Run to Earth by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (have you read this book TXT) 📖

schoolroom-maid. She had not long to wait. The young woman appeared at the door in

a few moments, and Miss Milford was requested to go to the drawing-room.

 

She went, and found Sir Oswald Eversleigh awaiting her alone. It was

the first time that she had ever known Miss Beaumont to be absent from

the reception-room on the visit of the baronet.

 

He rose to receive her, and took the hand which she extended towards

him.

 

“I am alone, you see, Honoria,” he said; “I told Miss Beaumont that I

had something of a serious nature to say to you, and she left me to

receive you alone.”

 

“Something of a serious nature,” repeated the girl, looking at her

benefactor with surprise. “Oh, I think I can guess what you are going

to say,” she added, after a moment’s hesitation; “my musical education

is now sufficiently advanced for me to take some new step in the

pathway which you wish me to tread.”

 

“No, Honoria, you are mistaken,” answered the baronet, gravely; “so far

from wishing to hasten your musical education, I am about to entreat

you to abandon all thought of a professional career.”

 

“To abandon all thought of a professional career! You would ask me

this, Sir Oswald—you who have so often told me that all my hopes for

the future depended on my cultivation of the art I love?”

 

“You love your art very much then, Honoria?”

 

“More than I love life itself.”

 

“And it would grieve you much, no doubt, to resign all idea of a public

career—to abandon your dream of becoming a public singer?”

 

There was a pause, and then the girl answered, in a dreamy tone—

 

“I don’t know. I have never thought of the public. I have never

imagined the hour in which I should stand before a great crowd, as I

have stood in the cruel streets, amongst all the noise and confusion,

singing to people who cared so little to hear me. I have never thought

of that—I love music for its own sake, and feel as much pleasure when

I sing alone in my own room, as I could feel in the grandest opera-house that ever was built.”

 

“And the applause, the admiration, the worship, which your beauty, as

well as your voice, would win—does the idea of resigning such

intoxicating incense give you no pain, Honoria?”

 

The girl shook her head sadly.

 

“You forget what I was when you rescued me from the pitiless stones of

the market-place, or you would scarcely ask me such a question. I have

confronted the public—not the brilliant throng of the opera-house, but

the squalid crowd which gathers before the door of a gin-shop, to

listen to a vagrant ballad-singer. I have sung at races, where the rich

and the high-born were congregated, and have received their admiration.

I know what it is worth, Sir Oswald. The same benefactor who throws a

handful of halfpence, offers an insult with his donation.”

 

Sir Oswald contemplated his prot�g�e in silent admiration, and it was

some moments before he continued the conversation.

 

“Will you walk with me in the garden?” he asked, presently; “that

avenue of beeches is delightful, and—and I think I shall be better

able to say what I wish there, than in this room. At any rate, I shall

feel less afraid of interruption.”

 

Honoria rose to comply with her benefactor’s wish, with that

deferential manner which she always preserved in her intercourse with

him, and they walked out upon the velvet lawn. Across the lawn lay the

beech-avenue, and it was thither Sir Oswald directed his steps.

 

“Honoria,” he said, after a silence of some duration, “if you knew how

much doubt—how much hesitation I experienced before I came here to-day—how much I still question the wisdom of my coming—I think you

would pity me. But I am here, and I must needs speak plainly, if I am

to speak at all. Long ago I tried to think that my interest in your

fate was only a natural impulse of charity—only an ordinary tribute to

gifts so far above the common. I tried to think this, and I acted with

the cold, calculating wisdom of a man of the world, when I marked out

for you a career by which you might win distinction for yourself, and

placed you in the way of following that career. I meant to spend last

year upon the Continent. I did not expect to see you once in twelve

months; but the strange influence which possessed me in the hour of our

first meeting grew stronger upon me day by day. In spite of myself, I

thought of you; in spite of myself I came here again and again, to look

upon your face, to hear your voice, for a few brief moments, and then

to go out into the world, to find it darker and colder by contrast with

the brightness of your beauty. Little by little, the idea of your

becoming a public singer became odious to me,” continued Sir Oswald.

“At first I thought with pride of the success which would be yours, the

worship which would be offered at your shrine; but my feeling changed

completely before long, and I shuddered at the image of your triumphs,

for those triumphs must, doubtless, separate us for ever. Why should I

dwell upon this change of feeling? You must have already guessed the

secret of my heart. Tell me that you do not despise me!”

 

“Despise you, Sir Oswald!—you, the noblest and most generous of men!

Surely, you must know that I admire and reverence you for all your

noble qualities, as well as for your goodness to a wretched creature

like me.”

 

“But, Honoria, I want something more than your esteem. Do you remember

the night I first heard you singing in the market-place on the north

road?”

 

“Can I ever forget that miserable night?” cried the girl, in a tone of

surprise—the question seemed so strange to her—“that bitter hour, in

which you came to my rescue?”

