Run to Earth — 22, Part 2 - Arch-Traitor Within, Arch-Plotter Without
* * * * * 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 fire-place 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."
The man departed; and the Misses Mordaunt finished their duet, and rose from the piano, to receive the usual thanks and acknowledgments from their hearers.
Again Miss Graham was asked to sing, and again she seated herself before the instrument, triumphant in the consciousness that she could excel the timid girls who had just left the piano.
But this time Lionel Dale did not place himself beside the instrument.
He stood near the door of the apartment, ready to receive the servant, if he should return with a second message from the gipsy woman.
The servant did return, and this time he begged his master to step outside the room before he delivered his message.
Lionel complied immediately, and followed the man into the corridor without.
"I was almost afraid to speak in there, sir," said the man, in an awe-stricken whisper; "folks have such ears.
The woman says she must see you, sir, and this very night.
It is a matter of life and death, she says."
"Then in that case I will see this woman.
Go into the drawing-room, Jackson, and tell Mrs. Mordaunt, with my compliments, that I find myself compelled to receive one of my parishioners; and that she and the other ladies must be so good as to excuse my absence for half an hour."
"Yes, sir."
The rector went to the hall, where, cowering by the fire, he found an old gipsy woman.
She was so muffled from head to foot in her garments of woollen stuff, strange and garish in colour, and fantastical in form, that it was almost impossible to discover what she really was like.
Her shoulders were bent and contracted as if with extreme age.
Loose tresses of gray hair fell low over her forehead.
Her skin was dark and tawny; and contrasted strangely with the gray hair and the dark lustrous eyes.
The gipsy woman rose as Lionel Dale entered the hall.
She bent her head in response to his kindly salutation; but she did not curtsey as before a superior in rank and station.
"Come with me, my good woman," said the rector, "and let me hear all about this very important business of yours."
He led the way to the library--a low-roofed but spacious chamber, lined from ceiling to floor with books.
A large reading-lamp, with a Parian shade, stood on a small writing-table near the fire, casting a subdued light on objects near at hand, and leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
A pile of logs burnt cheerily on the hearth.
On one side of the fire was the chair in which the rector usually sat; on the other, a large, old-fashioned, easy-chair.
"Sit down, my good woman," said the rector, pointing to the latter; "I suppose you have some long story to tell me."
He seated himself as he spoke, and leaned upon the writing-table, playing idly with a carved ivory paper-knife.
"I have much to say to you, Lionel Dale," answered the old woman, in a voice which had a solemn music, that impressed the hearer in spite of himself; "I have much to say to you, and it will be well for you to mark what I say, and be warned by what I tell you."
The rector looked at the speaker earnestly, and yet with a half-contemptuous smile upon his face.
She was seated in shadow, and he could only see the glitter of her dark eyes as the fitful light of the fire flashed on them.
There was something almost supernatural, it seemed to him, in the brilliancy of those eyes.
He laughed at himself for his folly in the next instant.
What was this woman but a vulgar impostor, who was doubtless trying to trade upon his fears in some manner or other?
"You have come here to give some kind of warning, then?"
he said, after a few moments of consideration.
"I have--a warning which may save your life--if you hear me patiently, and obey when you have heard."
"That is the cant of your class, my good woman; and you can scarcely expect me to listen to that kind of thing.
If you come here to me, hoping to delude me by the language with which you tell the country people their fortunes at fairs and races, the sooner you go away the better.
I am ready to listen to you patiently: if you need help, I am ready to give it you; but it is time and labour lost to practise gipsy jargon upon me."
"I need no help from you," cried the gipsy woman, scornfully; "I tell you again, I come here to serve you."
"In what manner can you serve me?
Speak out, and speak quickly!"
said Lionel; "I must return to my guests almost immediately."
"Your guests!"
cried the gipsy, with a mocking laugh; "pleasant guests to gather round your hearth at this holy festival-time.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh is amongst them, I suppose?"
"He is.
You know his name very well, it seems."
"I do."
"Do you know him?"
"Do _you_ know him, Lionel Dale?"
demanded the old woman with sudden intensity.
"I have good reason to know him--he is my first-cousin," answered the rector.
"You _have_ good reason to know him--a reason that you are ignorant of.
Shall I tell you that reason, Mr. Dale?"
"I am ready to hear what you have to say; but I must warn you that I shall be but little affected by it."
