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

the end of that time she emerged, with a triumphant smile upon her

thin lips, and Lady Eversleigh’s letter in her hand.

 

The seal which secured the envelope was a blank seal; but it was not

the same as the one with which Honoria Eversleigh had fastened her

letter half an hour before.

 

The abigail carried the letter to the boy, and the boy departed, very

well pleased to get clear of the castle without having received any

further reproof.

 

He went at his best speed to the little inn, where he inquired for Mr.

Brown.

 

That gentleman emerged presently from the inn-yard, where he had been

hanging about, listening to all that was to be heard, and talking to

the ostler.

 

He took the letter from the boy’s hand, and rewarded him with the

promised shilling. Then he left the yard, and walked down a lane

leading towards the river.

 

In this unfrequented lane he tore open the envelope, and read his

letter.

 

It was very brief:

 

“_Since my only chance of escaping persecution is to accede, in some

measure, to your demands, I will consent to see you. If you will wait

for me to-night, at nine o’clock, by the water-side, to the left of the

bridge, I will try to come to that spot at that hour. Heaven grant the

meeting may be our last_!”

 

Exactly as the village church clock struck nine, a dark figure crossed

a low, flat meadow, lying near the water, and appeared upon the narrow

towing-path by the river’s edge. A man was walking on this pathway, his

face half hidden by a slouched hat, and a short pipe in his month.

 

He lifted his hat presently, and bared his head to the cool night

breeze. His hair was closely cropped, like that of a convict. The broad

moonlight shining fall upon his face, revealed a dark, weather-beaten

countenance—the face of the tramp who had stood at the park-gates to

watch the passing of Sir Oswald’s funeral train—the face of the tramp

who had loitered in the stable-yard of the “Hen and Chickens”—the face

of the man who had been known in Ratcliff Highway by the ominous name

of Black Milsom.

 

This was the man who waited for Honoria Eversleigh in the moonlight by

the quiet river.

 

He advanced to meet her as she came out of the meadow and appeared upon

the pathway.

 

“Good evening, my lady,” he said. “I suppose I ought to be humbly

beholden to such a grand lady as you for coming here to meet the likes

of me. But it seems rather strange you must needs come out here in

secret to see such a very intimate acquaintance as I am, considering as

you’re the mistress of that great castle up yonder. I must say it seems

uncommon hard a man can’t pay a visit to his own—”

 

“Hush!” cried Lady Eversleigh. “Do not call me by that name, if you

do not wish to inspire me with a deeper loathing than that which I

already feel for you.”

 

“Well, I’m blest!” muttered Mr. Milsom; “that’s uncommon civil language

from a young woman to—”

 

Honoria stopped him by a sudden gesture.

 

“I suppose you expect to profit by this interview?” she said.

 

“That I most decidedly do expect,” answered the tramp.

 

“In that case, you will carefully avoid all mention of the past, for

otherwise you will get nothing from me.”

 

The man responded at first only with a sulky growl. Then, after a brief

pause, he muttered—

 

“I don’t want to talk about the past any more than you do, my fine,

proud madam. If it isn’t a pleasant time for you to remember, it isn’t

a pleasant time for me to remember. It’s all very well for a young

woman who has her victuals found for her to give herself airs about the

manner other people find their victuals; but a man must live somehow

or other. If he can’t get his living in a pleasant way, he must get it

in an unpleasant way.”

 

After this there was a silence which lasted for some minutes. Lady

Eversleigh was trying to control the agitation which oppressed her,

despite the apparent calmness of her manner. Black Milsom walked by her

side in sullen silence, waiting for her to speak.

 

The spot was lonely. Lady Eversleigh and her companion were justified

in believing themselves unobserved.

 

But it was not so. Lonely as the spot was, those two were not alone. A

stealthy, gliding, female figure, dark and shadowy in the uncertain

light, had followed Lady Eversleigh from the castle gates, and that

figure was beside her now, as she walked with Black Milsom upon the

river bank.

 

The spy crept by the side of the hedge that separated the river bank

from the meadow; and sheltered thus, she was able to distinguish almost

every word spoken by the two upon the bank, so clearly sounded their

voices in the still night air.

 

“How did you find me here?” asked Lady Eversleigh, at last.

 

“By accident. You gave us the slip so cleverly that time you took it

into your precious head to cut and run, that, hunt where we would, we

were never able to find you. I gave it up for a bad job; and then

things went agen me, and I got sent away. But I’m my own master again

now; and I mean to make good use of my liberty, I can tell you, my

lady. I little knew how you’d feathered your nest while I was on the

other side of the water. I little thought how you would turn up at

last, when I least expected to see you. You might have knocked me down

with a feather yesterday, when that fine funeral came out of the park

gates, and I saw your face at the window of one of the coaches. You

must have been an uncommonly clever young woman, and an uncommonly sly

one, to get a baronite for your husband, and to get a spooney old cove

to leave you all his fortune, after behaving so precious bad to him.

