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

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strange excitement—the almost feverish exultation—in Carrington’s

tone and manner. He was not more openly communicative as to his plans

than usual, but he expressed his expectation of triumph in a way which

Eversleigh had never heard him do before.

 

“You seem quite sanguine, Victor,” said Sir Reginald. “Mind, I don’t

ask questions, but you really are sure all is going well?”

 

“Our affairs march, mon ami. And you are making your game with the

old lady at Richmond admirably, are you not?”

 

“Nothing could be better, and indeed I ought to succeed, for it’s dull

work, I can tell you, especially when she begins talking resignedly

about the child that was stolen a few centuries ago, and her hopes of

meeting it in a better world. Horrid bore—dreadful bosh; but anything

is worth bearing if money is to be made of it—good, sure, sterling

money. I think it will do me good to see some real money—bank-notes

and gold, and that sort of thing—for an accommodation bill is the only

form of cash I’ve handled since I came of age. How happy we shall be

when it all comes right—your game and mine!” continued the baronet.

“My plans are very simple. I shall only exchange my shabby lodgings in

the Strand for apartments in Piccadilly, overlooking the Park, of

course. I shall resume my old position among my own set, and enjoy life

after my own fashion; and when once I am possessor of a handsome

fortune, I dare say I shall have no difficulty in getting a rich wife.

And you, Victor, how shall you employ our wealth?”

 

“In the restoration of my name,” replied the Frenchman, with suppressed

intensity. “Yes, Sir Reginald, the one purpose of my life is told in

those words. I have been an outcast and an adventurer, friendless,

penniless; but I am the last scion of a noble house, and to restore to

that house some small portion of its long-lost splendour has been the

one dream of my manhood. I am not given to talk much of that which lies

nearest my heart, and never until to-night have I spoken to you of my

single ambition; but you, who have watched me toiling upon a weary

road, wading through a morass of guilt, must surely have guessed that

the pole-star must needs be a bright one which could lure me onward

upon so hideous a pathway. The end has come at last, and I now speak

freely. My name is not Carrington. I am Viscomte Champfontaine, of

Champfontaine, in the department of Charente, and my name was once the

grandest in western France; but the Revolution robbed us of lands and

wealth, and there remain now but four rugged stone towers of that

splendid chateau which once rose proudly above the woods of

Champfontaine, like a picture by Gustave Dor�. The fountain in the

field still flows, limpid as in those days when the soldier-Gaul

pitched his tent beside its waters, and took for himself the name of

Champfontaine. To restore that name, to rebuild that chateau—that is

the dream which I have cherished.”

 

Excited by this unwonted revelation of his feelings, and by the

anticipation of the realization of all his hopes, the Frenchman rose,

and paced rapidly up and down the room.

 

“I will go to Champfontaine,” he said. “I will look once more upon the

crumbling towers, so soon to be restored to their primitive strength

and grandeur.”

 

Reginald watched him wonderingly. This enthusiasm about an ancient name

was beyond his comprehension. He too, bore a name that had been

honourable for centuries, and he had recklessly degraded that name. He

had begun life with all the best gifts of fortune in his hands, and had

squandered all.

 

“I hear your cousin Douglas is very ill,” said Carrington, checking his

excited manner, and speaking with a sudden change of tone, which

produced a strange thrill of Sir Reginald’s somewhat weak nerves. “I

should recommend you to go and call upon him at his chambers. Never

mind any coolness there may have been between you. You needn’t see him,

you know; in fact it will be much better for you to avoid doing so. But

just call and make the inquiry. I am really anxious to know if there is

anything the matter with him.”

 

Sir Reginald Eversleigh looked at the Frenchman with a half doubtful,

half horror-stricken look—such a look as Faust may have cast at

Mephistopheles, when Gretchen’s soldier-brother fell, stricken by the

invisible sword of the demon.

 

“I’ll tell you what it is, Victor,” he said, after a pause, “unless our

luck changes pretty quickly, I shall throw up the sponge some fine

morning, and blow my brains out. Affairs have been desperate with me

for a long time, and your fine schemes have not made me a halfpenny

richer. I begin to think that, in spite of all your cleverness, you’re

no better than a bungler.”

 

“I shall begin to think so myself,” answered Victor, between his set

teeth, “unless success comes to us speedily. We have been working

underground, and the work has been slow and wearisome; but the end

cannot be far distant,” he added, with a heavy sigh. “Go and inquire

after your cousin’s health.”

 

And so Reginald Eversleigh strove to dismiss the subject from his mind.

So powerful is self-deception, that he almost succeeded in persuading

himself that he had no part in Carrington’s plots—that he did not know

at what he was aiming and that he was, personally, absolved from any

share in the crime that was being perpetrated, if crime there was; but

that there was, he even affected himself to doubt.

