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Title: Elster's Folly

Author: Mrs. Henry Wood

Release Date: October 4, 2005 [EBook #16798]

Language: English

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                             ELSTER'S FOLLY

                               A NOVEL BY

                            MRS. HENRY WOOD

      AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," "JOHNNY LUDLOW," ETC.

                                  1916




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

       I. By the Early Train

      II. Willy Gum

     III. Anne Ashton

      IV. The Countess-Dowager

       V. Jealousy

      VI. At the Bridge

     VII. Listeners

    VIII. The Wager Boats

      IX. Waiting for Dinner

       X. Mr. Pike's Visit

      XI. The Inquest

     XII. Later in the Day

    XIII. Fever

     XIV. Another Patient

      XV. Val's Dilemma

     XVI. Between the Two

    XVII. An Agreeable Wedding

   XVIII. The Stranger

     XIX. A Chance Meeting

      XX. The Stranger Again

     XXI. Secret Care

    XXII. Asking the Rector

   XXIII. Mr. Carr at Work

    XXIV. Somebody Else at Work

     XXV. At Hartledon

    XXVI. Under the Trees

   XXVII. A Tête-à-Tête Breakfast

  XXVIII. Once more

    XXIX. Cross-questioning Mr. Carr

     XXX. Maude's Disobedience

    XXXI. The Sword slipped

   XXXII. In the Park

  XXXIII. Coming Home

   XXXIV. Mr. Pike on the Wing

    XXXV. The Shed razed

   XXXVI. The Dowager's Alarm

  XXXVII. A Painful Scene

 XXXVIII. Explanations




ELSTER'S FOLLY




CHAPTER I.

BY THE EARLY TRAIN.


The ascending sun threw its slanting rays abroad on a glorious August
morning, and the little world below began to awaken into life--the life
of another day of sanguine pleasure or of fretting care.

Not on many fairer scenes did those sunbeams shed their radiance than on
one existing in the heart of England; but almost any landscape will look
beautiful in the early light of a summer's morning. The county, one of
the midlands, was justly celebrated for its scenery; its rich woods and
smiling plains, its river and gentler streams. The harvest was nearly
gathered in--it had been a late season--but a few fields of golden grain,
in process of reaping, gave their warm tints to the landscape. In no part
of the country had the beauties of nature been bestowed more lavishly
than on this, the village of Calne, situated about seven miles from the
county town.

It was an aristocratic village, on the whole. The fine seat of the Earl
of Hartledon, rising near it, had caused a few families of note to settle
there, and the nest of white villas gave the place a prosperous and
picturesque appearance. But it contained a full proportion of the poor or
labouring class; and these people were falling very much into the habit
of writing the village "Cawn," in accordance with its pronunciation.
Phonetic spelling was more in their line than Johnson's Dictionary. Of
what may be called the middle class the village held few, if any: there
were the gentry, the small shopkeepers, and the poor.

Calne had recently been exalted into importance. A year or two before
this bright August morning some good genius had brought a railway to
it--a railway and a station, with all its accompanying work and bustle.
Many trains passed it in the course of the day; for it was in the direct
line of route from the county town, Garchester, to London, and the
traffic was increasing. People wondered what travellers had done, and
what sort of a round they traversed, before this direct line was made.

The village itself lay somewhat in a hollow, the ground rising to a
gentle eminence on either side. On the one eminence, to the west, was
situated the station; on the other, eastward, rose the large stone
mansion, Hartledon House. The railway took a slight _détour_ outside
Calne, and was a conspicuous feature to any who chose to look at it; for
the line had been raised above the village hollow to correspond with the
height at either end.

Six o'clock was close at hand, and the station began to show signs of
life. The station-master came out of his cottage, and opened one or two
doors on the platform. He had held the office scarcely a year yet; and
had come a stranger to Calne. Sitting down in his little bureau of a
place, on the door of which was inscribed "Station-master--Private," he
began sorting papers on the desk before him. A few minutes, and the clock
struck six; upon which he went out to the platform. It was an open
station, as these small stations generally are, the small waiting-rooms
and offices on either side scarcely obstructing the view of the country,
and the station-master looked far out in the distance, towards the east,
beyond the low-lying village houses, shading his eyes with his hand from
the dazzling sun.

"Her's late this morning."

The interruption came from the surly porter, who stood by, and referred
to the expected train, which ought to have been in some minutes before.
According to the precise time, as laid down in the way-bills, it should
reach Calne seven minutes before six.

"They have a heavy load, perhaps," remarked the station-master.

The train was chiefly for goods; a slow train, taking no one knew how
many hours to travel from London. It would bring passengers also; but
very few availed themselves of it. Now and then it happened that the
station at Calne was opened for nothing; the train just slackened its
speed and went on, leaving neither goods nor anything else behind it.
Sometimes it took a few early travellers from Calne to Garchester;
especially on Wednesdays and Saturdays, Garchester market-days; but it
rarely left passengers at Calne.

"Did you hear the news, Mr. Markham?" asked the porter.

"What news?" returned the station-master.

"I heard it last night. Jim come into the Elster Arms with it, and _he'd_
heard it at Garchester. We are going to have two more sets o' telegraph
wires here. I wonder how much more work they'll give us to do?"

"So you were at the Elster Arms again last night, Jones?" remarked the
station-master, his tone reproving, whilst he passed over in silence Mr.
Jones's item of news.

"I wasn't in above an hour," grumbled the man.

"Well, it is your own look-out, Jones. I have said what I could to you at
odd times; but I believe it has only tried your patience; so I'll say no
more."

"Has my wife been here again complaining?" asked the man, raising his
face in anger.

"No; I have not seen your wife, except at church, these two months. But
I know what public-houses are to you, and I was thinking of your little
children."

"Ugh!" growled the man, apparently not gratified at the reminder of his
flock; "there's a peck o' _them_ surely! Here she comes!"

The last sentence was spoken in a different tone; one of relief, either
at getting rid of the subject, or at the arrival of the train. It was
about opposite to Hartledon when he caught sight of it, and it came on
with a shrill whistle, skirting the village it towered above; a long line
of covered waggons with a passenger carriage or two attached to them.
Slackening its pace gradually, but not in time, it shot past the station,
and had to back into it again.

The guard came out of his box and opened the door of one of the
carriages--a dirty-looking second-class compartment; the other was a
third-class; and a gentleman leaped out. A tall, slender man of about
four-and-twenty; a man evidently of birth and breeding. He wore a light
summer overcoat on his well-cut clothes, and had a most attractive face.

"Is there any law against putting on a first-class carriage to this
night-train?" he asked the guard in a pleasing voice.

"Well, sir, we never get first-class passengers by it," replied the man;
"or hardly any passengers at all, for the matter of that. We are too long
on the road for passengers to come by us."

"It might happen, though," returned the traveller, significantly. "At
any rate, I suppose there's no law against your carriages being clean,
whatever their class. Look at that one."

He pointed to the one he had just left, as he walked up to the
station-master. The guard looked cross, and gave the carriage door
a slam.

"Was a portmanteau left here last night by the last train from London?"
inquired the traveller of the station-master.

"No, sir; nothing was left here. At least, I think not. Any name on it,
sir?"

"Elster."

A quick glance from the station-master's eyes met the answer. Elster was
the name of the family at Hartledon. He wondered whether this could be
one of them, or whether the name was merely a coincidence.

"There was no portmanteau left, was there, Jones?" asked the
station-master.

"There couldn't have been," returned the porter, touching his cap to the
stranger. "I wasn't on last night; Jim was; but it would have been put in
the office for sure; and there's not a ghost of a thing in it this
morning."

"It must have been taken on to Garchester," remarked the traveller; and,
turning to the guard, he gave him directions to look after it, and
despatch it back again by the first train, slipping at the same time a
gratuity into his hand.

The guard touched his hat humbly; he now knew who the gentleman was. And
he went into inward repentance for slamming the carriage-door, as he got
into his box, and the engine and train puffed on.

"You'll send it up as soon as it comes," said the traveller to the
station-master.

"Where to, sir?"

The stranger raised his eyes in slight surprise, and pointed to the house
in the distance. He had assumed that he was known.

"To Hartledon."

Then he _was_ one of the family! The station-master touched his hat.
Mr. Jones, in the background, touched his, and for the first time the
traveller's eye fell upon him as he was turning to leave the platform.

"Why, Jones! It's never you?"

"Yes, it is, sir." But Mr. Jones looked abashed as he acknowledged
himself. And it may be observed that his language, when addressing this
gentleman, was a slight improvement upon the homely phraseology of his
everyday life.

"But--you are surely not working here!--a porter!"

"My business fell through, sir," returned the man. "I'm here till I can
turn myself round, sir, and get into it again."

"What caused it to fall through?" asked the traveller; a kindly sympathy
in his fine blue eyes.

Mr. Jones shuffled upon one foot. He would not have given the true
answer--"Drinking"--for the world.

"There's such opposition started up in the place, sir; folks would draw
your heart's blood from you if they could. And then I've such a lot of
mouths to feed. I can't think what the plague such a tribe of children
come for. Nobody wants 'em."

The traveller laughed; but put no further questions. Remembering somewhat
of Mr. Jones's propensity in the old days, he thought perhaps something
besides children and opposition had had to do with the downfall. He stood
for a moment looking at the station which had not been completed when he
last saw it--and a very pretty station it was, surrounded by its gay
flowerbeds--and then went down the road.

"I suppose he is one of the Hartledon family, Jones?" said the
station-master, looking after him.

"He's the earl's brother," replied Mr. Jones, relapsing into sulkiness.
"There's only them two left; t'other died. Wonder if they be coming to
Hartledon again? Calne haven't seemed the same since they left it."

"Which is this one?"

"He can't be anybody but himself," retorted Mr. Jones, irascibly, deeming
the question superfluous. "There be but the two left, I say--the earl and
him; everybody knows him for the Honourable Percival Elster. The other
son, George, died; leastways, was murdered."

"Murdered!" echoed the station-master aghast.

"I don't see that it could be called much else but murder," was Mr.
Jones's answer. "He went out with my lord's gamekeepers one night and
got shot in a poaching fray. 'Twas never known for certain who fired the
shot, but I think I could put my finger on the man if I tried. Much good
_that_ would do, though! There's no proof."

"What are you saying, Jones?" cried the station-master, staring at his
subordinate, and perhaps wondering whether he had already that morning
paid a visit to the tap of the Elster Arms.

"I'm saying nothing that half the place didn't say at the time, Mr.
Markham. _You_ hadn't come here then, Mr. Elster--he was the Honourable
George--went out one night with the keepers when warm work was expected,
and got shot for his pains. He lived some weeks, but they couldn't cure
him. It was in the late lord's time. _He_ died soon after, and the place
has been deserted ever since."

"And who do you suppose fired the shot?"

"Don't know that it 'ud be safe to say," rejoined the man. "He might give
my neck a twist some dark night if he heard on't. He's the blackest sheep
we've got in Calne, sir."

"I suppose you mean Pike," said the station-master. "He has the character
for being that, I believe. I've seen no harm in the man myself."

"Well, it was Pike," said the porter. "That is, some of us suspected him.
And that's how Mr. George Elster came by his death. And this one, Mr.
Percival, shot up into notice, as being the only one left, except Lord
Elster."

"And who's Lord Elster?" asked the station-master, not remembering to
have heard the title before.

Mr. Jones received the question with proper contempt. Having been
familiar with Hartledon and its inmates all his life, he had as little
compassion for those who were not so, as he would have had for a man who
did not understand that Garchester was in England.

"The present Earl of Hartledon," said he, shortly. "In his father's
lifetime--and the old lord lived to see Mr. George buried--he was Lord
Elster. Not one of my tribe of brats but could tell that any Lord Elster
must be the eldest son of the Earl of Hartledon," he concluded with a
fling at his superior.

"Ah, well, I have had other things to do since I came here besides
inquiring into titles and folks that don't concern me," remarked the
station-master. "What a good-looking man he is!"

The praise applied to Mr. Elster, after whom he was throwing a parting
look. Jones gave an ungracious assent, and turned into the shed where the
lamps were kept, to begin his morning's work.

All the world would have been ready to echo the station-master's words
as to the good looks of Percival Elster, known universally amidst his
friends as Val Elster; for these good looks did not lie so much in actual
beauty--which one lauds, and another denies, according to its style--as
in the singularly pleasant expression of countenance; a gift that finds
its weight with all.

He possessed a bright face; his complexion was fair and fresh, his eyes
were blue and smiling, his features were good; and as he walked down
the road, and momentarily lifted his hat to push his light hair--as much
of a golden colour as hair ever is--from his brow, and gave a cordial
"good-day" to those who met him on their way to work--few strangers but
would have given him a second look of admiration. A physiognomist might
have found fault with the face; and, whilst admitting its sweet
expression, would have condemned it for its utter want of resolution.
What of that? The inability to say "no" to any sort of persuasion,
whether for good or ill; in short, a total absence of what may be called
moral courage; had been from his childhood Val Elster's besetting sin.

There was a joke against little Val when he was a boy of seven. Some
playmates had insisted upon his walking into a pond, and standing there.
Poor Val, quite unable to say "no," walked in, and was nearly drowned for
his pains. It had been a joke against him then; how many such "jokes"
could have been brought against him since he grew up, Val himself could
alone tell. As the child had been, so was the man. The scrapes his
irresolution brought him into he did not care to glance at; and whilst
only too well aware of his one lamentable deficiency, he was equally
aware that he was powerless to stand against it.

People, in speaking of this, called it "Elster's Folly." His extreme
sensitiveness as to the feelings of other people, whether equals or
inferiors, was, in a degree, one of the causes of this yielding nature;
and he would almost rather have died than offer any one a personal
offence, an insulting word or look. There are such characters in the
world; none can deny that they are amiable; but, oh, how unfit to battle
with life!

Mr. Elster walked slowly through the village on his way to Hartledon,
whose inmates he would presently take by surprise. It was about twenty
months since he had been there. He had left Hartledon at the close of the
last winter but one; an appointment having been obtained for him as an
_attaché_ to the Paris embassy. Ten months of service, and some scrape he
fell into caused him (a good deal of private interest was brought to bear
in the matter) to be removed to Vienna; but he had not remained there
very long. He seemed to have a propensity for getting into trouble, or
rather an inability to keep out of it. Latterly he had been staying in
London with his brother.

His thoughts wandered to the past as he looked at the chimneys of
Hartledon--all he could see of it--from the low-lying ground. He
remembered the happy time when they had been children in it; five of
them--the three boys and the two girls--he himself the youngest and the
pet. His eldest sister, Margaret, had been the first to leave it. She
married Sir James Cooper, and went with him to his remote home in
Scotland, where she was still. The second to go was Laura, who married
Captain Level, and accompanied him to India. Then he, Val, a young man in
his teens, went out into the world, and did all sorts of harm in it in an
unintentional sort of way; for Percival Elster never did wrong by
premeditation. Next came the death of his mother. He was called home from
a sojourn in Scotland--where his stay had been prolonged from the result
of an accident--to bid her farewell. Then he was at home for a year or
more, making love to charming Anne Ashton. The next move was his
departure for Paris; close upon which, within a fortnight, occurred the
calamity to his brother George. He came back from Paris to see him in
London, whither George had been conveyed for medical advice, and there
then seemed a chance of his recovery; but it was not borne out, and the
ill-fated young man died. Lord Hartledon's death was the next. He had an
incurable complaint, and his death followed close upon his son's. Lord
Elster became Earl of Hartledon; and he, Val, heir-presumptive.
Heir-presumptive! Val Elster was heir to all sorts of follies, but--

"Good morning to your lordship!"

The speaker was a man in a smock-frock, passing with a reaping-hook on
his shoulder. Mr. Elster's sunny face and cheery voice gave back the
salutation with tenfold heartiness, smiling at the title. Half the
peasantry had been used to addressing the brothers so, indiscriminately;
they were all lords to them.

The interruption awoke Mr. Elster from his thoughts, and he marched gaily
on down the middle of the road, noting its familiar features. The small
shops were on his right hand, the line of rails behind them. A few white
villas lay scattered on his left, and beyond them, but not to be seen
from this village street, wound the river; both running parallel with the
village lying between them. Soon the houses ceased; it was a small place
at best; and after an open space came the church. It lay on his right, a
little way back from the road, and surrounded by a large churchyard.
Almost opposite, on the other side of the road, but much further back,
was a handsome modern white house; its delightful gardens sloping almost
to the river. This was the residence of the Rector, Dr. Ashton, a wealthy
man and a church dignitary, prebendary and sub-dean of Garchester
Cathedral. Percival Elster looked at it yearningly, if haply he might see
there the face of one he loved well; but the blinds were drawn, and the
inmates were no doubt steeped in repose.

"If she only knew I was here!" he fondly aspirated.

On again a few steps, and a slight turn in the road brought him to a
small red-brick house on the same side as the church, with green shutters
attached to its lower windows. It lay in the midst of a garden well
stocked with vegetables, fruit, and the more ordinary and brighter
garden-flowers. A straight path led to the well-kept house-door, its
paint fresh and green, and its brass-plate as bright as rubbing could
make it. Mr. Elster could not read the inscription on the plate from
where he was, but he knew it by heart: "Jabez Gum, Parish Clerk." And
there was a smaller plate indicating other offices held by Jabez Gum.

"I wonder if Jabez is as shadowy as ever?" thought Mr. Elster, as he
walked on.

One more feature, and that is the last you shall hear of until Hartledon
is reached. Close to the clerk's garden, on a piece of waste land, stood
a small wooden building, no better than a shed.

It had once been a stable, but so long as Percival Elster could remember,
it was nothing but a receptacle for schoolboys playing at hide-and-seek.
Many a time had he hidden there. Something different in this shed now
caught his eye; the former doorway had been boarded up, and a long iron
tube, like a thin chimney, ascended from its roof.

"Who on earth has been adding that to it?" exclaimed Mr. Elster.

A little way onward, and he came to the lodge-gates of Hartledon. The
house was on the same side as the Rectory, its park stretching eastward,
its grounds, far more beautiful and extensive than those of the Rectory,
descending to the river. As he went in at the smaller side-gate, he
turned his gaze on the familiar road he had quitted, and most distinctly
saw a wreath of smoke ascending from the pipe above the shed. Could it
be a chimney, after all?

The woman of the lodge, hearing footsteps, came to her door with hasty
words.

"Now then! What makes you so late this morning? Didn't I--" And there she
stopped in horror; transfixed; for she was face to face with Mr. Elster.

"Law, sir! _You!_ Mercy be good to us!"

He laughed. In her consternation she could only suppose he had dropped
from the clouds. Giving her a pleasant greeting, he drew her attention to
the appearance that was puzzling him. The woman came out and looked at
it.

"_Is_ it a chimney, Mrs. Capper?"

"Well, yes, sir, it be. Pike have put it in. He come here, nobody knew
how or when, he put himself into the old shed, and has never left it
again."

"Who is 'Pike'?"

"It's hard to say, sir; a many would give a deal to know. He lay in the
shed a bit at first, as it were, all open. Then he boarded up that front
doorway, opened a door at the back, cut out a square hole for a window,
and stuck that chimney in the roof. And there he's lived ever since, and
nobody interferes with him. His name's Pike, and that's all that's known.
I should think my lord will see to it when he comes."

"Does he work for his living?"

"Never does a stroke o' work for nobody, sir. And how he lives is just
one o' them mysteries that can't be dived into. He's a poacher, a snarer,
and a robber of the fishponds--any one of 'em when he gets the chance;
leastways it's said so; and he looks just like a wild man o' the woods;
wilder than any Robison Crusoe! And he--but you might not like me to
mention that, sir."

"Mention anything," replied Mr. Elster. "Go on."

"Well, sir, it's said by some that his was the shot that killed Mr.
George," she returned, dropping her voice; and Percival Elster started.

"Who is he?" he exclaimed.

"He is not known to a soul. He came here a stranger."

"But--he was not here when I left home. And I left it, you may remember,
only a few days before that night."

"He must have come here at that very time, sir; just as you left."

"But what grounds were there for supposing that he--that he--I think you
must be mistaken, Mrs. Capper. Lord Hartledon, I am sure, knows nothing
of this suspicion."

"I never heard nothing about grounds, sir," simply replied the woman. "I
suppose folks fastened it on him because he's a loose character: and his
face is all covered with hair, like a howl."

He almost laughed again as he turned away, dismissing the suspicion she
had hinted at as unworthy a moment's credit. The broad gravel-walk
through this portion of the park was very short, and the large grey-stone
house was soon reached. Not to the stately front entrance did he bend his
steps, but to a small side entrance, which he found open. Pursuing his
way down sundry passages, he came to what used to be called the "west
kitchen;" and there sat three women at breakfast.

"Well, Mirrable! I thought I should find you up."

The two servants seated opposite stared with open mouths; neither knew
him: the one he had addressed as Mirrable turned at the salutation,
screamed, and dropped the teapot. She was a thin, active woman, of forty
years, with dark eyes, a bunch of black drooping ringlets between her cap
and her thin cheeks, a ready tongue and a pleasant manner. Mirrable had
been upper maid at Hartledon for years and years, and was privileged.

"Mr. Percival! Is it your ghost, sir?"

"I think it's myself, Mirrable."

"My goodness! But, sir, how did you get here?"

"You may well ask. I ought to have been here last night, but got out at
some obscure junction to obtain a light for my cigar, and the train went
on without me. I sat on a bench for a few hours, and came on by the goods
train this morning."

Mirrable awoke from her astonishment, sent the two girls flying, one
here, one there, to prepare rooms for Mr. Elster, and busied herself
arranging the best breakfast she could extemporise. Val Elster sat on a
table whilst he talked to her. In the old days, he and his brothers,
little fellows, had used to carry their troubles to Mirrable; and he was
just as much at home with her now as he would have been with his mother.

"Did Capper see you as you came by, sir? Wouldn't she be struck!"

"Nearly into stone," he laughed.

Mirrable disappeared for a minute or two, and came back with a silver
coffee-pot in her hand. The name of the lodge-keeper had brought to his
remembrance the unpleasant hint she mentioned, and he spoke of it
impulsively--as he did most things.

"Mirrable, what man is it they call Pike, who has taken possession of
that old shed?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," answered Mirrable, after a pause, which Mr.
Elster thought was involuntary; for she was busy at the moment rubbing
the coffee-pot with some wash-leather, her head and face bent over it, as
she stood with her back to him. He slipped off the table, and went up to
her.

"I saw smoke rising from the shed, and asked Capper what it meant, and
she told me about this man Pike. Pike! It's a curious name."

Mirrable rubbed away, never answering.

"Capper said he had been suspected of firing the shot that killed my
brother," he continued, in low tones. "Did _you_ ever hear of such a
hint, Mirrable?"

Mirrable darted off to the fireplace, and began stirring the milk lest it
should boil over. Her face was almost buried in the saucepan, or Mr.
Elster might have seen the sudden change that came over it; the thin
cheeks that had flushed crimson, and now were deadly white. Lifting the
saucepan on to the hob, she turned to Mr. Elster.

"Don't you believe any such nonsense, sir," she said, in tones of strange
emphasis. "It was no more Pike than it was me. The man keeps himself to
himself, and troubles nobody; and for that very reason idle folk carp at
him, like the mischief-making idiots they are!"

"I thought there was nothing in it," remarked Mr. Elster.

"I'm _sure_ there isn't," said Mirrable, conclusively. "Would you like
some broiled ham, sir?"

"I should like anything good and substantial, for I'm as hungry as
a hunter. But, Mirrable, you don't ask what has brought me here so
suddenly."

The tone was significant, and Mirrable looked at him. There was a spice
of mischief in his laughing blue eyes.

"I come on a mission to you; an avant-courier from his lordship, to
charge you to have all things in readiness. To-morrow you will receive
a houseful of company; more than Hartledon will hold."

Mirrable looked aghast. "It is one of your jokes, Mr. Val!"

"Indeed, it is the truth. My brother will be down with a trainful; and
desires that everything shall be ready for their reception."

"My patience!" gasped Mirrable. "And the servants, sir?"

"Most of them will be here to-night. The Countess-Dowager of Kirton is
coming as Hartledon's mistress for the time being."

"Oh!" said Mirrable, who had once had the honour of seeing the
Countess-Dowager of Kirton. And the monosyllable was so significant
that Val Elster drew down the corners of his mouth.

"I don't like the Countess-Dowager, sir," remarked Mirrable in her
freedom.

"I can't bear her," returned Val Elster.




CHAPTER II.

WILLY GUM.


Had Percival Elster lingered ever so short a time near the clerk's house
that morning he would have met that functionary himself; for in less than
a minute after he had passed out of sight Jabez Gum's door opened, and
Jabez Gum glided out of it.

It is a term chiefly applied to ghosts; but Mr. Gum was a great deal more
like a ghost than like a man. He was remarkably tall and thin; a very
shadow; with a white shadow of a face, and a nose that might have served
as a model for a mask in a carnival of guys. A sharp nose, twice the
length and half the breadth of any ordinary nose--a very ferret of a
nose; its sharp tip standing straight out into the air. People said, with
such a nose Mr. Gum ought to have a great deal of curiosity. And they
were right; he _had_ a great deal in a quiet way.

A most respectable man was Mr. Gum, and he prided himself upon it. Mr.
Gum--more often called Clerk Gum in the village--had never done a wrong
thing in his life, or fallen into a scrape. He had been altogether a
pattern to Calne in general, and to its black sheep in particular. Dr.
Ashton himself could not have had less brought against him than Clerk
Gum; and it would just have broken Mr. Gum's heart had his good name been
tarnished in ever so slight a degree. Perhaps no man living had been born
with a larger share of self-esteem than Jabez Gum. Clerk of the parish
longer than Dr. Ashton had been its Rector, Jabez Gum had lived at his
ease in a pecuniary point of view. It was one of those parishes (I think
few of them remain now) where the clerk's emoluments are large. He also
held other offices; was an agent for one or two companies, and was looked
upon as an exceedingly substantial man for his station in life. Perhaps
he was less so than people imagined. The old saying is all too true:
"Nobody knows where the shoe pinches but he who wears it."

Jabez Gum had his thorn, as a great many more of us have ours, if the
outside world only knew it. And Jabez, at odd moments, when the thorn
pierced him very sharply, had been wont to compare his condition to St.
Paul's, and to wonder whether the pricks inflicted on that holy man could
have bled as his own did. He meant no irreverence when he thought this;
neither do I in writing it. We are generally wounded in the most
vulnerable spot about us, and Jabez Gum made no exception to the rule. He
had been assailed in his cherished respectability, his self-esteem.
Assailed and _scarred_. How broad and deep the scar was Jabez never told
the world, which as a rule does not sympathise with such scars, but turns
aside in its cruel indifference. The world had almost forgotten the scar
now, and supposed Clerk Gum had done the same. It was all over and done
with years ago.

Jabez Gum's wife--to whom you will shortly have the honour of an
introduction, but she is in her bedroom just now--had borne him one
child, and only one. How this boy was loved, how tenderly reared, let
Calne tell you. Mrs. Gum had to endure no inconsiderable amount of
ridicule at the time from her gossiping friends, who gave Willy sundry
endearing names, applied in derision. Certainly, if any mother ever was
bound up in a child, Mrs. Gum was in hers. The boy was well brought up. A
good education was given him; and at the age of sixteen he went to London
and to fortune. The one was looked upon as a natural sequence to the
other. Some friend of Jabez Gum's had interested himself to procure the
lad's admission into one of the great banks as a junior clerk. He might
rise in time to be cashier, manager, even partner; who knew? Who knew
indeed? And Clerk Gum congratulated himself, and was more respectable
than ever.

Better that Willy Gum had remained at Calne! And yet, and again--who
knew? When the propensity for ill-doing exists it is sure to come out, no
matter where. There were some people in Calne who could have told Clerk
Gum, even then, that Willy, for his age, was tolerably fast and forward.
Mrs. Gum had heard of one or two things that had caused her hair to rise
on end with horror; ay, and with apprehension; but, foolish mother that
she was, not a syllable did she breathe to the clerk; and no one else
ventured to tell him.

She talked to Willy with many sighs and tears; implored him to be a good
boy and enter on good courses, not on bad ones that would break her
heart. Willy, the little scapegrace, was willing to promise anything. He
laughed and made light of it; it wasn't his fault if folks told stories
about him; she couldn't be so foolish as to give ear to them. London? Oh,
he should be all right in London! One or two fellows here were rather
fast, there was no denying it; and they drew him with them; they were
older than he, and ought to have known better. Once away from Calne, they
could have no more influence over him, and he should be all right.

She believed him; putting faith in the plausible words. Oh, what trust
can be so pure, and at the same time so foolish, as that placed by a
mother in a beloved son! Mrs. Gum had never known but one idol on earth;
he who now stood before her, lightly laughing at her fears, making his
own tale good. She leaned forward and laid her hands upon his shoulders
and kissed him with that impassioned fervour that some mothers could tell
of, and whispered that she would trust him wholly.

Mr. Willy extricated himself with as little impatience as he could help:
these embraces were not to his taste. And yet the boy did love his
mother. She was not at all a wise woman, or a clever one; rather silly,
indeed, in many things; but she was fond of him. At this period he was
young-looking for his age, slight, and rather undersized, with an
exceedingly light complexion, a wishy-washy sort of face with no colour
in it, unmeaning light eyes, white eyebrows, and ragged-looking light
hair with a tawny shade upon it.

Willy Gum departed for London, and entered on his engagement in the great
banking-house of Goldsworthy and Co.

How he went on in it Calne could not get to learn, though it was
moderately inquisitive upon the point. His father and mother heard from
him occasionally; and once the clerk took a sudden and rather mysterious
journey to London, where he stayed for a whole week. Rumour said--I
wonder where such rumours first have their rise--that Willy Gum had
fallen into some trouble, and the clerk had had to buy him out of it at
the cost of a mint of money. The clerk, however, did not confirm this;
and one thing was indisputable: Willy retained his place in the
banking-house. Some people looked on this fact as a complete refutation
of the rumour.

Then came a lull. Nothing was heard of Willy; that is, nothing beyond the
reports of Mrs. Gum to her gossips when letters arrived: he was well, and
getting on well. It was only the lull that precedes a storm; and a storm
indeed burst on quiet Calne. Willy Gum had robbed the bank and
disappeared.

In the first dreadful moment, perhaps the only one who did _not_
disbelieve it was Clerk Gum. Other people said there must be some
mistake: it could not be. Kind old Lord Hartledon came down in his
carriage to the clerk's house--he was too ill to walk--and sat with
the clerk and the weeping mother, and said he was sure it could not be
so bad as was reported. The next morning saw handbills--great, staring,
large-typed handbills--offering a reward for the discovery of William
Gum, posted all over Calne.

Once more Clerk Gum went to London. What he did there no one knew. One
thing only was certain--he did not find Willy or any trace of him. The
defalcation was very nearly eight hundred pounds; and even if Mr. Gum
could have refunded that large sum, he might not do so, said Calne, for
of course the bank would not compound a felony. He came back looking ten
years older; his tall, thin form more shadowy, his nose longer and
sharper. Not a soul ventured to say a syllable to him, even of
condolence. He told Lord Hartledon and his Rector that no tidings
whatever could be gleaned of his unhappy son; the boy had disappeared,
and might be dead for all they knew to the contrary.

So the handbills wore themselves out on the walls, serving no purpose,
until Lord Hartledon ordered them to be removed; and Mrs. Gum lived in
tears, and audibly wished herself dead. She had not seen her boy since he
quitted Calne, considerably more than two years before, and he was now
nearly nineteen. A few days' holiday had been accorded him by the
banking-house each Christmas; but the first Christmas Willy wrote word
that he had accepted an invitation to go home with a brother-clerk; the
second Christmas he said he could not obtain leave of absence--which Mrs.
Gum afterwards found was untrue; so that Willy Gum had not been at Calne
since he left it. And whenever his mother thought of him--and that was
every hour of the day and night--it was always as the fair, young,
light-haired boy, who seemed to her little more than a child.

A year or so of uncertainty, of suspense, of wailing, and then came a
letter from Willy, cautiously sent. It was not addressed directly to Mrs.
Gum, to whom it was written, but to one of Willy's acquaintances in
London, who enclosed it in an envelope and forwarded it on.

Such a letter! To read it one might have thought Mr. William Gum had gone
out under the most favourable auspices. He was in Australia; had gone up
to seek his fortune at the gold-diggings, and was making money rapidly.
In a short time he should refund with interest the little sum he had
borrowed from Goldsworthy and Co., and which was really not taken with
any ill intention, but was more an accident than anything else. After
that, he should accumulate money on his own score, and--all things being
made straight at home--return and settle down, a rich man for life. And
she--his mother--might rely on his keeping his word. At present he was at
Melbourne; to which place he and his mates had come to bring their
acquired gold, and to take a bit of a spree after their recent hard work.
He was very jolly, and after a week's holiday they should go back again.
And he hoped his father had overlooked the past; and he remained ever her
affectionate son, William Gum.

The effect of this letter upon Mrs. Gum was as though a dense cloud had
suddenly lifted from the world, and given place to a flood of sunshine.
We estimate things by comparison. Mrs. Gum was by nature disposed to look
on the dark side of things, and she had for the whole year past been
indulging the most dread pictures of Willy and his fate that any woman's
mind ever conceived. To hear that he was in life, and well, and making
money rapidly, was the sweetest news, the greatest relief she could ever
experience in this world.

Clerk Gum--relieved also, no doubt--received the tidings in a more sober
spirit; almost as if he did not dare to believe in them. The man's heart
had been well-nigh broken with the blow that fell upon him, and nothing
could ever heal it thoroughly again. He read the letter in silence; read
it twice over; and when his wife broke out into a series of rapt
congratulations, and reproached him mildly for not appearing to think
it true, he rather cynically inquired what then, if true, became of her
dreams.

For Mrs. Gum was a dreamer. She was one of those who are now and again
visited by strange dreams, significant of the future. Poor Mrs. Gum
carried these dreams to an excess; that is, she was always having them
and always talking about them. It had been no wonder, with her mind in so
miserable a state regarding her son, that her dreams in that first
twelve-month had generally been of him and generally bad. The above
question, put by her husband, somewhat puzzled her. Her dreams _had_
foreshadowed great evil still to Willy; and her dreams had never been
wrong yet.

But, in the enjoyment of positive good, who thinks of dreams? No one. And
Mrs. Gum's grew a shade brighter, and hope again took possession of her
heart.

Two years rolled on, during which they heard twice from Willy;
satisfactory letters still, in a way. Both testified to his "jolly"
state: he was growing rich, though not quite so rapidly as he had
anticipated; a fellow had to spend so much! Every day he expected to pick
up a nugget which would crown his fortune. He complained in these letters
that he did not hear from home; not once had news reached him; had his
father and mother abandoned him?

The question brought forth a gush of tears from Mrs. Gum, and a sharp
abuse of the post-office. The clerk took the news philosophically,
remarking that the wonder would have been had Willy received the letters,
seeing that he seemed to move about incessantly from place to place.

Close upon this came another letter, written apparently in haste. Willy's
"fortune" had turned into reality at last; he was coming home with more
gold than he could count; had taken his berth in the good ship _Morning
Star_, and should come off at once to Calne, when the ship reached
Liverpool. There was a line written inside the envelope, as though he had
forgotten to include it in the letter: "I have had one from you at last;
the first you wrote, it seems. Thank dad for what he has done for me.
I'll make it all square with him when I get home."

This had reference to a fact which Calne did not know. In that unhappy
second visit of Clerk Gum's to London, he _did_ succeed in appeasing the
wrath of Goldsworthy and Co., and paid in every farthing of the money.
How far he might have accomplished this but for being backed by the
urgent influence of old Lord Hartledon, was a question. One thing was in
his favour: the firm had not taken any steps whatever in the matter, and
those handbills circulated at Calne were the result of a misapprehension
on the part of an officious local police-officer. Things had gone too far
for Goldsworthys graciously to condone the offence--and Clerk Gum paid in
his savings of years. This was the fact written by Mrs. Gum to her son,
which had called forth the line in the envelope.

Alas! those were the last tidings ever received from Willy Gum. Whilst
Mrs. Gum lived in a state of ecstacy, showing the letter to her
neighbours and making loving preparations for his reception, the time for
the arrival of the _Morning Star_ at Liverpool drew on, and passed, and
the ship did not arrive.

A time of anxious suspense to all who had relations on board--for it was
supposed she had foundered at sea--and tidings came to them. An awful
tale; a tale of mutiny and wrong and bloodshed. Some of the loose
characters on board the ship--and she was bringing home such--had risen
in disorder within a month of their sailing from Melbourne; had killed
the captain, the chief officer, and some of the passengers and crew.

The ringleader was a man named Gordon; who had incited the rest to the
crime, and killed the captain with his own hand. Obtaining command of the
ship, they put her about, and commenced a piratical raid. One vessel they
succeeded in disarming, despoiling, and then leaving her to her fate. But
the next vessel they attacked proved a more formidable enemy, and there
was a hand-to-hand struggle for the mastery, and for life or death. The
_Morning Star_ was sunk, with the greater portion of her living freight.
A few, only some four or five, were saved by the other ship, and conveyed
to England.

It was by them the dark tale was brought. The second officer of the
_Morning Star_ was one of them; he had been compelled to dissemble and to
appear to serve the mutinous band; the others were innocent passengers,
whose lives had not been taken. All agreed in one thing: that Gordon, the
ringleader, had in all probability escaped. He had put off from the
_Morning Star_, when she was sinking, in one of her best boats; he and
some of his lawless helpmates, with a bag of biscuit, a cask of water,
and a few bottles that probably contained rum. Whether they succeeded in
reaching a port or in getting picked up, was a question; but it was
assumed they had done so.

The owners of the _Morning Star_, half paralyzed at the news of so daring
and unusual an outrage, offered the large reward of five hundred pounds
for the capture of George Gordon; and Government increased the offer by
two hundred, making it seven in all.

Overwhelming tidings for Clerk Gum and his wife! A brief season of
agonized suspense ensued for the poor mother; of hopes and fears as to
whether Willy was amongst the remnant saved; and then hope died away, for
he did not come.

Once more, for the last time, Clerk Gum took a journey, not to London,
but to Liverpool. He succeeded in seeing the officer who had been
saved; but he could give him no information. He knew the names of the
first-class passengers, but only a few of the second-class; and in that
class Willy had most likely sailed.

The clerk described his son; and the officer thought he remembered him:
he had a good deal of gold on board, he said. One of the passengers spoke
more positively. Yes, by Clerk Gum's description, he was sure Willy Gum
had been his fellow-passenger in the second cabin, though he did not
recollect whether he had heard his name. It seemed, looking back, that
the passengers had hardly had time to become acquainted with each other's
names, he added. He was sure it was the young man; of very light
complexion, ready and rather loose (if Mr. Gum would excuse his saying
so) in speech. He had made thoroughly good hauls of gold at the last, and
was going home to spend it. He was the second killed, poor fellow; had
risen up with a volley of oaths (excuses begged again) to defend the
captain, and was struck down and killed.

Poor Jabez Gum gasped. _Killed?_ was the gentleman _sure_? Quite sure;
and, moreover, he saw his body thrown overboard with the rest of the
dead. And the money--the gold? Jabez asked, when he had somewhat
recovered himself. The passenger laughed--not at the poor father, but at
the worse than useless question; gold and everything else on board the
_Morning Star_ had gone down with her to the bottom of the sea.

A species of savage impulse rose in the clerk's mind, replacing his first
emotion of grief; an impulse that might almost have led him to murder the
villain Gordon, could he have come across him. Was there a chance that
the man would be taken? he asked. Every chance, if he dared show his face
in England, the passenger answered. A reward of seven hundred pounds was
an inducement to the survivors to keep their eyes open; and they'd do it,
besides, without any reward. Moreover--if Gordon had escaped, his
comrades in the boat had escaped with him. They were lawless men like
himself, every one of them, and they would be sure to betray him when
they found what a price was set upon his capture.

Clerk Gum returned home, bearing to his wife and Calne the final tidings
which crushed out all hope. Mrs. Gum sank into a state of wild despair.
At first it almost seemed to threaten loss of reason. Her son had been
her sole idol, and the idol was shattered. But to witness unreasonably
violent grief in others always has a counteracting effect on our own,
and Mr. Gum soothed his sorrow and brought philosophy to his aid.

