GILBERT’S LETTER.
It was late in the afternoon when Eleanor awoke, aroused by the
clanging of the dinner-bell in the cupola above her head. She had been
worn out by her patient attendance upon Laura during the last week,
and had slept very heavily, in spite of her anxiety to hear what had
happened at the reading of the will. She had seen very little of her
husband since the night of Mr. de Crespigny’s death, and, though the
coldness and restraint of his manner had much distressed her, she
had no idea that he was actually alienated from her, or that he had
suffered his mind to become filled with suspicions against her.
She opened the door of her room, went out into the corridor, and
listened. But all was very still. She could only hear the faint
jingling of glass and silver in the hall below, as the old butler went
to and fro putting the finishing touches to the dinner-table.
“Mr. Monckton might have come to me to tell me about the will,” she
thought: “he must surely know how anxious I am to hear what has been
done.”
She bathed her flushed face, and dressed for dinner as usual. She put
on a black silk dress out of respect for her father’s friend, whose
funeral had been solemnized during her sleep, and with a black lace
shawl upon her shoulders she went down stairs to look for her husband.
She found all very quiet—unnaturally quiet. It is strange how soon
the absence of an accustomed inhabitant makes itself felt in a house,
however quiet the habits of that missing person. Eleanor looked into
the drawing-room and the study, and found them both empty.
“Where is Mr. Monckton?” she asked of the old butler.
“Gone, ma’am.”
“Gone!”
“Yes, ma’am; two hours ago, a’most. You knew he was going, didn’t you,
ma’am?”
The old man’s curiosity was excited by Eleanor’s look of surprise.
“Didn’t you know as master was a-going to take Miss Mason away to the
sea-side for change of air, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, I knew that he was going to do so, but not immediately. Did
Mr. Monckton leave no message for me?”
“He left a letter, ma’am. It’s on the mantelpiece in the study.”
Eleanor went to her husband’s room with her heart beating high, and her
cheeks flushed with indignation against him for the slight he had put
upon her. Yes; there was the letter, sealed with his signet-ring. He
was not generally in the habit of sealing his letters, so he must have
looked upon this as one of some importance. Mrs. Monckton tore open
the envelope. She turned pale as she read the first few lines of the
letter. It was written over two sheets of note paper, and began thus:—
“ELEANOR,—
“When I asked you to be my wife I told you that in my early youth I
had been deceived by a woman whom I loved very dearly, though not as
dearly as I have since loved you. I told you this, and I implored you
to remember my blighted youth, and to have pity upon me. I entreated
you to spare me the anguish of a second betrayal, a second awakening
from my dream of happiness.
“Surely, if you had not been the most cruel of women, you would have
been touched by the knowledge that I had already suffered so bitterly
from a woman’s treachery, and you would have had mercy upon me. But
you had no mercy. It suited you to come back to this neighbourhood, to
be near your former lover, Launcelot Darrell.”
The letter dropped from Eleanor’s hands as she read these words.
“My former lover!” she cried; “my lover, Launcelot Darrell! Can my
husband think that? _Can_ he think that I ever loved Launcelot Darrell?”
She picked up the letter and seated herself at her husband’s
writing-table. Then she deliberately reperused the first page of the
lawyer’s epistle.
“How could he write such a letter?” she exclaimed, indignantly. “How
could he think such cruel things of me after I had told him the
truth—after I had revealed the secret of my life?”
She went on with the letter:—
“From the hour of our return to Tolldale, Eleanor,” wrote Gilbert
Monckton, “I knew the truth—the hard and cruel truth—very difficult
for a man to believe, when he has built up his life and mapped out
a happy future under the influence of a delusion which leaves him
desolate when it melts away. I knew the worst. I watched you as a man
only watches the woman upon whose truth his every hope depends, and I
saw that you still loved Launcelot Darrell. By a hundred evidences,
small in themselves, but damning when massed together, you betrayed
your secret. You had made a mercenary marriage, looking to worldly
advantages to counterbalance your sacrifice of feeling; and you found
too late that the sacrifice was too hard for you to bear.
“I watched you day by day, and hour by hour; and I saw that as the
time for Laura’s marriage approached, you grew hourly more unhappy,
more restless, more impatient and capricious in your manner towards
Launcelot.
“On the night of Maurice de Crespigny’s death the storm burst. You met
Launcelot Darrell in the Woodlands garden—perhaps by chance, perhaps
by appointment. You tried to dissuade him against the marriage with
Laura, as you had tried to dissuade Laura from marrying him; and,
failing in this, you gave way to a frenzy of jealousy, and accused
your false lover of an impossible crime.
