Run to Earth — 28 - Preparing the Ground, 29 - At Watch

PREPARING THE GROUND.

Black Milsom made his appearance in the little village of Raynham immediately after Lady Eversleigh's departure from the castle.

But on this occasion it would have been very difficult for those who had seen him at the date of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's funeral to recognize, in the respectable-looking, well-dressed citizen of to-day, the ragged tramp of that period.

While Honoria Eversleigh was living under a false name in Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road, the man who called himself her father, established himself in a little river-side public-house, under the shadow of Raynham Castle.

The house in question had never borne too good a character; and its reputation was in nowise improved when, on the death of its owner, it passed into the custody of Mr. Milsom, who came down to Raynham one November morning, almost immediately after Lady Eversleigh's departure, saw the "Cat and Fiddle" public-house vacant, and went straight to the attorney who had the letting of it, to offer himself as a tenant, announcing himself to the lawyer as Thomas Maunders.

The attorney at first looked rather suspiciously at the gentleman who had earned for himself the ominous nickname of Black Milsom; but when the would-be tenant offered to pay a year's rent in advance down on the nail, the man of law melted, and took the money.

Thomas Milsom lost no time in taking possession of his new abode.

It was the haunt of the lower class of agricultural labourers, and of the bargemen, who moored their barges sometimes beneath the shadow of Raynham Bridge, while they dawdled away a few lazy hours in the village public-house.

Any one who had cared to study Mr. Milsom's face and manners during his residence at Raynham, would have speedily perceived that the life did not suit him.

He lounged at the door of the low-gabled cottage, looking out into the village street with a moody and sullen countenance.

He drank a great deal, and swore not a little, and led altogether as dissolute a life as it was possible to lead in that peaceful village.

No sooner had Mr. Milsom established himself at Raynham, than he made it his business to find out the exact state of affairs at the castle.

He contrived to entice one of the under-servants into his bar-parlour, and entertained the man so liberally, with a smoking jorum of strong rum-punch, that a friendly acquaintance was established between the two on the spot.

"There's nothing in my place you ain't welcome to, James Harwood," he said.

"You're uncommonly like a favourite brother of mine that died young of the measles; and I've taken a fancy to you on account of that likeness.

Come when you like, and as often as you like, and call for what you like; and there shan't be no talk of scores between you and me.

I'm a bitter foe, and a firm friend.

When I like a man there's nothing I couldn't do to prove my liking; when I hate him--" Here Mr. Milsom's speech died away into an ominous growl; and James Harwood, who was rather a timid young man, felt as if drops of cold water had been running down his back.

But the rum-punch was very nice;

and he saw no reason why he should refuse Mr. Milsom's offer of friendship.

He did drop in very often, having plenty of leisure evenings in which to amuse himself; and through him Thomas Milsom was enabled to become familiar with every detail of the household at Raynham Castle.

"No news of your lady, I suppose, Mr. Harwood?"

Milsom said to him one Sunday evening in January.

"Not coming home yet, I suppose?"

"No, Mr. Maunders," answered the groom; "not to my knowledge.

And as to news, there ain't anymore news of her than if she and Miss Payland had gone off to the very wildest part of Africa, where, if you feel lonesome, and want company, your only choice lies between tigers and rattlesnakes."

"Never mind Africa!

What was it that you were going to say about your lady?"

"Well, I was about to inform you," replied the groom, with offended dignity, "when you took me up so uncommon short as to prevent me--I was about to observe that, although we haven't received no news whatsoever from my lady direct, we have received a little bit of news promiscuous that is rather puzzling, in a manner of speaking."

"What is it?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Maunders," began James Harwood, with extreme solemnity, "it is given out that Lady Eversleigh is gone abroad to the Continent--wherever that place may be situated--and a very nice place I dare say it is, when you get there; and it is likewise given out that Miss Payland have gone with her."

"Well, what then?"

"I really wish you hadn't such a habit of taking people up short, Mr. Maunders," remonstrated the groom.

