THE RIGHTING OF THE WRONG.
Some years have passed since the blow fell on Gertrude Baldwin which
deprived her of wealth and station, which struck away from her her
home, and left her to face the curiosity, the ill-will, the evil
report of the world which had envied and flattered her, as best she
might. The story of the interval does not take long in the telling,
and, considering its import to so many, has but few salient points.
No resistance was made by Gertrude or counselled by her advisers; no
resistance to the hard cold terms of Robert Meredith's claim on his
wife's behalf. It was all true: Gertrude was an illegitimate child and
Eleanor the rightful heir. The proofs--consisting of Mr. Oakley's
evidence concerning Godfrey Hungerford's death, and the attested
certificate of the date of that occurrence, and the testimony of the
certificate of the second marriage ceremony performed between Mr.
Baldwin and Margaret--were as simple as they were indisputable, and
Gertrude made unqualified submission at once.
She suffered, no doubt, very keenly, but much less than her friends
Mr. Dugdale and Rose Doran suffered for her. So much was made plain to
her, so much was cleared-up to her now. She knew now why it was her
father had left her nothing by his will; she understood now from what
solicitude it had arisen that he and her aunt, whose loving care she
remembered so well, had bequeathed everything within their power to
Eleanor. Thus they had endeavoured to atone for the unconscious
unintentional wrong done to the legitimate daughter and heiress. And
all their efforts, all their care, had failed; the invincible
inexorable truth had come to light, and the result of all these
efforts was that Eleanor had everything--yes, everything. The young
girl who had risen that morning absolute mistress of the splendid
house and the broad acres of the Deane, and the large fortune which
could so fittingly maintain them, stood in that stately house the same
night a penniless dependent on the sister who had placed herself and
all she possessed in the power of Gertrude's only enemy.
It was long before Miss Baldwin, or indeed any of the party, realised
this--long before the full extent of the truth presented itself to
their minds; but when it came, it came with terrible conviction and
conclusiveness. There was nothing for Gertrude. Her father's loving
care had indeed been her undoing. The situation was a dreadful one,
escape from it impossible. Robert Meredith had no longer anything to
gain by either dissimulation or temporising; on the contrary, he now
felt it to be his interest that every one concerned should be cured of
all their illusions concerning him as soon and as effectually as
possible, and should arrive at a clear comprehension of his powers,
motives, and intentions. He assumed at once the name that his marriage
with the heiress of Mr. Meriton Baldwin imposed upon him; and his
letter to Haldane Carteret was simply a reference to the bearer as
qualified to give all needful explanations and proofs, and in the
event, which he took for granted, of the young lady known as Miss
Baldwin not disputing the facts, he begged it might be understood that
she could be suffered to remain at the Deane only a very short time.
He hoped no farther communication on this subject might be required.
The young lady would best consult her own interest by abstaining from
making any such communication necessary.
It is unnecessary to dwell on this portion of the trial appointed to
Gertrude. Its bitterness came from Eleanor, not from her triumphant
enemy. Her sister made no sign--not a word of kindness, of sympathy,
of regret came from her whose life had been almost identical with that
of Gertrude for so many years. Even Mrs. Carteret--who, the first
shock and surprise over, was characteristically disposed to keep on
good terms with the new Mr. Meriton Baldwin, and in reality an extreme
partisan, endeavoured to get credit for impartial fairness, and a "no
business of mine" bearing--even Mrs. Carteret was indignant with
Eleanor. Her shallow nature did not comprehend the growth and force of
such evil feelings as she had nurtured in the mind of her niece.
Gertrude suffered fearfully, but anger had little share in her pain. A
deadly fear for her sister possessed her; a fear which suggested
itself speedily, when she found that Eleanor made no sign, and which
grew into conviction under the influence of Rose Doran's manifest
belief in its reason and validity. Eleanor's silence was her husband's
doing; she was under his influence and dominion, she was afraid of
him. When Gertrude, who had striven to hide her feelings on this point
from Mr. Dugdale, could not hide them from Rose Doran, that faithful
friend said sadly,
"It's true for you. Miss Gerty; she's in the grip of a bad man, my
poor child, and she's not to be blamed."