“Remember, Eleanor, I accuse you of no deadly sin, no _deliberate_
treachery to me. The wrong you have done me lies in the fact that
you married me while your heart was still given to another. I give
you credit for having tried to conquer that fatal attachment, and I
attribute your false accusations against Launcelot Darrell to a mad
impulse of jealousy, rather than the studied design of a base woman. I
try to think well of you, Eleanor, for I have loved you most dearly;
and the new life that I had made for myself owed all its brightness to
my hope of winning your regard. But it is not to be so. I bow my head
to the decree, and I release you from a bond that has no doubt grown
odious to you.
“I beg you, therefore, to write me a final letter, demanding such
terms of separation as you may think fit. Let the ground of our
parting be incompatibility of temper. Everything shall be done to
render your position honourable; and I trust to you to preserve the
name of Gilbert Monckton’s wife without taint or blemish. Signora
Picirillo will no doubt act for you in this business, and consent
to assume the position of your guardian and friend. I leave you in
full possession of Tolldale Priory, and I go to Torquay with my ward,
whence I shall depart for the Continent as soon as our separation has
been adjusted, and my business arrangements made.
“My address for the next fortnight will be the Post-office, Torquay.
“GILBERT MONCKTON.”
This was the letter which the lawyer had written to his young wife.
Its contents were like a thunderbolt in the shock which they caused to
Eleanor’s senses. She sat for a long time, reading it over and over
again. For the first time since her marriage she put aside the thought
of her revenge, and began to think seriously of something else.
It was too cruel. Unmixed indignation was the feeling which took
possession of her mind. She had no comprehension of the despair
which had filled Gilbert Monckton’s breast as he wrote that farewell
letter. She did not know how the strong man had done battle with his
suspicions, struggling with every new doubt, and conquering it as
it arose, only to be conquered himself at last, by the irresistible
force of circumstances, every one of which seemed a new evidence
against his wife. Eleanor could not know this. She only knew that her
husband had most bitterly wronged her, and she could feel nothing but
indignation—yet.
She tore the letter into a hundred fragments. She wanted to annihilate
its insulting accusations. How dared he think so vilely of her? Then a
feeling of despair sank into her breast, like some actual burden, chill
and heavy, that bowed her down to the earth, and for the time paralyzed
her energies.
Nothing but failure had met her upon every side. She had been too late
in her attempt to see Maurice de Crespigny before his death. She had
failed to prove Launcelot Darrell’s guilt; though the evidence of his
crime had been in her hands, though she had been herself the witness of
his wrongdoing. Everything had been against her. The chance which had
thrown her across the pathway of the very man she wished to meet had
only given rise to delusive hopes, and had resulted in utter defeat.
And now she found herself suspected and deserted by her husband—the
man whom she had loved and respected with every better feeling of a
generous nature that had become warped and stunted by the all-absorbing
motive of her life. In her indignation against Gilbert Monckton her
hatred of Launcelot Darrell became even more bitter than before, for it
was he who had caused all this—it was he whose treachery had been the
blight of her existence, from the hour of her father’s death until now.
While Eleanor sat thinking over her husband’s letter, the old butler
came to announce dinner, which had been waiting some time for her
coming. I fancy the worthy retainer had been prowling about the hall
meanwhile with the hope of surprising the clue to some domestic mystery
in his mistress’s face as she emerged from the study.
Mrs. Monckton went into the dining-room and made a show of eating her
dinner. She had a motive for doing this, beyond the desire to keep up
appearances which seems natural even to the most impulsive people. She
wanted to hear all about Mr. de Crespigny’s will, and she knew that
Jeffreys, the butler, was sure to be pretty well informed upon the
subject.
She took her accustomed seat at the dinner-table, and Mr. Jeffreys
placed himself behind her. She took a spoonful of clear soup, and then
began to trifle with her spoon.
“Have you heard about Mr. de Crespigny’s will, Jeffreys?” she asked.
“Well, ma’am, to tell the truth, we had Mr. Banks, the baker, from
Hazlewood village, in the servants’ hall not a quarter of an hour ago,
and he _do_ say that Mr. Darrell has got all his great-uncle’s estate,
real and personil—leastways, with the exception of annuities to the
two old mai—the Miss de Crespignys, ma’am, and bein’ uncommon stingy
in their dealin’s, no one will regret as _they_ don’t come into the
fortune. Sherry, ma’am, or ’ock?”
