CHAPTER XIV.
AN EVIL GENIUS.
It was not until the funeral was over and my lord’s last will and testament had been read that Lady Elaine Seabright was brought to a knowledge of her true position.
She had many sympathizing friends, and the new earl and lord of the domain kindly offered to leave the house and effects at her disposal for any reasonable length of time.
“Indeed,” he added, magnanimously, “with the consent of my wife and daughters, I may offer you a home here until the viscount claims you. The late earl and I were not good friends simply because he had no son and I was his natural heir.”
Elaine thanked her cousin, but told him that what he had proposed was impossible.
The old family lawyer was thoroughly indignant, and muttered threats about contesting the last will; but what could he do in face of a dozen witnesses, who were all convinced that the earl’s mind had been clear to the last? Besides, Lady Elaine would never have consented to such a course of action.
“Even if you cared for this man—this Viscount Rivington—the will places you in a most humiliating position, my lady,” he told her, indignantly. “By what I gather, it was made really in the heat of anger, notwithstanding the fact that the earl was dying. You had resolutely declined to encourage the advances of Rivington that very morning and my lord was determined that he should be your husband. In an apparently easy-goingway your father was a perfect martinet. He generally had his own way, even if he waited long years for the opportunity. And then why should the original executors be struck out—myself and Colonel Greyson?”
Mr. Worboys snorted angrily, and stamped to and fro across the floor of the library, where he had come at Lady Elaine’s bidding, so that she might learn her true position.
“There is no doubt at all that you have been treated badly by Sir Harold Annesley,” he went on, but Lady Elaine interrupted him.
“Please do not speak of Sir Harold,” she said. “My heart tells me that he will come back to me some day.”
“Well, my lady,” proceeded Mr. Worboys, “it amounts to this: If you refuse to wed Viscount Rivington you will lose a fortune of nearly half-a-million sterling and an income of ten or twelve thousand a year.”
“I have my private fortune,” she reminded him.
“A paltry five hundred a year,” he told her, “and even that is under the control of your guardians until you are of age.”
“It appears that I am practically bound hand and foot,” she said, bitterly. “Must I submit to these people?”
She stood erect, with flashing eyes, and deathly-white face—a pathetic figure in her loneliness.
“Cannot you help me, Mr. Worboys?”
“The law will not permit of my interference, my lady. Now, look at matters on their brightest side. Within one year you will be of age and your own mistress. You are determined to lose your fortune rather than marry Viscount Rivington. No one can legally force you into this marriage, and if undue pressure is brought to bear upon you, then I may be able to step in to your assistance. What manner of woman is this Lady Gaynor?”
“I do not like her,” Elaine replied. “I do not knowwhy, but we were never upon friendly terms. Had my father lived I believe that he would have made Lady Gaynor the Countess of Seabright.”
The old lawyer was silent for a little while, then he glanced at the girl pityingly and said:
“I do not think that we can improve matters by remaining here longer, Lady Elaine. Above all, we must avoid arousing suspicion. Note carefully the manner in which Lady Gaynor approaches you, and always rely upon my active friendship whenever such is possible.”
Mr. Worboys went back to London, and for three or four days Lady Elaine was practically left to her own devices, while her maid was busy packing up.
On the fifth day, however, there was a letter from Lady Gaynor, which ran as follows:
Dear Lady Elaine—I sincerely trust that the first edge of your grief is dulled by this time, and that you have made preparations for leaving the old home. The new earl has been extremely kind and considerate toward you. According to the provisions of your father’s will, I and Viscount Rivington are in a measure responsible for you, and as you are practically without a fortune, your future home must be the best I can afford. The Lodge will doubtless appear a very insignificant place after the splendid surroundings of Seabright Hall. Still, none of us can choose our own lot in life, and the dear viscount has acquiesced to all my proposals. I have written to your cousin, the new earl, informing him that it is my intention to relieve him of further responsibility, so far as you are concerned, to-morrow morning. Your very dear friend, Miss Nugent, will accompany me.Sincerely yours,Eleanor Gaynor.
Dear Lady Elaine—I sincerely trust that the first edge of your grief is dulled by this time, and that you have made preparations for leaving the old home. The new earl has been extremely kind and considerate toward you. According to the provisions of your father’s will, I and Viscount Rivington are in a measure responsible for you, and as you are practically without a fortune, your future home must be the best I can afford. The Lodge will doubtless appear a very insignificant place after the splendid surroundings of Seabright Hall. Still, none of us can choose our own lot in life, and the dear viscount has acquiesced to all my proposals. I have written to your cousin, the new earl, informing him that it is my intention to relieve him of further responsibility, so far as you are concerned, to-morrow morning. Your very dear friend, Miss Nugent, will accompany me.
