"There is not the slightest use of making any search for a will. I know
there is none. Lord St. George made me carefully destroy the last one he
had executed only the day before his death. Indeed, he had given me
instructions to draw up another so exceedingly inimical to your
interests that I determined to be as slow as possible in carrying out
his intentions. Now, his death intestate has left everything to you,
Colonel Wilton--I beg pardon, my lord."
So spoke Mr. Kenrick--a grave, well-bred, exceedingly professional
man--as Wilton sat at the opposite side of his knee-hole table in the
well-known office of Kenrick and Cole, Lincoln's Inn Fields, the morning
after his arrival in London.
"No; I prefer being Ralph Wilton still. I suppose I need not adopt the
title if I do not like? We must remember, Kenrick, that poor St.
George's daughter may be still alive, and may have a host of children."
"That is certainly possible, though it is a possibility I had wellnigh
forgotten. Forgive me for saying so, but I heartily wish you had been a
little less impetuous. Six weeks' patience would have seen you possessed
of ample means to support your title, and free to choose a wife where
you liked."
"Ay; but who could foresee the course of events? I could not have acted
a double part with the poor old man, nor could I have postponed my
marriage. In short, there is no use in discussing the question; tell me
what Lord St. George said when he sent for you."
"I found him," replied the lawyer, "looking terribly ill, although, as
usual, accurately dressed and quite composed. I had, by his directions,
brought with me the will he had executed a few months ago--a will
bequeathing everything to you, Colonel Wilton. His first question was,
'Have you heard that my heir has selected a wife at last?' I replied I
had not; and he went on to say that you had at first concealed your
marriage, but, having met Mr. St. George Wilton, and thinking
concealment no longer necessary, you had written to him. He showed me
your letter, and said he had a visit from your cousin, who gave him a
true version of the affair, with much more that was not flattering, and
need not be repeated. He then made me destroy the will in his presence,
and gave me instructions to prepare another, by which he bequeathed his
large property to the Foundling Hospital, adding a grim jest as to the
probability of some of his own grandchildren profiting by the bequest. I
must say, however, that he seemed principally affected by the apparent
attempt to conceal your marriage."
"That was never my intention," said Wilton, much disturbed, while he
walked up and down. "But I wish to Heaven I had written to him at once!
The fact is, I knew that I had cut myself off from him completely by my
marriage, and thought it little mattered when I announced it. Then I
forgot to write."
"And most things, probably," said Mr. Kenrick, with a grave and slightly
compassionate smile. "The next morning my late client was found by
Saunders--his man, who has been so long with him--lying placidly on his
bed, but life was quite extinct. He must have been dead some hours."
"I cannot tell you, Kenrick, how confoundly sorry I am to have caused
him this annoyance!"
"His heart had long been in a very weak state," continued the lawyer,
scarcely heeding the interruption; "and his death was certainly
painless. It remains to discover his daughter's children."
"Or herself," put in Wilton.
"She is dead--I feel sure of that. I perfectly remember my father
mentioning to me the terrible species of exultation with which Lord St.
George heard that his only child was no more. That must be twenty years
ago. I am under the impression that she left no family. If so, I shall
be pleased to congratulate you, colonel, on a noble inheritance."
Wilton took another turn to and fro. "I have never been used to wealth
or finery," he said. "If I could dispense with the title, I should not
care much. Tell me--does nothing hang on to the coronet?"
"Well, I believe the rent of one farm; barely four hundred a year. But
the house in S---- Square belongs to you. It was one of the 'bad'
viscount's purchases; and though the late lord's father paid off the
various mortgages with which it was loaded, he never alienated it from
the direct line."
"So much the better for me. And now, Kenrick, lose no time in taking
proper steps to discover the daughter's children."
"I will, of course; but I have a strong idea there are none."
"Why?" asked Wilton.
"Because we should have been sure to have heard of them. The father--a
needy foreigner, by all accounts--would never have resisted the
temptation to dip his fingers into such well-filled pockets as those of
Lord St. George; and the application would have been through us, or
referred to us. No, I cannot help thinking Madame or Mrs. de Monteiro
left no children."
