A FRIEND IN NEED.
While the new baronet abandoned himself to the anguish of disappointed
avarice and ambition, Honoria sat quietly in her own apartments,
brooding very sadly over her husband's death.
She had loved him honestly and truly. No younger lover had ever won
possession of her heart. Her life, before her meeting with Sir Oswald,
had been too miserable for the indulgence of the romantic dreams or
poetic fancies of girlhood. The youthful feelings of this woman, who
called herself Honoria, had been withered by the blasting influence of
crime. It was only when gratitude for Sir Oswald's goodness melted the
ice of that proud nature--it was then only that Honoria's womanly
tenderness awoke--it was then only that affection--a deep-felt and pure
affection--for the first time occupied her heart.
That affection was all the more intense in its nature because it was
the first love of a noble heart. Honoria had reverenced in her husband
all that she had ever known of manly virtue.
And he was lost to her! He had died believing her false.
"I could have borne anything but that," she thought, in her desolation.
The magistrate came to her, and explained the painful necessity under
which he found himself placed. But he did not tell her of the
destruction of the will, nor yet that the medical men had pronounced
decisively as to Sir Oswald's death. He only told her that there were
suspicious circumstances connected with that death; and that it was
considered necessary there should be a careful investigation of those
circumstances.
"The investigation cannot be too complete," replied Honoria, eagerly.
"I know that there has been foul play, and that the best and noblest of
men has fallen a victim to the hand of an assassin. Oh, sir, if you are
able to distinguish truth from falsehood, I implore you to listen to
the story which my poor husband refused to believe--the story of the
basest treachery that was ever plotted against a helpless woman!"
Mr. Ashburne declared himself willing to hear any statement Lady
Eversleigh might wish to make; but he warned her that it was just
possible that statement might be used against her hereafter.
Honoria told him the circumstances which she had related to Sir Oswald;
the false alarm about her husband, the drive to Yarborough Tower, and
the night of agony spent within the ruins; but, to her horror, she
perceived that this man also disbelieved her. The story seemed wild and
improbable, and people had already condemned her. They were prepared to
hear a fabrication from her lips; and the truth which she had to tell
seemed the most clumsy and shallow of inventions.
Gilbert Ashburne did not tell her that he doubted her; but, polite as
his words were, she could read the indications of distrust in his face.
She could see that he thought worse of her after having heard the
statement which was her sole justification.
"And where is this Mr. Carrington now to be found?" he asked,
presently. "I do not know. Having accomplished his base plot, and
caused his friend's restoration to the estates, I suppose he has taken
care to go far away from the scene of his infamy."
The magistrate looked searchingly at her face. Was this acting, or was
she ignorant of the destruction of the will? Did she, indeed, believe
that the estates were lost to herself?
* * * * *
Before the hour at which the coroner's inquest was to be held in the
great dining-room, Reginald Eversleigh and Victor Carrington met at the
appointed spot in the avenue of firs.
One glance at his friend's face informed Victor that some fatal event
had occurred since the previous day. Reginald told him, in brief,
passionate words, of the destruction of the will.
"You are a clever schemer, no doubt, Mr. Carrington," he added,
bitterly; "but clever as you are, you have been outwitted as completely
as the veriest fool that ever blundered into ruin. Do you understand,
Carrington--we are not richer by one halfpenny for all your scheming?"
Carrington was silent for awhile; but when, after a considerable pause,
he at length spoke, his voice betrayed a despair as intense in its
quiet depth as the louder passion of his companion.
"I cannot believe it," he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper. "I tell you,
man, you must, have made some senseless mistake. The will cannot have
been destroyed."
"I had the fragments in my hand," answered Reginald. "I saw my name
written on the worthless scrap of burnt paper. All that was left
besides that wretched fragment were the ashes in the grate."
"I saw the will executed--I saw it--within a few hours of Sir Oswald's
death."
"You saw it done?"
"Yes, I was outside the window of the library."
"And you--! oh, it is too horrible," cried Reginald.
"What is too horrible?"
