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

For the first time since he had known her, the voice of the woman

he loved, seemed to him to have a false sound in its clear, ringing

tones.

 

An icy terror suddenly took possession of his mind.

 

What if this woman—this woman, whom he loved with such intense

affection—what if she were something other than she seemed! What if

her heart had never been his—her love never withdrawn from the

reprobate upon whom she had once bestowed it! What if her tender

glances, her affectionate words, her graceful, caressing manner, were

all a comedy, of which he was the dupe! What if—

 

“I am the victim of treachery,” he thought to himself; “but the traitor

cannot be here. Oh, no, no! let me find the traitor anywhere rather

than here.”

 

Paulina watched her lover as he sat with his eyes fixed on the ground,

absorbed in gloomy meditation.

 

Presently he looked up suddenly, and addressed her.

 

“I am going on a journey, Paulina, on business,” he said; “business,

which I can only transact myself. I shall, therefore, be compelled to

be absent from you for a week; it may be even more. Perhaps we shall

never meet again. Will that be very distressing to you?”

 

“Douglas,” exclaimed Paulina, “how strangely you speak to me to-night!

If this is a jest, it is a very cruel one.”

 

“It is no jest, Paulina,” answered her lover. “Life is very precarious,

and within the last week I have learnt to consider my existence in

imminent peril.”

 

“You are ill, Douglas,” said Paulina; “and illness has unnerved you.

Pray do not give way to these depressing thoughts. Consult some other

physician than the man who is now your adviser.”

 

“Yes, yes; I will do so,” answered Douglas, with, a sudden change of

tone; “you are right, Paulina. I will not be so weak as to become the

prey of these distressing fancies, these dark forebodings. What have I

to fear? Death is no terrible evil. It is but the common fate of all. I

can face that common doom as calmly as a Christian should face it. But

deceit, treachery, falsehood from those we love—those are evils far

more terrible than death. Oh, Paulina! tell me that I have no need to

fear those?”

 

“From whom should you fear them, Douglas!”

 

“Aye, from whom, that is the question! Not from you, Paulina?”

 

“From me!” she echoed, with a look of wonder. “Are you mad?”

 

“Swear—swear to me that there is no falsehood in your heart, Paulina;

that you love me as truly as you have taught me to believe; that you

have not beguiled me with false words, as false as they are sweet!”

cried the young man, in wild excitement.

 

“My dear Douglas, this is madness!” exclaimed Madame Durski; “folly too

wild for reproof. This passionate excitement must be surely the effect

of fever. What can I say to you except that I love you truly and

dearly; that my heart has been purified, my mind elevated by your

influence; that I have now no thought which is not known to you—no

hope that does not rest itself upon your love. You ought to believe

this, Douglas, for my every word, my every look, should speak the

truth, which I do not care to reiterate in protestations such as these.

It is too painful to me to be doubted by you.”

 

“And if I have wronged you, I am a base wretch,” said Douglas, in a low

voice.

 

Early the following morning he paid another visit to Dr. Westbrook.

 

“I will not trespass on your time this morning,” he said, after shaking

hands with the physician. “I have only come here in order to ask one

question. If the poison were discontinued for a week, would there be

any cessation of the symptoms?”

 

“There would,” replied the doctor. “Nature is quick to reassert

herself. But if you are about to test your butler, I should recommend

you to remain away longer than a week—say a fortnight.”

 

But it was not to test his old servant that Douglas Dale absented

himself from London, though he had allowed the physician to believe

that such was his intention. He started for Paris that night; but he

took Jarvis with him.

 

His health improved day by day, hour by hour, from the day of his

parting from Paulina Durski. The low fever had left him before he had

been ten days in Paris; the perpetual thirst, the wearisome debility,

left him also. He began to be his old self again; and to him this

recovery was far more terrible than the worst possible symptoms of

disease could have been, for it told him that the hidden foe who had

robbed him of health and strength, was to be found at Hilton House.

 

In that house there was but one person who would profit by Douglas

Dale’s death, and she would profit largely.

 

“She has never loved me,” he thought to himself. “She still loves

Reginald Eversleigh. My death will give her both fortune and liberty;

it will leave her free to wed the man she really loves.”

 

He no longer trusted his own love. He believed that he had been made

the dupe of a woman’s treachery; and that the hand which had so often

been pressed passionately to his lips, was the hand which, day by day,

had mingled poison with his cup, sapping his life by slow degrees.

Against the worldly wisdom of his friends he had opposed the blind

instinct of his love; and now that events conspired to condemn this

woman, he wondered that he could ever have trusted her.

 

At the end of a fortnight Douglas Dale returned from Paris, and went

immediately to Paulina. He believed that he had been the dupe of an

accomplished actress—the vilest and most heartless of women—and he

was now acting a part, in order to fathom the depth of her iniquity.

