He might have waited even longer without detriment
to Sir Reginald Eversleigh.
The baronet had been dead many days, suffocated by the fumes of his
poor little charcoal stove. A trap-door in the roof, which he had been
accustomed to open for the ventilation of his garret, had been closed
by the wind, and the baronet had passed unconsciously from sleep to
death.
He had died, and no one had been aware of his death. The people of the
house did not know either his name or his country. His burial was that
of an unknown pauper; and the bones of the last male scion of the house
of Eversleigh were mingled with the bones of Parisian paupers in the
cemetery of Pere la Chaise.
While Sir Reginald Eversleigh dragged out the wretched remnant of his
existence in a dingy Parisian alley, there was perfect peace and
tranquil happiness for the woman against whose fair fame he and Victor
Carrington had so basely conspired.
Yes, Anna was at peace; surrounded by friends; delighted day by day to
watch the budding loveliness, the sportive grace of Gertrude
Eversleigh, the idolized heiress of Raynham. As Lady Eversleigh paced
the terraces of an Italian garden, her mother by her side, with
Gertrude clinging to her side; as she looked out over the vast domain
which owned her as mistress--it might seem that fortune had lavished
her fairest gifts into the lap of her who had been once a friendless
stranger, singing in the taverns of Wapping.
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