some years have passed since the blow fell on gertrude baldwin which deprived her of wealth and station, which struck away from her her home, and left her to face the curiosity, the ill-will, the evil report of the world which had envied and flattered her, as best she might. the story of the interval does not take long in the telling, and, considering its import to so many, has but few salient points.
no resistance was made by gertrude or counselled by her advisers; no resistance to the hard cold terms of robert meredith's claim on his wife's behalf. it was all true: gertrude was an illegitimate child and eleanor the rightful heir. the proofs--consisting of mr. oakley's evidence concerning godfrey hungerford's death, and the attested certificate of the date of that occurrence, and the testimony of the certificate of the second marriage ceremony performed between mr. baldwin and margaret--were as simple as they were indisputable, and gertrude made unqualified submission at once.
she suffered, no doubt, very keenly, but much less than her friends mr. dugdale and rose doran suffered for her. so much was made plain to her, so much was cleared-up to her now. she knew now why it was her father had left her nothing by his will; she understood now from what solicitude it had arisen that he and her aunt, whose loving care she remembered so well, had bequeathed everything within their power to eleanor. thus they had endeavoured to atone for the unconscious unintentional wrong done to the legitimate daughter and heiress. and all their efforts, all their care, had failed; the invincible inexorable truth had come to light, and the result of all these efforts was that eleanor had everything--yes, everything. the young girl who had risen that morning absolute mistress of the splendid house and the broad acres of the deane, and the large fortune which could so fittingly maintain them, stood in that stately house the same night a penniless dependent on the sister who had placed herself and all she possessed in the power of gertrude's only enemy.
it was long before miss baldwin, or indeed any of the party, realised this--long before the full extent of the truth presented itself to their minds; but when it came, it came with terrible conviction and conclusiveness. there was nothing for gertrude. her father's loving care had indeed been her undoing. the situation was a dreadful one, escape from it impossible. robert meredith had no longer anything to gain by either dissimulation or temporising; on the contrary, he now felt it to be his interest that every one concerned should be cured of all their illusions concerning him as soon and as effectually as possible, and should arrive at a clear comprehension of his powers, motives, and intentions. he assumed at once the name that his marriage with the heiress of mr. meriton baldwin imposed upon him; and his letter to haldane carteret was simply a reference to the bearer as qualified to give all needful explanations and proofs, and in the event, which he took for granted, of the young lady known as miss baldwin not disputing the facts, he begged it might be understood that she could be suffered to remain at the deane only a very short time. he hoped no farther communication on this subject might be required. the young lady would best consult her own interest by abstaining from making any such communication necessary.
it is unnecessary to dwell on this portion of the trial appointed to gertrude. its bitterness came from eleanor, not from her triumphant enemy. her sister made no sign--not a word of kindness, of sympathy, of regret came from her whose life had been almost identical with that of gertrude for so many years. even mrs. carteret--who, the first shock and surprise over, was characteristically disposed to keep on good terms with the new mr. meriton baldwin, and in reality an extreme partisan, endeavoured to get credit for impartial fairness, and a "no business of mine" bearing--even mrs. carteret was indignant with eleanor. her shallow nature did not comprehend the growth and force of such evil feelings as she had nurtured in the mind of her niece. gertrude suffered fearfully, but anger had little share in her pain. a deadly fear for her sister possessed her; a fear which suggested itself speedily, when she found that eleanor made no sign, and which grew into conviction under the influence of rose doran's manifest belief in its reason and validity. eleanor's silence was her husband's doing; she was under his influence and dominion, she was afraid of him. when gertrude, who had striven to hide her feelings on this point from mr. dugdale, could not hide them from rose doran, that faithful friend said sadly,
"it's true for you. miss gerty; she's in the grip of a bad man, my poor child, and she's not to be blamed."
then gertrude, in the depth of her love and pity for her sister, forgave her freely, and never did blame her more, but mourned for her, as she might have done had she been dead and laid beside their mother beneath the great yew-tree, only more bitterly. all it is necessary to record here is, that eleanor's silence remained unbroken--unbroken, when her sister, with mr. dugdale and mrs. doran left the deane for ever, turning away from all the associations and surroundings which had been mutually dear to them--unbroken, when some time after gertrude wrote to her to tell her that she was well and happy, and more than reconciled to all that had befallen her, except only her alienation from her sister's heart.
