MAURICE DE CRESPIGNY’S BEQUEST.
Richard Thornton had received Eleanor’s letter in Edinburgh, and had
been travelling perpetually since his receipt of the girl’s eager
epistle. He had calculated that by travelling day and night he should
be able to accomplish a great achievement in the four days that were to
elapse between the hour in which he received Eleanor’s letter and the
hour appointed for the interview with the Frenchman. This achievement
was the reconciliation of Gilbert Monckton and his wife.
For this purpose the devoted young man had travelled from Edinburgh
to London, and from London to Torquay, back to London again, with Mr.
Monckton for his companion, and from London to Paris, still in that
gentleman’s companionship. Gilbert Monckton would have thought it a
small thing to have given half his fortune in payment of the tidings
which the scene-painter carried to him.
He should see his wife again; his bright and beautiful young wife, whom
he had so cruelly wronged, and so stupidly misunderstood.
Human nature is made up of contradictions. From the hour in which
Gilbert Monckton had turned his back upon Tolldale Priory, deserting
his young wife in a paroxysm of jealous anger until now, he had done
nothing but repent of his own work. Why had he disbelieved in her? How
had he been vile enough to doubt her? Had she not stood before him,
with the glorious light of truth shining out of her beautiful face?
Even had he not already repented, Eleanor’s letter would have opened
the jealous husband’s eyes to his own folly; that brief offended letter
in which the brave girl had repudiated her husband’s offer of wealth
and independence; and had declared her proud determination to go out
into the world once more, and to get her own living, and to accept
nothing from the man who doubted her truth.
The lawyer had made every effort to lure the lost bird back to its
deserted nest. But if you render your wife’s existence intolerable,
and she runs away from you in despair, it is not always possible to
bring her back to your halls; though you may be never so penitent
for your offences against her. Gilbert Monckton had employed every
possible means to discover his wife’s whereabouts; but had failed most
completely to do so. His search was futile; his advertisements were
unanswered; and, very lonely and miserable, he had dragged out the
last six weeks, in constant oscillation between London and Torquay;
always making some new effort to obtain tidings of the missing girl;
perpetually beguiled a little way onward with false hopes, only to be
disappointed. He had gone again and again to Signora Picirillo; but had
received no comfort from her, inasmuch as the music mistress knew no
more about Eleanor than he did.
It is not to be wondered, then, that when Richard Thornton appeared
at Torquay, carrying with him Eleanor’s letter, he was received with
open arms by the penitent husband. Not an hour was wasted by the eager
travellers, but use what haste they might, they could not hasten the
Dover express, or the Calais packets, or the comfortable jog-trot pace
of the train between Calais and Paris; so they had only been able to
arrive at eight o’clock in the dusky April evening, just in time to
behold Major Lennard in his moment of triumph.
Gilbert Monckton extended his hand to the stalwart soldier, after the
events of the evening had been hurriedly related by Eleanor and her
companion.
“You robbed me of a wife twenty years ago, Major Lennard,” he said,
“but you have restored another wife to me to-night.”
“Then I suppose we’re quits,” the major exclaimed, cheerfully, “and we
can go back to the Palais and have a devilled lobster, Hay? I suppose
we must do something for this poor devil, though, first, Hay?”
Mr. Monckton heartily concurred in this suggestion; and Richard
Thornton, who was better acquainted with Paris than any of his
companions, ran down stairs, told the portress of the malady which
had stricken down the lodger in the entresol, despatched the sharp
young damsel with the shrill voice in search of a sick nurse, and went
himself to look for a doctor. In a little more than half an hour both
these officials had arrived, and Mr. Monckton and his wife, Major
Lennard, and Richard departed, leaving the Frenchman in the care of
his two compatriots. But before Gilbert Monckton left the apartment,
he gave the nurse special orders respecting the sick man. She was not
to let him leave his rooms upon any pretence whatever; not even if he
should appear to become reasonable.
Mr. Monckton went to the Hôtel du Palais, with his young wife, and for
the first time since he had been wronged forgave the frivolous woman
who had jilted him. She had been very kind to Eleanor, and he was in a
humour to be pleased with any one who had been good to his wife. So the
lawyer shook hands very heartily with Mrs. Lennard, and promised that
she should see her daughter before long.