"The deed that was done that night."
"That deed is no business of ours," answered Victor; "the person who
destroyed the will was your uncle's assassin, if he died by the hand of
an assassin."
"Do you really believe that, Carrington; or are you only fooling me?"
"What else should I believe?"
The two men parted. Reginald Eversleigh knew that his presence would be
required at the coroner's inquest. The surgeon did not attempt to
detain him.
For the time, at least, this arch-plotter found himself suddenly
brought to a stand-still.
The inquest commenced almost immediately after Reginald's return to the
castle.
The first witness examined was the valet, who had been the person to
discover the death; the next were the two medical men, whose evidence
was of a most important nature.
It was a closed court, and no one was admitted who was not required to
give evidence. Lady Eversleigh sat at the opposite end of the table to
that occupied by the coroner. She had declined to avail herself of the
services of any legal adviser. She had declared her determination to
trust in her own innocence, and in that alone. Proud, calm, and
self-possessed, she confronted the solemn assembly, and did not shrink
from the scrutinizing looks that met her eyes in every direction.
Reginald Eversleigh contemplated her with a feeling of murderous
hatred, as he took his place at some little distance from her seat.
The evidence of Mr. Missenden was to the effect that Sir Oswald
Eversleigh had died from the effects of a subtle and little-known
poison. He had discovered traces of this poison in the empty glass
which had been found upon the table beside the dead man, and he had
discovered further traces of the same poison in the stomach of the
deceased.
After the medical witnesses had both been examined, Peterson, the
butler, was sworn. He related the facts connected with the execution of
the will, and further stated that it was he who had carried the carafe
of water, claret-jug, and the empty glass to Sir Oswald.
"Did you fetch the water yourself?" asked the coroner.
"Yes, your worship--Sir Oswald was very particular about the water
being iced--I took it from a filter in my own charge."
"And the glass?"
"I took the glass from my own pantry."
"Are you sure that there was nothing in the glass when you took the
salver to you master?"
"Quite sure, sir. I'm very particular about having all my glass bright
and clear--it's the under butler's duty to see to that, and it's my
duty to keep him up to his work. I should have seen in a moment if the
glass had been dull and smudgy at the bottom."
The water remaining in the carafe had been examined by the medical
witnesses, and had been declared by them to be perfectly pure. The
claret had been untouched. The poison could, therefore, have only been
introduced to the baronet's room in the glass; and the butler protested
that no one but himself and his assistant had access to the place in
which the glass had been kept.
How, then, could the baronet have been poisoned, except by his own hand?
Reginald Eversleigh was one of the last witnesses examined. He told of
the interview between himself and his uncle, on the day preceding Sir
Oswald's death. He told of Lydia Graham's revelations--he told
everything calculated to bring disgrace upon the woman who sat, pale
and silent, confronting her fate.
She seemed unmoved by these scandalous revelations. She had passed
through such bitter agony within the last few days and nights, that it
seemed to her as if nothing could have power to move her more.
She had endured the shame of her husband's distrust. The man she loved
so dearly had cast her from him with disdain and aversion. What new
agony could await her equal to that through which she had passed.
Reginald Eversleigh's hatred and rage betrayed him into passing the
limits of prudence. He told the story of the destroyed will, and boldly
accused Lady Eversleigh of having destroyed it.
"You forget yourself, Sir Reginald," said the coroner; "you are here as
a witness, and not as an accuser."
"But am I to keep silence, when I know that yonder woman is guilty of a
crime by which I am robbed of my heritage?" cried the young man,
passionately. "Who but she was interested in the destruction of that
will? Who had so strong a motive for wishing my uncle's death? Why was
she hiding in the castle after her pretended departure, except for some
guilty purpose? She left her own apartments before dusk, after writing
a farewell letter to her husband. Where was she, and what was she
doing, after leaving those apartments?"
"Let me answer those questions, Sir Reginald Eversleigh," said a voice
from the doorway.
