Ralph Wilton's weird Part 28

George about a picture. So, as he seemed quite fit to speak to my lord, I went and told him. He says, 'Show the fellow up.' I did so, and left them together. I waited outside, in case my lord should want me, and presently I heard them thundering at each other in Italian--not that my lord spoke very loud, but there was that in his voice as would make any man jump. Presently he rang very sharp; I went in and found him half-raised in his chair, holding on by the sides as if he would dig his fingers into them, as white as marble, and his eyes blazing fire. There was some torn paper lying at his feet, and a picture in an open case on the floor at a little distance. The foreign chap," continued the valet, warming into naturalness, "was standing looking at him with a dark frown on his face--the sort of murderous scowl those Italians can put on--and I went close up between them, lest he might draw a knife. 'Turn this scoundrel out!' says my lord; 'and mark him, Saunders; if you ever find him loitering about the place, hand him over to the police!' With that the foreigner gave an odd sort of smile, and said a few words in Italian, hissing them through his teeth. My lord's face changed as he listened, but he waved his hand toward the door; and the other, with a deep, low bow, walked out. My lord had a sort of fainting-fit, and I was a good deal taken up with him, but I kept the picture, thinking the Italian might come back for it; but he did not. I think it is a miniature of my lord's daughter, for it is very like all the other portraits."

"But the pieces of torn paper," asked the lawyer, quickly--"did you not by accident see if anything was written on them, and what?"

"Well, sir, as I was picking them up, I did see that the writing was English, though a foreign-looking hand; but all I could make out was, 'Your only daughter's only child so soon to be an orphan.' Then my lord fainted away; and when I looked for them again the stupid girl had swept them up. I can bring you the picture, if you wish."

"By all means," said Colonel Wilton; and the man left the room.--"I wish to Heaven," he continued, "he had kept the letter instead of the picture! We have portraits enough of the unhappy girl; the letter might have put us on the track of the heir or heiress. Do you think this Italian was the husband?"

"Di Monteiro was, I believe, a Spaniard; but Saunders might mistake Spanish for Italian; and then the statement in the letter, 'the only child of his daughter so soon to be an orphan'--that might be by the death of either father or mother. But, no; it is quite twenty years since the mother died."

Here the return of Saunders interrupted the lawyer's conjectures.

"This is the picture," he said, unfolding it from some silver-paper in which it was carefully wrapped. The case of dark-purple leather had a foreign look; on opening it a lovely face, most exquisitely painted, appeared. It was unmistakably the same as that so frequently represented in the deserted chambers of the mansion; but changed and saddened and spiritualized in expression.

"This is very beautiful," said Wilton, looking long and earnestly upon it. "Though evidently the same face as the others, there is something familiar to me in it which the others have not. I can fancy a man daring a good deal for such a woman as this! However, it brings us no clue. We must consult some of these wonderful detective fellows and try what can be done by extensive advertising. You must now feel satisfied that my poor cousin has left an heir or heiress."

"Heiress, I trust," replied Kenrick. "A foreign Bohemian, with the recklessness of poverty, and perhaps Communist principles, would be a terrible representative of the house of Wilton; a woman would be less dangerous."

"Nevertheless, quite as objectionable, unless caught very young; and, according to your account she must be past twenty. However, we can do no more to-day; and, by Jove, it is nearly six o'clock! Mrs. Wilton was to have met me in Kensington Gardens on her return from a visit at Notting Hill. I shall be scarcely in time to meet her. We dine at seven-thirty, and shall have the pleasure of seeing you?"

"I shall be most happy; I am very anxious to have the honor of making Mrs. Wilton's acquaintance."

"Well, then, will you be so good as to take charge of this picture? I see you have your inevitable black bag, and it is rather large for my pocket. Pray, bring it with you this evening. My wife is a true artist, and will be charmed with it."

In these days of pressing occupation, it was a rich treat to Ella and Wilton to have an hour or two uninterruptedly together. A visit to some of the art exhibitions, to the opera, or to a good play, was sufficient to brighten whole days of comparative loneliness. Ella was eminently reasonable. She never tormented her husband to know why he was not in time, or indulged in querulousness if he was compelled to break an engagement. She knew he regretted it as much as she did, and was satisfied.

On this occasion she had waited patiently, sitting under a tree near the Bayswater Gate for nearly a quarter of an hour before the sight of her husband's soldierly distinguished figure, approaching rapidly, made her heart leap for joy.

"I am late! but I could not help it. And what have you been doing? How is the benevolent Mrs. Kershaw?"

"Very well, indeed; but a little indignant because we did not take her 'drawing-rooms,' which were vacant when we came to town, instead of going to be cheated, as she says, 'up _and_ down' at a hotel."

"And what did you say?" asked Wilton, drawing his wife's hand through his arm as they strolled toward town.

"Oh! I told her you had so much to do, that Melina Villas was too far away. But, O, dearest Ralph, I really think dear old Diego must have called there while we were in Normandy. Mrs. Kershaw was out, unfortunately, but the servant described a 'tall, black-looking gentleman, who had very little English.' He asked first for Mrs.

Kershaw, and then for me. Now, no one could ask for me but Diego."

"And, my darling, what is Diego like? is he a gentleman?" asked Wilton, rather doubtfully.