Eleanor touched one of the glasses before her almost mechanically, and
waited while the old man—who was not so skilful and rapid as he had
been in the time of Gilbert Monckton’s father—poured out some wine and
removed her soup-plate.
“Yes, ma’am,” he continued, “Banks of Hazlewood do say that Mr. Darrell
have got the fortune. He heard it from Mrs. Darrell’s ’ousemaid, which
Mrs. Darrell told all the servants directly as she come back from
Woodlands, and were all of a tremble like with joy, the ’ousemaid said;
but Mr. Launcelot, he were as white as a sheet, and hadn’t a word to
say to any one, except the foreign gentleman that he is so friendly
with.”
Eleanor paid very little attention to all these details. She only
thought of the main fact. The desperate game which Launcelot had played
had been successful. The victory was his.
Mrs. Monckton went from the dinner-table to her own room, and with
her own hands dragged a portmanteau out of a roomy old-fashioned
lumber-closet, and began to pack her plainest dresses and the
necessaries of her simple toilet.
“I will leave Tolldale to-morrow morning,” she said. “I will at least
prove to Mr. Monckton that I do not wish to enjoy the benefits of a
_mercenary_ marriage. I will leave this place and begin the world
again. Richard was right; my dream of vengeance was a foolish dream. I
suppose it is right, after all, that wicked people should succeed in
this world, and we must be content to stand by and see them triumph.”
Eleanor could not think without some bitterness of Laura’s abrupt
departure. _She_ could not have been actuated by the same motives that
had influenced Gilbert Monckton. Why, then, had she left without a
word of farewell? Why, Launcelot Darrell was the cause of this sorrow
as well as of every other, for it was jealousy about him that had
prejudiced Laura against her friend.
Early the next morning Eleanor Monckton left Tolldale Priory. She went
to the station at Windsor in a pony carriage which had been reserved
for the use of herself and Laura Mason. She took with her only one
portmanteau, her desk, and dressing-case.
“I am going alone, Martin,” she said to the maid whom Mr. Monckton had
engaged to attend upon her. “You know that I am accustomed to wait upon
myself, and I do not think you could be accommodated where I am going.”
“But you will not be away long, ma’am, shall you?” the young woman
asked.
“I don’t know. I cannot tell you. I have written to Mr. Monckton,”
Eleanor answered, hurriedly.
In the bleak early spring morning she left the home in which she
had known very little happiness. She looked back at the stately
old-fashioned mansion with a regretful sigh.
How happy she _might_ have been within those ivied walls! How happy she
might have been with her husband and Laura; but for the one hindering
cause, the one fatal obstacle—Launcelot Darrell. She thought of what
her life might have been, but for the remembrance of that solemn vow
which was perpetually urging her on to its fulfilment. The love of a
good man, the caressing affection of a gentle girl, the respect of
every living creature round about her, might have been hers; but for
Launcelot Darrell.
She looked back at the old house, gleaming redly behind the leafless
branches of the bare oaks that sheltered it. She could see the oriel
window of the morning-room that Gilbert Monckton had furnished on
purpose for her, the dark crimson of the voluminous curtains, and a
Parian statuette, of his own choosing, glittering whitely against the
red light of the fire within. She saw all this, and regretted it; but
her pride was soothed by the thought that she was running away from
this luxurious home, and all its elegance, to go out alone into a
bleak, uncomfortable world.
“He shall know, at least, that I did not marry him for the sake of a
fine house and horses and carriages,” she thought, as she watched the
terrace chimneys disappear behind the trees. “However meanly he thinks
of me, he shall have no cause to think that.”
It was still very early in the day when Eleanor arrived in London. She
was determined not to go to the Signora, since she must relate all
that had happened, and would no doubt have considerable difficulty in
convincing her old friend that she had chosen the right course.
“The Signora would want me to go back to Tolldale, and to try and
justify myself in the opinion of Gilbert Monckton,” Eleanor thought.
“But I will never humiliate myself to him. He has wronged me; and the
consequences of that wrong must rest upon his own head.”
You see, this young lady’s nature was as undisciplined as it had been
in her girlhood, when she flung herself on her knees in the little
Parisian chamber to take an oath of vengeance against her father’s
destroyer. She had not yet learnt to submit. She had not yet learnt the
most sublime lesson that the Gospel teaches, to suffer unmerited wrong,
and “take it patiently.”
The letter she had written to Gilbert Monckton was very brief.
