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

interrupt me. I wish to say what I have to say, and to have

done with this subject for ever. You know I have already told you the

contents of the will which I made after my marriage. That will left the

bulk of my fortune to my wife. That will must now be destroyed; and in

the document which I shall substitute for it, your name will occupy its

old place. Heaven grant that I do wisely, Reginald, and that you will

prove yourself worthy of my confidence.”

 

“My dear uncle, your goodness overpowers me. I cannot find words to

express my gratitude.”

 

“No thanks, Reginald. Remember that the change which restores you to

your old position is brought about by my misery. Say no more. Better

that an Eversleigh should be master of Raynham when I am dead and gone.

And now leave me.”

 

The young man retired. His face betrayed conflicting emotions. Lost to

all sense of honour though he was, the iniquity of the scheme by which

he had succeeded weighed horribly upon his mind, and he was seized with

a wild fear of the man through whose agency it had been brought about.

 

*

 

CHAPTER XI.

 

“THE WILL! THE TESTAMENT!”

 

The brief pang of fear and remorse passed quickly away, and Reginald

went out upon the terrace to look upon those woods which were once more

his promised heritage; on which he could gaze, as of old, with the

proud sense of possession. While looking over that fair domain, he

forgot the hateful means by which he had re-established himself as the

heir of Raynham. He forgot Victor Carrington—everything except his own

good fortune. His heart throbbed with a sense of triumph.

 

He left the terrace, crossed the Italian garden, and made his way to

the light iron gate which opened upon the park. Leaning wearily upon

this gate, he saw an old man in the costume of a pedlar. A broad,

slouched hat almost concealed his face, and a long iron-grey beard

drooped upon his chest. His garments were dusty, as if with many a

weary mile’s wandering on the parched high-roads, and he carried a

large pack of goods upon his back.

 

The park was open to the public; and this man had, no doubt, come to

the garden-gate in the hope of finding some servant who would be

beguiled into letting him carry his wares to the castle, for the

inspection of Sir Oswald’s numerous household.

 

“Stand aside, my good fellow, and let me pass,” said Reginald, as he

approached the little gate.

 

The man did not stir. His arms were folded on the topmost bar of the

gate, and he did not alter his attitude.

 

“Let me be the first to congratulate the heir of Raynham on his renewed

hopes,” he said, quietly.

 

“Carrington!” cried Reginald; and then, after a pause, he asked, “What,

in heaven’s name, is the meaning of this masquerade?”

 

The surgeon removed his broad-brimmed hat, and wiped his forehead with

a hand that looked brown, wizen, and wrinkled as the hand of an old

man. Nothing could have been more perfect than his disguise.

 

The accustomed pallor of his face was changed to the brown and sunburnt

hue produced by constant exposure to all kinds of weather. A network of

wrinkles surrounded the brilliant black eyes, which now shone under

shaggy eyebrows of iron-grey.

 

“I should never have recognized you,” said Reginald, staring for some

moments at his friend’s face, completely lost in surprise.

 

“Very likely not,” answered the surgeon, coolly; “I don’t want people

to recognize me. A disguise that can by any possibility be penetrated

is the most fatal mistake. I can disguise my voice as well as my face,

as you will, perhaps, hear by and by. When talking to a friend there is

no occasion to take so much trouble.”

 

“But why have you assumed this disguise?”

 

“Because I want to be on the spot; and you may imagine that, after

having eloped with the lady of the house, I could not very safely show

myself here in my own proper person.”

 

“What need had you to return? Your scheme is accomplished, is it not?”

 

“Well, not quite.”

 

“Is there anything more to be done?”

 

“Yes, there is something more.”

 

“What is the nature of that something?” asked Reginald.

 

“Leave that to me,” answered the surgeon; “and now you had better pass

on, young heir of Raynham, and leave the poor old pedlar to smoke his

pipe, and to watch for some passing maid-servant who will admit him to

the castle.”

 

Reginald lingered, fascinated in some manner by the presence of his

friend and counsellor. He wanted to penetrate the mystery hidden in the

breast of his ally.

 

“How did you know that your scheme had succeeded?” he asked, presently.

 

“I read my success in your face as you came towards this gate just now.

It was the face of an acknowledged heir; and now, perhaps, you will be

good enough to tell me your news.”

 

Reginald related all that had happened; the use he had made of Lydia

Graham’s malice; the interview with his uncle after Lady Eversleigh’s

return.

 

“Good!” exclaimed Victor; “good from first to last! Did ever any scheme

work so smoothly? That was a stroke of genius of yours, Reginald, the

use you made of Miss Graham’s evidence. And so she was watching us, was

she? Charming creature! how little she knows to what an extent we are

indebted to her. Well, Reginald, I congratulate you. It is a grand

thing to be the acknowledged heir of such an estate as this.”

