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

exhausted him. He fell into a doze—a feverish,

troubled sleep. Carrington watched him for upwards of a quarter of an

hour as he slept thus.

 

“I think he is safe now—and I may venture,” murmured Victor, at the

end of that time.

 

He crept softly into the room, making a wide circle, and keeping

himself completely in the shadow, till he was behind the sleeping

baronet. Then he came towards the lamp-lit table.

 

Amongst the scattered letters and papers, there stood a claret jug, a

large carafe of water, and an empty glass. Victor drew close to the

table, and listened for some moments to the breathing of the sleeper.

Then he took a small bottle from his pocket, and dropped a few globules

of some colourless liquid into the empty glass. Having done this, he

withdrew from the apartment as silently as he had entered it. Twelve

o’clock struck as he was leaving the terrace.

 

“So,” he muttered, “it is little more than three-quarters of an hour

since I left the servants’ hall. It would not be difficult to prove an

alibi, with the help of a blundering village innkeeper.”

 

He did not attempt to leave the castle by the court-yard, which he knew

would be locked by this time. He had made himself acquainted with all

the ins and outs of the place, and had possessed himself of a key

belonging to one of the garden gates. Through this gate he passed out

into the park, climbed a low fence, and made his way into Raynham

village, where the landlord of the “Hen and Chickens” was just closing

his doors.

 

“I have been told by the castle servants that you can give me a bed,”

he said.

 

The landlord, who was always delighted to oblige his patrons in Sir

Oswald’s servants’ hall and stables, declared himself ready to give the

traveller the best accommodation his house could afford.

 

“It’s late, sir,” he said; “but we’ll manage to make things comfortable

for you.”

 

So that night the surgeon slept in the village of Raynham. He, too, was

worn out by the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours, and he slept

soundly all through the night, and slept as calmly as a child.

 

It was eight o’clock next morning when he went down the steep, old-fashioned staircase of the inn. He found a strange hubbub and confusion

below. Awful tidings had just been brought from the castle. Sir Oswald

Eversleigh had been found seated in his library, DEAD, with the lamp

still burning near him, in the bright summer morning. One of the grooms

had come down to the little inn, and was telling his story to all

comers, when the pedlar came into the open space before the bar.

 

“It was Millard that found him,” the man said. “He was sitting, quite

calm-like, with his head lying back upon the cushion of his arm-chair.

There were papers and open letters scattered all about; and they sent

off immediately for Mr. Dalton, the lawyer, to look to the papers, and

seal up the locks of drawers and desks, and so on. Mr. Dalton is busy

at it now. Mr. Eversleigh is awfully shocked, he is. I never saw such a

white face in all my life as his, when he came out into the hall after

hearing the news. It’s a rare fine thing for him, as you may say; for

they say Sir Oswald made a new will last night, and left his nephew

everything; and Mr. Eversleigh has been a regular wild one, and is deep

in debt. But, for all that, I never saw any one so cut up as he was

just now.”

 

“Poor Sir Oswald!” cried the bystanders. “Such a noble gentleman as he

was, too. What did he die of Mr. Kimber?—do you know?”

 

“The doctor says it must have been heart-disease,” answered the groom.

“A broken heart, I say; that’s the only disease Sir Oswald had. It’s my

lady’s conduct has killed him. She must have been a regular bad one,

mustn’t she?”

 

The story of the elopement had been fully discussed on the previous day

at the “Hen and Chickens,” and everywhere else in the village of

Raynham. The country gossips shook their heads over Lady Eversleigh’s

iniquity, but they said little. This new event was of so appalling a

nature, that it silenced even the tongue of gossip for a while.

 

The pedlar took his breakfast in the little parlour behind the bar, and

listened quietly to all that was said by the villagers and the groom.

 

“And where is my lady?” asked the innkeeper; “she came back yesterday,

didn’t she?”

 

“Yes, and went away again yesterday afternoon,” returned the groom.

“She’s got enough to answer for, she has.”

 

*

 

Terrible indeed was the consternation, which reigned that day at

Raynham Castle. Already Sir Oswald’s guests had been making hasty

arrangements for their departure; and many visitors had departed even

before the discovery of that awful event, which came like a thunderclap

upon all within the castle.

 

Few men had ever been better liked by his acquaintances than Sir Oswald

Eversleigh.

 

His generous nature, his honourable character, had won him every man’s

respect. His great wealth had been spent lavishly for the benefit of

others. His hand had always been open to the poor and necessitous. He

had been a kind master, a liberal landlord, an ardent and devoted

friend. There is little wonder, therefore, if the news of his sudden

death fell like an overwhelming blow on all assembled within the

castle, and on many more beyond the castle walls.

 

The feeling against Honoria Eversleigh was one of unmitigated

execration. No words could be too bitter for those who spoke of Sir

Oswald’s wife.

