LOST.
“You asked me why I came here to-night,” she said, looking at her
husband. “I will tell you, Gilbert: but I must tell you a long story
first, almost all the story of my life.”
Her voice, resonant and musical, roused Launcelot Darrell from his
gloomy abstraction. He looked up at Eleanor, and for the first time
began to wonder how and why she had come there. They had met her in the
garden. Why had she been there? What had she been doing there? Could
it be possible that she had played the spy upon him? No! Surely there
could be no fear of that? What reason should _she_ have for suspecting
or watching him? _That_ terror was too cowardly, too absurd, he
thought; but such foolish and unnecessary fears would be the perpetual
torment of his life henceforward.
“You remember, Gilbert,” Eleanor continued, “that when I promised to be
your wife, I told you my real name, and asked you to keep that name a
secret from the people in this house; and from Launcelot Darrell.”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Monckton, “I remember.”
Even in the midst of the tortures which arose out of his jealousy and
suspicion, and which to-night had reached their climax, and had taken
entire possession of the lawyer’s mind, there was some half-doubtful
feeling of wonder at Eleanor’s calm and self-assured manner.
And yet she was deceiving him. He knew that. He had long ago determined
that this second hazard of his life was to result in ignominious
failure, like the first. He had been deceived before; gulled,
hoodwinked, fooled, jilted: and the traitress had smiled in his face,
with the innocent smile of a guileless child. Eleanor was perhaps even
more skilled in treachery than that first traitress; but that was all.
“I will not be deluded by her again,” he thought, as he looked gloomily
at the beautiful face opposite to him: “_nothing_ she can say shall
make me her dupe again.”
“Shall I tell you why I asked you to keep that secret for me, Gilbert?”
continued Eleanor. “I did so because I had a motive for coming back to
the neighbourhood of this place. A motive that was stronger than my
love for you—though I did love you, Gilbert, better than I thought; if
I thought at all of anything except that other motive which was the one
purpose of my life.”
Mr. Monckton’s upper lip curled scornfully. Love him! That was too poor
a fancy. What had he ever been but a dupe and a cat’s-paw for a false
woman; fooled and cheated many years ago in his early manhood; fooled
and cheated to-day in his prime of life. He smiled contemptuously at
the thought of his own folly.
“Launcelot Darrell,” cried Eleanor, suddenly, in an altered voice,
“shall I tell _you_ why I was so eager to come back to this
neighbourhood? Shall I tell you why I wanted the secret of my name kept
from you and from your kindred?”
The young man lifted his head and looked at Eleanor. Wonder and terror
were both expressed in his countenance. He wondered why Gilbert
Monckton’s wife addressed him with such earnestness. He was afraid,
without knowing what he feared.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Monckton,” he faltered. “What could
I have to do with your false name, or your coming back to this place?”
“EVERYTHING!” cried Eleanor: “it was to be near you that I came back
here.”
“I thought as much,” muttered the lawyer, under his breath.
“It was to be near you that I came back,” Eleanor repeated; “it was
to be near you, Launcelot Darrell, that I was so eager to come back:
so eager, that I would have stooped to any stratagem, encountered any
risk, if by so doing I could have hastened my return. It was for this
that I took the most solemn step a woman can take, without stopping
to think of its solemnity. It was to deceive you that I kept my name
a secret. It was to denounce you as the wretch who cheated a helpless
old man out of the money that was not his own, and thus drove him to
a shameful and a sinful death, that I came here. I have watched and
waited long for this moment. It has come at last. Thank Heaven, it has
come at last!”
Launcelot Darrell rose suddenly from his chair. His white face was
still turned towards Eleanor; his eyes were fixed in a stare of horror.
At first, perhaps, he contemplated rushing out of the room, and getting
away from this woman, who had recalled the sin of the past, at a
moment when his brain was maddened by the crime of the present. But he
stopped, fascinated by some irresistible power in the beautiful face
before him. Eleanor stood between the coward and the door. He could not
pass her.
“You know who I am now, Launcelot Darrell, and you know how much mercy
you can expect from me,” this girl continued, in the clear, ringing
voice in which she had first addressed her enemy. “You remember the
eleventh of August. You remember the night upon which you met my father
upon the Boulevard. I stood by his side upon that night. I was hanging
upon his arm, when you and your vile associate tempted him away from
me. Heaven knows how dearly I loved him; Heaven knows how happily I
looked forward to a life in which I might be with him and work for
him. Heaven only knows how happily that bright dream might have been
realized—but for you—but for you. May an old man’s sin rest upon your
head. May a daughter’s blighted hope rest upon your head. You can
guess now why I am here to-night, and what I have been doing; and you
can guess, perhaps, what mercy you have to expect from George Vane’s
daughter.”
“George Vane’s daughter!”
Sarah and Lavinia de Crespigny lifted up their hands and eyes in mute
dismay. Was this woman, this viper, who had gained access to the very
heart of the citadel which they had guarded so jealously, the very
creature who of all others they would have kept remote from the dead
man?
No! it was impossible. Neither of Maurice de Crespigny’s nieces had
ever heard of the birth of George Vane’s youngest child. The old man
had received tidings of the little girl’s advent in a letter sent by
stealth, and had kept the intelligence a secret.
“It is too absurd!” Miss Lavinia exclaimed; “George Vane’s
youngest daughter is Hortensia Bannister, and she must be at least
five-and-thirty years of age.”