Then Gertrude, in the depth of her love and pity for her sister,
forgave her freely, and never did blame her more, but mourned for her,
as she might have done had she been dead and laid beside their mother
beneath the great yew-tree, only more bitterly. All it is necessary to
record here is, that Eleanor's silence remained unbroken--unbroken,
when her sister, with Mr. Dugdale and Mrs. Doran left the Deane for
ever, turning away from all the associations and surroundings which
had been mutually dear to them--unbroken, when some time after
Gertrude wrote to her to tell her that she was well and happy, and
more than reconciled to all that had befallen her, except only her
alienation from her sister's heart.
Much time had now gone over, and Eleanor's silence still remained
unbroken. There was absolutely no communication between the sisters.
Major and Mrs. Carteret were living at Chayleigh, in a style which at
first Lucy had found it not easy to adopt after the pleasant places of
the Deane. But she had hit upon a consolation which, if imaginary, was
likewise immense; this was the notion of independence. To be her own
mistress, the mistress of her own house, her own servants, and her own
time was discovered by Mrs. Carteret to be a blissful state of things.
Besides this consolation, she had soon "brought round" Major Carteret
to an acquiescent form of mind respecting the state of things at the
Deane, and they made frequent visits there; but not even in this
indirect way was the separation between the sisters modified. Mrs.
Carteret was given to understand on the first occasion of her meeting
Mr. and Mrs. Meredith Baldwin--and a very awkward meeting it was--that
it would be for her own interest to abstain from speaking of Gertrude
to Eleanor, and, indeed, that her retaining the valuable privilege of
an _entrée_ at the Deane was contingent on her strict obedience to
this hint. Mrs. Carteret proved worthy of her old friend's confidence;
and the former life at the Deane might never have had existence for
any reminiscence of it that was to be traced now.
The intelligence which reached Gertrude of her sister through her
uncle and aunt was too vague to satisfy her. Eleanor was very popular,
very much admired; Eleanor's entertainments were splendid; and Mrs.
Carteret felt convinced she and Meredith Baldwin lived fully up to
their income, large as it was. She really could not say whether
Eleanor was _happy_, according to dear Gertrude's strange exaggerated
notions. She had at least everything which ought to make her so, and
she was always in very high spirits. She was rather restless and fond
of change, and no doubt Meredith was a good deal away from her; and
then poor dear Eleanor had always had a strong dash of jealousy in her
disposition, and she never was remarkably reasonable. No doubt she did
occasionally make herself unpleasant and ridiculous if her husband
stayed away when she thought he ought to be with her; but she got over
it again, and it did not signify. As to Meredith's ill-treating
Eleanor, Mrs. Carteret begged Gertrude not to be so silly as to
believe anything of the kind, if such ill-natured reports should reach
her. Why, everybody knew Meredith was no fool; and if Eleanor (who was
very delicate--and no wonder, considering her restless racketing) did
not make a will in his favour, he would have nothing at all in case of
her death. There was no heir to the Deane--two infants had been born,
but each had lived only a few hours--and Mrs. Carteret knew positively
that Eleanor had made no will. Meredith was not likely (supposing him
to have no better motive--which Mrs. Carteret, though her tone had
become greatly modified of late in speaking of her quondam admirer,
could not endure to suppose) to endanger his chance of future
independent wealth by ill-treating the person who could confer it on
him.
This was poor comfort; but it was all Gertrude could get, and she was
forced to be content with it. The old life at the Deane had faded
away; no change could bring her back the past; she never could have
any interest in it. She sometimes speculated upon whether it would add
to her grief, if her sister died, to think of her father's property,
her own old home, in the possession of total strangers. She had hardly
ever heard anything of the next heir--a bachelor, already a rich man,
living in England. This gentleman's name was Mordaunt, and he had a
younger brother, who had assumed another name on his marriage, and to
whose children the Deane, failing direct heirs of Eleanor, would
descend. The sisters knew nothing more of these distant connections,
nor had there ever been any acquaintance between them and Fitzwilliam
Baldwin.
Though Gertrude sometimes pondered on these things it must not be
supposed that she brooded on them, or that the irrevocable past filled
an undue place in her practical and useful life. The misfortune which
had befallen her had from the first its alleviations; and there came a
day when Gertrude would have eagerly denied that it was a misfortune
at all--a day when she would have declared it was the source of all
her happiness, the providential solution of every doubt and difficulty
which had beset her path. What that day was the reader is soon to
know.
