Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  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 arrangements for leaving the house of death.

  General Desmond declared his intention of remaining until after the funeral.

  “I may be of some use in watching the interests of my dear friend,” he said to Reginald Eversleigh. “There is only one person who will feel your uncle’s death more deeply than I shall, and that is poor old Copplestone. He is still in the castle, I suppose?”

  “Yes, he is confined to his rooms still by the gout.”

  Reginald Eversleigh was by no means pleased by the general’s decision. He would rather have been alone in the castle. It seemed as if his uncle’s old friend was inclined to take the place of master in the household. The young man’s pride revolted against the general’s love of dictation; and his fears — strange and terrible fears — made the presence of the general very painful to him.

  Joseph Millard had come to Reginald a little time after the discovery of the baronet’s death, and had told him the contents of the new will.

  “Master told us with his own lips that he had left you heir to the estates, sir,” said the valet. “There was no need for it to be kept a secret, he said; and we signed the will as witnesses — Peterson, the butler, and me.”

  “And you are sure you have made no mistake, Millard. Sir Oswald — my poor, poor uncle, said that?”

  “He said those very words, Mr. Eversleigh; and I hope, sir, now that you are master of Raynham, you won’t forget that I was always anxious for your interests, and gave you valuable information, sir, when I little thought you would ever inherit the estate, sir.”

  “Yes, yes — you will not find me ungrateful, Millard,” answered Reginald, impatiently; for in the terrible agitation of his mind, this man’s talk jarred upon him. “I shall reward you liberally for past services, you may depend upon it,” he added.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” murmured the valet, about to retire.

  “Stay, Millard,” said the young man. “You have been with my uncle twenty years. You must know everything about his health. Did you ever hear that he suffered from heart-disease?”

  “No, sir; he never did suffer from anything of the kind. There never was a stronger gentleman than Sir Oswald. In all the years that I have known him, I don’t recollect his having a day’s serious illness. And as to his dying of disease of the heart, I can’t believe it, Mr. Eversleigh.”

  “But in heart-complaint death is almost always sudden, and the disease is generally unsuspected until death r
eveals it.”

  “Well, I don’t know, sir. Of course the medical gentlemen understand such things; but I must say that I don’t understand Sir Oswald going off sudden like that.”

  “You’d better keep your opinions to yourself down stairs, Millard. If an idea of that kind were to get about in the servants’ hall, it might do mischief.”

  “I should be the last to speak, Mr. Eversleigh. You asked me for my opinion, and I gave it you, candid. But as to expressing my sentiments in the servants’ hall, I should as soon think of standing on my head. In the first place, I don’t take my meals in the servants’ hall, but in the steward’s room; and it’s very seldom I hold any communication whatever with under-servants. It don’t do, Mr. Eversleigh — you may think me ‘aughty; but it don’t do. If upper-servants want to be respected by under-servants, they must first respect themselves.”

  “Well, well, Millard; I know I can rely upon your discretion. You can leave me now — my mind is quite unhinged by this dreadful event.”

  No sooner had the valet departed than Reginald hurried from the castle, and walked across the garden to the gate by which he had encountered Victor Carrington on the previous day. He had no appointment with Victor, and did not even know if he were still in the neighbourhood; but he fancied it was just possible the surgeon might be waiting for him somewhere without the boundary of the garden.

  He was not mistaken. A few minutes after passing through the gateway, he saw the figure of the pedlar approaching him under the shade of the spreading beeches.

  “I am glad you are here,” said Reginald; “I fancied I might find you somewhere hereabouts.”

  “And I have been waiting and watching about here for the last two hours. I dared not trust a messenger, and could only take my chance of seeing you.”

  “You have heard of — of—”

  “I have heard everything, I believe.”

  “What does it mean, Victor? — what does it all mean?”

  “It means that you are a wonderfully lucky fellow; and that, instead of waiting thirty years to see your uncle grow a semi-idiotic old dotard, you will step at once into one of the finest estates in England.”

  “You knew, then, that the will was made last night?”

  “Well, I guessed as much.”

  “You have seen Millard?”

  “No, I have not seen Millard.”

  “How could you know of my uncle’s will, then? It was only executed last night.”

  “Never mind how I know it, my dear Reginald. I do know it. Let that be enough for you.”

  “It is too terrible,” murmured the young man, after a pause; “it is too terrible.”

  “What is too terrible?”

  “This sudden death.”

  “Is it?” cried Victor Carrington, looking full in his companion’s face, with an expression of supreme scorn. “Would you rather have waited thirty years for these estates? Would you rather have waited twenty years? — ten years? No, Reginald Eversleigh, you would not. I know you better than you know yourself, and I will answer for you in this matter. If your uncle’s life had lain in your open palm last night, and the closing of your hand would have ended it, your hand would have closed, Mr. Eversleigh, affectionate nephew though you be. You are a hypocrite, Reginald. You palter with your own conscience. Better to be like me and have no conscience, than to have one and palter with it as you do.”

  Reginald made no reply to this disdainful speech. His own weakness of character placed him entirely in the power of his friend. The two men walked on together in silence.

  “You do not know all that has occurred since last night at the castle,” said Reginald, at last; “Lady Eversleigh has reappeared.”

  “Lady Eversleigh! I thought she left Raynham yesterday afternoon.”

  “So it was generally supposed; but this morning she came into the hall, and demanded to be admitted to see her dead husband. Nor was this all. She publicly declared that he had been murdered, and accused me of the crime. This is terrible, Victor.”

