Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  The scheming beauty’s heart thrilled with a sense of triumph. She thought that she had at last made a conquest that might be better worth the making than any of those past conquests, which had all ended in such bitter disappointments.

  She looked at Lady Eversleigh with flashing eyes, as she remembered that by the subjugation of this empty-headed young nobleman she might attain a higher position and greater wealth than that enjoyed by Sir Oswald’s envied wife.

  “As Lady Sumner Howden, I could look down upon the mistress of Raynham Castle,” she thought. “As Countess of Vandeluce, I should take precedence of nobler women than Lady Eversleigh.”

  The day waned. The revellers lingered long over the splendid collation, served in a marquee which had been sent from York for the occasion. The banquet seemed a joyous one, enlivened by the sound of laughter, the popping of champagne corks, the joyous talk that emanated alike from the really light-hearted and those whose gaiety is only a mockery and a sham. The sun was sloping westward when Lady Eversleigh arose, absent and despondent, to give the signal for the withdrawal of the ladies.

  As she did so, she looked to the other end of the marquee — to the table where her husband had been seated. To her surprise, his place was empty.

  Throughout the whole day Honoria had been a prey to gloomy forebodings. The estrangement between herself and her husband was so unexpected, so inexplicable, that she was powerless to struggle against the sense of misery and bewilderment which it had occasioned in her mind.

  Again and again she asked herself what had she done to offend him; again and again she pondered over the smallest and most insignificant actions — the lightest words — of the past few weeks, in order to discover some clue to the mystery of Sir Oswald’s altered conduct.

  But the past afforded her no such clue. She had said nothing, she had done nothing, which could offend the most sensitive of men.

  Then a new and terrible light began to dawn upon her. She remembered her wretched extraction — the pitiable condition in which the baronet had discovered her, and she began to think that he repented of his marriage. “He regrets his folly, and I am hateful in his eyes,” thought Honoria, “for he remembers my degraded position — the mystery of my past life. He has heard sneering words and cruel innuendoes fall from the lips of his fashionable friends, perhaps; and he is ashamed of his marriage. He little knows how gladly I would release him from the tie that binds us — if, indeed, it has grown hateful to him.” Thus musing and wandering alone, in one of the forest pathways — for she had outstripped her guests, and sought a little relief for her overwrought spirits, constrained to the courtesies of her position for the moment — she scarcely knew whither, she came presently upon a group of grooms, who were lounging before a rough canvas tent, which had been erected for the accommodation of the horses.

  “Is ‘Orestes’ in that tent, Plummer?” she asked of the old groom who generally attended her in her rides and drives.

  “No, my lady, Sir Oswald had him saddled a quarter of an hour ago, and rode him away.”

  “Sir Oswald has gone away!”

  “Yes, my lady. He got a message, I think, while he was sitting at dinner, and he rode off as fast as he could go, across th’ moor — it’s the nighest way to the castle, you know, my lady; though it ain’t the pleasantest.”

  Honoria grew very uneasy. What was the meaning of this sudden departure?

  “Do you know who brought the message from Raynham?” she asked the groom.

  “No, indeed, my lady. I don’t even know for sure and certain that the message was from Raynham. I only guess as much.”

  “Why did not Sir Oswald take you with him?”

  “I can’t say, my lady. I asked master if I wasn’t to go with him, and he said, ‘No, he would rather be alone.’” This was all that Honoria could learn from the groom. She walked back towards the marquee, whence the sound of voices and laughter grew louder as the sun sank across the broad expanse of moorland.

  The ladies of the party had gathered together on a broad patch of velvet greensward, near the oak thicket where the band was stationed. Here the younger members of the party were waltzing merrily to the accompaniment of one of Strauss’s sweetest waltzes; while the elders sat here and there on camp-stools or fallen logs of trees, and looked on, or indulged in a little agreeable gossip.

  Honoria Eversleigh made her way unobserved to the marquee, and approached one of the openings less used and less crowded than the others. Here she found a servant, whom she sent into the marquee with a message for Mr. Eversleigh, to inquire if he could explain Sir Oswald’s sudden departure.

