week of Richard’s visit passed by; the middle of February came, and nothing more had been done.
Eleanor’s health began to suffer from the perpetual mental fever of anxiety and impatience. Her husband saw her day by day growing thinner and paler; a hectic flush crimsoned her cheek now at every trifling agitation, with every surprise, however insignificant; but, except for these transient blushes, her face was as colourless as marble.
Her husband saw this, and made himself miserable because of the change in his young wife. He made himself still more wretched by reason of those unworthy doubts and suspicions that were for ever torturing him. “Why was Eleanor ill? Why was she unhappy?” He asked himself this latter question a thousand times a day, and always answered it more or less after the same fashion.
She was unhappy because of the swiftly approaching marriage between Laura Mason and Launcelot Darrell. She had opposed that marriage with all the power she possessed. She had over-estimated her own fortitude when she sacrificed her love for the young artist to her desire to win a brilliant position.
“Why should she be different from other women?” the lawyer thought. “She has married me for my money, and she is sorry for what she has done, and perhaps upon the eve of poor Laura’s wedding day, there will be a repetition of the scene that took place at Lausanne eighteen years ago.” This was the manner of meditation to which Mr. Monckton abandoned himself when the black mood was upon him.
All this time Launcelot Darrell came backwards and forwards between Hazlewood and Tolldale, after the free-and-easy manner of an accepted lover, who feels that, whatever advantages he may obtain by the matrimonial treaty which he is about to form, his own transcendent merits are so far above every meaner consideration as to render the lady the gainer by the bargain.
He came, therefore, whenever it pleased him to come. Now dawdling away a morning over the piano with Laura Mason; now playing billiards with Richard Thornton, who associated with him as it were under protest, hating him most cordially all the time.
“The detectives must have a hard time of it,” reflected Mr. Thornton, after one of these mornings. “Imagine having to hob-and-nob with a William Palmer, on the chance of his dropping out a word or two that might help to bring him to the gallows. The profession is extremely honourable, no doubt, but I don’t think it can be a very pleasant one. I fancy, upon the whole, a muddy crossing and a good broom must be more agreeable to a man’s feelings.”
The 15th of February came, dark, cold, and dreary, and Eleanor reminded the scene-painter that only one month now remained before the day appointed for Laura’s marriage. That young lady, absorbed amongst a chaos of ribbons and laces, silks and velvets, had ceased to feel any jealousy of her guardian’s wife. Her lover’s easy acceptance of her devotion was sufficient for her happiness. What should the Corsair do but twist his black moustachios and permit Medora to worship him?
It was on this very 15th of February that, for the first time since the visit to Launcelot Darrell’s studio, Mr. Richard Thornton made a discovery.
It was not a very important one, perhaps, nor did it bear directly upon the secret of the artist’s life, but it was something.
The scene-painter left Tolldale soon after breakfast upon this bleak February day, in a light dog-cart which Mr. Monckton placed at the disposal of such of his guests who might wish to explore the neighbouring country. He did not return until dusk, and broke in upon Eleanor’s solitude as the shadows were gathering outside the window of the room in which she sat. He found his old companion alone in a little morning-room, next her husband’s study. She was sitting on a low stool by the hearth, her head resting on her hands, and the red firelight on her face; her attitude altogether expressive of care and despondency.
The door of communication between Gilbert Monckton’s study and the room in which Eleanor sat was closed.
The girl started and looked up as Richard Thornton opened the door. The day had been wet as well as cold; drops of rain and sleet hung about the young man’s rough great-coat, and he brought a damp and chilly atmosphere into the room. Eleanor took very little notice of his return.
“Is it you, Richard?” she said, absently.
“Yes, Mrs. Monckton, I have been out all day; I have been to Windsor.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, I met Launcelot Darrell there.”
“You met Launcelot Darrell,” repeated Eleanor. “Richard,” she cried, suddenly, rising as she spoke, and going to where the young man stood, “you have found out something more.”
“I have not found what we want, Eleanor. I have not found the proof that you must lay before Mr. de Crespigny, when you ask him to disinherit his nephew. But I think I have made a discovery.”
“What discovery?” asked Mrs. Monckton, with suppressed eagerness; “do not speak loudly, Dick,” she added, in a hurried whisper, “my husband is in the next room. I sit with him sometimes when he is at work there with his law papers, but I can’t help fancying that my presence annoys him. He is not the same to me that he used to be. Oh, Richard, Richard, I feel as if I was divided from every creature in the world, except you: I can trust you, for you know my secret. When will this end?”
“Very soon, my dear, I hope,” Mr. Thornton answered, gravely. “There was a time when I urged you to abandon your purpose, Eleanor, but I do so no longer. Launcelot Darrell is a bad man, and the poor little girl with the blue eyes and flaxen ringlets must not be suffered to fall into his power.”
“No, no, not for the world. But you have made some discovery to-day, Richard?”
“I think so. You remember what Mr. Monckton told us the other day. You remember