"And I cannot help thinking she has. When is the funeral to take
place?"
"The day after to-morrow. Meantime, had you not better take up your
residence in S---- Square? The house is yours, and probably everything
in it."
"No, Kenrick; I could not stand the house, nor could Mrs. Wilton, I am
sure. I shall remain at the hotel where we now are. After the funeral we
must examine the poor old man's letters and papers; we may find some
clue to the real heir among them."
Meantime an outline of the story began to be told at the clubs and
dinner-tables, now throbbing with the convulsive life of the season.
To the older members of society the name of Wilton had once been
familiar, but Ralph had little beyond regimental renown and a high
reputation at the Horse Guards. Now, however, that he was supposed to
have inherited the estates as well as the title of Lord St. George,
relatives and connections gathered round him "thick as leaves that fall
in Valambrosa."
Ella was at first bewildered, as well as surprised, at the numerous
cards and polite inquiries for Lord and Lady St. George, until Wilton
unfolded the whole history for her enlightenment, and expended some bad
language on the annoyance of being thus saddled with a title he could
not support. Still he was sufficiently alive to the necessity of his
position to insist on his wife's supplying herself with proper and
fashionable mourning at the most select milliner's he could find out.
The result delighted him and appalled Ella. The garments were certainly
becoming, but never in her simple life had she seen so much money paid
for clothes.
The operation of examining the papers and letters of one lately alert
and ready to defend the privacy of his inner life is full of
mournfulness. Even when the deceased has been neither well known nor
loved, there is deep pathos in the silent appeal of death. All the
secrets of the now empty "prison-house" lie bare and at the mercy of a
successor, who may be the last to whom the released tenant would have
exposed them. Although Ralph Wilton was far from being a sentimentalist,
he felt this keenly when, assisted by Mr. Kenrick, he proceeded to
examine the late viscount's escritoire, and various caskets, cabinets,
and jewel-cases, in hopes of finding some trace of his possible
successor. There lay, in profusion, the graceful trinkets bestowed with
lavish hand on his wife and child, exquisite enamels, carved onyx clasps
and brooches, costly fans, old-fashioned _bijouterie_--all the beautiful
artistic trifles which accumulate in an ancient and wealthy family. The
more important jewels were of course kept at the bank, but quantities of
valuable nothings were scattered about the rooms--miniatures of fair
women and lovely children, and one beautiful face in every stage of
development, from an infant peeping out from its rich surrounding of
lace and satin to a stately, gracious demoiselle in court dress. These
portraits were all in rooms and cabinets the most distant, dust-covered,
and evidently rarely opened. All bore somewhere about the frame the
initials E. L. A., sometimes plain, sometimes entwined in a monogram.
"These are all portraits of Miss St. George," said the lawyer, in the
law tone they both unconsciously adopted. "You can scarcely wonder that
such a marriage should almost have driven her father mad. He hardly
thought royalty good enough for her."
"What, in Heaven's name, made her throw herself away on a foreigner?"
exclaimed Wilton. "How could she be so mad?"
"Hum!" said Mr. Kenrick, dryly; "imprudent marriages are always
incomprehensible, except to those that commit them."
Wilton looked up for a moment, with a flash of indignation in his quick,
brown eyes, which, passing rapidly away, gave place to a good-humored
smile.
"You are right," said he; "no outsiders can quite judge the force of our
unreasoning reasons. You had better dine with us to-day, and let me
present you to Mrs. Wilton."
"I imagine she expects you to present me to Lady St. George."
"You are mistaken. She is utterly indifferent to titles--more
indifferent than I am; but you will dine with us?"
"I shall be most happy."
But they sought in vain; no trace existed of the viscount's erring
daughter after the period of her disgraceful marriage. Of private
correspondence very little remained, and it was decided to advertise for
the information they wanted.
"Let us have some talk with Saunders," suggested Wilton; "he was so much
with Lord St. George that he may be able to give us some clue to what we
want."