"Look you," said he, one day, sharply to his wife, when she was crying
and moaning, "there's two sides to every calamity,--a bright and a dark
'un;" for Mr. Gum was not in the habit of treating his wife, in the
privacy of their domestic circle, to the quality-speech kept for the
world. "He is gone, and we can't help it; we'd have welcomed him home if
we could, and killed the fatted calf, but it was God's will that it
shouldn't be. There may be a blessing in it, after all. Who knows but he
might have broke out again, and brought upon us what he did before, or
worse? For my part, I should never have been without the fear; night and
morning it would always have stood before me; not to be driven away. As
it is, I am at rest."

She--the wife--took her apron from her eyes and looked at him with a sort
of amazed anger.

"Gum! do you forget that he had left off his evil ways, and was coming
home to be a comfort to us?"

"No, I don't forget it," returned Mr. Gum. "But who was to say that the
mood would last? He might have got through his gold, however much it was,
and then--. As it is, Nance Gum, we can sleep quiet in our beds, free
from _that_ fear."

Clerk Gum was not, on the whole, a model of suavity in the domestic fold.
The first blow that had fallen upon him seemed to have affected his
temper; and his helpmate knew from experience that whenever he called her
"Nance" his mood was at its worst.

Suppressing a sob, she spoke reproachfully.

"It's my firm belief, Gum, and has been all along, that you cared more
for your good name among men than you did for the boy."

"Perhaps I did," he answered, by way of retort. "At any rate, it might
have been better for him in the long-run if we--both you and me--hadn't
cared for him quite so foolishly in his childhood; we spared the rod and
we spoiled the child. That's over, and--"

"It's _all_ over," interrupted Mrs. Gum; "over for ever in this world.
Gum, you are very hard-hearted."

"And," he continued, with composure, "we may hope now to live down in
time the blow he brought upon us, and hold up our heads again in the face
of Calne. We couldn't have done that while he lived."

"We couldn't?"

"No. Just dry up your useless tears, Nancy; and try to think that all's
for the best."

But, metaphorically speaking, Mrs. Gum could not dry her tears. Nearly
two years had elapsed since the fatal event; and though she no longer
openly lamented, filling Calne with her cries and her faint but heartfelt
prayers for vengeance on the head of the cruel monster, George Gordon, as
she used to do at first, she had sunk into a despairing state of mind
that was by no means desirable: a startled, timid, superstitious woman,
frightened at every shadow.




CHAPTER III.

ANNE ASHTON.


Jabez Gum came out of his house in the bright summer morning, missing Mr.
Elster by one minute only. He went round to a small shed at the back of
the house and brought forth sundry garden-tools. The whole garden was
kept in order by himself, and no one had finer fruit and vegetables than
Clerk Gum. Hartledon might have been proud of them, and Dr. Ashton
sometimes accepted a dish with pleasure.

In his present attire: dark trousers, and a short close jacket buttoned
up round him and generally worn when gardening, the worthy man might
decidedly have been taken for an animated lamp-post by any stranger who
happened to come that way. He was applying himself this morning, first to
the nailing of sundry choice fruit-trees against the wall that ran down
one side of his garden--a wall that had been built by the clerk himself
in happier days; and next, to plucking some green walnuts for his wife to
pickle. As he stood on tip-toe, his long thin body and long thin arms
stretched up to the walnut-tree, he might have made the fortune of any
travelling caravan that could have hired him. The few people who passed
him greeted him with a "Good morning," but he rarely turned his head in
answering them. Clerk Gum had grown somewhat taciturn of late years.

The time went on. The clock struck a quarter-past seven, and Jabez Gum,
as he heard it, left the walnut-tree, walked to the gate, and leaned over
it; his face turned in the direction of the village. It was not the
wooden gate generally attached to smaller houses in rustic localities,
but a very pretty iron one; everything about the clerk's house being
of a superior order. Apparently, he was looking out for some one in
displeasure; and, indeed, he had not stood there a minute, when a girl
came flying down the road, and pushed the gate and the clerk back
together.

Mr. Gum directed her attention to the church clock. "Do you see the time,
Rebecca Jones?"

Had the pages of the church-register been visible as well as the clock,
Miss Rebecca Jones's age might have been seen to be fifteen; but, in
knowledge of the world and in impudence, she was considerably older.

"Just gone seven and a quarter," answered she, making a feint of shading
her eyes with her hands, though the sun was behind her.

"And what business have you to come at seven and a quarter? Half-past six
is your time; and, if you can't keep it, your missis shall get those that
can."

"Why can't my missis let me stop at night and clear up the work?"
returned the girl. "She sends me away at six o'clock, as soon as I've
washed the tea-things, and oftentimes earlier than that. It stands to
reason I can't get through the work of a morning."

"You could do so quite well if you came to time," said the clerk, turning
away to his walnut-tree. "Why don't you?"

"I overslept myself this morning. Father never called me afore he went
out. No doubt he had a drop too much last night."

She went flying up the gravel-path as she spoke. Her father was the man
Jones whom you saw at the railway station; her step-mother (for her own
mother was dead) was Mrs. Gum's cousin.

She was a sort of stray sheep, this girl, in the eyes of Calne, not
belonging very much to any one; her father habitually neglected her, her
step-mother had twice turned her out of doors. Some three or four months
ago, when Mrs. Gum was changing her servant, she had consented to try
this girl. Jabez Gum knew nothing of the arrangement until it was
concluded, and disapproved of it. Altogether, it did not work
satisfactorily: Miss Jones was careless, idle, and impudent; her
step-mother was dissatisfied because she was not taken into the house;
and Clerk Gum threatened every day, and his wife very often, to dismiss
her.

It was only within a year or two that they had not kept an indoor
servant; and the fact of their not doing so now puzzled the gossips of
Calne. The clerk's emoluments were the same as ever; there was no Willy
to encroach on them now; and the work of the house required a good
servant. However, it pleased Mrs. Gum to have one in only by day; and who
was to interfere with her if the clerk did not?

Jabez Gum worked on for some little time after eight o'clock, the
breakfast-hour. He rather wondered he was not called to it, and
registered a mental vow to discharge Miss Becky. Presently he went
indoors, put his head into a small sitting-room on the left, and found
the room empty, but the breakfast laid. The kitchen was behind it, and
Jabez Gum stalked on down the passage, and went into it. On the other
side of the passage was the best sitting-room, and a very small room at
the back of it, which Jabez used as an office, and where he kept sundry
account-books.

"Where's your missis?" asked he of the maid, who was on her knees
toasting bread.

"Not down yet," was the short response.

"Not down yet!" repeated Jabez in surprise, for Mrs. Gum was generally
down by seven. "You've got that door open again, Rebecca. How many more
times am I to tell you I won't have it?"

"It's the smoke," said Rebecca. "This chimbley always smokes when it's
first lighted."

"The chimney doesn't smoke, and you know that you are telling a
falsehood. What do you want with it open? You'll have that wild man
darting in upon you some morning. How will you like that?"

"I'm not afeard of him," was the answer, as Rebecca got up from her
knees. "He couldn't eat me."

"But you know how timid your mistress is," returned the clerk, in a voice
of extreme anger. "How dare you, girl, be insolent?"

He shut the door as he spoke--one that opened from the kitchen to the
back garden--and bolted it. Washing his hands, and drying them with a
round towel, he went upstairs, and found Mrs. Gum--as he had now and then
found her of late--in a fit of prostration. She was a little woman, with
a light complexion, and insipid, unmeaning face--some such a face as
Willy's had been--and her hair, worn in neat bands under her cap, was the
colour of tow.

"I couldn't help it, Gum," she began, as she stood before the glass, her
trembling fingers trying to fasten her black alpaca gown--for she had
never left off mourning for their son. "It's past eight, I know; but I've
had such an upset this morning as never was, and I _couldn't_ dress
myself. I've had a shocking dream."

"Drat your dreams!" cried Mr. Gum, very much wanting his breakfast.

"Ah, Gum, don't! Those morning dreams, when they're vivid as this was,
are not sent for ridicule. Pike was in it; and you know I can't _bear_
him to be in my dreams. They are always bad when he is in them."

"If you wanted your breakfast as much as I want mine, you'd let Pike
alone," retorted the clerk.

"I thought he was mixed up in some business with Lord Hartledon. I don't
know what it was, but the dream was full of horror. It seemed that Lord
Hartledon was dead or dying; whether he'd been killed or not, I can't
say; but an awful dread was upon me of seeing him dead. A voice called
out, 'Don't let him come to Calne!' and in the fright I awoke. I can't
remember what part Pike played in the dream," she continued, "only the
impression remained that he was in it."

"Perhaps he killed Lord Hartledon?" cried Gum, mockingly.

"No; not in the dream. Pike did not seem to be mixed up in it for ill.
The ill was all on Lord Hartledon; but it was not Pike brought it upon
him. Who it was, I couldn't see; but it was not Pike."

Clerk Gum looked down at his wife in scornful pity. He wondered
sometimes, in his phlegmatic reasoning, why women were created such
fools.

"Look here, Mrs. G. I thought those dreams of yours were pretty nearly
dreamed out--there have been enough of 'em. How any woman, short of a
born idiot, can stand there and confess herself so frightened by a dream
as to be unable to get up and go about her duties, is beyond me."

"But, Gum, you don't let me finish. I woke up with the horror, I tell
you--"

"What horror?" interrupted the clerk, angrily. "What did it consist of?
I can't see the horror."

"Nor can I, very clearly," acknowledged Mrs. Gum; "but I know it was
there. I woke up with the very words in my ears, 'Don't let him come to
Calne!' and I started out of bed in terror for Lord Hartledon, lest he
_should_ come. We are only half awake, you know, at these moments. I
pulled the curtain aside and looked out. Gum, if ever I thought to drop
in my life, I thought it then. There was but one person to be seen in the
road--and it was Lord Hartledon."

"Oh!" said Mr. Gum, cynically, after a moment of natural surprise. "Come
out of his vault for a morning walk past your window, Mrs. G.!"

"Vault! I mean young Lord Hartledon, Gum."

Mr. Gum was a little taken back. They had been so much in the habit of
calling the new Lord Hartledon, Lord Elster--who had not lived at Calne
since he came into the title--that he had thought of the old lord when
his wife was speaking.

"He was up there, just by the turning of the road, going on to Hartledon.
Gum, I nearly dropped, I say. The next minute he was out of sight; then I
rubbed my eyes and pinched my arms to make sure I was awake."

"And whether you saw a ghost, or whether you didn't," came the mocking
retort.

"It was no ghost, Gum; it was Lord Hartledon himself."

"Nonsense! It was just as much one as the other. The fact is, you hadn't
quite woke up out of that fine dream of yours, and you saw double. It was
just as much young Hartledon as it was me."

"I never saw a ghost yet, and I don't fear I ever shall, Gum. I tell
you it was Lord Hartledon. And if harm doesn't befall him at Calne, as
shadowed forth in my dream, never believe me again."

"There, that's enough," peremptorily cried the clerk; knowing, if once
Mrs. Gum took up any idea with a dream for its basis, how impossible it
was to turn her. "Is the key of that kitchen door found yet?"

"No: it never will be, Gum. I've told you so before. My belief is, and
always has been, that Rebecca let it drop by accident into the waste
bucket."

"_My_ belief is, that Rebecca made away with it for her own purposes,"
said the clerk. "I caught her just now with the door wide open. She's
trying to make acquaintance with the man Pike; that's what she's at."

"Oh, Gum!"

"Yes; it's all very well to say 'Oh, Gum!' but if you were below-stairs
looking after her, instead of dreaming up here, it might be better for
everyone. Let me once be certain about it, and off she goes the next
hour. A fine thing 'twould be some day for us to find her head smothered
in the kitchen purgatory, and the silver spoons gone; as will be the case
if any loose characters get in."

He was descending the stairs as he spoke the last sentence, delivered in
loud tones, probably for the benefit of Miss Rebecca Jones. And lest the
intelligent Protestant reader should fear he is being introduced to
unorthodox regions, it may be as well to mention that the "purgatory" in
Mr. Jabez Gum's kitchen consisted of an excavation, two feet square,
under the hearth, covered with a grating through which the ashes and
the small cinders fell; thereby enabling the economical housewife to
throw the larger ones on the fire again. Such wells or "purgatories," as
they are called, are common enough in the old-fashioned kitchens of
certain English districts.

Mrs. Gum, ready now, had been about to follow her husband; but his
suggestion--that the girl was watching an opportunity to make
acquaintance with their undesirable neighbour, Pike--struck her
motionless.

It seemed that she could never see this man without a shiver, or overcome
the fright experienced when she first met him. It was on a dark autumn
night. She was coming through the garden when she discerned, or thought
she discerned, a light in the abandoned shed. Thinking of fire, she
hastily crossed the stile that divided their garden from the waste land,
and ran to it. There she was confronted by what she took to be a
bear--but a bear that could talk; for he gruffly asked her who she was
and what she wanted. A black-haired, black-browed man, with a pipe
between his teeth, and one sinewy arm bared to the elbow.

How Mrs. Gum tore away and tumbled over the stile in her terror, and got
home again, she never knew. She supposed it to be a tramp, who had taken
shelter there for the night; but finding to her dismay that the tramp
stayed on, she had never overcome her fright from that hour to this.

Neither did her husband like the proximity of such a gentleman. They
caused securer bolts to be put on their doors--for fastenings in small
country places are not much thought about, people around being
proverbially honest. They also had their shutters altered. The shutters
to the windows, back and front, had holes in them in the form of a
heart, such as you may have sometimes noticed. Before the wild-looking
man--whose name came to be known as Pike--had been in possession of the
shed a fortnight, Jabez Gum had the holes in his shutters filled-in and
painted over. An additional security, said the neighbours: but poor timid
Mrs. Gum could not overcome that first fright, and the very mention of
the man set her trembling and quaking.

Nothing more was said of the dream or the apparition, real or fancied, of
Lord Hartledon: Clerk Gum did not encourage the familiar handling of such
topics in everyday life. He breakfasted, devoted an hour to his own
business in the little office, and then put on his coat to go out. It was
Friday morning. On that day and on Wednesdays the church was open for
baptisms, and it was the clerk's custom to go over at ten o'clock and
apprize the Rector of any notices he might have had.

Passing in at the iron gates, the large white house rose before him,
beyond the wide lawn. It had been built by Dr. Ashton at his own
expense. The old Rectory was a tumbledown, inconvenient place, always
in dilapidation, for as soon as one part of it was repaired another
fell through; and the Rector opened his heart and his purse, both
large and generous, and built a new one. Mr. Gum was making his way
unannounced to the Rector's study, according to custom, when a door on
the opposite side of the hall opened, and Dr. Ashton came out. He was a
pleasant-looking man, with dark hair and eyes, his countenance one of
keen intellect; and though only of middle height, there was something
stately, grand, imposing in his whole appearance.

"Is that you, Jabez?"

Connected with each other for so many years--a connection which had begun
when both were young--the Rector and Mrs. Ashton had never called him
anything but Jabez. With other people he was Gum, or Mr. Gum, or Clerk
Gum: Jabez with them. He, Jabez, was the older man of the two by six or
seven years, for the Rector was not more than forty-five. The clerk
crossed the hall, its tessellated flags gleaming under the colours
thrown in by the stained windows, and entered the drawing-room, a noble
apartment looking on to the lawn in front. Mrs. Ashton, a tall,
delicate-looking woman, with a gentle face, was standing before a
painting just come home and hung up; to look at which the Rector and
his wife had gone into the room.

It was the portrait of a sweet-looking girl with a sunny countenance. The
features were of the delicate contour of Mrs. Ashton's; the rich brown
hair, the soft brown eyes, and the intellectual expression of the face
resembled the doctor's. Altogether, face and portrait were positively
charming; one of those faces you must love at first sight, without
waiting to question whether or not they are beautiful.

"Is it a good likeness, Jabez?" asked the Rector, whilst Mrs. Ashton made
room for him with a smile of greeting.

"As like as two peas, sir," responded Jabez, when he had taken a long
look. "What a face it is! Oftentimes it comes across my mind when I am
not thinking of anything but business; and I'm always the better for it."

"Why, Jabez, this is the first time you have seen it."

"Ah, ma'am, you know I mean the original. There's two baptisms to-day,
sir," he added, turning away; "two, and one churching. Mrs. Luttrell and
her child, and the poor little baby whose mother died."

"Mrs. Luttrell!" repeated the Rector. "It's soon for her, is it not?"

"They want to go away to the seaside," replied the clerk. "What about
that notice, sir?"

"I'll see to it before Sunday, Jabez. Any news?"

"No, sir; not that I've heard of. My wife wanted to persuade me she
saw--"

At this moment a white-haired old serving-man entered the room with
a note, claiming the Rector's attention. "The man's to take back the
answer, sir, if you please."

"Wait then, Simon."

Old Simon stood aside, and the clerk, turning to Mrs. Ashton, continued
his unfinished sentence.

"She wanted to persuade me she saw young Lord Hartledon pass at six
o'clock this morning. A very likely tale that, ma'am."

"Perhaps she dreamt it, Jabez," said Mrs. Ashton, quietly.

Jabez chuckled; but what he would have answered was interrupted by the
old servant.

"It's Mr. Elster that's come; not Lord Hartledon."

"Mr. Elster! How do you know, Simon?" asked Mrs. Ashton.

"The gardener mentioned it, ma'am, when he came in just now," was the
servant's reply. "He said he saw Mr. Elster walk past this morning, as if
he had just come by the luggage-train. I'm not sure but he spoke to him."

"The answer is 'No,' Simon," interposed the Rector, alluding to the note
he had been reading. "But you can send word that I'll come in some time
to-day."

"Charles, did you hear what Simon said--that Mr. Elster has come down?"
asked Mrs. Ashton.

"Yes, I heard it," replied the doctor; and there was a hard dry tone in
his voice, as if the news were not altogether palatable to him. "It must
have been Percival Elster your wife saw, Jabez; not Lord Hartledon."

Jabez had been arriving at the same conclusion. "They used to be much
alike in height and figure," he observed; "it was easy to mistake the one
for the other. Then that's all this morning, sir?"

"There is nothing more, Jabez."

In a room whose large French window opened to flowerbeds on the side of
the house, bending over a table on which sundry maps were spread, her
face very close to them, sat at this moment a young lady. It was the same
face you have just seen in the portrait--that of Dr. and Mrs. Ashton's
only daughter. The wondrously sunny expression of countenance, blended
with strange sweetness, was even more conspicuous than in the portrait.
But what perhaps struck a beholder most, when looking at Miss Ashton for
the first time, was a nameless grace and refinement that distinguished
her whole appearance. She was of middle height, not more; slender; her
head well set upon her shoulders. This was her own room; the schoolroom
of her girlhood, the sitting-room she had been allowed to call her own
since then. Books, work, music, a drawing-easel, and various other items,
presenting a rather untidy collection, met the eye. This morning it was
particularly untidy. The charts covered the table; one of them lay on the
carpet; and a pot of mignonette had been overturned inside the open
window scattering some of the mould. She was very busy; the open sleeves
of her lilac-muslin dress were thrown back, and her delicate hands were
putting the finishing touches in pencil to a plan she had been copying,
from one of the maps. A few minutes more, and the pencil was thrown down
in relief.

"I won't colour it this morning; it must be quite an hour and a half
since I began; but the worst is done, and that's worth a king's ransom."
In the escape from work, the innocent gaiety of her heart, she broke into
a song, and began waltzing round the room. Barely had she passed the open
window, her back turned to it, when a gentleman came up, looked in,
stepped softly over the threshold, and imprisoned her by the waist.

"Be quiet, Arthur. Pick up that mignonette-pot you threw down, sir."

"My darling!" came in a low, heartfelt whisper. And Miss Ashton, with a
faint cry, turned to see her engaged lover, Val Elster.

She stood before him, literally unable to speak in her great
astonishment, the red roses going and coming in her delicate cheeks,
the rich brown eyes, that might have been too brilliant but for their
exceeding sweetness, raised questioningly to his. Mr. Elster folded her
in his arms as if he would never release her again, and kissed the
shrinking face repeatedly.

"Oh, Percival, Percival! Don't! Let me go."

He did so at last, and held her before him, her eyelids drooping now,
to gaze at the face he loved so well--yes, loved fervently and well, in
spite of his follies and sins. Her heart was beating wildly with its own
rapture: for her the world had suddenly grown brighter.

"But when did you arrive?" she whispered, scarcely knowing how to utter
the words in her excessive happiness.

He took her upon his arm and began to pace the room with her while he
explained. There was an attempt at excuse for his prolonged absence--for
Val Elster had returned from his duties in Vienna in May, and it was now
August, and he had lingered through the intervening time in London,
enjoying himself--but that was soon glossed over; and he told her how his
brother was coming down on the morrow with a houseful of guests, and he,
Val, had offered to go before them with the necessary instructions. He
did not say _why_ he had offered to do this; that his debts had become so
pressing he was afraid to show himself longer in London. Such facts were
not for the ear of that fair girl, who trusted him as the truest man she
knew under heaven.

"What have you been doing, Anne?"

He pointed to the maps, and Miss Ashton laughed.

"Mrs. Graves was here yesterday; she is very clever, you know; and when
something was being said about the course of ships out of England, I made
some dreadful mistakes. She took me up sharply, and papa looked at me
sharply--and the result is, I have to do a heap of maps. Please tell me
if it's right, Percival?"

She held up her pencilled work of the morning. He was laughing.

"What mistakes did you make, Anne?"

"I am not sure but I said something about an Indiaman, leaving the London
Docks, having to pass Scarborough," she returned demurely. "It was quite
as bad."

"Do you remember, Anne, being punished for persisting, in spite of the
slate on the wall and your nursery-governess, that the Mediterranean lay
between Scotland and Ireland? Miss Jevons wanted to give you bread and
water for three days. How's that prig Graves?" he added rather abruptly.

Anne Ashton laughed, blushing slightly. "He is just as you left him; very
painstaking and efficient in the parish, and all that, but, oh, so stupid
in some things! Is the map right?"

"Yes, it's right. I'll help you with the rest. If Dr. Ashton--"

"Why, Val! Is it you? I heard Lord Hartledon had come down."

Percival Elster turned. A lad of seventeen had come bounding in at
the window. It was Dr. Ashton's eldest living son, Arthur. Anne was
twenty-one. A son, who would have been nineteen now, had died; and
there was another, John, two years younger than Arthur.

"How are you, Arthur, boy?" cried Val. "Edward hasn't come. Who told you
he had?"

"Mother Gum. I have just met her."

"She told you wrong. He will be down to-morrow. Is that Dr. Ashton?"

Attracted perhaps by the voices, Dr. and Mrs. Ashton, who were then out
on the lawn, came round to the window. Percival Elster grasped a hand of
each, and after a minute or two's studied coldness, the doctor thawed. It
was next to impossible to resist the genial manner, the winning
attractions of the young man to his face. But Dr. Ashton could not
approve of his line of conduct; and had sore doubts whether he had done
right in allowing him to become the betrothed of his dearly-loved
daughter.




CHAPTER IV.

THE COUNTESS-DOWAGER.


The guests had arrived, and Hartledon was alive with bustle and lights.
The first link in the chain, whose fetters were to bind more than one
victim, had been forged. Link upon link; a heavy, despairing burden no
hand could lift; a burden which would have to be borne for the most part
in dread secrecy and silence.

Mirrable had exerted herself to good purpose, and Mirrable was capable
of it when occasion needed. Help had been procured from Calne, and on
the Friday evening several of the Hartledon servants arrived from the
town-house. "None but a young man would have put us to such a rout,"
quoth Mirrable, in her privileged freedom; "my lord and lady would have
sent a week's notice at least." But when Lord Hartledon arrived on the
Saturday evening with his guests, Mirrable was ready for them.

She stood at the entrance to receive them, in her black-silk gown and
lace cap, its broad white-satin strings falling on either side the bunch
of black ringlets that shaded her thin face. Who, to look at her quick,
sharp countenance, with its practical sense, her active frame, her ready
speech, her general capability, would believe her to be sister to that
silly, dreaming Mrs. Gum? But it was so. Lord Hartledon, kind, affable,
unaffected as ever was his brother Percival, shook hands with her
heartily in the eyes of his guests before he said a word of welcome to
them; and one of those guests, a remarkably broad woman, with a red face,
a wide snub nose, and a front of light flaxen hair, who had stepped into
the house leaning on her host's arm--having, in fact, taken it unasked,
and seemed to be assuming a great deal of authority--turned round to
stare at Mirrable, and screwed her little light eyes together for a
better view.

"Who is she, Hartledon?"

"Mrs. Mirrable," answered his lordship rather shortly. "I think you must
have seen her before. She has been Hartledon's mistress since my mother
died," he rather pointedly added, for he saw incipient defiance in the
old lady's countenance.

"Oh, Hartledon's head servant; the housekeeper, I presume," cried she,
as majestically as her harsh voice allowed her to speak. "Perhaps you'll
tell her who I am, Hartledon; and that I have undertaken to preside here
for a little while."

"I believe Mrs. Mirrable knows you, ma'am," spoke up Percival Elster, for
Lord Hartledon had turned away, and was lost amongst his guests. "You
have seen the Countess-Dowager of Kirton, Mirrable?"

The countess-dowager faced round upon the speaker sharply.

"Oh, it's _you_, Val Elster? Who asked you to interfere? I'll see the
rooms, Mirrable, and the arrangements you have made. Maude, where are
you? Come with me."

A tall, stately girl, with handsome features, raven hair and eyes, and
a brilliant colour, extricated herself from the crowd. It was Lady Maude
Kirton. Mirrable went first; the countess-dowager followed, talking
volubly; and Maude brought up the rear. Other servants came forward to
see to the rest of the guests.

The most remarkable quality observable in the countess-dowager, apart
from her great breadth, was her restlessness. She seemed never still for
an instant; her legs had a fidgety, nervous movement in them, and in
moments of excitement, which were not infrequent, she was given to
executing a sort of war-dance. Old she was not; but her peculiar graces
of person, her rotund form, her badly-made front of flaxen curls, which
was rarely in its place, made her appear so. A bold, scheming,
unscrupulous, vulgar-minded woman, who had never considered other
people's feelings in her life, whether equals or inferiors. In her day
she must have been rather tall--nearly as tall as that elegant Maude who
followed her; but her astounding width caused her now to appear short.
She went looking into the different rooms as shown to her by Mirrable,
and chose the best for herself and her daughter.

"Three en suite. Yes, that will be the thing, Mirrable. Lady Maude will
take the inner one, I will occupy this, and my maid the outer. Very good.
Now you may order the luggage up."

"But my lady," objected Mirrable, "these are the best rooms in the house;
and each has a separate entrance, as you perceive. With so many guests to
provide for, your maid cannot have one of these rooms."

"What?" cried the countess-dowager. "My maid not have one of these rooms?
You insolent woman! Do you know that I am come here with my nephew, Lord
Hartledon, to be mistress of this house, and of every one in it? You'd
better mind _your_ behaviour, for I can tell you that I shall look pretty
sharply after it."

"Then," said Mirrable, who never allowed herself to be put out by any
earthly thing, and rarely argued against the stream, "as your ladyship
has come here as sole mistress, perhaps you will yourself apportion the
rooms to the guests."

"Let them apportion them for themselves," cried the countess-dowager.
"These three are mine; others manage as they can. It's Hartledon's fault.
I told him not to invite a heap of people. You and I shall get on
together very well, I've no doubt, Mirrable," she continued in a false,
fawning voice; for she was remarkably alive at all times to her own
interests. "Am I to understand that you are the housekeeper?"

"I am acting as housekeeper at present," was Mirrable's answer. "When my
lord went to town, after my lady's death, the housekeeper went also, and
has remained there. I have taken her place. Lord Elster--Lord Hartledon,
I mean--has not lived yet at Hartledon, and we have had no
establishment."

"Then who are you?"

"I was maid to Lady Hartledon for many years. Her ladyship treated me
more as a friend at the last; and the young gentlemen always did so."

"_Very_ good," cried the untrue voice. "And, now, Mirrable, you can go
down and send up some tea for myself and Lady Maude. What time do we
dine?"

"Mr. Elster ordered it for eight o'clock."

"And what business had _he_ to take orders upon himself?" and the pale
little eyes flashed with anger. "Who's Val Elster, that he should
interfere? I sent word by the servants that we wouldn't dine till nine."

"Mr. Elster is in his own house, madam; and--"

"In his own house!" raved Lady Kirton. "It's no house of his; it's his
brother's. And I wish I was his brother for a day only; I'd let Mr. Val
know what presumption comes to. Can't dinner be delayed?"

"I'm afraid not, my lady."

"Ugh!" snapped the countess-dowager. "Send up tea at once; and let
it be strong, with a great deal of green in it. And some rolled
bread-and-butter, and a little well-buttered toast."

Mirrable departed with the commands, more inclined to laugh at the
selfish old woman than to be angry. She remembered the countess-dowager
arriving on an unexpected visit some three or four years before, and
finding the old Lord Hartledon away and his wife ill in bed. She remained
three days, completely upsetting the house; so completely upsetting the
invalid Lady Hartledon, that the latter was glad to lend her a sum of
money to get rid of her.

Truth to say, Lady Kirton had never been a welcome guest at Hartledon;
had been shunned, in fact, and kept away by all sorts of _ruses_. The
only other visit she had paid the family, in Mirrable's remembrance, was
to the town-house, when the children were young. Poor little Val had been
taught by his nurse to look upon her as a "bogey;" went about in terror
of her; and her ladyship detecting the feeling, administered sly pinches
whenever they met. Perhaps neither of them had completely overcome the
antagonism from that time to this.

A scrambling sort of life had been Lady Kirton's. The wife of a very poor
and improvident Irish peer, who had died early, leaving her badly
provided for, her days had been one long scramble to make both ends meet
and avoid creditors. Now in Ireland, now on the Continent, now coming out
for a few brief weeks of fashionable life, and now on the wing to some
place of safety, had she dodged about, and become utterly unscrupulous.

There was a whole troop of children, who had been allowed to go to
the good or the bad very much in their own way, with little help or
hindrance from their mother. All the daughters were married now,
excepting Maude, mostly to German barons and French counts. One had
espoused a marquis--native country not clearly indicated; one an Italian
duke: but the marquis lived somewhere over in Algeria in a small lodging,
and the Duke condescended to sing an occasional song on the Italian
stage.

It was all one to Lady Kirton. They had taken their own way, and she
washed her hands of them as easily as though they had never belonged to
her. Had they been able to supply her with an occasional bank-note, or
welcome her on a protracted visit, they had been her well-beloved and
most estimable daughters.

Of the younger sons, all were dispersed; the dowager neither knew nor
cared where. Now and again a piteous begging-letter would come from one
or the other, which she railed at and scolded over, and bade Maude
answer. Her eldest son, Lord Kirton, had married some four or five years
ago, and since then the countess-dowager's lines had been harder than
ever. Before that event she could go to the place in Ireland whenever she
liked (circumstances permitting), and stay as long as she liked; but that
was over now. For the young Lady Kirton, who on her own score spent all
the money her husband could scrape together, and more, had taken an
inveterate dislike to her mother-in-law, and would not tolerate her.

Never, since she was thus thrown upon her own resources, had the
countess-dowager's lucky star been in the ascendant as it had been this
season, for she contrived to fasten herself upon the young Lord
Hartledon, and secure a firm footing in his town-house. She called him
her nephew--"My nephew Hartledon;" but that was a little improvement upon
the actual relationship, for she and the late Lady Hartledon had been
cousins only. She invited herself for a week's sojourn in May, and had
never gone away again; and it was now August. She had come down with him,
_sans cérémonie_, to Hartledon; had told him (as a great favour) that she
would look after his house and guests during her stay, as his mother
would have done. Easy, careless, good-natured Hartledon acquiesced, and
took it all as a matter of course. To him she was ever all sweetness
and suavity.

None knew better on which side her bread was buttered than the
countess-dowager. She liked it buttered on both sides, and generally
contrived to get it.

She had come down to Hartledon House with one fixed determination--that
she did not quit it until the Lady Maude was its mistress. For a long
while Maude had been her sole hope. Her other daughters had married
according to their fancy--and what had come of it?--but Maude was
different. Maude had great beauty; and Maude, truth to say, was almost
as selfishly alive to her own interest as her mother. _She_ should marry
well, and so be in a position to shelter the poor, homeless, wandering
dowager. Had she chosen from the whole batch of peers, not one could have
been found more eligible than he whom fortune seemed to have turned up
for her purpose--Lord Hartledon; and before the countess-dowager had been
one week his guest in London she began her scheming.

Lady Maude was nothing loth. Young, beautiful, vain, selfish, she yet
possessed a woman's susceptible heart; though surrounded with luxury,
dress, pomp, show, which are said to deaden the feelings, and in some
measure do deaden them, Lady Maude insensibly managed to fall in love, as
deeply as ever did an obscure damsel of romance. She had first met him
two years before, when he was Viscount Elster; had liked him then. Their
relationship sanctioned their being now much together, and the Lady Maude
lost her heart to him.

Would it bring forth fruit, this scheming of the countess-dowager's, and
Maude's own love? In her wildest hopes the old woman never dreamed of
what that fruit would be; or, unscrupulous as she was by habit, unfeeling
by nature, she might have carried away Maude from Hartledon within the
hour of their arrival.

Of the three parties more immediately concerned, the only innocent
one--innocent of any intentions--was Lord Hartledon. He liked Maude very
well as a cousin, but otherwise he did not care for her. They might
succeed--at least, had circumstances gone on well, they might have
succeeded--in winning him at last; but it would not have been from love.
His present feeling towards Maude was one of indifference; and of
marriage at all he had not begun to think.

Val Elster, on the contrary, regarded Maude with warm admiration. Her
beauty had charms for him, and he had been oftener at her side but for
the watchful countess-dowager. It would have been horrible had Maude
fallen in love with the wrong brother, and the old lady grew to hate him
for the fear, as well as on her own score. The feeling of dislike, begun
in Val's childhood, had ripened in the last month or two to almost open
warfare. He was always in the way. Many a time when Lord Hartledon might
have enjoyed a _tête-à-tête_ with Maude, Val Elster was there to spoil
it.

But the culminating point had arrived one day, when Val, half laughingly,
half seriously, told the dowager, who had been provoking him almost
beyond endurance, that she might spare her angling in regard to Maude,
for Hartledon would never bite. But that he took his pleasant face beyond
her reach, it might have suffered, for her fingers were held out
alarmingly.

From that time she took another little scheme into her hands--that of
getting Percival Elster out of his brother's favour and his brother's
house. Val, on his part, seriously advised his brother _not_ to allow the
Kirtons to come to Hartledon; and this reached the ears of the dowager.
You may be sure it did not tend to soothe her. Lord Hartledon only
laughed at Val, saying they might come if they liked; what did it matter?

But, strange to say, Val Elster was as a very reed in the hands of the
old woman. Let her once get hold of him, and she could turn him any way
she pleased. He felt afraid of her, and bent to her will. The feeling may
have had its rise partly in the fear instilled into his boyhood, partly
in the yielding nature of his disposition. However that might be, it was
a fact; and Val could no more have openly opposed the resolute,
sharp-tongued old woman to her face than he could have changed his
nature. He rarely called her anything but "ma'am," as their nurse had
taught him and his brothers and sisters to do in those long-past years.

Before eight o'clock the guests had all assembled in the drawing-room,
except the countess-dowager and Maude. Lord Hartledon was going about
amongst them, talking to one and another of the beauties of this, his
late father's place; scarcely yet thought of as his own. He was a tall
slender man; in figure very much resembling Percival, but not in face:
the one was dark, the other fair. There was also the same indolent sort
of movement, a certain languid air discernible in both; proclaiming the
undoubted fact, that both were idle in disposition and given to ennui.
There the resemblance ended. Lord Hartledon had nothing of the
irresolution of Percival Elster, but was sufficiently decisive in
character, prompt in action.

A noble room, this they were in, as many of the rooms were in the fine
old mansion. Lord Hartledon opened the inner door, and took them into
another, to show them the portrait of his brother George--a fine young
man also, with a fair, pleasing countenance.

"He is like Elster; not like you, Hartledon," cried a young man, whose
name was Carteret.

"_Was_, you mean, Carteret," corrected Lord Hartledon, in tones of sad
regret. "There was a great family resemblance between us all, I believe."

"He died from an accident, did he not?" said Mr. O'Moore, an Irishman,
who liked to be called "The O'Moore."

"Yes."

Percival Elster turned to his brother, and spoke in low tones. "Edward,
was any particular person suspected of having fired the shot?"

"None. A set of loose, lawless characters were out that night, and--"

"What are you all looking at here?"

The interruption came from Lady Kirton, who was sailing into the room
with Maude. A striking contrast the one presented to the other. Maude in
pink silk and a pink wreath, her haughty face raised in pride, her dark
eyes flashing, radiantly beautiful. The old dowager, broad as she was
high, her face rouged, her short snub nose always carried in the air, her
light eyes unmeaning, her flaxen eyebrows heavy, her flaxen curls crowned
by a pea-green turban. Her choice attire was generally composed, as
to-day, of some cheap, flimsy, gauzy material bright in colour. This
evening it was orange lace, all flounces and frills, with a lace scarf;
and she generally had innumerable ends of quilted net flying about her
skirts, not unlike tails. It was certain she did not spend much money
upon her own attire; and how she procured the costly dresses for Maude
the latter appeared in was ever a mystery. You can hardly fancy the
bedecked old figure that she made. The O'Moore nearly laughed out, as he
civilly turned to answer her question.

"We were looking at this portrait, Lady Kirton."

"And saying how much he was like Val," put in young Carteret, between
whom and the dowager warfare also existed. "Val, which was the elder?"

"George was."

"Then his death made you heir-presumptive," cried the thoughtless young
man, speaking impulsively.

"Heir-presumptive to what?" asked the dowager snapping at the words.

"To Hartledon."

"_He_ heir to Hartledon! Don't trouble yourself, young man, to imagine
that Val Elster's ever likely to come into Hartledon. Do you want to
shoot his lordship, as _he_ was shot?"

The uncalled-for retort, the strangely intemperate tones, the quick
passionate fling of the hand towards the portrait astonished young
Carteret not a little. Others were surprised also; and not one present
but stared at the speaker. But she said no more. The pea-green turban and
flaxen curls were nodding ominously; and that was all.

The animus to Val Elster was very marked. Lord Hartledon glanced at his
brother with a smile, and led the way back to the other drawing-room. At
that moment the butler announced dinner; the party filed across the hall
to the fine old dining-room, and began finding their seats.

"I shall sit there, Val. You can take a chair at the side."

Val did look surprised at this. He was about to take the foot of his
brother's table, as usual; and there was the pea-green turban standing
over him, waiting to usurp it. It would have been quite beyond Val
Elster, in his sensitiveness, to tell her she should not have it; but he
did feel annoyed. He was sweet-tempered, however. Moreover, he was a
gentleman, and only waited to make one remark.

"I fear you will not like this place, ma'am. Won't it look odd to see a
lady at the bottom of the table?"

"I have promised my dear nephew to act as mistress, and to see after his
guests; and I don't choose to sit at the side under those circumstances."
But she had looked at Lord Hartledon, and hesitated before she spoke.
Perhaps she thought his lordship would resign the head of the table to
her, and take the foot himself. If so, she was mistaken.

"You will be more comfortable at the side, Lady Kirton," cried Lord
Hartledon, when he discovered what the bustle was about.

"Not at all, Hartledon; not at all."

"But I like my brother to face me, ma'am. It is his accustomed place."

Remonstrance was useless. The dowager nodded her pea-green turban, and
firmly seated herself. Val Elster dexterously found a seat next Lady
Maude; and a gay gleam of triumph shot out of his deep-blue eyes as he
glanced at the dowager. It was not the seat she would have wished him to
take; but to interfere again might have imperilled her own place. Maude
laughed. She did not care for Val--rather despised him in her heart; but
he was the most attractive man present, and she liked admiration.

Another link in the chain! For how many, many days and years, dating from
that evening, did that awful old woman take a seat, at intervals, at Lord
Hartledon's table, and assume it as a right!




CHAPTER V.

JEALOUSY.