  The man entered the tent, in obedience to his mistress; and Lady Eversleigh seated herself on a camp-stool, at a little distance, awaiting the issue of her message.

  She had been waiting only a few moments, when she saw Victor Carrington approaching her hurriedly — not from the marquee, but from the pathway by which she herself had come. There was an unwonted agitation about his manner as he approached her, which, in her present state of nervous apprehension, filled her with alarm.

  She went to meet him, pale and trembling.

  “I have been looking for you everywhere, Lady Eversleigh,” he said, hurriedly.

  “You have been looking for me? Something has happened then-Sir Oswald—”

  “Yes, it is, unhappily, of Sir Oswald I have to speak.”

  “Speak quickly, then. What has happened? You are agonizing me, Mr.

  Carrington — for pity’s sake, speak! Your face fills me with fear!”

  “Your fears are, unhappily, too well founded. Sir Oswald has been thrown from his horse, on his way across the moor, and lies dangerously hurt, at the ruins of Yarborough Tower — that black building on the edge of the moor yonder. A lad has just brought me the tidings.”

  “Let me go to him — for heaven’s sake, let me go at once! Dangerously hurt — he is dangerously hurt, you say?”

  “I fear so, from the boy’s account.”

  “And we have no medical man among our company. Yes; you are a surgeon — you can be of assistance.”

  “I trust so, my dear Lady Eversleigh. I shall hurry to Sir Oswald immediately, and in the meantime they have sent from the tower for medical help.”

  “I must go to him!” said Honoria, wildly. “Call the servants, Mr.

  Carrington! My carriage — this moment!”

  She could scarcely utter the words in her excitement. Her voice had a choking sound, and but for the surgeon’s supporting arm she must have fallen prone on the grass at his feet.

  As she clung to his arm, as she gasped out her eager entreaties that he would take her to her husband, a faint rustling stirred the underwood beneath some sycamores at a little distance, and curious eyes peered through the foliage.

  Lydia Graham had happened to stroll that way. Her curiosity had been excited by the absence of Lady Eversleigh from among her guests, and, being no longer occupied by her flirtation with the young viscount, she had set out in search of the missing Honoria.

  She was amply rewarded for her trouble by the scene which she beheld from her hiding-place among the sycamores.

  She saw Victor and Lady Eversleigh talking to each other with every appearance of agitation; she saw the baronet’s wife clinging, in some wild terror, to the arm of the surgeon; and she began to think that Honoria Eversleigh was indeed the base and guilty wretch she would fain have represented her.

  Lydia Graham was too far from the two figures to hear a word that was spoken. She could only watch their gestures, and draw her own inferences therefrom.

  “My carriage, Mr. Carrington!” repeated Honoria; “why don’t you call the servants?”

  “One moment, Lady Eversleigh,” said the surgeon, calmly. “You must remember, that on such an occasion as this, there is nothing so important as presence of mind — self-command. If I alarm your servants, all the guests assembled here will take the alarm; and they will rush helter-skelter to Yarborough Tower, to tes
tify their devotion to Sir Oswald, and to do him all the harm they possibly can. What would be the effect of a crowd of half-drunken men, clustering round him, with their noisy expressions of sympathy? What I have to propose is this: I am going to Sir Oswald immediately in my medical capacity. I have a gig and horse ready, under that group of fir-trees yonder — the fastest horse and lightest vehicle I could find. If you will trust yourself in that vehicle behind that horse, I will drive you across the moor, and we shall reach the ruins in half an hour. Have you courage to come with me thus, Lady Eversleigh, quietly, unobserved by any one? — or will you wait for your barouche; and wait until the revellers yonder are all ready to start with you?”

  The voices came loudly from the marquee as the surgeon spoke; and

  Honoria felt that he spoke wisely.

