“Well, ma’am, to tell the truth, we had Mr. Banks, the baker, from Hazlewood village, in the servants’ hall not a quarter of an hour ago, and he do say that Mr. Darrell has got all his great-uncle’s estate, real and personil—leastways, with the exception of annuities to the two old mai—the Miss de Crespignys, ma’am, and bein’ uncommon stingy in their dealin’s, no one will regret as they don’t come into the fortune. Sherry, ma’am, or ’ock?”
Eleanor touched one of the glasses before her almost mechanically, and waited while the old man—who was not so skilful and rapid as he had been in the time of Gilbert Monckton’s father—poured out some wine and removed her soup-plate.
“Yes, ma’am,” he continued, “Banks of Hazlewood do say that Mr. Darrell have got the fortune. He heard it from Mrs. Darrell’s ’ousemaid, which Mrs. Darrell told all the servants directly as she come back from Woodlands, and were all of a tremble like with joy, the ’ousemaid said; but Mr. Launcelot, he were as white as a sheet, and hadn’t a word to say to any one, except the foreign gentleman that he is so friendly with.”
Eleanor paid very little attention to all these details. She only thought of the main fact. The desperate game which Launcelot had played had been successful. The victory was his.
Mrs. Monckton went from the dinner-table to her own room, and with her own hands dragged a portmanteau out of a roomy old-fashioned lumber-closet, and began to pack her plainest dresses and the necessaries of her simple toilet.
“I will leave Tolldale to-morrow morning,” she said. “I will at least prove to Mr. Monckton that I do not wish to enjoy the benefits of a mercenary marriage. I will leave this place and begin the world again. Richard was right; my dream of vengeance was a foolish dream. I suppose it is right, after all, that wicked people should succeed in this world, and we must be content to stand by and see them triumph.”
Eleanor could not think without some bitterness of Laura’s abrupt departure. She could not have been actuated by the same motives that had influenced Gilbert Monckton. Why, then, had she left without a word of farewell? Why, Launcelot Darrell was the cause of this sorrow as well as of every other, for it was jealousy about him that had prejudiced Laura against her friend.
Early the next morning Eleanor Monckton left Tolldale Priory. She went to the station at Windsor in a pony carriage which had been reserved for the use of herself and Laura Mason. She took with her only one portmanteau, her desk, and dressing-case.
“I am going alone, Martin,” she said to the maid whom Mr. Monckton had engaged to attend upon her. “You know that I am accustomed to wait upon myself, and I do not think you could be accommodated where I am going.”
“But you will not be away long, ma’am, shall you?” the young woman asked.