“And now you have come back, what do you mean to do?” Mr. Monckton asked, rather abruptly.
“I shall go in for painting. I’ll work hard, down in this quiet place, and get a picture ready for the Royal Academy next year. Will you sit for me, Miss Mason? and you, Miss Vincent? you would make a splendid Rosalind and Celia. Yes, Mr. Monckton, I shall try the sublime art whose professors have been the friends of princes.”
“And if you fail——”
“If I fail, I’ll change my name, and turn itinerant portrait-painter. But I don’t suppose my uncle Maurice means to live for ever. He must leave his money to somebody. If Providence favours me my respected aunts may happen to offend him a few hours before his death, and he may make a will in my favour, in order to revenge himself upon them. I think that’s generally the way of it, eh, Mr. Monckton? The testator doesn’t consider the delight of the person who is to get his money, but gloats over the aggravation of the poor wretch who isn’t.”
The young man spoke as carelessly as if the Woodlands fortune were scarcely worth a discussion. It was his habit to speak indifferently of all things, and it was rather difficult to penetrate his real sentiments, so skilfully were they hidden by this surface manner.
“You had a formidable rival once in your uncle’s affections,” Mr. Monckton said, presently.
“Which rival?”
“The Damon of Maurice de Crespigny’s youth, George Vandeleur Vane.”
Launcelot Darrell’s face darkened at the mention of the dead man’s name. It had always been the habit of the De Crespigny family to look upon Eleanor’s father as a subtle and designing foe, against whom no warfare could be too desperate.
“My uncle could never have been such a fool as to leave his money to that spendthrift,” Mr. Darrell said.