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

to the wealth

enjoyed by that low-born and nameless creature, Sir Oswald’s widow. But

it is much for one who has drained poverty’s bitter cup to the very

dregs as I have. Yes, to the dregs; for though I have never known the

want of life’s common necessaries, I have known humiliations which are

at least as hard to bear.”

 

The many windows of the manor-house were all a-blaze with light as the

hunting-party entered the gates. Fires burned brightly in all the

rooms, and the interior of that comfortable house formed a very

pleasant contrast to the cheerless darkness of the night, the muddy

roads, and damp atmosphere.

 

The butler stood in the hall ready to welcome the returning guests with

stately ceremony; while the under-servants bustled about, attending to

the wants of the mud-bespattered huntsmen.

 

“Mr. Dale is at home, I suppose?” Douglas said, as he warmed his hands

before the great wood fire.

 

“At home, sir!” replied the butler; “hasn’t he come home with you,

sir?”

 

“No; we never saw him after the meet. I imagine he must have been

called away on parish business.”

 

“I don’t know, sir,” answered the butler; “my master has certainly not

been home since the morning.”

 

A feeling of vague alarm took possession of almost everyone present.

 

“It is very strange,” exclaimed Squire Mordaunt. “Did no one come here

to inquire after your master this morning?”

 

“No one, sir,” replied the butler.

 

“Send to the stables to see if my brother’s horse has been brought

home,” cried Douglas, with alarm very evident in his face and manner.

“Or, stay, I will go myself.”

 

He ran out of the hall, and in a few moments returned.

 

“The horse has not been brought back,” he cried; “there must be

something wrong.”

 

“Stop,” cried the squire; “pray, my dear Mr. Douglas Dale, do not let

us give way to unnecessary alarm. There may be no cause whatever for

fear or agitation. If Mr. Dale was summoned away from the hunt to

attend the bed of a dying parishioner, he would be the last man to

think of sending his horse home, or to count the hours which he devoted

to his duty.”

 

“But he would surely send a messenger here to prevent the alarm which

his absence would be likely to cause amongst us all,” replied Douglas;

“do not let us deceive ourselves, Mr. Mordaunt. There is something

wrong—an accident of some kind has happened to my brother. Andrews,

order fresh horses to be saddled immediately. If you will ride one way,

squire, I will take another road, first stopping in the village to make

all possible inquires there. Reginald, you will help us, will you not?”

 

“With all my heart,” answered Reginald, with energy, but in a voice

which was thick and husky.

 

Douglas Dale looked at his cousin, startled, even in the midst of his

excitement, by the strange tone of Reginald’s voice.

 

“Great heavens! how ghastly pale you look, Reginald!” he cried; “you

apprehend some great misfortune—some dreadful accident?”

 

“I scarcely know,” gasped the baronet; “but I own that I feel

considerable alarm—the—the river—the current was so strong after the

thaw—the stream so swollen by melted snow. If—if Lionel’s horse

should have tried to swim the river—and failed—”

 

“And we are lingering here!” cried Douglas, passionately; “lingering

here and talking, instead of acting! Are those horses ready there?” he

shouted, rushing out to the portico.

 

His voice was heard in the darkness without, urging on the grooms as

they led out fresh horses from the quadrangle.

 

“Gordon!” cried Lydia Graham, “you will go out with the others. You

will do your uttermost in the search for Mr. Lionel Dale!”

 

She said this in a loud, ringing voice, with the imperious tone of a

woman accustomed to command. She was leaning against one angle of the

great chimney-piece, pale as ashes, breathless, but not fainting. To

her, the idea that any calamity had befallen Lionel Dale was very

dreadful—almost as dreadful as it could be to the brother who so truly

loved him; for her own interest was involved in this man’s life, and

with her that was ever paramount.

 

She was well-nigh fainting; but she was too much a woman of the world

not to know that if she had given way to her emotion at that moment,

she would have given rise to disgust and annoyance, rather than

interest, in the minds of the gentlemen present. She knew this, and she

wished to please every one; for in pleasing the many lies the secret of

a woman’s success with the few.

 

Even in that moment of confusion and excitement, the scheming woman

determined to stand well in the eyes of Douglas Dale.

 

As he appeared on the threshold of the great hall-door, she went up to

him very quietly, with her head uncovered, and her pale, clearly-cut

face revealed by the light of the lamp above her. She laid her hand

gently on the young man’s arm.

 

“Mr. Dale.” she said, “command my brother Gordon; he will be proud to

obey you. I will go out myself to aid in the search, if you will let me

do so.”

 

Douglas Dale clasped her hand in both his with grateful emotion.

 

“You are a noble girl,” he cried; “but you cannot help me in this. Your

brother Gordon may, perhaps, and I will call upon his friendship

without reserve. And now leave us, Miss Graham; this is no fitting

scene for a lady. Come, gentlemen!” he exclaimed, “the horses are

ready. I go by the village, and thence to the river; you will each take

different roads, and will all meet me on the river-bank, at the spot

where we crossed to-day.”

