AN EVIL GENIUS.
It was not until the funeral was over and my lord’s last will and
testament had been read that Lady Elaine Seabright was brought to a
knowledge of her true position.
She had many sympathizing friends, and the new earl and lord of the
domain kindly offered to leave the house and effects at her disposal
for any reasonable length of time.
“Indeed,” he added, magnanimously, “with the consent of my wife and
daughters, I may offer you a home here until the viscount claims you.
The late earl and I were not good friends simply because he had no son
and I was his natural heir.”
Elaine thanked her cousin, but told him that what he had proposed was
impossible.
The old family lawyer was thoroughly indignant, and muttered threats
about contesting the last will; but what could he do in face of a dozen
witnesses, who were all convinced that the earl’s mind had been clear
to the last? Besides, Lady Elaine would never have consented to such a
course of action.
“Even if you cared for this man--this Viscount Rivington--the will
places you in a most humiliating position, my lady,” he told her,
indignantly. “By what I gather, it was made really in the heat of
anger, notwithstanding the fact that the earl was dying. You had
resolutely declined to encourage the advances of Rivington that very
morning and my lord was determined that he should be your husband.
In an apparently easy-going way your father was a perfect martinet.
He generally had his own way, even if he waited long years for the
opportunity. And then why should the original executors be struck
out--myself and Colonel Greyson?”
Mr. Worboys snorted angrily, and stamped to and fro across the floor of
the library, where he had come at Lady Elaine’s bidding, so that she
might learn her true position.
“There is no doubt at all that you have been treated badly by Sir
Harold Annesley,” he went on, but Lady Elaine interrupted him.
“Please do not speak of Sir Harold,” she said. “My heart tells me that
he will come back to me some day.”
“Well, my lady,” proceeded Mr. Worboys, “it amounts to this: If you
refuse to wed Viscount Rivington you will lose a fortune of nearly
half-a-million sterling and an income of ten or twelve thousand a year.”
“I have my private fortune,” she reminded him.
“A paltry five hundred a year,” he told her, “and even that is under
the control of your guardians until you are of age.”
“It appears that I am practically bound hand and foot,” she said,
bitterly. “Must I submit to these people?”
She stood erect, with flashing eyes, and deathly-white face--a pathetic
figure in her loneliness.
“Cannot you help me, Mr. Worboys?”
“The law will not permit of my interference, my lady. Now, look at
matters on their brightest side. Within one year you will be of age
and your own mistress. You are determined to lose your fortune rather
than marry Viscount Rivington. No one can legally force you into this
marriage, and if undue pressure is brought to bear upon you, then I may
be able to step in to your assistance. What manner of woman is this
Lady Gaynor?”
“I do not like her,” Elaine replied. “I do not know why, but we were
never upon friendly terms. Had my father lived I believe that he would
have made Lady Gaynor the Countess of Seabright.”
The old lawyer was silent for a little while, then he glanced at the
girl pityingly and said:
“I do not think that we can improve matters by remaining here longer,
Lady Elaine. Above all, we must avoid arousing suspicion. Note
carefully the manner in which Lady Gaynor approaches you, and always
rely upon my active friendship whenever such is possible.”
Mr. Worboys went back to London, and for three or four days Lady Elaine
was practically left to her own devices, while her maid was busy
packing up.
On the fifth day, however, there was a letter from Lady Gaynor, which
ran as follows:
DEAR LADY ELAINE--I sincerely trust that the first edge of your
grief is dulled by this time, and that you have made preparations
for leaving the old home. The new earl has been extremely kind and
considerate toward you. According to the provisions of your father’s
will, I and Viscount Rivington are in a measure responsible for you,
and as you are practically without a fortune, your future home must
be the best I can afford. The Lodge will doubtless appear a very
insignificant place after the splendid surroundings of Seabright
Hall. Still, none of us can choose our own lot in life, and the dear
viscount has acquiesced to all my proposals. I have written to your
cousin, the new earl, informing him that it is my intention to relieve
him of further responsibility, so far as you are concerned, to-morrow
morning. Your very dear friend, Miss Nugent, will accompany me.
Sincerely yours, ELEANOR GAYNOR.
Lady Elaine shivered when she read the letter. There was something
ominous in its softly-turned sentences.
At dinner the earl broached the subject.
“If you are not quite ready to leave, Lady Elaine,” he said, “I shall
be glad to have you here as long as it suits your own convenience. The
countess and the girls will be here next week.”