 

He glanced across the broad gardens, blazing with rich masses of vivid

colour, produced by the artistic arrangement of the flower-beds. He

looked up to the long range of windows, the terrace, the massive

towers, the grand old archway, and then he looked back at his friend,

with a sinister light in his glittering black eyes.

 

“There is only one drawback,” he said.

 

“And that is—”

 

“That you may have to wait a very long time for your inheritance. Let

me see; your uncle is fifty years of age, I think?”

 

“Yes; he is about fifty.” “And he has an iron constitution. He has led

a temperate, hardy life. Such a man is as likely to live to be eighty

as I am to see my fortieth birthday. And that would give you thirty

years’ waiting: a long delay—a terrible trial of patience.”

 

“Why do you say these things?” cried Reginald, impatiently. “Do you

want to make me miserable in the hour of our triumph? Do you mean that

we have burdened our souls with all this crime and falsehood for

nothing? You are mad, Victor!”

 

“No; I am only in a speculative mood. Thirty years!—thirty years would

be a long time to wait.”

 

“Who says that I shall have to wait thirty years? My uncle may die long

before that time.”

 

“Ah! to be sure! your uncle may die—suddenly, perhaps—very soon, it

may be. The shock of his wife’s falsehood may kill him—after he has

made a new will in your favour!”

 

The two men stood face to face, looking at each other.

 

“What do you mean?” Reginald asked; “and why do you look at me like

that?”

 

“I am only thinking what a lucky fellow you would be if this grief that

has fallen upon your uncle were to be fatal to his life.”

 

“Don’t talk like that, Carrington. I won’t think of such a thing. I am

had enough, I know; but not quite so bad as to wish my uncle dead.”

 

“You would be sorry if he were dead, I suppose? Sorry—with this domain

your own! with all power and pleasure that wealth can purchase for a

man! You would be sorry, would you? You wish well to the kind kinsman

to whom you have been such a devoted nephew! You would prefer to wait

thirty years for your heritage—if you should live so long!”

 

“Victor Carrington,” cried Reginald, passionately, “you are the fiend

himself, in disguise! Let me pass. I will not stop to listen to your

hateful words.”

 

“Wait to hear one question, at any rate. Why do you suppose I made you

sign that promissory note at a twelvemonth’s date?”

 

“I don’t know; but you must know, as well as I do, that the note will

be waste-paper so long as my uncle lives.”

 

“I do know that, my dear Reginald; but I got you to date the document

as you did, because I have a kind of presentiment that before that date

you will be master of Raynham!”

 

“You mean that my uncle will die within the year?”

 

“I am subject to presentiments of that kind. I do not think Sir Oswald

will see the end of the year!”

 

“Carrington!” exclaimed Reginald. “Your schemes are hateful. I will

have no further dealings with you.”

 

“Indeed! Then am I to go to Sir Oswald, and tell him the story of last

night? Am I to tell him that his wife is innocent?”

 

“No, no; tell him nothing. Let things stand as they are. The promise of

the estate is mine. I have suffered too much from the loss of my

position, and I cannot forego my new hopes. But let there be no more

guilt—no more plotting. We have succeeded. Let us wait patiently for

the end.”

 

“Yes,” answered the surgeon, coolly, “we will wait for the end; and if

the end should come sooner than our most sanguine hopes have led us to

expect, we will not quarrel with the handiwork of fate. Now leave me. I

see a petticoat yonder amongst the trees. It belongs to some housemaid

from the castle, I dare say; and I must see if my eloquence as a

wandering merchant cannot win me admission within the walls which I

dare not approach as Victor Carrington.”

 

Reginald opened the gate with his pass-key, and allowed the surgeon to

go through into the gardens.

 

*

 

It was dusk when Sir Oswald left the library. He had sent a message to

the chief of his guests, excusing himself from attending the dinner-table, on the ground of ill-health. When he knew that all his visitors

would be assembled in the dining-room, he left the library, for the

first time since he had entered it after breakfast.

 

He had brooded long and gloomily over his misery, and had come to a

determination as to the line of conduct which he should pursue towards

his wife. He went now to Lady Eversleigh’s apartments, in order to

inform her of his decision; but, to his surprise, he found the rooms

empty. His wife’s maid was sitting at needlework by one of the windows

of the dressing-room.

 

“Where is your mistress?” asked Sir Oswald.

 

“She has gone out, sir. She has left the castle for some little time, I

think, sir; for she put on the plainest of her travelling dresses, and

she took a small travelling-bag with her. There is a note, sir, on the

mantel-piece in the next room. Shall I fetch it?”

 

“No; I will get it myself. At what time did Lady Eversleigh leave the

castle?”

 

“About two hours ago, sir.”

 

“Two hours! In time for the afternoon coach to York,” thought Sir

Oswald. “Go and inquire if your mistress really left the castle at that

time,” he said to the maid.

 

He went into the boudoir, and took the letter