The rain poured down on the Monday morning; and Lord Hartledon stood at
the window of the countess-dowager's sitting-room--one she had
unceremoniously adopted for her own private use--smoking a cigar, and
watching the clouds. Any cigar but his would have been consigned to the
other side the door. Mr. Elster had only shown (by mere accident) the
end of his cigar-case, and the dowager immediately demanded what he meant
by displaying that article in the presence of ladies. A few minutes
afterwards Lord Hartledon entered, smoking, and was allowed to enjoy his
cigar with impunity. Good-tempered Val's delicate lips broke into a
silent smile as he marked the contrast.

He lounged on the sofa, doing nothing, in his idle fashion; Lord
Hartledon continued to watch the clouds. On the previous Saturday night
the gentlemen had entered into an argument about boating: the result was
that a match on the river was arranged, and some bets were pending on it.
It had been fixed to come off this day, Monday; but if the rain continued
to come down, it must be postponed; for the ladies, who had been promised
the treat, would not venture out to see it.

"It has come on purpose," grumbled Lord Hartledon. "Yesterday was as fine
and bright as it could be, the glass standing at set fair; and now, just
because this boating was to come off, the rain peppers down!"

The rain excepted, it was a fair vision that he looked out upon. The room
faced the back of the house, and beyond the lovely grounds green slopes
extended to the river, tolerably wide here, winding peacefully in its
course. The distant landscape was almost like a scene from fairyland.

The restless dowager--in a nondescript head-dress this morning, adorned
with an upright tuft of red feathers and voluminous skirts of brown net,
a jacket and flounces to match--betook herself to the side of Lord
Hartledon.

"Where d'you get the boats?" she asked.

"They are kept lower down, at the boat-house," he replied, puffing at his
cigar. "You can't see it from here; it's beyond Dr. Ashton's; lots of
'em; any number to be had for the hiring. Talking of Dr. Ashton, they
will dine here to-day, ma'am."

"Who will?" asked Lady Kirton.

"The doctor, Mrs. Ashton--if she's well enough--and Miss Ashton."

"Who are they, my dear nephew?"

"Why, don't you know? Dr. Ashton preached to you yesterday. He is Rector
of Calne; you must have heard of Dr. Ashton. They will be calling this
morning, I expect."

"And you have invited them to dinner! Well, one must do the civil to this
sort of people."

Lord Hartledon burst into a laugh. "You won't say 'this sort of people'
when you see the Ashtons, Lady Kirton. They are quite as good as we are.
Dr. Ashton has refused a bishopric, and Anne is the sweetest girl ever
created."

Lady Maude, who was drawing, and exchanging a desultory sentence once in
a way with Val, suddenly looked up. Her colour had heightened, though it
was brilliant at all times.

"Are you speaking of my maid?" she said--and it might be that she had not
attended to the conversation, and asked in ignorance, not in scorn. "Her
name is Anne."

"I was speaking of Anne Ashton," said Lord Hartledon.

"Allow me to beg Anne Ashton's pardon," returned Lady Maude; her tone
this time unmistakably mocking. "Anne is so common a name amongst
servants."

"I don't care whether it is common amongst servants or uncommon," spoke
Lord Hartledon rather hotly, as though he would resent the covert sneer.
"It is Anne Ashton's; and I love the name for her sake. But I think it
a pretty name; and should, if she did not bear it; prettier than yours,
Maude."

"And pray who _is_ Anne Ashton?" demanded the countess-dowager, with as
much hauteur as so queer an old figure and face could put on, whilst
Maude bent over her employment with white lips.

"She is Dr. Ashton's daughter," spoke Lord Hartledon, shortly. "My
father valued him above all men. He loved Anne too--loved her dearly;
and--though I don't know whether it is quite fair to Anne to let this
out--the probable future connection between the families was most welcome
to him. Next to my father, we boys reverenced the doctor; he was our
tutor, in a measure, when we were staying at Hartledon; at least, tutor
to poor George and Val; they used to read with him."

"And you would hint at some alliance between you and this Anne Ashton!"
cried the countess-dowager, in a fume; for she thought she saw a fear
that the great prize might slip through her fingers. "What sort of an
alliance, I should like to ask? Be careful what you say, Hartledon; you
may injure the young woman."

"I'll take care I don't injure Anne Ashton," returned Lord Hartledon,
enjoying her temper. "As to an alliance with her--my earnest wish is, as
it was my father's, that time may bring it about. Val there knows I wish
it."

Val glanced at his brother by way of answer. He had taken no part in the
discussion; his slight lips were drawn down, as he balanced a pair of
scissors on his forefinger, and he looked less good-tempered than usual.

"Has she red hair and sky-blue eyes, and a doll's face? Does she sit in
the pew under the reading-desk with three other dolls?" asked the foaming
dowager.

Lord Hartledon turned and stared at the speaker in wonder--what could be
so exciting her?

"She has soft brown hair and eyes, and a sweet gentle face; she is a
graceful, elegant, attractive girl," said he, curtly. "She sat alone
yesterday; for Arthur was in another part of the church, and Mrs. Ashton
was not there. Mrs. Ashton is not in good health, she tells me, and
cannot always come. The Rector's pew is the one with green curtains."

"Oh, _that_ vulgar-looking girl!" exclaimed Maude, her unjust words--and
she knew them to be unjust--trembling on her lips. "The Grand Sultan
might exalt her to be his chief wife, but he could never make a lady of
her, or get her to look like one."

"Be quiet, Maude," cried the countess-dowager, who, with all her own
mistakes, had the sense to see that this sort of disparagement would only
recoil upon them with interest, and who did not like the expression of
Lord Hartledon's face. "You talk as if you had seen this Mrs. Ashton,
Hartledon, since your return."

"I should not be many hours at Hartledon without seeing Mrs. Ashton," he
answered. "That's where I was yesterday afternoon, ma'am, when you were
so kindly anxious in your inquiries as to what had become of me. I dare
say I was absent an unconscionable time. I never know how it passes, once
I am with Anne."

"We represent Love as blind, you know," spoke Maude, in her desperation,
unable to steady her pallid lips. "You apparently do not see it, Lord
Hartledon, but the young woman is the very essence of vulgarity."

A pause followed the speech. The countess-dowager turned towards her
daughter in a blazing rage, and Val Elster quitted the room.

"Maude," said Lord Hartledon, "I am sorry to tell you that you have put
your foot in it."

"Thank you," panted Lady Maude, in her agitation. "For giving my opinion
of your Anne Ashton?"

"Precisely. You have driven Val away in suppressed indignation."

"Is Val of the Anne Ashton faction, that the truth should tell upon him,
as well as upon you?" she returned, striving to maintain an assumption of
sarcastic coldness.

"It is upon him that the words will tell. Anne is engaged to him."

"Is it true? Is Val really engaged to her?" cried the countess-dowager in
an ecstacy of relief, lifting her snub nose and painted cheeks, whilst a
glad light came into Maude's eyes again. "I did hear he was engaged to
some girl; but such reports of younger sons go for nothing."

"Val was engaged to her before he went abroad. Whether he will get her or
not, is another thing."

"To hear you talk, Hartledon, one might have supposed you cared for the
girl yourself," cried Lady Kirton; but her brow was smooth again, and her
tone soft as honey. "You should be more cautious."

"Cautious! Why so? I love and respect Anne beyond any girl on earth. But
that Val hastened to make hay when the sun shone, whilst I fell asleep
under the hedge, I don't know but I might have proposed to her myself,"
he added, with a laugh. "However, it shall not be my fault if Val does
not win her."

The countess-dowager said no more. She was worldly-wise in her way, and
thought it best to leave well alone. Sailing out of the room she left
them alone together: as she was fond of doing.

"Is it not rather--rather beneath an Elster to marry an obscure country
clergyman's daughter?" began Lady Maude, a strange bitterness filling her
heart.

"I tell you, Maude, the Ashtons are our equals in all ways. He is a proud
old doctor of divinity--not old, however--of irreproachable family and
large private fortune."

"You spoke of him as a tutor?"

"A tutor! Oh, I said he was in a measure our tutor when we were young. I
meant in training us--in training us to good; and he allowed George and
Val to read with him, and directed their studies: all for love, and out
of the friendship he and my father bore each other. Dr. Ashton a paid
tutor!" ejaculated Lord Hartledon, laughing at the notion. "Dr. Ashton an
obscure country clergyman! And even if he were, who is Val, that he
should set himself up?"

"He is the Honourable Val Elster."

"Very honourable! Val is an unlucky dog of a spendthrift; that's what Val
is. See how many times he has been set up on his legs!--and has always
come down again. He had that place in the Government my father got him.
He was attaché in Paris; subsequently in Vienna; he has had ever so many
chances, and drops through all. One can't help loving Val; he is an
attractive, sweet-tempered, good-natured fellow; but he was certainly
born under an unlucky star. Elster's folly!"

"Val will drop through more chances yet," remarked Lady Maude. "I pity
Miss Ashton, if she means to wait for him."

"Means to! She loves him passionately--devotedly. She would wait for him
all her life, and think it happiness only to see him once in a way."

"As an astronomer looks at a star through a telescope," laughed Maude;
"and Val is not worth the devotion."

"Val is not a bad fellow in the main; quite the contrary, Maude. Of
course we all know his besetting sin--irresolution. A child might sway
him, either for good or ill. The very best thing that could happen to Val
would be his marriage with Anne. She is sensible and judicious; and I
think Val could not fail to keep straight under her influence. If Dr.
Ashton could only be brought to see the matter in this light!"

"Can he not?"

"He thinks--and I don't say he has not reason--that Val should show
some proof of stability before his marriage, instead of waiting until
after it. The doctor has not gone to the extent of parting them, or of
suspending the engagement; but he is prepared to be strict and exacting
as to Mr. Val's line of conduct; and I fancy the suspicion that it would
be so has kept Val away from Calne."

"What will be done?"

"I hardly know. Val does not make a confidant of me, and I can't get to
the bottom of how he is situated. Debts I am sure he has; but whether--"

"Val always had plenty of those," interrupted Maude.

"True. When my father died, three parts of Val's inheritance went to pay
off debts nobody knew he had contracted. The worst is, he glides into
these difficulties unwittingly, led and swayed by others. We don't say
Elster's sin, or Elster's crimes; we say Elster's folly. I don't believe
Val ever in his life did a bad thing of deliberate intention. Designing
people get hold of him--fast fellows who are going headlong down-hill
themselves--and Val, unable to say 'No,' is drawn here and drawn there,
and tumbles with them into a quagmire, and perhaps has to pay his
friends' costs, as well as his own, before he can get out of it. Do you
believe in luck, Maude?"

"In luck?" answered Maude, raising her eyes at the abrupt question. "I
don't know."

"I believe in it. I believe that some are born under a lucky star, and
others under an unlucky one. Val is one of the latter. He is always
unlucky. Set him up, and down he comes again. I don't think I ever knew
Val lucky in my life. Look at his nearly blowing his arm off that time in
Scotland! You will laugh at me, I dare say; but a thought crosses me at
odd moments that his ill-luck will prevail still, in the matter of Miss
Ashton. Not if I can help it, however; I'll do my best, for Anne's sake."

"You seem to think very much of her yourself," cried Lady Maude, her
cheeks crimsoning with an angry flush.

"I do--as Val's future wife. I love Anne Ashton better than any one
else in the world. We all loved her. So would you if you knew her. In
my mother's last illness Anne was a greater comfort to her than Laura."

"Should you ever think of a wife on your own score, she may not like this
warm praise of Miss Anne Ashton," said Lady Maude, assiduously drawing,
her hot face bent down to within an inch of the cardboard.

"Not like it? She wouldn't be such an idiot, I hope, as to dislike it. Is
not Anne going to be my brother's wife? Did you suppose I spoke of Anne
in that way?--you must have been dreaming, Maude."

Maude hoped she had been. The young man took his cigar from his mouth,
ran a penknife through the end, and began smoking again.

"That time is far enough off, Maude. _I_ am not going to tie myself up
with a wife, or to think of one either, for many a long year to come."

Her heart beat with a painful throbbing. "Why not?"

"No danger. My wild oats are not sown yet, any more than Val's; only you
don't hear of them, because I have money to back me, and he has not. I
must find a girl I should like to make my wife before that event comes
off, Maude; and I have not found her yet."

Lady Maude damaged her landscape. She sketched in a tree where a chimney
ought to have been, and laid the fault upon her pencil.

"It has been real sport, Maude, ever since I came home from knocking
about abroad, to hear and see the old ladies. They think I am to be
caught with a bait; and that bait is each one's own enchanting daughter.
Let them angle, an they please--it does no harm. They are amused, and I
am none the worse. I enjoy a laugh sometimes, while I take care of
myself; as I have need to do, or I might find myself the victim of some
detestable breach-of-promise affair, and have to stand damages. But for
Anne Ashton, Val would have had his head in that Westminster-noose a
score of times; and the wonder is that he has kept out of it. No, thank
you, my ladies; I am not a marrying man."

"Why do you tell me this?" asked Lady Maude, a sick faintness stealing
over her face and heart.

"You are one of ourselves, and I tell you anything. It will be fun for
you, Maude, if you'll open your eyes and look on. There are some in the
house now who--" He stopped and laughed.

"I would rather not hear this!" she cried passionately. "Don't tell me."

Lord Hartledon looked at her, begged her pardon, and quitted the room
with his cigar. Lady Maude, black as night, dashed her pencil on to the
cardboard, and scored her sketch all over with ugly black lines. Her face
itself looked ugly then.

"Why did he say this to me?" she asked of her fevered heart. "Was it said
with a purpose? Has he found out that I _love_ him? that my shallow old
mother is one of the subtlest of the anglers? and that--"

"What on earth are you at with your drawing, Maude?"

"Oh, I have grown sick of the sketch. I am not in a drawing mood to-day,
mamma."

"And how fierce you were looking," pursued the countess-dowager, who had
darted in at rather an inopportune moment for Maude--darting in on people
at such moments being her habit. "And that was the sketch Hartledon asked
you to do for him from the old painting!"

"He may do it himself, if he wants it done."

"Where is Hartledon?"

"I don't know. Gone out somewhere."

"Has he offended you, or vexed you?"

"Well, he did vex me. He has just been assuring me with the coolest air
that he should never marry; or, at least, not for years and years to
come. He told me to notice what a heap of girls were after him--or their
mothers for them--and the fun he had over it, not being a marrying man."

"Is that all? You need not have put yourself in a fatigue, and spoilt
your drawing. Lord Hartledon shall be your husband before six months are
over--or reproach me ever afterwards with being a false prophetess and a
bungling manager."

Maude's brow cleared. She had almost childlike confidence in the tact of
her unscrupulous mother.

But how the morning's conversation altogether rankled in her heart,
none save herself could tell: ay, and in that of the dowager. Although
Anne Ashton was the betrothed of Percival Elster, and Lord Hartledon's
freely-avowed love for her was evidently that of a brother, and he had
said he should do all he could to promote the marriage, the strongest
jealousy had taken possession of Lady Maude's heart. She already hated
Anne Ashton with a fierce and bitter hatred. She turned sick with envy
when, in the morning visit that was that day paid by the Ashtons, she saw
that Anne was really what Lord Hartledon had described her--one of the
sweetest, most lovable, most charming of girls; almost without her equal
in the world for grace and goodness and beauty. She turned more sick with
envy when, at dinner afterwards, to which the Ashtons came, Lord
Hartledon devoted himself to them, almost to the neglect of his other
guests, lingering much with Anne.

The countess-dowager marked it also, and was furious. Nothing could be
urged against them; they were unexceptionable. The doctor, a chatty,
straightforward, energetic man, of great intellect and learning, and
emphatically a gentleman; his wife attracting by her unobtrusive
gentleness; his daughter by her grace and modest self-possession.
Whatever Maude Kirton might do, she could never, for very shame, again
attempt to disparage them. Surely there was no just reason for the hatred
which took possession of Maude's heart; a hatred that could never be
plucked out again.

But Maude knew how to dissemble. It pleased her to affect a sudden and
violent friendship for Anne.

"Hartledon told me how much I should like you," she whispered, as they
sat together on the sofa after dinner, to which Maude had drawn her. "He
said I should find you the dearest girl I ever met; and I do so. May I
call you 'Anne'?"

Not for a moment did Miss Ashton answer. Truth to say, far from
reciprocating the sudden fancy boasted of by Maude, she had taken an
unaccountable dislike to her. Something of falsity in the tone, of sudden
_hardiesse_ in the handsome black eyes, acted upon Anne as an instinctive
warning.

"As you please, Lady Maude."

"Thank you so much. Hartledon whispered to me the secret about you and
Val--Percival, I mean. Shall you accomplish the task, think you?"

"What task?"

"That of turning him from his evil ways."

"His evil ways?" repeated Anne, in a surprised indignation she did not
care to check. "I do not understand you, Lady Maude."

"Pardon me, my dear Anne: it was hazardous so to speak _to you_. I ought
to have said his thoughtless ways. Quant à moi, je ne vois pas la
différence. Do you understand French?"

Miss Ashton looked at her, really not knowing what this style of
conversation might mean. Maude continued; she had a habit of putting
forth a sting on occasion, or what she hoped might be a sting.

"You are staring at the superfluous question. Of course it is one in
these _French_ days, when everyone speaks it. What was I saying? Oh,
about Percival. Should he ever have the luck to marry, meaning the
income, he will make a docile husband; but his wife will have to keep him
under her finger and thumb; she must be master as well as mistress, for
his own sake."

"I think Mr. Elster would not care to be so spoken of," said Miss Ashton,
her face beginning to glow.

"You devoted girl! It is you who don't care to hear it. Take care, Anne;
too much love is not good for gaining the mastership; and I have heard
that you are--shall I say it?--_éperdue_."

Anne, in spite of her calm good sense, was actually provoked to a retort
in kind, and felt terribly vexed with herself for it afterwards. "A
rumour of the same sort has been breathed as to the Lady Maude Kirton's
regard for Lord Hartledon."

"Has it?" returned Lady Maude, with a cool tone and a glowing face. "You
are angry with me without reason. Have I not offered to swear to you an
eternal friendship?"

Anne shook her head, and her lips parted with a curious expression. "I do
not swear so lightly, Lady Maude."

"What if I were to avow to you that it is true?--that I do love Lord
Hartledon, deeply as it is known you love his brother," she added,
dropping her voice--"would you believe me?"

Anne looked at the speaker's face, but could read nothing. Was she in
jest or earnest?

"No, I would not believe you," she said, with a smile. "If you did love
him, you would not proclaim it."

"Exactly. I was jesting. What is Lord Hartledon to me?--save that we are
cousins, and passably good friends. I must avow one thing, that I like
him better than I do his brother."

"For that no avowal is necessary," said Anne; "the fact is sufficiently
evident."

"You are right, Anne;" and for once Maude spoke earnestly. "I do _not_
like Percival Elster. But I will always be civil to him for your sweet
sake."

"Why do you dislike him?--if I may ask it. Have you any particular reason
for doing so?"

"I have no reason in the world. He is a good-natured, gentlemanly fellow;
and I know no ill of him, except that he is always getting into scrapes,
and dropping, as I hear, a lot of money. But if he got out of his last
guinea, and went almost in rags, it would be nothing to me; so _that's_
not it. One does take antipathies; I dare say you do, Miss Ashton. What a
blessing Hartledon did not die in that fever he caught last year! Val
would have inherited. What a mercy!"

"That he lived? or that Val is not Lord Hartledon?"

"Both. But I believe I meant that Val is not reigning."

"You think he would not have made a worthy inheritor?"

"A worthy inheritor? Oh, I was not glancing at that phase of the
question. Here he comes! I will give up my seat to him."

It is possible Lady Maude expected some pretty phrases of affection;
begging her to keep it. If so, she was mistaken. Anne Ashton was one of
those essentially quiet, self-possessed girls in society, whose manners
seem almost to border on apathy. She did not say "Do go," or "Don't go."
She was perfectly passive; and Maude moved away half ashamed of herself,
and feeling, in spite of her jealousy and her prejudice, that if ever
there was a ladylike girl upon earth, it was Anne Ashton.

"How do you like her, Anne?" asked Val Elster, dropping into the vacant
place.

"Not much."

"Don't you? She is very handsome."

"Very handsome indeed. Quite beautiful. But still I don't like her."

"You would like her if you knew her. She has a rare spirit, only the old
dowager keeps it down."

"I don't think she much likes you, Val."

"She is welcome to dislike me," returned Val Elster.




CHAPTER VI.

AT THE BRIDGE.


The famous boat-race was postponed. Some of the competitors had
discovered they should be the better for a few days' training, and the
contest was fixed for the following Monday.

Not a day of the intervening week but sundry small cockle-shells--things
the ladies had already begun to designate as the "wager-boats," each
containing a gentleman occupant, exercising his arms on a pair of
sculls--might be seen any hour passing and repassing on the water; and
the green slopes of Hartledon, which here formed the bank of the river,
grew to be tenanted with fair occupants. Of course they had their
favourites, these ladies, and their little bets of gloves on them.

As the day for the contest drew near the interest became really exciting;
and on the Saturday morning there was quite a crowd on the banks. The
whole week, since Monday, had been most beautiful--calm, warm, lovely.
Percival Elster, in his rather idle fashion, was not going to join in the
contest: there were enough without him, he said.

He was standing now, talking to Anne. His face wore a sad expression,
as she glanced up at him from beneath the white feather of her rather
large-brimmed straw hat. Anne had been a great deal at Hartledon that
week, and was as interested in the race as any of them, wearing Lord
Hartledon's colours.

"How did you hear it, Anne?" he was asking.

"Mamma told me. She came into my room just now, and said there had been
words."

"Well, it's true. The doctor took me to task exactly as he used to do
when I was a boy. He said my course of life was sinful; and I rather
fired up at that. Idle and useless it may be, but sinful it is not:
and I said so. He explained that he meant that, and persisted in his
assertion--that an idle, aimless, profitless life was a sinful one. Do
you know the rest?"

"No," she faltered.

"He said he would give me to the end of the year. And if I were then
still pursuing my present frivolous course of life, doing no good to
myself or to anyone else, he should cancel the engagement. My darling,
I see how this pains you."

She was suppressing her tears with difficulty. "Papa will be sure to keep
his word, Percival. He is so resolute when he thinks he is right."

"The worst is, it's true. I do fall into all sorts of scrapes, and I have
got out of money, and I do idle my time away," acknowledged the young man
in his candour. "And all the while, Anne, I am thinking and hoping to do
right. If ever I get set on my legs again, _won't_ I keep on them!"

"But how many times have you said so before!" she whispered.

"Half the follies for which I am now paying were committed when I was but
a boy," he said. "One of the men now visiting here, Dawkes, persuaded me
to put my name to a bill for him for fifteen hundred pounds, and I had to
pay it. It hampered me for years; and in the end I know I must have paid
it twice over. I might have pleaded that I was under age when he got my
signature, but it would have been scarcely honourable to do so."

"And you never profited by the transaction?"

"Never by a sixpence. It was done for Dawkes's accommodation, not mine.
He ought to have paid it, you say? My dear, he is a man of straw, and
never had fifteen hundred pounds of his own in his life."

"Does Lord Hartledon know of this? I wonder he has him here."

"I did not mention it at the time; and the thing's past and done with. I
only tell you now to give you an idea of the nature of my embarrassments
and scrapes. Not one in ten has really been incurred for myself: they
only fall upon me. One must buy experience."

Terribly vexed was that sweet face, an almost painful sadness upon the
generally sunny features.

"I will never give you up, Anne," he continued, with emotion. "I told the
doctor so. I would rather give up life. And you know that your love is
mine."

"But my duty is theirs. And if it came to a contest--Oh, Percival! you
know, you know which would have to give place. Papa is so resolute in
right."

"It's a shame that fortune should be so unequally divided!" cried the
young man, resentfully. "Here's Edward with an income of thirty thousand
a year, and I, his own brother, only a year or two younger, can't boast a
fourth part as many hundreds!"

"Oh, Val! your father left you better off than that!"

"But so much of it went, Anne," was the gloomy answer. "I never
understood the claims that came in against me, for my part. Edward had no
debts to speak of; but then look at his allowance."

"He was the eldest son," she gently said.

"I know that. I am not wishing myself in Edward's place, or he out of it.
I heartily wish him health and a long life to wear his honours; it is no
fault of his that he should be rolling in riches, and I a martyr to
poverty. Still, one can't help feeling at odd moments, when the shoe's
pinching awfully, that the system is not altogether a just one."

"Was that a sincere wish, Val Elster?"

Val wheeled round on Lady Maude, from whom the question came. She had
stolen up to them unperceived, and stood there in her radiant beauty, her
magnificent dark eyes and her glowing cheeks set off by a little
coquettish black-velvet hat.

"A sincere wish--that my brother should live long to enjoy his honours!"
echoed Val, in a surprised tone. "Indeed it is. I hope he will live to a
green old age, and leave goodly sons to succeed him."

Maude laughed. A brighter hue stole into her face, a softer shade to her
eyes: she saw herself, as in a vision, the goodly mother of those goodly
sons.

"Are you going to wear _that_?" she asked, touching the knot of ribbon in
Miss Ashton's hands with her petulant fingers. "They are Lord Hartledon's
colours."

"I shall wear it on Monday. Lord Hartledon gave it to me."

A rash avowal. The competitors, in a sort of joke, had each given away
one knot of his own colours. Lady Maude had had three given to her; but
she was looking for another worth them all--from Lord Hartledon. And
now--it was given, it appeared, to Anne Ashton! For her very life she
could not have helped the passionate taunt that escaped from her, not in
words, but in tone:

"To _you_!"

"Kissing goes by favour," broke from the delicate lips of Val Elster, and
Lady Maude could have struck him for the significant, saucy expression of
his violet-blue eyes. "Edward loves Anne better than he ever loved his
sisters; and for any other love--_that's_ still far enough from his
heart, Maude."

She had recovered herself instantly; cried out "Yes" to those in the
distance, as if she heard a call, and went away humming a tune.

"Val, she loves your brother," whispered Anne.

"Do you think so? I do sometimes; and again I'm puzzled. She acts well
if she does. The other day I told Edward she was in love with him: he
laughed at me, and said I was dreaming; that if she had any love for him,
it was cousin's love. What's more, Anne, he would prefer not to receive
any other; so Maude need not look after him: it will be labour lost. Here
comes that restless old dowager down upon us! I shall leave you to her,
Anne. I never dare say my soul's my own in the presence of that woman."

Val strolled away as he spoke. He was not at ease that day, and the
sharp, meddling old woman would have been intolerable. It was all very
well to put a good face on matters to Anne, but he was in more perplexity
than he cared to confess to. It seemed to him that he would rather die
than give up Anne: and yet--in the straightforward, practical good sense
of Dr. Ashton, he had a formidable adversary to deal with.

He suddenly found an arm inserted within his own, and saw it was his
brother. Walking together thus, there was a great resemblance between
them.

They were of the same height, much the same build; both were very
good-looking men, but Percival had the nicer features; and he was fair,
and his brother dark.

"What is this, Val, about a dispute with the doctor?" began Lord
Hartledon.

"It was not a dispute," returned Val. "There were a few words, and I was
hasty. However, I begged his pardon, and we parted good friends."

"Under a flag of truce, eh?"

"Something of that sort."

"Something of that sort!" repeated Lord Hartledon. "Don't you think, Val,
it would be to your advantage if you trusted me more thoroughly than you
do? Tell me the whole truth of your position, and let me see what can be
done for you."

"There's not much to tell," returned Val, in his stupidity. Even with his
brother his ultra-sensitiveness clung to him; and he could no more have
confessed the extent of his troubles than he could have taken wing that
moment and soared away into the air. Val Elster was one of those who
trust to things "coming right" with time.

"I have been talking to the doctor, Val. I called in just now to see Mrs.
Ashton, and he spoke to me about you."

"Very kind of him, I'm sure!" retorted Val. "It is just this, Edward. He
is vexed at what he calls my idle ways, and waste of time: as if I need
plod on, like a city clerk, six days a week and no holidays! I know I
must do something before I can win Anne; and I will do it: but the doctor
need not begin to cry out about cancelling the engagement."

"How much do you owe, Val?"

"I can't tell."

Lord Hartledon thought this an evasion. But it was true. Val Elster knew
he owed a great deal more than he could pay; but how much it might be on
the whole, he had but a very faint idea.

"Well, Val, I have told the doctor I shall look into matters, and I hope
to do it efficiently, for Anne's sake. I suppose the best thing will be
to try and get you an appointment again."

"Oh, Edward, if you would! And you know you have the ear of the
ministry."

"I dare say it can be managed. But this will be of little use if you are
still to remain an embarrassed man. I hear you were afraid of arrest in
London."

"Who told you that?"

"Dawkes."

"Dawkes! Then, Edward--" Val Elster stopped. In his vexation, he was
about to retaliate on Captain Dawkes by a little revelation on the score
of _his_ affairs, certain things that might not have redounded to that
gallant officer's credit. But he arrested the words in time: he was of a
kindly nature, not fond of returning ill for ill. With all his follies,
Val Elster could not remember to have committed an evil act in all his
life, save one. And that one he had still the pleasure of paying for
pretty deeply.

"Dawkes knows nothing of my affairs except from hearsay, Edward. I was
once intimate with the man; but he served me a shabby trick, and that
ended the friendship. I don't like him."

"I dare say what he said was not true," said Lord Hartledon kindly. "You
might as well make a confidant of me. However, I have not time to talk
to-day. We will go into the matter, Val, after Monday, when this race has
come off, and see what arrangement can be made for you. There's only one
thing bothers me."

"What's that?"

"The danger that it may be a wasted arrangement. If you are only set up
on your legs to come down again, as you have before, it will be so much
waste of time and money; so much loss, to me, of temper. Don't you see,
Val?"

Percival Elster stopped in his walk, and withdrew his arm from his
brother's; his face and voice full of emotion.

"Edward, I have learnt a lesson. What it has cost me I hardly yet know:
but it is _learnt_. On my sacred word of honour, in the solemn presence
of Heaven, I assert it, that I will never put my hand to another bill,
whatever may be the temptation. I have overcome, in this respect at
least, my sin."

"Your sin?"

"My nature's great sin; the besetting sin that has clung to me through
life; the unfortunate sin that is my bane to this hour--cowardly
irresolution."

"All right, Val; I see you mean well now. We'll talk of these matters
next week. Instead of Elster's Folly, let it become Elster's Wisdom."

Lord Hartledon wrung his brother's hand and turned away. His eyes fell on
Miss Ashton, and he went straight up to her. Putting the young lady's arm
within his own, without word or ceremony, he took her off to a distance:
and old Lady Kirton's skirts went round in a dance as she saw it.

"I am about to take him in hand, Anne, and set him going again: I have
promised Dr. Ashton. We must get him a snug berth; one that even the
doctor won't object to, and set him straight in other matters. If he has
mortgaged his patrimony, it shall be redeemed. And, Anne, I think--I do
think--he may be trusted to keep straight for the future."

Her soft sweet eyes sparkled with pleasure, and her lips parted with a
sunny smile. Lord Hartledon took her hand within his own as it lay on his
arm, and the furious old dowager saw it all from the distance.

"Don't say as much as this to him, Anne: I only tell you. Val is so
sanguine, that it may be better not to tell him all beforehand. And I
want, of course, first of all, to get a true list of--that is, a true
statement of facts," he broke off, not caring to speak the word "debts"
to that delicate girl before him. "He is my only brother; my father left
him to me, for he knew what Val was; and I'll do my best for him. I'd do
it for Val's own sake, apart from the charge. And, Anne, once Val is on
his legs with an income, snug and comfortable, I shall recommend him to
marry without delay; for, after all, you will be his greatest safeguard."

A blush suffused her face, and Lord Hartledon smiled.

Down came the countess-dowager.

"Here's that old dowager calling to me. She never lets me alone. Val sent
me into a fit of laughter yesterday, saying she had designs on me for
Maude. Poor deluded woman! Yes, ma'am, I hear. What is it?"

Mr. Elster went strolling along on the banks of the river, towards Calne;
not with any particular purpose, but in his restless uneasiness. He had a
tender conscience, and his past follies were pressing on it heavily. Of
one thing he felt sure--that he was more deeply involved than Hartledon
or anyone else suspected, perhaps even himself. The way was charming in
fine weather, though less pleasant in winter. It was by no means a
frequented road, and belonged of right to Lord Hartledon only; but it was
open to all. Few chose it when they could traverse the more ordinary way.
The narrow path on the green plain, sheltered by trees, wound in and out,
now on the banks of the river, now hidden amidst a portion of the wood.
Altogether it was a wild and lonely pathway; not one that a timid nature
would choose on a dark night. You might sit in the wood, which lay to the
left, a whole day through, and never see a soul.

One part of the walk was especially beautiful. A green hollow, where the
turf was soft as moss; open to the river on the right, with a glimpse of
the lovely scenery beyond; and on the left, the clustering trees of the
wood. Yet further, through a break in the trees, might be seen a view of
the houses of Calne. A little stream, or rivulet, trickled from the wood,
and a rustic bridge--more for ornament than use, for a man with long legs
could stride the stream well--was thrown over it. Val had reached thus
far, when he saw someone standing on the bridge, his arms on the parapet,
apparently in a brown study.

A dark, wild-looking man, whose face, at the first glimpse, seemed all
hair. There was certainly a profusion of it; eyebrows, beard, whiskers,
all heavy, and black as night. He was attired in loose fustian clothes
with a red handkerchief wound round his throat, and a low slouching
hat--one of those called wide-awake--partially concealed his features. By
his side stood another man in plain, dark, rather seedy clothes, the coat
outrageously long. He wore a cloth hat, whose brim hid his face, and he
was smoking a cigar. Both men were slightly built and under middle
height. This one was adorned with red whiskers.

The moment Mr. Elster set eyes on the dark one, he felt that he saw the
man Pike before him. It happened that he had not met him during these few
days of his sojourn; but some of the men staying at Hartledon had, and
had said what a loose specimen he appeared to be. The other was a
stranger, and did not look like a countryman at all.

Mr. Elster saw them both give a sharp look at him as he approached;
and then they spoke together. Both stepped off the bridge, as though
deferring to him, and stood aside as they watched him cross over, Pike
touching his wide-awake.

"Good-day, my lord."

Val nodded by way of answer, and continued his stroll onwards. In the
look he had taken at Pike, it struck him he had seen the face before:
something in the countenance seemed familiar to his memory. And to his
surprise he saw that the man was young.

The supposed reminiscence did not trouble him: he was too pre-occupied
with thoughts of his own affairs to have leisure for Mr. Pike's. A short
bit of road, and this rude, sheltered part of the way terminated in more
open ground, where three paths diverged: one to the front of Hartledon;
one to some cottages, and on through the wood to the high-road; and one
towards the Rectory and Calne. Rural paths still, all of them; and the
last was provided with a bench or two. Val Elster strolled on almost to
the Rectory, and then turned back: he had no errand at Calne, and the
Rectory he would rather keep out of just now. When he reached the little
bridge Pike was on it alone; the other had disappeared. As before, he
stepped off to make way for Mr. Elster.

"I beg pardon, sir, for addressing you just now as Lord Hartledon."

The salutation took Val by surprise; and though the voice seemed muffled,
as though the man purposely mouthed his words, the accent and language
were superior to anything he might have expected from one of Mr. Pike's
appearance and reputed character.

"No matter," said Val, courteous even to Pike, in his kindly nature. "You
mistook me for my brother. Many do."

"Not I," returned the man, assuming a freedom and a roughness at variance
with his evident intelligence. "I know you for the Honourable Percival
Elster."

"Ah," said Mr. Elster, a slight curiosity stirring his mind, but not
sufficient to induce him to follow it up.

"But I like to do a good turn if I can," pursued Pike; "and I think, sir,
I did one to you in calling you Lord Hartledon."

Val Elster had been passing on. He turned and looked at the man.

"Are you in any little temporary difficulty, might I ask?" continued
Pike. "No offense, sir; princes have been in such before now."

Val Elster was so supremely conscious, especially in that reflective
hour, of being in a "little difficulty" that might prove more than
temporary, that he could only stare at the questioner and wait for more.

"No offence again, if I'm wrong," resumed Pike; "but if that man you saw
here on the bridge is not looking after the Honourable Mr. Elster, I'm a
fool."

"Why do you think this?" inquired Val, too fully aware that the fact was
a likely one to attempt any reproof or disavowal.

"I'll tell you," said Pike; "I've said I don't mind doing a good turn
when I can. The man arrived here this morning by the slow six train from
London. He went into the Stag and had his breakfast, and has been
covertly dodging about ever since. He inquired his way to Hartledon. The
landlord of the Stag asked him what he wanted there, and got for answer
that his brother was one of the grooms in my lord's service. Bosh! He
went up, sneaking under the hedges and along by-ways, and took a view of
the house, standing a good hour behind a tree while he did it. I was
watching him."

It instantly struck Percival Elster, by one of those flashes of
conviction that are no less sure than subtle, that Mr. Pike's interest in
this watching arose from a fear that the stranger might have been looking
after _him_. Pike continued:

"After he had taken his fill of waiting, he came dodging down this way,
and I got into conversation with him. He wanted to know who I was. A poor
devil out of work, I told him; a soldier once, but maimed and good for
little now. We got chatty. I let him think he might trust me, and he
began asking no end of questions about Mr. Elster: whether he went out
much, what were his hours for going out, which road he mostly took in his
walks, and how he could know him from his brother the earl; he had heard
they were alike. The hound was puzzled; he had seen a dozen swells come
out of Hartledon, any one of which might be Mr. Elster; but I found he
had the description pretty accurate. Whilst we were talking, who should
come into view but yourself! 'This is him!' cried he. 'Not a bit of it,'
said I, carelessly; 'that's my lord.' Now you know, sir, why I saluted
you as Lord Hartledon."

"Where is he now?" asked Percival Elster, feeling that he owed his
present state of liberty to this lawless man.

Pike pointed to the narrow path in the wood, leading to the high-road.
"I filled him up with the belief that the way beyond this bridge up to
Hartledon was private, and he might be taken up for trespassing if he
attempted to follow it; so he went off that way to watch the front. If
the fellow hasn't a writ in his pocket, or something worse, call me a
simpleton. You are all right, sir, as long as he takes you for Lord
Hartledon."

But there was little chance the fellow could long take him for Lord
Hartledon, and Percival Elster felt himself attacked with a shiver. He
knew it to be worse than a writ; it was an arrest. An arrest is not a
pleasant affair for any one; but a strong opinion--a certainty--seized
upon Val's mind that this would bring forth Dr. Ashton's veto of
separation from Anne.

"I thank you for what you have done," frankly spoke Mr. Elster.

"It's nothing, sir. He'll be dodging about after his prey; but I'll dodge
about too, and thwart his game if I can, though I have to swear that Lord
Hartledon's not himself. What's an oath, more or less, to me?"

"Where have I seen you before?" asked Val.

"Hard to say," returned Pike. "I have knocked about in many parts in my
time."

"Are you from this neighbourhood?"

"Never was in these parts at all till a year or so ago. It's not two
years yet."

"What are you doing here?"

"What I can. A bit of work when I can get it given to me. I went tramping
the country after I left the regiment--"

"Then you have been a soldier?" interrupted Mr. Elster.

"Yes, sir. In tramping the country I came upon this place: I crept into
a shed, and was there for some days; rheumatism took hold of me, and I
couldn't move. It was something to find I had a roof of any sort over my
head, and was let lie in it unmolested: and when I got better I stayed
on."

"And have adopted it as your own, putting a window and a chimney into it!
But do you know that Lord Hartledon may not choose to retain you as a
tenant?"

"If Lord Hartledon should think of ousting me, I would ask Mr. Elster to
intercede, in requital for the good turn I've done him this day," was the
bold answer.

Mr. Elster laughed. "What is your name?"

"Tom Pike."

"I hear a great deal said of you, Pike, that's not pleasant; that you are
a poacher, and a--"

"Let them that say so prove it," interrupted Pike, his dark brows
contracting.

"But how do you manage to live?"

"That's my business, and not Calne's. At any rate, Mr. Elster, I don't
steal."

"I heard a worse hint dropped of you than any I have mentioned,"
continued Val, after a pause.

"Tell it out, sir. Let's have the whole catalogue at once."

"That the night my brother, Mr. Elster, was shot, you were out with the
poachers."

"I dare say you heard that I shot him, for I know it has been said,"
fiercely cried the man. "It's a black lie!--and the time may come when I
shall ram it down Calne's throat. I swear that I never fired a shot that
night; I swear that I no more had a hand in Mr. Elster's death than you
had. Will you believe me, sir?"