The first act of Mr. Dugdale when the truth was made known to
him--when he clearly understood that once more the foreboding of the
woman he had loved and mourned with such matchless and abiding
constancy had been fulfilled so many years after its shadow had
darkened her day--was to declare his intention of immediately leaving
the Deane, and forming a new home for Gertrude. How devoutly he
thanked God then for the life at whose duration he had been sometimes
tempted to murmur, the length of days which had enabled him to profit
by the impulse which had prompted him to decline to add to the ruin
which, in their blindness, they had all accumulated to heap in
Gertrude's path! When he explained this to her, and made her see how
her father and mother had loved her, great peace came to Gertrude, and
much happiness in the perfect confidence between her and her aged
friend, owning no exception now. In his zeal for Margaret's child, Mr.
Dugdale seemed to find strength which had not been his for years. He
bore the journey to the neighbourhood of London, whither Mrs. Doran
had preceded them for the purpose of engaging a house for them, well;
and he settled into his new home as readily as Gertrude did.
In a neat small house in a western suburb of London, George Ritherdon
found Mr. Dugdale and her whom he had last seen in all the lustre of
wealth and station, when he returned from the long absence which had
been occasioned by his mother's illness and subsequent death. George
was perfectly conscious that neither his voice nor his manner, when he
was introduced by the faithful Rose with manifest satisfaction,
conveyed the impression which might have been considered suitable to
the occasion, whether regarded from their point of view or from his.
He knew his eyes were bright and his cheek flushed; he knew his voice
was thrilling with pleasure, with happiness, with hope; and he
abandoned any attempt to express a sadness he did not feel, to affect
to grieve for a change in Gertrude's circumstances and position which
rendered him exquisitely happy, and for which he, though by no means a
presumptuous man, felt an inward irresistible conviction he should be
able to console her.
In less than a year from the falling of the long-planned blow on
Gertrude Baldwin's defenceless head, the day before alluded to had
dawned upon her--the day on which she recognised the seemingly
insurmountable misfortune of her life as its greatest blessing and the
source of all its happiness. It was her wedding-day. There was no need
for waiting longer for equality in their fortunes; there was no need
to think of what the world might say of George or of her. The world
she had lived in had ceased to remember and to talk of her; the world
he lived in would respect him, as it had ever done, and welcome her.
Theirs was a quiet happy courtship, a peaceful hopeful time, blessed
with their old friend's earnest approval and loving presence. A
rational prospect of the best kind of content this world can give was
opening before them--a prospect of neither poverty nor riches, of no
distinction in mere name--the meaningless legacy of others--but of a
position to be worthily won. Mutual love, confidence, and respect, and
such experience of life as, leaving them the power of enjoying its
good, should save them from its illusions--such was the dowry with
which these two began their married life.
Major and Mrs. Carteret attended the quiet wedding, at which they and
two friends of George Ritherdon's were the only guests. Gertrude had
hoped that Mrs. Carteret would have been the bearer to her of some
communication from her sister, that the barrier, which she felt no
doubt had been interposed by Meredith's authority, would on this
occasion be broken down. But Eleanor still made no sign; and Mrs.
Carteret could tell Gertrude no more than that Eleanor had heard the
news of her sister's intended marriage with agitation, but in silence,
and that she was then in London, _en route_ for the Continent, where
she was to pass the winter. This was a cloud; but it was the only one
upon the brightness of Gertrude's wedding-day, and it soon passed
over. It had quite passed when the bride and bridegroom were bidding
farewell to Mr. Dugdale, before they went away on their brief
wedding-trip. It was to be very brief; for they would not leave him
alone for any length of time; and in the mean time Mr. Dugdale was to
remove into the larger house in the same neighbourhood which was to be
the home of George and Gertrude.
The farewell words had been spoken, and Gertrude had risen from her
kneeling position beside the old man's chair, when the servant entered
and handed Gertrude a parcel addressed to her by the name not three
hours old, addressed to her in Eleanor's hand. She broke the seal, and
the contents proved to be a flat case containing a suit of beautiful
pearls. A scrap of paper lay among the jewels. Gertrude seized it
eagerly and read:
"_Wear these, darling, for the sake of old times, and of me. Forgive
me, and make your husband forgive me, and love me a little even yet
and after all, as I love you forever and better than all_."
As Gertrude's tears fell fast upon the precious words, and George and
Mr. Dugdale looked at her, distressed and yet glad, Rose Doran came to
her side, and said, while she dried her eyes as if she were still the
child she had nursed:
"There, there, alanna, didn't I tell you it wasn't _her_ fault at all,
but _his_? and now you see for yourself it's true, and you'll go away
with an easier mind. And, mark my words, it's coming right--it's
coming right by degrees, and it will all come right in the end."
