View, she heard the whole story — told her unthinkingly by a foolish old
woman, who was amongst the recipients of her charity.
Soon after this, the story reached the ears of the two servants — an elderly woman, called Mugby, who acted as cook and housekeeper; and a smart girl, called Susan Trott.
Mrs. Mugby pretended to ridicule the idea of Screwton’s ghost.
“I’ve lived in a many places, and I’ve heard tell of a many ghostes,” she said; “but never yet did I set eyes on one, which my opinion is that, if people will eat cold pork for supper underdone, not to mention crackling or seasoning, and bottled stout, which is worse, and lies still heavier on the stomach — unless you take about as much ground ginger as would lie on a sixpence, and as much carbonate of soda as would lie on a fourpenny-bit — and go to bed upon it all directly afterwards, they will see no end of ghostes. I have never trifled with my digestion, and no ghostes have I ever seen.”
The girl, Susan Trott, was by no means so strong-minded. The idea of Miser Screwton’s ghost haunted her perpetually of an evening; and she would no more have gone out into the captain’s pretty little garden after dark, than she would have walked straight to the mouth of a cannon.
Rosamond Duncombe affected to echo the heroic sentiments of the housekeeper, Mrs. Mugby. There never had been such things as ghosts, and never would be; and all the foolish stories that were told of phantoms and apparitions, had their sole foundation in the imaginations of the people who told them.
Such was the state of things in the household of Captain Duncombe at the time of Black Milsom’s return from Van Diemen’s Land.
It was within two nights after that return, that an event occurred, never to be forgotten by any member of Joseph Duncombe’s household.
The evening was cold, but fine; the moon, still at its full, shone bright and clear upon the neat garden of River View Cottage. Captain Duncombe and his daughter were alone in their comfortable sitting-room, playing the Captain’s favourite game of backgammon, before a cheery fire. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mugby, had complained all day of a touch of rheumatism, and had gone to bed after the kitchen tea, leaving Susan Trott, the smart little parlour-maid, to carry in the pretty pink and gold china tea-service, and hissing silver tea-kettle, to Miss Rosamond and her papa in the sitting-room.
Thus it was that, after having removed the tea-tray, and washed the pretty china cups and saucers, Susan Trott seated herself before the fire, and set herself to trim a new cap, which was designed for the especial bewilderment of a dashing young baker.
The dashing young baker had a habit of lingering at the gate of River View Cottage a good deal longer than was required for the transaction of his business; and the dashing young baker had more than once hinted at an honourable attachment for Miss Susan Trott.
Thinking of the baker, and of all the tender things and bright promises of a happy future which he had murmured in her ear, as they walked home from church on the last Sunday evening, Susan found the solitary hours pass quickly enough. She looked up suddenly as the clock struck ten, and found that she had let the fire burn out.
It was rather an awful sensation to be alone in the lower part of the house after every one else had gone to bed; but Susan Trott was very anxious to finish the making of the new cap; so she went back to the kitchen, and seated herself once more at the table.
She had scarcely taken up her scissors to cut an end of ribbon, when a low, stealthy tapping sounded on the outer wooden shutter of the window behind her.
Susan gave a little shriek of terror, and dropped the scissors as if they had been red-hot. What could that awful sound mean at ten o’clock at night?
For some moments the little parlour-maid was completely overcome by terror. Then, all at once, her thoughts flew back to the person whose image had occupied her mind all that evening. Was it not just possible that the dashing young baker might have something very particular to say to her, and that he had come in this mysterious manner to say it?
Again the same low, stealthy tapping sounded on the shutter.
This time Susan Trott plucked up a spirit, took the bright brass candlestick in her hand, and went to the little door leading from the scullery to the back garden.
She opened the door and peered cautiously out. No one was to be seen — that tiresome baker was indulging in some practical joke, no doubt, and trying to frighten her.
Susan was determined not to be frightened by her sweet-heart’s tricks, so she tripped boldly out into the garden, still carrying the brass candlestick.
At the first step the wind blew out the candle; but, of course, that was of very little consequence when the bright moonlight made everything as clearly visible as at noon.
“I know who it is,” cried Susan, in a voice intended to reach the baker; “and it’s a great shame to try and frighten a poor girl when she’s sitting all alone by herself.”
She had scarcely uttered the words when the candlestick fell from her extended hand, and she stood rooted to the gravel pathway — a statue of fear.
Exactly opposite to her, slowly advancing towards the open door of the scullery, she saw an awful figure — whose description was too familiar to her.
There it was. The ghost — the shadowy image of the man who had destroyed himself in that house. A tall, spectral figure, robed in a long garment of grey serge; a scarlet handkerchief twisted round the head rendered the white face whiter by contrast with it.
As this awful figure approached, Susan Trott stepped backwards on the grass, leaving the pathway clear for the dreadful visitant.
The ghostly form stalked on with slow and solemn steps, and entered the house by the scullery door. For some minutes Susan remained standing on the grass, horror-struck, powerless to move. Then all at once feminine curiosity got the better even of terror, and she followed the phantom figure into the house.