much time had now gone over, and eleanor's silence still remained unbroken. there was absolutely no communication between the sisters. major and mrs. carteret were living at chayleigh, in a style which at first lucy had found it not easy to adopt after the pleasant places of the deane. but she had hit upon a consolation which, if imaginary, was likewise immense; this was the notion of independence. to be her own mistress, the mistress of her own house, her own servants, and her own time was discovered by mrs. carteret to be a blissful state of things. besides this consolation, she had soon "brought round" major carteret to an acquiescent form of mind respecting the state of things at the deane, and they made frequent visits there; but not even in this indirect way was the separation between the sisters modified. mrs. carteret was given to understand on the first occasion of her meeting mr. and mrs. meredith baldwin--and a very awkward meeting it was--that it would be for her own interest to abstain from speaking of gertrude to eleanor, and, indeed, that her retaining the valuable privilege of an _entrée_ at the deane was contingent on her strict obedience to this hint. mrs. carteret proved worthy of her old friend's confidence; and the former life at the deane might never have had existence for any reminiscence of it that was to be traced now.
the intelligence which reached gertrude of her sister through her uncle and aunt was too vague to satisfy her. eleanor was very popular, very much admired; eleanor's entertainments were splendid; and mrs. carteret felt convinced she and meredith baldwin lived fully up to their income, large as it was. she really could not say whether eleanor was _happy_, according to dear gertrude's strange exaggerated notions. she had at least everything which ought to make her so, and she was always in very high spirits. she was rather restless and fond of change, and no doubt meredith was a good deal away from her; and then poor dear eleanor had always had a strong dash of jealousy in her disposition, and she never was remarkably reasonable. no doubt she did occasionally make herself unpleasant and ridiculous if her husband stayed away when she thought he ought to be with her; but she got over it again, and it did not signify. as to meredith's ill-treating eleanor, mrs. carteret begged gertrude not to be so silly as to believe anything of the kind, if such ill-natured reports should reach her. why, everybody knew meredith was no fool; and if eleanor (who was very delicate--and no wonder, considering her restless racketing) did not make a will in his favour, he would have nothing at all in case of her death. there was no heir to the deane--two infants had been born, but each had lived only a few hours--and mrs. carteret knew positively that eleanor had made no will. meredith was not likely (supposing him to have no better motive--which mrs. carteret, though her tone had become greatly modified of late in speaking of her quondam admirer, could not endure to suppose) to endanger his chance of future independent wealth by ill-treating the person who could confer it on him.
this was poor comfort; but it was all gertrude could get, and she was forced to be content with it. the old life at the deane had faded away; no change could bring her back the past; she never could have any interest in it. she sometimes speculated upon whether it would add to her grief, if her sister died, to think of her father's property, her own old home, in the possession of total strangers. she had hardly ever heard anything of the next heir--a bachelor, already a rich man, living in england. this gentleman's name was mordaunt, and he had a younger brother, who had assumed another name on his marriage, and to whose children the deane, failing direct heirs of eleanor, would descend. the sisters knew nothing more of these distant connections, nor had there ever been any acquaintance between them and fitzwilliam baldwin.
though gertrude sometimes pondered on these things it must not be supposed that she brooded on them, or that the irrevocable past filled an undue place in her practical and useful life. the misfortune which had befallen her had from the first its alleviations; and there came a day when gertrude would have eagerly denied that it was a misfortune at all--a day when she would have declared it was the source of all her happiness, the providential solution of every doubt and difficulty which had beset her path. what that day was the reader is soon to know.