Mr. Dugdale still kept late hours, as he had done all his life. Mrs.
Doran left him at the usual hour in more than his accustomed spirits,
and not apparently fatigued by the unusual emotion of the day. When he
was alone, the old man passed some time in reading; then he closed his
book and gave himself up to thought. His thoughts were seemingly very
peaceful, and not sad; for there was a calm and patient smile upon the
worn face, to which old age had brought a serene dignity. His large
deeply-cushioned arm-chair moved easily upon its castors, and, after a
period of profound stillness, he rolled himself in the chair towards a
writing-table, on which a lamp was burning. He unlocked a deep drawer,
the lowest of a set on his right-hand, and took out two objects. One
was his will, which he spread out upon the table and read attentively.
Then muttering to himself, "A few kind words to Nelly,--God help her,
poor child!" he wrote half-a-dozen lines on the reverse of one of the
pages of the document, and appended his initials in a clear and steady
hand. This done, he replaced the paper in the drawer, and turned his
attention to the other object he had taken out.
It was the portrait of Margaret, in its beautiful setting of
passion-flowers in jeweller's work of enamel and gold. There was
reverential tenderness in the old man's touch as he placed the picture
upright before him, opened the screens of golden filigree, and
"fell to such perusal" of it as had been familiar to him since the
coffin-lid had closed over the face it feebly shadowed forth. The
minutes fled by as he gazed upon the likeness of the beautiful
spiritual face which had gone down to the grave in untouched
loveliness; and a glass upon his dressing-table alongside reflected
his bowed head, sunken features, bent shadowy figure, and thin gray
hair. Now and then a few unconnected murmurs escaped his lips, but
rarely; while his gaze remained fixed, and a solemn peacefulness
spread over his face.
"The same eyes in heaven," he whispered, "the same smile. How many
years have I looked for them, and longed for them--how many, many
years! I shall go to _her_; but she has not been waiting and watching
for _me_. No, no; heaven has been full enough to her all this time
with _him_ there."
He changed the position of the picture slightly, and leaned his head
back against the cushion in his chair, looking at the face from a
greater distance; then stretched out his folded hands and rested them
upon the table.
"A long, long time--but nearly over, I think--and I have not murmured
overmuch, for your sake, Margaret. But now, now I think I may make the
_Nunc dimittis_ my evensong."
A little longer the old man's gaze remained fixed upon the picture;
and then his form settled down amid the cushions, his hands fell
gently from the edge of the table upon his knees, and his eyes closed
softly. Through the hours of the night the lamp burned, and lighted up
the picture with its golden trellised covers unclosed, and lighted up
the old man's serene face. But with the morning the flame in the lamp
flickered and died, and the sunshine came in, and gleamed upon the
walls and the floor. Voices and footsteps stirred in the house, and
soon Mrs. Doran came to Mr. Dugdale's room, as she did every morning.
Then she knew, when she looked at the old man and touched his passive
hands, still clasped and resting on his knee,--so gentle had been the
parting between the body and the spirit,--that his sleep was never to
know waking until the resurrection morning.
The blinds are closely drawn in Gertrude Ritherdon's house, and she
sits alone, dressed in deep mourning. There is a touch of sadness upon
her beauty; but she is more beautiful than she was in her girlhood,
and for all the sorrow in her face today, one can see she is a happy
woman. She is so. A happy wife, loved, trusted, honoured; her
husband's companion and his friend. A proud and happy mother too,
untroubled, when she watches her boy's baby glee and hears his
laughter, with any remembrance of a great inheritance which was once
to have been the birthright of her first-born son. A happy woman in
her house, and popular with her friends; one whose life is full of
blessings and void of bitterness. It is not for her faithful old
friend Gertrude Ritherdon wears mourning to-day. That wound has long
been healed, and she and her husband have none but sunny happy
thoughts of him. Death has come nearer to Gertrude this time even than
he came when Mr. Dugdale answered his summons--they have received
formal notice of Eleanor's decease. The event has been long looked
for, and Gertrude has well known that life has had nothing desirable
in it for Eleanor. The sisters have never met, and of late Eleanor has
lived abroad altogether, her husband being rarely with her; but
Gertrude knows that her sister's former feelings have long ago
returned, and there is sorrow, but not anguish, in this definitive
earthly parting.