"Beware how you regard my solemn warning as the raving of a lunatic.
It is your life that is at stake, Lionel Dale--your life!
The reason you ought to know Reginald Eversleigh is, that in him you have a deadly enemy."
"An enemy!
My cousin Reginald, a man whom I never injured by deed or word in my life!
Has _he_ ever tried to injure me?"
"He has."
"How?"
"He schemed and plotted against you and others before your uncle Sir Oswald's death.
His dearest hope was to bring to pass the destruction of the will which left you five thousand a year."
"Indeed!
You seem familiar with my family history," exclaimed Lionel.
"I know the secrets of your family as well as I know those of my own."
"Then you pretend to be a sorceress?"
"I pretend to be nothing but your friend.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh has been your foe ever since the day which disinherited him and made you rich.
Your death would make him master of the wealth which you now enjoy; your death would give him fortune, position in the world--all which he most covets.
Can you doubt, therefore, that he wishes your death?"
"I cannot believe it!"
cried Lionel Dale; "it is too horrible.
What!
he, my first cousin!
he can profess for me the warmest friendship, and yet can wish to profit by my death!"
"He can do worse than that," said the gipsy woman, in an impressive voice; "he can try to compass your death!"
"No!
no!
no!"
cried the rector.
"It is not possible!"
"It is true.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh is a coward; but he is helped by one who knows no human weakness--whose cruel heart was never softened by one touch of pity--whose iron hand never falters.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh is little more than the tool of that man, and between those two there is ruin for you."
"Your words have the accent of truth," said the rector, after a long pause; "and yet their meaning is so terrible that I can scarcely bring myself to believe in them.
How is it that you, a stranger, are so familiar with the private details of my life?"
"Do not ask me that, Mr. Dale," replied the gipsy woman, sternly; "when a stranger comes to you to warn you of a great danger, accept the warning, and let your nameless friend depart unquestioned.
I have told you that an unseen danger menaces you.
I know not yet the exact form which that danger may take.
To-morrow I expect to know more."
"I can pledge myself to nothing."
"As you will," answered the gipsy, proudly.
"I have done my duty.
The rest is with Providence.
If in your blind obstinacy you disregard my warning, I cannot help it.
Will you, for your own sake, not for mine, let me see you to-morrow; or will you promise to see anyone who shall ask to see you, in the name of the gipsy woman who was here to-night?
Promise me this, I entreat you.
I have nothing to ask of you, nothing to gain by my prayer; but I do entreat you most earnestly to do this thing.
I am working in the dark to a certain extent.
I know something, but not all, and I may have learned much more by to-morrow.
I may bring or send you information then, which will convince you I am speaking the truth.
Stay, will you promise me this, for my sake, for the sake of justice?
You will, Mr. Dale, I know you will; you are a just, a good man.
You suspect me of practising upon you a vulgar imposition.
To-morrow I may have the power of convincing you that I have not done so.
You will give me the opportunity, Mr. Dale?"
The pleading, earnest voice, the mournful, dark eyes, stirred Lionel Dale's heart strangely.
An impulse moved him towards trust in this woman, this outcast,--curiosity even impelled him to ask her, in such terms as would ensure her compliance, for a full explanation of her mysterious conduct.
But he checked the impulse, he silenced the promptings of curiosity, sacrificing them to his ever-present sense of his professional and personal dignity.
While the momentary struggle lasted, the gipsy woman closely scanned his face.
At length he said coldly: "I will do as you ask.
I place no reliance on your statements, but you are right in asking for the means of substantiating them.
I will see you, or any one you may send to-morrow."
"You will be at home?"
she asked, anxiously.
"The hunt?"
"The hunt will hardly take place; the weather is too much against us," replied Lionel Dale.
"Except there should be a very decided change, there will be no hunt, and I shall be at home."
Having said this, Lionel Dale rose, with a decided air of dismissal.
The gipsy rose too, and stood unshrinkingly before him, as she said: "And now I will leave you.
Good night.
You think me a mad woman, or an impostor.
This is the second occasion on which you have misjudged me, Mr. Dale."
As the rector met the earnest gaze of her brilliant eyes, a strange feeling took possession of his mind.
It seemed to him, as if he had before encountered that earnest and profound gaze.
"I must have seen such a face in a dream," he thought to himself;
"where else but in a dream?"
The fancy had a powerful influence over him, and occupied his mind as he preceded the gipsy woman to the hall, and opened the door for her to pass out.
