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

of her means. She was, for this

reason, deeply in debt, and her only chance of extrication from her

difficulties lay in a brilliant marriage.

 

For nearly nine years she had been trying to make this brilliant

marriage. She had “come out,” as the phrase goes, at seventeen, and she

was now nine-and-twenty.

 

During that period she had been wooed and flattered by troops of

admirers. She had revelled in flirtations; she had triumphed in the

power of her beauty; but she had known more than one disappointment of

her fairest hopes, and she had not won the prize in the great lottery

of fashionable life—a wealthy and patrician husband.

 

Her nine-and-twentieth birthday had passed; and contemplating herself

earnestly in her glass, she was fain to confess that something of the

brilliancy of her beauty had faded.

 

“I am getting wan and sallow,” she said to herself; “what is to become

of me if I do not marry?”

 

The prospect was indeed a sorry one.

 

Lydia Graham possessed an income of two hundred a year, inherited from

her mother: but such an income was the merest pittance for a young lady

with Miss Graham’s tastes. Her brother was a captain of an expensive

regiment, selfish and extravagant, and by no means inclined to open his

purse for his sister’s benefit.

 

She had no home; but lived sometimes with one wealthy relation,

sometimes with another—always admired, always elegantly dressed; but

not always happy.

 

Amidst all Miss Graham’s matrimonial disappointments, she had endured

none more bitter than that which she had felt when she read the

announcement of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s marriage in the “Times”

newspaper.

 

She had met the rich baronet very frequently in society. She had

visited at Raynham with her brother. Sir Oswald had, to all appearance,

admired her beauty and accomplishments; and she had imagined that time

and opportunity alone were wanting to transform that admiration into a

warmer feeling. In plain words, Lydia Graham had hoped with a little

good management, to become Lady Eversleigh of Raynham; and no words can

fully describe her mortification when she learnt that the baronet had

bestowed his name and fortune on a woman of whom the fashionable world

knew nothing, except that she was utterly unknown.

 

Lydia Graham came to Raynham Castle with poisonous feelings rankling in

her heart, but she wore her brightest smiles as well as her most

elegant dresses. She congratulated the baronet in honeyed words, and

offered warmest friendship to the lovely mistress of the mansion.

 

“I am sure we shall suit each other delightfully, dear Lady

Eversleigh,” she said; “and we shall be fast friends henceforward-shall

we not?”

 

Honoria’s disposition was naturally reserved. She revolted against

frivolous and unmeaning sentimentality. She responded politely to Miss

Graham’s proffers of friendship; but not with corresponding warmth.

 

Lydia Graham perceived the coldness of her manner, and bitterly

resented it. She felt that she had reason to hate this woman, who had

caused the disappointment of her dearest hopes, whose beauty was

infinitely superior to her own; and who was several years younger than

herself.

 

There was one person at Raynham whose scrutinizing eyes perceived the

animosity of feeling lurking beneath Lydia Graham’s smooth manner. That

penetrating observer was Victor Carrington. He saw that the fashionable

beauty hated Lady Eversleigh, and he resolved to make use of her hatred

for the furtherance of his schemes.

 

“I fancy Miss Graham has at some time of her life cherished an idea

that she might become mistress of this place, eh, Reginald?” he said

one morning, as the two men lounged together on the terrace.

 

“How did you know that?” said Reginald, questioning and replying at

once.

 

“By no diabolical power of divination, I assure you, my dear Reginald.

I have only used my eyes. But it seems, from your exclamation, that I

am right. Miss Graham did once hope to become Lady Eversleigh.”

 

“Well, I believe she tried her uttermost to win my uncle for a husband.

I have watched her manoeuvres—when she was here two years ago; but

they did not give me much uneasiness, for I thought Sir Oswald was a

confirmed bachelor. She used to vary her amusements by flirting with

me. I was the acknowledged heir in those days, you know, and I have no

doubt she would have married me if I had given her the opportunity. But

she is too clever a woman for my taste; and with all her brilliancy, I

never admired her.”

 

“You are wise, for once in the way, my dear Reginald. Miss Graham is a

dangerous woman. She has a very beautiful smile; but she is the sort of

woman who can smile and murder while she smiles. But she may be made a

very useful tool, notwithstanding.”

 

“A tool?”

 

“Yes; a good workman takes his tools wherever he finds them. I may be

in want of just such a tool as Lydia Graham.”

 

All went merry as a marriage-bell at Raynham Castle during the bright

August weather. The baronet was unspeakably happy. Honoria, too, was

happy in the novelty of her position; happy in the knowledge of her

husband’s love. His noble nature had won the reward such natures should

win. He was beloved by his young wife as few men are beloved in the

heyday of their youth. Her affection was reverential, profound, and

pure. To her mind, Oswald Eversleigh was the perfection of all that is

noble in mankind, and she was proud of his devotion, grateful of his

love.

 

No guest at the castle was more popular than Victor Carrington, the

surgeon. His accomplishments were of so varied a nature as to make him

invaluable in a large party, and he was always ready to devote himself

to the amusement of others. Sir Oswald was astonished at the

versatility of his nephew’s friend. As a linguist, an artist, a

musician, Victor alike shone pre-eminent; but in music he was

triumphant. Professing only to be an amateur, he exhibited a scientific

knowledge, a mechanical proficiency, as rare as they were admirable.

