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

arrangements for leaving the house of death.

 

General Desmond declared his intention of remaining until after the

funeral.

 

“I may be of some use in watching the interests of my dear friend,” he

said to Reginald Eversleigh. “There is only one person who will feel

your uncle’s death more deeply than I shall, and that is poor old

Copplestone. He is still in the castle, I suppose?”

 

“Yes, he is confined to his rooms still by the gout.”

 

Reginald Eversleigh was by no means pleased by the general’s decision.

He would rather have been alone in the castle. It seemed as if his

uncle’s old friend was inclined to take the place of master in the

household. The young man’s pride revolted against the general’s love of

dictation; and his fears—strange and terrible fears—made the presence

of the general very painful to him.

 

Joseph Millard had come to Reginald a little time after the discovery

of the baronet’s death, and had told him the contents of the new will.

 

“Master told us with his own lips that he had left you heir to the

estates, sir,” said the valet. “There was no need for it to be kept a

secret, he said; and we signed the will as witnesses—Peterson, the

butler, and me.”

 

“And you are sure you have made no mistake, Millard. Sir Oswald—my

poor, poor uncle, said that?”

 

“He said those very words, Mr. Eversleigh; and I hope, sir, now that

you are master of Raynham, you won’t forget that I was always anxious

for your interests, and gave you valuable information, sir, when I

little thought you would ever inherit the estate, sir.”

 

“Yes, yes—you will not find me ungrateful, Millard,” answered

Reginald, impatiently; for in the terrible agitation of his mind, this

man’s talk jarred upon him. “I shall reward you liberally for past

services, you may depend upon it,” he added.

 

“Thank you very much, sir,” murmured the valet, about to retire.

 

“Stay, Millard,” said the young man. “You have been with my uncle

twenty years. You must know everything about his health. Did you ever

hear that he suffered from heart-disease?”

 

“No, sir; he never did suffer from anything of the kind. There never

was a stronger gentleman than Sir Oswald. In all the years that I have

known him, I don’t recollect his having a day’s serious illness. And as

to his dying of disease of the heart, I can’t believe it, Mr.

Eversleigh.”

 

“But in heart-complaint death is almost always sudden, and the disease

is generally unsuspected until death reveals it.”

 

“Well, I don’t know, sir. Of course the medical gentlemen understand

such things; but I must say that I don’t understand Sir Oswald going

off sudden like that.”

 

“You’d better keep your opinions to yourself down stairs, Millard. If

an idea of that kind were to get about in the servants’ hall, it might

do mischief.”

 

“I should be the last to speak, Mr. Eversleigh. You asked me for my

opinion, and I gave it you, candid. But as to expressing my sentiments

in the servants’ hall, I should as soon think of standing on my head.

In the first place, I don’t take my meals in the servants’ hall, but in

the steward’s room; and it’s very seldom I hold any communication

whatever with under-servants. It don’t do, Mr. Eversleigh—you may

think me ‘aughty; but it don’t do. If upper-servants want to be

respected by under-servants, they must first respect themselves.”

 

“Well, well, Millard; I know I can rely upon your discretion. You can

leave me now—my mind is quite unhinged by this dreadful event.”

 

No sooner had the valet departed than Reginald hurried from the castle,

and walked across the garden to the gate by which he had encountered

Victor Carrington on the previous day. He had no appointment with

Victor, and did not even know if he were still in the neighbourhood;

but he fancied it was just possible the surgeon might be waiting for

him somewhere without the boundary of the garden.

 

He was not mistaken. A few minutes after passing through the gateway,

he saw the figure of the pedlar approaching him under the shade of the

spreading beeches.

 

“I am glad you are here,” said Reginald; “I fancied I might find you

somewhere hereabouts.”

 

“And I have been waiting and watching about here for the last two

hours. I dared not trust a messenger, and could only take my chance of

seeing you.”

 

“You have heard of—of—”

 

“I have heard everything, I believe.”

 

“What does it mean, Victor?—what does it all mean?”

 

“It means that you are a wonderfully lucky fellow; and that, instead of

waiting thirty years to see your uncle grow a semi-idiotic old dotard,

you will step at once into one of the finest estates in England.”

 

“You knew, then, that the will was made last night?”

 

“Well, I guessed as much.”

 

“You have seen Millard?”

 

“No, I have not seen Millard.”

 

“How could you know of my uncle’s will, then? It was only executed last

night.”

 

“Never mind how I know it, my dear Reginald. I do know it. Let that be

enough for you.”

 

“It is too terrible,” murmured the young man, after a pause; “it is too

terrible.”

 

“What is too terrible?”

 

“This sudden death.”

 

“Is it?” cried Victor Carrington, looking full in his companion’s face,

with an expression of supreme scorn. “Would you rather have waited

thirty years for these estates? Would you rather have waited twenty

years?—ten years? No, Reginald Eversleigh, you would not. I know you

better than you know yourself, and I will answer for you in this

matter. If your uncle’s life had lain in your open palm last night, and

the closing of your hand would have ended it, your hand would have

closed, Mr. Eversleigh, affectionate nephew though you be. You are a

hypocrite, Reginald. You palter with your own conscience. Better to be

like me and have no conscience, than to have one and palter with it as

you do.”