"I was on the point of telling you that our head-coachman had a holiday this Christmas; and where does he go but up to London, to see his friends, which live there; and while in London where does he go but to Drury Lane Theatre; and while coming out of Drury Lane Theatre who does he set his eyes on but Miss Payland, Lady Eversleigh's own maid, as large as life, and hanging on the arm of a respectable elderly man, which might be her father.

Our head-coachman warn't near enough to her to speak to her; and though he tried to catch her eye he couldn't catch it; but he'll take his Bible oath that the young woman he saw was Jane Payland, Lady Eversleigh's own maid.

Now, that's rather a curious circumstance, is it not, Mr. Maunders?"

"It is, rather," answered the landlord; "but it seems to me your mistress, Lady Eversleigh, is rather a strange person altogether.

It's a strange thing for a mother to run away to foreign parts--if she has gone to foreign parts--and leave her only child behind her."

"Yes; and a child she was so fond of too; that's the strangest part of the whole business," said the groom.

"I'm sure to see that mother and child together, you'd have thought there was no power on earth would part them; and yet, all of a sudden, my lady goes off, and leaves Miss Gertrude behind her.

But if Miss Gertrude was a royal princess, she couldn't be more watched over, or taken more care of, than she is.

To see Mrs. Morden, the governess, with her, you'd think as the little girl was made of barley-sugar, and would melt away with a drop of rain;

and to see Captain Copplestone with her, you'd think as she was the crown-jewels of England, and that everybody was on the watch to get the chance of stealing her."

Black Milsom smiled as the groom said this.

It was a grim smile, not by any means pleasant to see; but James Harwood was not an observer, and he was looking tenderly at his last spoonful of rum-punch, and wondering within himself whether Mr. Milsom was likely to offer him another glass of that delicious beverage.

"And pray what sort of a customer is Captain Copplestone?"

asked Milsom, thoughtfully.

"An uncommonly tough customer," replied James Harwood; "that's what he is.

If it wasn't for his rheumatic gout, he's a man that would be ready to fight the champion of England any day in the week.

There's very few things the captain wouldn't do in the way of downright pluck; but, you see, whatever pluck a man may have, it can't help him much when he's laid by the heels with the rheumatic gout, as the captain is very often."

"Ha!

and who takes care of little missy then?"

"Why, the captain.

He's like a watch-dog, and his kennel is at little missy's door.

That's what he says himself, in his queer way.

Miss Gertrude and her governess live in three handsome rooms in the south wing--my lady's own rooms--and the principal way to these rooms is along a wide corridor.

So what does the captain do when my lady goes away, but order a great iron door down from London, and has the corridor shut off with this iron door, bolted, and locked, and barred, so that the cleverest burglar that ever were couldn't get it open."

"But how do people get to the little girl's rooms, then?"

asked Thomas Milsom.

"Why, through a small bed-room, intended for Lady Eversleigh's maid;

and a little bit of a dressing-room, that poor Sir Oswald used to keep his boots, and hat-boxes, and such like in.

These rooms open on to the second staircase; and what does the captain do but have these two small rooms fitted up for hisself and his servant, Solomon Grundy, with a thin wooden partition, with little glass spy-holes in it, put across the two rooms, to make a kind of passage to the rooms beyond; so that night and day he can hear every footstep that goes by to Miss Gertrude's rooms.

Now, what do you think of such whims and fancies?"

"I think the captain must be stark staring mad," answered Milsom; but it was to be observed that he said this in rather an absent manner, and appeared to be thinking deeply.

"Oh no, he ain't," said James Harwood; "there ain't a sharper customer going."

And then, finding that the landlord of the "Cat and Fiddle" did not offer anything more in the way of refreshment, Mr. Harwood departed.

There was a full moon that January night, and when Mr. Milsom had attended to the wants of his customers, seen the last of them to the door a little before twelve o'clock, shut his shutters, and extinguished the lights, he stole quietly out of his house, went forth into the deserted street, and made his way towards the summit of the hill on which the castle stood, like an ancient fortress, frowning darkly upon the humble habitations beneath it.