The young baronet turned and recognized the speaker. It was his uncle's
old friend, Captain Copplestone, who had made his way into the room
unheard while Reginald had been giving his evidence. He was still
seated in his invalid-chair--still unable to move without its aid.
"Let me answer those questions," he repeated. "I have only just heard
of Lady Eversleigh's painful position. I beg to be sworn immediately,
for my evidence may be of some importance to that lady."
Reginald sat down, unable to contest the captain's right to be heard,
though he would fain have done so.
Lady Eversleigh for the first time that day gave evidence of some
slight emotion. She raised her eyes to Captain Copplestone's bronzed
face with a tearful glance, expressive of gratitude and confidence.
The captain was duly sworn, and then proceeded to give his evidence, in
brief, abrupt sentences, without waiting to be questioned.
"You ask where Lady Eversleigh spent the night of her husband's death,
and how she spent it. I can answer both those questions. She spent that
night in my room, nursing a sick old man, who was mad with the tortures
of rheumatic gout, and weeping over Sir Oswald's refusal to believe in
her innocence.
"You'll ask, perhaps, how she came to be in my apartments on that
night. I'll answer you in a few words. Before leaving the castle she
came to my room, and asked my old servant to admit her. She had been
very kind and attentive to me throughout my illness. My servant is a
gruff and tough old fellow, but he is grateful for any kindness that's
shown to his master. He admitted Lady Eversleigh to see me, ill as I
was. She told me the whole story which she told her husband. 'He
refused to believe me, Captain Copplestone,' she said; 'he who once
loved me so dearly refused to believe me. So I come to you, his best
and oldest friend, in the hope that you may think better of me; and
that some day, when I am far away, and time has softened my husband's
heart towards me, you may speak a good word in my behalf.' And I did
believe her. Yes, Mr. Eversleigh--or Sir Reginald Eversleigh--I did,
and I do, believe that lady."
"Captain Copplestone," said the coroner; "we really do not require all
these particulars; the question is--when did Lady Eversleigh enter your
rooms, and when did she quit them?"
"She came to me at dusk, and she did not leave my rooms until the next
morning, after the discovery of my poor friend's death. When she had
told me her story, and her intention of leaving the castle immediately,
I begged her to remain until the next day. She would be safe in my
rooms, I told her. No one but myself and my old servant would know that
she had not really left the castle; and the next day, when Sir Oswald's
passion had been calmed by reflection, I should be able, perhaps, to
intercede successfully for the wife whose innocence I most implicitly
believed, in spite of all the circumstances that had conspired to
condemn her. Lady Eversleigh knew my influence over her husband; and,
after some persuasion, consented to take my advice. My diabolical gout
happened to be a good deal worse than usual that night, and my friend's
wife assisted my servant to nurse me, with the patience of an angel, or
a sister of charity. From the beginning to the end of that fatal night
she never left my apartments. She entered my room before the will could
have been executed, and she did not leave it until after her husband's
death."
"Your evidence is conclusive, Captain Copplestone, and it exonerates
her ladyship from all suspicion," said the coroner.
"My evidence can be confirmed in every particular by my old servant,
Solomon Grundy," said the captain, "if it requires confirmation."
"It requires none, Captain Copplestone."
Reginald Eversleigh gnawed his bearded lip savagely. This man's
evidence proved that Lady Eversleigh had not destroyed the will. Sir
Oswald himself, therefore, must have burned the precious document. And
for what reason?
A horrible conviction now took possession of the young baronet's mind.
He believed that Mary Goodwin's letter had been for the second time
instrumental in the destruction of his prospects. A fatal accident had
thrown it in his uncle's way after the execution of the will, and the
sight of that letter had recalled to Sir Oswald the stern resolution at
which he had arrived in Arlington Street.
Utter ruin stared Reginald Eversleigh in the face. The possessor of an
empty title, and of an income which, to a man of his expensive habits,
was the merest pittance, he saw before him a life of unmitigated
wretchedness. But he did not execrate his own sins and vices for the
misery which they had brought upon him. He cursed the failure of Victor
Carrington's schemes, and thought of himself as the victim of Victor
Carrington's blundering.