  “It is terrible, and it must be put an end to at once.”

  “But how is it to be put an end to?” asked Reginald. “If this woman repeats her accusations, who is to seal her lips?”

  “The tables must be turned upon her. If she again accuses you, you must accuse her. If Sir Oswald were indeed murdered, who so likely to have committed the murder as this woman — whose hatred and revenge were, no doubt, excited by her husband’s refusal to receive her back, after her disgraceful flight? This is what you have to say; and as every one’s opinion is against Lady Eversleigh, she will find herself in rather an unpleasant position, and will be glad to hold her peace for the future upon the subject of Sir Oswald’s death.”

  “You do not doubt my uncle died a natural death, do you, Victor?” asked Reginald, with a strange eagerness. “You do not think that he was murdered?”

  “No, indeed. Why should I think so?” returned the surgeon, with perfect calmness of manner. “No one in the castle, but you and Lady Eversleigh, had any interest in his life or death. If he came to his end by any foul means, she must be the guilty person, and on her the deed must be fixed. You must hold firm, Reginald, remember.”

  The two men parted soon after this; but not before they had appointed to meet on the following day, at the same hour, and on the same spot. Reginald Eversleigh returned to the castle, gloomy and ill at ease, and on entering the house he discovered that the doctor from Plimborough had arrived during his absence, and was to remain until the following day, when his evidence would be required at the inquest.

  It was Joseph Millard who told him this.

  “The inquest! What inquest?” asked Reginald.

  “The coroner’s inquest, sir. It is to be held to-morrow in the great dining-room. Sir Oswald died so suddenly, you see, sir, that it’s only natural there should be an inquest. I’m sorry to say there’s a talk about his having committed suicide, poor gentleman!”

  “Suicide — yes — yes — that is possible; he may have committed suicide,” murmured Reginald.

  “It’s very dreadful, isn’t it, sir? The two doctors and Mr. Dalton, the lawyer, are together in the library. The body has been moved into the state bed-room.”

  The lawyer emerged from the library at this moment, and approached

  Reginald.

  “Can I speak with you for a few minutes, Mr. Eversleigh?” he asked.

  “Certainly.”

  He went into the library, where he found the two doctors, and another person, whom he had not expected to see.

  This was a country gentleman — a wealthy landed squire and magistrate — whom Reginald Eversleigh had known from his boyhood. His name was Gilbert Ashburne; and he was an individual of considerable importance in the neighbourhood of Raynham, near which village he had a fine estate.

  Mr. Ashburne was standing with his back to the empty fireplace, in conversation with one of the medical men, when Reginald entered the room. He advanced a few paces, to shake hands with the young man, and then resumed his favourite magisterial attitude, leaning against the chimney-piece, with his hands in his trousers’ pockets.

  “My dear Eversleigh,” he said, “this is a very terrible affair — very terrible!”

  “Yes, Mr. Ashburne, my uncle’s sudden death is indeed terrible.”

  “But the manner of his death! It is not the suddenness only, but the nature—”

  “You forget, Mr. Ashburne,” interposed one of the medical men, “Mr.

  Eversleigh knows nothing of the facts which I have stated to you.”

  “Ah, he does not! I was not aware of that. You have no suspicion of any foul play in this sad business, eh, Mr. Eversleigh?” asked the magistrate.

  “No,” answered Reginald. “There is only one person I could possibly suspect; and that person has herself given utterance to suspicions that sound like the ravings of madness.”

  “You mean Lady Eversleigh?” said the Raynham doctor.

  “Pardon m
e,” said Mr. Ashburne; “but this business is altogether so painful that it obliges me to touch upon painful subjects. Is there any truth in the report which I have heard of Lady Eversleigh’s flight on the evening of some rustic gathering?”

  “Unhappily, the report has only too good a foundation. My uncle’s wife did take flight with a lover on the night before last; but she returned yesterday, and had an interview with her husband. What took place at that interview I cannot tell you; but I imagine that my uncle forbade her to remain beneath his roof. Immediately after she had left him, he sent for me, and announced his determination to reinstate me in my old position as his heir. He would not, I am sure, have done this, had he believed his wife innocent.”

  “And she left the castle at his bidding?”

  “It was supposed that she left the castle; but this morning she reappeared, and claimed the right to remain beneath this roof.”

  “And where had she passed the night?”

  “Not in her own apartments. Of that I have been informed by her maid, who believed that she had left Raynham for good.”

  “Strange!” exclaimed the magistrate. “If she is guilty, why does she remain here, where her guilt is known — where she maybe suspected of a crime, and the most terrible of crimes?”

  “Of what crime?”

  “Of murder, Mr. Eversleigh. I regret to tell you that these two medical gentlemen concur in the opinion that your uncle’s death was caused by poison. A post-mortem examination will be made to-night.”

  “Upon what evidence?”

  “On the evidence of an empty glass, which is under lock and key in yonder cabinet,” answered the doctor from Plimborough; “and at the bottom of which I found traces of one of the most powerful poisons known to those who are skilled in the science of toxicology: and on the further evidence of diagnostics which I need not explain — the evidence of the dead man’s appearance, Mr. Eversleigh. That your uncle died from the effects of poison, there cannot be the smallest doubt. The next question to be considered is, whether that poison was administered by his own hand, or the hand of an assassin.”