Did your husband know who you were when he married you?”

 

“He found me starving in the street of a country town. He knew that I

was friendless, homeless, penniless. That knowledge did not prevent him

making me his wife.”

 

“Ah! but there was something more he didn’t know. He didn’t know that

you were Black Milsom’s daughter; you didn’t tell him that, I’ll lay a

wager.”

 

“I did not tell him that which I know to be a lie,” replied Honoria,

calmly.

 

“Oh, it’s a lie, is it? You are not my daughter, I suppose?”

 

“No, Thomas Milsom, I am not—I know and feel that I am not”

 

“Humph!” muttered Black Milsom, savagely; “if you were not my daughter,

how was it that you grew up to call me father?”

 

“Because I was forced to do so. I remember being told to call you

father. I remember being beaten because I refused to do so—

beaten till I submitted from very fear of being beaten to death. Oh, it

was a bright and happy childhood, was it not, Thomas Milsom? A

childhood to look back to with love and regret. And now, finding that

fortune has lifted me out of the gutter into which you flung me, you

come to me to demand your share of my good fortune, I suppose?”

 

“That’s about it, my lady,” answered Mr. Milsom, with supreme coolness.

“I don’t mind a few hard words, more or less—they break no bones; and,

what’s more, I’m used to ‘em. What I want is money, ready money, down

on the nail, and plenty of it. You may pelt me as hard as you like with

fine speeches, as long as you cash up liberally; but cash I must have,

by fair means or foul, and I want a pretty good sum to start with.”

 

“You want a large sum,” said Honoria, quietly; “how much do you want?”

 

“Well, I don’t want to take a mean advantage of your generosity, so

I’ll be moderate. Say five thousand pounds—to begin with.”

 

“And you expect to get that from me?”

 

“Of course I do.”

 

“Five thousand pounds?”

 

“Five thousand pounds, ready money.”

 

Lady Eversleigh stopped suddenly, and looked the man full in the face.

 

“You shall not have five thousand pence,” she exclaimed, “not five

thousand pence. My dead husband’s money shall never pass into your

hands, to be squandered in scenes of vice and crime. If you choose to

live an honest life, I will allow you a hundred a year—a pension which

shall be paid you quarterly—through the hands of my London solicitors.

Beyond this, I will not give you a halfpenny.”

 

“What!” roared Black Milsom, in an infuriated tone. “What, Jenny

Milsom, Honoria, Lady Eversleigh, or whatever you may please to call

yourself, do you think I will stand that? Do you think I will hold my

tongue unless you pay me handsomely to keep silence? You don’t know the

kind of man you have to deal with. To-morrow every one in the village

shall know what a high-born lady lives up at the old castle—they shall

know what a dutiful daughter the lady of Raynham is, and how she

suffers her father to tramp barefoot in the mud, while she rides in her

carriage!”

 

“You may tell them what you please.”

 

“I’ll tell them plenty, you may depend upon it.”

 

“Will you tell them how Valentine Jernam came by his death?” asked

Honoria, in a strange tone.

 

The tramp started, and for a few moments seemed at a loss for words in

which to reply. But he recovered himself very quickly, and exclaimed,

savagely—

 

“I’m not going to tell them any of your senseless dreams and fancies;

but I mean to tell them who you are. That will be quite enough for

them; and before I do let them know so much, you’d better change your

mind, and act generously towards me.”

 

“Upon that subject I shall never change my mind,” answered Honoria

Eversleigh, with perfect self-possession. “You will accept the pension

I offer you, or you will reject it, as you please—you will never

receive more, directly or indirectly, from me,” she continued,

presently. “As for your threat of telling my miserable history to the

people of this place, it is a threat which can have no influence over

me. Tell these people what you choose. Happily, the opinion of the

world is of small account to me.”

 

“You will change your mind between this and to-morrow morning,” cried

Black Milsom.

 

He was almost beside himself with rage and mortification. He felt as if

he could have torn this woman to pieces—this proud and courageous

creature, who dared to defy him.

 

“I shall not change my mind,” answered Honoria. “You could not conquer

me, even when I was a weak and helpless child; you must remember that.”

 

“Humph! you were rather a queer temper in those days—a strange-looking

child, too, with your white face and your big black eyes.”

 

“Aye; and even in those days my will was able to do battle with men and

women, and to support me even against your violence. You, and those

belonging to you, were able to break my heart, but were not strong

enough to bend my spirit. I have the same spirit yet, Thomas Milsom;

and you will find it useless to try to turn me from my purpose.”

 

The man did not answer immediately. He looked