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

interview and angry parting between Douglas Dale and Madame Durski. They had talked a great deal, and Reginald had been struck by the 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 Doré. 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