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

to her milliner’s house. There was a long and

rather an unpleasant interview between the milliner and her customer,

for Lydia Graham had sunk deeper in the mire of debt with every passing

year, and it was only by the payment of occasional sums of money on

account that she contrived to keep her creditors tolerably quiet.

 

The result of to-day’s interview was the same as usual. Madame Susanne,

the milliner, agreed to find some pretty dresses for Miss Graham’s

Christmas visit—and Miss Graham undertook to pay a large instalment of

an unreasonable bill without inspection or objection.

 

On this snowy Christmas morning Miss Graham stood by the side of her

host, dressed in the stylish walking costume of dark gray poplin, and

with her glowing face set off by a bonnet of blue velvet, with soft

gray plumes. Those were the days in which a bonnet was at once the

aegis and the sanctuary of beauty. If you offended her, she took refuge

in her bonnet. The police-courts have only become odious by the clamour

of feminine complainants since the disappearance of the bonnet. It was

awful as the helmet of Minerva, inviolable as the cestus of Diana. Nor

was the bonnet of thirty-years ago an unbecoming headgear—a pretty

face never looked prettier than when dimly seen in the shadowy depths

of a coal-scuttle bonnet.

 

Miss Graham looked her best in one of those forgotten headdresses; the

rich velvet, the drooping feathers, set off her showy face, and Laura

and Ellen Mordaunt, in their fresh young beauty and simple costume,

lost by contrast with the aristocratic belle.

 

The poor of Hallgrove parish looked forward eagerly to the coming of

Christmas.

 

Lionel Dale’s parishioners knew that they would receive ample bounty

from the hand of their wealthy and generous rector.

 

He loved to welcome old and young to the noble hall of his mansion, a

spacious and lofty chamber, which had formed part of the ancient manor-house, and had been of late years converted into a rectory. He loved to

see them clad in the comfortable garments which his purse had

provided—the old women in their gray woollen gowns and scarlet cloaks,

the little children brightly arrayed, like so many Red Riding hoods.

 

It was a pleasant sight truly, and there was a dimness in the rector’s

eyes, as he stood at the head of a long table, at two o’clock on

Christmas-day, to say grace before the dinner spread for those humble

Christmas guests.

 

All the poor of the parish had been invited to dine with their pastor

on Christmas-day, and this two o’clock dinner was a greater pleasure to

the rector of Hallgrove than the repast which was to be served at seven

o’clock for himself and the guests of his own rank.

 

There were some people in Hallgrove and its neighbourhood who said that

Lionel Dale took more pleasure in this life than a clergyman and a good

Christian should take; but surely those who had seen him seated by the

bed of sickness, or ministering to the needs of affliction, could

scarcely have grudged him the innocent happiness of his hours of

relaxation. The one thing in which he himself felt that he was perhaps

open to blame, was in his passion for the sports of the field.

 

No one who had stood amongst the little group at the top of the long

table in Hallgrove Manor-house on this snowy Christmas morning could

have doubted that the heart of Lionel Dale was true to the very core.

 

He was not alone amongst his poor parishioners. His guests had

requested permission to see the two o’clock dinner-party in the

refectory. Lydia affected to be especially anxious for this privilege.

 

“I long to see the dear things eating their Christmas plum-pudding,”

she said, with almost girlish enthusiasm.

 

Mr. Dale’s parishioners did ample justice to the splendid Christmas

fare provided for them.

 

Lydia Graham declared she had never witnessed anything that gave her

half so much pleasure as this humble gathering.

 

“I would give up a whole season of fashionable dinner-parties for such

a treat as this, Mr. Dale,” she exclaimed, with an eloquent glance at

the rector. “What a happy life yours must be! and how privileged these

people ought to think themselves!”

 

“I don’t know that, Miss Graham,” answered Lionel Dale. “I think the

privilege is all on my side. It is the pleasure of the rich to minister

to the wants of the poor.”

 

Lydia Graham made no reply; but her eyes expressed an admiration which

womanly reserve might have forbidden her lips to utter.

 

While the pudding was being eaten, Mr. Dale walked round amongst his

humble guests, to exchange a few kindly words here and there; to shake

hands; to pat little children’s flaxen heads; to make friendly

inquiries for the sick and absent.

 

As he paused to talk to one of his parishioners, his attention was

attracted by a strange face. It was the face of an old man, who sat at

the opposite side of the table, and seemed entirely absorbed by the

agreeable task of making his way through a noble slice of plum-pudding.

 

“Who is that old man opposite?” asked Lionel of the agricultural

labourer to whom he had been talking. “I don’t think I know his face.”

 

“No, sir,” answered the farm-labourer; “he don’t belong to these parts.

Gaffer Hayfield brought ‘un. I suppose as how he’s a relation of

Gaffer’s. It seems a bit of a liberty, sir; but Gaffer Hayfield always

war a cool hand.”

 

“I don’t think it a liberty, William. If the man is a relation of

Hayfield’s, there is no reason why he should not be here with the

Gaffer,” answered Lionel, good-naturedly, “I am glad to Bee that he is

enjoying his dinner.”

