Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/195

. 8, 1863.] go away. She waited, with her hands clasped upon her heart; thinking of her triumph.

The vengeance had come at last. That which she had said to Richard Thornton was about to be fulfilled. The law of the land had no power to punish Launcelot Darrell for the cowardly and treacherous act that had led to an old man’s most miserable death: but the traitor had by a new crime placed himself at the mercy of the law.

“The will he has placed in the cabinet is a forgery,” she thought; “and I have the real will in my pocket. He cannot escape me now,—he cannot escape me now! His fate is in my hands.”

The two men had walked past the laurels out on to the grass-plat. Eleanor rose from her crouching position, rustling the branches as she did so. At the same moment she heard voices in the distance, and saw a light gleaming through the leaves.

One of the voices that she had heard was her husband’s.

“So much the better,” she thought. “I will tell him what Launcelot Darrell is. I will tell him to-night.”

The voices and the lights came nearer, and she heard Gilbert Monckton say:

“Impossible, Miss Sarah. Why should my wife stop here? She must have gone back to Tolldale; and I have been unlucky enough to miss her on the way.”

The lawyer had scarcely spoken when, by the light of the lantern which he held, he saw Launcelot Darrell making off into the shrubbery that surrounded the grass-plat. The young man had not succeeded in escaping from the open space into this friendly shelter before Gilbert Monckton perceived him. Monsieur Bourdon, perhaps better accustomed to take to his heels, had been more fortunate, and had plunged in amongst the evergreens at the first sound of the lawyer’s voice.

“Darrell!” cried Mr. Monckton, “what in Heaven’s name brings you here?”

The young man stood for a few moments, irresolute, and sullen-looking.

“I’ve as good a right to be here as any one else, I suppose,” he said. “I heard of my uncle’s death—and—and—I came to ascertain if there was any truth in the report.”

“You heard of my beloved uncle’s death!” cried Miss Sarah de Crespigny, peering sharply at her nephew from under the shadow of a penthouse-like garden-hood, in which she had invested herself before venturing into the night-air. “How could you have heard of the sad event. My sister and I gave special orders that no report should go abroad until to-morrow morning.”

Mr. Darrell did not care to say that one of the Woodlands servants was in his pay; and that the same servant, being no other than Brooks the gardener, had galloped over to Hazlewood, to communicate the tidings of his master’s death, before starting for Windsor.

“I did hear of it,” Launcelot said, “and that’s enough. I came to ascertain if it was true.”

“But you were going away from the house when I saw you!” said Mr. Monckton, rather suspiciously.

“I was not going away from the house, for I had not been to the house,” Launcelot answered in the same tone as before.

He spake in a sulky grudging manner, because he knew that he was telling a deliberate lie. He was a man who always did wrong acts under protest, as being forced to do them by the injustice of the world; and he held society responsible for all his errors.

“Have you seen my wife?” Gilbert asked, still suspiciously.

“No. I have only this moment come. I have not seen anybody.”

“I must have missed her,” muttered the lawyer, with an anxious air. “I must have missed her between this and Tolldale. Nobody saw her leave the house. She went out without leaving any message, and I guessed at once that she had come up here. It’s very odd.”

“It is very odd!” Miss Sarah repeated, with spiteful emphasis. “I must confess that for my own part I do not see what motive Mrs. Monckton could have had for rushing up here in the dead of the night.”

The time which Miss Sarah de Crespigny spoke of as the dead of the night had been something between ten and eleven o’clock. It was now past eleven.

The lawyer and Miss de Crespigny walked slowly along the gravelled pathway that led from the grass-plat and shrubbery to the other side of the house. Launcelot Darrell went with them, lounging by his aunt’s side, with his head down, and his hands in his pockets, stopping now and then to kick the pebbles from his pathway.

It was impossible to imagine anything more despicable than this young man’s aspect. Hating himself for what he had done; hating the man who had prompted him to do it; angry against the very workings of Providence—since by his reasoning it was Providence, or his Destiny, or some power or other against which he had ample ground for rebellion, that had caused all the mischief and dishonour of his life—he went unwillingly to act out the part which he had taken upon himself, and to do his best to throw Gilbert Monckton off the scent.

His mind was too much disturbed for him to be able clearly to realise the danger of his position. To have been seen there was ruin—perhaps! If by-and-by any doubts should arise as to the validity of the will that would be found in Maurice de Crespigny’s secrétaire, would it not be remembered that he, Launcelot Darrell, had been seen lurking about the house on the night of the old man’s death, and had been only able to give a very lame explanation of his motives for being there. He thought of this as he walked by his aunt’s side. He thought of this, and began to wonder if it might not be possible to undo what had been done? No, it was impossible. The crime had been committed. A step had been taken which could never be retraced, for Victor Bourdon had burned the real will.

“Curse his officiousness,” thought the young man. “I could have undone it all but for that.”

As the lawyer and his two companions reached