The serious-looking valet was therefore summoned, and the lawyer shortly
explained to him the state of affairs.
"I believe there was an application of some kind made to my lord
respecting his daughter," said he, slowly and reflectively; "but it was
a long time back--nearly three years ago."
"Tell us what you know about it," said Wilton.
"It was in the summer time, just before we left for Scotland that year,
and my lord was not very well, when one morning the hall-porter called
me and said there was a foreign gentleman wanted to see my lord about a
picture. I knew he expected one or two he had bought in Italy, a few
weeks before, to be sent after him--the only thing he seemed to care
about lately was art; so I went and spoke to the gentleman--for, though
he was a queer-looking customer, he did not seem a common fellow. He
spoke a sort of broken French, and said he was Italian (I can speak
French, but not Italian,) and added that he had called to see Lord St.
George about a picture. So, as he seemed quite fit to speak to my lord,
I went and told him. He says, 'Show the fellow up.' I did so, and left
them together. I waited outside, in case my lord should want me, and
presently I heard them thundering at each other in Italian--not that my
lord spoke very loud, but there was that in his voice as would make any
man jump. Presently he rang very sharp; I went in and found him
half-raised in his chair, holding on by the sides as if he would dig his
fingers into them, as white as marble, and his eyes blazing fire. There
was some torn paper lying at his feet, and a picture in an open case on
the floor at a little distance. The foreign chap," continued the valet,
warming into naturalness, "was standing looking at him with a dark frown
on his face--the sort of murderous scowl those Italians can put on--and
I went close up between them, lest he might draw a knife. 'Turn this
scoundrel out!' says my lord; 'and mark him, Saunders; if you ever find
him loitering about the place, hand him over to the police!' With that
the foreigner gave an odd sort of smile, and said a few words in
Italian, hissing them through his teeth. My lord's face changed as he
listened, but he waved his hand toward the door; and the other, with a
deep, low bow, walked out. My lord had a sort of fainting-fit, and I was
a good deal taken up with him, but I kept the picture, thinking the
Italian might come back for it; but he did not. I think it is a
miniature of my lord's daughter, for it is very like all the other
portraits."
"But the pieces of torn paper," asked the lawyer, quickly--"did you not
by accident see if anything was written on them, and what?"
"Well, sir, as I was picking them up, I did see that the writing was
English, though a foreign-looking hand; but all I could make out was,
'Your only daughter's only child so soon to be an orphan.' Then my lord
fainted away; and when I looked for them again the stupid girl had swept
them up. I can bring you the picture, if you wish."
"By all means," said Colonel Wilton; and the man left the room.--"I wish
to Heaven," he continued, "he had kept the letter instead of the
picture! We have portraits enough of the unhappy girl; the letter might
have put us on the track of the heir or heiress. Do you think this
Italian was the husband?"
"Di Monteiro was, I believe, a Spaniard; but Saunders might mistake
Spanish for Italian; and then the statement in the letter, 'the only
child of his daughter so soon to be an orphan'--that might be by the
death of either father or mother. But, no; it is quite twenty years
since the mother died."
Here the return of Saunders interrupted the lawyer's conjectures.
"This is the picture," he said, unfolding it from some silver-paper in
which it was carefully wrapped. The case of dark-purple leather had a
foreign look; on opening it a lovely face, most exquisitely painted,
appeared. It was unmistakably the same as that so frequently represented
in the deserted chambers of the mansion; but changed and saddened and
spiritualized in expression.
"This is very beautiful," said Wilton, looking long and earnestly upon
it. "Though evidently the same face as the others, there is something
familiar to me in it which the others have not. I can fancy a man daring
a good deal for such a woman as this! However, it brings us no clue. We
must consult some of these wonderful detective fellows and try what can
be done by extensive advertising. You must now feel satisfied that my
poor cousin has left an heir or heiress."
"Heiress, I trust," replied Kenrick. "A foreign Bohemian, with the
recklessness of poverty, and perhaps Communist principles, would be a
terrible representative of the house of Wilton; a woman would be less
dangerous."