 

In less than five minutes all had mounted, and the trampling of hoofs

announced their departure. Reginald was amongst them, hardly conscious

of the scene or his companions.

 

Sight, hearing, perception of himself, and of the world around him, all

seemed annihilated. He rode on through dense black shadows, dark clouds

which hemmed him in on every side, as if a gigantic pall had fallen

from heaven to cover him.

 

How he became separated from his companions he never knew; but when his

senses awoke from that dreadful stupor, he found himself alone, on a

common, and in the far distance he saw the glimmer of lights—very

feeble and wan beneath the starless sky.

 

It seemed as if the horse knew his desolate ground, and was going

straight towards these lights. The animal belonged to the rector, and

was, no doubt, familiar with the country.

 

Reginald Eversleigh had just sufficient consciousness of surrounding

circumstances to remember this. He made no attempt to guide the horse.

What did it matter whither he went? He had forgotten his promise to

meet the other men on the river-brink; he had forgotten everything,

except that the work of a demon had progressed in silence, and that its

fatal issue was about to burst like a thunderclap upon him.

 

“Victor Carrington has told me that this fortune shall be mine; he has

failed once, but will not fail always,” he said to himself.

 

The disappearance of Lionel Dale had struck like a thunderbolt on the

baronet; but it was a thunderbolt whose falling he had anticipated with

shuddering horror during every day and every hour since his arrival at

Hallgrove.

 

The lights grew more distinct—feeble lamps in a village street,

glimmering candles in cottage windows scattered here and there. The

horse reached the edge of the common and turned into a high road. Five

minutes afterwards Reginald Eversleigh found himself at the beginning

of a little country town.

 

Lights were burning cheerily in the windows of an inn. The door was

open, and from within there came the sound of voices that rang out

merrily on the night air.

 

“Great heaven!” exclaimed Reginald, “how happy these peasants are—

these brutish creatures who have no care beyond their daily bread!”

 

He envied them; and at that moment would have exchanged places with the

humblest field-labourer carousing in the rustic tap-room. But it was

only now and then the anguish of a guilty conscience took this shape.

He was a man who loved the pleasures and luxuries of this world better

than he loved peace of mind; better than he loved his own soul.

 

He drew rein before the inn-door, and called to the people within. A

man came out, and took the bridle as he dismounted.

 

“What is the name of this place?” he asked.

 

“Frimley, sir—Frimley Common it’s called by rights. But folks call it

Frimley for short.”

 

“How far am I from the river-bank at the bottom of Thorpe Hill?”

 

“A good six miles, sir.”

 

“Take my horse and rub him down. Give him a pail of gruel and a quart

of oats. I shall want to start again in less than an hour.”

 

“Sharp work, sir,” answered the ostler. “Your horse seems to have done

plenty already.”

 

“That is my business,” said Sir Reginald, haughtily.

 

He went into the inn.

 

“Is there a room in which I can dry my coat?” he asked at the bar.

 

He had only lately become aware of a drizzling rain which had been

falling, and had soaked through his hunting-coat.

 

“Were you with the Horsely hounds to-day, sir?” asked the landlord.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good sport, sir?”

 

“No,” answered Sir Reginald, curtly.

 

“Show the way to the parlour, Jane,” said the landlord to a

chambermaid, or barmaid, or girl-of-all-work, who emerged from the tap-room with a tray of earthenware mugs. “There’s one gentleman there,

sir; but perhaps you won’t object to that, Christmas being such a

particularly busy time,” added the landlord, addressing Reginald.

“You’ll find a good fire.”

 

“Send me some brandy,” returned Sir Reginald, without deigning to make

any further reply to the landlord’s apologetic speech.

 

He followed the girl, who led the way to a door at the end of a

passage, which she opened, and ushered Sir Reginald into a light and

comfortable room.

 

Before a large, old-fashioned fireplace sat a man, with his face

hidden by the newspaper which he was reading.

 

Sir Reginald Eversleigh did not condescend to look at this stranger. He

walked straight to the hearth; took off his dripping coat, and hung it

on a chair by the side of the roaring wood fire. Then he flung himself

into another chair, drew it close to the fender, and sat staring at the

fire, with a gloomy face, and eyes which seemed to look far away into

some dark and terrible region beyond those burning logs.

 

He sat in this attitude for some time, motionless as a statue, utterly

unconscious that his companion was closely watching him from behind the

sheltering newspaper. The inn servant brought a tray, bearing a small

decanter of brandy and a glass. But the baronet did not heed her

entrance, nor did he touch the refreshment for which he had asked.

 

Not once did he stir till the sudden crackling of his companion’s

newspaper startled him, and he lifted his head with an impatient

gesture and an exclamation of surprise.

 

“You are nervous to-night, Sir Reginald Eversleigh,” said the man,

whose voice was still hidden by the newspaper.

 

The sound of the voice in which those common-place words were spoken

was, at this moment, of all sounds the most hateful to Reginald

Eversleigh.

 

“You here!” he exclaimed. “But I ought to have known that.”

 

The newspaper was lowered for the first time; and Reginald Eversleigh

found himself face to face