Run to Earth - Mary Elizabeth Braddon (classic reads .TXT) 📗

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"Well, I was about to inform you," replied the groom, with offended dignity, "when you took me up so uncommon short as to prevent me--I was about to observe that, although we haven't received no news whatsoever from my lady direct, we have received a little bit of news promiscuous that is rather puzzling, in a manner of speaking."

"What is it?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Maunders," began James Harwood, with extreme solemnity, "it is given out that Lady Eversleigh is gone abroad to the Continent--wherever that place may be situated--and a very nice place I dare say it is, when you get there; and it is likewise given out that Miss Payland have gone with her."

"Well, what then?"

"I really wish you hadn't such a habit of taking people up short, Mr. Maunders," remonstrated the groom. "I was on the point of telling you that our head-coachman had a holiday this Christmas; and where does he go but up to London, to see his friends, which live there; and while in London where does he go but to Drury Lane Theatre; and while coming out of Drury Lane Theatre who does he set his eyes on but Miss Payland, Lady Eversleigh's own maid, as large as life, and hanging on the arm of a respectable elderly man, which might be her father. Our head-coachman warn't near enough to her to speak to her; and though he tried to catch her eye he couldn't catch it; but he'll take his Bible oath that the young woman he saw was Jane Payland, Lady Eversleigh's own maid. Now, that's rather a curious circumstance, is it not, Mr. Maunders?"

"It is, rather," answered the landlord; "but it seems to me your mistress, Lady Eversleigh, is rather a strange person altogether. It's a strange thing for a mother to run away to foreign parts--if she has gone to foreign parts--and leave her only child behind her."

"Yes; and a child she was so fond of too; that's the strangest part of the whole business," said the groom. "I'm sure to see that mother and child together, you'd have thought there was no power on earth would part them; and yet, all of a sudden, my lady goes off, and leaves Miss Gertrude behind her. But if Miss Gertrude was a royal princess, she couldn't be more watched over, or taken more care of, than she is. To see Mrs. Morden, the governess, with her, you'd think as the little girl was made of barley-sugar, and would melt away with a drop of rain; and to see Captain Copplestone with her, you'd think as she was the crown-jewels of England, and that everybody was on the watch to get the chance of stealing her."

Black Milsom smiled as the groom said this. It was a grim smile, not by any means pleasant to see; but James Harwood was not an observer, and he was looking tenderly at his last spoonful of rum-punch, and wondering within himself whether Mr. Milsom was likely to offer him another glass of that delicious beverage.

"And pray what sort of a customer is Captain Copplestone?" asked Milsom, thoughtfully.

"An uncommonly tough customer," replied James Harwood; "that's what he is. If it wasn't for his rheumatic gout, he's a man that would be ready to fight the champion of England any day in the week. There's very few things the captain wouldn't do in the way of downright pluck; but, you see, whatever pluck a man may have, it can't help him much when he's laid by the heels with the rheumatic gout, as the captain is very often."

"Ha! and who takes care of little missy then?"

"Why, the captain. He's like a watch-dog, and his kennel is at little missy's door. That's what he says himself, in his queer way. Miss Gertrude and her governess live in three handsome rooms in the south wing--my lady's own rooms--and the principal way to these rooms is along a wide corridor. So what does the captain do when my lady goes away, but order a great iron door down from London, and has the corridor shut off with this iron door, bolted, and locked, and barred, so that the cleverest burglar that ever were couldn't get it open."

"But how do people get to the little girl's rooms, then?" asked Thomas Milsom.

"Why, through a small bed-room, intended for Lady Eversleigh's maid; and a little bit of a dressing-room, that poor Sir Oswald used to keep his boots, and hat-boxes, and such like in. These rooms open on to the second staircase; and what does the captain do but have these two small rooms fitted up for hisself and his servant, Solomon Grundy, with a thin wooden partition, with little glass spy-holes in it, put across the two rooms, to make a kind of passage to the rooms beyond; so that night and day he can hear every footstep that goes by to Miss Gertrude's rooms. Now, what do you think of such whims and fancies?"

"I think the captain must be stark staring mad," answered Milsom; but it was to be observed that he said this in rather an absent manner, and appeared to be thinking deeply.

"Oh no, he ain't," said James Harwood; "there ain't a sharper customer going."

And then, finding that the landlord of the "Cat and Fiddle" did not offer anything more in the way of refreshment, Mr. Harwood departed.

There was a full moon that January night, and when Mr. Milsom had attended to the wants of his customers, seen the last of them to the door a little before twelve o'clock, shut his shutters, and extinguished the lights, he stole quietly out of his house, went forth into the deserted street, and made his way towards the summit of the hill on which the castle stood, like an ancient fortress, frowning darkly upon the humble habitations beneath it.