The verdict of the coroner's jury was an open one, to the effect that
"Sir Oswald Eversleigh died by poison, but by whom administered there
was no evidence to show."
The general opinion of those who had listened to the evidence was that
the baronet had committed suicide. Public opinion around and about
Raynham was terribly against his widow. Sir Oswald had been universally
esteemed and respected, and his melancholy end was looked on as her
work. She had been acquitted of any positive hand is his death; but she
was not acquitted of the guilt of having broken his heart by her
falsehood.
Her obscure origin, her utter friendlessness, influenced people against
her. What must be the past life of this woman, who, in the hour of her
widowhood, had not one friend to come forward to support and protect
her?
The world always chooses to see the darker side of the picture. Nobody
for a moment imagined that Honoria Eversleigh might possibly be the
innocent victim of the villany of others.
The funeral of Sir Oswald Eversleigh was conducted with all the pomp
and splendour befitting the burial of a man whose race had held the
land for centuries, with untarnished fame and honour. The day of the
funeral was dark, cold, and gloomy; stormy winds howled and shrieked
among the oaks and beeches of Raynham Park. The tall firs in the avenue
were tossed to and fro in the blast, like the funereal plumes of that
stately hearse which was to issue at noon from the quadrangle of the
castle.
It was difficult to believe that less than a fortnight had elapsed
since that bright and balmy day on which the picnic had been held at
the Wizard's Cave.
Lady Eversleigh had declared her intention of following her husband to
his last resting-place. She had been told that it was unusual for women
of the higher classes to take part in a funeral _cortège_; but she had
stedfastly adhered to her resolution.
"You tell me it is not the fashion!" she said to Mr. Ashburne. "I do
not care for fashion, I would offer the last mark of respect and
affection to the husband who was my dearest and truest friend upon this
earth, and without whom the earth is very desolate for me. If the dead
pass at once into those heavenly regions were Divine Wisdom reigns
supreme over all mortal weakness, the emancipated spirit of him who
goes to his tomb this day knows that my love, my faith, never faltered.
If I had wronged him as the world believes, Mr. Ashburne, I must,
indeed, be the most hardened of wretches to insult the dead by my
presence. Accept my determination as a proof of my innocence, if you
can."
"The question of your guilt or innocence is a dark enigma which I
cannot take upon myself to solve, Lady Eversleigh," answered Gilbert
Ashburne, gravely. "It would be an unspeakable relief to my mind if I
could think you innocent. Unhappily, circumstances combine to condemn
you in such a manner that even Christian charity can scarcely admit the
possibility of your innocence."
"Yes," murmured the widow, sadly, "I am the victim of a plot so
skilfully devised, so subtly woven, that I can scarcely wonder if the
world refuses to believe me guiltless. And yet you see that honourable
soldier, that brave and true-hearted gentleman, Captain Copplestone,
does not think me the wretch I seem to be.
"Captain Copplestone is a man who allows himself to be guided by his
instincts and impulses, and who takes a pride in differing from his
fellow-men. I am a man of the world, and I am unable to form any
judgment which is not justified by facts. If facts combine to condemn
you, Lady Eversleigh, you must not think me harsh or cruel if I cannot
bring myself to acquit you."
During the preceding conversation Honoria Eversleigh had revealed the
most gentle, the most womanly side of her character. There had been a
pleading tone in her voice, an appealing softness in her glances. But
now the expression of her face changed all at once; the beautiful
countenance grew cold and stern, the haughty lip quivered with the
agony of offended pride.
"Enough!" she said. "I will never again trouble you, Mr. Ashburne, by
entreating your merciful consideration. Let your judgment be the
judgment of the world. I am content to await the hour of my
justification; I am content to trust in Time, the avenger of all
wrongs, and the consoler of all sorrows. In the meanwhile, I will stand
alone--a woman without a friend, a woman who has to fight her own
battles with the world."
Gilbert Ashburne could not withhold his respect from the woman who
stood before him, queen-like in her calm dignity.
