Darrell and his host entered into an artistic discussion that lasted until luncheon was announced by the lawyer’s grey-haired butler, a ponderous and dignified individual who had lived with Gilbert Monckton’s father, and who was said to know more about his master’s history than was known by Gilbert’s most intimate friends.
It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when luncheon was finished, and the party set out to attempt an invasion upon Woodlands. Launcelot Darrell gave his arm to his mother, who in a manner took possession of her son, and the two girls walked behind with the lawyer.
“You have never seen Mr. de Crespigny, I suppose, Miss Vincent?” Gilbert Monckton said, as they went out of the iron gates and struck into a narrow pathway leading through the wood.
“Never! But I am very anxious to see him.”
“Why so?”
Eleanor hesitated. She was for ever being reminded of her assumed name, and the falsehood to which she had submitted out of deference to her half-sister’s pride.
Fortunately the lawyer did not wait for an answer to his question.
“Maurice de Crespigny is a strange old man,” he said; “a very strange old man. I sometimes think there is a disappointment in store for Launcelot Darrell; and for his maiden aunts as well.”
“A disappointment!”
“Yes, I doubt very much if either the maiden ladies or their nephew will get Maurice de Crespigny’s fortune.”
“But to whom will he leave it, then?”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
“It is not for me to answer that question, Miss Vincent,” he said. “I merely speculate upon the chances, in perfect ignorance as to facts. Were I Mr. de Crespigny’s legal adviser, I should have no right to say as much as this; but as I am not, I am free to discuss the business.”
Mr. Monckton and Eleanor were alone by this time, for Laura Mason had flitted on to the party in advance, and was talking to Launcelot Darrell. The lawyer’s face clouded as he watched his ward and the young man.
“You remember what I said to you yesterday, Miss Vincent?” he said, after a pause.
“Perfectly.”
“I am very much afraid of the influence that young man’s handsome face may have upon my poor frivolous ward; I would move her out of the way of that influence if I could, but where could I remove her? Poor child! she has been shifted about enough already. She seems happy at Hazlewood; very happy, with you.”
“Yes,” Eleanor answered, frankly; “we love each other very dearly.”
“And you would do anything to serve her?”
“Anything in the world.”
Mr. Monckton sighed.
“There is one way in which you might serve her,” he said, in a low voice, as if speaking to himself rather than to Eleanor, “and yet—”
He did not finish the sentence, but walked on in silence, with his eyes bent upon the ground. He only looked up now and then to listen, with an uneasy expression, to the animated conversation of Launcelot and Laura. They walked thus through the shadowy woodland, where the rustling sound of a pheasant’s flight amongst the brushwood and the gay tones of Laura’s voice only broke the silence.
Beyond the wood they came to a grassy slope dotted by groups of trees, and bounded by an invisible fence.
Here, on the summit of a gentle elevation, stood a low white villa—a large and important house—but built in the modern style, and very inferior to Tolldale Priory in dignity and grandeur.
This was Woodlands, the house which Maurice de Crespigny had built for himself some twenty years before, and the house whose threshold had so long been jealously guarded by the two maiden nieces of the invalid.
Mr. Monckton looked at his watch as he and Eleanor joined Mrs. Darrell.
“Half-past three o’clock,” he said; “Mr. de Crespigny generally takes an airing in his Bath-chair at about this time in the afternoon. You see, I know the habits of the Citadel, and know therefore how to effect a surprise. If we strike across the park we are almost sure to meet him.”
He led the way to a little gate in the fence. It was only fastened by a latch, and the party entered the grassy enclosure.
Eleanor Vane’s heart beat violently. She was about to see her father’s old and early friend, that friend whom he had never been suffered to approach, to whom he had been forbidden to appeal in the hour of his distress.
“If my poor father could have written to Mr. de Crespigny for help when he lost that wretched hundred pounds, he might have been saved from a cruel death,” Eleanor thought.
Fortune seemed to favour the invaders. In a shady avenue that skirted one side of the slope, they came upon the old man and the two sisters. The maiden ladies walked on either side of their uncle’s Bath-chair, erect and formidable-looking as a couple of grenadiers.
Maurice de Crespigny looked twenty years older than his spendthrift friend had looked up to the hour of his death. His bent head nodded helplessly forward. His faded eyes seemed dim and sightless. The withered hand lying idle upon the leathern apron of the Bath-chair, trembled like a leaf shaken by the autumn wind. The shadow of approaching death seemed to hover about this feeble creature, separating him from his fellow-mortals.
The two maiden ladies greeted their sister with no very demonstrative cordiality.
“Ellen!” exclaimed Miss Lavinia, the elder of the two, “this is an unexpected pleasure. I am sure that both Susan and myself are charmed to see you; but as this is one of our poor dear invalid’s worst days, your visit is rather unfortunately timed. If you had written, and given us notice of your coming—”
“You would have shut the door in my face,” Mrs. Darrell said, resolutely. “Pray do not put yourself to the trouble of inventing any polite fictions on my account, Lavinia. We understand