“Thank you,” Elaine replied, listlessly. “There is no reason that I
should delay the inevitable. I will leave Seabright Hall to-morrow
morning with Lady Gaynor.”
“A strange choice of the late earl’s,” he mused. “Lady Gaynor is
notorious in certain circles. She is miserably poor, and makes an
income by coaching the daughters of rich Americans and successful
tradesmen generally.”
Lady Elaine did not reply, but again that icy shudder passed through
her, leaving her as cold as death. Her great sorrow had left her numb
and spiritless.
Lady Gaynor came next morning; she was a large, handsome woman of fifty
or thereabouts--a woman with determination marked in every line of her
smiling face. For ten years she had succeeded in maintaining a small
estate known as “The Lodge” upon absolutely no assured income at all.
The house and lands were incumbered, but Lady Gaynor had managed, so
far, to keep off the marauding hands of the money-lenders. But of late
her practices had obtained the severe notice of people who moved in
the charmed circle of the court, and Lady Gaynor knew that she must
employ sharp wits in other directions, or fall a prey to the harpies
which, like the vampire, feed upon the blood of human hearts. Then
the Earl of Seabright in some way became entangled in her toils, and
many rumors were rife when he died. This was a serious blow to Lady
Gaynor, but there was one hope still left. Upon his marriage with Lady
Elaine, Viscount Rivington had promised her a handsome check--a check
that would free her of the Jews, and still leave a respectable sum with
which to make fresh ventures. It was really a matter of life and death
to Lady Gaynor.
“My dear girl!” she said, effusively kissing one of Lady Elaine’s pale
cheeks, “how sweet of you to be so considerate! Here you are quite
ready, and we shall be back at the Lodge in time for lunch.”
Then Margaret Nugent came forward and greeted Elaine with a great show
of affection. She could afford now to be affectionate in reality, for
she no longer regarded Lady Elaine as a rival.
The drive to the Lodge was without incident, and Lady Gaynor showed the
girl to a suite of shabbily-furnished rooms. The curtains were dingy,
the carpets threadbare, and there was an air of mustiness everywhere
that was stifling.
“Ah! I can see disappointment in your face,” her ladyship said, with
well-assumed regret, “but this is the best that I can offer. Let us
hope that you will soon reign as mistress of a home equal to the one
you have left. I shall then expect you to requite the kindness I am
endeavoring to extend to you now. Ah! how selfish poverty makes us all,
Lady Elaine. You do not care to come down for lunch? Well, you shall
have a cup of tea up here and spend the rest of the day as you please,
assisting your maid to unpack.”
Lady Gaynor went away, and a little later Margaret Nugent came to say
good-by.
“I am going home,” she said, “because mamma has a fresh attack of
fancied woes. Shall I bring the pony-carriage to-morrow, and we will
have a long drive?”
“No, thank you, Margaret,” said Lady Elaine, “I think that I hate the
old, familiar scenes. My great trouble has fallen on me with the weight
of an avalanche. I do not seem able to realize it yet. My lover--my
father--all--at one blow. My energy--my spirit is killed within me!”
“Time will soften your grief, Elaine,” said Margaret, gently. “There is
a great future before you--a future bright with triumph and splendor,
if you only grasp it aright.”
There seemed to be a hidden meaning in Margaret’s words.
“I believe that I understand you, Miss Nugent,” Elaine said, coldly;
“but I fail to appreciate your counsels. In some way my troubles
began when I was weak enough to listen to your advice. I accepted it
against my better judgment, and I beg of you not to refer to matters
which particularly concern myself again. In my present loneliness I
need friends badly enough, Heaven knows, but I can never associate you
with anything but unpleasantness and misery. I feel that you are my
enemy, and am only sorry that I did not make the discovery sooner. The
very fact that you are a close associate of my oppressors precludes
the possibility of any sympathy between us, and I shall consider it
a favor if you will cease making any pretenses of affection for me
in the future. I must now know upon whom I can depend, Miss Nugent,
and I can neither accept you as a confidante nor an adviser. I am not
superstitious, but there is a fatality about some people which it is
impossible to withstand, and everything in connection with yourself has
resulted in evil for me.”
“I am sorry,” Miss Nugent said, and her face was pale. “Can it be
possible, Lady Elaine, that you regard me as a sort of evil genius?”
“That is just it. In some way I feel that you are my evil genius!”
Elaine replied.
Without a word, Margaret Nugent turned away, and the two girls did not
meet again for many months.