"She may be the basest and vilest of her sex," he thought to himself,
as he left her presence; "but she is a woman whom it is impossible to
despise."
The funeral procession was to leave Raynham at noon. At eleven o'clock
the arrival of Mr. Dale and Mr. Douglas Dale was announced. These two
gentlemen had just arrived at the castle, and the elder of the two
requested the favour of an interview with his uncle's widow.
She was seated in one of the apartments which had been allotted to her
especial use when she arrived, a proud and happy bride, from her brief
honeymoon tour. It was the spacious morning-room which had been sacred
to the late Lady Eversleigh, Sir Oswald's mother.
Here the widow sat in the hour of her desolation, unhonoured, unloved,
without friend or counsellor; unless, indeed, the gallant soldier who
had defended her from the suspicion of a hideous crime might stoop to
befriend her further in her bitter need. She sat alone, uncertain,
after the reading of the dead man's will, whether she might not be
thrust forth from the doors of Raynham Castle, shelterless, homeless,
penniless, once more a beggar and an outcast.
Her heart was so cruelly stricken by the crushing blow that had fallen
upon her; the grief she felt for her husband's untimely fate was so
deep and sincere, that she thought but little of her own future. She
had ceased to feel either hope or fear. Let fate do its worst. No
sorrow that could come to her in the future, no disgrace, no
humiliation, could equal in bitterness that fiery ordeal through which
she had passed during the last few days.
Lionel Dale was ushered into the morning-room while Lady Eversleigh sat
by the hearth, absorbed in gloomy thought.
She rose as Lionel Dale entered the room, and received him with stately
courtesy.
She was prepared to find herself despised by this young man, who would,
in all probability, very speedily learn, or who had perhaps already
learned, the story of her degradation.
She was prepared to find herself misjudged by him. But he was the
nephew of the man who had once so devotedly loved her; the husband
whose memory was hallowed for her; and she was determined to receive
him with all respect, for the sake of the beloved and honoured dead.
"You are doubtless surprised to see me here, madam," said Mr. Dale, in
a tone whose chilling accent told Honoria that this stranger was
already prejudiced against her. "I have received no invitation to take
part in the sad ceremonial of to-day, either from you or from Sir
Reginald Eversleigh. But I loved Sir Oswald very dearly, and I am here
to pay the last poor tribute of respect to that honoured and generous
friend."
"Permit me thank you for that tribute," answered Lady Eversleigh. "If I
did not invite you and your brother to attend the funeral, it was from
no wish to exclude you. My desires have been in no manner consulted
with regard to the arrangements of to-day. Very bitter misery has
fallen upon me within the last fortnight--heaven alone knows how
undeserved that misery has been--and I know not whether this roof will
shelter me after to-day."
She looked at the stranger very earnestly as she said this. It was
bitter to stand _quite_ alone in the world; to know herself utterly
fallen in the estimation of all around her; and she looked at Lionel
Dale with a faint hope that she might discover some touch of
compassion, some shadow of doubt in his countenance.
Alas, no,--there was none. It was a frank, handsome face--a face that
was no polished mask beneath which the real man concealed himself. It
was a true and noble countenance, easy to read as an open book. Honoria
looked at it with despair in her heart, for she perceived but too
plainly that this man also despised her. She understood at once that he
had been told the story of his uncle's death, and regarded her as the
indirect cause of that fatal event.
And she was right. He had arrived at the chief inn in Raynham two hours
before, and there he had heard the story of Lady Eversleigh's flight
and Sir Oswald's sudden death, with some details of the inquest. Slow
to believe evil, he had questioned Gilbert Ashburne, before accepting
the terrible story as he had heard it from the landlord of the inn. Mr.
Ashburne only confirmed that story, and admitted that, in his opinion,
the flight and disgrace of the wife had been the sole cause of the
death of the husband.
Once having heard this, and from the lips of a man whom he knew to be
the soul of truth and honour, Lionel Dale had but one feeling for his
uncle's widow, and that feeling was abhorrence.