The accents of truth are rarely to be mistaken, and Val was certain he
heard them now. So far, he believed the man; and from that moment
dismissed the doubt from his mind, if indeed he had not dismissed it
before.

"Do you know who did fire the shot?"

"I do not; I was not out at all that night. Calne pitched upon me,
because there was no one else in particular to pitch upon. A dozen
poachers were in the fray, most of them with guns; little wonder the
random shot from one should have found a mark. I know nothing more
certain than that, so help--"

"That will do," interrupted Mr. Elster, arresting what might be coming;
for he disliked strong language. "I believe you fully, Pike. What part of
the country were you born in?"

"London. Born and bred in it."

"That I do not believe," he said frankly. "Your accent is not that of a
Londoner."

"As you will, sir," returned Pike. "My mother was from Devonshire; but I
was born and bred in London. I recognized that one with the writ for a
fellow cockney at once; and for what he was, too--a sheriffs officer.
Shouldn't be surprised but I knew him for one years ago."

Val Elster dropped a coin into the man's hand, and bade him good morning.
Pike touched his wide-awake, and reiterated his intention of "dodging the
enemy." But, as Mr. Elster cautiously pursued his way, the face he had
just quitted continued to haunt him. It was not like any face he had ever
seen, as far as he could remember; nevertheless ever and anon some
reminiscence seemed to start out of it and vibrate upon a chord in his
memory.




CHAPTER VII.

LISTENERS.


It was a somewhat singular coincidence, noted after the terrible event,
now looming in the distance, had taken place, and when people began to
weigh the various circumstances surrounding it, that Monday, the second
day fixed for the boat-race, should be another day of rain. As though
Heaven would have interposed to prevent it! said the thoughtful and
romantic.

A steady, pouring rain; putting a stop again to the race for that day.
The competitors might have been willing to face the elements themselves,
but could not subject the fair spectators to the infliction. There was
some inward discontent, and a great deal of outward grumbling; it did no
good, and the race was put off until the next day.

Val Elster still retained his liberty. Very chary indeed had he been of
showing himself outside the door on Saturday, once he was safely within
it. Neither had any misfortune befallen Lord Hartledon. That unconscious
victim must have contrived, in all innocence, to "dodge" the gentleman
who was looking out for him, for they did not meet.

On the Sunday it happened that neither of the brothers went to church.
Lord Hartledon, on awaking in the morning, found he had a sore throat,
and would not get up. Val did not dare show himself out of doors. Not
from fear of arrest that day, but lest any officious meddler should point
him out as the real Simon Pure, Percival Elster. But for these
circumstances, the man with the writ could hardly have remained
under the delusion, as he appeared at church himself.

"Which is Lord Hartledon?" he whispered to his neighbour on the free
benches, when the party from the great house had entered, and settled
themselves in their pews.

"I don't see him. He has not come to-day."

"Which is Mr. Elster?"

"He has not come, either." So for that day recognition was escaped.

It was not to be so on the next. The rain, as I have said, came down,
putting off the boat-race, and keeping Hartledon's guests indoors all the
morning; but late in the afternoon some unlucky star put it into Lord
Hartledon's head to go down to the Rectory. His throat was better--almost
well again; and he was not a man to coddle himself unnecessarily.

He paid his visit, stayed talking a considerable time with Mrs. Ashton,
whose company he liked, and took his departure about six o'clock. "You
and Anne might almost walk up with me," he remarked to the doctor as he
shook hands; for the Rector and Miss Ashton were to dine at Hartledon
that day. It was to have been the crowning festival to the boat-race--the
race which now had not taken place.

Lord Hartledon looked up at the skies, and found he had no occasion to
open his umbrella, for the rain had ceased. Sundry bright rays in the
west seemed to give hope that the morrow would be fair; and, rejoicing in
this cheering prospect, he crossed the broad Rectory lawn. As he went
through the gate some one laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"The Honourable Percival Elster, I believe?"

Lord Hartledon looked at the intruder. A seedy man, with a long coat and
red whiskers, who held out something to him.

"Who are you?" he asked, releasing his shoulder by a sharp movement.

"I'm sorry to do it, sir; but you know we are only the agent of others in
these affairs. You are my prisoner, sir."

"Indeed!" said Lord Hartledon, taking the matter coolly. "You have got
hold of the wrong man for once. I am not Mr. Percival Elster."

The capturer laughed: a very civil laugh. "It won't do, sir; we often
have that trick tried on us."

"But I tell you I am _not_ Mr. Elster," he reiterated, speaking this time
with some anger. "I am Lord Hartledon."

He of the loose coat shook his head. He had his hand again on the
supposed Mr. Elster's arm, and told him he must go with him.

"You cannot take me; you cannot arrest a peer. This is simply
ridiculous," continued Lord Hartledon, almost laughing at the real
absurdity of the thing. "Any child in Calne could tell you who I am."

"As well make no words over it, sir. It's only waste of time."

"You have a warrant--as I understand--to arrest Mr. Percival Elster?"

"Yes, sir, I have. The man that was looking for you in London got taken
ill, and couldn't come down, so our folks sent me. 'You'll know him by
his good looks,' said they; 'an aristocrat every inch of him.' Don't give
me trouble, sir."

"Well now--I am not Percival Elster: I am his brother, Lord Hartledon.
You cannot take one brother for another; and, what's more, you had better
not try to do it. Stay! Look here."

He pulled out his card-case, and showed his cards--"Earl of Hartledon."
He exhibited a couple of letters that happened to be about him--"The
Right Honble. the Earl of Hartledon." It was of no use.

"I've known that dodge tried before too," said his obstinate capturer.

Lord Hartledon was growing more angry. He saw some proof must be tendered
before he could regain his liberty. Jabez Gum happened to be standing at
his gate opposite, and he called to him.

"Will you be so kind as to tell this man who I am, Mr. Gum. He is
mistaking me for some one else."

"This is the Earl of Hartledon," said Jabez, promptly.

A moment's hesitation on the officer's part; but he felt too sure of his
man to believe this. "I'll take the risk," said he, stolidly. "Where's
the good of your holding out, Mr. Elster?"

"Come this way, then!" cried Lord Hartledon, beginning to lose his
temper. "And if you carry this too far, my man, I'll have you punished."

He went striding up to the Rectory. Had he taken a moment for
consideration, he might have turned away, rather than expose this
misfortune of Val's there. The doctor came into the hall, and was
recognized as the Rector, and there was some little commotion; Anne's
white face looking on from a distance. The man was convinced, and took
his departure, considerably crestfallen.

"What is the amount?" called the doctor, sternly.

"Not very much, _this_, sir. It's under three hundred."

Which was as much as to say there was more behind it. Dr. Ashton mentally
washed his hands of Percival Elster as a future son-in-law.

The first intimation that ill-starred gentleman received of the untoward
turn affairs were taking was from the Rector himself.

Mr. Percival Elster had been chuckling over that opportune sore throat,
as a means of keeping his brother indoors; and it never occurred to him
that Lord Hartledon would venture out at all on the Monday. Being a man
with his wits about him, it had not failed to occur to his mind that
there was a possibility of Lord Hartledon's being arrested in place of
himself; but so long as Hartledon kept indoors the danger was averted.
Had Percival Elster seen his brother go out he might have plucked up
courage to tell him the state of affairs.

But he did not see him. Lounging idly--what else had he, a poor prisoner,
to do?--in the sunny society of Maude Kirton and other attractive girls,
Mr. Elster was unconscious of the movements of the household in general.
He was in his own room dressing for dinner when the truth burst upon him.

Dr. Ashton was a straightforward; practical man--it has been already
stated--who went direct to the point at once in any matters of
difficulty. He arrived at Hartledon a few minutes before the dinner-hour,
found Mr. Elster was yet in his dressing-room, and went there to him.

The news, the cool, scornful anger of the Rector, the keen question--"Was
he mad?" burst upon the unhappy Val like a clap of thunder. He was
standing in his shirt-sleeves, ready to go down, all but his coat and
waistcoat, his hair-brushes in the uplifted hands. Hands and brushes had
been arrested midway in the shock. The calm clerical man; all the more
terrible then because of his calmness; standing there with his cold
stinging words, and his unhappy culprit facing him, conscious of his
heinous sins--the worst sin of all: that of being found out.

"Others have done so much before me, sir, and have not made the less good
men," spoke Val, in his desperation.

Dr. Ashton could not help admiring the man, as he stood there in his
physical beauty. In spite of his inward anger, his condemnation, his
disappointment--and they were all very great--the good looks of Percival
Elster struck him forcibly with a sort of annoyance: why should these men
be so outwardly fair, so inwardly frail? Those good looks had told upon
his daughter's heart; and they all loved _her_, and could not bear to
cause her pain. Tall, supple, graceful, strong, towering nearly a head
above the doctor, he stood, his pleasing features full of the best sort
of attraction, his violet eyes rather wider open than usual, the waves of
his silken hair smooth and bright. "If he were only half as fair in
conduct as in looks!" muttered the grieved divine.

But those violet eyes, usually beaming with kindness, suddenly changed
their present expression of depreciation to one of rage. Dr. Ashton gave
a pretty accurate description of how the crisis had been brought to his
knowledge--that Lord Hartledon had come to the Rectory, with his mistaken
assailant, to be identified; and Percival Elster's anger was turned
against his brother. Never in all his life had he been in so great a
passion; and having to suppress its signs in the presence of the Rector
only made the fuel burn more fiercely. To ruin him with the doctor by
going _there_ with the news! Anywhere else--anywhere but the Rectory!

Hedges, the butler, interrupted the conference. Dinner was waiting. Lord
Hartledon looked at Val as the two entered the room, and was rather
surprised at the furious gaze of reproach that was cast back on him.

Miss Ashton was not there. No, of course not! It needed not Val's glance
around to be assured of that. Of course they were to be separated from
that hour; the fiat was already gone forth. And Mr. Val Elster felt so
savage that he could have struck his brother. He heard Dr. Ashton's reply
to an inquiry--that Mrs. Ashton was feeling unusually poorly, and Anne
remained at home with her--but he looked upon it as an evasion. Not a
word did he speak during dinner: not a word, save what was forced from
him by common courtesy, spoke he after the ladies had left the room; he
only drank a great deal of wine.

A very unusual circumstance for Val Elster. With all his weak resolution,
his yielding nature, drinking was a fault he was scarcely ever seduced
into. Not above two or three times in his life could he remember to have
exceeded the bounds of strict, temperate sobriety. The fact was, he was
in wrath with himself: all his past follies were pressing upon him with
bitter condemnation. He was just in that frame of mind when an object to
vent our fury upon becomes a sort of necessity; and Mr. Elster's was
vented on his brother.

He was waiting at boiling-point for the opportunity to "have it out" with
him: and it soon came. As the gentlemen left the dining-room--and in
these present days they do not, as a rule, sit long, especially when the
host is a young man--Percival Elster touched his brother to detain him,
and shut the door on the heels of the rest.

Lord Hartledon was surprised. Val's attack was so savage. He was talking
off his superfluous wrath, and the wine he had taken did not tend to cool
his heat. Lord Hartledon, vexed at the injustice, lost his temper; and
for once there was a quarrel, sharp and loud, between the brothers. It
did not last long; in its very midst they parted; throwing cutting words
one at the other. Lord Hartledon quitted the room, to join his guests;
Val Elster strode outside the window to cool his brain.

But now, look at the obstinate pride of those two foolish men! They were
angry with each other in temper, but not in heart. In Percival Elster's
conscience there was an underlying conviction that his brother had acted
only in thoughtless impulse when he carried the misfortune to the
Rectory; whilst Lord Hartledon was even then full of plans for serving
Val, and considered he had more need to help him than ever. A day or two
given to the indulgence of their anger, and they would be firmer friends
than ever.

The large French window of the dining-room, opening to the ground, was
flung back by Val Elster; and he stepped forth into the cool night, which
was beautifully fine. The room looked towards the river. The velvet lawn,
wet with the day's rain, lay calm and silent under the bright stars; the
flowers, clustering around far and wide, gave out their sweet and heavy
night perfume. Not an instant had he been outside when he became
conscious that some figure was gliding towards him--was almost close to
him; and he recognised Mr. Pike. Yes, that worthy gentleman appeared to
be only then arriving on his evening visit: in point of fact, he had been
glued ear and eye to the window during the quarrel.

"What do you want?" demanded Mr. Elster.

"Well, I came up here hoping to get a word with you, sir," replied the
man in his rough, abrupt manner, more in character with his appearance
and lawless reputation than with his accent and unmistakable
intelligence. "There was a nasty accident a few hours ago: that shark
came across his lordship."

"I know he did," savagely spoke Val. "The result of your informing him
that I was Lord Hartledon."

"I did it for the best, Mr. Elster. He'd have nabbed you that very time,
but for my putting him off the scent as I did."

"Yes, yes, I am aware you did it for the best, and I suppose it turned
out to be so," quickly replied Val, some of his native kindliness
resuming its sway. "It's an unfortunate affair altogether, and that's
the best that can be said of it."

"What I came up here for was to tell you he was gone."

"Who is gone?"

"The shark."

"Gone!"

"He went off by the seven train. Lord Hartledon told him he'd communicate
with his principals and see that the affair was arranged. It satisfied
the man, and he went away by the next train--which happened to be the
seven-o'clock one."

"How do you know this?" asked Mr. Elster.

"This way," was the answer. "I was hovering about outside that shed of
mine, and I saw the encounter at the parson's gate--for that's where it
took place. The first thing the fellow did when it was all over was to
bolt across the road, and accuse me of purposely misleading him. 'Not a
bit of it,' said I; 'if I did mislead you, it was unintentional, for I
took the one who came over the bridge on Saturday to be Lord Hartledon,
safe as eggs. But they have been down here only a week,' I went on, 'and
I suppose I don't know 'em apart yet.' I can't say whether he believed
me; I think he did; he's a soft sort of chap. It was all right, he said:
the earl had passed his word to him that it should be made so without his
arresting Mr. Elster, and he was off to London at once."

"And he has gone?"

Mr. Pike nodded significantly. "I watched him go; dodged him up to the
station and saw him off."

Then this one danger was over! Val might breathe freely again.

"And I thought you would like to know the coast was clear; so I came up
to tell you," concluded Pike.

"Thank you for your trouble," said Mr. Elster. "I shall not forget it."

"You'll remember it, perhaps, if a question arises touching that shed,"
spoke the man. "I may need a word sometime with Lord Hartledon."

"I'll remember it, Pike. Here, wait a moment. Is Thomas Pike your real
name?"

"Well, I conclude it is. Pike was the name of my father and mother. As to
Thomas--not knowing where I was christened, I can't go and look at the
register; but they never called me anything but Tom. Did you wish to know
particularly?"

There was a tone of mockery in the man's answer, not altogether
acceptable to his hearer; and he let him go without further hindrance.
But the man turned back in an instant of his own accord.

"I dare say you are wanting to know why I did you this little turn, Mr.
Elster. I have been caught in corners myself before now; and if I can
help anybody to get out of them without trouble to myself, I'm willing to
do it. And to circumvent these law-sharks comes home to my spirit as
wholesome refreshment."

Mr. Pike finally departed. He took the lonely way, and only struck into
the high-road opposite his own domicile, the shed. Passing round it, he
hovered at its rude door--the one he had himself made, along with the
ruder window--and then, treading softly, he stepped to the low stile in
the hedge, which had for years made the boundary between the waste land
on which the shed stood and Clerk Gum's garden. Here he halted a minute,
looking all ways. Then he stepped over the stile, crouched down amongst
Mr. Gum's cabbages, got under shelter of the hedge, and so stole onwards,
until he came to an anchor at the kitchen-window, and laid his ear to the
shutter, just as it had recently been laid against the glass in the
dining-room of my Lord Hartledon.

That he had a propensity for prying into the private affairs of his
neighbours near and distant, there could be little doubt about. Mr. Pike,
however, was not destined on this one occasion to reap any substantial
reward. The kitchen appeared to be wrapped in perfect silence. Satisfying
himself as to this, he next took off his heavy shoes, stole past the back
door, and so round the clerk's house to the front. Very softly indeed
went he, creeping by the wall, and emerging at last round the angle, by
the window of the best parlour. Here, most excessively to Mr. Pike's
consternation, he came upon a lady doing exactly what he had come to
do--namely, stealthily listening at the window to anything there might be
to hear inside.

The shrill scream she gave when she found her face in contact with the
wild intruder, might have been heard over at Dr. Ashton's. Clerk Gum, who
had been quietly writing in his office, came out in haste, and recognized
Mrs. Jones, the wife of the surly porter at the station, and step-mother
to the troublesome young servant, Rebecca. Pike had totally disappeared.

Mrs. Jones, partly through fright, partly in anger arising from a
long-standing grievance, avowed the truth boldly: she had been listening
at the parlour-shutters ever since she went out of the house ten minutes
ago, and had been set upon by that wolf Pike.

"Set upon!" exclaimed the clerk, looking swiftly in all directions for
the offender.

"I don't know what else you can call it, when a highway robber--a
murderer, if all tales be true--steals round upon you without warning,
and glares his eyes into yours," shrieked Mrs. Jones wrathfully. "And if
he wasn't barefoot, Gum, my eyes strangely deceived me. I'd have you and
Nancy take care of your throats."

She turned into the house, to the best parlour, where the clerk's wife
was sitting with a visitor, Mirrable. Mrs. Gum, when she found what the
commotion had been about, gave a sharp cry of terror, and shook from head
to foot.

"On our premises! Close to our house! That dreadful man! Oh, Lydia, don't
you think you were mistaken?"

"Mistaken!" retorted Mrs. Jones. "That wild face isn't one to be
mistaken: I should like to see its fellow in Calne. Why Lord Hartledon
don't have him taken up on suspicion of that murder, is odd to me."

"You'd better hold your tongue about that suspicion," interposed
Mirrable. "I have cautioned you before, _I_ shouldn't like to breathe
a word against a desperate man; I should go about in fear that he might
hear of it, and revenge himself."

In came the clerk. "I don't see a sign of any one about," he said; "and
I'm sure whoever it was could not have had time to get away. You must
have been mistaken, Mrs. Jones."

"Mistaken in what, pray?"

"That any man was there. You got confused, and fancied it, perhaps. As to
Pike, he'd never dare come on my premises, whether by night or day. What
were you doing at the window?"

"Listening," defiantly replied Mrs. Jones. "And now I'll just tell out
what I've had in my head this long while, Mr. Gum, and know the reason of
Nancy's slighting me in the way she does. What secret has she and Mary
Mirrable got between them?"

"Secret?" repeated the clerk, whilst his wife gave a faint cry, and
Mirrable turned her calm face on Mrs. Jones. "Have they a secret?"

"Yes, they have," raved Mrs. Jones, giving vent to her long pent-up
emotion. "If they haven't, I'm blind and deaf. If I have come into your
house once during the past year and found Mrs. Mirrable in it, and the
two sitting and whispering, I've come ten times. This evening I came in
at dusk; I turned the handle of the door and peeped into the best
parlour, and there they were, nose and knees together, starting away
from each other as soon as they saw me, Nance giving one of her faint
cries, and the two making believe to have been talking of the weather.
It's always so. And I want to know what secret they have got hold of, and
whether I'm poison, that I can't be trusted with it."

Jabez Gum slowly turned his eyes on the two in question. His wife lifted
her hands in deprecation at the idea that she should have a secret:
Mirrable was laughing.

"Nancy's secret to-night, when you interrupted us, was telling me of a
dream she had regarding Lord Hartledon, and of how she mistook Mr. Elster
for him the morning he came down," cried the latter. "And if you have
really been listening at the shutters since you went out, Mrs. Jones, you
should by this time know how to pickle walnuts in the new way: for I
declare that is all our conversation has been about since. You always
were suspicious, you know, and you always will be."

"Look here, Mrs. Jones," said the clerk, decisively; "I don't choose to
have my shutters listened at: it might give the house a bad name, for
quarrelling, or something of that sort. So I'll trouble you not to repeat
what you have done to-night, or I shall forbid your coming here. A
secret, indeed!"

"Yes, a secret!" persisted Mrs. Jones. "And if I don't come at what it is
one of these days, my name's not Lydia Jones. And I'll tell you why. It
strikes me--I may be wrong--but it strikes me it concerns me and my
husband and my household, which some folks are ever ready to interfere
with. I'll take myself off now; and I would recommend you, as a parting
warning, to denounce Pike to the police for an attempt at housebreaking,
before you're both murdered in your bed. That'll be the end on't."

She went away, and Clerk Gum wished he could denounce _her_ to the
police. Mirrable laughed again; and Mrs. Gum, cowardly and timid, fell
back in her chair as one seized with ague.

Beyond giving an occasional dole to Mrs. Jones for her children--and
to tell the truth, she clothed them all, or they would have gone in
rags--Mirrable had shaken her cousin off long ago: which of course did
not tend to soothe the naturally jealous spirit of Mrs. Jones. At
Hartledon House she was not welcomed, and could not go there; but she
watched for the visits of Mirrable at the clerk's, and was certain to
intrude on those occasions.

"I'll find it out!" she repeated to herself, as she went storming through
the garden-gate; "I'll find it out. And as to that poacher, he'd better
bring his black face near mine again!"




CHAPTER VIII.

THE WAGER BOATS.


Tuesday morning rose, bright and propitious: a contrast to the two
previous days arranged for the boat-race. All was pleasure, bustle,
excitement at Hartledon: but the coolness that had arisen between the
brothers was noticed by some of the guests. Neither of them was disposed
to take the first step towards reconciliation: and, indeed, a little
incident that occurred that morning led to another ill word between
them. An account that had been standing for more than two years was sent
in to Lord Hartledon's steward; it was for some harness, a saddle, a
silver-mounted whip, and a few trifles of that sort, supplied by a small
tradesman in the village. Lord Hartledon protested there was nothing of
the sort owing; but upon inquiry the debtor proved to be Mr. Percival
Elster. Lord Hartledon, vexed that any one in the neighbourhood should
have waited so long for his money, said a sharp word on the score to
Percival; and the latter retorted as sharply that it was no business of
his. Again Val was angry with himself, and thus gave vent to his temper.
The fact was, he had completely forgotten the trifling debt, and was as
vexed as Hartledon that it should have been allowed to remain unpaid: but
the man had not sent him any reminder whilst he was away.

"Pay it to-day, Marris," cried Lord Hartledon to his steward. "I won't
have this sort of thing at Calne."

His tone was one of irritation--or it sounded so to the ears of his
conscious brother, and Val bit his lips. After that, throughout the
morning, they maintained a studied silence towards each other; and
this was observed, but was not commented on. Val was unusually quiet
altogether: he was saying to himself that he was sullen.

The starting-hour for the race was three o'clock; but long before that
time the scene was sufficiently animated, not to say exciting. It was a
most lovely afternoon. Not a trace remained of the previous day's rain;
and the river--wide just there, as it took the sweeping curve of the
point--was dotted with these little wager boats. Their owners for the
time being, in their white boating-costume, each displaying his colours,
were in highest spirits; and the fair gazers gathered on the banks were
anxious as to the result. The favourite was Lord Hartledon--by long odds,
as Mr. Shute grumbled. Had his lordship been known not to possess the
smallest chance, nine of those fair girls out of ten would, nevertheless,
have betted upon him. Some of them were hoping to play for a deeper stake
than a pair of gloves. A staff, from which fluttered a gay little flag,
had been driven into the ground, exactly opposite the house; it was the
starting and the winning point. At a certain distance up the river, near
to the mill, a boat was moored in mid-stream: this they would row round,
and come back again.

At three o'clock they were to take the boats; and, allowing for time
being wasted in the start, might be in again and the race won in
three-quarters-of-an-hour. But, as is often the case, the time was not
adhered to; one hindrance after another occurred; there was a great deal
of laughing and joking, forgetting of things, and of getting into order;
and at a quarter to four they were not off. But all were ready at last,
and most of the rowers were each in his little cockle-shell. Lord
Hartledon lingered yet in the midst of the group of ladies, all clustered
together at one spot, who were keeping him with their many comments and
questions. Each wore the colours of her favourite: the crimson and purple
predominating, for they were those of their host. Lady Kirton displayed
her loyalty in a conspicuous manner. She had an old crimson gauze skirt
on, once a ball-dress, with ends of purple ribbon floating from it and
fluttering in the wind; and a purple head-dress with a crimson feather.
Maude, in a spirit of perversity, displayed a blue shoulder-knot, timidly
offered to her by a young Oxford man who was staying there, Mr. Shute;
and Anne Ashton wore the colours given her by Lord Hartledon.

"I can't stay; you'd keep me here all day: don't you see they are waiting
for me?" he laughingly cried, extricating himself from the throng. "Why,
Anne, my dear, is it you? How is it I did not see you before? Are you
here alone?"

She had not long joined the crowd, having come up late from the Rectory,
and had been standing outside, for she never put herself forward
anywhere. Lord Hartledon drew her arm within his own for a moment and
took her apart.

"Arthur came up with me: I don't know where he is now. Mamma was afraid
to venture, fearing the grass might be damp."

"And the Rector _of course_ would not countenance us by coming," said
Lord Hartledon, with a laugh. "I remember his prejudices against boating
of old."

"He is coming to dinner."

"As you all are; Arthur also to-day. I made the doctor promise that. A
jolly banquet we'll have, too, and toast the winner. Anne, I just wanted
to say this to you; Val is in an awful rage with me for letting that
matter get to the ears of your father, and I am not pleased with him; so
altogether we are just now treating each other to a dose of sullenness,
and when we do speak it's to growl like two amiable bears; but it shall
make no difference to what I said last week. All shall be made smooth,
even to the satisfaction of your father. You may trust me."

He ran off from her, stepped into the skiff, and was taking the sculls,
when he uttered a sudden exclamation, leaped out again, and began to run
with all speed towards the house.

"What is it? Where are you going?" asked the O'Moore, who was the
appointed steward.

"I have forgotten--" _What_, they did not catch; the word was lost on the
air.

"It is bad luck to turn back," called out Maude. "You won't win."

He was already half-way to the house. A couple of minutes after entering
it he reappeared again, and came flying down the slopes at full speed.
Suddenly his foot slipped, and he fell to the ground. The only one who
saw the accident was Mr. O'Moore; the general attention at that moment
being concentrated upon the river. He hastened back. Hartledon was then
gathering himself up, but slowly.

"No damage," said he; "only a bit of a wrench to the foot. Give me your
arm for a minute, O'Moore. This ground must be slippery from yesterday's
rain."

Mr. O'Moore held out his arm, and Hartledon took it. "The ground is not
slippery, Hart; it's as dry as a bone."

"Then what caused me to slip?"

"The rate you were coming at. Had you not better give up the contest, and
rest?"

"Nonsense! My foot will be all right in the skiff. Let us get on; they'll
all be out of patience."

When it was seen that something was amiss with him, that he leaned rather
heavily on the O'Moore, eager steps pressed round him. Lord Hartledon
laughed, making light of it; he had been so clumsy as to stumble, and had
twisted his ankle a little. It was nothing.

"Stay on shore and give it a rest," cried one, as he stepped once more
into the little boat. "I am sure you are hurt."

"Not I. It will have rest in the boat. Anne," he said, looking up at her
with his pleasant smile, "do you wear my colours still?"

She touched the knot on her bosom, and smiled back to him, her tone full
of earnestness. "I would wear them always."

And the countess-dowager, in her bedecked flounces and crimson feather,
looked as if she would like to throw the knot and its wearer into the
river, in the wake of the wager boats. After one or two false starts,
they got off at last.

"Do you think it seemly, this flirtation of yours with Lord Hartledon?"

Anne turned in amazement. The face of the old dowager was close to her;
the snub nose and rouged cheeks and false flaxen front looked ready to
eat her up.

"I have no flirtation with Lord Hartledon, Lady Kirton; or he with me.
When I was a child, and he a great boy, years older, he loved me and
petted me as a little sister: I think he does the same still."

"My daughter tells me you are counting upon one of the two. If I say to
you, do not be too sanguine of either, I speak as a friend; as your
mother might speak. Lord Hartledon is already appropriated; and Val
Elster is not worth appropriating."

Was she mad? Anne Ashton looked at her, really doubting it. No, she was
only vulgar-minded, and selfish, and utterly impervious to all sense of
shame in her scheming. Instinctively Anne moved a pace further off.

"I do not think Lord Hartledon is appropriated yet," spoke Anne, in a
little spirit of mischievous retaliation. "That some amongst his present
guests would be glad to appropriate him may be likely enough; but what if
he is not willing to be appropriated? He said to Mr. Elster, last week,
that they were wasting their time."

"Who's Mr. Elster?" cried the angry dowager. "What right has he to be
at Hartledon, poking his nose into everything that does not concern
him?--what right has he, I ask?"

"The right of being Lord Hartledon's brother," carelessly replied Anne.

"It is a right he had best not presume upon," rejoined Lady Kirton.
"Brothers are brothers as children; but the tie widens as they grow up
and launch out into their different spheres. There's not a man of all
Hartledon's guests but has more right to be here than Val Elster."

"Yet they are brothers still."

"Brothers! I'll take care that Val Elster presumes no more upon the tie
when Maude reigns at--"

For once the countess-dowager caught up her words. She had said more than
she had meant to say. Anne Ashton's calm sweet eyes were bent upon her,
waiting for more.

"It is true," she said, giving a shake to the purple tails, and taking a
sudden resolution, "Maude is to be his wife; but I ought not to have let
it slip out. It was unintentional; and I throw myself on your honour,
Miss Ashton."

"But it is not true?" asked Anne, somewhat perplexed.

"It _is_ true. Hartledon has his own reasons for keeping it quiet at
present; but--you'll see when the time comes. Should I take upon myself
so much rule here, but that it is to be Maude's future home?"

"I don't believe it," cried Anne, as the old story-teller sailed off.
"That she loves him, and that her mother is anxious to secure him, is
evident; but he is truthful and open, and would never conceal it. No, no,
Lady Maude! you are cherishing a false hope. You are very beautiful, but
you are not worthy of him; and I should not like you for my sister-in-law
at all. That dreadful old countess-dowager! How she dislikes Val, and how
rude she is! I'll try not to come in her way again after to-day, as long
as they are at Hartledon."

"What are you thinking of, Anne?"

"Oh, not much," she answered, with a soft blush, for the questioner was
Mr. Elster. "Do you think your brother has hurt himself much, Val?"

"I didn't know he had hurt himself at all," returned Val rather coolly,
who had been on the river at the time in somebody's skiff, and saw
nothing of the occurrence. "What has he done?"

"He slipped down on the slopes and twisted his ankle. I suppose they will
be coming back soon."

"I suppose they will," was the answer. Val seemed in an ungracious
mood. He and Mr. O'Moore and young Carteret were the only three who had
remained behind. Anne asked Val why he did not go and look on; and he
answered, because he didn't want to.

It was getting on for five o'clock when the boats were discerned
returning. How they clustered on the banks, watching the excited rowers,
some pale with their exertions, others in a white heat! Captain Dawkes
was first, and was doing all he could to keep so; but when only a boat's
length from the winning-post another shot past him, and won by half a
length. It was the young Oxonian, Mr. Shute--though indeed it does not
much matter who it was, save that it was not Lord Hartledon.

"Strike your colours, ladies, you that sport the crimson and purple!"
called out a laughing voice from one of the skiffs. "Oxford blue wins."

Lord Hartledon arrived last. He did not get up for some minutes after the
rest were in. In short, he was distanced.

"Hart has hurt his arm as well as his foot," observed one of the others,
as he came alongside. "That's why he got distanced."

"No, it was not," dissented Lord Hartledon, looking up from his skiff at
the crowd of fair faces bent down upon him. "My arm is all right; it only
gave me a few twinges when I first started. My oar fouled, and I could
not get right again; so, finding I had lost too much ground, I gave up
the contest. Anne, had I known I should disgrace my colours, I would not
have given them to _you_."

"Miss Ashton loses, and Maude wins!" cried the countess-dowager,
executing a little dance of triumph. "Maude is the only one who wears
the Oxford blue."

It was true. The young Oxonian was a retiring and timid man, and none had
voluntarily assumed his colours. But no one heeded the countess-dowager.

"You are like a child, Hartledon, denying that your arm's damaged!"
exclaimed Captain Dawkes. "I know it is: I could see it by the way you
struck your oar all along."

What feeling is it in man that prompts him to disclaim physical
pain?--make light of personal injury? Lord Hartledon's ankle was
swelling, at the bottom of the boat; and without the slightest doubt
his arm _was_ paining him, although perhaps at the moment not very
considerably. But he maintained his own assertions, and protested his
arm was as sound as the best arm present. "I could go over the work again
with pleasure," cried he.

"Nonsense, Hart! You could not."

"And I _will_ go over it," he added, warming with the opposition. "Who'll
try his strength with me? There's plenty of time before dinner."

"I will," eagerly spoke young Carteret, who had been, as was remarked,
one of those on land, and was wild to be handling the oars. "If Dawkes
will let me have his skiff, I'll bet you ten to five you are distanced
again, Hartledon."

Perhaps Lord Hartledon had not thought his challenge would be taken
seriously. But when he saw the eager, joyous look of the boy Carteret--he
was not yet nineteen--the flushed pleasure of the beardless face, he
would not have retracted it for the world. He was just as good-natured
as Percival Elster.

"Dawkes will let you have his skiff, Carteret."

Captain Dawkes was exceedingly glad to be rid of it. Good boatman though
he was, he rarely cared to spend his strength superfluously, when nothing
was to be gained by it, and had no fancy to row his skiff back to its
moorings, as most of the others were already doing with theirs. He leaped
out.

"Any one but you, Hartledon, would be glad to come out of that
tilting thing, and enjoy a rest, and get your face cool," cried the
countess-dowager.

"I dare say they might, ma'am. I'm afraid I am given to obstinacy; always
was. Be quick, Carteret."

Mr. Carteret was hastily stripping himself of his coat, and any odds and
ends of attire he deemed superfluous. "One moment, Hartledon; only one
moment," came the joyous response.

"And you'll come home with your arm and your ankle like your colours,
Hartledon--crimson and purple," screamed the dowager. "And you'll be laid
up, and go on perhaps to locked jaw; and then you'll expect me to nurse
you!"

"I shall expect nothing of the sort, ma'am, I pledge you my word; I'll
nurse myself. All ready, Carteret?"

"All ready. Same point as before, Hart?"

"Same point: round the boat and home again."

"And it's ten sovs. to five, Hart?"

"All right. You'll lose, Carteret."

Carteret laughed. He saw the five sovereigns as surely in his possession
as he saw the sculls in his hands. There was no trouble with the start
this time, and they were off at once.

Lord Hartledon took the lead. He was spurring his strength to the
uttermost: perhaps out of bravado; that he might show them nothing was
the matter with his arm. But Mr. Carteret gained on him; and as they
turned the point and went out of sight, the young man's boat was the
foremost.

The race had been kept--as the sporting men amongst them styled it--dark.
Not an inkling of it had been suffered to get abroad, or, as Lord
Hartledon had observed, they should have the banks swarming. The
consequence was, that not more than half-a-dozen curious idlers had
assembled: those were on the opposite side, and had now gone down with
the boats to Calne. No spectators, either on the river or the shore,
attended this lesser contest: Lord Hartledon and Mr. Carteret had it all
to themselves.

And meanwhile, during the time Lord Hartledon had remained at rest in his
skiff under the winning flag, Percival Elster never addressed one word to
him. There he stood, on the edge of the bank; but not a syllable spoke
he, good, bad, or indifferent.

Miss Ashton was looking for her brother, and might just as well have
looked for a needle in a bottle of hay. Arthur was off somewhere.

"You need not go home yet, Anne," said Val.

"I must. I have to dress for dinner. It is all to be very smart to-night,
you know," she said, with a merry laugh.

"With Shute in the post of honour. Who'd have thought that awkward, quiet
fellow would win? I will see you home, Anne, if you must go."

Miss Ashton coloured vividly with embarrassment. In the present state of
affairs, she did not know whether that might be permitted: poor Val was
out of favour at the Rectory. He detected the feeling, and it tended to
vex him more and more.

"Nonsense, Anne! The veto has not yet been interposed, and they can't
kill you for allowing my escort. Stay here if you like: if you go, I
shall see you home."

It was quite imperative that she should go, for dinner at Hartledon was
that evening fixed for seven o'clock, and there would be little enough
time to dress and return again. They set out, walking side by side. Anne
told him of what Lord Hartledon had said to her that day; and Val
coloured with shame at the sullenness he had displayed, and his heart
went into a glow of repentance. Had he met his brother then, he had
clasped his hand, and poured forth his contrition.

He met some one else instead, almost immediately. It was Dr. Ashton,
coming for Anne. Percival was not wanted now: was not invited to continue
his escort. A cold, civil word or two passed, and Val struck across the
grove into the high-road, and returned to Hartledon.

He was about to turn in at the lodge-gates with his usual greeting to
Mrs. Capper when his attention was caught by a figure coming down the
avenue. A man in a long coat, his face ornamented with red whiskers. It
required no second glance for recognition. Whiskers and coat proclaimed
their owner at once; and if ever Val Elster's heart leaped into his
mouth, it certainly leaped then.

He went on, instead of turning in; quietly, as if he were only a stranger
enjoying an evening stroll up the road; but the moment he was past the
gates he set off at breakneck speed, not heeding where. That the man was
there to arrest him, he felt as sure as he had ever felt of anything in
this world; and in his perplexity he began accusing every one of
treachery, Lord Hartledon and Pike in particular.

The river at the back in this part took a sweeping curve, the road kept
straight; so that to arrive at a given point, the one would be more
quickly traversed than the other. On and on went Val Elster; and as soon
as an opening allowed, he struck into the brushwood on the right,
intending to make his way back by the river to Hartledon.

But not yet. Not until the shades of night should fall on the earth:
he would have a better chance of getting away from that shark in the
darkness than by daylight. He propped his back against a tree and waited,
hating himself all the time for his cowardice. With all his scrapes and
dilemmas, he had never been reduced to this sort of hiding.

And his pursuer had struck into the wood after him, passed straight
through it, though with some little doubt and difficulty, and was already
by the river-side, getting there just as Lord Hartledon was passing in
his skiff. Long as this may have seemed in telling, it took only a short
time to accomplish; still Lord Hartledon had not made quick way, or he
would have been further on his course in the race.

Would the sun ever set?--daylight ever pass? Val thought _not_, in his
impatience; and he ventured out of his shelter very soon, and saw for his
reward--the long coat and red whiskers by the river-side, their owner
conversing with a man. Val went further away, keeping the direction of
the stream: the brushwood might no longer be safe. He did not think they
had seen him: the man he dreaded had his back to him, the other his face.
And that other was Pike.




CHAPTER IX.

WAITING FOR DINNER.


Dinner at Hartledon had been ordered for seven o'clock. It was beyond
that hour when Dr. Ashton arrived, for he had been detained--a
clergyman's time is not always under his own control. Anne and Arthur
were with him, but not Mrs. Ashton. He came in, ready with an apology for
his tardiness, but found he need not offer it; neither Lord Hartledon nor
his brother having yet appeared.

"Hartledon and that boy Carteret have not returned home yet," said the
countess-dowager, in her fiercest tones, for she liked her dinner more
than any other earthly thing, and could not brook being kept waiting for
it. "And when they do come, they'll keep us another half-hour dressing."

"I beg your ladyship's pardon--they have come," interposed Captain
Dawkes. "Carteret was going into his room as I came out of mine."

"Time they were," grumbled the dowager. "They were not in five minutes
ago, for I sent to ask."

"Which of the two won the race?" inquired Lady Maude of Captain Dawkes.

"I don't think Carteret did," he replied, laughing. "He seemed as sulky
as a bear, and growled out that there had been no race, for Hartledon had
played him a trick."

"What did he mean?"

"Goodness knows."

"I hope Hartledon upset him," charitably interrupted the dowager. "A
ducking would do that boy good; he is too forward by half."