"Yes, certainly, a gentleman; but not like you. He wears a velvet coat--it is charming when it is new; but he has not always money, then it gets shabby; I have seen it broken at the elbows; and he has a felt hat, oh! such a beautiful hat at first--but--I fear he sleeps in it sometimes, for it gets much bent. But, when Diego has his purse full, and new clothes, he is lovely! I have sketched him when they were new, and mended them when they were old. He is handsome, like a Salvator-Rosa brigand. You would think he could kill; and he is really as gentle and simple as a child. You are much more fierce yourself, Ralph"--looking up lovingly into his eyes, with very little fear in her own. "How I should like to see him again!" she continued; "if we meet, you must ask him to dinner."

Wilton laughed heartily.

"If we do meet, I shall; but he will be a curious guest. Let us have our distinguished cousin, St. George, to meet him."

"Would it annoy you, Ralph, to have poor Diego to dinner?"

"No, love; but don't ask him to live with us, I could not stand that."

"Nor I," said Ella, quietly.

Talking pleasantly, they enjoyed the sunshine of a lovely afternoon, till Wilton, looking at his watch, declared they would be late for dinner, and hailed a hansom.

It was very gratifying to Wilton to observe the effect produced by Ella on the sedate Mr. Kenrick, who was an old-young man. Her unconsciousness of self gave her a high-bred composure; her perfect freedom from provincialism--the result of having acquired English almost as a foreign tongue--an air of refinement, and her natural, simple readiness to listen, only caring to speak when she really had something to say, gave a charm to her conversation which greatly impressed the cool, hard-headed man of business. However blind love may be, no man, unless below the average of intelligence, is so hoodwinked as not to see when other men think he has a good excuse for his imprudence or not.

The gentlemen did not sit long after Ella had left them, and, on joining her, Mr. Kenrick observed, "I have brought the picture, Colonel Wilton, as it is your pleasure to be so called."

And he handed a small parcel to Wilton, who, opening it, said, "Look at this, Ella."

She was cutting the leaves of a book which Wilton had bought that morning, and, looking up quickly exclaimed, "Ah! how good of you! you have found my picture for me. Where did you find it?"

"Your picture! what do you mean?" he asked.

"The picture of my mother, which was lost."

"You are under some mistake. I do not think you ever saw this before."

"I have seen it all my life; it is my mother's picture."

"Your mother's!" exclaimed Wilton and the lawyer together; "impossible."

"Yet it is so. If you raise the frame here, at the side, you can take it out of the case, and you will find her name at the back--Elizabeth Louisa Adelaide di Monteiro--mine is formed from her initials of her Christian name."

The lawyer and Wilton eagerly obeyed, and found the inscription as she had described.

"This is very extraordinary!" exclaimed Wilton.

"It appears, then," said Mr. Kenrick, "that, by a rare accident, you have married your own cousin, and Lord St. George's heiress. The t.i.tle and estates are united."

"How? What does he mean?" asked Ella.

"Tell me, Ella, was Monteiro your father's name?"

"Yes, one of them. His mother was a wealthy Spanish lady, his father an Englishman. He was partly brought up in Spain, by his mother's people, in her name; he was early an orphan, and, I imagine, very extravagant.

Afterward, when immersed in politics, he found it more useful to use his father's name of Rivers. He was peculiarly averse to mention my mother.

I never knew her family name. Her picture was always a sacred thing. My father, who might have been a great artist, painted it himself. Now, tell me, what do your questions mean?"

Whereupon Wilton, holding her hand in his, told her, as shortly as he could, the strange story of her mother's marriage and disappearance; of the displeasure of her grandfather at his (Wilton's) disregard of his wishes in the choice of a wife; of the consequent destruction of the will, and the difficulty in which he and Mr. Kenrick found themselves as regarded the next-of-kin; with a running accompaniment from the lawyer touching the nature, extent, and peculiarities of the property inherited by the obscure little heroine of Wilton's railway adventure.

"All this mine, which ought to have been yours," said Ella, when they were at last silent; "or, rather, yours through me--I do not seem able to understand or take it in."

She pressed her hand to her brow.

"Dearest, you believed in me, and loved me, when I was desolate and poor, and utterly insignificant; now I am thankful that I can bring you wealth; but oh! I gave you most when I gave you my whole heart!"

_Extract of a letter to_ VISCOUNT ST. GEORGE, _from_ MAJOR MONCRIEF _--th Rifles_.

"I shall certainly be with you on the 12th, if nothing unforeseen occurs. I feel exceedingly curious to see you in your new home, and to thank Lady St. George personally for the plenary absolution she has so kindly extended to me. I confess myself guilty of the cold-blooded worldliness you lay to my charge, while I acknowledge that few men have had a better excuse for a piece of extraordinary imprudence. If we were mere bundles of high-toned emotions, sympathies, and aspirations, marriages on your system might answer; but, being as we are, much more animal than spiritual, more self-seeking than sympathetic, is it wise to act on the impulse of a temporary brain or blood fever, which puts a certain set of fancies and desires in violent action for a time, only to be overtaken and swept away by the everlasting flow of every-day wants, ambitions, and motives, which always run their course, however excitement may blind us? But I am growing too profound for an old soldier; the upshot of the argument is that I stand to my opinion in a general sense; your extraordinary luck in no way touches it. But I most warmly rejoice in your good fortune; and, though I greatly regret your quitting the old regiment, I am not surprised that your new position necessitates the step. Yours is no common story; and I little thought, when I was 'taken prophetic' the day you 'interviewed' poor old St.