He saw her in her beauty and her desolation; but he had no pity for her
miserable position, and her beauty inspired him only with loathing; for
had not that beauty been the first cause of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's
melancholy fate?
"I wished to see you, madam," said Lionel Dale, after that silence
which seemed so long, "in order to apologize for a visit which might
appear an intrusion. Having done so, I need trouble you no further."
He bowed with chilling courtesy, and left the room. He had uttered no
word of consolation, no assurance of sympathy, to that pale widow of a
week; nothing could have been more marked than the omission of those
customary phrases, and Honoria keenly felt their absence.
The dead leaves strewed the avenue along which Sir Oswald Eversleigh
went to his last resting-place; the dead leaves fluttered slowly
downward from the giant oaks--the noble old beeches; there was not one
gleam of sunshine on the landscape, not one break in the leaden grey of
the sky. It seemed as if the funeral of departed summer was being
celebrated on this first dreary autumn day.
Lady Eversleigh occupied the second carriage in the stately procession.
She was alone. Captain Copplestone was confined to his room by the
gout. She went alone--tearless--in outward aspect calm as a statue; but
the face of the corpse hidden in the coffin could scarcely have been
whiter than hers.
As the procession passed out of the gates of Raynham, a tramp who stood
among the rest of the crowd, was strangely startled by the sight of
that beautiful face, so lovely even in its marble whiteness.
"Who is that woman sitting in yonder carriage?" he asked.
He was a rough, bare-footed vagabond, with a dark evil-looking
countenance, which he did well to keep shrouded by the broad brim of
his battered hat. He looked more like a smuggler or a sailor than an
agricultural labourer, and his skin was bronzed by long exposure to the
weather.
"She's Sir Oswald's widow," answered one of the bystanders; "she's his
widow, more shame for her! It was she that brought him to his death,
with her disgraceful goings-on."
The man who spoke was a Raynham tradesman.
"What goings-on?" asked the tramp, eagerly. "I'm a stranger in these
parts, and don't know anything about yonder funeral."
"More's the pity," replied the tradesman. "Everybody ought to know the
story of that fine madam, who just passed us by in her carriage. It
might serve as a warning for honest men not to be led away by a pretty
face. That white-faced woman yonder is Lady Eversleigh. Nobody knows
who she was, or where she came from, before Sir Oswald brought her home
here. She hadn't been home a month before she ran away from her husband
with a young foreigner. She repented her wickedness before she'd got
very far, and begged and prayed to be took back again, and vowed and
declared that she'd been lured away by a villain; and that it was all a
mistake. That's how I've heard the story from the servants, and one and
another. But Sir Oswald would not speak to her, and she would have been
turned out of doors if it hadn't been for an old friend of his.
However, the end of her wickedness was that Sir Oswald poisoned
himself, as every one knows."
No more was said. The tramp followed the procession with the rest of
the crowd, first to the village church, where a portion of the funeral
service was read, and then back to the park, where the melancholy
ceremonial was completed before the family mausoleum.
It was while the crowd made a circle round this mausoleum that the
tramp contrived to push his way to the front rank of the spectators. He
stood foremost amongst a group of villagers, when Lady Eversleigh
happened to look towards the spot where he was stationed.
In that moment a sudden change came over the face of the widow. Its
marble whiteness was dyed by a vivid crimson--a sudden flush of shame
or indignation, which passed away quickly; but a dark shadow remained
upon Lady Eversleigh's brow after that red glow had faded from her
cheek.
No one observed that change of countenance. The moment was a solemn
one; and even those who did not really feel its solemnity, affected to
do so.
At the last instant, when the iron doors of the mausoleum closed with a
clanging sound upon the new inmate of that dark abode, Honoria's
fortitude all at once forsook her. One long cry, which was like a
shriek wrung from the spirit of despair, broke from her colourless
lips, and in the next moment she had sunk fainting upon the ground
before those inexorable doors.