Launcelot Darrell knew better than this. _He_ could recall a dismal
scene that had occurred in the pale grey light of an August morning.
He could remember a white-haired old man, sitting amidst the sordid
splendour of a second-rate coffee-house, crying about his youngest
daughter, and bewailing the loss of the money that was to have paid for
his darling’s education; a wretched, broken-hearted old man, who had
held his trembling hands aloft, and cursed the wretch who had cheated
him.
He could see the figure now, with the shaking hands lifted high. He
could see the wrinkled face, very old and worn, in that grey morning
light, and tears streaming from the faded blue eyes. He had lived under
the shadow of that curse ever since, and it seemed as if it was coming
home to him to-night.
“I am Eleanor Vane,” Gilbert Monckton’s wife said, in answer to Miss
Lavinia. “I am Hortensia Bannister’s half-sister. It was because of her
foolish pride that I came to Hazlewood under a false name. It was in
order to be revenged upon Launcelot Darrell that I have since kept my
real name a secret.”
Eleanor Vane! Eleanor Vane! Could it be true? Of all whom Launcelot
Darrell had reason to fear, this Eleanor Vane was the most to be
dreaded. If he had never wronged her father, even if he had not been
indirectly the cause of the old man’s death, he would still have had
reason to fear Eleanor Vane. He knew what that reason was, and he
dropped back into his chair, livid and trembling, as he had trembled
when he stole the keys from his dead uncle’s bedside.
“Maurice de Crespigny and my father were bosom friends,” continued
Eleanor. Her voice changed as she spoke of her father, and the light in
her face faded as a tender shadow stole over her countenance. She could
not mention her father’s name without tenderness, speak of him when or
where she might. “They were bosom friends; everybody here knows that;
and my poor dear father had a foolish fancy that if Mr. de Crespigny
died before him, he would inherit this house and estate, and that he
would be rich once more, and that we should be very happy together. _I_
never thought that.”
Launcelot Darrell looked up with a strange, eager glance, but said
nothing. The sisters, however, could not suffer Eleanor’s words to pass
without remark.
“You never thought that; oh dear no, I dare say not,” Miss Lavinia
observed.
“Of course you never entered this house with any mercenary ideas upon
the subject of my dear uncle’s will,” Miss Sarah exclaimed, with biting
irony.
“I never built any hope upon my dear father’s fancy,” resumed Eleanor,
so indifferent to the remarks of the two ladies that it seemed as
if they had been unheard by her; “but I humoured it as I would have
humoured any fancy of his, however foolish. But after his death I
remembered that Mr. de Crespigny had been his friend, and I only waited
to convince myself of that man’s guilt”—she pointed to Launcelot
Darrell as she spoke—“before I denounced him to his great-uncle. I
thought that my father’s old friend would listen to me, and knowing
what had been done, would never let a traitor inherit his wealth. I
thought that by this means I should be revenged upon the man who caused
my father’s death. I heard to-day that Mr. de Crespigny had not long
to live; and when I came here to-night I came with the intention of
telling him the real character of the man who was perhaps to inherit
his fortune.”
The maiden ladies looked at each other. It would not have been a bad
thing, perhaps, after all, if Eleanor had arrived in time to see the
dying man. It was a pity that Maurice de Crespigny should have died in
ignorance of his nephew’s character, when there was just a chance that
he might have left a will in that nephew’s favour. But on the other
hand, George Vane’s daughter was even a more formidable person than
Launcelot. Who could tell how she might have contrived to tamper with
the old man?
“I have no doubt you wished to denounce Mr. Darrell; and to denounce
us, too, for the matter of that, I dare say,” observed Miss Sarah, “in
order that you yourself might profit by my uncle’s will.”
“_I_ profit!” cried Eleanor; “what should I want with the poor old
man’s money?”
“My wife is rich enough to be above any suspicion of that kind, Miss de
Crespigny,” Gilbert Monckton said, proudly.
“I came too late,” Eleanor said; “I came too late to see my father’s
friend, but not too late for what I have so long prayed for—revenge
upon my father’s destroyer. Look at your sister’s son, Miss de
Crespigny. Look at him, Miss Lavinia; you have good reason to be proud
of him. He has been a liar and a traitor from first to last; and
to-night he has advanced from treachery to crime. The law could not
punish him for the cruelty that killed a helpless old man; the law can
punish him for that which he has done to-night, for he has committed a
crime.”
“A crime!”
“Yes. He has crept like a thief into the house in which his uncle lies
dead, and has introduced some document—a will of his own fabrication,
no doubt—in the place of the genuine will left in Mr. de Crespigny’s
private _secrétaire_.”
“How do _you_ know this, Eleanor?” cried Gilbert Monckton.
“I know it because I was outside the window of the study when he
changed the papers in the cabinet, and because I have the real will in
my possession.”
“It is a lie!” shouted Launcelot Darrell, starting to his feet, “a
damnable lie, the real will——”
“Was burnt, as you think, Mr. Darrell; but you are mistaken, the
document which your friend, Monsieur Victor Bourdon, burnt was a paper
which you dropped out of the _secrétaire_ while you were searching for
the will.”
“And where is the genuine document, Eleanor?” Gilbert asked.
“Here,” answered his wife, triumphantly.
She put her hand into her pocket. It was empty. The will was gone.