From the kitchen doorway she beheld the figure standing on the hearth, his arms stretched above the fireplace, as if groping for something in the chimney.
Doubtless this had been the miser’s hiding-place for his hoarded gold, and the ghost returned to the spot where the living man had been accustomed to conceal his treasures.
Susan darted across the hall, and ran upstairs to her master’s room.
She knocked loudly on the door, crying, —
“The ghost, master! the ghost! the old miser’s ghost is in the kitchen!”
“What?” roared the captain, starting suddenly from his peaceful slumbers.
The girl repeated her awful announcement. The captain sprang out of bed, dressed himself in trousers and dressing-gown, and ran down-stairs, the girl close behind him.
They were just in time to see the figure, in the red head-gear and long grey dressing-gown, slowly stalking from the scullery door.
The captain followed the phantom into the garden; but held himself at a respectful distance from the figure, as it slowly paced along the smooth gravel pathway leading towards the laurel hedge.
The figure reached the low boundary that divided the garden from the river bank, crossed it, and vanished amongst the thick white mists that rose from the water.
Joseph Duncombe trembled. A ghost was just the one thing which could strike terror to the seaman’s bold heart.
When the figure had vanished, Captain Duncombe went to the spot where it had passed out of the garden.
Here he found the young laurels beaten and trampled down, as if by the heavy feet of human intruders.
This was strange.
He then went to the kitchen, accompanied by Susan Trott, who, although shivering like an aspen tree, had just sufficient strength of mind to find a lucifer and light her candle.
By the light of this candle Captain Buncombe examined the kitchen.
On the hearth, at his feet, he saw something gleaming in the uncertain light. He stooped to pick up this object, and found that it was a curious gold coin — a foreign coin, bent in a peculiar manner.
/> This was even yet more strange.
The captain put the coin in his pocket.
“I’ll take good care of this, my girl,” he said. “It isn’t often a ghost leaves anything behind him.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER XV.
A TERRIBLE RESOLVE.
When the hawthorns were blooming in the woods of Raynham, a new life dawned in the stately chambers of the castle.
A daughter was born to the beautiful widow-lady — a sweet consoler in the hour of her loneliness and desolation. Honoria Eversleigh lifted her heart to heaven, and rendered thanks for the priceless treasure which had been bestowed upon her. She had kept her word. From the hour of her husband’s death she had never quitted Raynham Castle. She had lived alone, unvisited, unknown; content to dwell in stately solitude, rarely extending her walks and drives beyond the boundary of the park and forest.
Some few of the county gentry would have visited her; but she would not consent to be visited by a few. Honoria Eversleigh’s was a proud spirit; and until the whole county should acknowledge her innocence, she would receive no one.
“Let them think of me or talk of me as they please,” she said; “I can live my own life without them.”
Thus the long winter months passed by, and Honoria was alone in that abode whose splendour must have seemed cold and dreary to the friendless woman.
But when she held her infant in her arms all was changed She looked down upon the baby-girl, and murmured softly —
“Your life shall be bright and peaceful, dearest, whatever mine may be. The future looks bleak and terrible for me; but for you, sweet one, it may be bright and fair.”
The young mother loved her child with a passionate intensity; but even that love could not exclude darker passions from her breast.
There was much that was noble in the nature of this woman; but there was also much that was terrible. From her childhood she had been gifted with a power of intellect — a strength of will — that lifted her high above the common ranks of womanhood.
A fatal passion had taken possession of her soul after the untimely death of Sir Oswald; and that passion was a craving for revenge. She had been deeply wronged, and she could not forgive. She did not even try to forgive. She believed that revenge was a kind of duty which she owed, not only to herself, but to the noble husband whom she had lost.
The memory of that night of anguish in Yarborough Tower, and that still darker hour of shame and despair in which Sit Oswald had refused to believe her innocent, was never absent from the mind of Honoria Eversleigh. She brooded upon these dark memories. Time could not lessen their bitterness. Even the soft influence of her infant’s love could not banish those fatal recollections.
Time passed. The child grew and flourished, beautiful to her mother’s enraptured eyes; and yet, even by the side of that fair baby’s face arose the dark image of Victor Carrington.
For a long time the county people had kept close watch upon the proceedings of the lady at the castle.
The county people discovered that Lady Eversleigh never left Raynham; that she devoted herself to the rearing of her child as entirely as if she had been the humblest peasant-woman; and that she expended more money upon solid works of charity than had ever before been so spent by any member of the Eversleigh family, though that family had been distinguished by much generosity and benevolence.
The county people shrugged their shoulders contemptuously. They could not believe in the goodness of this woman, whose parentage no one knew, and whom every one had condemned.
She is playing a part, they thought; she wishes to impress us with the idea that she is a persecuted martyr — a suffering angel; and she hopes thus to regain her old footing amongst us, and queen it over the whole county, as she did when that poor infatuated Sir Oswald first brought her to Raynham. This was what the county people thought; until one day the tidings flew far and wide that Lady Eversleigh had left the castle for the Continent, and that she intended to remain absent for some years.