"Nevertheless, quite as objectionable, unless caught very young; and,
according to your account she must be past twenty. However, we can do no
more to-day; and, by Jove, it is nearly six o'clock! Mrs. Wilton was to
have met me in Kensington Gardens on her return from a visit at Notting
Hill. I shall be scarcely in time to meet her. We dine at seven-thirty,
and shall have the pleasure of seeing you?"
"I shall be most happy; I am very anxious to have the honor of making
Mrs. Wilton's acquaintance."
"Well, then, will you be so good as to take charge of this picture? I
see you have your inevitable black bag, and it is rather large for my
pocket. Pray, bring it with you this evening. My wife is a true artist,
and will be charmed with it."
In these days of pressing occupation, it was a rich treat to Ella and
Wilton to have an hour or two uninterruptedly together. A visit to some
of the art exhibitions, to the opera, or to a good play, was sufficient
to brighten whole days of comparative loneliness. Ella was eminently
reasonable. She never tormented her husband to know why he was not in
time, or indulged in querulousness if he was compelled to break an
engagement. She knew he regretted it as much as she did, and was
satisfied.
On this occasion she had waited patiently, sitting under a tree near the
Bayswater Gate for nearly a quarter of an hour before the sight of her
husband's soldierly distinguished figure, approaching rapidly, made her
heart leap for joy.
"I am late! but I could not help it. And what have you been doing? How
is the benevolent Mrs. Kershaw?"
"Very well, indeed; but a little indignant because we did not take her
'drawing-rooms,' which were vacant when we came to town, instead of
going to be cheated, as she says, 'up _and_ down' at a hotel."
"And what did you say?" asked Wilton, drawing his wife's hand through
his arm as they strolled toward town.
"Oh! I told her you had so much to do, that Melina Villas was too far
away. But, O, dearest Ralph, I really think dear old Diego must have
called there while we were in Normandy. Mrs. Kershaw was out,
unfortunately, but the servant described a 'tall, black-looking
gentleman, who had very little English.' He asked first for Mrs.
Kershaw, and then for me. Now, no one could ask for me but Diego."
"And, my darling, what is Diego like? is he a gentleman?" asked Wilton,
rather doubtfully.
"Yes, certainly, a gentleman; but not like you. He wears a velvet
coat--it is charming when it is new; but he has not always money, then
it gets shabby; I have seen it broken at the elbows; and he has a felt
hat, oh! such a beautiful hat at first--but--I fear he sleeps in it
sometimes, for it gets much bent. But, when Diego has his purse full,
and new clothes, he is lovely! I have sketched him when they were new,
and mended them when they were old. He is handsome, like a Salvator-Rosa
brigand. You would think he could kill; and he is really as gentle and
simple as a child. You are much more fierce yourself, Ralph"--looking up
lovingly into his eyes, with very little fear in her own. "How I should
like to see him again!" she continued; "if we meet, you must ask him to
dinner."
Wilton laughed heartily.
"If we do meet, I shall; but he will be a curious guest. Let us have our
distinguished cousin, St. George, to meet him."
"Would it annoy you, Ralph, to have poor Diego to dinner?"
"No, love; but don't ask him to live with us, I could not stand that."
"Nor I," said Ella, quietly.
Talking pleasantly, they enjoyed the sunshine of a lovely afternoon,
till Wilton, looking at his watch, declared they would be late for
dinner, and hailed a hansom.
It was very gratifying to Wilton to observe the effect produced by Ella
on the sedate Mr. Kenrick, who was an old-young man. Her unconsciousness
of self gave her a high-bred composure; her perfect freedom from
provincialism--the result of having acquired English almost as a foreign
tongue--an air of refinement, and her natural, simple readiness to
listen, only caring to speak when she really had something to say, gave
a charm to her conversation which greatly impressed the cool,
hard-headed man of business. However blind love may be, no man, unless
below the average of intelligence, is so hoodwinked as not to see when
other men think he has a good excuse for his imprudence or not.