George Ritherdon has been summoned to Naples, where Eleanor Baldwin
died, by Major Carteret, and Gertrude is now expecting his return. Her
thoughts have been busy with the past; and when they have rested upon
Robert Meredith, it has been without any anger for herself, but with
some wonder as to how he will take the passing away to a stranger of
all the wealth and luxury he bought at such a price, and enjoyed for
so comparatively short a time. He will be a rich man, no doubt, with
all Eleanor had to bestow on him; but he will have to see a stranger
in the place he filled so pompously, and to feel himself once more a
person of no importance. For Eleanor has died childless, and the Deane
passes away to the eldest son of the late brother of that Mr. Mordaunt
who was the next in the entail, and who, strange to say, died only two
days before the death of Mrs. Meredith Baldwin occurred. Gertrude has
heard this vaguely, in the hurry of George's departure, and during the
first bewilderment which death brings with it.
A carriage stops, and Gertrude lifts the end of a blind and looks out.
Two gentlemen enter the house, and in a few seconds she is clasped in
her husband's arms, and sees, standing behind him, her uncle. Major
Carteret. She greets him affectionately, and then loses her composure
and bursts into tears. The two men allow her to give vent to her
feelings without remonstrance, and when she is again calm, they talk a
little of their journey, and then approach the subject of Eleanor's
death. Gertrude knows the particulars of the event, and they go on to
speak of the will.
"I thought it better to tell you than to write about it," says George.
"You must prepare for a surprise, Gertrude. Eleanor has left her
entire fortune--it is much wasted, but still large--to you."
"To me!" exclaimed Gertrude, "to me! And what has she left to
Meredith?"
"Nothing," replied Major Carteret. "Precisely what he deserved. She
makes no mention of him, his name does not occur in the will. She
probably explains her motives and tells the sad story of her life in a
letter which she left directed to me, that I may give it unopened into
your hands. You shall have it, but hear first what we have to tell
you. She has left you everything in her power to bequeath, and left it
all at your absolute disposal."
Gertrude seemed stupefied. At length she said slowly:
"What must he feel? What did he say?"
"I don't know what he felt," replied Major Carteret. "What he said
quickly deprived me of all inclination to pity him, the scoundrel! I
hope we have all heard and seen the last of him. His worthy associate,
Oakley, made me understand his character long ago; but while poor
Nelly lived it would have served no purpose to resent it, and we had
nothing to gain by exposing him. Now it turns out she has avenged
herself and us all, and we can afford to dismiss him from our minds.
You must allow me to congratulate you, Gertrude, on poor Nelly's
handsome legacy, and then on something much more important still."
Gertrude looked from her husband to her uncle nervously, and her lips
trembled.
"What is it? I can't bear much more."
George put his arm firmly round her, and placing her on a sofa, took
his place by her side. At this moment Mrs. Doran came quietly into the
room and approached the group. Haldane made her a sign to be silent,
while George spoke to his wife:
"While I was staying at the Deane, when I first went there for your
birthday, Gertrude, my mother wrote to me, and told me it was a
curious circumstance that I should be a visitor at Miss Baldwin's
house. Why? Can you guess?"
Gertrude silently shook her head.
"Because, as I then learned for the first time, my father's old
bachelor brother, Mr. Mordaunt, was in the entail of the Deane, and in
the very improbable event of there being no direct heir, that which
has come to pass might come to pass. Do you understand what has
happened now, my darling?"
"No," stammered Gertrude; "I--I do not."
"This is what has happened: my uncle, Mr. Mordaunt, is dead. I am his
heir. My father took my mother's name in consequence of a family
quarrel about his marriage, and, as you know, he died some years ago.
I am the next in the entail, and Eleanor's dying without a child,
makes me the possessor of the Deane. You now know why I did not ask
you to be my wife when I believed you to be the lawful owner of the
property; you now know how doubly joyfully I made you my wife when you
lost it. Gertrude, my darling, I think you will prize your old name
and your old home more than ever now that it is your husband who gives
them back to you."
"I said it would all come right, Miss Gerty, didn't I, alanna?"
exclaimed Rose Doran, as she in her turn caught Gertrude in her strong
arms, and rocked her to and fro like an infant. "But I never thought
it could come so right. Honest people and rogues have got their due in
_this_ world, once in a way, anyhow."
THE END.
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LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Righted Wrong, Volume 3 (of 3), by Edmund Yates