This seemed very strange; but what seemed still more strange, was the fact that the devoted mother was not accompanied by her child.
The little girl, Gertrude, so named after the mother of the late baronet, remained at Raynham under the care of two persons.
These two guardians were Captain Copplestone, and a widow lady of forty years of age, Mrs. Morden, a person of unblemished integrity, who had been selected as protectress and governess of the young heiress.
The child was at this time two and a half years of age. Very young, she seemed, to be thus left by a mother who had appeared to idolize her.
The county people shook their heads. They told each other that Lady Eversleigh was a hypocrite and an actress. She had never really loved her child — she had played the part of a sorrowing widow and a devoted mother for two years and a half, in the hope that by this means she would regain her position in society.
And now, finding that this was impossible, she had all of a sudden grown tired of playing her part, and had gone off to the Continent to spend her money, and enjoy her life after her own fashion.
This was what the world said of Honoria Eversleigh; but if those who spoke of her could have possessed themselves of her secrets, they would have discovered something very different from that which they imagined.
Lady Eversleigh left the castle in the early part of November accompanied only by her maid, Jane Payland.
A strange time of the year in which to start for the Continent, people said. It seemed still more strange that a woman of Lady Eversleigh’s rank and fortune should go on a Continental journey with no other attendant than a maid-servant.
If the eyes of the world could have followed Lady Eversleigh, they would have made startling discoveries.
While it was generally supposed that the baronet’s widow was on her way to Rome or Naples, two plainly-dressed women took possession of unpretending lodgings in Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road.
The apartments were taken by a lady who called herself Mrs. Eden, and who required them only for herself and maid. The apartments consisted of two large drawing-rooms, two bedrooms on the floor above, and a dressing-room adjoining the best bedroom.
The proprietor of the house was a Belgian merchant, called Jacob
Mulck — a sedate old bachelor, who took a great deal of snuff, and
Disquieted himself very little about the world in general, so long as
life went smoothly for himself.
The remaining occupant of the house was a medical student, who rented one of the rooms on the third floor. Another room on the same floor was to let.
Such was the arrangement of the house when Mrs. Eden and her maid took possession of their apartments.
Mr. Jacob Mulck thought he had never seen such a beautiful woman as his new lodger, when he entered her apartment, to ascertain whether she was satisfied with the accommodation provided for her.
She was sitting in the full light of an unshaded lamp as he entered the room. Her black silk dress was the perfection of simplicity; its sombre hues relieved only by the white collar which encircled her slender throat. Her pale face looked of an ivory whiteness, in contrast to the dark, deep eyes, and arched brows of sombre brown.
The lady pronounced herself perfectly satisfied with all the arrangements that had been made for her comfort.
“I am in London on business of importance,” she said; “and shall, therefore, receive very little company; but I may have to hold many interviews with men of business, and I trust that my affairs may not be made the subject of curiosity or gossip, either in this house or outside it.”
Mr. Mulck declared that he was the last person in the world to talk; and that his two servants were both elderly women, the very pink of steadiness and propriety.
Having said this, he took his leave; and as he did so, stole one more glance at the beautiful stranger.
She had fallen into an attitude which betrayed complete abstraction of mind. Her elbow rest
ed on the table by her side; her eyes were shaded by her hand.
Upon that white, slender hand, Jacob Mulck saw diamonds such as are not often seen upon the fingers of the inhabitants of Percy Street. Mr. Mulck occasionally dealt in diamonds; and he knew enough about them to perceive at a glance that the rings worn by his lodger were worth a small fortune.
“Humph!” muttered Mr. Mulck, as he returned to his comfortable sitting-room; “those diamonds tell a tale. There’s something mysterious about this lodger of mine. However, my rent will be safe — that’s one comfort.”
While the landlord was musing thus, the lodger was employed in a manner which might well have awakened his curiosity, could he have beheld her at that moment.
She had fallen on her knees before a low easy-chair — her face buried in her hands, her slender frame shaken by passionate sobs.
“My child!” she exclaimed, in almost inarticulate murmurs; “my beloved, my idol! — it is so bitter to be absent from you! so bitter! so bitter!”
* * * * *
Early on the morning after her arrival in London, Honoria Eversleigh, otherwise Mrs. Eden, went in a cab to the office of an individual called Andrew Larkspur, who occupied dingy chambers in Lyon’s Inn.
The science of the detective officer had not, at that time, reached its present state of perfection; but even then there were men who devoted their lives to the work of private investigations, and the elucidation of the strange secrets and mysteries of social life.
Such a man was Andrew Larkspur, late Bow Street runner, now hanger-on of the new detective police. He was renowned for his skill in the prosecution of secret service; and it was rumoured that he had amassed a considerable fortune by his mysterious employment.
He was not a man who openly sought employers. His services were in great request among a certain set of people, and he had little idle time on his hands. His name was painted in dirty white letters on the black door of his dingy chambers on a fourth story. On this door he called himself, “Andrew Larkspur, Commission Agent.”
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 443