There was more waiting. The countess-dowager flounced about in her pink
satin gown; but it did not bring the loiterers any the sooner. Lady
Maude--perverse still, but beautiful--talked in whispers to the hero of
the day, Mr. Shute; wearing a blue-silk robe and a blue wreath in her
hair. Anne, adhering to the colours of Lord Hartledon, though he had been
defeated, was in a rich, glistening white silk, with natural flowers, red
and purple, on its body, and the same in her hair. Her sweet face was
sunny again, her eyes were sparkling: a word dropped by Dr. Ashton had
given her a hope that, perhaps, Percival Elster might be forgiven
sometime.

He was the first of the culprits to make his appearance. The dowager
attacked him of course. What did he mean by keeping dinner waiting?

Val replied that he was late in coming home; he had been out. As to
keeping dinner waiting, it seemed that Lord Hartledon was doing that:
he didn't suppose they'd have waited for him.

He spoke tartly, as if not on good terms with himself or the world. Anne
Ashton, near to whom he had drawn, looked up at him with a charming
smile.

"Things may brighten, Percival," she softly breathed.

"It's to be hoped they will," gloomily returned Val. "They look dark
enough just now."

"What have you done to your face?" she whispered.

"To my face? Nothing that I know of."

"The forehead is red, as if it had been bruised, or slightly grazed."

Val put his hand up to his forehead. "I did feel something when I washed
just now," he remarked slowly, as though doubting whether anything was
wrong or not. "It must have been done--when I--struck against that tree,"
he added, apparently taxing his recollection.

"How was that?"

"I was running in the dusk, and did not notice the branch of a tree in my
way. It's nothing, Anne, and will soon go off."

Mr. Carteret came in, looking just as Val Elster had done--out of sorts.
Questions were showered upon him as to the fate of the race; but the
dowager's voice was heard above all.

"This is a pretty time to make your appearance, sir! Where's Lord
Hartledon?"

"In his room, I suppose. Hartledon never came," he added in sulky tones,
as he turned from her to the rest. "I rowed on, and on, thinking how
nicely I was distancing him, and got down, the mischief knows where.
Miles, nearly, I must have gone."

"But why did you pass the turning-point?" asked one.

"There was no turning-point," returned Mr. Carteret; "some confounded
meddler must have unmoored the boat as soon as the first race was over,
and I, like an idiot, rowed on, looking for it. All at once it came into
my mind what a way I must have gone, and I turned and waited. And might
have waited till now," he added, "for Hart never came."

"Then his arm must have failed him," exclaimed Captain Dawkes. "I thought
it was all wrong."

"It wasn't right, for I soon shot past him," returned young Carteret.
"But Hart knew the spot where the boat ought to have been, though I
didn't; what he did, I suppose, was to clear round it just as though it
had been there, and come in home again. It will be an awful shame if he
takes an unfair advantage of it, and claims the race."

"Hartledon never took an unfair advantage in his life," spoke up Val
Elster, in clear, decisive tones. "You need not be afraid, Carteret.
I dare say his arm failed him."

"Well, he might have hallooed when he found it failing, and not have
suffered me to row all that way for nothing," retorted young Carteret.
"Not a trace could I see of him as I came back; he had hastened home,
I expect, to shut himself up in his room with his damaged arm and foot."

"I'll see what he's doing there," said Val.

He went out; but returned immediately.

"We are all under a mistake," was his greeting. "Hartledon has not
returned yet. His servant is in his room waiting for him."

"Then what do you mean by telling stories?" demanded the
countess-dowager, turning sharply on Mr. Carteret.

"Good Heavens, ma'am! you need not begin upon me!" returned young
Carteret. "I have told no stories. I said Hart let me go on, and never
came on himself; if that's a story, I'll swallow Dawkes's skiff and the
sculls too."

"You said he was in his room. You know you did."

"I said I supposed so. It's usual for a man to go there, I believe, to
get ready for dinner," added young Carteret, always ripe for a wordy war,
in his antipathy to the countess-dowager.

"_You_ said he had come in;" and the angry woman faced round on Captain
Dawkes. "You saw them going into their rooms, you said. Which was it--you
did, or you didn't?"

"I did see Carteret make his appearance; and assumed that Lord Hartledon
had gone on to his room," replied the captain, suppressing a laugh. "I am
sorry to have misled your ladyship. I dare say Hart is about the house
somewhere."

"Then why doesn't he appear?" stormed the dowager. "Pretty behaviour
this, to keep us all waiting dinner. I shall tell him so. Val Elster,
ring for Hedges."

Val rang the bell. "Has Lord Hartledon come in?" he asked, when the
butler appeared.

"No, sir."

"And dinner's spoiling, isn't it, Hedges?" broke in the dowager.

"It won't be any the better for waiting, my lady."

"No. I must exercise my privilege and order it served. At once, Hedges,
do you hear? If Hartledon grumbles, I shall tell him it serves him
right."

"But where can Hartledon be?" cried Captain Dawkes.

"That's what I am wondering," said Val. "He can't be on the river all
this time; Carteret would have seen him in coming home."

A strangely grave shade, looking almost like a prevision of evil, arose
to Dr. Ashton's face. "I trust nothing has happened to him," he
exclaimed. "Where did you part company with him, Mr. Carteret?"

"That's more than I can tell you, sir. You must have seen--at least--no,
you were not there; but those looking on must have seen me get ahead of
him within view of the starting-point; soon after that I lost sight of
him. The river winds, you know; and of course I thought he was coming on
behind me. Very daft of me, not to divine that the boat had been
removed!"

"Do you think he passed the mill?"

"The mill?"

"That place where the river forms what might almost be called a miniature
harbour. A mill is built there which the stream serves. You could not
fail to see it."

"I remember now. Yes, I saw the mill. What of it?"

"Did Lord Hartledon pass it?"

"How should I know!" cried the boy. "I had lost sight of him ages before
that."

"The current is extremely rapid there," observed Dr. Ashton. "If he found
his arm failing, he might strike down to the mill and land there; and his
ankle may be keeping him a prisoner."

"And that's what it is!" exclaimed Val.

They were crossing the hall to the dining-room. Without the slightest
ceremony, the countess-dowager pushed herself foremost and advanced to
the head of the table.

"I shall occupy this seat in my nephew's absence," said she. "Dr. Ashton,
will you be so good as to take the foot? There's no one else."

"Nay, madam; though Lord Hartledon may not be here, Mr. Elster is."

She had actually forgotten Val; and would have liked to ignore him now
that he was recalled to remembrance; but that might not be. As much
contempt as could be expressed in her face was there, as she turned her
snub nose and small round eyes defiantly upon that unoffending younger
brother.

"I was going to request you to take it, sir," said Percival, in low
tones, to Dr. Ashton. "I shall go off in the pony-carriage for Edward.
He must think we are neglecting him."

"Very well. I hate these rowing matches," heartily added the Rector.

"What a curious old fish that parson must be!" ejaculated young Carteret
to his next neighbour. "He says he doesn't like boating."

It happened to be Arthur Ashton, and the lad's brow lowered. "You are
speaking of my father," he said. "But I'll tell you why he does not like
it. He had a brother once, a good deal older than himself; they had no
father, and Arthur--that was the elder--was very fond of him: there were
only those two. He took him out in a boat one day, and there was an
accident: the eldest was drowned, the little one saved. Do you wonder
that my father has dreaded boating ever since? He seems to have the same
sort of dread of it that a child who has been frightened by its nurse has
of the dark."

"By Jove! that was a go, though!" was the sympathising comment of Mr.
Carteret.

The doctor said grace, and dinner proceeded. It was not half over when
Mr. Elster came in, in his light overcoat. Walking straight up to the
table, he stood by it, his face wearing a blank, perplexed look. A
momentary silence of expectation, and then many tongues spoke together.

"Where's your brother? Where's Lord Hartledon? Has he not come?"

"I don't know where he is," answered Val. "I was in hopes he had reached
home before me, but I find he has not. I can't make it out at all."

"Did he land at the mill?" asked Dr. Ashton.

"Yes, he must have done so, for the skiff is moored there."

"Then he's all right," cried the doctor; and there was a strangely-marked
sound of relief in his tones.

"Oh, he is all right," confidently asserted Percival. "The only question
is, where he can be. The miller was out this afternoon, and left his
place locked up; so that Hartledon could not get in, and had nothing for
it but to start home with his lameness, or sit down on the bank until
some one found him."

"He must have set off to walk."

"I should think so. But where has he walked to?" added Val. "I drove
slowly home, looking on either side of the road, but could see nothing of
him."

"What should bring him on the side of the road?" demanded the dowager.
"Do you think he would turn tramp, and take his seat on a heap of stones?
Where do you get your ideas from?"

"From common sense, ma'am. If he set out to walk, and his foot failed him
half-way, there'd be nothing for it but to sit down and wait. But he is
_not_ on the road: that is the curious part of the business."

"Would he come the other way?"

"Hardly. It is so much further by the river than by the road."

"You may depend upon it that is what he has done," said Dr. Ashton. "He
might think he should meet some of you that way, and get an arm to help
him."

"I declare I never thought of that," exclaimed Val, his face brightening.
"There he is, no doubt; perched somewhere between this and the mill, like
patience on a monument, unable to put foot to the ground."

He turned away. Some of the men offered to accompany him: but he declined
their help, and begged them to go on with their dinner, saying he would
take sufficient servants with him, even though they had to carry
Hartledon.

So Mr. Elster went, taking servants and lanterns; for in some parts of
this road the trees overhung, and rendered it dark. But they could not
find Lord Hartledon. They searched, and shouted, and waved their
lanterns: all in vain. Very much perplexed indeed did Val Elster look
when he got back again.

"Where in the world can he have gone to?" angrily questioned the
countess-dowager; and she glared from her seat at the head of the table
on the offender Val, as she asked it. "I must say all this is most
unseemly, and Hartledon ought to be brought to his senses for causing it.
I suppose he has taken himself off to a surgeon's."

It was possible, but unlikely, as none knew better than Val Elster. To
get to the surgeon's he would have to pass his own house, and would be
more likely to go in, and send for Mr. Hillary, than walk on with a
disabled foot. Besides, if he had gone to the surgeon's, he would not
stay there all this time. "I don't know what to do," said Percival
Elster; and there was the same blank, perplexed look on his face that was
observed the first time he came in. "I don't much like the appearance of
things."

"Why, you don't think anything's wrong with him!" exclaimed young
Carteret, starting-up with an alarmed face. "He's safe to turn up, isn't
he?"

"Of course he will turn up," answered Val, in a dreamy tone. "Only this
uncertainty, as to where to look for him, is not pleasant."

Dr. Ashton motioned Val to his side. "Are you fearing an accident?" he
asked in low tones.

"No, sir."

"I am. That current by the mill is so fearfully strong; and if your
brother had not the use of his one arm--and the boat was drawn onwards,
beyond his control--and upset--"

Dr. Ashton paused. Val Elster looked rather surprised.

"How could it upset, sir? The skiffs are as safe as this floor. I don't
fear that in the least: what I do fear is that Edward may be in some
out-of-the-way nook, insensible from pain, and won't be found until
daylight. Fancy, a whole night out of doors, in that state! He might be
half-dead with cold by the morning."

Dr. Ashton shook his head in dissent. His dislike of boating seemed just
now to be rising into horror.

"What are you going to do now, Elster?" inquired Captain Dawkes.

"Go to the mill again, I think, and find out if any one saw Hartledon
leave the skiff, and which way he took. One of the servants can run down
to Hillary's the while."

Dr. Ashton rose, bowing for permission to Lady Kirton; and the gentlemen
with one accord rose with him, the same purpose in the mind of all--that
of more effectually scouring the ground between the mill and Hartledon.
The countess-dowager felt that she should like to box the ears of every
one of them. The idea of danger in connection with Lord Hartledon had
not yet penetrated to her brain.

At this moment, before they had left the room, there arose a strange wild
sound from without--almost an unearthly sound--that seemed to come from
several voices, and to be bearing round the house from the river-path.
Mrs. O'Moore put down her knife and fork, and rose up with a startled
cry.

"There's nothing to be alarmed at," said the dowager. "It is those Irish
harvesters. I know their horrid voices, and dare say they are riotously
drunk. Hartledon ought to put them in prison for it."

The sounds died away into silence. Mrs. O'Moore took her hands from her
eyes, where they had been pressed. "Don't you know what it is, Lady
Kirton? It is the Irish death-wail!"

It rose again, louder than before, for those from whom it came were
nearing the house--a horribly wailing sound, ringing out in the silence
of the night. Mrs. O'Moore crouched into her chair again, and hid her
terrified face. She was not Irish, and had never heard that sound but
once, and that was when her child died.

"She is right," cried her husband, the O'Moore; "that is the death-wail.
Hark! it is for a chieftain; they mourn the loss of one high in the land.
And--they are coming here! Oh, Elster! can DEATH have overtaken your
brother?"

The gentlemen had stood spell-bound, listening to the sound, their faces
a mixture of surprise and credulity. At the words they rushed out with
one accord, and the women stole after them with trembling steps and
blanched lips.

"If ever I saw such behaviour in all my existence!" irascibly spoke the
countess-dowager, who was left alone in her glory. "The death-wail,
indeed! The woman's a fool. I'll get those Irishmen transported, if
I can."

In the hall the servants were gathered, cowering almost as the ladies
did. Their master had flown down the hall-steps, and the labourers were
coming steadily up to it, bearing something in procession. Dr. Ashton
came back as quickly as he had gone out, extending his arms before him.

"Ladies, I pray you go in," he urged, in strange agitation. "You must not
meet these--these Irishmen. Go back to the dining-room, I entreat you,
and remain in it."

But the curiosity of women--who can suppress it? They were as though they
heard not, and were pressing on to the door, when Val Elster dashed in
with a white face.

"Back, all of you! You must not stay here. This is no place or sight for
you. Anne," he added, seizing Miss Ashton's hand in peremptory entreaty,
"you at least know how to be calm. Get them away, and keep them out of
the hall."

"Tell me the worst," she implored. "I will indeed try to be calm. Who is
it those men are bringing here?"

"My dear brother--my dead brother. Madam," he continued to the
countess-dowager, who had now come out, dinner-napkin in hand, her curls
all awry, "you must not come here. Go back to the dining-room, all of
you."

"Not come here! Go back to the dining-room!" echoed the outraged dowager.
"Don't take quite so much upon yourself, Val Elster. The house is Lord
Hartledon's, and I am a free agent in it."

A shriek--an agonized shriek--broke from Lady Maude. In her suspense she
had stolen out unperceived, and lifted the covering of the rude bier, now
resting on the steps. The rays of the hall-lamp fell on the face, and
Maude, in her anguish, with a succession of hysterical sobs, came
shivering back to sink down at her mother's feet.

"Oh, my love--my love! Dead! dead!"

The only one who heard the words was Anne Ashton. The countess-dowager
caught the last.

"Who is dead? What is this mystery?" she asked, unceremoniously lifting
her satin dress, with the intention of going out to see, and her head
began to nod--perhaps with apprehension--as if she had the palsy. "You
want to force us away. No, thank you; not until I've come to the bottom
of this."

"Let us tell them," cried young Carteret, in his boyish impulse, "and
then perhaps they will go. An accident has happened to Lord Hartledon,
ma'am, and these men have brought him home."

"He--_he's_ not dead?" asked the old woman, in changed tones.

Alas! poor Lord Hartledon was indeed dead. The Irish labourers, in
passing near the mill, had detected the body in the water; rescued it,
and brought it home.

The countess-dowager's grief commenced rather turbulently. She talked and
shrieked, and danced round, exactly as if she had been a wild Indian. It
was so intensely ludicrous, that the occupants of the hall gazed in
silence.

"Here to-day, and gone to-morrow!" she sobbed. "Oh--o--o--o--o--o--oh!"

"Nay," cried young Carteret, "here to-day, and gone _now_. Poor fellow!
it is awful."

"And you have done it!" she cried, turning her grief upon the astonished
boy. "You! What business had you to allure him off again in that
miserable boat, once he had got home?"

"Don't trample me down, please," he indignantly returned; "I am as cut up
as you can be. Hedges, hadn't you better get Lady Kirton's maid here? I
think she is going mad."

"And now the house is without a master," she bemoaned, returning to her
own griefs and troubles, "and I have all the arrangements thrown upon
myself."

"The house is not without a master," said young Carteret, who seemed
inclined to have the last word. "If one master has gone from it, poor
fellow! there's another to replace him; and he is at your elbow now."

He at her elbow was Val Elster. Lady Kirton gathered in the sense of the
words, and gave a cry; a prolonged cry of absolute dismay.

"_He_ can't be its master."

"I should say he _is_, ma'am. At any rate he is now Lord Hartledon."

She looked from one to the other in helpless doubt. It was a contingency
that had never so much as occurred to her. Had she wanted confirmation,
the next moment brought it to her from the lips of the butler.

"Hedges," called out Percival sternly, in his embarrassment and grief,
"open the dining-room door. We _must_ get the hall cleared."

"The door is open, my lord."

"_He_ Lord Hartledon!" shrieked the countess-dowager, "why, I was going
to recommend his brother to ship him off to Canada for life."

It was altogether an unseemly scene at such a time. But almost everything
the Countess-Dowager of Kirton did was unseemly.




CHAPTER X.

MR. PIKE'S VISIT.


Percival Elster was in truth Earl of Hartledon. By one of those
unexpected calamities, which are often inexplicable--and which most
certainly was so as yet in the present instance--a promising young life
had been snapped asunder, and another reigned in his place. In one short
hour Val Elster, who had scarcely cross or coin to call his own, had been
going in danger of arrest from one moment to another, had become a peer
of the realm and a man of wealth.

As they laid the body down in a small room opening from the hall, and his
late companions and guests crowded around in awe-struck silence, there
was one amidst them who could not control his grief and emotion. It was
poor Val. Pushing aside the others, never heeding them in his bitter
sorrow, he burst into passionate sobs as he leaned over the corpse. And
none of them thought the worse of Val for it.

"Oh, Percival! how did it happen?"

The speaker was Dr. Ashton. Little less affected himself, he clasped the
young man's hand in token of heartfelt sympathy.

"I cannot think _how_ it could have happened," replied Percival, when
able to control his feelings sufficiently to speak. "It seems awfully
strange to me--mysteriously so."

"If he found himself going wrong, why didn't he shout out?" asked young
Carteret, with a rueful face. "I couldn't have helped hearing him."

It was a question that was passing through the minds of all; was being
whispered about. How could it have happened? The body presented the usual
appearance of death from drowning; but close to the left temple was a
wound, and the face was otherwise disfigured. It must have been done,
they thought, by coming into contact with something or other in the
water; perhaps the skiff itself. Arm and ankle were both much swollen.

Nothing was certainly known as yet of Lord Hartledon from the time Mr.
Carteret parted company with him, to the time when the body was found. It
appeared that these Irish labourers were going home from their work,
singing as they went, their road lying past the mill, when they were
spoken to by the miller's boy. He stood on the species of estrade which
the miller had placed there for his own convenience, bending down as far
as his young head and shoulders could reach, and peering into the water
attentively. "I think I see some'at in the stream," quoth he, and the men
stopped; and after a short time, proceeded to search. It proved to be the
dead body of Lord Hartledon, caught amongst the reeds.

It was rather a curious coincidence that Percival Elster and his servants
in the last search should have heard the voices of the labourers singing
in the distance. But they were too far off on their return to Hartledon
to be within hearing when the men found the body.

The news spread; people came up from far and near, and Hartledon was
besieged. Mr. Hillary, the surgeon, gave it as his opinion that the wound
on the temple, no doubt caused before death, had rendered Lord Hartledon
insensible, and unable to extricate himself from the water. The mill and
cottage were built on what might be called an arm of the river. Lord
Hartledon had no business there at all; but the current was very strong;
and if, as was too probable, he had become almost disabled, he might have
drifted to it without being able to help himself; or he might have been
making for it, intending to land and rest in the cottage until help could
be summoned to convey him home. How he got into the water was not known.
Once in the water, the blow was easy enough to receive; he might have
struck against the estrade.

There is almost sure to be some miserable coincidence in these cases to
render them doubly unfortunate. For three weeks past, as the miller
testified--a respectable man named Floyd--his mill had not been deserted;
some one, man, boy, or woman, had always been there. On this afternoon it
was closed, mill and cottage too, and all were away. What might have been
simply a slight accident, had help been at hand, had terminated in an
awful death for the want of it.

It was eleven o'clock before anything like order was restored at
Hartledon, and the house left in quiet. The last person to quit it was
Dr. Ashton. Hedges, the butler, had been showing him out, and was
standing for a minute on the steps looking after him, and perhaps to
cool, with a little fresh air, his perplexed brow--for the man was a
faithful retainer, and the affair had shocked him in no common
degree--when he was accosted by Pike, who emerged stealthily from behind
one of the outer pillars, where he seemed to have been sheltering.

"Why, what have you been doing there?" exclaimed the butler.

"Mr. Hedges, I've been waiting here--hiding, if you like to call it so,"
was the answer; and it should be observed that the man's manner, quite
unlike his usual rough, devil-may-care tone, was characterized by
singular respect and earnestness. To hear him, and not see him, you might
think you were listening to some staid and respectable friend of the
family. "I have been standing there this hour past, keeping behind the
pillar while other folk went in and out, and waiting my time to speak to
you."

"To me?" repeated Hedges.

"Yes, sir. I want you to grant me a favour; and I hope you'll pardon my
boldness in asking it."

Hedges did not know what to make of this. It was the first time he
had enjoyed the honour of a personal interview with Mr. Pike; and the
contrast between that gentleman's popular reputation and his present tone
and manner struck the butler as exceedingly singular. But that the butler
was in a very softened mood, feeling full of subdued charity towards all
the world, he might not have condescended to parley with the man.

"What is the favour?" he inquired.

"I want you to let me in to see the poor young earl--what's left of him."

"Let you in to see the earl!" echoed Hedges in surprise. "I never heard
such a bold request."

"It is bold. I've already said so, and asked you to pardon it."

"What can you want that for? It can't be for nothing but curiosity;
and--"

"It's not curiosity," interrupted Pike, with an emphasis that told upon
his hearer. "I have a different motive, sir; and a good motive. If I were
at liberty to tell it--which I'm not--you'd let me in without another
word. Lots of people have been seeing him, I suppose."

"Indeed they have not. Why should they? It is a bold thing for _you_ to
come and ask it."

"Did he come by his death fairly?" whispered the man.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the butler, stepping back aghast. "I don't
think you know what you are talking about. Who would harm Lord
Hartledon?"

"Let me see him," implored the man. "It can't hurt him or anybody else.
Only just for a minute, sir, in your presence. And if it's ever in my
power to do you a good turn, Mr. Hedges, I'll do it. It doesn't seem
likely now; but the mouse gnawed the lion's net, you know, and set him
free."

Whether it was the strange impressiveness with which the request was
proffered, or that the softened mood of Hedges rendered him incapable of
contention, certain it was that he granted it; and most likely would
wonder at himself for it all his after-life. Crossing the hall with
silent tread, and taking up a candle as he went, he led the way to the
room; Mr. Pike stepping after him with a tread equally silent.

"Take your hat off," peremptorily whispered the butler; for that worthy
had entered the room with it on. "Is that the way to--"

"Hedges!"

Hedges was struck with consternation at the call, for it was that of his
new master. He had not bargained for this; supposing that he had gone to
his room for the night. However he might have been foolishly won over to
accede to the man's strange request, it was not to be supposed it would
be approved of by Lord Hartledon. The butler hesitated. He did not care
to betray Pike, neither did he care to leave Pike alone.

"Hedges!" came the call again, louder and quicker.

"Yes, sir--my lord?" and Hedges squeezed out at the door without opening
it much--which was rather a difficulty, for he was a portly man, with a
red, honest sort of face--leaving Pike and the light inside. Lord
Hartledon--as we must unfortunately call him now--was standing in the
hall.

"Has Dr. Ashton gone?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Did he leave that address?"

Hedges knew to what his master alluded: an address that was wanted in
connection with certain official proceedings that must now take place.
Hedges replied that Dr. Ashton had not left it with him.

"Then he must have forgotten it. He said he would write it down in
pencil. Send over to the Rectory the first thing in the morning. And,
Hedges--"

At this moment a slight noise was heard within the room like the sound of
an extinguisher falling; as, in fact, it was. Lord Hartledon turned
towards it.

"Who is there, Hedges?"

"I--it's no one in particular, sir--my lord."

What with the butler's bewilderment on the sudden change of masters, and
what with his consciousness of the presence of his visitor, he was
unusually confused. Lord Hartledon noticed it. It instantly occurred to
him that one of the ladies, or perhaps one of the women-servants, had
been admitted to the room; and he did not consider it a proper sight for
any of them.

"Who is it?" he demanded, somewhat peremptorily.

So Hedges had to confess what had taken place, and that he had allowed
the man to enter.

"Pike! Why, what can he want?" exclaimed Lord Hartledon in surprise. And
he turned to the room.

The moment the butler left him alone Mr. Pike's first proceeding had been
to cover his head again with his wide-awake, which he had evidently
removed with reluctance, and might have refused to remove at all had it
been consistent with policy; his second was to snatch up the candle, bend
over the dead face, and examine it minutely both with eye and hand.

"There _is_ a wound, then, and it's true what they are saying. I thought
it might have been gossip," he muttered, as he pushed the soft dark hair
from the temple. "Any more suspicious marks?" he resumed, taking a rapid
view of the hands and head. "No; nothing but what he'd be likely to get
in the water: but--I'll swear _that_ might have been the blow of a human
hand. 'Twould stun, if it wouldn't kill; and then, held under the
water--"

At this moment Mr. Pike and his comments were interrupted, and he drew
back from the table on which the body was lying; but not before Lord
Hartledon had seen him touching the face of the dead.

"What are you doing?" came the stern demand.

"I wasn't harming him," was the answer; and Mr. Pike seemed to have
suddenly returned to his roughness. "It's a nasty accident to have
happened; and I don't like _this_."

He pointed to the temple as he spoke. Lord Hartledon's usually
good-natured brow--at present a brow of deep sorrow--contracted
with displeasure.

"It is an awful accident," he replied. "But I asked what you were doing
here?"

"I thought I'd like to look upon him, sir; and the butler let me in. I
wish I'd been a bit nearer the place at the time: I'd have saved him, or
got drowned myself. Not much fear of that, though. I'm a rat for the
water. Was that done fairly?" pointing again to the temple.

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Val.

"Well--it might be, or it might not. One who has led the roving life I
have, and been in all sorts of scenes, bred in the slums of London too,
looks on the suspicious side of these things. And there mostly is one in
all of 'em."

Val was moved to anger. "How dare you hint at so infamous a suspicion,
Pike? If--"

"No offence, my lord," interrupted Pike--"and it's my lord that you are
now. Thoughts may be free in this room; but I am not going to spread
suspicion outside. I say, though that _might_ have been an accident, it
might have been done by an enemy."

"Did you do it?" retorted Lord Hartledon in his displeasure.

Pike gave a short laugh.

"I did not. I had no cause to harm him. What I'm thinking was, whether
anybody else had. He was mistaken for another yesterday," continued Pike,
dropping his voice. "Some men in his lordship's place might have showed
fight then: even blows."

Percival made no immediate rejoinder. He was gazing at Pike just as
fixedly as the latter gazed at him. Did the man wish to insinuate that
the unwelcome visitor had again mistaken the one brother for the other,
and the result had been a struggle between them, ending in this? The idea
rushed into his mind, and a dark flush overspread his face.

"You have no grounds for thinking that man--you know who I mean--attacked
my brother a second time?"

"No, I have no grounds for it," shortly answered Pike.

"He was near to the spot at the time; I saw him there," continued Lord
Hartledon, speaking apparently to himself; whilst the flush, painfully
red and dark, was increasing rather than diminishing.

"I know you did," returned Pike.

The tone grated on Lord Hartledon's ear. It implied that the man might
become familiar, if not checked; and, with all his good-natured
affability, he was not one to permit it; besides, his position was
changed, and he could not help feeling that it was. "Necessity makes us
acquainted with strange bedfellows," says the very true proverb; and what
might have been borne yesterday would not be borne to-day.

"Let me understand you," he said, and there was a stern decision in his
tone and manner that surprised Pike. "Have you any reason whatever to
suspect that man of having injured, or attempted to injure my brother?"

"_I_'ve not," answered Pike. "I never saw him nearer to the mill
yesterday than he was when he looked at us. I don't think he went nearer.
My lord, if I knew anything against the man, I'd tell it out, and be
glad. I hate the whole tribe. _He_ wouldn't make the mistake again,"
added Pike, half-contemptuously. "He knew which was his lordship fast
enough to-day, and which wasn't."

"Then what did you mean by insinuating that the blow on the temple was
the result of violence?"

"I didn't say it was: I said it might have been. I don't know a thing, as
connected with this business, against a mortal soul. It's true, my lord."

"Perhaps, then, you will leave this room," said Lord Hartledon.

"I'm going. And many thanks to your lordship for not having turned me
from it before, and for letting me have my say. Thanks to _you_, sir," he
added, as he went out of the room and passed Hedges, who was waiting in
the hall.

Hedges closed the door after him, and turned to receive a reprimand from
his new master.

"Before you admit such men as that into the most sacred chamber the house
at present contains, you will ask my permission, Hedges."

Hedges attempted to excuse himself. "He was so very earnest, my lord; he
declared to me he had a good motive in wanting to come in. At these
times, when one's heart is almost broken with a sudden blow, one is apt
to be soft and yielding. What with that feeling upon me, and what with
the fright he gave me--"

"What fright did he give you?" interrupted Val.

"Well, my lord, he--he asked me whether his lordship had come fairly by
his death."

"How dare you repeat the insinuation?" broke forth Lord Hartledon, with
more temper than Hedges had ever seen him display. "The very idea is
absurd; it is wicked; it is unpardonable. My brother had not an enemy in
the world. Take care not to repeat it again. Do you hear?"

He turned away from the astonished man, went into the room he had called
sacred, and closed the door. Hedges wondered whether the hitherto
sweet-tempered, easy-mannered younger brother had changed his nature
with his inheritance.

As the days went on, few, if any, further particulars were elicited as to
the cause of accident. That the unfortunate Lord Hartledon had become
partly, if not wholly, disabled, so as to be incapable of managing even
the little skiff, had been drifted by the current towards the mills, and
there upset, was assumed by all to have been the true history of the
case. There appeared no reason to doubt that it was so. The inquest was
held on the Thursday.

And on that same morning the new Lord Hartledon received a proof of the
kindness of his brother. A letter arrived from Messrs. Kedge and Reck,
addressed to Edward Earl of Hartledon. By it Percival found--there was no
one else to open it now--that his brother had written to them early on
the Tuesday morning, taking the debt upon himself; and they now wrote to
say they accepted his responsibility, and had withdrawn the officer from
Calne. Alas! Val Elster could have dismissed him himself now.

He sat with bent head and drooping eyelids. None, save himself, knew how
bitter were the feelings within him, or the remorse that was his portion
for having behaved unkindly to his brother within the last few hours of
life. He had rebelled at his state of debt becoming known to Dr. Ashton;
he had feared to lose Anne: it seemed to him now, that he would live
under the doctor's displeasure for ever, would never see Anne again,
could he recall his brother. Oh, these unavailing regrets! Will they rise
up to face us at the Last Day?

With a suppressed ejaculation that was like a cry of pain, as if he would
throw from him these reflections and could not, Lord Hartledon drew a
sheet of paper before him and wrote a note to the lawyers. He briefly
stated what had taken place; that his brother was dead from an accident,
and he had inherited, and should take speedy measures for the discharge
of any liabilities there might be against him: and he requested, as a
favour, that the letter written to them by his brother might be preserved
and returned to him: he should wish to keep it as the last lines his hand
had traced.




CHAPTER XI.

THE INQUEST.


On this day, Thursday, the inquest was held. Most of the gay crowd
staying at Hartledon had taken flight; Mr. Carteret, and one or two more,
whose testimony might be wished for, remaining. The coroner and jury
assembled in the afternoon, in a large boarded apartment called the
steward's room. Lord Hartledon was present with Dr. Ashton and other
friends: they were naturally anxious to hear the evidence that could be
collected, and gather any light that might be thrown upon the accident.
The doors were not closed to the public, and a crowd, gentle and simple,
pressed in.

The surgeon spoke to the supposed cause of death--drowning: the miller
spoke to his house and mill having been that afternoon shut up. He and
his wife went over in their spring-cart to Garchester, and left the place
locked up, he said. The coroner asked whether it was his custom to lock
up his place when he went out; he replied that it was, when they went out
together; but that event rarely happened. Upon his return at dusk, he
found the little skiff loose in the stream, and secured it. It was his
servant-boy, David Ripper, who called his attention to it first of all.
He saw nothing of Lord Hartledon, and had not very long secured the skiff
when Mr. Percival Elster came up in the pony-carriage, asking if his
brother was there. He looked at the skiff, and said it was the one his
lordship had been in. Mr. Elster said he supposed his brother was walking
home, and he should drive slowly back and look out for him. Later Mr.
Elster returned: he had several servants with him then and lanterns; they
had come out to look for Lord Hartledon, but could not find him. It was
only just after they had gone away again that the Irish harvest-men came
up and found the body.

This was the substance of the miller's evidence; it was all he knew:
and the next witness called was the boy David Ripper, popularly styled
in the neighbourhood young Rip, in contradistinction to his father, a
day-labourer. He was an urchin of ten or twelve, with a red, round face;
quite ludicrous from its present expression of terrified consternation.
The coroner sharply inquired what he was frightened at; and the boy burst
into a roar by way of answer. He didn't know nothing, and hadn't seen
nothing, and it wasn't him that drowned his lordship; and he couldn't
tell more if they hanged him for it.

The miller interposed. The boy was one of the idlest young vagabonds he
had ever had the luck to be troubled with; and he thought it exceedingly
likely he had been off that afternoon and not near the mill at all. He
had ordered him to take two sacks into Calne; but when he reached home he
found the sacks untouched, lying where he had placed them outside. Mr.
Ripper had no doubt been playing truant on his own account.

"Where did you pass Tuesday afternoon during your master's absence?"
sternly demanded the coroner. "Take your hands from your face and answer
me, boy."

David Ripper obeyed in the best manner he was capable of, considering his
agitation. "I dun know now where I was," he said. "I was about."

"About where?"

Mr. Ripper apparently could not say where. He thought he was "setting his
bird-trap" in the stubble-field; and he see a partridge, and watched
where it scudded to; but he wasn't nigh the mill the whole time.

"Did you see anything of Lord Hartledon when he was in the skiff?"

"I never saw him," he sobbed. "I wasn't nigh the mill at all, and never
saw him nor the skiff."

"What time did you get back to the mill?" asked the coroner.

He didn't know what time it was; his master and missis had come home.

This was true, Mr. Floyd said. They had been back some little time before
Ripper showed himself. The first intimation he received of that truant's
presence was when he drew his attention to the loose skiff.

"How came you to see the skiff?" sharply asked the coroner.

Ripper spoke up with trembling lips. He was waiting outside after he came
up, and afraid to go in lest his master should beat him for not taking
the sacks, which went clean out of his mind, they did, and then he saw
the little boat; upon which he called out and told his master.

"And it was also you who first saw the body in the water," observed the
coroner, regarding the reluctant witness curiously. "How came you to see
that? Were you looking for something of the sort?"

The witness shivered. He didn't know how he come to see it. He was on the
strade, not looking for nothing, when he saw some'at dark among the
reeds, and told the harvesters when they come by. They said it was a man,
got him out, and then found it was his lordship.

There was only one peculiarity about the boy's evidence--his manner.
All he said was feasible enough; indeed, what would be most likely to
happen under the circumstances. But whence arose his terror? Had he been
of a timid temperament, it might have been natural; but the miller had
spoken the truth--he was audacious and hardy. Only upon one or two,
however, did the manner leave any impression. Pike, who made one of the
crowd in the inquest-room, was one of these. His experience of human
nature was tolerably keen, and he felt sure the boy was keeping something
behind that he did not dare to tell. The coroner and jury were not so
clear-sighted, and dismissed him with the remark that he was a "little
fool."

"Call George Gorton," said the coroner, looking at his notes.

Very much to Lord Hartledon's surprise--perhaps somewhat to his
annoyance--the man answering to this name was the one who had originally
come to Calne on a special mission to himself. Some feeling caused him to
turn from the man whilst he gave his evidence, a thing easily done in the
crowded room.

It appeared that amidst the stirring excitement in the neighbourhood on
the Tuesday night when the death became known, this stranger happened to
avow in the public-house which he made his quarters that he had seen Lord
Hartledon in his skiff just before the event must have happened. The
information was reported, and the man received a summons to appear before
the coroner.

And it may be as well to remark now, that his second appearance was owing
to a little cowardice on his own part. He had felt perfectly satisfied at
the time with the promise given him by Lord Hartledon to see the debt
paid--given also in the presence of the Rector--and took his departure in
the train, just as Pike had subsequently told Mr. Elster. But ere he had
gone two stages on his journey, he began to think he might have been too
precipitate, and to ask himself whether his employers would not tell him
so when he appeared before them, unbacked by any guarantee from Lord
Hartledon; for this, by a strange oversight, he had omitted to ask for.
He halted at once, and went back by the next return train. The following
day, Tuesday, he spent looking after Lord Hartledon, but, as it happened,
did not meet him.

The man--a dissipated young man, now that his hat was off--came forward
in his long coat, his red hair and whiskers. But it seemed that he had
really very little information to give. He was on the banks of the river
when Lord Hartledon passed in the skiff, and noticed how strangely he was
rowing, one arm apparently lying useless. What part of the river was
this, the coroner asked; and the witness avowed that he could not
describe it. He was a stranger, never there but that once; all he knew
was, that it was higher up, beyond Hartledon House. What might he have
been doing there, demanded the coroner. Only strolling about, was the
answer. What was his business at Calne? came the next question; and as it
was put, the witness caught the eye of the new Lord Hartledon through an
opening in the crowd. His business, the witness replied to the coroner,
was his own business, and did not concern the public, and he respectfully
declined to state it. He presumed Calne was a free place like other
places, where a stranger might spend a few days without question, if he
pleased.

Pike chuckled at this: incipient resistance to authority cheered that
lawless man's heart. He had stood throughout, in the shadow of the crowd,
just within the door, attentively watching the witnesses as they gave
their evidence: but he was not prepared for what was to come next.

Did the witness see any other spectators on the bank? continued the
coroner. Only one, was the answer: a man called Pike, or some such name.
Pike was watching the little boat on the river when he got up to him; he
remarked to Pike that his lordship's arm seemed tired; and he and Pike
had walked back to Calne together.

Pike would have got away had he been able, but the coroner whispered to
an officer. For one single moment Mr. Pike seemed inclined to show fight;
he began struggling, not gently, to reach the door; the next he gave it
up, and resigned himself to his fate. There was a little hubbub, in the
midst of which a slip of paper with a pencilled line from Lord Hartledon,
was handed to the coroner.

"_Press this point, whether they returned to Calne at once and
together._"

"George Gorton," cried the coroner, as he crushed the paper in his hand,
"at what hour did you return to Calne?"

"I went at once. As soon as the little boat was out of sight."

"Went alone?"

"No, sir. I and the man Pike walked together. I've said so already."

"What made you go together?"

"Nothing in particular. We were both going back, I suppose, and strolled
along talking."

It appeared to be all that the witness had to tell, and Mr. Pike came
forward perforce. As he stood there, his elegant wide-awake bent in his
hand, he looked more like the wild man of the woods he had been compared
to, than a civilized being. Rough, rude, and abrupt were his tones as he
spoke, and he bent his face and eyes downwards whilst he answered. It was
in those eyes that lay the look which had struck Mr. Elster as being
familiar to him. He persisted in giving his name as Tom, not Thomas.

But if the stranger in the long coat had little evidence to give, Pike
had even less. He had been in the woods that afternoon and sauntered to
the bank of the river just as Lord Hartledon passed in the skiff; but he
had taken very little notice of him. It was only when the last witness,
who came up at the moment, remarked upon the queer manner in which his
lordship held his arm, that he saw it was lying idle.

Not a thing more could he or would he tell. It was all he knew, he said,
and would swear it was all. He went back to Calne with the last witness,
and never saw his lordship again alive.

It did appear to be all, just as it did in the matter of the other man.
The coroner inquired whether he had seen any one else on the banks or
near them, and Pike replied that he had not set eyes on another soul,
which Percival knew to be false, for he had seen _him_. He was told to
put his signature to his evidence, which the clerk had taken down, and
affixed a cross.