 

“Do you remember the song you were singing—the last song you ever sang

in the streets?”

 

Honoria Milford paused for some moments before answering It was evident

that she could not at first recall the memory of that last song.

 

“My brain was almost bewildered that night,” she said; “I was so weary,

so miserable; and yet, stay, I do remember the song. It was ‘Auld Robin

Gray.’”

 

“Yes, Honoria, the story of an old man’s love for a woman young enough

to be his daughter. I was sitting by my cheerless fire-side, meditating

very gloomily upon the events of the day, which had been a sad one for

me, when your thrilling tones stole upon my ear, and roused me from my

reverie. I listened to every note of that old ballad. Although those

words had long been familiar to me, they seemed new and strange that

night. An irresistible impulse led me to the spot where you had sunk

down in your helplessness. From that hour to this you have been the

ruling influence of my life. I have loved you with a devotion which few

men have power to feel. Tell me, Honoria, have I loved in vain? The

happiness of my life trembles in the balance. It is for you to decide

whether my existence henceforward is to be worthless to me, or whether

I am to be the proudest and happiest of men.”

 

“Would my love make you happy, Sir Oswald?”

 

“Unutterably happy.”

 

“Then it is yours.”

 

“You love me—in spite of the difference between our ages?”

 

“Yes, Sir Oswald, I honour and love you with all my heart,” answered

Honoria Milford. “Whom have I seen so worthy of a woman’s affection?

From the first hour in which some guardian angel threw me across your

pathway, what have I seen in you but nobility of soul and generosity of

heart? Is it strange, therefore, if my gratitude has ripened into

love?”

 

“Honoria,” murmured Sir Oswald, bending over the drooping head, and

pressing his lips gently on the pure brow—“Honoria, you have made me

too happy. I can scarcely believe that this happiness is not some

dream, which will melt away presently, and leave me alone and

desolate—the fool of my own fancy.”

 

He led Honoria back towards the house. Even in this moment of supreme

happiness he was obliged to remember Miss Beaumont, who would, no

doubt, be lurking somewhere on the watch for her pupil.

 

“Then you will give up all thought of a professional career, Honoria?”

said the baronet, as they walked slowly back.

 

“I will obey you in everything.”

 

“My dearest girl—and when you leave this house, you will leave it as

Lady Eversleigh.”

 

Miss Beaumont was waiting in the drawing-room, and was evidently

somewhat astonished by the duration of the interview between Sir Oswald

and her pupil.

 

“You have been admiring the grounds, I see, Sir Oswald,” she said, very

graciously. “It is not quite usual for a gentleman visitor and a pupil

to promenade in the grounds t�te-�-t�te; but I suppose, in the case

of a gentleman of your time of life, we must relax the severity of our

rules in some measure.”

 

The baronet bowed stiffly. A man of fifty does not care to be reminded

of his time of life at the very moment when he has just been accepted

as the husband of a girl of nineteen.

 

“It may, perhaps, be the last opportunity which I may have of admiring

your grounds, Miss Beaumont,” he said, presently, “for I think of

removing your pupil very shortly.”

 

“Indeed!” cried the governess, reddening with suppressed indignation.

“I trust Miss Milford has not found occasion to make any complaint; she

has enjoyed especial privileges under this roof—a separate bedroom,

silver forks and spoons, roast veal or lamb on Sundays, throughout the

summer season—to say nothing of the most unremitting supervision of a

positively maternal character, and I should really consider Miss

Milford wanting in common gratitude if she had complained.”

 

“You are mistaken, my dear madam; Miss Milford has uttered no word of

complaint. On the contrary, I am sure she has been perfectly happy in

your establishment; but changes occur every day, and an important

change will, I trust, speedily occur in my life, and in that of Miss

Milford. When I first proposed bringing her to you, you asked me if she

was a relation; I told you he was distantly related to me. I hope soon

to be able to say that distant relationship has been transformed into a

very near one. I hope soon to call Honoria Milford my wife.”

 

Miss Beaumont’s astonishment on hearing this announcement was extreme;

but as surprise was one of the emotions peculiar to the common herd,

the governess did her best to suppress all signs of that feeling. Sir

Oswald told her that, as Miss Milford was an orphan, and without any

near relative, he would wish to take her straight from “The Beeches” to

the church in which he would make her his wife, and he begged Miss

Beaumont to give him her assistance in the arrangement of the wedding.

 

The mistress of “The Beeches” possessed a really kind heart beneath the

ice of her ultra-gentility, and she was pleased with the idea of

assisting in the bringing about of a genuine love-match. Besides, the

affair, if well managed, would reflect considerable importance upon

herself, and she would be able by and bye to talk of “my pupil, Lady

Eversleigh;” or, “that sweet girl, Miss Milford, who afterwards married

the wealthy baronet, Sir Oswald Eversleigh.” Sir Oswald