 

Reginald made no reply to this disdainful speech. His own weakness of

character placed him entirely in the power of his friend. The two men

walked on together in silence.

 

“You do not know all that has occurred since last night at the castle,”

said Reginald, at last; “Lady Eversleigh has reappeared.”

 

“Lady Eversleigh! I thought she left Raynham yesterday afternoon.”

 

“So it was generally supposed; but this morning she came into the hall,

and demanded to be admitted to see her dead husband. Nor was this all.

She publicly declared that he had been murdered, and accused me of the

crime. This is terrible, Victor.”

 

“It is terrible, and it must be put an end to at once.”

 

“But how is it to be put an end to?” asked Reginald. “If this woman

repeats her accusations, who is to seal her lips?”

 

“The tables must be turned upon her. If she again accuses you, you must

accuse her. If Sir Oswald were indeed murdered, who so likely to have

committed the murder as this woman—whose hatred and revenge were, no

doubt, excited by her husband’s refusal to receive her back, after her

disgraceful flight? This is what you have to say; and as every one’s

opinion is against Lady Eversleigh, she will find herself in rather an

unpleasant position, and will be glad to hold her peace for the future

upon the subject of Sir Oswald’s death.”

 

“You do not doubt my uncle died a natural death, do you, Victor?” asked

Reginald, with a strange eagerness. “You do not think that he was

murdered?”

 

“No, indeed. Why should I think so?” returned the surgeon, with perfect

calmness of manner. “No one in the castle, but you and Lady Eversleigh,

had any interest in his life or death. If he came to his end by any

foul means, she must be the guilty person, and on her the deed must be

fixed. You must hold firm, Reginald, remember.”

 

The two men parted soon after this; but not before they had appointed

to meet on the following day, at the same hour, and on the same spot.

Reginald Eversleigh returned to the castle, gloomy and ill at ease, and

on entering the house he discovered that the doctor from Plimborough

had arrived during his absence, and was to remain until the following

day, when his evidence would be required at the inquest.

 

It was Joseph Millard who told him this.

 

“The inquest! What inquest?” asked Reginald.

 

“The coroner’s inquest, sir. It is to be held to-morrow in the great

dining-room. Sir Oswald died so suddenly, you see, sir, that it’s only

natural there should be an inquest. I’m sorry to say there’s a talk

about his having committed suicide, poor gentleman!”

 

“Suicide—yes—yes—that is possible; he may have committed suicide,”

murmured Reginald.

 

“It’s very dreadful, isn’t it, sir? The two doctors and Mr. Dalton, the

lawyer, are together in the library. The body has been moved into the

state bedroom.”

 

The lawyer emerged from the library at this moment, and approached

Reginald.

 

“Can I speak with you for a few minutes, Mr. Eversleigh?” he asked.

 

“Certainly.”

 

He went into the library, where he found the two doctors, and another

person, whom he had not expected to see.

 

This was a country gentleman—a wealthy landed squire and magistrate—

whom Reginald Eversleigh had known from his boyhood. His name was

Gilbert Ashburne; and he was an individual of considerable importance

in the neighbourhood of Raynham, near which village he had a fine

estate.

 

Mr. Ashburne was standing with his back to the empty fireplace, in

conversation with one of the medical men, when Reginald entered the

room. He advanced a few paces, to shake hands with the young man, and

then resumed his favourite magisterial attitude, leaning against the

chimney-piece, with his hands in his trousers’ pockets.

 

“My dear Eversleigh,” he said, “this is a very terrible affair—very

terrible!”

 

“Yes, Mr. Ashburne, my uncle’s sudden death is indeed terrible.”

 

“But the manner of his death! It is not the suddenness only, but the

nature—”

 

“You forget, Mr. Ashburne,” interposed one of the medical men, “Mr.

Eversleigh knows nothing of the facts which I have stated to you.”

 

“Ah, he does not! I was not aware of that. You have no suspicion of any

foul play in this sad business, eh, Mr. Eversleigh?” asked the

magistrate.

 

“No,” answered Reginald. “There is only one person I could possibly

suspect; and that person has herself given utterance to suspicions that

sound like the ravings of madness.”

 

“You mean Lady Eversleigh?” said the Raynham doctor.

 

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Ashburne; “but this business is altogether so

painful that it obliges me to touch upon painful subjects. Is there any

truth in the report which I have heard of Lady Eversleigh’s flight on

the evening of some rustic gathering?”

 

“Unhappily, the report has only too good a foundation. My uncle’s wife

did take flight with a lover on the night before last; but she returned

yesterday, and had an interview with her husband. What took place at

that interview I cannot tell you; but I imagine that my uncle forbade

her to remain beneath his roof. Immediately after she had left him, he

sent for me, and announced his determination to reinstate me in my old

position as his heir. He would not, I am sure, have done this, had he

believed his wife innocent.”

 

“And she left the castle at his bidding?”

 

“It was supposed that she left the castle; but