Gilbert Monckton’s contemptuous expression changed to a look of pity. This was the foolish girl whom he had been about to entrust to the man he now knew to be a villain. He now knew;—bah, he had paltered with his own conscience. He had known it from the first. And this poor child loved Launcelot Darrell. Her hopes, like his own, were shipwrecked; even in the egotism of his misery the strong man felt some compassion for this helpless girl.
“So, Mr. de Crespigny is dead,” Laura said, after a pause; “does Launcelot know it yet?”
“He does.”
“Was he there to-night—up at Woodlands, in spite of his nasty old aunts?”
“Yes, he was there.”
Eleanor looked anxiously, almost piteously, at Laura. The great disappointment, the death-blow of every hope, was coming down upon her; and Eleanor, who could see the hand uplifted to strike, and the cruel knife bared ready to inflict the fatal stab, shivered as she thought of the misery the thoughtless girl must have to suffer.
“But what can her misery be against my father’s,” she thought, “and how am I accountable for her sorrow? It is all Launcelot Darrell’s work; it is his wicked work from first to last.”
“And do you think he will have the fortune?” Laura asked.
“I don’t know, my dear,” her guardian answered, gravely, “but I think it matters very little either to you or me whether he may get the fortune or not.”
“What, do you mean?” cried the girl, “how strangely you speak; how cruelly and coldly you speak of Launcelot, just as if you didn’t care whether he was rich or poor. Oh, good heavens,” she shrieked, suddenly growing wild with terror, “why do you both look at me like that? Why do you both look so anxious? I know that something dreadful has happened. Something has happened to Launcelot! It’s not Mr. de Crespigny, it’s Launcelot that’s dead!”