CHAPTER XIII.
A STRANGE WILL.
Miss Nugent was bitterly mortified by the action of Colonel Greyson. He had promised to call upon her mother, and instead had taken himself off, no one knew whither, and with him the secret of Sir Harold’s movements. He had not even troubled himself to write one word of explanation.
She had waited for whole days in miserable expectation, and then suddenly announced her determination of calling upon the colonel.
“You will come with me, mamma, dear. I believe that Colonel Greyson has news of Harold. He hinted as much to me at Lady Gaynor’s ball, and I am so anxious. It is not more than an hour’s drive to the colonel’s place.”
Mrs. Nugent rarely attempted to combat the wishes of her handsome daughter. She was one of those invalids who find pleasure in nursing their own ailments, and though it was a positive martyrdom to leave her lounge for several hours, to be jolted over miles of stony ground, she assented to the proposal with a long-drawn sigh of resignation.
The carriage was ordered, and immediately after lunch Mrs. Nugent and her daughter were driven to the colonel’s cottage at Crayford.
To Margaret’s dismay there was an air of desertion about the place, and she was informed by his house keeper that her master was going abroad for the autumn and winter.
“Then he has not yet gone?” asked Miss Nugent, with a gasp of relief.
“No, ladies; but his man is upstairs packing, and he knows more about it than I do.”
With a nod the woman ran into the house, and in a few minutes the colonel’s military manservant appeared, as straight and stiff as a ramrod.
“What is this I hear about the colonel, Simmons?” asked Miss Nugent.
“My master is going away, madam,” replied Simmons, saluting solemnly.
“Yes—yes! I have heard all about that. But where is he now?”
Simmons looked surprised.
“In London by this time, Miss Nugent. He spent the whole of yesterday at Annesley Park, and last evening left for London, where I am to join him to-night.”
Miss Nugent bit her lips with vexation.
“It is extraordinary,” she said. “I really do not understand Colonel Greyson, after his promise to me and knowing how anxious I am concerning my luckless cousin.”
The concluding part of her speech was uttered aside.
“My dear!” Mrs. Nugent mildly remonstrated, “I do not see anything so extraordinary in it. You know what the papers have said about Sir Harold, and it is quite possible that the colonel intends joining him somewhere. I am sure that I shall take a chill if we remain here much longer.”
“You are sure that there is no message for us—for me, Simmons?” continued Margaret.
“Quite sure, madam.”
“Well, it is possible that your master will write to me from London, but I wish you to impress upon him some sense of my great disappointment. He will understandwhy, and I shall expect a lengthy letter of explanation and particulars. You will not forget, Simmons?”
“No, madam.”
Simmons’ right hand flew up automatically in answer to Miss Nugent’s farewell nod, and the carriage rolled away.
“I cannot expect everything to fall into my lap,” she thought, “and in one sense it is perhaps lucky that the colonel has taken himself off, though his unlooked-for movements have left me completely in the dark.”
As the carriage swept round a bend in the road, Annesley Park was revealed with startling distinctness some two miles distant. The towers and minarets stood sharply against the purple sky, while a golden fire seemed to flash from every window in the light of the sun.
“If we only had a fourth of Sir Harold’s money, how happy we might be!” sighed Mrs. Nugent. “I really think that he is most unkind in not giving the Park to us while he is chasing wild beasts in Africa. I believe that such an exhilarating prospect would almost give me health again; or, at least, as much as I can ever expect to enjoy.”
Margaret laughed musically.
“Mamma,” she said, “the Park may be our home yet!”
It was a prize worth scheming for, but, to do her justice, Miss Nugent loved Sir Harold for himself alone. How impatiently she awaited the letter-bag next morning, only to be filled with a disappointment that almost amounted to dismay. There was no letter from Colonel Greyson, and she blamed herself for not insisting upon his London address. Still, it was not too late to give up hoping, and she denied herself several pleasures by remaining at home throughout the day, so that she should immediately receive any news that came.
In the evening a boy from the telegraph office delivered the following:
Miss Margaret Nugent—I have no good news for you, and the less said the better. Time alone can straighten the tangle. I leave London for Paris to-night. Kind regards.Greyson.
Miss Margaret Nugent—I have no good news for you, and the less said the better. Time alone can straighten the tangle. I leave London for Paris to-night. Kind regards.
Greyson.
Margaret angrily tossed the telegram in the fire.
“A miserable evasion,” she muttered. “How much does he suspect? I see through it all. He is taking Harold abroad with him. If I only dared to follow them and nurse my darling back to life! It may be months or years, and with my lady out of the way my devotion is sure to win in the end.”
That very night, at a late hour, some terrible news reached the Nugents. The Earl of Seabright was dead, killed while riding over his own estate. His horse had stumbled over some hidden brambles, and my lord was pitched headforemost to the earth. The land steward was with him at the time, and the accident at first appeared to be only a trivial one. The earl had struggled up again, but only to sink back with a groan. The shock had injured him internally, and he was carried to his bedchamber a dying man.
“You have only an hour to live, my lord,” the hastily-summoned doctor gravely told him. “If your affairs are not in order there is no time to be lost.”
The earl listened incredulously at first.
“I suffer no pain,” he said. “Surely you are mistaken! Am I to die because my horse stumbled—I, the maddest rider in the county?”
“You are bleeding internally, my lord. No human power can save you,” was the decided reply.
Then the earl had wept childishly for a little while, and sent hastily for the nearest lawyer. He wished to make a new will—to appoint fresh executors.
The lawyer came and was closeted with the dying earl for half-an-hour.
“Now read it over carefully,” the earl said, and the lawyer obeyed him.
The will was short and concise. My lord left the whole of his personality to his only child, the Lady Elaine, upon the condition that she became the wife of Viscount Henry Rivington within six months of the date of the will. If she refused to obey this last wish of the earl his fortune would pass away to various charitable institutions, which were carefully named. In addition, the viscount was made joint-executor with Lady Gaynor. As the title and estate of Seabright Hall reverted to the next male heir in succession the earl’s daughter would be under the immediate control of the executors. There was a clause to the effect that if the marriage was not consummated, through the refusal or inability of the viscount to ratify the contract, the whole of the earl’s fortune would be devoted to the exclusive enjoyment of his daughter, the Lady Elaine Seabright.
In the presence of many witnesses the will was signed, and twenty minutes later my lord breathed his last.
It was an impressive scene. The awful suddenness seemed to have bewildered everybody, and Lady Elaine hardly realized that her father was, indeed, no more until she was gently led from the death-chamber by Lady Gaynor and the doctor.
The earl had ever been a selfish man, but, notwithstanding her loveless life, the full force of her loss seemed to numb every sense for a time.
At last she burst into a passion of tears. How well she understood his last words to her, and how her soul revolted from the wishes they expressed.
“We quarreled this morning, Elaine. Do not let a last disobedience haunt you through life. I mean all for thebest, child. Annesley has left you to humiliation and scorn. Obey my last wishes, and some day you will understand that I have acted harshly to be kind.”
Her reply had been a sob, and a few moments later a quick, fluttering sigh told that all was over.
He was gone—first her lover, and then her father; and, locked in her own apartments, she gave way to her grief in sobs and tears.