He passed the archway and the noble gothic gates, and crept along by the fine old wall that enclosed the park, where the interlaced branches of giant oaks and beeches were white under the snow that had fallen upon them, and formed a picture that was almost like a scene in Fairyland.

He climbed the wall at a spot where a thick curtain of ivy afforded him a safe footing, and dropped softly upon the ground beneath, where the snow had drifted into a heap, and made a soft bed for him to fall on.

"There will be more snow before daylight to-morrow," he muttered to himself, "if I'm any judge of the weather; and there'll be no trace of my footsteps to give the hint of mischief." He ran across the park, leaped the light, invisible fence dividing the park from the gardens, and crept cautiously along a shrubberied pathway, where the evergreens afforded him an impenetrable screen.

Thus concealed from the eyes of any chance watcher, he contrived to approach one end of the terraced slope which formed the garden front of the castle. Each terrace was adorned with stone balustrades, surmounted by large vases, also of stone; and, sheltered by these vases, Milsom ascended to the southern angle of the great pile of building.

Seven lighted windows at this southern end of the castle indicated the apartments occupied by the heiress of Raynham and her eccentric guardian. The lights burned but dimly, like the night-lamps left burning during the hours of rest; and Milsom had ascertained from Mr. Harwood that the household retired before eleven o'clock, at the latest.

The apartments occupied by the little girl were on the first floor. The massive stone walls here were unadorned with ivy, nor were there any of those elaborate decorations in stonework which might have afforded a hold for the foot of the climber. The bare stone wall frowned down upon Thomas Milsom, impregnable as the walls of Newgate itself.

"No," he muttered to himself, after a long and thoughtful scrutiny; "no man will ever get at those rooms from the outside; no, not if he had the power of changing himself into a cat or a monkey. Whoever wants to have a peep at the heiress of Raynham must go through this valiant captain's chamber. Well, well, I've heard of tricks played upon faithful watch-dogs before to-day. There's very few things a man can't do, if he only tries hard enough; and I mean to be revenged upon my Lady Eversleigh!" He paused for a few moments, standing close against the wall of the castle, sheltered by its black shadow, and looking down upon the broad domain beneath.

"And this is all hers, is it P--lands and houses; horses and carriages; powdered footmen to fetch and carry for her; jewels to wear; plates and dishes of solid gold to eat her dinner off, if she likes! All hers! And she refuses me a few hundred pounds, and defies me, does she? We'll see whether that's a safe game. I've sworn to have my revenge, and I'll have it," he muttered, shaking his brawny fist, as if some phantom figure were standing before him in the wintry moonlight. "I can afford to wait; I wouldn't mind waiting years to get it; but I'll have it, if I grow old and gray while I'm watching and plotting for it. I'll be patient as Time, but I'll have it. She has refused me a few hundreds, has she? I'll see her there, on the ground at my feet, grovelling like a beaten dog, offering me half her fortune--all her fortune--her very life itself! I'll humble her proud spirit! I'll bring her grandeur down to the the dust. She won't own me for a father, won't she! Why, if I choose, she shall tramp barefoot through the mud after me, singing street-ballads in every town in England, and going round with my battered old hat to beg for halfpence afterwards. I'll humble her! I'll do it--I'll do it--as sure as there's a moon in the sky!"

CHAPTER XXIX.


AT WATCH.

Sanguine as Victor Carrington had been, confidently as he had calculated upon the fascination which Paulina had exerted over Douglas Dale, he was not prepared for the news contained in Miss Brewer's promised letter, which reached him punctually, a few hours after Paulina had become the affianced wife of Douglas Dale. This was indeed success beyond his hopes. He had not expected this result for some days, at the very earliest, and the surprise and pleasure with which he learned it were almost equal. Carrington did not believe in good; he absolutely distrusted and despised human nature, and he never dreamed of imputing Madame Durski's conduct to anything but coquetry and fickleness. "She's on with the new love, beyond a doubt," said he to himself, as he read Miss Brewer's letter; "whether she's off with the old is quite another question, and rests with him rather than with her, I fancy."

Victor Carrington's first move was to present himself before Madame Durski on the following day, at the hour at which she habitually received visitors. He took up the confidential conversation which they had had on the last occasion of their meeting, as if it had not been dropped in the interval, and came at once to the subject of Douglas Dale. This plan answered admirably; Paulina was naturally full of the subject, and the ice of formalism had been sufficiently broken between her and Victor Carrington, to enable her to refer to the interview which had taken place between herself and Douglas Dale without any impropriety. When she had done so, Carrington began to play his part. He assured Paulina of his warm interest in her, of the influence which he