"Can't you write?" asked the coroner.

Pike shook his head negatively. "Never learnt," he curtly said. And
Percival believed that to be an untruth equally with the other. He could
not help thinking that the avowal of their immediate return might also be
false: it was just as possible that one or other, or both, had followed
the course of the boat.

Mr. Carteret was examined. He could tell no more than he had already
told. They started together, but he had soon got beyond his lordship,
and had never seen him again alive. There was nothing more to be gleaned
or gathered. Not the smallest suspicion of foul play, or of its being
anything but a most unfortunate accident, was entertained for a moment by
any one who heard the evidence, and the verdict of the jury was to that
effect: Accidental Death.

As the crowd pressed out of the inquest-room, jostling one another in the
gloom of the evening, and went their several ways, Lord Hartledon found
himself close to Gorton, his coat flapping as he walked. The man was
looking round for Pike: but Mr. Pike, the instant his forced evidence was
given, had slunk away from the gaze of his fellow-men to ensconce himself
in his solitary shed. To all appearance Lord Hartledon had overtaken
Gorton by accident: the man turned aside in obedience to a signal, and
halted. They could not see much of each other's faces in the twilight.

"I wish to ask you a question," said Percival in low, impressive, and not
unkindly tones. "Did you speak with my brother, Lord Hartledon, at all on
Tuesday?"

"No, my lord, I did not," was the ready answer. "I was trying to get to
see his lordship, but did not."

"What did you want with him? What brought you back to Calne?"

"I wanted to get from him a guarantee for--for what your lordship knows
of; which he had omitted to give, and I had not thought to ask for,"
civilly replied the man. "I was looking about for his lordship on the
Tuesday morning, but did not get to see him. In the afternoon, when the
boat-race was over, I made bold to call at Hartledon, but the servants
said his lordship wasn't in. As I came away, I saw him, as I thought,
pass the lodge and go up the road, and I cut after him, but couldn't
overtake him, and at last lost sight of him. I struck into a tangled sort
of pathway through the gorse, or whatever it's called down here, and it
brought me out near the river. His lordship was just sculling down, and
then I knew it was some one else had gone by the lodge, and not him.
Perhaps it was your lordship?"

"You knew it was Lord Hartledon in the boat? I mean, you recognized him?
You did not mistake him for me?"

"I knew him, my lord. If I'd been a bit nearer the lodge, I shouldn't
have been likely to mistake even your lordship for him."

Lord Hartledon was gazing into the man's face still; never once had his
eyes been removed from it.

"You did not see Lord Hartledon later?"

"I never saw him all day but that once when he passed in the skiff."

"You did not follow him, then?"

"Of what use?" debated the man. "I couldn't call out my business from the
banks, and didn't know his lordship was going to land lower down. I went
straight back to Calne, my lord, walking with that man Pike--who is a rum
fellow, and has a history behind him, unless I'm mistaken; but it's no
business of mine. I made my mind up to another night of it in Calne,
thinking I'd get to Hartledon early next morning before his lordship had
time to go out; and I was sitting comfortably with a pipe and a glass of
beer, when news came of the accident."

Lord Hartledon believed the man to be telling the truth; and a
weight--the source of which he did not stay to analyse--was lifted from
his mind. But he asked another question.

"Why are you still in Calne?"

"I waited for orders. After his lordship died I couldn't go away without
them--carrying with me nothing but the word of a dead man. The orders
came this morning, safe enough; but I had the summons served on me then
to attend the inquest, and had to stay for it. I'm going away now, my
lord, by the first train."

Lord Hartledon was satisfied, and nodded his head. As he turned back he
met Dr. Ashton.

"I was looking for you, Lord Hartledon. If you require any assistance or
information in the various arrangements that now devolve upon you, I
shall be happy to render both. There will be a good deal to do one way or
another; more, I dare say, than your inexperience has the least idea of.
You will have your solicitor at hand, of course; but if you want me, you
know where to find me."

The Rector's words were courteous, but the tone was not warm, and the
title "Lord Hartledon" grated on Val's ear. In his impulse he grasped the
speaker's hand, pouring forth a heartfelt prayer.

"Oh, Dr. Ashton, will you not forgive me? The horrible trouble I brought
upon myself is over now. I don't rejoice in it under the circumstances,
Heaven knows; I only speak of the fact. Let me come to your house again!
Forgive me for the past."

"In one sense the trouble is over, because the debts that were a
formidable embarrassment to Mr. Elster are as nothing to Lord Hartledon,"
was the reply. "But let me assure you of one thing: that your being Lord
Hartledon will not make the slightest difference to my decision not to
give you my daughter, unless your line of conduct shall change."

"It is changed. Dr. Ashton, on my word of honour, I will never be guilty
of carelessness again. One thing will be my safeguard, though all else
should fail--the fact that I passed my word for this to my dear brother
not many hours before his death. For my sake, for Anne's sake, you will
forgive me!"

Was it possible to resist the persuasive tones, the earnestness of the
honest, dark-blue eyes? If ever Percival Elster was to make an effort for
good, and succeed, it must be now. The doctor knew it; and he knew that
Anne's happiness was at stake. But he did not thaw immediately.

"You know, Lord Hartledon--"

"Call me Val, as you used to do," came the pleading interruption; and Dr.
Ashton smiled in spite of himself.

"Percival, you know it is against my nature to be harsh or unforgiving;
just as I believe it contrary to your nature to be guilty of deliberate
wrong. If you will only be true to yourself, I would rather have you for
my son-in-law than any other man in England; as I would have had when you
were Val Elster. Do you note my words? _true to yourself_."

"As I will be from henceforth," whispered Val, earnest tears rising to
his eyes.

And as he would have been but for his besetting sin.




CHAPTER XII.

LATER IN THE DAY.


It happened that Clerk Gum had business on hand the day of the inquest,
which obliged him to go to Garchester. He reached home after dark; and
the first thing he saw was his wife, in what he was pleased to call a
state of semi-idiocy. The tea-things were laid on the table, and
substantial refreshment in the shape of cold meat, and a plate of muffins
ready for toasting, all for the clerk's regalement. But Mrs. Gum herself
sat on a low chair by the fire, her eyes swollen with crying.

"What's the matter now?" was the clerk's first question.

"Oh, Gum, I told you you ought not to have gone off to-day. You might
have stayed for the inquest."

"Much good I should do the inquest, or the inquest do me," retorted the
clerk. "Has Becky gone?"

"Long ago. Gum, that dream's coming round. I said it would. I _told_ you
there was ill in store for Lord Hartledon; and that Pike was mixed up in
it, and Mr. Elster also in some way. If you'd only listen to me--"

The clerk, who had been brushing his hat and shaking the dust from his
outer coat--for he was a careful man with his clothes, and always
well-dressed--brought down his hand upon the table with some temper.

"Just stop that. I've heard enough of that dream, and of all your dreams.
Confounded folly! Haven't I trouble and worry enough upon my mind,
without your worrying me every time I come in about your idiotic dreams?"

"Well," returned Mrs. Gum, "if the dream's nothing, I'd like to ask why
they had Pike up to-day before them all?"

"Who had him up?" asked the clerk, after a pause. "Had him up where?"

"Before the people sitting on the body of Lord Hartledon. Lydia Jones
brought me the news just now. 'They had Pike the poacher up,' says she.
'He was up before the jury, and had to confess to it.' 'Confess to what,'
said I. 'Why, that he was about in the woods when my lord met his end,'
said she; 'and it's to know how my lord did meet it, and whether the
poacher mightn't have dealt that blow on his temple and robbed him after
it.' Gum--"

"There's no suspicion of foul play, is there?" interrupted the clerk, in
strangely subdued tones.

"Not that I know of, except in Lydia's temper," answered Mrs. Gum. "But
I don't like to hear he was up there at all."

"Lydia Jones is a foul-tongued woman, capable of swearing away any man's
life. Is Pike in custody?"

"Not yet. They've let him off for the present. Oh, Gum, often and often
do I wish my days were ended!"

"Often and often do I wish I'd a quiet house to come to, and not be
bothered with dreams," was the scornful retort. "Suppose you toast the
muffins."

She gave a sigh or two, put her cap straight, smoothed her ragged hair,
and meekly rose to obey. The clerk was carefully folding up the outer
coat, for it was one he wore only on high-days, when he felt something in
the pocket--a small parcel.

"I'd almost forgotten this," he exclaimed, taking it out. "Thanks to you,
Nance! What with your dreams and other worryings I can't think of my
proper business."

"What is it?" she asked.

"A deed Dr. Ashton's lawyer got me to bring and save his clerk a
journey--if you must know. I'll take it over at once, while the tea's
brewing."

As Jabez Gum passed through his own gate he looked towards Mr. Pike's
dwelling; it was only natural he should do so after the recent
conversation; and he saw that worthy gentleman come stealing across the
waste ground, with his usual cautious step. Although not given to
exchanging courtesies with his neighbour, the clerk walked briskly
towards him now, and waited at the hurdles which divided the waste ground
from the road.

"I hear you were prowling about the mill when Lord Hartledon met with his
accident," began the clerk, in low, condemning tones.

"And what if I was," asked Pike, leaning his arms on the hurdles and
facing the clerk. "Near the mill I wasn't; about the woods and river I
was; and I saw him pass down in the sculling boat with his disabled arm.
What of it, I ask?"

Pike's tone, though short, was civil enough. The forced appearance before
the coroner and public had disturbed his equanimity in no slight degree,
and taken for the present all insolence out of him.

"Should any doubt get afloat that his lordship's death might not have
been accidental, your presence at the spot would tell against you."

"No, it wouldn't. I left the spot before the accident could have
happened; and I came back to Calne with a witness. As to the death having
been something worse than accident, not a soul in the place has dreamt of
such a thing except me."

"Except you! What do you mean?"

Pike leaned more over the hurdles, so as to bring his disreputable face
closer to Mr. Gum, who slightly recoiled as he caught the low whisper.

"I don't think the death was accidental. I believe his lordship was just
put out of the way quietly."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the shocked clerk. "By whom? By you?" he
added, in his bewilderment.

"No," returned the man. "If I'd done it, I shouldn't talk about it."

"What do you mean?" cried Mr. Gum.

"I mean that I have my suspicions; and good suspicions they are. Many a
man has been hung on less. I am not going to tell them; perhaps not ever.
I shall wait and keep my eyes open, and bring them, if I can, to
certainties. Time enough to talk then, or keep silent, as circumstances
may dictate."

"And you tell me you were not near the place at the time of the
accident?"

"_I_ wasn't," replied Mr. Pike, with emphasis.

"Who was?"

"That's my secret. And as I've a little matter of business on hand
to-night, I don't care to be further delayed, if it's all the same to
you, neighbour. And instead of your accusing me of prowling about the
mill again, perhaps you'll just give a thought occasionally to what I
have now said, keeping it to yourself. I'm not afraid of your spreading
it in Calne; for it might bring a hornets' nest about your head, and
about some other heads that you wouldn't like to injure."

With the last words Mr. Pike crossed the hurdles and went off in the
direction of Hartledon. It was a light night, and the clerk stood and
stared after him. To say that Jabez Gum in his astonishment was uncertain
whether he stood on his head or his heels, would be saying little; and
how much of these assertions he might believe, and what mischief Mr. Pike
might be going after to-night, he knew not. Drawing a long sigh, which
did not sound very much like a sigh of relief, he at length turned off to
Dr. Ashton's, and the man disappeared.

We must follow Pike. He went stealthily up the road past Hartledon,
keeping in the shade of the hedge, and shrinking into it when he saw any
one coming. Striking off when he neared the mill, he approached it
cautiously, and halted amidst some trees, whence he had a view of the
mill-door.

He was waiting for the boy, David Ripper. Fully convinced by the lad's
manner at the inquest that he had not told all he knew, but was keeping
something back in fear, Mr. Pike, for reasons of his own, resolved to
come at it if he could. He knew that the boy would be at work later than
usual that night, having been hindered in the afternoon.

Imagine yourself standing with your back to the river, reader, and take a
view of the premises as they face you. The cottage is a square building,
and has four good rooms on the ground floor. The miller's thrifty wife
generally locked all these rooms up if she went out, and carried the keys
away in her pocket. The parlour window was an ordinary sash-window, with
outside shutters; the kitchen window a small casement, protected by a
fixed net-work of strong wire. No one could get in or out, even when the
casement was open, without tearing this wire away, which would not be a
difficult matter to accomplish. On the left of the cottage, but to your
right as you face it, stands the mill, to which you ascend by steps. It
communicates inside with the upper floor of the cottage, which is used
as a store-room for corn; and from this store-room a flight of stairs
descends to the kitchen below. Another flight of stairs from this
store-room communicated with the open passage leading from the back-door
to the stable. This is all that need be said: and you may think it
superfluous to have described it at all: but it is not so.

The boy Ripper at length came forth. With a shuddering avoidance of the
water he came tearing along as one running from a ghost, and was darting
past the trees, when he found himself detained by an arm of great
strength. Mr. Pike clapped his other hand upon the boy's mouth, stifling
a howl of terror.

"Do you see this, Rip?" cried he.

Rip did see it. It was a pistol held rather inconveniently close to the
boy's breast. Rip dearly loved his life; but it nearly went out of him
then with fear.

"Now," said Pike, "I've come up to know about this business of Lord
Hartledon's, and I will know it, or leave you as dead as he is. And I'll
have you took up for murder, into the bargain," he rather illogically
continued, "as an accessory to the fact."

David Ripper was in a state of horror; all idea of concealment gone out
of him. "I couldn't help it," he gasped. "I couldn't get out to him; I
was locked up in the mill. Don't shoot me."

"I'll spare you on one condition," decided Pike. "Disclose the whole of
this from first to last, and then we may part friends. But try to palm
off one lie upon me, and I'll riddle you through. To begin with: what
brought you locked up in the mill?"

It was a wicked tale of a wicked young jail-bird, as Mr. Pike (probably
the worse jail-bird by far of the two) phrased it. Master Ripper had
purposely caused himself to be locked in the mill, his object being to
supply himself with as much corn as he could carry about him for the
benefit of his rabbits and pigeons and other live stock at home. He had
done it twice before, he avowed, in dread of the pistol, and had got away
safe through the square hole in the passage at the foot of the back
staircase, whence he had dropped to the ground. To his consternation on
this occasion, however, he had found the door at the foot of the stairs
bolted, as it never had been before, and he could not get to the passage.
So he was a prisoner all the afternoon, and had exercised his legs
between the store-room and kitchen, both of which were open to him.

If ever a man showed virtuous indignation at a sinner's confession, Mr.
Pike showed it now. "That's how you were about in the stubble-field
setting your traps, you young villain! I saw the coroner look at you. And
now about Lord Hartledon. What did you see?"

Master Ripper rubbed the perspiration from his face as he went on with
his tale. Pike listened with all the ears he possessed and said not a
word, beyond sundry rough exclamations, until the tale was done.

"You awful young dog! You saw all that from the kitchen-window, and never
tried to get out of it!"

"I _couldn't_ get out of it," pleaded the boy. "It's got a wire-net
before it, and I couldn't break that."

"You are strong enough to break it ten times over," retorted Pike.

"But then master would ha' known I'd been in the mill!" cried the boy, a
gleam of cunning in his eyes.

"Ugh," grunted Pike. "And you saw exactly what you've told me?"

"I saw it and heard the cries."

"Did he see you?"

"No; I was afeard to show myself. When master come home, the first thing
he did was t' unlock that there staircase door, and I got out without his
seeing me--"

"Where did you hide the grain you were loaded with?" demanded Pike.

"I'd emptied it out again in the store-room," returned the boy. "I told
master there were a loose skiff out there, and he come out and secured
it. Them harvesters come up next and got him out of the water."

"Yes, you could see fast enough what you were looking for! Well, young
Rip," continued Mr. Pike, consolingly, "you stand about as rich a chance
of being hanged as ever you'll stand in all your born days. If you'd
jumped through that wire you'd have saved my lord, and he'd have made it
right for you with old Floyd. I'd advise you to keep a silent tongue in
your head, if you want to save your neck."

"I was keeping it, till you come and made me tell with that there
pistol," howled the boy. "You won't go and split on me?" he asked, with
trembling lips.

"I won't split on you about the grain," graciously promised Pike. "It's
no business of mine. As to the other matter--well, I'll not say anything
about that; at any rate, yet awhile. You keep it a secret; so will I."

Without another word, Pike extended his hand as a signal that the culprit
was at liberty to depart; and he did so as fast as his legs would carry
him. Pike then returned the pistol to his pocket and took his way back to
Calne in a thoughtful and particularly ungenial mood. There was a doubt
within him whether the boy had disclosed the truth, even to him.

Perhaps on no one--with the exception of Percival--did the death of Lord
Hartledon leave its effects as it did on Lady Kirton and her daughter
Maude. To the one it brought embarrassment; to the other, what seemed
very like a broken heart. The countess-dowager's tactics must change as
by magic. She had to transfer the affection and consideration evinced for
Edward Lord Hartledon to his brother; and to do it easily and naturally.
She had to obliterate from the mind of the latter her overbearing dislike
to him, cause her insults to be remembered no more. A difficult task,
even for her, wily woman as she was.

How was it to be done? For three long hours the night after Lord
Hartledon's death, she lay awake, thinking out her plans; perhaps for the
first time in her life, for obtuse natures do not lie awake. The death
had affected her only as regarded her own interests; she could feel for
none and regret none in her utter selfishness. One was fallen, but
another had risen up. "Le roi est mort: vive le roi!"

On the day following the death she had sought an interview with Percival.
Never a woman evinced better tact than she. There was no violent change
in her manner, no apologies for the past, or display of sudden affection.
She spoke quietly and sensibly of passing topics: the death, and what
could have led to it; the immediate business on hand, some of the changes
it entailed in the future. "I'll stay with you still, Percival," she
said, "and look after things a bit for you, as I have been doing for your
brother. It is an awful shock, and we must all have time to get over it.
If I had only foreseen this, how I might have spared my temper and poor
Maude's feelings!"

She looked out of the corner of her eye at the young man; but he betrayed
no curiosity to hear more, and she went on unasked.

"You know, Val, for a portionless girl, as Maude is, it was a great blow
to me when I found her fixing her heart upon a younger son. How cross and
unjust it made me I couldn't conceal: mothers are mothers. I wanted her
to take a fancy to Hartledon, dear fellow, and I suppose she could not,
and it rendered me cross; and I know I worried her and worried my own
temper, till at times I was not conscious of what I said. Poor Maude! she
did not rebel openly, but I could see her struggles. Only a week ago,
when Hartledon was talking about his marrying sometime, and hinting that
she might care fox him if she tried, she scored her beautiful drawing all
over with ugly marks; ran the pencil through it--"

"But why do you tell me this now?" asked Val.

"Hartledon--dear me! I wonder how long I shall be getting accustomed to
your name?--there's only you and me and Maude left now of the family,"
cried the dowager; "and if I speak of such things, it is in fulness of
heart. And now about these letters: do you care how they are worded?"

"I don't seem to care about anything," listlessly answered the young man.
"As to the letters, I think I'd rather write them myself, Lady Kirton."

"Indeed you shall not have any trouble of that sort to-day. _I'll_ write
the letters, and you may indulge yourself in doing nothing."

He yielded in his unstable nature. She spoke of business letters, and it
was better that he should write them; he wished to write them; but she
carried her point, and his will yielded to hers. Would it be a type of
the future?--would he yield to her in other things in defiance of his
better judgment? Alas! alas!

She picked up her skirts and left him, and went sailing upstairs to her
daughter's room. Maude was sitting shivering in a shawl, though the day
was hot.

"I've paved the way," nodded the old woman, in meaning tones. "And
there's one fortunate thing about Val: he is so truthful himself, one may
take him in with his eyes open."

Maude turned _her_ eyes upon her mother: very languid and unspeculative
eyes just then.

"I gave him a hint, Maude, that you had been unable to bring yourself to
like Hartledon, but had fixed your mind on a younger son. Later, we'll
let him suspect who the younger son was."

The words aroused Maude; she started up and stood staring at her mother,
her eyes dilating with a sort of horror; her pale cheeks slowly turning
crimson.

"I don't understand," she gasped; "I _hope_ I don't understand. You--you
do not mean that I am to try to like Val Elster?"

"Now, Maude, no heroics. I'll not see _you_ make a fool of yourself as
your sisters have done. He's not Val Elster any longer; he is Lord
Hartledon: better-looking than ever his brother was, and will make a
better husband, for he'll be more easily led."

"I would not marry Val for the whole world," she said, with strong
emotion. "I dislike him; I hate him; I never could be a wife to Val
Elster."

"We'll see," said the dowager, pushing up her front, of which she had
just caught sight in a glass.

"Thank Heaven, there's no fear of it!" resumed Maude, collecting her
senses, and sitting down again with a relieved sigh; "he is to marry Anne
Ashton. Thank Heaven that he loves her!"

"Anne Ashton!" scornfully returned the countess-dowager. "She might have
been tolerated when he was Val Elster, not now he is Lord Hartledon. What
notions you have, Maude!"

Maude burst into tears. "Mamma, I think it is fearfully indecent for you
to begin upon these things already! It only happened last night, and--and
it sounds quite horrible."

"When one has to live as I do, one has to do many things decent and
indecent," retorted the countess-dowager sharply. "He has had his hint,
and you've got yours: and you are no true girl if you suffer yourself now
to be triumphed over by Anne Ashton."

Maude cried on silently, thinking how cruel fate was to have taken one
brother and spared the other. Who--save Anne Ashton--would have missed
Val Elster; while Lord Hartledon--at least he had made the life of one
heart. A poor bruised heart now; never, never to be made quite whole
again.

Thus the dowager, in her blindness, began her plans. In her blindness! If
we could only foresee the ending of some of the unholy schemes that many
of us are apt to weave, we might be more willing to leave them humbly in
a higher Hand than ours. Do they ever bring forth good, these plans, born
of our evil passions--hatred, malice, utter selfishness? I think not.
They may seem to succeed triumphantly, but--watch the triumph to the end.




CHAPTER XIII.

FEVER.


The dews of an October evening were falling upon Calne, as Lord Hartledon
walked from the railway-station. Just as unexpectedly as he had arrived
the morning you first saw him, when he was only Val Elster, had he
arrived now. By the merest accident one of the Hartledon servants
happened to be at the station when the train arrived, and took charge of
his master's luggage.

"All well at home, James?"

"All quite well, my lord."

Several weeks had elapsed since his brother's death, and Lord Hartledon
had spent them in London. He went up on business the week after the
funeral, and did not return again. In one respect he had no inducement to
return; for the Ashtons, including Anne, were on a visit in Wales. They
were at home now, as he knew well; and perhaps that had brought him down.

He went in unannounced, finding his way to the inner drawing-room. A
large fire blazed in the grate, and Lady Maude sat by it so intent in
thought as not to observe his entrance. She wore a black crêpe dress,
with a little white trimming on its low body and sleeves. The firelight
played on her beautiful features; and her eyelashes glistened as if with
tears: she was thinner and paler; he saw it at once. The countess-dowager
kept to Hartledon and showed no intention of moving from it: she and her
daughter had been there alone all these weeks.

"How are you, Maude?"

She looked round and started up, backing from him with a face of alarm.
Ah, was it _instinct_ caused her so to receive him? What, or who, was she
thinking of; holding her hands before her with that face of horror?

"Maude, have I so startled you?"

"Percival! I beg your pardon. I believe I was thinking of--of your
brother, and I really did not know you in the uncertain light. We don't
have the rooms lighted early," she added, with a little laugh.

He took her hands in his. Now that she knew him, and the alarm was over,
she seemed really pleased to see him: the dark eyes were raised to his
with a frank smile.

"May I take a cousin's greeting, Maude?"

Without waiting for yes or no, he stooped and took the kiss. Maude flung
his hands away. He should have left out the "cousin," or not have taken
the kiss.

He went and stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, soberly, as if he
had only kissed a sister. Maude sat down again.

"Why did you not send us word you were coming?" she asked.

"There was no necessity for it. And I only made my mind up this morning."

"What a long time you have been away! I thought you went for a week."

"I did not get my business over very quickly; and waited afterwards to
see Thomas Carr, who was out of town. The Ashtons were away, you know; so
I had no inducement to hurry back again."

"Very complimentary to _her_. Who's Thomas Carr?" asked Maude.

"A barrister; the greatest friend I possess in this world. We were at
college together, and he used to keep me straight."

"Keep you straight! Val!"

"It's quite true. I went to him in all my scrapes and troubles. He is the
most honourable, upright, straightforward man I know; and, as such,
possesses a talent for serving--"

"Hartledon! Is it _you_?"

The interruption came from the dowager. She and the butler came in
together, both looking equally astonished at the appearance of Lord
Hartledon. The former said dinner was served.

"Will you let me sit down in this coat?" asked Val.

The countess-dowager would willingly have allowed him to sit down without
any. Her welcome was demonstrative; her display of affection quite warm,
and she called him "Val," tenderly. He escaped for a minute to his room,
washed his hands, brushed his hair, and was down again, and taking the
head of his own table.

It was pleasant to have him there--a welcome change from Hartledon's
recent monotony; and even Maude, with her boasted dislike, felt prejudice
melting away. Boasted dislike, not real, it had been. None could dislike
Percival. He was not Edward, and it was him Maude had loved. Percival she
never would love, but she might learn to like him. As he sat near her, in
his plain black morning attire, courteous, genuinely sweet-tempered, his
good looks conspicuous, a smile on his delicate, refined, but vacillating
lips, and his honest dark-blue eyes bent upon her in kindness, Maude for
the first time admitted a vision of the possible future, together with a
dim consciousness that it might not be intolerable. Half the world, of
her age and sex, would have deemed it indeed a triumph to be made the
wife of that attractive man.

He had cautiously stood aside for Lady Kirton to take the head of the
table; but the dowager had positively refused, and subsided into the
chair at the foot. She did not fill it in dear Edward's time, she said;
neither should she in dear Val's; he had come home to occupy his own
place. And oh, thank goodness he was come! She and Maude had been so
lonely and miserable, growing thinner daily from sheer _ennui_. So she
faced Lord Hartledon at the end of the table, her flaxen curls surmounted
by an array of black plumes, and looking very like a substantial female
mute.

"What an awful thing that is about the Rectory!" exclaimed she, when they
were more than half through dinner.

Lord Hartledon looked up quietly. "What is the matter at the Rectory?"

"Fever has broken out."

"Is that all!" he exclaimed, some amusement on his face. "I thought it
must have taken fire."

"A fever's worse than a fire."

"Do you think so?"

"_Think so!_" echoed the dowager. "You can run away from a fire; but a
fever may take you before you are aware of it. Every soul in the Rectory
may die; it may spread to the parish; it may spread here. I have kept tar
burning outside the house the last two days."

"You are not serious, Lady Kirton!"

"I am serious. I wouldn't catch a fever for the whole world. I should die
of fright before it had time to kill me. Besides--I have Maude to guard.
You were forgetting her."

"There's no danger at all. One of the servants became ill after they
returned home, and it proved to be fever. I don't suppose it will
spread."

"How did _you_ hear about it?"

"From Miss Ashton. She mentioned it in her last letter to me."

"I didn't know you corresponded with her," cried the dowager, her tones
rather shrill.

"Not correspond with Miss Ashton!" he repeated. "Of course I do."

The old dowager had a fit of choking: something had gone the wrong way,
she said. Lord Hartledon resumed.

"It is an awful shame of those seaside lodging-house people! Did you hear
the particulars, Maude? After the Ashtons concluded their visit in Wales,
they went for a fortnight to the seaside, on their way home, taking
lodgings. Some days after they had been settled in the rooms they
discovered that some fever was in the house; a family who occupied
another set of apartments being ill with it, and had been ill before the
Ashtons went in. Dr. Ashton told the landlady what he thought of her
conduct, and then they left the house for home. But Mrs. Ashton's maid,
Matilda, had already taken it."

"Did Miss Ashton give you these particulars?" asked Maude, toying with a
late rose that lay beside her plate.

"Yes. I should feel inclined to prosecute the woman, were I Dr. Ashton,
for having been so wickedly inconsiderate. But I hope Matilda is better,
and that the alarm will end with her. It is four days since I had Anne's
letter."

"Then, Lord Hartledon, I can tell you the alarm's worse, and another has
taken it, and the parish is up in arms," said the countess-dowager,
tartly. "It has proved to be fever of a most malignant type, and not a
soul but Hillary the surgeon goes near the Rectory, You must not venture
within half-a-mile of it. Dr. Ashton was so careless as to occupy his
pulpit on Sunday; but, thank goodness, I did not venture to church,
or allow Maude to go. Your Miss Ashton will be having it next."

"Of course they have advice from Garchester?" he exclaimed.

"How should I know? My opinion is that the parson himself might be
prosecuted for bringing the fever into a healthy neighbourhood. Port,
Hedges! One has need of a double portion of tonics in a time like this."

The countess-dowager's alarms were not feigned--no, nor exaggerated. She
had an intense, selfish fear of any sort of illness; she had a worse fear
of death. In any time of public epidemic her terrors would have been
almost ludicrous in their absurdity but that they were so real. And she
"fortified" herself against infection by eating and drinking more than
ever.

Nothing else was said: she shunned allusion to it when she could: and
presently she and Maude left the dining-room. "You won't be long,
Hartledon?" she observed, sweetly, as she passed him. Val only bowed in
answer, closed the door upon them, and rang for Hedges.

"Is there much alarm regarding this fever at the Rectory?" he asked of
the butler.

"Not very much, I think, my lord. A few are timid about it; as is always
the case. One of the other servants has taken it; but Mr. Hillary told me
when he was here this morning that he hoped it would not spread beyond
the Rectory."

"Was Hillary here this morning? Nobody's ill?" asked Lord Hartledon,
quickly.

"No one at all, my lord. The countess-dowager sent for him, to ask what
her diet had better be, and how she could guard against infection more
effectually than she was doing. She did not allow him to come in, but
spoke to him from one of the upper windows, with a cloak and respirator
on."

Lord Hartledon looked at his butler; the man was suppressing a grim
smile.

"Nonsense, Hedges!"

"It's quite true, my lord. Mrs. Mirrable says she has five bowls of
disinfectant in their rooms."

Lord Hartledon broke into a laugh, not suppressed.

"And in the courtyard, looking towards the Rectory, as may be said,
there's several pitch-pots alight night and day," added Hedges. "We have
had a host of people up, wanting to know if the place is on fire."

"What a joke!" cried Val--who was not yet beyond the age to enjoy such
jokes. "Hedges," he resumed, in a more confidential tone, "no strangers
have been here inquiring for me, I suppose?"

He alluded to creditors, or people acting for them. To a careless man, as
Val had been, it was a difficult matter to know whether all his debts
were paid or not. He had settled what he remembered; but there might be
others. Hedges understood; and his voice fell to the same low tone: he
had been pretty cognizant of the embarrassments of Mr. Percival Elster.

"Nobody at all, my lord. They wouldn't have got much information out of
me, if they had come."

Lord Hartledon laughed. "Things are changed now, Hedges, and they may
have as much information as they choose. Bring me coffee here; make
haste."

Coffee was brought, and he went out as soon as he had taken it, following
the road to the Rectory. It was a calm, still night, the moon tolerably
bright; not a breath of wind stirred the air, warm and oppressive for
October; not by any means the sort of night doctors covet when fever is
in the atmosphere.

He turned in at the Rectory-gates, and was crossing to the house, when a
rustling of leaves in a shrubbery path caused him to look over the dwarf
laurels, and there stood Anne. He was at her side in an instant. She had
nothing on her head, as though she had just come forth from the rooms for
a breath of air. As indeed was the case.

"My darling!"

"I heard you had come," she whispered, as he held both her hands in his,
and her heart bounded with an exquisite flutter of delight.

"How did you hear that?" he said, placing her hand within his arm, that
he might pace the walk with her.

"Papa heard it. Some one had seen you walking home from the train: I
think it was Mr. Hillary. But, Percival, ought you to have come here?"
she added in alarm. "This is infected ground, you know."

"Not for me. I have no more fear of fever than I have of moonstroke.
Anne, I hope _you_ will not take it," he gravely added.

"I hope not, either. Like you, I have no fear of it. I am so glad Arthur
is away. Was it not wrong of that landlady to let her rooms to us when
she had fever in them?"

"Infamously wrong," said Lord Hartledon warmly.

"She excused herself afterwards by saying, that as the people who had the
fever were in quite a different part of the house from ours, she thought
there could be no danger. Papa was so angry. He told her he was sorry the
law did not take cognizance of such an offence. We had been a week in the
house before we knew of it."

"How did you find it out?"

"The lady who was ill with it died, and Matilda saw the coffin going up
the back stairs. She questioned the servants of the house, and one of
them told her all about it then, bit by bit. Another lady was lying ill,
and a third was recovering. The landlady, by way of excuse, said the
greatest wrong had been done to herself, for these ladies had brought the
fever into her house, and brought it deliberately. Fever had broken out
in their own home, some long way off, and they ran away from it, and took
her apartments, saying nothing; which was true, we found."

"Two wrongs don't make a right," observed Lord Hartledon. "Their bringing
the fever into her house was no justification for receiving you into it
when it was there. It's the way of the world, Anne: one wrong leading to
others. Is Matilda getting over it?"

"I hardly know. She is not out of danger; but Mr. Hillary has hopes of
her. One of the other servants has taken it, and is worse than Matilda.
Mr. Hillary has been with her three times to-day, and is coming again.
She was ill when I last wrote to you, Val; but we did not know it."

"Which of them is it?" he asked.

"The dairymaid; a stout girl, who has never had a day's illness before.
I don't suppose you know her. There was some trouble with her. She would
not take any medicine; would not do anything she ought to have done, and
the consequence is that the fever has got dangerously ahead. I am sure
she is very ill."

"I hope it will not spread beyond the Rectory."

"Oh, Val, that is our one great hope," she said, turning her earnest face
to him in the moonlight. "We are taking all possible precautions. None of
us are going beyond the grounds, except papa, and we do not receive any
one here. I don't know what papa will say to your coming."

He smiled. "But you can't keep all the world away!"

"We do--very nearly. Mr. Hillary comes, and Dr. Beamish from Garchester,
and one or two people have been here on business. If any one calls at the
gate, they are not asked in; and I don't suppose they would come in if
asked. Jabez Gum's the most obstinate. He comes in just as usual."

"Lady Kirton is in an awful fright," said Val, in an amused tone.

"Oh, I have heard of it," cried Anne, clasping her hands in laughter.
"She is burning tar outside the house; and she spoke to Mr. Hillary this
morning through the window muffled up in a cloak and respirator. What a
strange old thing she is!"

Val shrugged his shoulders. "I don't think she means badly _au fond_; and
she has no home, poor creature."

"Is that why she remains at Hartledon?"

"I suppose so. Reigning at Hartledon must be something like a glimpse of
Paradise to her. She won't quit it in a hurry."

"I wonder you like to have her there."

"I know I shall never have courage to tell her to go," was the candid and
characteristic answer. "I was afraid of her as a boy, and I'm not sure
but I'm afraid of her still."

"I don't like her--I don't like either of them," said Anne in a low tone.

"Don't you like Maude?"

"No. I am sure she is not true. To my mind there is something very false
about them both."

"I think you are wrong, Anne; certainly as regards Maude."

Miss Ashton did not press her opinion: they were his relatives. "But I
should have pitied poor Edward had he lived and married her," she said,
following out her thoughts.

"I was mistaken when I thought Maude cared for Edward," observed Lord
Hartledon. "I'm sure I did think it. I used to tell Edward so; but a day
or two after he died I found I was wrong. The dowager had been urging
Maude to like him, and she could not, and it made her miserable."

"Did Maude tell you this?" inquired Anne; her radiant eyes full of
surprise.

"Not Maude: she never said a word to me upon the subject. It was the
dowager."

"Then, Val, she must have said it with an object in view. I am sure Maude
did love him. I know she did."

He shook his head. "You are wrong, Anne, depend upon it. She did not like
him, and she and her mother were at variance upon the point. However, it
is of no moment to discuss it now: and it might never have come to an
issue had Edward lived, for he did not care for her; and I dare say never
would have cared for her."

Anne said no more. It was of no moment as he observed; but she retained
her own opinion. They strolled to the end of the short walk in silence,
and Anne said she must go in.

"Am I quite forgiven?" whispered Lord Hartledon, bending his head down to
her.

"I never thought I had very much to forgive," she rejoined, after a
pause.

"My darling! I mean by your father."

"Ah, I don't know. You must talk to him. He knows we have been writing to
each other. I think he means to trust you."

"The best plan will be for you to come soon to Hartledon, Anne. I shall
never go wrong when once you are my wife."

"Do you go so very wrong now?" she asked.

"On my honour, no! You need not doubt me, Anne; now or ever. I have paid
up what I owed, and will take very good care to keep out of trouble for
the future. I incurred debts for others, more than for myself, and have
bought experience dearly. My darling, surely you can trust me now?"

"I always did trust you," she murmured.

He took a long, fervent kiss from her lips, and then led her to the open
lawn and across to the house.

"Ought you to come in, Percival?"

"Certainly. One word, Anne; because I may be speaking to the Rector--I
don't mean to-night. You will make no objection to coming soon to
Hartledon?"

"I can't come, you know, as long as Lady Kirton is its mistress," she
said, half seriously, half jestingly.

He laughed at the notion. Lady Kirton must be going soon of her own
accord; if not, he should have to pluck up courage and give her a hint,
was his answer. At any rate, she'd surely take herself off before
Christmas. The old dowager at Hartledon after he had Anne there! Not if
he knew it, he added, as he went on with her into the presence of Dr. and
Mrs. Ashton. The Rector started from his seat, at once telling him that
he ought not to have come in. Which Val did not see at all, and decidedly
refused to go out again.

Meanwhile the countess-dowager and Maude were wondering what had become
of him. They supposed he was still sitting in the dining-room. The old
dowager fidgeted about, her fingers ominously near the bell. She was
burning to send to him, but hardly knew how he might take the message: it
might be that he would object to leading strings, and her attempt to put
them on would ruin all. But the time went on; grew late; and she was
dying for her tea, which she had chosen should wait also. Maude sat
before the fire in a large chair; her eyes, her hands, her whole air
supremely listless.

"Don't you want tea, Maude?" suddenly cried her mother, who had cast
innumerable glances at her from time to time.

"I have wanted it for hours--as it seems to me."

"It's a horrid custom for young men, this sitting long after dinner. If
he gets into it--But you must see to that, and stop it, if ever you reign
at Hartledon. I dare say he's smoking."

"If ever I reign at Hartledon--which I am not likely to do--I'll take
care not to wait tea for any one, as you have made me wait for it this
evening," was Maude's rejoinder, spoken with apathy.

"I'll send a message to him," decided Lady Kirton, ringing rather
fiercely.

A servant appeared.

"Tell Lord Hartledon we are waiting tea for him."

"His lordship's not in, my lady."

"Not in!"

"He went out directly after dinner, as soon as he had taken coffee."

"Oh," said the countess-dowager. And she began to make the tea with
vehemence--for it did not please her to have it brought in made--and
knocked down and broke one of the delicate china cups.




CHAPTER XIV.

ANOTHER PATIENT.


It was eleven o'clock when Lord Hartledon entered. Lady Kirton was
fanning herself vehemently. Maude had gone upstairs for the night.

"Where have you been?" she asked, laying down her fan. "We waited tea for
you until poor Maude got quite exhausted."

"Did you? I am sorry for that. Never wait for me, pray, Lady Kirton. I
took tea at the Rectory."

"Took--tea--where?"

"At the Rectory."

With a shriek the countess-dowager darted to the far end of the room,
turning up her gown as she went, and muffling it over her head and face,
so that only the little eyes, round now with horror, were seen. Lord
Hartledon gazed in amazement.

"You have been at the Rectory, when I warned you not to go! You have been
inside that house of infection, and come home--here--to me--to my darling
Maude! May heaven forgive you, Hartledon!"

"Why, what have I done? What harm will it do?" exclaimed the astonished
man. He would have approached her, but she warned him from her piteously
with her hands. She was at the upper end of the room, and he near the
door, so that she could not leave it without passing him. Hedges came
in, and stood staring in the same wondering astonishment as his master.