The snow had ceased to fall; the bright wintry moon rode high in the heaven, amidst black, hurrying clouds.
That cold light shone on the white range of hills sleeping beneath a shroud of untrodden snow.
On the threshold of the door the gipsy woman turned and addressed Lionel Dale-- "There will be no hunting while this weather lasts."
"None."
"Then your grand meeting of to-morrow will be put off?"
"Yes, unless the weather changes in the night."
"Once more, good night, Mr. Dale."
"Good night."
The rector stood at the door, watching the gipsy woman as she walked along the snow-laden pathway.
The dark figure moving slowly and silently across the broad white expanse of hidden lawn and flower-beds looked almost ghost-like to the eyes of the watcher.
"What does it all mean?"
he asked himself, as he watched that receding figure.
"Is this woman a common impostor, who hopes to enrich herself, or her tribe, by playing upon my fears?
She asked nothing of me to-night; and yet that may be but a trick of her trade, and she may intend to extort all the more from me in the future.
What should she be but a cheat and a trickster, like the rest of her race?"
The question was not easy to settle.
He returned to the drawing-room.
His mind had been much disturbed by this extraordinary interview, and he was in no humour for empty small-talk; nor was he disposed to meet Reginald Eversleigh, against whom he had received so singular, so apparently groundless, a warning.
He tried to shake off the feeling which he was ashamed to acknowledge to himself.
He re-entered the drawing-room, and he saw Miss Graham's face light up with sudden animation as she saw him.
He was not skilled in the knowledge of a woman's heart, and he was flattered by that bright look of welcome.
He was already half-enmeshed in the web which she had spread for him, and that welcoming smile did much towards his complete subjugation.
He went to a seat near the fascinating Lydia.
Between them there was a chess-table.
Lydia laid her jewelled hand lightly on one of the pieces.
"Would you think it very wicked to play a game of chess on a Christmas evening, Mr. Dale?"
she asked.
"Indeed, no, Miss Graham.
I am one of those who can see no sinfulness in any innocent enjoyment."
"Shall we play, then?"
asked Lydia, arranging the pieces.
"If you please."
They were both good players, and the game lasted long.
But ever and anon, while waiting for Lydia to move, Lionel glanced towards the spot where Sir Reginald Eversleigh stood, engaged in conversation with Gordon Graham and Douglas Dale.
If the rector himself had known no blot on the character of Reginald Eversleigh, the gipsy's words would not have had a feather's weight with him; but Lionel did know that his cousin's youth had been wild and extravagant, and that he, the beloved, adopted son, the long-acknowledged heir of Raynham, had been disinherited by Sir Oswald--one of the best and most high-principled of men.
Knowing this, it was scarcely strange if Lionel Dale was in some degree influenced by the gipsy's warning.
He scanned the face of his cousin with a searching gaze.
It was a handsome face--almost a perfect face; but was it the face of a man who might be trusted by his fellow-men?
A careworn face--handsome though it was.
There was a nervous restlessness about the thin lips, a feverish light in the dark blue eyes.
More than once during the prolonged encounter at chess, Reginald Eversleigh had drawn aside one of the window-curtains, to look out upon the night.
Mr. Mordaunt, a devoted lover of all field-sports, was also restless and uneasy about the weather, peeping out every now and then, and announcing, in a tone of disappointment, the continuance of the frost.
In Mr. Mordaunt this was perfectly natural; but Lionel Dale knew that his cousin was not a man who cared for hunting.
Why, then, was he so anxious about the meet which was to have taken place to-morrow?
His anxiety evidently was about the meet; for after looking out of the window for the third time, he exclaimed, with an accent of triumph-- "I congratulate you, gentlemen; you may have your run to-morrow.
It no longer freezes, and there is a drizzling rain falling."
Mr. Mordaunt ran out of the drawing-room, and returned in about five minutes with a radiant face.
"I have been to look at the weathercock in the stable-yard," he said;
"Sir Reginald Eversleigh is quite right.
The wind has shifted to the sou'-west; it is raining fast, and we may have our sport to-morrow."
Lionel Dale's eyes were fixed on the face of his cousin as the country squire made this announcement.
To his surprise, he saw that face blanch to a death-like whiteness.
"To-morrow!"
murmured Sir Reginald, with a sigh.
* * * * * CHAPTER XXIII.