the first act of mr. dugdale when the truth was made known to him--when he clearly understood that once more the foreboding of the woman he had loved and mourned with such matchless and abiding constancy had been fulfilled so many years after its shadow had darkened her day--was to declare his intention of immediately leaving the deane, and forming a new home for gertrude. how devoutly he thanked god then for the life at whose duration he had been sometimes tempted to murmur, the length of days which had enabled him to profit by the impulse which had prompted him to decline to add to the ruin which, in their blindness, they had all accumulated to heap in gertrude's path! when he explained this to her, and made her see how her father and mother had loved her, great peace came to gertrude, and much happiness in the perfect confidence between her and her aged friend, owning no exception now. in his zeal for margaret's child, mr. dugdale seemed to find strength which had not been his for years. he bore the journey to the neighbourhood of london, whither mrs. doran had preceded them for the purpose of engaging a house for them, well; and he settled into his new home as readily as gertrude did.
in a neat small house in a western suburb of london, george ritherdon found mr. dugdale and her whom he had last seen in all the lustre of wealth and station, when he returned from the long absence which had been occasioned by his mother's illness and subsequent death. george was perfectly conscious that neither his voice nor his manner, when he was introduced by the faithful rose with manifest satisfaction, conveyed the impression which might have been considered suitable to the occasion, whether regarded from their point of view or from his. he knew his eyes were bright and his cheek flushed; he knew his voice was thrilling with pleasure, with happiness, with hope; and he abandoned any attempt to express a sadness he did not feel, to affect to grieve for a change in gertrude's circumstances and position which rendered him exquisitely happy, and for which he, though by no means a presumptuous man, felt an inward irresistible conviction he should be able to console her.
in less than a year from the falling of the long-planned blow on gertrude baldwin's defenceless head, the day before alluded to had dawned upon her--the day on which she recognised the seemingly insurmountable misfortune of her life as its greatest blessing and the source of all its happiness. it was her wedding-day. there was no need for waiting longer for equality in their fortunes; there was no need to think of what the world might say of george or of her. the world she had lived in had ceased to remember and to talk of her; the world he lived in would respect him, as it had ever done, and welcome her. theirs was a quiet happy courtship, a peaceful hopeful time, blessed with their old friend's earnest approval and loving presence. a rational prospect of the best kind of content this world can give was opening before them--a prospect of neither poverty nor riches, of no distinction in mere name--the meaningless legacy of others--but of a position to be worthily won. mutual love, confidence, and respect, and such experience of life as, leaving them the power of enjoying its good, should save them from its illusions--such was the dowry with which these two began their married life.
major and mrs. carteret attended the quiet wedding, at which they and two friends of george ritherdon's were the only guests. gertrude had hoped that mrs. carteret would have been the bearer to her of some communication from her sister, that the barrier, which she felt no doubt had been interposed by meredith's authority, would on this occasion be broken down. but eleanor still made no sign; and mrs. carteret could tell gertrude no more than that eleanor had heard the news of her sister's intended marriage with agitation, but in silence, and that she was then in london, _en route_ for the continent, where she was to pass the winter. this was a cloud; but it was the only one upon the brightness of gertrude's wedding-day, and it soon passed over. it had quite passed when the bride and bridegroom were bidding farewell to mr. dugdale, before they went away on their brief wedding-trip. it was to be very brief; for they would not leave him alone for any length of time; and in the mean time mr. dugdale was to remove into the larger house in the same neighbourhood which was to be the home of george and gertrude.
the farewell words had been spoken, and gertrude had risen from her kneeling position beside the old man's chair, when the servant entered and handed gertrude a parcel addressed to her by the name not three hours old, addressed to her in eleanor's hand. she broke the seal, and the contents proved to be a flat case containing a suit of beautiful pearls. a scrap of paper lay among the jewels. gertrude seized it eagerly and read:
"_wear these, darling, for the sake of old times, and of me. forgive me, and make your husband forgive me, and love me a little even yet and after all, as i love you forever and better than all_."
as gertrude's tears fell fast upon the precious words, and george and mr. dugdale looked at her, distressed and yet glad, rose doran came to her side, and said, while she dried her eyes as if she were still the child she had nursed:
"there, there, alanna, didn't i tell you it wasn't _her_ fault at all, but _his_? and now you see for yourself it's true, and you'll go away with an easier mind. and, mark my words, it's coming right--it's coming right by degrees, and it will all come right in the end."