 

It had been thought on the previous evening that she had left the

castle for ever, banished by the command of her husband. Nothing,

therefore, could have exceeded the surprise which filled every breast

when she entered the crowded hall some minutes after the discovery of

Sir Oswald’s death.

 

Her face was whiter than marble, and its awful whiteness was contrasted

by the black dress which she wore.

 

“Is this true?” she cried, in accents of despair. “Is he really dead?”

 

“Yes, Lady Eversleigh,” answered General Desmond, an Indian officer,

and an old friend of the dead man, “Sir Oswald is dead.”

 

“Let me go to him! I cannot believe it—I cannot—I cannot!” she cried,

wildly. “Let me go to him!”

 

Those assembled round the door of the library looked at her with horror

and aversion. To them this semblance of agony seemed only the

consummate artifice of an accomplished hypocrite.

 

“Let me go to him! For pity’s sake, let me see him!” she pleaded, with

clasped hands. “I cannot believe that he is dead.”

 

Reginald Eversleigh was standing by the door of the library, pale as

death—more ghastly of aspect than death itself. He had been leaning

against the doorway, as if unable to support himself; but, as Honoria

approached, he aroused himself from a kind of stupor, and stretched out

his arm to bar her entrance to the death-chamber.

 

“This is no scene for you, Lady Eversleigh,” he said, sternly. “You

have no right to enter that chamber. You have no right to be beneath

this roof.”

 

“Who dares to banish me?” she asked, proudly. “And who can deny my

right?”

 

“I can do both, as the nearest relative of your dead husband.”

 

“And as the friend of Victor Carrington,” answered Honoria, looking

fixedly at her accuser. “Oh! it is a marvellous plot, Reginald

Eversleigh, and it wanted but this to complete it. My disgrace was the

first act in the drama, my husband’s death the second. Your friend’s

treachery accomplished one, you have achieved the other. Sir Oswald

Eversleigh has been murdered!”

 

A suppressed cry of horror broke simultaneously from every lip. As the

awful word “murder” was repeated, the doctor, who had been until this

moment beside the dead man, came to the door, and opened it.

 

“Who was it spoke of murder?” he asked.

 

“It was I,” answered Honoria. “I say that my husband’s death is no

sudden stroke from the hand of heaven! There is one here who refuses to

let me see him, lest I should lay my hand upon his corpse and call down

heaven’s vengeance on his assassin!”

 

“The woman is mad,” faltered Reginald Eversleigh.

 

“Look at the speaker,” cried Honoria. “I am not mad, Reginald

Eversleigh, though, by you and your fellow-plotter, I have been made to

suffer that which might have turned a stronger brain than mine. I am

not mad. I say that my husband has been murdered; and I ask all present

to mark my words. I have no evidence of what I say, except instinct;

but I know that it does not deceive me. As for you, Reginald

Eversleigh, I refuse to recognize your rights beneath this roof. As the

widow of Sir Oswald, I claim the place of mistress in this house, until

events show whether I have a right to it or not.”

 

These were bold words from one who, in the eyes of all present, was a

disgraced wife, who had been banished by her husband.

 

General Desmond was the person who took upon himself to reply. He was

the oldest and most important guest now remaining at the castle, and he

was a man who had been much respected by Sir Oswald.

 

“I certainly do not think that any one here can dispute Lady

Eversleigh’s rights, until Sir Oswald’s will has been read, and his

last wishes made known. Whatever passed between my poor friend and his

wife yesterday is known to Lady Eversleigh alone. It is for her to

settle matters with her own conscience; and if she chooses to remain

beneath this roof, no one here can presume to banish her from it,

except in obedience to the dictates of the dead.”

 

“The wishes of the dead will soon be known,” said Reginald; “and then

that guilty woman will no longer dare to pollute this house by her

presence.”

 

“I do not fear, Reginald Eversleigh,” answered Honoria, with sublime

calmness. “Let the worst come. I abide the issue of events. I wait to

see whether iniquity is to succeed; or whether, at the last moment, the

hand of Providence will be outstretched to confound the guilty. My

faith is strong in Providence, Mr. Eversleigh. And now stand aside, if

you please, and let me look upon the face of my husband.”

 

This time, Reginald Eversleigh did not venture to dispute the widow’s

right to enter the death-chamber. He made way for her to pass him, and

she went in and knelt by the side of the dead. Mr. Dalton, the lawyer,

was moving softly about the room, putting seals on all the locks, and

collecting the papers that had been scattered on the table. The parish

doctor, who had been summoned hastily, stood near the corpse. A groom

had been despatched to a large town, twenty miles distant, to summon a

medical man of some distinction. There were few railroads in those

days; no electric telegraph to summon a man from one end of the country

to another. But all the most distinguished doctors who ever lived could

not have restored Sir Oswald Eversleigh to an hour’s life. All that

medical science could do now, was to discover the mode of the baronet’s

death.

 

The crowd left the hall by and by, and the interior of the castle grew

more tranquil. All the remaining guests, with the exception of General

Desmond, made immediate