No sympathizing eyes had watched her looks, or friendly arm was
stretched forth in time to support her. But when she lay lifeless and
unconscious on the sodden grass, some touch of pity stirred the hearts
of the two brothers, Lionel and Douglas Dale.
The elder, Lionel, stepped forward, and lifted that lifeless form from
the ground. He carried the unconscious widow to the carriage, where he
seated her.
Sense returned only too quickly to that tortured brain. Honoria
Eversleigh opened her eyes, and recognized the man who stood by her
side.
"I am better now," she said. "Do not let my weakness cause you any
trouble. I do not often faint; but that last moment was too bitter."
"Are you really quite recovered? Can I venture to leave you?" asked
Lionel Dale, in a much kinder tone than he had employed before in
speaking to his uncle's widow.
"Yes, indeed, I have quite recovered. I thank you for your kindness,"
murmured Honoria, gently.
Lionel Dale went back to the carriage allotted to himself and his
brother. On his way, he encountered Reginald Eversleigh.
"I have heard it whispered that my uncle's wife was an actress," said
Reginald. "That exhibition just now was rather calculated to confirm
the idea."
"If by 'exhibition' you mean that outburst of despair, I am convinced
that it was perfectly genuine," answered Lionel, coldly.
"I am sorry you are so easily duped, my dear Lionel," returned his
cousin, with a sneer. "I did not think a pretty face would have such
influence over you."
No more was said. The two men passed to their respective carriages, and
the funeral procession moved homewards.
In the grand dining-hall of the castle, Sir Oswald's lawyer was to read
the will. Kinsmen, friends, servants, all were assembled to hear the
reading of that solemn document.
In the place of honour sat Lady Eversleigh. She sat on the right hand
of the lawyer, calm and dignified, as if no taint of suspicion had ever
tarnished her fame.
The solicitor read the will. It was that will which Sir Oswald had
executed immediately after his marriage--the will, of which he had
spoken to his nephew, Reginald.
It made Honoria Eversleigh sole mistress of the Raynham estates. It
gave to Lionel and Douglas Dale property worth ten thousand a year. It
gave to Reginald a small estate, producing an income of five hundred a
year. To Captain Copplestone the baronet left a legacy of three
thousand pounds, and an antique seal-ring which had been worn by
himself.
The old servants of Raynham were all remembered, and some curious old
plate and gold snuff-boxes were left to Mr. Wargrave, the rector, and
Gilbert Ashburne.
This was all. Five hundred a year was the amount by which Reginald had
profited by the death of a generous kinsman.
By the terms of Sir Oswald's will the estates of Lionel and Douglas
Dale would revert to Reginald Eversleigh in case the owners should die
without direct heirs. If either of these young men were to die
unmarried, his brother would succeed to his estate, worth five thousand
a year. But if both should die, Reginald Eversleigh would become the
owner of double that amount.
It was the merest chance, the shadow of a chance, for the lives of both
young men were better than his own, inasmuch as both had led healthful
and steadier lives than the dissipated Reginald Eversleigh. But even
this poor chance was something.
"They may die," he thought; "death lurks in every bush that borders the
highway of life. They or both may die, and I may regain the wealth that
should have been mine."
He looked at the two young men. Lionel, the elder, was the handsomer of
the two. He was fair, with brown curling hair, and frank blue eyes.
Reginald, as he looked at him, thought bitterly, "I must indeed be the
very fool of hope and credulity to fancy he will not marry. But, if he
were safe, I should not so much fear Douglas." The younger, Douglas,
was a man whom some people would have called plain. But the dark sallow
face, with its irregular features, was illuminated by an expression of
mingled intelligence and amiability, which possessed a charm for all
judges worth pleasing.
Lionel was the clergyman, Douglas the lawyer, or rather law-student,
for the glory of his maiden brief was yet to come.
How Reginald envied these fortunate kinsmen! He hated them with
passionate hate. He looked from them to Honoria, the woman against whom
he had plotted--the woman who triumphed in spite of him--for he could
not imagine that grief for a dead husband could have any place in the
heart of a woman who found herself mistress of such a domain as
Raynham, and its dependencies.
