dangerously hurt, you say?”

 

“I fear so, from the boy’s account.”

 

“And we have no medical man among our company. Yes; you are a surgeon—

you can be of assistance.”

 

“I trust so, my dear Lady Eversleigh. I shall hurry to Sir Oswald

immediately, and in the meantime they have sent from the tower for

medical help.”

 

“I must go to him!” said Honoria, wildly. “Call the servants, Mr.

Carrington! My carriage—this moment!”

 

She could scarcely utter the words in her excitement. Her voice had a

choking sound, and but for the surgeon’s supporting arm she must have

fallen prone on the grass at his feet.

 

As she clung to his arm, as she gasped out her eager entreaties that he

would take her to her husband, a faint rustling stirred the underwood

beneath some sycamores at a little distance, and curious eyes peered

through the foliage.

 

Lydia Graham had happened to stroll that way. Her curiosity had been

excited by the absence of Lady Eversleigh from among her guests, and,

being no longer occupied by her flirtation with the young viscount, she

had set out in search of the missing Honoria.

 

She was amply rewarded for her trouble by the scene which she beheld

from her hiding-place among the sycamores.

 

She saw Victor and Lady Eversleigh talking to each other with every

appearance of agitation; she saw the baronet’s wife clinging, in some

wild terror, to the arm of the surgeon; and she began to think that

Honoria Eversleigh was indeed the base and guilty wretch she would fain

have represented her.

 

Lydia Graham was too far from the two figures to hear a word that was

spoken. She could only watch their gestures, and draw her own

inferences therefrom.

 

“My carriage, Mr. Carrington!” repeated Honoria; “why don’t you call

the servants?”

 

“One moment, Lady Eversleigh,” said the surgeon, calmly. “You must

remember, that on such an occasion as this, there is nothing so

important as presence of mind—self-command. If I alarm your servants,

all the guests assembled here will take the alarm; and they will rush

helter-skelter to Yarborough Tower, to testify their devotion to Sir

Oswald, and to do him all the harm they possibly can. What would be the

effect of a crowd of half-drunken men, clustering round him, with their

noisy expressions of sympathy? What I have to propose is this: I am

going to Sir Oswald immediately in my medical capacity. I have a gig

and horse ready, under that group of fir-trees yonder—the fastest

horse and lightest vehicle I could find. If you will trust yourself in

that vehicle behind that horse, I will drive you across the moor, and

we shall reach the ruins in half an hour. Have you courage to come with

me thus, Lady Eversleigh, quietly, unobserved by any one?—or will you

wait for your barouche; and wait until the revellers yonder are all

ready to start with you?”

 

The voices came loudly from the marquee as the surgeon spoke; and

Honoria felt that he spoke wisely.

 

“You are right,” she said; “these people must know nothing of the

accident until my husband is safely back at Raynham. But you had better

go and tell Plummer, the groom, to send the barouche after us. A

carriage will be wanted to convey Sir Oswald from the tower, if he is

fit to be moved.”

 

“True,” answered Victor; “I will see to it.”

 

“And quickly!” cried Lady Eversleigh; “go quickly, I implore. You will

find me by the fir-trees when you return, ready to start with you! Do

not waste time in words, Mr. Carrington. Remember, it is a matter of

life and death.”

 

Victor left her, and she walked to the little grove of firs, where she

found the gig of which he had spoken, and the horse standing near it,

ready harnessed, and with his bridle fastened to a tree.

 

Two pathways led to this fir-grove—a lower and an upper—the upper

completely screened by brushwood. Along this upper pathway, which was

on the edge of a sloping bank, Lydia Graham made her way, careless what

injury she inflicted on her costly dress, so eager was she to discover

whither lady Eversleigh was going. Completely hidden from Honoria,

though at only a few paces’ distance, Miss Graham waited to watch the

proceedings of the baronet’s wife.

 

She was mystified by the appearance of the gig and horse, stationed in

this out-of-the-way spot. She was