Gilbert Monckton took up his hat and walked out of the room. He did not want to have any explanation with the man whom he fully believed—in spite of all Eleanor had said—to be the fortunate rival who had robbed him of every chance of ever winning his wife’s heart.
He had only one feeling now; and that was the same feeling which had taken possession of him twenty years before—an eager desire to run away, to escape from his troubles and perplexities, to get free of this horrible atmosphere of deceit and bewilderment; to cast every hope, every dream behind; and to go out into the world once more, joyless, unloved, hopeless; but, at any rate, not the dupe of a false woman’s specious pretences.
He went straight back to Tolldale while the crowd at Woodlands slowly dispersed, more or less discontented with the day’s proceedings. He went back to the grand old mansion in which he had never known happiness. He asked whether his wife was with Miss Mason. No, the man told him; Mrs. Monckton was in her own room, lying down.
This was the very thing he wished. He didn’t want to see Eleanor’s beautiful face, framed in shining bands of hazel-brown hair; that irresistible face whose influence he dared not trust. He wanted to see his ward alone.
Laura ran out of her dressing-room at the sound of her guardian’s footstep.
“Well!” she cried, “is it a forgery?”
“Hush, Laura; go back into your room.”
Miss Mason obeyed, and Mr. Monckton followed her into the pretty little apartment, which was a modern bower of shining maplewood and flowery chintz, and flimsy lace and muslin, frivolous and airy as the young lady herself.
“Sit down in a comfortable seat, guardian,” said Laura, offering the lawyer a slippery chintz-covered lounging-chair, so low as to bring Mr. Monckton’s knees inconveniently near his chin as he sat in it. “Sit down and tell me all about it, for goodness gracious sake. Is it forged?”
“I don’t know, my dear, whether the will is genuine or not. It would be a very difficult question to decide.”