"For mercy's sake, take off every shred of your clothes!" she cried. "You
may have brought home death in them. They shall be thrown into the
burning tar. Do you want to kill us? What has Maude done to you that you
behave in this way?"

"I do think you must be going mad!" cried Lord Hartledon, in
bewilderment; "and I hope you'll forgive me for saying so. I--"

"Go and change your clothes!" was all she could reiterate. "Every minute
you stand in them is fraught with danger. If you choose to die yourself,
it's downright wicked to bring death to us. Oh, go, that I may get out of
here."

Lord Hartledon, to pacify her, left the room, and the countess-dowager
rushed forth and bolted herself into her own apartments.

Was she mad, or making a display of affectation, or genuinely afraid?
wondered Lord Hartledon aloud, as he went up to his chamber. Hedges gave
it as his opinion that she was really afraid, because she had been as bad
as this when she first heard of the illness, before his lordship arrived.
Val retired to rest laughing: it was a good joke to him.

But it was no joke to the countess-dowager, as he found to his cost when
the morning came. She got him out of his chamber betimes, and commenced a
"fumigating" process. The clothes he had worn she insisted should be
burnt; pleading so piteously that he yielded in his good nature.

But there was to be a battle on another score. She forbade him, in the
most positive terms, to go again to the Rectory--to approach within
half-a-mile of it. Lord Hartledon civilly told her he could not comply;
he hinted that if her alarms were so great, she had better leave the
place until all danger was over, and thereby nearly entailed on himself
another war-dance.

News that came up that morning from the Rectory did not tend to assuage
her fears. The poor dairymaid had died in the night, and another servant,
one of the men, was sickening. Even Lord Hartledon looked grave: and the
countess-dowager wormed a half promise from him, in the softened feelings
of the moment, that he would not visit the infected house.

Before an hour was over he came to her to retract it. "I cannot be so
unfeeling, so unneighbourly, as not to call," he said. "Even were my
relations not what they are with Miss Ashton, I could not do it. It's of
no use talking, ma'am; I am too restless to stay away."

A little skirmish of words ensued. Lady Kirton accused him of wishing to
sacrifice them to his own selfish gratification. Lord Hartledon felt
uncomfortable at the accusation. One of the best-hearted men living, he
did nothing in his vacillation. He would go in the evening, he said to
himself, when they could not watch him from the house.

But she was clever at carrying out her own will, that countess-dowager;
more than a match for the single-minded young man. She wrote an urgent
letter to Dr. Ashton, setting forth her own and her daughter's danger if
her nephew, as she styled him, was received at the Rectory; and she
despatched it privately.

It brought forth a letter from Dr. Ashton to Lord Hartledon; a kind but
peremptory mandate, forbidding him to show himself at the Rectory until
the illness was over. Dr. Ashton reminded his future son-in-law that it
was not particularly on his own account he interposed this veto, but for
the sake of the neighbourhood generally. If they were to prevent the
fever from spreading, it was absolutely necessary that no chance visitors
should be running into the Rectory and out of it again, to carry possible
infection to the parish.

Lord Hartledon could only acquiesce. The note was written in terms so
positive as rather to surprise him; but he never suspected the
undercurrent that had been at work. In his straightforwardness he showed
the letter to the dowager, who nodded her head approvingly, but told no
tales.

And so his days went on in the society of the two women at Hartledon;
and if he found himself oppressed with _ennui_ at first, he subsided
into a flirtation with Maude, and forgot care. Elster's folly! He was not
hearing from Anne, for it was thought better that even notes should not
pass out of the Rectory.

Curiously to relate, the first person beyond the Rectory to take the
illness was the man Pike. How he could have caught it was a marvel to
Calne. And yet, if Lady Kirton's theory were correct, that infection was
conveyed by clothes, it might be accounted for, and Clerk Gum be deemed
the culprit. One evening after the clerk had been for some little time at
the Rectory with Dr. Ashton, he met Pike in going out; had brushed close
to him in passing, as he well remembered. However it might have been, in
a few days after that Pike was found to be suffering from the fever.

Whether he would have died, lying alone in that shed, Calne did not
decide; and some thought he would, making no sign; some thought not, but
would have called in assistance. Mr. Hillary, an observant man, as
perhaps it was requisite he should be in time of public danger, halted
one morning to speak to Clerk Gum, who was standing at his own gate.

"Have you seen anything lately of that neighbour of yours, Gum?"

"Which neighbour?" asked the clerk, in tones that seemed to resent the
question.

Mr. Hillary pointed his umbrella in the direction of the shed. "Pike."

"No, I've seen nothing of him, that I remember."

"Neither have I. What's more, I've seen no smoke coming out of the
chimney these two days. It strikes me he's ill. It may be the fever."

"Gone away, possibly," remarked the clerk, after a moment's pause; "in
the same unceremonious manner that he came."

"I think somebody ought to see. He may be lying there helpless."

"Little matter if he is," growled the clerk, who seemed put out about
something or other.

"It's not like you to say so, Gum. You might step over the stile and see;
you're nearest to him. Nobody knows what the man is, or what he may have
been; but humanity does not let even the worst die unaided."

"What makes you think he has the fever?" asked the clerk.

"I only say he may have it; having seen neither him nor his smoke these
two days. Never mind; if it annoys you to do this, I'll look in myself
some time to-day."

"You wouldn't get admitted; he keeps his door fastened," returned Gum.
"The only way to get at him is to shout out to him through that glazed
aperture he calls his window."

"Will you do it--or shall I?"

"I'll do it," said the clerk; "and tell you if your services are wanted."

Mr. Hillary walked off at a quick pace. There was a good deal of illness
in Calne at that season, though the fever had not spread.

Whether Clerk Gum kept his word, or whether he did not, certain it was
that Mr. Hillary heard nothing from him that day. In the evening the
clerk was sitting in his office in a thoughtful mood, busy over some
accounts connected with an insurance company for which he was agent, when
he heard a quick sharp knock at the front-door.

"I wonder if it's Hillary?" he muttered, as he took the candle and rose
to open it.

Instead of the surgeon, there entered a lady, with much energy. It was
the _bête noire_ of Clerk Gum's life, Mrs. Jones.

"What's the house shut up for at this early hour?" she began. "The door
locked, the shutters up, and the blinds down, just as if everybody was
dead or asleep. Where's Nance?"

"She's out," said the clerk. "I suppose she shut up before she went, and
I've been in my office all the afternoon. Do you want anything?"

"Do I want anything!" retorted Mrs. Jones. "I've come in to shelter from
the rain. It's been threatening all the evening, and it's coming down now
like cats and dogs."

The clerk was leading the way to the little parlour; but she ignored the
movement, and went on to the kitchen. He could only follow her. "It's a
pity you came out when it threatened rain," said he.

"Business took me out," replied Mrs. Jones. "I've been up to the mill.
I heard young Rip was ill, and going to leave; so I went up to ask if
they'd try our Jim. But young Rip isn't going to leave, and isn't ill,
mother Floyd says, though it's certain he's not well. She can't think
what's the matter with the boy; he's always fancying he sees ghosts in
the river. I've had my trapes for nothing."

She had given her gown a good shake from the rain-drops in the middle of
the kitchen, and was now seated before the fire. The clerk stood by the
table, occasionally snuffing the candle, and wishing she'd take herself
off again.

"Where's Nancy gone?" asked she.

"I didn't hear her say."

"And she'll be gone a month of Sundays, I suppose. I shan't wait for her,
if the rain gives over."

"You'd be more comfortable in the small parlour," said the clerk, who
seemed rather fidgety; "there's a nice bit of fire there."

"I'm more comfortable here," contradicted Mrs. Jones. "Where's the good
of a bit of fire for a gown as wet as mine?"

Jabez Gum made no response. There was the lady, a fixture; and he could
only resign himself to the situation.

"How's your friend at the next house--Pike?" she began again
sarcastically.

"He's no friend of mine," said the clerk.

"It looks like it, at all events; or you'd have given him into custody
long ago. _I_ wouldn't let a man harbour himself so close to me. He's
taken to a new dodge now: going about with a pistol to shoot people."

"Who says so?" asked the clerk.

"I say so. He frighted that boy Ripper pretty near to death. The boy tore
home one night in a state of terror, and all they could get out of him
was that he'd met Pike with a pistol. It's weeks ago, and he hasn't got
over it yet."

"Did Pike level it at him?"

"I tell you that's all they could get out of the boy. He's a nice
jail-bird too, that young Rip, unless I'm mistaken. They might as
well send him away, and make room for our Jim."

"I think you are about the most fanciful, unjust, selfish woman in
Calne!" exclaimed the clerk, unable to keep down his anger any longer.
"You'd take young Ripper's character away without scruple, just because
his place might suit your Jim!"

"I'm what?" shrieked Mrs. Jones. "I'm unjust, am I--"

An interruption occurred, and Mrs. Jones subsided into silence. The
back-door suddenly opened, not a couple of yards from that lady's head,
and in came Mrs. Gum in her ordinary indoor dress, two basins in her
hand. The sight of her visitor appeared to occasion her surprise; she
uttered a faint scream, and nearly dropped the basins.

"Lawk a mercy! Is it Lydia Jones?"

Mrs. Jones had been drawing a quiet deduction--the clerk had said his
wife was out only to deceive her. She rose from her chair, and faced him.

"I thought you told me she was gone out?"

The clerk coughed. He looked at his wife, as if asking an explanation.
The meeker of the two women hastily put her basins down, and stood
looking from one to the other, apparently recovering breath.

"Didn't you go out?" asked the clerk.

"I was going, Gum, but stepped out first to collect my basins, and then
the rain came down. I had to shelter under the wood-shed, it was
peppering so."

"Collect your basins!" interjected Mrs. Jones. "Where from?"

"I put them out with scraps for the cats."

"The cats must be well off in your quarter; better than some children in
others," was the rejoinder, delivered with an unnecessary amount of
spite. "What makes you so out of breath?" she tartly asked.

"I had a bit of a fright," said the woman, simply. "My breath seems to
get affected at nothing of late, Lydia."

"A pity but you'd your hands full of work, as mine are: that's the best
remedy for fright," said Mrs. Jones sarcastically. "What might your
fright have been, pray?"

"I was standing, waiting to dart over here, when I saw a man come across
the waste land and make for Pike's shed," said Mrs. Gum, looking at her
husband. "It gave me a turn. We've never seen a soul go near the place of
an evening since Pike has been there."

"Why should it give you a turn?" asked Mrs. Jones, who was in a mood
to contradict everything. "You've seen Pike often enough not to be
frightened at him when he keeps his distance."

"It wasn't Pike, Lydia. The man had an umbrella over him, and he looked
like a gentleman. Fancy Pike with an umbrella!"

"Was it Mr. Hillary?" interposed the clerk.

She shook her head. "I don't think so; but it was getting too dark to
see. Any way, it gave me a turn; and he's gone right up to Pike's shed."

"Gave you a turn, indeed!" scornfully repeated Mrs. Jones. "I think
you're getting more of an idiot every day, Nance. It's to be hoped
somebody's gone to take him up; that's what is to be hoped."

But Mr. Hillary it was. Hearing nothing from Jabez Gum all day, he had
come to the conclusion that that respectable man had ignored his promise,
and, unable to divest himself of the idea that Pike was ill, in the
evening, having a minute to spare, he went forth to see for himself.

The shed-door was closed, but not fastened, and Mr. Hillary went in at
once without ceremony. A lighted candle shed its rays around the rude
dwelling-room: and the first thing he saw was a young man, who did not
look in the least like Pike, stretched upon a mattress; the second was a
bushy black wig and appurtenances lying on a chair; and the third was a
formidable-looking pistol, conveniently close to the prostrate invalid.

Quick as thought, the surgeon laid his hand upon the pistol and removed
it to a safe distance. He then bent over the sick man, examining him with
his penetrating eyes; and what he saw struck him with consternation so
great, that he sat down on a chair to recover himself, albeit not liable
to be overcome by emotion.

When he left the shed--which was not for nearly half-an-hour after he had
entered it--he heard voices at Clerk Gum's front-door. The storm was
over, and their visitor was departing. Mr. Hillary took a moment's
counsel with himself, then crossed the stile and appeared amongst them.
Nodding to the three collectively, he gravely addressed the clerk and his
wife.

"I have come here to ask, in the name of our common humanity, whether you
will put aside your prejudices, and be Christians in a case of need," he
began. "I don't forget that once, when an epidemic was raging in Calne,
you"--turning to the wife--"were active and fearless, going about and
nursing the sick when almost all others held aloof. Will you do the same
now by a helpless man?"

The woman trembled all over. Clerk Gum looked questioningly at the
doctor. Mrs. Jones was taking in everything with eyes and ears.

"This neighbour of yours has caught the fever. Some one must attend to
him, or he will lie there and die. I thought perhaps you'd do it, Mrs.
Gum, for our Saviour's sake--if from no other motive."

She trembled excessively. "I always was terribly afraid of that man, sir,
since he came," said she, with marked hesitation.

"But he cannot harm you now. I don't ask you to go in to him one day
after he is well again--if he recovers. Neither need you be with him
as a regular nurse: only step in now and then to give him his physic,
or change the wet cloths on his burning head."

Mrs. Jones found her voice. The enormous impudence of the surgeon's
request had caused its temporary extinction.

"I'd see Pike in his coffin before I'd go a-nigh him as a nurse! What on
earth will you be asking next, Mr. Hillary?"

"I didn't ask you, Mrs. Jones: you have your children to attend to; full
employment for one pair of arms. Mrs. Gum has nothing to do with her
time; and is near at hand besides. Gum, you stand in your place by Dr.
Ashton every Sunday, and read out to us of the loving mercy of God: will
you urge your wife to this little work of charity for His sake?"

Jabez Gum evidently did not know what to answer. On the one hand, he
could hardly go against the precepts he had to respond to as clerk; on
the other, there was his scorn and hatred of the disreputable Arab.

"He's such a loose character, sir," he debated at length.

"Possibly: when he is well. But he is ill now, and could not be loose if
he tried. Some one _must_ go in now and then to see after him: it struck
me that perhaps your wife would do it, for humanity's sake; and I thought
I'd ask her before going further."

"She can do as she likes," said Jabez.

Mrs. Gum--as unresisting in her nature as ever was Percival
Elster--yielded to the prayer of the surgeon, and said she would do
what she could. But she had never shown more nervousness over anything
than she was showing as she gave her answer.

"Then I will step indoors and give you a few plain directions," said the
surgeon. "Mrs. Jones has taken her departure, I perceive."

Mrs. Gum was as good as her word, and went in with dire trepidation.
Calne's sentiments, on the whole, resembled Mrs. Jones's, and the woman
was blamed for her yielding nature. But she contrived, with the help of
Mr. Hillary's skill, to bring the man through the fever; and it was very
singular that no other person out of the Rectory took it.

The last one to take it at the Rectory was Mrs. Ashton. Of the three
servants who had it, one had died; the other two recovered. Mrs. Ashton
did not take it until the rest were well, and she had it lightly. Anne
nursed her and would do so; and it was an additional reason for
prolonging the veto against Lord Hartledon.

One morning in December, Val, in passing down the road, saw the Rectory
turned, as he called it, inside out. Every window was thrown open;
curtains were taken down; altogether there seemed to be a comprehensive
cleaning going on. At that moment Mr. Hillary passed, and Val arrested
him, pointing to the Rectory.

"Yes, they are having a cleansing and purification. The family went away
this morning."

"Went where?" exclaimed Hartledon, in amazement.

"Dr. Ashton has taken a cottage near Ventnor."

"Had Mrs. Ashton quite recovered?"

"Quite: or they would not have gone. The Rectory has had a clean bill of
health for some time past."

"Then why did they not let me know it?" exclaimed Val, in his
astonishment and anger.

"Perhaps you didn't ask," said the surgeon. "But no visitors were sought.
Time enough for that when the house shall have been fumigated."

"They might have sent to me," he cried, in resentment. "To go away and
never let me know it!"

"They may have thought you were too agreeably engaged to care to be
disturbed," remarked the surgeon.

"What do you mean?" demanded Val, hotly.

Mr. Hillary laughed. "People will talk, you know; and rumour has it that
Lord Hartledon has found attractions in his own home, whilst the Rectory
was debarred to him."

Val wheeled round on his heel, and walked away in displeasure. Home
truths are never palatable. But the kindly disposition of the man resumed
its sway immediately: he turned back, and pointed to the shed.

"Is that interesting patient of yours on his legs again?"

"He is getting better. The disease attacked him fiercely and was
unusually prolonged. It's strange he should have been the only one to
take it."

"Gum's wife has been nursing him, I hear?"

"She has gone in and out to do such necessary offices as the sick
require. I put it to her from a Christian point of view, you see, and on
the score of humanity. She was at hand; and that's a great thing where
the nurse is only a visiting one."

"Look here, Hillary; don't let the man want for anything; see that he has
all he needs. He is a black sheep, no doubt; but illness levels us all to
one standard. Good day."

"Good day, Lord Hartledon."

And when the surgeon had got to a distance with his quick step, Lord
Hartledon turned back to the Rectory.




CHAPTER XV.

VAL'S DILEMMA.


It was a mild day in spring. The air was balmy, but the skies were grey
and lowering; and as a gentleman strolled across a field adjoining
Hartledon Park he looked up at them more than once, as if asking whether
they threatened rain.

Not that he had any great personal interest in the question. Whether the
skies gave forth sunshine or rain is of little moment to a mind not at
rest. He had only looked up in listlessness. A stranger might have taken
him at a distance for a gamekeeper: his coat was of velveteen; his boots
were muddy: but a nearer inspection would have removed the impression.

It was Lord Hartledon; but changed since you last saw him. For some time
past there had been a worn, weary look upon his face, bespeaking a mind
ill at ease; the truth is, his conscience was not at rest, and in time
that tells on the countenance.

He had been by the fish-pond for an hour. But the fish had not shown
themselves inclined to bite, and he grew too impatient to remain.
Not altogether impatient at the wary fish, but in his own mental
restlessness. The fishing-rod was carried in his hand in pieces; and he
splashed along, in a brown study, on the wet ground, flinging himself
over the ha-ha with an ungracious movement. Some one was approaching
across the park from the house, and Lord Hartledon walked on to a gate,
and waited there for him to come up. He began beating the bars with the
thin end of the rod, and--broke it!

"That's the way you use your fishing-rods," cried the free, pleasant
voice of the new-comer. "I shouldn't mind being appointed purveyor of
tackle to your lordship."

The stranger was an active little man, older than Hartledon; his features
were thin, his eyes dark and luminous. I think you have heard his
name--Thomas Carr. Lord Hartledon once called him the greatest friend he
possessed on earth. He had been wont to fly to him in his past dilemmas,
and the habit was strong upon him still. A mandate that would have been
peremptory, but for the beseeching terms in which it was couched, had
reached Mr. Carr on circuit; and he had hastened across country to obey
it, reaching Hartledon the previous evening. That something was wrong,
Mr. Carr of course was aware; but what, he did not yet know. Lord
Hartledon, with his natural vacillation, his usual shrinking from the
discussion of unpleasant topics relating to himself, had not entered upon
it at all on the previous night; and when breakfast was over that
morning, Mr. Carr had craved an hour alone for letter-writing. It was the
first time Mr. Carr had visited his friend at his new inheritance; indeed
the first time he had been at all at Hartledon. Lord Hartledon seated
himself on the gate; the barrister leaned his arms on the top bar whilst
he talked to him.

"What is the matter?" asked the latter.

"Not much."

"I have finished my letters, so I came out to look for you. You are not
changed, Elster."

"What should change me in so short a time?--it's only six months since
you last saw me," retorted Hartledon, curtly.

"I alluded to your nature. I had to worm the troubles out of you in the
old days, each one as it arose. I see I shall have to do the same now.
Don't say there's not much the matter, for I am sure there is."

Lord Hartledon jerked his handkerchief out of his pocket, passed it over
his face, and put it back again.

"What fresh folly have you got into?--as I used to ask you at Oxford. You
are in some mess."

"I suppose it's of no use denying that I am in one. An awful mess, too."

"Well, I have pulled you out of many a one in my time. Let me hear it."

"There are some things one does not like to talk about, Carr. I sent for
you in my perplexity; but I believe you can be of no use to me."

"So you have said before now. But it generally turned out that I was of
use to you, and cleared you from your nightmare."

"All those were minor difficulties; this is different."

"I cannot understand your 'not liking' to speak of things to me. Why
don't you begin?"

"Because I shall prove myself worse than a fool. You'll despise me to
your heart's core. Carr, I think I shall go mad!"

"Tell me the cause first, and go mad afterwards. Come, Val; I am your
true friend."

"I have made an offer of marriage to two women," said Hartledon,
desperately plunging into the revelation. "Never was such a born idiot
in the world as I have been. I can't marry both."

"I imagine not," quietly replied Mr. Carr.

"You knew I was engaged to Miss Ashton?"

"Yes."

"And I'm sure I loved her with all my"--he seemed to hesitate for a
strong term--"might and main; and do still. But I have managed to get
into mischief elsewhere."

"Elster's folly, as usual. What sort of mischief?"

"The worst sort, for there can be no slipping out of it. When that fever
broke out at Doctor Ashton's--you heard us talking of it last night,
Carr--I went to the Rectory just as usual. What did I care for fever?--it
was not likely to attack me. But the countess-dowager found it out--"

"Why do they stay here so long?" interrupted Thomas Carr. "They have been
here ever since your brother died."

"And before it. The old woman likes her quarters, and has no settled
home. She makes a merit of stopping, and says I ought to feel under
eternal obligation to her and Maude for sacrificing themselves to a
solitary man and his household. But you should have heard the uproar
she made upon discovering I had been to the Rectory. She had my room
fumigated and my clothes burnt."

"Foolish old creature!"

"The best of it was, I pointed out by mistake the wrong coat, and
the offending one is upstairs now. I shall show it her some day. She
reproached me with holding her life and her daughter's dirt-cheap, and
wormed a promise out of me not to visit the Rectory as long as fever was
in it."

"Which you gave?"

"She wormed it out of me, I tell you. I don't know that I should have
kept it, but Dr. Ashton put in his veto also; and between the two I was
kept away. For many weeks afterwards I never saw or spoke to Anne. She
did not come out at all, even to church; they were so anxious the fever
should not spread."

"Well? Go on, Val."

"Well: how does that proverb run, about idleness being the root of all
evil? During those weeks I was an idle man, wretchedly bored; and I fell
into a flirtation with Maude. She began it, Carr, on my solemn word of
honour--though it's a shame to tell these tales of a woman; and I joined
in from sheer weariness, to kill time. But you know how one gets led on
in such things--or I do, if you, you cautious fellow, don't--and we both
went in pretty deep."

"Elster's folly again! How deep?"

"As deep as I well could, short of committing myself to a proposal. You
see the ill-luck of it was, those two and I being alone in the house. I
may as well say Maude and I alone; for the old woman kept her room very
much; she had a cold, she said, and was afraid of the fever."

"Tush!" cried Thomas Carr angrily. "And you made love to the young lady?"

"As fast as I could make it. What a fool I was! But I protest I only did
it in amusement; I never thought of her supplanting Anne Ashton. Now,
Carr, you are looking as you used to look at Oxford; get your brow smooth
again. You just shut up yourself for weeks with a fascinating girl, and
see if you wouldn't find yourself in some horrible entanglement, proof
against such as you think you are."

"As I am obliged to be. I should take care not to lay myself open to the
temptation. Neither need you have done it."

"I don't see how I was to help myself. Often and often I wished to have
visitors in the house, but the old woman met me with reproaches that I
was forgetting the recent death of my brother. She won't have any one now
if she knows it, and I had to send for you quietly. Did you see how she
stared last night when you came in?"

Mr. Carr drew down his lips. "You might have gone away yourself, Elster."

"Of course I might," was the testy reply. "But I was a fool, and didn't.
Carr, I swear to you I fell into the trap unconsciously; I did not
foresee danger. Maude is a charming girl, there's no denying it; but
as to love, I never glanced at it."

"Was it not suspected in town last year that Lady Maude had a liking for
your brother?"

"It was suspected there and here; I thought it myself. We were mistaken.
One day lately Maude offended me, and I hinted at something of the sort:
she turned red and white with indignation, saying she wished he could
rise from his grave to refute it. I only wish he could!" added the
unhappy man.

"Have you told me all?"

"All! I wish I had. In December I was passing the Rectory, and saw it
dismantled. Hillary, whom I met, said the family had gone to Ventnor. I
went in, but could not learn any particulars, or get the address. I
chanced a letter, written I confess in anger, directing it Ventnor only,
and it found them. Anne's answer was cool: mischief-making tongues had
been talking about me and Maude; I learned so much from Hillary; and Anne
no doubt resented it. I resented that--can you follow me, Carr?--and I
said to myself I wouldn't write again for some time to come. Before that
time came the climax had occurred."

"And while you were waiting for your temper to come round in regard to
Miss Ashton, you continued to make love to the Lady Maude?" remarked Mr.
Carr. "On the face of things, I should say your love had been transferred
to her."

"Indeed it hadn't. Next to Anne, she's the most charming girl I know;
that's all. Between the two it will be awful work for me."

"So I should think," returned Mr. Carr. "The ass between two bundles of
hay was nothing to it."

"He was not an ass at all, compared with what I am," assented Val,
gloomily.

"Well, if a man behaves like an ass--"

"Don't moralize," interrupted Hartledon; "but rather advise me how to get
out of my dilemma. The morning's drawing on, and I have promised to ride
with Maude."

"You had better ride alone. All the advice I can give you is to draw back
by degrees, and so let the flirtation subside. If there is no actual
entanglement--"

"Stop a bit, Carr; I had not come to it," interrupted Lord Hartledon, who
in point of fact had been holding back what he called the climax, in his
usual vacillating manner. "One ill-starred day, when it was pouring cats
and dogs, and I could not get out, I challenged Maude to a game at
billiards. Maude lost. I said she should pay me, and put my arm round her
waist and snatched a kiss. Just at that moment in came the dowager, who I
believe must have been listening--"

"Not improbably," interrupted Mr. Carr, significantly.

"'Oh, you two dear turtle-doves,' cried she, 'Hartledon, you have made me
so happy! I have seen for some weeks what you were thinking of. There's
nobody living I'd confide that dear child to but yourself: you shall have
her, and my blessing shall be upon you both.'

"Carr," continued poor Val, "I was struck dumb. All the absurdity of the
thing rose up before me. In my confusion I could not utter a word. A man
with more moral courage might have spoken out; acknowledged the shame and
folly of his conduct and apologized. I could not."

"Elster's folly! Elster's folly!" thought the barrister. "You never had
the slightest spark of moral courage," he observed aloud, in pained
tones. "What did you say?"

"Nothing. There's the worst of it. I neither denied the dowager's
assumption, nor confirmed it. Of course I cannot now."

"When was this?"

"In December."

"And how have things gone on since? How do you stand with them?"

"Things have gone on as they went on before; and I stand engaged to
Maude, in her mother's opinion; perhaps in hers: never having said myself
one word to support the engagement."

"Only continued to 'make love,' and 'snatch a kiss,'" sarcastically
rejoined Mr. Carr.

"Once in a way. What is a man to do, exposed to the witchery of a pretty
girl?"

"Oh, Percival! You are worse than I thought for. Where is Miss Ashton?"

"Coming home next Friday," groaned Val. "And the dowager asked me
yesterday whether Maude and I had arranged the time for our marriage.
What on earth I shall do, I don't know. I might sail for some remote land
and convert myself into a savage, where I should never be found or
recognized; there's no other escape for me."

"How much does Miss Ashton know of this?"

"Nothing. I had a letter from her this morning, more kindly than her
letters have been of late."

"Lord Hartledon!" exclaimed Mr. Carr, in startled tones. "Is it possible
that you are carrying on a correspondence with Miss Ashton, and your
love-making with Lady Maude?"

Val nodded assent, looking really ashamed of himself.

"And you call yourself a man of honour! Why, you are the greatest
humbug--"

"That's enough; no need to sum it up. I see all I've been."

"I understood you to imply that your correspondence with Miss Ashton had
ceased."

"It was renewed. Dr. Ashton came up to preach one Sunday, just before
Christmas, and he and I got friendly again; you know I never can be
unfriendly with any one long. The next day I wrote to Anne, and we have
corresponded since; more coolly though than we used to do. Circumstances
have been really against me. Had they continued at Ventnor, I should have
gone down and spent my Christmas with them, and nothing of this would
have happened; but they must needs go to Dr. Ashton's sister's in
Yorkshire for Christmas; and there they are still. It was in that
miserable Christmas week that the mischief occurred. And now you have
the whole, Carr. I know I've been a fool; but what is to be done?"

"Lord Hartledon," was the grave rejoinder, "I am unable to give you
advice in this. Your conduct is indefensible."

"Don't 'Lord Hartledon' me: I won't stand it. Carr?"

"Well?"

"If you bring up against me a string of reproaches lasting until night
will that mend matters? I am conscious of possessing but one true friend
in the world, and that's yourself. You must stand by me."

"I was your friend; never a truer. But I believed you to be a man of
honour."

Hartledon lifted his hat from his brow; as though the brow alone were
heavy enough just then. At least the thought struck Mr. Carr.

"I have been drawn unwittingly into this, as I have into other things. I
never meant to do wrong. As to dishonour, Heaven knows my nature shrinks
from it."

"If your nature does, you don't," came the severe answer. "I should feel
ashamed to put forth the same plea always of 'falling unwittingly' into
disgrace. You have done it ever since you were a schoolboy. Talk of the
Elster folly! this has gone beyond it. This is dishonour. Engaged to one
girl, and corresponding with her; making hourly love for weeks to
another! May I inquire which of the two you really care for?"

"Anne--I suppose."

"You suppose!"

"You make me wild, talking like this. Of course it's Anne. Maude has
managed to creep into my regard, though, in no common degree. She is very
lovely, very fascinating and amiable."

"May I ask which of the two you intend to marry!" continued the
barrister, neither suppressing nor attempting to soften his indignant
tones. "As this country's laws are against a plurality of wives, you will
be unable, I imagine, to espouse them both."

Hartledon looked at him, beseechingly, and a sudden compassion came over
Mr. Carr. He asked himself whether it was quite the way to treat a
perplexed man who was very dear to him.

"If I am severe, it is for your sake. I assure you I scarcely know what
advice to give. It is Miss Ashton, of course, whom you intend to make
Lady Hartledon?"

"Of course it is. The difficulty in the matter is getting clear of
Maude."

"And the formidable countess-dowager. You must tell Maude the truth."

"Impossible, Carr. I might have done it once; but the thing has gone on
so long. The dowager would devour me."

"Let her try to. I should speak to Maude alone, and put her upon her
generosity to release you. Tell her you presumed upon your cousinship;
and confess that you have long been engaged to marry Miss Ashton."

"She knows that: they have both known it all along. My brother was the
first to tell them, before he died."

"They knew it?" inquired Mr. Carr, believing he had not heard correctly.

"Certainly. There has been no secret made of my engagement to Anne. All
the world knows of that."

"Then--though I do not in the least defend or excuse you--your breaking
with Lady Maude may be more pardonable. They are poor, are they not, this
Dowager Kirton and Lady Maude?"

"Poor as Job. Hard up, I think."

"Then they are angling for the broad lands of Hartledon. I see it all.
You have been a victim to fortune-hunting."

"There you are wrong, Carr. I can't answer for the dowager one way or the
other; but Maude is the most disinterested--"

"Of course: girls on the look-out for establishments always are. Have it
as you like."

He spoke in tones of ridicule; and Hartledon jumped off the stile and led
the way home.

That Lord Hartledon had got himself into a very serious predicament, Mr.
Carr plainly saw. His good nature, his sensitive regard for the feelings
of others, rendering it so impossible for him to say no, and above all
his vacillating disposition, were his paramount characteristics still: in
a degree they ever would be. Easily led as ever, he was as a very reed
in the hands of the crafty old woman of the world, located with him. She
had determined that he should become the husband of her daughter; and was
as certain of accomplishing her end as if she had foreseen the future.
Lord Hartledon himself afterwards, in his bitter repentance, said, over
and over again, that circumstances were against him; and they certainly
were so, as you will find.

Lord Hartledon thought he was making headway against it now, in sending
for his old friend, and resolving to be guided by his advice.

"I will take an opportunity of speaking to Maude, Carr," he resumed. "I
would rather not do it, of course; but I see there's no help for it."

"Make the opportunity," said Mr. Carr, with emphasis. "Don't delay a day;
I shall expect you to write me a letter to-morrow saying you've done it."

"But you won't leave to-day," said Hartledon, entreatingly, feeling an
instant prevision that with the departure of Thomas Carr all his courage
would ignominiously desert him.

"I must go. You know I told you last night that my stay could only be
four-and-twenty hours. You can accomplish it whilst I am here, if you
like, and get it over; the longer a nauseous medicine is held to the lips
the more difficult it is to swallow it. You say you are going to ride
with Lady Maude presently; let that be your opportunity."

And get it over! Words that sounded as emancipation in Val's ear. But
somehow he did not accomplish it in that ride. Excuses were on his lips
five hundred times, but his hesitating lips never formed them. He really
was on the point of speaking; at least he said so to himself; when Mr.
Hillary overtook them on horseback, and rode with them some distance.
After that, Maude put her horse to a canter, and so they reached home.

"Well?" said Mr. Carr.

"Not yet," answered Hartledon; "there was no opportunity."

"My suggestion was to make your opportunity."

"And so I will. I'll speak to her either to-night or to-morrow. She chose
to ride fast to-day; and Hillary joined us part of the way. Don't look as
if you doubted me, Carr: I shall be sure to speak."

"Will he?" thought Thomas Carr, as he took his departure by the evening
train, having promised to run down the following Saturday for a few
hours. "It is an even bet, I think. Poor Val!"

Poor Val indeed! Vacillating, attractive, handsome Val! shrinking,
sensitive Val! The nauseous medicine was never taken. And when the
Ashtons returned to the Rectory on the Friday night he had not spoken.

And the very day of their return a rumour reached his ear that Mrs.
Ashton's health was seriously if not fatally shattered, and she was
departing immediately for the South of France.




CHAPTER XVI.

BETWEEN THE TWO.


Not in the Rectory drawing-room, but in a pretty little sitting-room
attached to her bed-chamber, where the temperature was regulated, and no
draughts could penetrate, reclined Mrs. Ashton. Her invalid gown sat
loosely upon her shrunken form, her delicate, lace cap shaded a fading
face. Anne sat by her side in all her loveliness, ostensibly working; but
her fingers trembled, and her face looked flushed and pained.

It was the morning after their return, and Mrs. Graves had called in to
see Mrs. Ashton--gossiping Mrs. Graves, who knew all that took place in
the parish, and a great deal of what never did take place. She had just
been telling it all unreservedly in her hard way; things that might be
said, and things that might as well have been left unsaid. She went out
leaving a whirr and a buzz behind her and an awful sickness of desolation
upon one heart.

"Give me my little writing-case, Anne," said Mrs. Ashton, waking up from
a reverie and sitting forward on her sofa.

Anne took the pretty toy from the side-table, opened it, and laid it on
the table before her mother.

"Is it nothing I can write for you, mamma?"

"No, child."

Anne bent her hot face over her work again. It had not occurred to her
that it could concern herself; and Mrs. Ashton wrote a few rapid lines:

  "My Dear Percival,

  "Can you spare me a five-minutes' visit? I wish to speak with you. We
   go away again on Monday.

  "Ever sincerely yours,

  "Catherine Ashton."

She folded it, enclosed it in an envelope, and addressed it to the Earl
of Hartledon. Pushing away the writing-table, she held out the note to
her daughter.

"Seal it for me, Anne. I am tired. Let it go at once."

"Mamma!" exclaimed Anne, as her eye caught the address. "Surely you are
not writing to him! You are not asking him to come here?"

"You see that I am writing to him, Anne. And it is to ask him to come
here. My dear, you may safely leave me to act according to my own
judgment. But as to what Mrs. Graves has said, I don't believe a word
of it."

"I scarcely think I do," murmured Anne; a smile hovering on her troubled
countenance, like sunshine after rain.

Anne had the taper alight, and the wax held to it, the note ready in her
hand, when the room-door was thrown open by Mrs. Ashton's maid.

"Lord Hartledon."

He came in in a hurried manner, talking fast, making too much fuss; it
was unlike his usual quiet movements, and Mrs. Ashton noticed it. As he
shook hands with her, she held the note before him.

"See, Percival! I was writing to ask you to call upon me."

Anne had put out the light, and her hand was in Lord Hartledon's before
she well knew anything, save that her heart was beating tumultuously.
Mrs. Ashton made a place for him on the sofa, and Anne quietly left the
room.

"I should have been here earlier," he began, "but I had the steward with
me on business; it is little enough I have attended to since my brother's
death. Dear Mrs. Ashton! I grieve to hear this poor account of you. You
are indeed looking ill."

"I am so ill, Percival, that I doubt whether I shall ever be better in
this world. It is my last chance, this going away to a warmer place until
winter has passed."

He was bending towards her in earnest sympathy, all himself again; his
dark blue eyes very tender, his pleasant features full of concern as he
gazed on her face. And somehow, looking at that attractive countenance,
Mrs. Ashton's doubts went from her.

"But what I have said is to you alone," she resumed. "My husband and
children do not see the worst, and I refrain from telling them. A little
word of confidence between us, Val."

"I hope and trust you may come back cured!" he said, very fervently. "Is
it the fever that has so shattered you?"

"It is the result of it. I have never since been able to recover
strength, but have become weaker and more weak. And you know I was
in ill health before. We leave on Monday morning for Cannes."

"For Cannes?" he exclaimed.

"Yes. A place not so warm as some I might have gone to; but the doctors
say that will be all the better. It is not heat I need; only shelter from
our cold northern winds until I can get a little strength into me.
There's nothing the matter with my lungs; indeed, I don't know that
anything is the matter with me except this terrible weakness."

"I suppose Anne goes with you?"

"Oh yes. I could not go without Anne. The doctor will see us settled
there, and then he returns."

A thought crossed Lord Hartledon: how pleasant if he and Anne could have
been married, and have made this their wedding tour. He did not speak it:
Mrs. Ashton would have laughed at his haste.

"How long shall you remain away?" he asked.

"Ah, I cannot tell you. I may not live to return. If all goes well--that
is, if there should be a speedy change for the better, as the medical men
who have been attending me think there may be--I shall be back perhaps in
April or May. Val--I cannot forget the old familiar name, you see--"

"I hope you never will forget it," he warmly interposed.

"I wanted very particularly to see you. A strange report was brought
here this morning and I determined to mention it to you. You know what
an old-fashioned, direct way I have of doing things; never choosing a
roundabout road if I can take a straight one. This note was a line asking
you to call upon me," she added, taking it from her lap, where it had
been lying, and tossing it on to the table, whilst her hearer, his
conscience rising up, began to feel a very little uncomfortable. "We
heard you had proposed marriage to Lady Maude Kirton."

Lord Hartledon's face became crimson. "Who on earth could have invented
that?" cried he, having no better answer at hand.

"Mrs. Graves mentioned it to me. She was dining at Hartledon last week,
and the countess-dowager spoke about it openly."

Mrs. Ashton looked at him; and he, confused and taken aback, looked down
on the carpet, devoutly wishing himself in the remote regions he had
spoken of to Mr. Carr. Anywhere, so that he should never be seen or
recognized again.

"What am I to do?" thought he. "I wish Mother Graves was hanged!"

"You do not speak, Percival!"

"Well, I--I was wondering what could have given rise to this," he
stammered. "I believe the old dowager would like to see her daughter
mistress of Hartledon: and suppose she gave utterance to her thoughts."

"Very strange that she should!" observed Mrs. Ashton.

"I think she's a little cracked sometimes," coughed Val; and, in truth,
he now and then did think so. "I hope you have not told Anne?"

"I have told no one. And had I not felt sure it had no foundation, I
should have told the doctor, not you. But Anne was in the room when Mrs.
Graves mentioned it."

"What a blessing it would be if Mrs. Graves were out of the parish!"
exclaimed Val, hotly. "I wonder Dr. Ashton keeps Graves on, with such a
mother! No one ever had such a mischief-making tongue as hers."

"Percival, may I say something to you?" asked Mrs. Ashton, who was
devouring him with her eyes. "Your manner would almost lead me to believe
that there _is_ something in it. Tell me the truth; I can never be
anything but your friend."