Sincerely yours,Eleanor Gaynor.
Lady Elaine shivered when she read the letter. There was something ominous in its softly-turned sentences.
At dinner the earl broached the subject.
“If you are not quite ready to leave, Lady Elaine,” he said, “I shall be glad to have you here as long as it suitsyour own convenience. The countess and the girls will be here next week.”
“Thank you,” Elaine replied, listlessly. “There is no reason that I should delay the inevitable. I will leave Seabright Hall to-morrow morning with Lady Gaynor.”
“A strange choice of the late earl’s,” he mused. “Lady Gaynor is notorious in certain circles. She is miserably poor, and makes an income by coaching the daughters of rich Americans and successful tradesmen generally.”
Lady Elaine did not reply, but again that icy shudder passed through her, leaving her as cold as death. Her great sorrow had left her numb and spiritless.
Lady Gaynor came next morning; she was a large, handsome woman of fifty or thereabouts—a woman with determination marked in every line of her smiling face. For ten years she had succeeded in maintaining a small estate known as “The Lodge” upon absolutely no assured income at all. The house and lands were incumbered, but Lady Gaynor had managed, so far, to keep off the marauding hands of the money-lenders. But of late her practices had obtained the severe notice of people who moved in the charmed circle of the court, and Lady Gaynor knew that she must employ sharp wits in other directions, or fall a prey to the harpies which, like the vampire, feed upon the blood of human hearts. Then the Earl of Seabright in some way became entangled in her toils, and many rumors were rife when he died. This was a serious blow to Lady Gaynor, but there was one hope still left. Upon his marriage with Lady Elaine, Viscount Rivington had promised her a handsome check—a check that would free her of the Jews, and still leave a respectable sum with which to make fresh ventures. It was really a matter of life and death to Lady Gaynor.
“My dear girl!” she said, effusively kissing one of Lady Elaine’s pale cheeks, “how sweet of you to be so considerate!Here you are quite ready, and we shall be back at the Lodge in time for lunch.”
Then Margaret Nugent came forward and greeted Elaine with a great show of affection. She could afford now to be affectionate in reality, for she no longer regarded Lady Elaine as a rival.
The drive to the Lodge was without incident, and Lady Gaynor showed the girl to a suite of shabbily-furnished rooms. The curtains were dingy, the carpets threadbare, and there was an air of mustiness everywhere that was stifling.
“Ah! I can see disappointment in your face,” her ladyship said, with well-assumed regret, “but this is the best that I can offer. Let us hope that you will soon reign as mistress of a home equal to the one you have left. I shall then expect you to requite the kindness I am endeavoring to extend to you now. Ah! how selfish poverty makes us all, Lady Elaine. You do not care to come down for lunch? Well, you shall have a cup of tea up here and spend the rest of the day as you please, assisting your maid to unpack.”
Lady Gaynor went away, and a little later Margaret Nugent came to say good-by.
“I am going home,” she said, “because mamma has a fresh attack of fancied woes. Shall I bring the pony-carriage to-morrow, and we will have a long drive?”
“No, thank you, Margaret,” said Lady Elaine, “I think that I hate the old, familiar scenes. My great trouble has fallen on me with the weight of an avalanche. I do not seem able to realize it yet. My lover—my father—all—at one blow. My energy—my spirit is killed within me!”
“Time will soften your grief, Elaine,” said Margaret, gently. “There is a great future before you—a futurebright with triumph and splendor, if you only grasp it aright.”
There seemed to be a hidden meaning in Margaret’s words.
“I believe that I understand you, Miss Nugent,” Elaine said, coldly; “but I fail to appreciate your counsels. In some way my troubles began when I was weak enough to listen to your advice. I accepted it against my better judgment, and I beg of you not to refer to matters which particularly concern myself again. In my present loneliness I need friends badly enough, Heaven knows, but I can never associate you with anything but unpleasantness and misery. I feel that you are my enemy, and am only sorry that I did not make the discovery sooner. The very fact that you are a close associate of my oppressors precludes the possibility of any sympathy between us, and I shall consider it a favor if you will cease making any pretenses of affection for me in the future. I must now know upon whom I can depend, Miss Nugent, and I can neither accept you as a confidante nor an adviser. I am not superstitious, but there is a fatality about some people which it is impossible to withstand, and everything in connection with yourself has resulted in evil for me.”
“I am sorry,” Miss Nugent said, and her face was pale. “Can it be possible, Lady Elaine, that you regard me as a sort of evil genius?”
“That is just it. In some way I feel that you are my evil genius!” Elaine replied.
Without a word, Margaret Nugent turned away, and the two girls did not meet again for many months.