He passed the archway and the noble gothic gates, and crept along by the fine old wall that enclosed the park, where the interlaced branches of giant oaks and beeches were white under the snow that had fallen upon them, and formed a picture that was almost like a scene in Fairyland.

He climbed the wall at a spot where a thick curtain of ivy afforded him a safe footing, and dropped softly upon the ground beneath, where the snow had drifted into a heap, and made a soft bed for him to fall on.

"There will be more snow before daylight to-morrow," he muttered to himself, "if I'm any judge of the weather; and there'll be no trace of my footsteps to give the hint of mischief."

He ran across the park, leaped the light, invisible fence dividing the park from the gardens, and crept cautiously along a shrubberied pathway, where the evergreens afforded him an impenetrable screen.

Thus concealed from the eyes of any chance watcher, he contrived to approach one end of the terraced slope which formed the garden front of the castle.

Each terrace was adorned with stone balustrades, surmounted by large vases, also of stone; and, sheltered by these vases, Milsom ascended to the southern angle of the great pile of building.

Seven lighted windows at this southern end of the castle indicated the apartments occupied by the heiress of Raynham and her eccentric guardian.

The lights burned but dimly, like the night-lamps left burning during the hours of rest; and Milsom had ascertained from Mr. Harwood that the household retired before eleven o'clock, at the latest.

The apartments occupied by the little girl were on the first floor.

The massive stone walls here were unadorned with ivy, nor were there any of those elaborate decorations in stonework which might have afforded a hold for the foot of the climber.

The bare stone wall frowned down upon Thomas Milsom, impregnable as the walls of Newgate itself.

"No," he muttered to himself, after a long and thoughtful scrutiny; "no man will ever get at those rooms from the outside; no, not if he had the power of changing himself into a cat or a monkey.

Whoever wants to have a peep at the heiress of Raynham must go through this valiant captain's chamber.

Well, well, I've heard of tricks played upon faithful watch-dogs before to-day.

There's very few things a man can't do, if he only tries hard enough; and I mean to be revenged upon my Lady Eversleigh!"

He paused for a few moments, standing close against the wall of the castle, sheltered by its black shadow, and looking down upon the broad domain beneath.

"And this is all hers, is it P--lands and houses; horses and carriages;

powdered footmen to fetch and carry for her; jewels to wear; plates and dishes of solid gold to eat her dinner off, if she likes!

All hers!

And she refuses me a few hundred pounds, and defies me, does she?

We'll see whether that's a safe game.

I've sworn to have my revenge, and I'll have it," he muttered, shaking his brawny fist, as if some phantom figure were standing before him in the wintry moonlight.

"I can afford to wait; I wouldn't mind waiting years to get it; but I'll have it, if I grow old and gray while I'm watching and plotting for it.

I'll be patient as Time, but I'll have it.

She has refused me a few hundreds, has she?

I'll see her there, on the ground at my feet, grovelling like a beaten dog, offering me half her fortune--all her fortune--her very life itself!

I'll humble her proud spirit!

I'll bring her grandeur down to the the dust.

She won't own me for a father, won't she!

Why, if I choose, she shall tramp barefoot through the mud after me, singing street-ballads in every town in England, and going round with my battered old hat to beg for halfpence afterwards.

I'll humble her!

I'll do it--I'll do it--as sure as there's a moon in the sky!"

CHAPTER XXIX. AT WATCH.

Sanguine as Victor Carrington had been, confidently as he had calculated upon the fascination which Paulina had exerted over Douglas Dale, he was not prepared for the news contained in Miss Brewer's promised letter, which reached him punctually, a few hours after Paulina had become the affianced wife of Douglas Dale.

This was indeed success beyond his hopes.

He had not expected this result for some days, at the very earliest, and the surprise and pleasure with which he learned it were almost equal.

Carrington did not believe in good; he absolutely distrusted and despised human nature, and he never dreamed of imputing Madame Durski's conduct to anything but coquetry and fickleness.

"She's on with the new love, beyond a doubt," said he to himself, as he read Miss Brewer's letter; "whether she's off with the old is quite another question, and rests with him rather than with her, I fancy."