 

After Sir Reginald left him, Victor Carrington threw himself into a

chair in a fit of deep despondency. After a time that mood passed away,

and he roused himself, and thought of what he had to do that day. He

had seen Miss Brewer only the previous day. He had learned how much

alarmed Paulina was about her lover’s health, and with what good

reason. Victor Carrington came to a resolution that this day should be

the last of waiting—of suspense. He took a phial from the press where

he kept all deadly drugs, placed it in his breast-pocket, and went to

his mother’s sitting-room. The widow was sitting, as usual, at her

embroidery-frame. She counted some stitches before she raised her head

to look at her son. But when she did look up, her own face changed, and

she said,—

 

“Victor, you are ill. I know you are. You look very ill—not like

yourself. What ails you?”

 

“Nothing, mother,” replied Victor; “nothing that a little fresh air and

exercise will not remove. I have been a little over-excited, that is

all. I have been thinking of the old home that sheltered my grandfather

before the sequestrations of ‘93—the home that could be bought back

to-day for an old song, and which a few thousands, judiciously

invested, might restore to something of its old grandeur. One of the

Champfontaines received Francis I. and his sister Marguerite in the old

chateau which they burnt during the Terror. Mother, I will tell you a

secret to-day: ever since I can remember having a wish, the one great

desire of my life has been the desire to restore the place and the

name; and I hope to accomplish that desire soon, mother—very soon.”

 

“Victor, this is the talk of a madman!” exclaimed the Frenchwoman,

alarmed by her son’s unwonted vehemence.

 

“No, mother, it is the talk of a man who feels himself on the verge of

a great success—or—a stupendous failure.”

 

“I cannot understand—”

 

“There is no need for you to understand any more than this: I have been

playing a bold game, and I believe it will prove a winning one.”

 

“Is this game an honest one, Victor?”

 

“Honest? oh, yes!” answered the surgeon, with an ominous laugh, “why

should I be not honest? Does not the world teach a man to be honest?

See what noble rewards it offers for honesty.”

 

He took a crumpled letter from his pocket as he spoke, and threw it

across the table to his mother.

 

“Read that, mother,” he said; “that is my reward for ten years’ honest

toil in a laborious profession. Captain Halkard, the inaugurator of an

Arctic expedition for scientific purposes, writes to invite me to join

his ship as surgeon. He has heard of my conscientious devotion to my

profession—my exceptional talents—see, those are his exact words, and

he offers me the post of ship’s surgeon, with a honorarium of fifty

pounds. The voyage is supposed to last six months; it is much more

likely to last a year; it is most likely to last for ever—for, from

the place to which these men are going, the chances are against any

man’s return. And for unutterable hardship, for the hazard of my life,

for my exceptional talents, my conscientious devotion, he offers me

fifty pounds. That, mother, is the price which honesty commands in the

great market of life.”

 

“But it might lead to something, Victor,” murmured the mother, as she

put down the letter, pleased by the writer’s praises of her son.

 

“Oh, yes, it might lead to a few words of commendation in a scientific

journal; possibly a degree of F.R.G.S.; or very probably a grave under

the ice, with a grizzly bear for sexton.”

 

“You will not accept the offer?”

 

“Not unless my great scheme fails at the last moment—as it cannot

fail—as it cannot!” he repeated, with the air of a man who tries to

realize a possibility too horrible for imagination.

 

*

 

It was very late that night before Paulina Durski, worn out by the

emotion she had undergone, could be persuaded to retire to rest. After

Douglas had left her, all the firmness forsook her, all her pride was

overthrown. Despair unutterable took possession of her. With him went

her last hope—her one only chance of happiness. She flung herself,

face downwards, on her sofa, and gave way to the wildest, most

agonizing grief. Thus Miss Brewer found her, and eagerly questioned her

concerning the cause of her distress. But she could obtain no

explanation from Paulina, who only answered, in a voice broken by

convulsive sobs, “Some other time, some other time; don’t ask me now.”

So Miss Brewer was forced to be silent, if not content, and at length

she persuaded Paulina to go to bed.

 

The faithful friend arranged everything with her own hands for Madame

Durski’s comfort, and would not consent to leave her till she had lain

down to rest. The broken-hearted woman bade her friend good night

calmly enough, but before Miss Brewer reached the door, she heard

Paulina’s sobs burst forth again, and saw that she had covered her face

with her hands, and buried it in the pillow.

 

*

 

It was late on the following morning when Miss Brewer entered Paulina’s

room, and having softly opened the shutters, drew near the bed with a

noiseless step. The bed-clothes, which were wont to be tossed and

tumbled by the restless sleeper, were smooth and undisturbed. Never had

Miss Brewer seen her mistress in an attitude so expressive of complete

repose.

 

“Poor thing! she has had a good night after all,” thought the

companion.

 

She bent over the quiet figure, the pale face, so statuesque in that

calm sleep, and gently touched the white, listless hand.

 

Yes—this indeed was perfect repose; but it was the repose of death.

The bottle from which Paulina had habitually taken a daily modicum of

opium, lay on the ground by the bedside,