  “You are right,” she said; “these people must know nothing of the accident until my husband is safely back at Raynham. But you had better go and tell Plummer, the groom, to send the barouche after us. A carriage will be wanted to convey Sir Oswald from the tower, if he is fit to be moved.”

  “True,” answered Victor; “I will see to it.”

  “And quickly!” cried Lady Eversleigh; “go quickly, I implore. You will find me by the fir-trees when you return, ready to start with you! Do not waste time in words, Mr. Carrington. Remember, it is a matter of life and death.”

  Victor left her, and she walked to the little grove of firs, where she found the gig of which he had spoken, and the horse standing near it, ready harnessed, and with his bridle fastened to a tree.

  Two pathways led to this fir-grove — a lower and an upper — the upper completely screened by brushwood. Along this upper pathway, which was on the edge of a sloping bank, Lydia Graham made her way, careless what injury she inflicted on her costly dress, so eager was she to discover whither lady Eversleigh was going. Completely hidden from Honoria, though at only a few paces’ distance, Miss Graham waited to watch the proceedings of the baronet’s wife.

  She was mystified by the appearance of the gig and horse, stationed in this out-of-the-way spot. She was still more mystified when she saw Lady Eversleigh clasp her hands before her face, and stand for a few moments, motionless and statue-like, as if abandoned to despair.

  “What does it all mean?” Miss Graham asked herself. “Surely she cannot intend to elope with this Carrington. She may be wicked; but she cannot be so insane as to throw away wealth and position for the sake of this foreign adventurer.”

  She waited, almost breathless with excitement, crouching amongst the brushwood at the top of the woody bank, and looking downward towards the fir-grove, with watchful eyes. She had not to wait long. Victor appeared in a few minutes, out of breath from running.

  “Have you given orders about the carriage?”

  “Yes, I have given all necessary orders.”

  No more was said. Victor handed Lady Eversleigh into the vehicle, and drove away — slowly while they were still on the edge of the wood; but accelerating his pace as they emerged upon the moorland.

  “It is an elopement!” exclaimed Miss Graham, whose astonishment was unbounded. “It is an elopement! The infamous creature has gone off with that penniless young man. And now, Sir Oswald, I think you will have good reason to repent your fine romantic marriage with a base-born adventuress, whom nobody ever heard of until she burst forth upon the world as Lady Eversleigh of Raynham Castle.”

  Filled with the triumphant delight of gratified malice, Lydia Graham went back to the broad greensward by the Wizard’s Cave. The gentlemen had now left the marquee; the full moon was rising, round and yellow, on the horizon, like a great globe of molten gold. Preparations had already commenced for the return, and the younger members of the party were busy discussing the arrangements of the homeward drive.

  That moonlight drive was looked forward to as one of the chief pleasures of the excursion; it would afford such glorious opportunities for flirtation. It would enable romantic young ladies to quote so much poetry about the moon and the summer night, while poetically-disposed young gentlemen replied in the same strain. All was animation and excitement. The champagne and burgundy, the sparkling hock and moselle, which had been consumed in the marquee, had only rendered the majority of the gentlemen more gallant and agreeable; and softly-spoken compliments, and tender pressures of pretty little delicately-gloved hands, testified to the devotion of the cavaliers who were to escort the band of fair ones homeward.

  Lydia Graham hoped that she would be able to take up the thread of her flirtation with Lord Howden exactly where it had dropped when she had risen to leave the dinner-table. She had thought it even possible that, if she could secure a tête-à-tête drive home with the weak-brained young nobleman, she might lure him on until he made a formal proposal, from which he would find it no easy matter to recede; for Captain Graham was at his sister’s call, and was a gentleman of no very yielding temper where his own interests were at stake. He had long been anxious that his sister should make a wealthy marriage, for her debts and difficulties annoyed him; and he felt that if she were well married, he would be able to borrow money of her, instead of being pestered by her applications for assistance.

  Miss Graham was doomed to endure a disappointment. Lord Sumner Howden was one of the few gentleman upon whom iced champagne and moselle had produced anything but an exhilarating effect. He was dull and stupid, pallid and sleepy; like some great, greedy school-boy who has over-eaten himself, and is suffering the consequences of his gluttony.