 

“A poor man is obliged to study many arts,” he said, carelessly, when

Sir Oswald complimented him on his musical powers. “My life has been

one of laborious industry; and the cultivation of music has been almost

the only relaxation I have allowed myself. I am not, like Lady

Eversleigh, a musical genius. I only pretend to be a patient student of

the great masters.”

 

The baronet was delighted with the musical talents of his guest because

they assisted much in the display of Lady Eversleigh’s exceptional

power. Victor Carrington’s brilliant playing set off the magnificent

singing of Honoria. With him as her accompanyist, she sang as she could

not sing without his aid. Every evening there was an impromptu concert

in the long drawing-room; every evening Lady Eversleigh sang to Victor

Carrington’s accompaniment.

 

One evening, in the summer dusk, when she had been singing even more

superbly than usual, Lydia Graham happened to be seated near Sir

Oswald, in one of the broad open windows.

 

“Lady Eversleigh is indeed a genius,” said Miss Graham, at the close of

a superb bravura; “but how delightful for her to have that

accomplished Mr. Carrington to accompany her—though some people prefer

to play their own accompaniments. I do, for instance; but when one has

a relative who plays so well, it is, of course, a different thing.”

 

“A relative! I don’t understand you, my dear Miss Graham.”

 

“I mean that it is very nice for Lady Eversleigh to have a cousin who

is so accomplished a musician.”

 

“A cousin?”

 

“Yes. Mr. Carrington is Lady Eversleigh’s cousin—is he not? Or, I beg

your pardon, perhaps he is her brother. I don’t know your wife’s maiden

name.”

 

“My wife’s maiden name was Milford,” answered the baronet, with some

displeasure in his tone. “And Mr. Carrington is neither her brother nor

her cousin; he is no relation whatever to her.”

 

“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Graham.

 

There was a strange significance in that word “indeed”; and after

having uttered it, the young lady seemed seized with a sudden sense of

embarrassment.

 

Sir Oswald looked at her sharply; but her face was half averted from

him, as if she had turned away in confusion. “You seem surprised,” he

said, haughtily, “and yet I do not see anything surprising in the fact

that my wife and Mr. Carrington are not related to each other.”

 

“Oh, dear no, Sir Oswald; of course not,” replied Lydia, with a light

laugh, which had the artificial sound of a laugh intended to disguise

some painful embarrassment. “Of course not. It was very absurd of me to

appear surprised, if I did really appear so; but I was not aware of it.

You see, it was scarcely strange if I thought Lady Eversleigh and Mr.

Carrington were nearly related; for, when people are very old friends,

they seem like relations: it is only in name that there is any

difference.”

 

“You seemed determined to make mistakes this evening, Miss Graham,”

answered the baronet, with icy sternness. “Lady Eversleigh and Mr.

Carrington are by no means old friends. Neither my wife nor I have

known the gentleman more than a fortnight. He happens to be a very

accomplished musician, and is good enough to make himself useful in

accompanying Lady Eversleigh when she sings. That is the only claim

which he has on her friendship; and it is one of only a few days’

standing.”

 

“Indeed!” said Miss Graham, repeating the exclamation which had sounded

so disagreeable to Sir Oswald. “I certainly should have mistaken them

for old friends; but then dear Lady Eversleigh is of Italian

extraction, and there is always a warmth of manner, an absence of

reserve, in the southern temperament which is foreign to our colder

natures.”

 

Lady Eversleigh rose from her seat just at this moment, in compliance

with the entreaties of the circle about her.

 

She approached the grand piano, where Victor Carrington was still

sitting, turning over the leaves of some music, and at the same moment

Sir Oswald rose also, and hurried towards her.

 

“Do not sing any more to-night, Honoria,” he said; “you will fatigue

yourself.”

 

There was some lack of politeness in this speech, as Lady Eversleigh

was about to sing in compliance with the entreaties of her guests. She

turned to her husband with a smile—

 

“I am not in the least tired, my dear Oswald,” she said; “and if our

friends really wish for another song, I am quite ready to sing one.

That is to say, if Mr. Carrington is not tired of accompanying me.”

 

Victor Carrington declared that nothing gave him greater pleasure than

to play Lady Eversleigh’s accompaniments.

 

“Mr. Carrington is very good,” answered the baronet, coldly, “but I do

not wish you to tire yourself by singing all the evening; and I beg

that you will not sing again to-night, Honoria.”

 

Never before had the baronet addressed his wife with such cold decision

of manner. There was something almost severe in his tone, and Honoria

looked at him with wondering eyes.

 

“I have no greater pleasure than in obeying you,” she said, gently, as

she withdrew from the piano.

 

She seated herself by one of the tables, and opened a portfolio of

sketches. Her head drooped over the book, and she seemed absorbed in

the contemplation of the drawings. Glancing at her furtively, Sir

Oswald could see that she was wounded; and yet he—the adoring husband,

the devoted lover—did not approach her. His mind was disturbed—his

thoughts confused. He passed through one of the open windows, and went

out upon the terrace. There all was calm