The gentlemen did not sit long after Ella had left them, and, on joining
her, Mr. Kenrick observed, "I have brought the picture, Colonel Wilton,
as it is your pleasure to be so called."
And he handed a small parcel to Wilton, who, opening it, said, "Look at
this, Ella."
She was cutting the leaves of a book which Wilton had bought that
morning, and, looking up quickly exclaimed, "Ah! how good of you! you
have found my picture for me. Where did you find it?"
"Your picture! what do you mean?" he asked.
"The picture of my mother, which was lost."
"You are under some mistake. I do not think you ever saw this before."
"I have seen it all my life; it is my mother's picture."
"Your mother's!" exclaimed Wilton and the lawyer together; "impossible."
"Yet it is so. If you raise the frame here, at the side, you can take it
out of the case, and you will find her name at the back--Elizabeth
Louisa Adelaide di Monteiro--mine is formed from her initials of her
Christian name."
The lawyer and Wilton eagerly obeyed, and found the inscription as she
had described.
"This is very extraordinary!" exclaimed Wilton.
"It appears, then," said Mr. Kenrick, "that, by a rare accident, you
have married your own cousin, and Lord St. George's heiress. The title
and estates are united."
"How? What does he mean?" asked Ella.
"Tell me, Ella, was Monteiro your father's name?"
"Yes, one of them. His mother was a wealthy Spanish lady, his father an
Englishman. He was partly brought up in Spain, by his mother's people,
in her name; he was early an orphan, and, I imagine, very extravagant.
Afterward, when immersed in politics, he found it more useful to use his
father's name of Rivers. He was peculiarly averse to mention my mother.
I never knew her family name. Her picture was always a sacred thing. My
father, who might have been a great artist, painted it himself. Now,
tell me, what do your questions mean?"
Whereupon Wilton, holding her hand in his, told her, as shortly as he
could, the strange story of her mother's marriage and disappearance; of
the displeasure of her grandfather at his (Wilton's) disregard of his
wishes in the choice of a wife; of the consequent destruction of the
will, and the difficulty in which he and Mr. Kenrick found themselves as
regarded the next-of-kin; with a running accompaniment from the lawyer
touching the nature, extent, and peculiarities of the property inherited
by the obscure little heroine of Wilton's railway adventure.
"All this mine, which ought to have been yours," said Ella, when they
were at last silent; "or, rather, yours through me--I do not seem able
to understand or take it in."
She pressed her hand to her brow.
"Dearest, you believed in me, and loved me, when I was desolate and
poor, and utterly insignificant; now I am thankful that I can bring you
wealth; but oh! I gave you most when I gave you my whole heart!"
_Extract of a letter to_ VISCOUNT ST. GEORGE, _from_ MAJOR MONCRIEF
_--th Rifles_.
"I shall certainly be with you on the 12th, if nothing unforeseen
occurs. I feel exceedingly curious to see you in your new home, and to
thank Lady St. George personally for the plenary absolution she has so
kindly extended to me. I confess myself guilty of the cold-blooded
worldliness you lay to my charge, while I acknowledge that few men have
had a better excuse for a piece of extraordinary imprudence. If we were
mere bundles of high-toned emotions, sympathies, and aspirations,
marriages on your system might answer; but, being as we are, much more
animal than spiritual, more self-seeking than sympathetic, is it wise to
act on the impulse of a temporary brain or blood fever, which puts a
certain set of fancies and desires in violent action for a time, only to
be overtaken and swept away by the everlasting flow of every-day wants,
ambitions, and motives, which always run their course, however
excitement may blind us? But I am growing too profound for an old
soldier; the upshot of the argument is that I stand to my opinion in a
general sense; your extraordinary luck in no way touches it. But I most
warmly rejoice in your good fortune; and, though I greatly regret your
quitting the old regiment, I am not surprised that your new position
necessitates the step. Yours is no common story; and I little thought,
when I was 'taken prophetic' the day you 'interviewed' poor old St.
George, that so fair a lot would be the ending of 'Ralph Wilton's
Weird.'
"Always your sincere friend,
"A. MONCRIEF."
THE END.