“The poor little girl has had a hard trial lately, Mrs. Lennard,
through my folly, and I owe her some atonement. I separated her from
her natural protectors, because I was presumptuous enough to imagine
that I was better fitted to plan her destiny; and after all I have
wrecked her girlish hopes, poor child! But I don’t think the damage is
irreparable; I think she’ll scarcely break her heart about Launcelot
Darrell.”
In all this time nobody had cared to ask any questions about the will.
Eleanor had handed it to her husband; and Gilbert Monckton had put
it, still folded, into his pocket. But when the devilled lobster and
the sparkling Moselle, which the major insisted upon ordering, had
been discussed, and the table cleared, Mr. Monckton took the important
document from his pocket.
“We may as well look at poor De Crespigny’s last testament,” he
said, “and see who has been most injured by the success of Launcelot
Darrell’s fabrication.”
He read the first two sheets of the will to himself, slowly and
thoughtfully. He remembered every word of those two first sheets.
So far the real will was verbatim the same as the forged document:
Gilbert Monckton could therefore now understand why that fabricated
will had seemed so genuine. The fabrication had been copied from the
original paper. It was thus that the forgery had borne the stamp of the
testator’s mind. The only difference between the two documents lay in
the last and most important clause.
The lawyer read aloud this last sheet of Maurice de Crespigny’s will.
“I devise and bequeath all the residue and remainder of my real and
personal property unto Hortensia Bannister, the daughter of my old
and deceased college friend, George Vane, and my valued friend Peter
Sedgewick, of Cheltenham, their heirs, executors, administrators
and assigns, upon trust, for the sole and separate use of Eleanor,
the daughter of my said dear deceased friend, George Vane, by his
last wife, Eleanor Thompson, during her life, free from the control,
debts, or engagements of any husband she may at any time have, and
so that she shall not have power to anticipate the rents, interest,
and annual proceeds thereof, and upon and after her decease, for such
persons, estates, and in such manner as she shall, whether covert or
uncovert, by will appoint; and in default of and subject to any such
appointment, for the said Eleanor, the daughter of the said George
Vane, her heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, according
to the nature of the said property. And in case the said Eleanor
shall have departed this life during my lifetime, or in case the said
last-named trustees cannot discover the said Eleanor Vane within four
years after my decease, then they shall consider the said Eleanor Vane
dead, and therefrom I give and devise the said residuary estates to
be equally divided between my said three nieces, Sarah, Lavinia, and
Ellen, absolutely.
“It is fortunate that the money is left to trustees for your separate
use, Eleanor,” Mr. Monckton said. “If it had been otherwise, the
gift would have been invalid, since I, your husband, was one of the
witnesses to the will.”
A torrent of congratulations from Major and Mrs. Lennard, and
Richard Thornton, almost overwhelmed Eleanor; but she was still more
overwhelmed by her astonishment at the wording of the will.
“The money left to me!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t want it. I am sorry it
should be so. It will seem now as if I had been plotting to get this
fortune. I don’t want it; I only want my revenge.”
Gilbert Monckton narrowly watched his wife’s astonished face. He saw no
look of triumph, no smile of gratification. At least she was free from
any mercenary baseness. He took her a little way from the rest of the
party, and looked earnestly into her fearless eyes.
“My own dear love,” he said, “I have learned a hard lesson, and I
believe that I shall profit by it. I will never doubt you again. But
tell me, Eleanor, tell me once and for ever! have you ever loved
Launcelot Darrell? Have any of your actions been prompted by jealousy?”
“Not one,” cried Mrs. Monckton. “I have never loved him, and I have
never been jealous of him. From first to last I have been actuated by
one motive, and one alone—the duty I owe to my dead father.”
She had not abandoned her purpose, then. No; the lurid star that had
beckoned her forward still shone before her. It was so near now, that
its red splendour filled the universe. The young wife was pleased to be
reconciled to her husband; but with the sense that he was restored to
her once more, the memory of the dreary interval in which she had lost
him melted away from her mind, and Launcelot Darrell—Launcelot Darrell,
the destroyer of her dead father, became once more paramount in her
thoughts.
“Oh, Gilbert!” she said, clasping her hands about her husband’s arm and
looking up in his face, “you’ll take me back to England at once, won’t
you?”
“Yes, my dear,” Mr. Monckton answered, with a sigh. “I’ll do whatever
you wish.”
There was a jealous pain at his heart as he spoke. His wife was pure,
and true, and beautiful; but this strange purpose of her life divided
her from him, and left his own existence very blank.