  The fair Lydia had the mortification of hearing him tell one of the grooms to put him into a close carriage, where he could have a nap on his way home.

  Reginald Eversleigh took the lordling’s seat in the barouche, which was the first in the line of carriages for the homeward journey, in spite of Honoria’s entreaties to Victor Carrington. The young man was almost as dull and stupid, to all appearance, as Lord Sumner Howden; but, although he had been drinking deeply, intoxication had nothing to do with his gloomy silence.

  He knew that Carrington’s scheme had been ripening day by day; and he knew also that within a few hours the final blow was to be struck. He did not know the nature of that intended stroke of treachery; but he was aware that it would involve misery and humiliation for Sir Oswald, utter ruin and disgrace for Honoria. The very uncertainty as to the nature of the cruel plot made it all the more dreadful; and he waited with no very pleasant feelings for the development of his friend’s scheme.

  When all was ready for the start, it was discovered that “dear Lady Eversleigh” was missing. Servants were sent in every direction to search for her; but with no avail. Sir Oswald was also missed; but Plummer, the old groom, informed Mr. Eversleigh that his uncle had left some hours before; and as some of the party had seen the baronet leave the dinner-table, in compliance with a sudden summons, this occasioned little surprise.

  The next person missed was Victor Carrington. It was Lydia who drew attention to the fact of his absence.

  The party waited an hour, while search for Lady Eversleigh was renewed in every direction, while many of the guests expressed their fears that something must have happened to her — that she had wandered too far, and lost her way in the wood — or that she had missed her footing on the edge of one of the deep pools by the cavern, and had fallen into the water — or that she had been attacked by ruffians.

  But in due time it was discovered that Mr. Carrington had been seen to take a gig from amongst the vehicles; and a lad, who had been in charge of the gig and the horse belonging to it, told the other servants that Mr. Carrington had said he wanted the vehicle to drive Lady Eversleigh home. She was tired, Mr. Carrington had said, and wanted to go home quietly.

  This information was brought to Reginald by one of the upper servants; and the question of Lady Eversleigh’s disappearance being at once set at rest, the procession of carriages moved away in the moonlight.

  “It was really too bad of dear Lady Eversleigh to give us such unnecessary ala
rm,” said Lydia Graham.

  The lady who had taken the second place in the barouche agreed with this remark.

  “I never was more alarmed in my life,” she said. “I felt sure that something very dreadful must have happened.”

  “And to think that Lady Eversleigh should prefer going home in a gig,” said Lydia, maliciously; “for my part, I think a gig a most unpleasant vehicle.”

  The other lady whispered something about Lady Eversleigh’s humble extraction, and her ignorance of the usages of society.

  “You can’t wonder at it, my dear,” she murmured. “For my part, I was surprised to see her so much at her ease in her new position. But, you see, her ignorance has now betrayed her into a terrible breach of the proprieties. Her conduct is, to say the least of it, most eccentric; and you may depend, no one here will ever forget this ride home in a gig with that clever young surgeon. I don’t suppose Sir Oswald will very much approve of such conduct.”

  “Nor I,” said Lydia, in the same subdued tone. “Poor Sir Oswald! What could he expect when he disgraced himself by such a marriage?”

  Reginald Eversleigh leaned back in the carriage, with his arum folded, and his eyes fixed on vacancy, while the ladies gossipped in whispers.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER IX.

  ON YARBOROUGH TOWER.

  No sooner had Victor Carrington got completely clear of the wood, than he drove his horse at a gallop.

  The light gig swayed from side to side, and jolted violently several times on crossing some obstruction in the way.

  “You are not afraid?” asked Victor.

  “I am only afraid of delay,” answered Honoria, calmly; for by this time she had recovered much of her ordinary firmness, and was prepared to face her sorrow with at least outward tranquillity. “Tell me, Mr. Carrington, have you reason to think that my husband is in great danger?”