“Gilbert,” she wrote, “you have most cruelly wronged me, and I cannot
doubt that the day will come in which you will know how baseless your
suspicions have been. Every word that I uttered in Mr. de Crespigny’s
house upon the night of his death was true. I am quite powerless to
prove my truth, and I cannot be content to see Launcelot Darrell
triumph. The mystery of the lost will is more than I can comprehend,
but I declare that it was in my possession five minutes before I met
you in the garden. If ever that will should be found, my justification
will be found with it. I look to you to watch my interests in this
matter, but I am quite incapable of remaining an inmate of your house
while you think me the base creature I should be if my accusations
against Launcelot Darrell were in the slightest degree false. I will
never return to Tolldale until my truth has been proved. You need not
fear that I will do anything to bring discredit upon your name. I go
out into the world to get my own living, as I have done before.
“ELEANOR MONCKTON.”
This letter expressed very little of the indignation which filled
Eleanor’s breast. Her pride revolted against the outrage which
her husband had inflicted upon her; and she suffered all the more
acutely because beneath her apparent indifference there lurked, in
the innermost recesses of her heart, a true and pure affection for
this cruel Gilbert Monckton, whose causeless suspicions had so deeply
wounded her.
In proportion to the strength of her love was the force of her
indignation, and she went away from Tolldale with angry thoughts raging
in her breast, and buoying her up with a factitious courage.
This influence was still at work when she reached London. She had only
a few pounds in her purse, and it was necessary therefore that she
should begin to get her own living immediately. She had thought of
this during her journey between Windsor and London, and had determined
what to do. She took a cab, and drove to a quiet little hotel in the
neighbourhood of the Strand, left her portmanteau and other packages
there, and then walked to a certain institution for governesses in the
neighbourhood of Cavendish Square. She had been there before, during
her residence with the Signora, to make an inquiry about pupils for the
pianoforte, but had never given her name to the principal.
“I must call myself by a new name,” she thought, “if I want to hide
myself from Gilbert Monckton and from the Signora. I must write to her
directly, by the bye, poor dear, and tell her that I am safe and well;
or else she will be making herself unhappy about me, directly she hears
I have left Tolldale.”
The principal of the Governesses’ Institution was a stately maiden
lady, with a rustling silk dress and glossy braids of grey hair under
a cap of point lace. She received Eleanor with solemn graciousness,
demanded her requirements and her qualifications, and then, with a
gold pencil-case poised lightly between the tips of her taper fingers,
deliberated for a few minutes.
Eleanor sat opposite to her, watching her face very anxiously. She
wanted some home, some asylum, some hiding-place from a world that
seemed altogether against her. She scarcely cared where or what the
place of refuge might be. She wanted to get away from Gilbert Monckton,
who had wronged and insulted her, and from Launcelot Darrell, whose
treachery was always strong enough to triumph over the truth.
But of course she didn’t say this. She only said that she wanted a
situation as musical governess, nursery governess, or companion, and
that the amount of salary was of very little importance to her.
“I understand,” the lady principal replied, slowly, “I perfectly
understand your feeling, Miss——Miss——”
“My name is Villars,” Eleanor answered, quickly, looking down at her
muff as she spoke.
The lady principal’s eyes followed hers, and looked at the muff too. It
was a very handsome sable muff, which had cost five-and-twenty pounds,
and had been given by Mr. Monckton to his wife at the beginning of the
winter. It was not at all in accord with Eleanor’s plain merino dress
and woollen shawl, or with her desire to go out as a governess without
consideration of salary. Miss Barkham, the lady principal, began to
look rather suspiciously at her visitor’s handsome face, and forgot to
finish the sentence she had commenced.
“You can command excellent references, Miss Villars, I suppose?” she
said, coldly.
Eleanor flushed crimson. Here was an insurmountable difficulty at the
very outset.
“References,” she stammered, “will references be necessary?”
“Most decidedly. We could not think of sending out any young lady from
this establishment who could not command first-class references or
testimonials. Some people are satisfied with written testimonials; for
myself, I consider a personal reference indispensable, and I would not
upon my own authority engage any lady without one.”
Eleanor looked very much distressed. She had no idea of diplomatizing
or prevaricating. She blurted out the truth all at once, unappalled by
the stern glances of Miss Barkham.
“I can’t possibly give you a reference,” she said; “my friends do not
know that I am in search of a situation, and they must not know it. I
assure you that I belong to a very respectable family, and am quite
competent to do what I profess to do.”