Lady Eversleigh's astonishment was unbounded. This will placed her in
even a loftier position than that which she had occupied when possessed
of the confidence and affection of her husband. For her pride there was
some consolation in this thought; but the triumph, which was sweet to
the proud spirit, afforded no balm for the wounded heart. He was
gone--he whose love had made her mistress of that wealth and splendour.
He was gone from her for ever, and he had died believing her false.
In the midst of her triumph the widow bowed her head upon her hands,
and sobbed convulsively. The tears wrung from her in this moment were
the first she had shed that day, and they were very bitter.
Reginald Eversleigh watched her with scorn and hatred in his heart.
"What do you say now, Lionel?" he said to his cousin, when the three
young men had left the dining-hall, and were seated at luncheon in a
smaller chamber. "You did not think my respected aunt a clever actress
when she fainted before the doors of the mausoleum. You will at least
acknowledge that the piece of acting she favoured us with just now was
superb."
"What do you mean by 'a piece of acting'?"
"That outburst of grief which my lady indulged in, when she found
herself mistress of Raynham."
"I believe that it was genuine," answered Mr. Dale, gravely.
"Oh, you think the inheritance a fitting subject for lamentation?"
"No, Reginald. I think a woman who had wronged her husband, and had
been the indirect cause of his death, might well feel sorrow when she
discovered how deeply she had been loved, and how fully she had been
trusted by that generous husband."
"Bah!" cried Reginald, contemptuously. "I tell you, man, Lady
Eversleigh is a consummate actress, though she never acted before a
better audience than the clodhoppers at a country fair. Do you know who
my lady was when Sir Oswald picked her out of the gutter? If you don't,
I'll enlighten you. She was a street ballad-singer, whom the baronet
found one night starving in the market-place of a country town. He
picked her up--out of charity; and because the creature happened to
have a pretty face, he was weak enough to marry her."
"Respect the follies of the dead," replied Lionel. "My uncle's love was
generous. I only regret that the object of it was so unworthy."
"Oh!" exclaimed Reginald, "I thought just now that you sympathized with
my lady."
"I sympathize with every remorseful sinner," said Lionel.
"Ah, that's your _shop_!" cried Reginald, who could not conceal his
bitter feelings. "You sympathize with Lady Eversleigh because she is a
wealthy sinner, and mistress of Raynham Castle. Perhaps you'll stop
here and try to step into Sir Oswald's shoes. I don't know whether
there's any law against a man marrying his uncle's widow."
"You insult me, and you insult the dead, Sir Reginald, by the tone in
which you discuss these things," answered Lionel Dale. "I shall leave
Raynham by this evening's coach, and there is little likelihood that
Lady Eversleigh and I shall ever meet again. It is not for me to judge
her sins, or penetrate the secrets of her heart. I believe that her
grief to-day was thoroughly genuine. It is not because a woman has
sinned that she must needs be incapable of any womanly feeling."
"You are in a very charitable humour, Lionel," said Sir Reginald, with
a sneer; "but you can afford to be charitable."
Mr. Dale did not reply to this insolent speech.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh and his two cousins left the village of Raynham
by the same coach. The evening was finer than the day had been, and a
full moon steeped the landscape in her soft light, as the travellers
looked their last on the grand old castle.
The baronet contemplated the scene with unmitigated rage.
"Hers!" he muttered; "hers! to have and hold so long as she lives! A
nameless woman has tricked me out of the inheritance which should have
been mine. But let her beware! Despair is bold, and I may yet discover
some mode of vengeance."
While the departing traveller mused thus, a pale woman stood at one of
the windows of Raynham Castle, looking out upon the woods, over which
the moon sailed in all her glory.
"Mine!" she said to herself; "those lands and woods belong to me!--to
me, who have stood face to face with starvation!--to me, who have
considered it a privilege to sleep in an empty barn! They are mine; but
the possession of them brings no pleasure. My life has been blighted by
a wrong so cruel, that wealth and position are worthless in my eyes."
* * * * *