Cursed by a Fortune is a Webnovel created by George Manville Fenn.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“No, you did not know, my dear, because I did not want to upset you.
What do you think he says?”
“That I fled to you, and placed myself under your protection?”
“Wrong,” said Garstang, looking round and smiling in the beautiful face across the hearth, as he played the part of an amiable fatherly individual to perfection. “Shall I say guess again?”
“No, no, pray don’t trifle with me, guardian.”
“Trifle with you?” he cried, growing stern of aspect. “No. There, it must come out. He did not say that, and he did not accuse me of fetching you away, for he and Master Claud are upon a wrong scent.”
“Yes–yes,” said Kate, eagerly.
“They say that Harry Dasent made an excuse of his friendship with Claud to go down to Northwood with another object in view.”
“Yes–what?” she said, looking at him wonderingly.
“You, my child.”
“Me?” she cried, aghast.
“Well, to speak more correctly, your money, my dear; and that, despairing of winning you in a straightforward way, he either came and caught you in the humour for being persuaded to leave with him, having on his other visits paved the way by making love to you–“
“Oh!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Kate; “I never noticed anything particular in his manner to me–yes, I did, once or twice he was very, very attentive.”
“Indeed,” said Garstang, frowning.
“But you said ‘either,'” cried Kate, anxiously.
“Yes; either that he had persuaded you to elope with him, or he had climbed to your window and by some means forced you to come away.”
“What madness!” cried Kate.
“Yes, and there’s more behind; they accuse me of conniving at it, and say they are sure you are married, and that I know where you are.”
“Mr Dasent!” exclaimed Kate, gazing at Garstang wonderingly.
“Yes, Harry Dasent,” he said, drawing himself up. “He is my poor dead wife’s son, my dear, and it so happens that he is giving colour to the idea by his absence from home on one of his reckless, ne’er-do-weel expeditions; but between ourselves, my child, I’d rather see you married to Claud Wilton, your cousin, than to him; and,” he added warmly, “I think I would sooner follow you to your grave than–Yes–what is it?”
“I beg pardon, sir,” said the housekeeper, “but the dinner’s spoiling, and I’ve been waiting half an hour and more for you to ring.”
“Then bring it up directly, Mrs Plant, for we are terribly ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
“At least I am, my dear; I was faint for want of it when I came in.
Shall we shelve the unpleasant business now?”
“It is so dreadful,” said Kate.
“Well, yes, it is; so it used to be with the poor folks who were besieged by the enemy. You are besieged, but you have a strong castle in which to defend yourself, and you can laugh your enemies to scorn.
Really, Kate, my child, this is something like being cursed by a fortune.”
She nodded her head quickly.
“Money is useful, of course, and I once had a very eager longing to possess it; but, like a great many other things, when once it is possessed it is–well, only so much hard cash, after all. It won’t buy the love and esteem of your fellow-creatures. Do you know, my dear, if it were not for something I should be ready to say to you–‘Let Uncle James have your paltry fortune and pay off his debts.’ That’s what he wants, not you. As for Claud, he’d break your heart in a month.”
“Could I deliver the money over to him?” said Kate, looking anxiously in her new guardian’s face.
“Oh, yes, my dear, that would be easy enough. And then–I tell you what: I have plenty, and I’m tired of the worry and care of a solicitor’s life. Why shouldn’t I take a few years’ holiday and go on the Continent with my adopted daughter and her old maid? Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Switzerland, Italy, Egypt–what would you say to that? It would be delightful.”
“Yes,” said Kate, eagerly, “and then I could be at rest. No,” she said, suddenly, with the colour once more rising in her cheeks, “that would be impossible.”
“Yes,” said Garstang, watching her narrowly, as she averted her face, to gaze now in the fire. “Castles in the air, my dear.”
“Yes,” she said, dreamily, “castles in the air;” but she was seeing golden castles in the glowing fire, and her face grew hotter as, in spite of herself, she peopled one of those golden castles in a peculiar way which made her pulses begin to flutter, and she felt that she dared not gaze in her companion’s face.
“Yes, castles in the air, my child,” said Garstang again. “For that fortune was ama.s.sed by your father for the benefit of his child and her husband, and she must not lightly throw it away to benefit a foolish, grasping, impecunious relative.”
“The dinner is served, sir,” said Mrs Plant.
Garstang rose and offered his arm, which Kate took at once.
“We may dismiss the unpleasant business now,” he said, with a smile.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said.
“But tell me, you do feel satisfied and safe–at rest?”
“Quite,” she said, looking smilingly in his face.
“Then now for dinner,” he said, leading her to the door.
That evening John Garstang sat over his modest gla.s.s of wine alone, fitting together the pieces of his plans, and as he did so he smiled and seemed content.
“No,” he said, softly, “you will not pocket brother Robert’s money, friend James, for I hold the winning trump. What beautiful soft wax it is to mould! Only patience–patience! The fruit is not quite ripe yet.
A hundred and fifty thou–a hundred and fifty thou!”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
“If I could only get poor Pierce to believe in me again!” sighed Jenny, as she lay back in an easy chair at the cottage, after a month of illness; for in addition to the violent sprain from which she had suffered, the exposure had brought on a violent rheumatic cold and fever, from which she was slowly recovering.
“But he doesn’t believe in me a bit now, even after all I’ve suffered.
Oh, how I should like to punish that wretched boy before I go!”
She was sitting close to the window, where she could look down the road toward the village, her eyes dull, her face listless, thinking over the past–her favourite way of making herself miserable, as she had no heart attachment, or disappointment, as a mental “piece de resistance” to feast upon during her illness.
Everything had gone so differently from the way she had planned. Pierce was to marry Kate Wilton, and be rich and happy ever afterwards; she intended to be what she called a nice, little, old maiden aunt, to pet and tend all her brother’s children, for, of course, Kate and Pierce would have her to live with them; but it was all over–Kate had gone, no one knew where; Pierce, who had always loved her so tenderly, scarcely ever spoke to her as he used. He was quiet, grave, and civil, but never walked up and down the garden with his arm round her waist, laughing and joking with her, and talking about the prince who was to come some day to carry her off to his palace. It was all misery and wretchedness.