Victor Carrington's first move was to present himself before Madame Durski on the following day, at the hour at which she habitually received visitors.

He took up the confidential conversation which they had had on the last occasion of their meeting, as if it had not been dropped in the interval, and came at once to the subject of Douglas Dale.

This plan answered admirably; Paulina was naturally full of the subject, and the ice of formalism had been sufficiently broken between her and Victor Carrington, to enable her to refer to the interview which had taken place between herself and Douglas Dale without any impropriety.

When she had done so, Carrington began to play his part.

He assured Paulina of his warm interest in her, of the influence which he possessed over Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and the fears which he entertained of some treacherous proceeding on Reginald's part which might place her in a most unpleasant position.

"Reginald has no real love for you," said Carrington; "he would not hesitate to sacrifice you to the meanest of his interests, but his vanity and his temper are such that it is impossible to calculate upon what sort of folly he may be guilty."

Paulina Durski was a thorough woman; and, therefore, having utterly discarded Reginald from her heart, having learned to substitute utter contempt for love, she was not averse to receiving any information, to learning any opinion, which tended to justify her change of feeling.

"What harm can he do me with Douglas?"

asked Paulina, in alarm.

"Who can tell that, Madame Durski?"

replied Carrington.

"But this is not to the purpose.

I don't pretend to be wholly disinterested in this matter.

I tell you plainly I am not so; it is very important to me that Sir Reginald should marry a woman of fortune, and should not marry you."

"He never had any intention of marrying me," said Paulina, hastily and bitterly.

"No, I don't believe he had; but he would have liked very well to have compromised you in the eyes of society, so that no other man would have married you, to have bragged of relations existing between you which never did exist, and to have effectually ruined your fortunes in any other direction than the gaming-table.

Now this I am determined he shall not do, and as I have more power over him than any one else, it lies with me to prevent it.

What that power springs from, or how I have hitherto exercised it, you need not inquire, Madame Durski; I only wish you to believe that I exercise it in this instance for your good, for your protection."

Paulina murmured some vague words of acknowledgment.

He continued-- "If Reginald Eversleigh knows I am here, constantly cognizant of the state of affairs, and prepared to act for your advantage, he will not dare to come here and compromise you by his violent and unreasonable jealousy; he will be forced--it is needless to explain how--to keep his envy and rage to himself, and to suppress the enmity with which he regards Douglas Dale.

Let me tell you, Madame Durski, Reginald's enmity is no trifling rock ahead in life, and your engaged lover has that rock to dread."

Paulina turned very pale.

"Save him from it, Mr. Carrington," she said, appealingly.

"Save him from it, and let me have a little happiness in this weary world, if such a thing there be."

"I will, Madame Durski," replied Victor.

"You have already done as I have counselled you, and you have no reason to regret the result."

The soft, dreamy smile of happy love stole over Paulina's face as she listened to him.

"Let me be here with you as much as possible, and you will have no reason to fear Reginald.

He is capable of anything, but he is afraid of me, and if he knows that I am determined to advance the marriage of yourself and Douglas Dale, he will not venture to oppose it openly.

But there is one condition which I must append to my frequent presence here"--he spoke as though he were conferring the greatest favour on her--"Mr. Dale must not know me as Victor Carrington."

With an expression in which there was something of the suspicious quickness which Miss Brewer had manifested when Carrington made a similar statement to her, Paulina asked him why.

Then Victor told her his version of the story of Honoria Eversleigh, the "unfortunate woman," whom Douglas Dale's unhappy and misguided uncle had raised to such undoubted rank and fortune, and the wild and absurd accusations the wretched woman had made against him.

"Mr. Dale never saw me," said Victor, "and I know not whether he was thoroughly aware of the absurdity, the insanity of this woman's accusations.

At all events, I don't wish to recall any unpleasantness to his mind, and therefore I venture to propose that I should visit here, and be introduced to him as Mr. Carton.

The fraud is a very harmless one; what do you say, Madame Durski?"

Paulina had her full share of the feminine love of mystery and intrigue, and she consented at once.