 

“Yes, sir,” replied the farm-labourer, with a grin; “he seems to have

an oncommon good twist of his own, wheresoever he belongs to.”

 

No more was said about the strange guest—who was an old man, with very

white hair, which hung low over his eyebrows; and very white whiskers,

which almost covered his cheeks. He had a queer, bird-like aspect, and

a nose that was as sharp as the beak of any of the rooks cawing

hoarsely amongst the elms of Hallgrove that snowy Christmas-day.

 

After the dinner in the old hall, Lionel Dale and his guests returned

to their own quarters; Mrs. Mordaunt and the three younger ladies

walked in the grounds, with Douglas Dale and Sir Reginald Eversleigh in

attendance upon them.

 

Miss Graham was the last woman in the world to forget that the income

of Douglas Dale was almost as large as that of his brother, the rector;

and that in this instance she might have two strings to her bow. She

contrived to be by the side of Douglas as they walked in the

shrubberies, and lingered on the rustic bridge across the river; but

she had not been with him long before she perceived that all her

fascinations were thrown away upon him; and that, attentive and polite

though he was, his heart was far away.

 

It was indeed so. In that pleasant garden, where the dark evergreens

glistened in the red radiance of the winter sunset, Douglas Dale’s

thoughts wandered away from the scene before him to the lovely Austrian

woman—the fair widow, whose life was so strange a mystery to him; the

woman whom he could neither respect nor trust; but whom, in spite of

himself, he loved better than any other creature upon earth.

 

“I had rather be by her side than here,” he said to himself. “How is

she spending this season, which should be so happy? Perhaps in utter

loneliness; or in the midst of that artificial gaiety which is more

wretched than solitude.”

 

*

 

The rector of Hallgrove and his guests assembled in the old-fashioned

drawing-room of the manor-house rectory at seven o’clock on that snowy

Christmas-night. The snowflakes fell thick and fast as night closed in

upon the gardens and shrubberies, the swift-flowing river, and distant

hills.

 

The rectory drawing-room, beautified by the soft light of wax-candles,

and the rich hues of flowers, was a pleasant picture—a picture which

was made all the more charming by the female figures which filled its

foreground.

 

Chief among these, and radiant with beauty and high spirits, was Lydia

Graham.

 

She had contrived to draw Lionel Dale to her side. She was seated by a

table scattered with volumes of engravings, and he was bending over her

as she turned the leaves.

 

Her smiles, her flatteries, her cleverly simulated interest in the

rector’s charities and pensioners, had exercised a considerable

influence upon him—an influence which grew stronger with every hour.

There was a sweetness and simplicity in the manners of the two Misses

Mordaunt which pleased him; but the country-bred girls lost much by

contrast with the brilliant Lydia.

 

“I hope you are going to give us a real old-fashioned Christmas

evening, Mr. Dale,” said Miss Graham.

 

“I don’t quite know what you mean by an old-fashioned Christmas

evening.”

 

“Nor am I quite clear as to whether I know what I mean myself,”

answered the young lady, gaily. “I think, after dinner, we ought to sit

round that noble old fireplace and tell stories, ought we not?”

 

“Yes, I believe that is the sort of thing,” replied the rector. “For my

own part, I am ready to be Miss Graham’s slave for the whole of the

evening; and in that capacity will hold myself bound to perform her

behests, however tyrannical she may be.”

 

When dinner was announced, Lionel Dale was obliged to leave the

bewitching Lydia in order to offer his arm to Mrs. Mordaunt, while that

young lady was fain to be satisfied with the escort of the disinherited

Sir Reginald Eversleigh.

 

At the dinner-table, however, she found herself seated on the left hand

of her host; and she took care to secure to herself the greater share

of his attention during the progress of dinner.

 

Gordon Graham watched his sister from his place near the foot of the

table, and was well satisfied with her success.

 

“If she plays her cards well she may sit at the head of this table next

Christmas-day,” he said to himself.

 

After less than half-an-hour’s interval, the gentlemen followed the

ladies into the drawing-room, and the usual musical evening set in.

Lydia Graham had nothing to fear from comparison with the Misses

Mordaunt. They were tolerable performers. She was a brilliant

proficient in music, and she had the satisfaction of observing that

Lionel Dale perceived and appreciated her superiority. She could

afford, therefore, to be as amiable to the girls as she was captivating

to the gentlemen.

 

The Misses Mordaunt were singing a duet, when a servant entered, and

approached Lionel Dale.

 

“There is a person in the hall who asks to see you, sir,” said the man,

“on most particular business.”

 

“What kind of person?” asked the rector.

 

“Well, sir, she looks like an old gipsy woman.”

 

“A gipsy woman! The gipsies about here do not bear the best character.”

 

“No, sir,” replied the man. “I bore that in mind, sir, with a view to

the plate, and I told John Andrew to keep an eye upon her while I came

to speak to you; and John Andrew is keeping an eye upon her at this

present moment, sir.”

 

“Very good, Jackson. You can tell the gipsy woman that, if she needs

immediate help of any kind, she can apply in the village, to Rawlins,

but that I cannot see her to-night.”

 

“Yes, sir.”