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 transcendant 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 moustaches 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 any guest who might wish to explore the neighbouring country. Richard did not return until dusk, and he 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.
“Is it you, Richard?” Eleanor said, absently.