A STRANGE WILL.
Miss Nugent was bitterly mortified by the action of Colonel Greyson.
He had promised to call upon her mother, and instead had taken himself
off, no one knew whither, and with him the secret of Sir Harold’s
movements. He had not even troubled himself to write one word of
explanation.
She had waited for whole days in miserable expectation, and then
suddenly announced her determination of calling upon the colonel.
“You will come with me, mamma, dear. I believe that Colonel Greyson has
news of Harold. He hinted as much to me at Lady Gaynor’s ball, and I am
so anxious. It is not more than an hour’s drive to the colonel’s place.”
Mrs. Nugent rarely attempted to combat the wishes of her handsome
daughter. She was one of those invalids who find pleasure in nursing
their own ailments, and though it was a positive martyrdom to leave her
lounge for several hours, to be jolted over miles of stony ground, she
assented to the proposal with a long-drawn sigh of resignation.
The carriage was ordered, and immediately after lunch Mrs. Nugent and
her daughter were driven to the colonel’s cottage at Crayford.
To Margaret’s dismay there was an air of desertion about the place, and
she was informed by his house keeper that her master was going abroad
for the autumn and winter.
“Then he has not yet gone?” asked Miss Nugent, with a gasp of relief.
“No, ladies; but his man is upstairs packing, and he knows more about
it than I do.”
With a nod the woman ran into the house, and in a few minutes the
colonel’s military manservant appeared, as straight and stiff as a
ramrod.
“What is this I hear about the colonel, Simmons?” asked Miss Nugent.
“My master is going away, madam,” replied Simmons, saluting solemnly.
“Yes--yes! I have heard all about that. But where is he now?”
Simmons looked surprised.
“In London by this time, Miss Nugent. He spent the whole of yesterday
at Annesley Park, and last evening left for London, where I am to join
him to-night.”
Miss Nugent bit her lips with vexation.
“It is extraordinary,” she said. “I really do not understand Colonel
Greyson, after his promise to me and knowing how anxious I am
concerning my luckless cousin.”
The concluding part of her speech was uttered aside.
“My dear!” Mrs. Nugent mildly remonstrated, “I do not see anything
so extraordinary in it. You know what the papers have said about Sir
Harold, and it is quite possible that the colonel intends joining him
somewhere. I am sure that I shall take a chill if we remain here much
longer.”
“You are sure that there is no message for us--for me, Simmons?”
continued Margaret.
“Quite sure, madam.”
“Well, it is possible that your master will write to me from
London, but I wish you to impress upon him some sense of my great
disappointment. He will understand why, and I shall expect a lengthy
letter of explanation and particulars. You will not forget, Simmons?”
“No, madam.”
Simmons’ right hand flew up automatically in answer to Miss Nugent’s
farewell nod, and the carriage rolled away.
“I cannot expect everything to fall into my lap,” she thought, “and in
one sense it is perhaps lucky that the colonel has taken himself off,
though his unlooked-for movements have left me completely in the dark.”
As the carriage swept round a bend in the road, Annesley Park was
revealed with startling distinctness some two miles distant. The towers
and minarets stood sharply against the purple sky, while a golden fire
seemed to flash from every window in the light of the sun.
“If we only had a fourth of Sir Harold’s money, how happy we might
be!” sighed Mrs. Nugent. “I really think that he is most unkind in not
giving the Park to us while he is chasing wild beasts in Africa. I
believe that such an exhilarating prospect would almost give me health
again; or, at least, as much as I can ever expect to enjoy.”
Margaret laughed musically.
“Mamma,” she said, “the Park may be our home yet!”
It was a prize worth scheming for, but, to do her justice, Miss Nugent
loved Sir Harold for himself alone. How impatiently she awaited the
letter-bag next morning, only to be filled with a disappointment that
almost amounted to dismay. There was no letter from Colonel Greyson,
and she blamed herself for not insisting upon his London address.
Still, it was not too late to give up hoping, and she denied herself
several pleasures by remaining at home throughout the day, so that she
should immediately receive any news that came.
In the evening a boy from the telegraph office delivered the following:
MISS MARGARET NUGENT--I have no good news for you, and the less said
the better. Time alone can straighten the tangle. I leave London for
Paris to-night. Kind regards.
GREYSON.
Margaret angrily tossed the telegram in the fire.
“A miserable evasion,” she muttered. “How much does he suspect? I see
through it all. He is taking Harold abroad with him. If I only dared
to follow them and nurse my darling back to life! It may be months or
years, and with my lady out of the way my devotion is sure to win in
the end.”
That very night, at a late hour, some terrible news reached the
Nugents. The Earl of Seabright was dead, killed while riding over his
own estate. His horse had stumbled over some hidden brambles, and
my lord was pitched headforemost to the earth. The land steward was
with him at the time, and the accident at first appeared to be only a
trivial one. The earl had struggled up again, but only to sink back
with a groan. The shock had injured him internally, and he was carried
to his bedchamber a dying man.
“You have only an hour to live, my lord,” the hastily-summoned doctor
gravely told him. “If your affairs are not in order there is no time to
be lost.”
The earl listened incredulously at first.
“I suffer no pain,” he said. “Surely you are mistaken! Am I to die
because my horse stumbled--I, the maddest rider in the county?”
“You are bleeding internally, my lord. No human power can save you,”
was the decided reply.
Then the earl had wept childishly for a little while, and sent hastily
for the nearest lawyer. He wished to make a new will--to appoint fresh
executors.
The lawyer came and was closeted with the dying earl for half-an-hour.
“Now read it over carefully,” the earl said, and the lawyer obeyed him.
The will was short and concise. My lord left the whole of his
personality to his only child, the Lady Elaine, upon the condition that
she became the wife of Viscount Henry Rivington within six months of
the date of the will. If she refused to obey this last wish of the earl
his fortune would pass away to various charitable institutions, which
were carefully named. In addition, the viscount was made joint-executor
with Lady Gaynor. As the title and estate of Seabright Hall reverted
to the next male heir in succession the earl’s daughter would be under
the immediate control of the executors. There was a clause to the
effect that if the marriage was not consummated, through the refusal
or inability of the viscount to ratify the contract, the whole of the
earl’s fortune would be devoted to the exclusive enjoyment of his
daughter, the Lady Elaine Seabright.
In the presence of many witnesses the will was signed, and twenty
minutes later my lord breathed his last.
It was an impressive scene. The awful suddenness seemed to have
bewildered everybody, and Lady Elaine hardly realized that her father
was, indeed, no more until she was gently led from the death-chamber by
Lady Gaynor and the doctor.
The earl had ever been a selfish man, but, notwithstanding her loveless
life, the full force of her loss seemed to numb every sense for a time.
At last she burst into a passion of tears. How well she understood
his last words to her, and how her soul revolted from the wishes they
expressed.
“We quarreled this morning, Elaine. Do not let a last disobedience
haunt you through life. I mean all for the best, child. Annesley has
left you to humiliation and scorn. Obey my last wishes, and some day
you will understand that I have acted harshly to be kind.”
Her reply had been a sob, and a few moments later a quick, fluttering
sigh told that all was over.
He was gone--first her lover, and then her father; and, locked in her
own apartments, she gave way to her grief in sobs and tears.