mr. dugdale still kept late hours, as he had done all his life. mrs. doran left him at the usual hour in more than his accustomed spirits, and not apparently fatigued by the unusual emotion of the day. when he was alone, the old man passed some time in reading; then he closed his book and gave himself up to thought. his thoughts were seemingly very peaceful, and not sad; for there was a calm and patient smile upon the worn face, to which old age had brought a serene dignity. his large deeply-cushioned arm-chair moved easily upon its castors, and, after a period of profound stillness, he rolled himself in the chair towards a writing-table, on which a lamp was burning. he unlocked a deep drawer, the lowest of a set on his right-hand, and took out two objects. one was his will, which he spread out upon the table and read attentively. then muttering to himself, "a few kind words to nelly,--god help her, poor child!" he wrote half-a-dozen lines on the reverse of one of the pages of the document, and appended his initials in a clear and steady hand. this done, he replaced the paper in the drawer, and turned his attention to the other object he had taken out.
it was the portrait of margaret, in its beautiful setting of passion-flowers in jeweller's work of enamel and gold. there was reverential tenderness in the old man's touch as he placed the picture upright before him, opened the screens of golden filigree, and "fell to such perusal" of it as had been familiar to him since the coffin-lid had closed over the face it feebly shadowed forth. the minutes fled by as he gazed upon the likeness of the beautiful spiritual face which had gone down to the grave in untouched loveliness; and a glass upon his dressing-table alongside reflected his bowed head, sunken features, bent shadowy figure, and thin gray hair. now and then a few unconnected murmurs escaped his lips, but rarely; while his gaze remained fixed, and a solemn peacefulness spread over his face.
"the same eyes in heaven," he whispered, "the same smile. how many years have i looked for them, and longed for them--how many, many years! i shall go to _her_; but she has not been waiting and watching for _me_. no, no; heaven has been full enough to her all this time with _him_ there."
he changed the position of the picture slightly, and leaned his head back against the cushion in his chair, looking at the face from a greater distance; then stretched out his folded hands and rested them upon the table.
"a long, long time--but nearly over, i think--and i have not murmured overmuch, for your sake, margaret. but now, now i think i may make the _nunc dimittis_ my evensong."
a little longer the old man's gaze remained fixed upon the picture; and then his form settled down amid the cushions, his hands fell gently from the edge of the table upon his knees, and his eyes closed softly. through the hours of the night the lamp burned, and lighted up the picture with its golden trellised covers unclosed, and lighted up the old man's serene face. but with the morning the flame in the lamp flickered and died, and the sunshine came in, and gleamed upon the walls and the floor. voices and footsteps stirred in the house, and soon mrs. doran came to mr. dugdale's room, as she did every morning. then she knew, when she looked at the old man and touched his passive hands, still clasped and resting on his knee,--so gentle had been the parting between the body and the spirit,--that his sleep was never to know waking until the resurrection morning.
the blinds are closely drawn in gertrude ritherdon's house, and she sits alone, dressed in deep mourning. there is a touch of sadness upon her beauty; but she is more beautiful than she was in her girlhood, and for all the sorrow in her face today, one can see she is a happy woman. she is so. a happy wife, loved, trusted, honoured; her husband's companion and his friend. a proud and happy mother too, untroubled, when she watches her boy's baby glee and hears his laughter, with any remembrance of a great inheritance which was once to have been the birthright of her first-born son. a happy woman in her house, and popular with her friends; one whose life is full of blessings and void of bitterness. it is not for her faithful old friend gertrude ritherdon wears mourning to-day. that wound has long been healed, and she and her husband have none but sunny happy thoughts of him. death has come nearer to gertrude this time even than he came when mr. dugdale answered his summons--they have received formal notice of eleanor's decease. the event has been long looked for, and gertrude has well known that life has had nothing desirable in it for eleanor. the sisters have never met, and of late eleanor has lived abroad altogether, her husband being rarely with her; but gertrude knows that her sister's former feelings have long ago returned, and there is sorrow, but not anguish, in this definitive earthly parting.
