the artist with a half-frightened, half-inquiring glance; but the young man did not return the look.
CHAPTER XLVI. LAURA’S TROUBLES.
Gilbert Monckton offered Eleanor his arm as they went out of the hall and down the steps before the front entrance.
“I would have got a conveyance for you if it had been possible, Eleanor,” he said; “but of course at this time of night that is utterly out of the question. Do you think that you can manage the walk home?”
“Oh, yes; very well indeed.”
She sighed as she spoke. She felt completely baffled by what had occurred, terribly prostrated by the defeat which had befallen her. There was no hope, then. This base and treacherous man was always to triumph: however wicked, however criminal.
“Is it very late?” she asked, presently.
“Yes, very late—past one o’clock.”
The husband and wife walked homewards in silence. The road seemed even drearier than before to Eleanor, though this time she had a companion in her dismal journey. But this time despair was gnawing at her breast; she had been supported before by excitement, buoyed up by hope.
They reached Tolldale at last. The butler admitted them. He had sent all the other servants to bed, and had sat up alone to receive his master. Even upon this night of bewilderment Gilbert Monckton endeavoured to keep up appearances.
“We have been to Woodlands,” he said to the old servant. “Mr. de Crespigny is dead.”
He had no doubt that his own and his wife’s absence had given rise to wonderment in the quiet household, and he thought by this means to set all curiosity at rest. But the drawing-room door opened while he was speaking, and Laura rushed into the hall.
“Oh, my goodness gracious,” she exclaimed, “here you are at last. What I have suffered this evening! Oh! what agonies I have suffered this evening, wondering what had happened, and thinking of all sorts of horrid things.”
“But, my dear Laura, why didn’t you go to bed?” asked Mr. Monckton.
“Go to bed!” screamed the young lady. “Go to bed with my poor brain bursting with suspense. I’m sure if people’s brains do burst, it’s a wonder mine hasn’t to-night, and I thought ever so many times it was going to do it. First Eleanor goes out without leaving word where she’s gone; and then you go out without leaving word where you’re gone; and then you both stay away for hours, and hours, and hours. And there I sit all the time watching the clock, with nobody but the Skye to keep my company, until I get so nervous, that I daren’t look behind me, and I almost begin to feel as if the Skye was a demon dog! And, oh, do tell me what in goodness’ name has happened.”
“Come into the drawing-room, Laura; and pray don’t talk so fast. I will tell you presently.”
Mr. Monckton walked into the drawing-room followed by Laura and his wife. He closed the door carefully, and then sat himself down by the fire.
“I’ve had coals put on five times,” exclaimed Miss Mason, “but all the coals in the world wouldn’t keep me from shivering and feeling as if somebody was coming in through the door and looking over my shoulder. If it hadn’t been for the Skye I should have gone mad. What has happened?”
“Something has happened at Woodlands—” Mr. Monckton began gravely, but Laura interrupted him with a little shriek.
“Oh, don’t,” she cried, “don’t, please; I’d rather you didn’t. I know what you’re going to say. You must come and sleep with me to-night, Eleanor, if you don’t want to find me raving mad in the morning. No wonder I felt as if the room was peopled with ghosts.”
“Don’t be foolish, Laura,” Mr. Monckton said, impatiently. “You asked me what has happened, and I tell you. To speak plain, Mr. de Crespigny is dead.”
“Yes, I guessed that, of course, directly you began to speak in that solemn way. It’s very dreadful—not that he should be dead, you know, because I scarcely ever saw him, and when I did see him, he always seemed to be deaf, or grumpy—but it seems dreadful that people should die at all, and I always fancy they’ll come walking into the room at night when I’m taking my hair down before the glass, and look over my shoulder, as they do in German stories.”
“Laura!”
“Oh, please don’t look contemptuously at me,” cried Miss Mason, piteously; “of course, if you haven’t got nerves it’s very easy to despise these things; and I wish I’d been born a man or a lawyer, or something of that sort, so that I might never be nervous. Not that I believe in ghosts, you know; I’m not so childish as that. I don’t believe in them, and I’m not afraid of them, but I don’t like them!”
Mr. Monckton’s contemptuous expression changed to a look of pity. This was the foolish girl whom he had been about to entrust to the man he now knew to be a villain. He now knew:—bah, he had paltered with his own conscience. He had known it from the first: and this poor child loved Launcelot Darrell. Her hopes, like his own, were shipwrecked; and even in the egotism of his misery the strong man felt some compassion for this helpless girl.
“So, Mr. de Crespigny is dead,” Laura said after a pause; “does Launcelot know it yet?”
“He does.”
“Was he there to-night—up at Woodlands, in spite of his nasty old aunts?”
“Yes, he was there.”
Eleanor looked anxiously, almost piteously at Laura. The great disappointment, the death-blow of every hope, was coming down upon her, and Eleanor, who could see the hand uplifted to strike, and the cruel knife bared ready to inflict the fatal stab, shivered as she thought of the misery the thoughtless girl must have to suffer.
“But what can her misery be against my father’s,” she thought, “and how am I accountable for her sorrow. It is all Launcelot