 

“Let me know her—let me know her in all her baseness,” he said to

himself. “Let me tax the murderess with her crime! and then, surely,

this mad love will be plucked for ever from my heart, and I shall find

peace far from the false syren whose sorcery has embittered my life.”

 

Douglas had received several letters from Paulina during his visit to

Paris—letters breathing the most devoted and disinterested love; but

to him every word seemed studied, every expression false. Those very

letters would, a few short weeks ago, have seemed to Douglas the

perfection of truth and artlessness.

 

He returned to England wondrously restored to health. Jarvis had been

his constant attendant in Paris, and had brought him every morning a

cup of coffee made by his own hands.

 

At the Temple, he found a note from Paulina, telling him that he was

expected hourly at Hilton House.

 

He lost no time in presenting himself. He endeavoured to stifle all

emotion—to conquer the impatience that possessed him; but he could

not.

 

Madame Durski was seated by one of the windows in the drawing-room when

Mr. Dale was announced.

 

She received her lover with every appearance of affection, and with an

emotion which she seemed only anxious to conceal.

 

But to the jaundiced mind of Douglas Dale this suppressed emotion

appeared only a superior piece of acting; and yet, as he looked at his

betrothed, while she stood before him, perfect, peerless, in her

refined loveliness, his heart was divided by love and hate. He hated

the guilt which he believed was hers. He loved her even yet, despite

that guilt.

 

“You are very pale, Douglas,” she said after the first greetings were

over. “But, thank heaven, there is a wonderful improvement. I can see

restored health in your face. The fever has gone—the unnatural

brightness has left your eyes. Oh, dearest, how happy it makes me to

see this change! You can never know what I suffered when I saw you

drooping, day by day.”

 

“Yes, day by day, Paulina,” answered the young man, gravely. “It was a

gradual decay of health and strength—my life ebbing slowly—almost

imperceptibly—but not the less surely.”

 

“And you are better, Douglas? You feel and know yourself that there is

a change?”

 

“Yes, Paulina. My recovery began in the hour in which I left London. My

health has improved from that time.”

 

“You required change of air, no doubt. How foolish your doctor must

have been not to recommend that in the first instance! And now that

you have returned, may I hope to see you as often as of old? Shall we

renew all our old habits, and go back to our delightful evenings?”

 

“Were those evenings really pleasant to you, Paulina?” asked Mr. Dale,

earnestly.

 

“Ah, Douglas, you must know they were!”

 

“I cannot know the secrets of your heart, Paulina,” he replied, with

unspeakable sadness in his tone. “You have seemed to me all that is

bright, and pure, and true. But how do I know that it is not all

seeming? How do I know that Reginald Eversleigh’s image may not still

hold a place in your heart?”

 

“You insult me, Douglas!” exclaimed Madame Durski, with dignity. “But I

will not suffer myself to be angry with you on the day of your return.

I see your health is not entirely restored, since you still harbour

these gloomy thoughts and unjust suspicions.”

 

His most searching scrutiny could perceive no traces of guilt in the

lovely face he looked at so anxiously. For a while his suspicions were

almost lulled to rest. That soft white hand, which glittered with gems

that had been his gift, could not be the hand of an assassin.

 

He began to feel the soothing influence of hope. Night and day he

prayed that he might discover the innocence of her he so fondly loved.

But just as he had begun to abandon himself to that sweet influence,

despair again took possession of him. All the old symptoms—the fever,

the weakness, the unnatural thirst, the dry, burning sensation in his

throat—returned; and this time Jarvis was far away. His master had

sent him to pay a visit to a married daughter, comfortably settled in

the depths of Devonshire.

 

Douglas Dale went to one of the most distinguished physicians in London.

He was determined to consult a new adviser, in order to discover

whether the opinion of that other adviser would agree with the opinion

of Dr. Harley Westbrook.

 

Dr. Chippendale, the new physician, asked all the questions previously

asked by Dr. Westbrook, and, after much deliberation, he informed his

patient, with all proper delicacy and caution, that he was suffering

from the influence of slow poison.

 

“Is my life in danger, Dr. Chippendale?” he asked.

 

“Not in immediate danger. The poison has evidently been administered in

infinitesimal doses. But you cannot too soon withdraw yourself from all

those who now surround you. Life is not to be tampered with. The

poisoner may take it into his head to increase the doses.”

 

Douglas Dale left his adviser after a long conversation. He then went

to take his farewell of Paulina Durski.

 

There was no longer the shadow of doubt in his mind. The horrible

certainty seemed painfully clear to him. Love must be plucked for ever

from his breast, and only contempt and loathing must remain where that

divine sentiment had been enthroned.

 

Since his interview with the physician, he had carefully recalled to

memory all the details of his life in Paulina’s society.

 

She had given him day by day an allotted portion of poison.

 

How had she administered it?

 

This was the question