george ritherdon has been summoned to naples, where eleanor baldwin died, by major carteret, and gertrude is now expecting his return. her thoughts have been busy with the past; and when they have rested upon robert meredith, it has been without any anger for herself, but with some wonder as to how he will take the passing away to a stranger of all the wealth and luxury he bought at such a price, and enjoyed for so comparatively short a time. he will be a rich man, no doubt, with all eleanor had to bestow on him; but he will have to see a stranger in the place he filled so pompously, and to feel himself once more a person of no importance. for eleanor has died childless, and the deane passes away to the eldest son of the late brother of that mr. mordaunt who was the next in the entail, and who, strange to say, died only two days before the death of mrs. meredith baldwin occurred. gertrude has heard this vaguely, in the hurry of george's departure, and during the first bewilderment which death brings with it.
a carriage stops, and gertrude lifts the end of a blind and looks out. two gentlemen enter the house, and in a few seconds she is clasped in her husband's arms, and sees, standing behind him, her uncle. major carteret. she greets him affectionately, and then loses her composure and bursts into tears. the two men allow her to give vent to her feelings without remonstrance, and when she is again calm, they talk a little of their journey, and then approach the subject of eleanor's death. gertrude knows the particulars of the event, and they go on to speak of the will.
"i thought it better to tell you than to write about it," says george. "you must prepare for a surprise, gertrude. eleanor has left her entire fortune--it is much wasted, but still large--to you."
"to me!" exclaimed gertrude, "to me! and what has she left to meredith?"
"nothing," replied major carteret. "precisely what he deserved. she makes no mention of him, his name does not occur in the will. she probably explains her motives and tells the sad story of her life in a letter which she left directed to me, that i may give it unopened into your hands. you shall have it, but hear first what we have to tell you. she has left you everything in her power to bequeath, and left it all at your absolute disposal."
gertrude seemed stupefied. at length she said slowly:
"what must he feel? what did he say?"
"i don't know what he felt," replied major carteret. "what he said quickly deprived me of all inclination to pity him, the scoundrel! i hope we have all heard and seen the last of him. his worthy associate, oakley, made me understand his character long ago; but while poor nelly lived it would have served no purpose to resent it, and we had nothing to gain by exposing him. now it turns out she has avenged herself and us all, and we can afford to dismiss him from our minds. you must allow me to congratulate you, gertrude, on poor nelly's handsome legacy, and then on something much more important still."
gertrude looked from her husband to her uncle nervously, and her lips trembled.
"what is it? i can't bear much more."
george put his arm firmly round her, and placing her on a sofa, took his place by her side. at this moment mrs. doran came quietly into the room and approached the group. haldane made her a sign to be silent, while george spoke to his wife:
"while i was staying at the deane, when i first went there for your birthday, gertrude, my mother wrote to me, and told me it was a curious circumstance that i should be a visitor at miss baldwin's house. why? can you guess?"
gertrude silently shook her head.
"because, as i then learned for the first time, my father's old bachelor brother, mr. mordaunt, was in the entail of the deane, and in the very improbable event of there being no direct heir, that which has come to pass might come to pass. do you understand what has happened now, my darling?"
"no," stammered gertrude; "i--i do not."
"this is what has happened: my uncle, mr. mordaunt, is dead. i am his heir. my father took my mother's name in consequence of a family quarrel about his marriage, and, as you know, he died some years ago. i am the next in the entail, and eleanor's dying without a child, makes me the possessor of the deane. you now know why i did not ask you to be my wife when i believed you to be the lawful owner of the property; you now know how doubly joyfully i made you my wife when you lost it. gertrude, my darling, i think you will prize your old name and your old home more than ever now that it is your husband who gives them back to you."
"i said it would all come right, miss gerty, didn't i, alanna?" exclaimed rose doran, as she in her turn caught gertrude in her strong arms, and rocked her to and fro like an infant. "but i never thought it could come so right. honest people and rogues have got their due in _this_ world, once in a way, anyhow."