"What can the name matter," she thought, "if it is really necessary for this man to be here?"

"And there is another consideration which we must take into account," said Victor; "it is this.

Mr. Dale may not like to find any man established here, in the degree of intimacy to which (in your interests) I aspire; and therefore I propose, with your leave, to pass as a relation of Miss Brewer's--say, her cousin.

This will thoroughly account for my intimacy here.

What do you say, Madame Durski?"

"As you please," said Paulina, carelessly.

"I am sure you are right, Mr. Carrington--Carton, I mean, and I am sure you mean kindly and well by me.

But how odd it will seem to Charlotte and me, lonely creatures, waifs and derelicts as we have been so long, to have any one with whom we can claim even a pretended kinship!"

She spoke with a mingled bitterness and levity which have been painful to any man of right feelings, but which was pleasant to Victor Carrington, because it showed him how helpless and ignorant she was, how her mind had been warped, how ready a tool he had found in her.

When the interview between them came to an end, it had been arranged that Mr. Dale was to be introduced on the following day at Hilton House to Miss Brewer's cousin, Mr. Carton.

The introduction took place.

A very short time, well employed in close observation, sufficed to assure Victor that Douglas Dale was as much in love as any man need be to be certain of committing any number of follies, and that Paulina was a changed woman under the influence of the same soul-subduing sentiment which, though not so strong in her case, was assuming strength and intensity as each day taught her more and more of her lover's moral and intellectual excellence.

Douglas Dale was much pleased with Mr. Carton; and that gentleman did all in his power to render himself agreeable, and so far succeeded that, before the close of the evening, he had made a considerable advance towards establishing a very pleasant intimacy with Sir Reginald Eversleigh's cousin.

Victor Carrington, always an observant man, had peculiarly the air of being on the watch that day during dinner.

He noticed everything that Paulina ate and drank, and he took equal note of Miss Brewer's and Douglas Dale's choice of meats and wines.

Miss Brewer drank no wine, Paulina very little, and Douglas Dale exclusively claret.

When the dinner had reached its conclusion, a stand of liqueurs was placed upon the table, one of the few art-treasures left to the impoverished adventuress, rare and fragile Venetian flacons, and tiny goblets of opal and ruby glass.

These glasses were the especial admiration of Douglas Dale, and Paulina filled the ruby goblet with curaçoa.

She touched the edge of the glass playfully with her lips as she handed it to her lover; but Victor observed that she did not taste the liqueur.

"You do not affect curaçoa, madame?"

he asked, carelessly.

"No; I never take that, or indeed, any other liqueur."

"And yet you drink scarcely any wine?"

"No," replied Paulina, indifferently; "I take very little wine."

"Indeed!"

There was the faintest possible significance in Carrington's tone as he said this.

He had watched Madame Durski closely during dinner, and he had noted an excitement in her manner, a nervous vivacity, such as are generally inspired by something stronger than water.

And yet this woman had taken little else than water during the dinner.

And it was to be observed that the almost febrile gaiety which distinguished her manner this evening had been as apparent when she first entered the drawing-room as it was now.

This was a physiological or psychological enigma, extremely interesting to Mr. Carrington.

He was not slow to find a solution that was, in his opinion, sufficiently satisfactory.

"That woman takes opium in some form or other," he said to himself.

Miss Brewer did not touch the liqueur in question, and her cousin took Maraschino.

After a very short interval, Douglas Dale and his new friend rose to join the ladies.

They crossed the hall together, but as they reached the drawing-room door, Mr. Carrington discovered that he had dropped a letter in the dining-room, and returned to find it, first opening the drawing-room door that Dale might pass through it.

All was undisturbed in the dining-room; the table was just as they had left it.

Victor approached the table, took up the carafon containing curaçoa, and, holding it up to the light with one hand, poured the contents of a small phial into it with the other.

He watched the one liquid mingling with the other until no further traces of the operation were visible; and then setting the carafon softly down where he had found it, went smiling across the hall and joined the ladies.

CHAPTER XXX.