"Believe one thing, dear Mrs. Ashton--that I have no intention of
marrying anyone but Anne; and I wish with all my heart and soul you'd
give her to me to-day. Shut up with those two women, the one pretty, the
other watching any chance word to turn it to her own use, I dare say the
Mrs. Graveses of the place have talked, forgetting that Maude is my
cousin. I believe I paid some attention to Maude because I was angry
at being kept out of the Rectory; but my attentions meant nothing, upon
my honour."

"Elster's folly, Val! Lady Maude may have thought they did."

"At any rate she knew of my engagement to Anne."

"Then there is nothing in it?"

"There shall be nothing in it," was the emphatic answer. "Anne was my
first love, and she will be my last. You must promise to give her to me
as soon as you return from Cannes."

"About that you must ask her father. I dare say he will do so."

Lord Hartledon rose from his seat; held Mrs. Ashton's hand between his
whilst he said his adieu, and stooped to kiss her with a son's affection.
She was a little surprised to find it was his final farewell. They were
not going to start until Monday. But Hartledon could not have risked that
cross-questioning again; rather would he have sailed away for the savage
territories at once. He went downstairs searching for Anne, and found her
in the room where you first saw her--her own. She looked up with quite an
affectation of surprise when he entered, although she had probably gone
there to await him. The best of girls are human.

"You ran away, Anne, whilst mamma and I held our conference?"

"I hope it has been satisfactory," she answered demurely, not looking up,
and wondering whether he suspected how violently her heart was beating.

"Partly so. The end was all right. Shall I tell it you?"

"The end! Yes, if you will," she replied unsuspectingly.

"The decision come to is, that a certain young friend of ours is to be
converted, with as little delay as circumstances may permit, into Lady
Hartledon."

Of course there came no answer except a succession of blushes. Anne's
work, which she had carried with her, took all her attention just then.

"Can you guess her name, Anne?"

"I don't know. Is it Maude Kirton?"

He winced. "If you have been told that abominable rubbish, Anne, it is
not necessary to repeat it. It's not so pleasant a theme that you need
make a joke of it."

"Is it rubbish?" asked Anne, lifting her eyes.

"I think you ought to know that if any one does. But had anything
happened, Anne, recollect it would have been your fault. You have been
very cool to me of late. You forbid me the house for weeks and weeks; you
went away for an indefinite period without letting me know, or giving me
the chance of seeing you; and when the correspondence was at length
renewed, your letters were cold and formal--quite different from what
they used to be. It almost looks as if you wished to part from me."

Repentance was stealing over her: why had she ever doubted him?

"And now you are going away again! And although this interview may be
our last for months, you scarcely deign to give me a word or a look of
farewell."

Anne had already been terribly tried by Mrs. Graves: this was the climax:
she lost her self-control and burst into tears. Lord Hartledon was
softened at once. He took her two hands in his; he clasped her to his
heart, half devouring her face with passionate kisses. Ah, Lady Maude!
this impassioned love was never felt for you.

"You don't love her?" whispered Anne.

"Love her! I never loved but you, my best and dearest. I never shall, or
can, love another."

He spoke in all good faith; fully believing what he said; and it was
indeed true. And Anne? As though a prevision had been upon her of the
future, she remained passively in his arms sobbing hysterically, and
suffering his kisses; not drawing away from him in maiden modesty, as
was her wont. She had never clung to him like this.

"You will write to me often?" he whispered.

"Yes. Won't you come to Cannes?"

"I don't know that it will be possible, unless you remain beyond the
spring. And should that be the case, Anne, I shall pray your father and
mother that the marriage may take place there. I am going up to town next
month to take my seat in the House. It will be a busy session; and I want
to see if I can't become a useful public man. I think it would please the
doctor to find I've some stuff in me; and a man must have a laudable
object in life."

"I would rather die," murmured Anne, passionately in her turn, "than hear
again what Mrs. Graves said."

"My darling, we cannot stop people's gossip. Believe in me; I will not
fail you. Oh, Anne, I wish you were already my wife!" he aspirated
fervently, his perplexities again presenting themselves to his mind.

"The time will come," she whispered.

Lord Hartledon walked home full of loyal thought, saying to himself what
an utter idiot he had been in regard to Maude, and determined to lose no
time in getting clear of the entanglement. He sought an opportunity of
speaking to her that afternoon; he really did; but could not find it. The
dowager had taken her out to pay a visit.

Mr. Carr was as good as his word, and got down in time for dinner. One
glance at Lord Hartledon's face told him what he half expected to
see--that the word of emancipation had not yet been spoken.

"Don't blame me, Carr. I shall speak to-night before I sleep, on my word
of honour. Things have come to a crisis now; and if I wished to hold back
I could not. I would say what a fool I have been not to speak before;
only you know I'm one already."

Thomas Carr laughed.

"Mrs. Ashton has heard some tattle about Maude, and spoke to me this
afternoon. Of course I could only deny it, my face feeling on fire with
its sense of dishonour, for I don't think I ever told a deliberate lie in
my life; and--and, in short, I should like my marriage with Anne to take
place as soon as possible."

"Well, there's only one course to pursue, as I told you when I was down
before. Tell Lady Maude the candid truth, and take shame and blame to
yourself, as you deserve. Her having known of the engagement to Miss
Ashton renders your task the easier."

Very restless was Lord Hartledon until the moment came. He knew the best
time to speak to Maude would be immediately after dinner, whilst the
countess-dowager took her usual nap. There was no hesitation now; and he
speedily followed them upstairs, leaving his friend at the dinner-table.

He went up, feeling a desperate man. To those of his temperament having
to make a disagreeable communication such as this is almost as cruel as
parting with life.

No one was in the drawing-room but Lady Kirton--stretched upon a sofa and
apparently fast asleep. Val crossed the carpet with softened tread to the
adjoining rooms: small, comfortable rooms, used by the dowager in
preference to the more stately rooms below. Maude had drawn aside the
curtain and was peering out into the frosty night.

"Why, how soon you are up!" she cried, turning at his entrance.

"I came on purpose, Maude. I want to speak to you."

"Are you well?" she asked, coming forward to the fire, and taking her
seat on a sofa. In truth, he did not look very well just then. "What is
it?"

"Maude," he answered, his fair face flushing a dark red as he plunged
into it blindfold: "I am a rogue and a fool!"

Lady Maude laughed. "Elster's folly!"

"Yes. You know all this time that we--that I--" (Val thought he should
never flounder through this first moment, and did not remain an instant
in one place as he talked)--"have been going on so foolishly, I
was--almost as good as a married man."

"Were you?" said she, quietly. "Married to whom?"

"I said as good as married, Maude. You know I have been engaged for years
to Miss Ashton; otherwise I would have _knelt_ to ask you to become my
wife, so earnestly should I desire it."

Her calm imperturbability presented a curious contrast to his agitation.
She was regarding him with an amused smile.

"And, Maude, I have come now to ask you to release me. Indeed, I--"

"What's all this about?" broke in the countess-dowager, darting upon
the conference, her face flushed and her head-dress awry. "Are you two
quarrelling?"

"Val was attempting to explain something about Miss Ashton," answered
Maude, rising from the sofa, and drawing herself up to her stately
height. "He had better do it to you instead, mamma; I don't understand
it."

She stood up by the mantelpiece, in the ray of the lustres. They fell
across her dark, smooth hair, her flushed cheeks, her exquisite features.
Her dress was of flowing white crêpe, with jet ornaments; and Lord
Hartledon, even in the midst of his perplexity, thought how beautiful she
was, and what a sad thing it was to lose her. The truth was, his senses
had been caught by the girl's beauty although his heart was elsewhere.
It is a very common case.

"The fact is, ma'am," he stammered, turning to the dowager in his
desperation, "I have been behaving very foolishly of late, and am asking
your daughter's pardon. I should have remembered my engagement to Miss
Ashton."

"Remembered your engagement to Miss Ashton!" echoed the dowager, her
voice becoming a little shrill. "What engagement?"

Lord Hartledon began to recover himself, though he looked foolish still.
With these nervous men it is the first plunge that tells; get that over
and they are brave as their fellows.

"I cannot marry two women, Lady Kirton, and I am bound to Anne."

The old dowager's voice toned down, and she pulled her black feathers
straight upon her head.

"My dear Hartledon, I don't think you know what you are talking about.
You engaged yourself to Maude some weeks ago."

"Well--but--whatever may have passed, engagement or no engagement, I
could not legally do it," returned the unhappy young man, too considerate
to say the engagement was hers, not his. "You knew I was bound to Anne,
Lady Kirton."

"Bound to a fiddlestick!" said the dowager. "Excuse my plainness,
Hartledon. When you engaged yourself to the young woman you were poor and
a nobody, and the step was perhaps excusable. Lord Hartledon is not bound
by the promises of Val Elster. All the young women in the kingdom, who
have parsons for fathers, could not oblige him to be so."

"I am bound to her in honour; and"--in love he was going to say, but let
the words die away unspoken.

"Hartledon, you are bound in honour to my daughter; you have sought her
affections, and gained them. Ah, Percival, don't you know that it is you
she has loved all along? In the days when I was worrying her about your
brother, she cared only for you. You cannot be so infamous as to desert
her."

"I wish to Heaven she had never seen me!" cried the unfortunate man,
beginning to wonder whether he could break through these trammels. "I'd
sacrifice myself willingly, if that would put things straight."

"You cannot sacrifice Maude. Look at her!" and the crafty old dowager
flourished her hand towards the fireplace, where Maude stood in all her
beauty. "A daughter of the house of Kirton cannot be taken up and cast
aside at will. What would the world say of her?"

"The world need never know."

"Not know!" shrieked the dowager; "not know! Why, her trousseau is
ordered, and some of the things have arrived. Good Heavens, Hartledon,
you dare not trifle with Maude in this way. You could never show your
face amongst men again."

"But neither dare I trifle with Anne Ashton," said Lord Hartledon,
completely broken down by the gratuitous information. He saw that the
situation was worse than even he had bargained for, and all his
irresolution began to return upon him. "If I knew what was right
to be done, I'm sure I'd do it."

"Right, did you say? Right? There cannot be a question about that. Which
is the more fitting to grace your coronet: Maude, or a country parson's
daughter?"

"I'm sure if this goes on I shall shoot myself," cried Val. "Taken to
task at the Rectory, taken to task here--shooting would be bliss to it."

"No doubt," returned the dowager. "It can't be a very pleasant position
for you. Any one but you would get out of it, and set the matter at
rest."

"I should like to know how."

"So long as you are a single man they naturally remain on the high ropes
at the Rectory, with their fine visions for Anne--"

"I wish you would understand once for all, Lady Kirton, that the Ashtons
are our equals in every way," he interrupted: "and," he added, "in worth
and goodness infinitely our superiors."

The dowager gave a sniff. "You think so, I know, Hart. Well, the only
plan to bring you peace is this: make Maude your wife. At once; without
delay."

The proposition took away Val's breath. "I could not do it, Lady Kirton.
To begin with, they'd bring an action against me for breach of promise."

"Breach of nonsense!" wrathfully returned the dowager. "Was ever such
a thing heard of yet, as a doctor of divinity bringing an action of that
nature? He'd lose his gown."

"I wish I was at the bottom of a deep well, never to come up again!"
mentally aspirated the unfortunate man.

"Will--you--marry--Maude?" demanded the dowager, with a fixed
denunciation in every word, which was as so much slow torture to her
victim.

"I wish I could. You must see for yourself, Lady Kirton, that I cannot.
Maude must see it."

"I see nothing of the sort. You are bound to her in honour."

"All I can do is to remain single to the end of my days," said Val, after
a pause. "I have been a great villain to both, and I cannot repair it to
either. The one stands in the way of the other."

"But--"

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," he interrupted, so peremptorily that the old
woman trembled for her power. "This is my final decision, and I will not
hear another word. I feel ready to hang myself, as it is. You tell me I
cannot marry any other than Maude without being a scoundrel; the same
thing precisely applies to Anne. I shall remain single."

"You will give me one promise--for Maude's sake. Not, after this, to
marry Anne Ashton."

"Why, how can I do it?" asked he, in tones of exasperation. "Don't you
see that it is impossible? I shall not see the Ashtons again, ma'am; I
would rather go a hundred miles the other way than face them."

The countess-dowager probably deemed she had said sufficient for safety;
for she went out and shut the door after her. Lord Hartledon dashed his
hair from his brow with a hasty hand, and was about to leave the room by
the other door, when Maude came up to him.

"Is this to be the end of it, Percival?"

She spoke in tones of pain, of tremulous tenderness; all her pride gone
out of her. Lord Hartledon laid his hand upon her shoulder, meeting the
dark eyes that were raised to his through tears.

"Do you indeed love me like this, Maude? Somehow I never thought it."

"I love you better than the whole world. I love you enough to give up
everything for you."

The emphasis conveyed a reproach--that he did not "give up everything"
for her. But Lord Hartledon kept his head for once.

"Heaven knows my bitter repentance. If I could repair this folly of mine
by any sacrifice on my own part, I would gladly do it. Let me go, Maude!
I have been here long enough, unless I were more worthy. I would ask you
to forgive me if I knew how to frame the petition."

She released the hand of which she had made a prisoner--released it with
a movement of petulance; and Lord Hartledon quitted the room, the words
she had just spoken beating their refrain on his brain. It did not occur
to him in his gratified vanity to remember that Anne Ashton, about whose
love there could be no doubt, never avowed it in those pretty speeches.

"Well?" said Mr. Carr, when he got back to the dining-room.

"It is not well, Carr; it is ill. There can be no release. The old
dowager won't have it."

"But surely you will not resign Miss Ashton for Lady Maude!" cried the
barrister, after a pause of amazement.

"I resign both; I see that I cannot do anything else in honour. Excuse
me, Carr, but I'd rather not say any more about it just now; I feel half
maddened."

"Elster's folly," mentally spoke Thomas Carr.




CHAPTER XVII.

AN AGREEABLE WEDDING.


That circumstances, combined with the countess-dowager, worked terribly
against Lord Hartledon, events proved. Had the Ashtons remained at the
Rectory all might have been well; but they went away, and he was left to
any influence that might be brought to bear upon him.

How the climax was accomplished the world never knew. Lord Hartledon
himself did not know the whole of it for a long while. As if unwilling to
trust himself longer in dangerous companionship, he went up to town with
Thomas Carr. Whilst there he received a letter from Cannes, written by
Dr. Ashton; a letter that angered him.

It was a cool letter, a vein of contemptuous anger running through it;
meant to be hidden, but nevertheless perceptible to Lord Hartledon. Its
purport was to forbid all correspondence between him and Miss Ashton:
things had better "remain in abeyance" until they met, ran the words,
"if indeed any relations were ever renewed between them again."

It might have angered Lord Hartledon more than it did, but for the
hopelessness which had taken up its abode within him. Nevertheless he
resented it. He did not suppose it possible that the Ashtons could have
heard of the dilemma he was in, or that he should be unable to fulfil his
engagement with Anne, having with his usual vacillation put off any
explanation with them; which of course must come sometime. He had taken
an idea into his head long before, that Dr. Ashton wished to part them,
and he looked upon the letter as resulting from that. Hartledon was
feeling weary of the world.

How little did he divine that the letter of the doctor was called forth
by a communication from the countess-dowager. An artful communication,
with a charming candour lying on its surface. She asked--she actually
asked that Dr. Ashton would allow "fair play;" she said the "deepest
affection" had grown up between Lord Hartledon and Lady Maude; and she
only craved that the young man might not be coerced either way, but might
be allowed to choose between them. The field after Miss Ashton's return
would be open to the two, and ought to be left so.

You may imagine the effect this missive produced upon the proud,
high-minded doctor of divinity. He took a sheet of paper and wrote a
stinging letter to Lord Hartledon, forbidding him to think again of Anne.
But when he was in the act of sealing it a sudden doubt like an instinct
rushed over him, whether it might not be a ruse, and nothing else, of the
crafty old dowager's. The doubt was sufficiently strong to cause him to
tear up the letter. But he was not satisfied with Lord Hartledon's own
behaviour; had not been for some few months; and he then wrote a second
letter, suspending matters until they should meet again. It was in effect
what was asked for by the countess-dowager; and he wrote a cold proud
letter to that lady, stating what he had done. Of course any honourable
woman--any woman with a spark of justice in her heart--would have also
forbidden all intercourse with Lady Maude. The countess-dowager's policy
lay in the opposite direction.

But Lord Hartledon remained in London, utterly oblivious to the hints and
baits held out for his return to Calne. He chiefly divided his time
between the House of Lords and sitting at home, lamenting over his own
ill-starred existence. He was living quite en garçon, with only one man,
his house having been let for the season. We always want what we cannot
obtain, and because marriage was denied him, he fell into the habit of
dwelling upon it as the only boon in life. Thomas Carr was on circuit,
so that Hartledon was alone.

Easter was early that year, the latter end of March. On the Monday in
Passion-week there arrived a telegram for Lord Hartledon sent apparently
by the butler, Hedges. It was vaguely worded; spoke of a railway accident
and somebody dying. Who he could not make out, except that it was a
Kirton: and it prayed him to hasten down immediately. All his goodness of
heart aroused, Val lost not a moment. He had been engaged to spend Easter
with some people in Essex, but dispatched a line of apology, and hastened
down to Calne, wondering whether it was the dowager or Maude, and whether
death would have taken place before his arrival.

"What accident has there been?" he demanded, leaping out of the carriage
at Calne Station; and the man he addressed happened to be the porter,
Jones.

"Accident?" returned Jones, touching his cap.

"An accident on the line; somewhere about here, I conclude. People
wounded; dying."

"There has been no accident here," said Jones, in his sulky way. "Maybe
your lordship's thinking of the one on the branch line, the bridge that
fell in?"

"Nonsense," said Lord Hartledon, "that took place a fortnight ago. I
received a telegram this morning from my butler, saying some one was
dying at Hartledon from a railway accident," he impatiently added. "I
took it to be either Lady Kirton or her daughter."

Mr. Jones swung round a large iron key he held in his hand, and light
dawned upon him.

"I know now," he said. "There was a private accident at the station here
last night; your lordship must mean that. A gentleman got out of a
carriage before it stopped, and fell between the rail and the platform.
His name was Kirton. I saw it on his portmanteau."

"Lord Kirton?"

"No, my lord. Captain Kirton."

"Was he seriously hurt?"

"Well, it was thought so. Mr. Hillary feared the leg would have to come
off. He was carried to Hartledon."

Very much relieved, Lord Hartledon jumped into a fly and was driven home.
The countess-dowager embraced him and fell into hysterics.

The crafty old dowager, whose displayed emotion was as genuine as she
was! She had sent for this son of hers, hoping he might be a decoy-duck
to draw Hartledon home again, for she was losing heart; and the accident,
which she had not bargained for, was a very god-send to her.

"Why don't you word your telegrams more clearly, Hedges?" asked Lord
Hartledon of his butler.

"It wasn't me worded it at all, my lord. Lady Kirton went to the station
herself. She informed me she had sent it in my name."

"Has Hillary told you privately what the surgeons think of the case?"

"Better of it than they did at first, my lord. They are trying to save
the leg."

This Captain Kirton was really the best of the Kirton bunch: a quiet,
unassuming young man, somewhat delicate in health. Lord Hartledon was
grieved for his accident, and helped to nurse him with the best heart
in the world.

And now what devilry (there were people in Calne who called it nothing
less) the old countess-dowager set afloat to secure her ends I am unable
to tell you. She was a perfectly unscrupulous woman--poverty had rendered
her wits keen; and her captured lion was only feebly struggling to escape
from the net. He was to blame also. Thrown again into the society of
Maude and her beauty, Val basked in its sunshine, and went drifting down
the stream, never heeding where the current led him. One day the
countess-dowager put it upon his honour--he must marry Maude. He might
have held out longer but for a letter that came from some friend of the
dowager's opportunely located at Cannes; a letter that spoke of the
approaching marriage of Miss Ashton to Colonel Barnaby, eldest son of a
wealthy old baronet, who was sojourning there with his mother. No doubt
was implied or expressed; the marriage was set forth as an assured fact.

"And I believe you meant to wait for her?" said the countess-dowager, as
she put the letter into his hand, with a little laugh. "You are free now
for my darling Maude."

"This may not be true," observed Lord Hartledon, with compressed lips.
"Every one knows what this sort of gossip is worth."

"I happen to know that it is true," spoke Lady Kirton, in a whisper. "I
have known of it for some time past, but would not vex you with it."

Well, she convinced him; and from that moment had it all her own way, and
carried out her plots and plans according to her own crafty fancy. Lord
Hartledon yielded; for the ascendency of Maude was strong upon him. And
yet--and yet--whilst he gave all sorts of hard names to Anne Ashton's
perfidy, lying down deep in his heart was a suspicion that the news was
not true. How he hated himself for his wicked assumption of belief in
after-years!

"You will be free as air," said the dowager, joyously. "You and Maude
shall get ahead of Miss Ashton and her colonel, and have the laugh at
them. The marriage shall be on Saturday, and you can go away together for
months if you like, and get up your spirits again; I'm sure you have both
been dull enough."

Lord Hartledon was certainly caught by the words "free as air;" as he had
been once before. But he stared at the early day mentioned.

"Marriages can't be got up as soon as that."

"They can be got up in a day if people choose, with a special license;
which, of course, you will have," said the dowager. "I'll arrange things,
my dear Val; leave it all to me. I intend Maude to be married in the
little chapel."

"What little chapel?"

"Your own private chapel."

Lord Hartledon stared with all his eyes. The private chapel, built out
from the house on the side next Calne, had not been used for years and
years.

"Why, it's all dust and rust inside; its cushions moth-eaten and fallen
to pieces."

"Is it all dust and rust!" returned the dowager. "That shows how
observant you are. I had it put in order whilst you were in London; it
was a shame to let a sacred place remain in such a state. I should like
it to be used for Maude; and mind, I'll see to everything; you need not
give yourself any trouble at all. There's only one thing I must enjoin
on you."

"What's that?"

"_Secrecy._ Don't let a hint of your intentions get abroad. Whatever you
do, don't write a word to that Carr friend of yours; he's as sharp as a
two-edged sword. As well let things be done privately; it is Maude's
wish."

"I shall not write to him," cried Hartledon, feeling a sudden heat upon
his face, "or to any one else."

"Here's Maude. Step this way, Maude. Hartledon wants the ceremony to take
place on Saturday, and I have promised for you."

Lady Maude advanced; she had really come in by accident; her head was
bent, her eyelashes rested on her flushed cheeks. A fair prize; very,
very fair! The old dowager put her hand into Lord Hartledon's.

"You will love her and cherish her, Percival?"

What was the young man to do? He murmured some unintelligible assent, and
bent forward to kiss her. But not until that moment had he positively
realized the fact that there would be any marriage.

Time went on swimmingly until the Saturday, and everything was in
progress. The old dowager deserved to be made commander of a garrison for
her comprehensive strategy, the readiness and skill she displayed in
carrying out her arrangements. For what reason, perhaps she could not
have explained to herself; but an instinct was upon her that secrecy in
all ways was necessary; at any rate, she felt surer of success whilst
it was maintained. Hence her decision in regard to the unused little
chapel; and that this one particular portion of the project had been long
floating in her mind was proved by the fact that she had previously
caused the chapel to be renovated. But that it was to serve her own turn,
she would have let it remain choked up with dust for ever.

The special license had arrived; the young clergyman who was to perform
the service was located at Hartledon. Seven o'clock was the hour fixed
for the marriage: it would be twilight then, and dinner over. Immediately
afterwards the bride and bridegroom were to depart. So far, so good. But
Lady Kirton was not to have it quite her own way on this same Saturday,
although she had enjoyed it hitherto.

A rumour reached her ears in the afternoon that Dr. Ashton was at the
Rectory. The doctor had been spending Easter at Cannes, and the dowager
had devoutly prayed that he might not yet return. The news turned her
cheeks blue and yellow; a prevision rushing over her that if he and Lord
Hartledon met there might be no wedding after all. She did her best to
keep Lord Hartledon indoors, and the fact of the Rector's return from
him.

Now who is going to defend Lord Hartledon? Not you or I. More foolish,
more culpable weakness was never shown than in thus yielding to these
schemes. Though ensnared by Maude's beauty, that was no excuse for him.

An accident--or what may be called one--delayed dinner. Two county
friends of Hartledon's, jolly fox-hunters in the season, had come riding
a long way across country, and looked in to beg some refreshment. The
dowager fumed, and was not decently civil; but she did not see her way to
turning them out.

They talked and laughed and ate; and dinner was indefinitely prolonged.
When the dowager and Lady Maude rose from table the former cast a meaning
look at Lord Hartledon. "Get rid of them as soon as you can," it plainly
said.

But the fox-hunters liked good drinking as well as good eating, and sat
on, enjoying their wine; their host, one of the most courteous of living
men, giving no sign, by word or look, that he wished for their departure.
He was rather silent, they observed; but the young clergyman, who made
the fourth at the table, was voluble by nature. Captain Kirton had not
yet left his sick bed.

Lady Maude sat alone in her room; the white robes upon her, the orthodox
veil, meant to shade her fair face thrown back from it. She had sent away
her attendants, bolted the door against her mother, and sat waiting her
summons. Waiting and thinking. Her cheek rested on her hand, and her
eyes were dreamy.

Is it true that whenever we are about to do an ill or unjust deed a
shadow of the fruits it will bring comes over us as a warning? Some
people will tell you so. A vision of the future seemed to rest on Maude
Kirton as she sat there; and for the first time all the injustice of the
approaching act rose in her mind as a solemn omen. The true facts were
terribly distinct. Her own dislike (it was indeed no less than dislike)
of the living lord, her lasting love for the dead one. All the miserable
stratagems they had been guilty of to win him; the dishonest plotting and
planning. What was she about to do? For her own advancement, to secure
herself a position in the great world, and not for love, she was about to
separate two hearts, which but for her would have been united in this
world and the next. She was thrusting herself upon Lord Hartledon,
knowing that in his true heart it was another that he loved, not her.
Yes, she knew that full well. He admired her beauty, and was marrying
her; marrying partly in pique against Anne Ashton; partly in blindfold
submission to the deep schemes of her mother, brought to bear on his
yielding nature. All the injustice done to Anne Ashton was in that moment
beating its refrain upon her heart; and a thought crossed her--would God
not avenge it? Another time she might have smiled at the thought as
fanciful: it seemed awfully real now. "I might give Val up yet," she
murmured; "there's just time."

She did not act upon the suggestion. Whether it was her warning, or
whether it was not, she allowed it to slip from her. Hartledon's broad
lands and coronet resumed their fascination over her soul; and when her
door was tried, Lady Maude had lost herself in that famous Spanish
château we have all occupied on occasion, touching the alterations she
had mentally planned in their town-house.

"Goodness, Maude, what do you lock yourself in for?"

Maude opened the door, and the countess-dowager floundered in. She was
resplendent in one of her old yellow satin gowns, a white turban with a
silver feather, and a pink scarf thrown on for ornament. The colours
would no doubt blend well by candlelight.

"Come, Maude. There's no time to be lost."

"Are the men gone?"

"Yes, they are gone; no thanks to Hartledon, though. He sat mooning on,
never giving them the least hint to depart. Priddon told me so. I'll tell
you what it is, Maude, you'll have to shake your husband out of no end of
ridiculous habits."

"It is growing dark," exclaimed Maude, as she stepped into the corridor.

"Dark! of course it's dark," was the irascible answer; "and they have had
to light up the chapel, or Priddon couldn't have seen to read his book.
And all through those confounded fox-hunters!"

Lord Hartledon was not in the drawing-room, where Lady Kirton had left
him only a minute before; and she looked round sharply.

"Has he gone on to the chapel?" she asked of the young clergyman.

"No, I think not," replied Mr. Priddon, who was already in his
canonicals. "Hedges came in and said something to him, and they went out
together."

A minute or two of impatience--she was in no mood to wait long--and then
she rang the bell. It should be remarked that the old lady, either from
excitement or some apprehension of failure, was shaking and jumping as if
she had St. Vitus's dance. Hedges came in.

"Where's your master?" she tartly asked.

"With Mr. Carr, my lady."

"With Mr.--What did you say?"

"My lord is with Mr. Carr. He has just arrived."

A moment given to startled consternation and then the fury broke forth.
The young parson had never had the pleasure of seeing one of these
war-dances before, and backed against the wall in his starched surplice.

"What brings him here? How dare he come uninvited?"

"I heard him say, my lady, that finding he had a Sunday to spare, he
thought he would come and pass it at Hartledon," said the well-trained
Hedges.

Ere the words had left his lips Lord Hartledon and Mr. Carr were present;
the latter in a state of utter amazement and in his travelling dress,
having only removed his overcoat.

"You'll be my groomsman, Carr," said Hartledon. "We have no adherents;
this is a strictly private affair."

"Did you send for Mr. Carr?" whispered the countess-dowager, looking
white through her rouge.

"No; his coming has taken me by surprise," replied Hartledon, with a
nervousness he could not wholly conceal.

They passed rapidly through the passages, marshalled by Hedges. Lord
Hartledon led his bride, the countess-dowager walked with the clergyman,
and Mr. Carr brought up the rear. The latter gentleman was wondering
whether he had fallen into a dream that he should wake up from in the
morning. The mode of procession was a little out of the common order of
such affairs; but so was the marriage.

Now it happened, not very long before this, that Dr. Ashton was on his
way home from a visit to a sick parishioner--a poor man, who said he
believed life had been prolonged in him that his many years' minister
should be at his deathbed. Dr. Ashton's road lay beyond Hartledon, and
in returning he crossed the road, which brought him out near the river,
between Hartledon and the Rectory. Happening to cast his eyes that way,
he saw a light where he had never seen one before--in the little unused
chapel. Peering through the trees at the two low diamond-paned windows,
to make sure he was not mistaken, Dr. Ashton quickened his pace: his
thoughts glancing at fire.

He was well acquainted with Hartledon; and making his way in by the
nearest entrance, he dashed along the passages to the chapel, meeting at
length one of the servants.

"John," he panted, quite out of breath with hurrying, "there's a light in
the chapel. I fear it is on fire."

"Not at all, sir," replied the man. "We have been lighting it up for my
lord's marriage. They have just gone in."

"Lighting it up for what?" exclaimed Dr. Ashton.

"For my lord's marriage, sir. He's marrying Lady Maude. It's the old
dowager, sir, who has got it up in this queer way," continued the man,
venturing on a little confidential gossip with his Rector.

Dr. Ashton paused to collect his wits ere he walked into the chapel. The
few wax-candles the servants had been able to put about only served to
make the gloom visible. The party were taking their places, the young
clergyman directing them where to stand. He opened his book and was
commencing, when a hand was laid upon Hartledon's shoulder.

"Lord Hartledon, what is the meaning of this?"

Lord Hartledon recognised the voice, and broke into a cold perspiration.
He gave no answer; but the countess-dowager made up for his silence. Her
temper, none of the mildest, had been considerably exasperated by the
visit of the fox-hunters; it was made worse by the arrival of Mr. Carr.
When she turned and saw what _this_ formidable interruption was, she lost
it altogether, as few, calling themselves gentlewomen, can lose it. As
she peered into the face of Dr. Ashton, her own was scarlet and yellow,
and her voice rose to a shriek.

"You prying parson, where did you spring from? Are you not ashamed
to dodge Lord Hartledon in his own house? You might be taken up and
imprisoned for it."

"Lord Hartledon," said Dr. Ashton, "I--"

"How dare you persist, I ask you?" shrieked the old woman, whilst
the young clergyman stood aghast, and Mr. Carr folded his arms, and
resolutely fixed his eyes on the floor. "Because Hartledon once had a
flirtation with your daughter, does that give you leave to haunt him as
if you were his double?"

"Madam," said Dr. Ashton, contriving still to subdue his anger, "I must,
I will speak to Lord Hartledon. Allow me to do so without disturbance.
Lord Hartledon, I wait for an answer: Are you about to marry this young
lady?"

"Yes, he is," foamed the dowager; "I tell you so. Now then?"

"Then, madam," proceeded the doctor, "this marriage owes its rise to you.
You will do well to consider whether you are doing them a kindness or an
injury in permitting it. You have deliberately set yourself to frustrate
the hopes of Lord Hartledon and my daughter: will a marriage, thus
treacherously entered into, bring happiness with it?"

"Oh, you wicked man!" cried the dowager. "You would like to call a curse
upon them."

"No," shuddered Dr. Ashton; "if a curse ever attends them, it will not
be through any wish of mine. Lord Hartledon, I knew you as a boy; I have
loved you as a son; and if I speak now, it is as your pastor, and for
your own sake. This marriage looks very like a clandestine one, as though
you were ashamed of the step you are taking, and dared not enter on it in
the clear face of day. I would have you consider that this sort of
proceeding does not usually bring a blessing with it."

If ever Val felt convicted of utter cowardice, he felt so then. All the
wretched sophistry by which he had been beguiled into the step, by which
he had beguiled himself; all the iniquity of his past conduct to Miss
Ashton, rose up before his mind in its naked truth. He dared not reply to
the doctor for very shame. A sorry figure he cut, standing there, Lady
Maude beside him.

"The last time you entered my house, Lord Hartledon, it was to speak of
your coming marriage with Anne--"

"And you would like him to go there again and arrange it," interrupted
the incensed dowager, whose head had begun to nod so vehemently that she
could not stop it. "Oh yes, I dare say!"

"By what right have you thus trifled with her?" continued the Rector,
ignoring the nodding woman and her words, and confronting Lord Hartledon.
"Is it a light matter, think you, to gain a maiden's best love, and then
to desert her for a fresh face? You have been playing fast-and-loose for
some little time: and I gave you more than one opportunity of retiring,
if you so willed it--of openly retiring, you understand; not of doing so
in this secret, disreputable manner. Your conscience will prick you in
after-life, unless I am mistaken."

Val opened his lips, but the Rector put up his hand.

"A moment yet. That I am not endeavouring to recall Anne's claims on you
in saying this, I am sure you are perfectly aware, knowing me as you do.
I never deemed you worthy of her--you know that, Lord Hartledon; and you
never were so. Were you a free man at this moment, and went down on your
knees to implore me to give you Anne, I would not do it. You have
forfeited her; you have forfeited the esteem of all good men. But that
I am a Christian minister, I should visit your dishonour upon you as you
deserve."

"Will you cease?" raved the dowager; and Dr. Ashton wheeled round upon
her.

"There is less excuse for your past conduct, madam, than for his. You
have played on Lord Hartledon's known irresolution to mould him to your
will. I see now the aim of the letter you favoured me with at Cannes,
when you requested, with so much candour, that he might be left for a
time unfettered by any correspondence with Miss Ashton. Well, you have
obtained your ends. Your covetous wish that you and your daughter should
reign at Hartledon is on the point of being gratified. The honour of
marrying Lady Maude was intended both by you and her for the late Lord
Hartledon. Failing him, you transferred your hopes to the present one,
regardless of who suffered, or what hearts or honour might be broken in
the process."

"Will nobody put this disreputable parson outside?" raved the dowager.

"I do not seek to bring reproach home to you; let that, ladies, lie
between yourselves and conscience. I only draw your attention to the
facts; which have been sufficiently patent to the world, whatever Lord
Hartledon may think. And now I have said my say, and leave you; but I
declare that were I performing this burlesque of a marriage, as that
young clergyman is about to do, I should feel my prayers for the divine
blessing to attend it were but a vain mockery."

He turned to leave the chapel with quick steps, when Lord Hartledon,
shaking off Maude, darted forward and caught his arm.

"You will tell me one thing at least: Is Anne _not_ going to marry
Colonel Barnaby?"

"Sir!" thundered the doctor. "Going to marry _whom_?"

"I heard it," he faltered. "I believed it to be the truth."

"You may have heard it, but you did not believe it, Lord Hartledon. You
knew Anne better. Do not add this false excuse to the rest."

Pleasant! Infinitely so for the bridegroom's tingling ears. Dr. Ashton
walked out of the chapel, and Val stood for a few moments where he was,
looking up and down in the dim light. It might be that in his mental
confusion he was deliberating what his course should be; but thought and
common sense came to him, and he knew he could not desert Lady Maude,
having brought matters so far to an end.

"Proceed," he said to the young clergyman, stalking back to the altar.
"Get--it--over quickly."

Mr. Carr unfolded his arms and approached Lord Hartledon. He was the only
one who had caught the expression of the bride's face when Hartledon
dropped her arm. It spoke of bitter malice; it spoke, now that he had
returned to her, of an evil triumph; and it occurred to Thomas Carr to
think that he should not like a wife of his to be seen with that
expression on her bridal face.

"Lord Hartledon, you must excuse me if I do not remain to countenance
this wedding," he said in low but distinct tones. "Before hearing what I
have heard from that good man, I had hesitated about it; but I was lost
in surprise. Fare you well. I shall have left by the time you quit the
chapel."

He held out his hand, and Val mechanically shook it. The retreating steps
of Mr. Carr, following in the wake of Dr. Ashton, were heard, as Lord
Hartledon spoke again to the clergyman with irritable sharpness:

"Why don't you begin?"

And the countess-dowager fanned herself complacently, and neither she nor
Maude cared for the absence of a groomsman. But Maude was not quite
hardened yet; and the shame of her situation was tingeing her eyelids.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STRANGER.


Lord Hartledon was leading his bride through the chapel at the conclusion
of the ceremony, when his attention was caught by something outside one
of the windows. At first he thought it was a black cat curled up in some
impossible fashion, but soon saw it was a dark human face. And that face
he discovered to be Mr. Pike's, peering earnestly in.

"Hedges, send that man away. How dare he intrude himself in this manner?
How has he got up to the window?"

For these windows were high beyond the ordinary height of man. Hedges
went out, a sharp reprimand on his tongue, and found that Mr. Pike had
been at the trouble of carrying a heap of stones from a distance and
piling them up to stand upon.

"Well, you must have a curiosity!" he exclaimed, in his surprise. "Just
put those stones back in their places, and take yourself away."

"You are right," said the man. "I have a curiosity in all that concerns
the new lord. But I am going away now."

He leaped down as he spoke, and began to replace the stones. Hedges went
in again.

The carriage, waiting to convey them away, was already at the door, the
impatient horses pawing the ground. Maude changed her dress with all
speed; and in driving down the road by starlight they overtook Thomas
Carr, carrying his own portmanteau. Lord Hartledon let down the window
impulsively, as if he would have spoken, but seemed to recollect himself,
and drew it up again.

"What is it?" asked Maude.

"Mr. Carr."

It was the first word he had spoken to her since the ceremony. His
silence had frightened her: what if he should resent on _her_ the cruel
words spoken by Dr. Ashton? Sick, trembling, her beautiful face humble
and tearful enough now, she bent it on his shoulder in a shower of bitter
tears.

"Oh, Percival, Percival! surely you are not going to punish me for what
has passed?"

A moment's struggle with himself, and he turned and took both her hands
in his.

"It may be that neither of us is free from blame, Maude, in regard to the
past. All we can now do, as it seems to me, is to forget it together, and
make the best of the future."

"And you will forget Anne Ashton?" she whispered.

"Of course I shall forget her. I ask nothing better than to forget her
from this moment. I have made _you_ my wife; and I will try to make your
happiness."

He bent and kissed her face. Maude, in some restlessness, as it seemed,
withdrew to her own corner of the carriage and cried softly; and Lord
Hartledon let down the glass again to look back after Thomas Carr and his
portmanteau in the starlight.

The only perfectly satisfied person was the countess-dowager. All the
little annoying hindrances went for nothing now that the desired end
was accomplished, and she was in high feather when she bade adieu to the
amiable young clergyman, who had to depart that night for his curacy,
ten miles away, to be in readiness for the morrow's services.

"If you please, my lady, Captain Kirton has been asking for you once or
twice," said Hedges, entering the dowager's private sitting-room.

"Then Captain Kirton must ask," retorted the dowager, who was sitting
down to her letters, which she had left unopened since their arrival in
the morning, in her anxiety for other interests. "Hedges, I should like
some supper: I had only a scrambling sort of dinner. You can bring it up
here. Something nice; and a bottle of champagne."

Hedges withdrew with the order, and Lady Kirton applied herself to her
letters. The first she opened was from the daughter who had married the
French count. It told a pitiful tale of distress, and humbly craved to be
permitted to come over on a fortnight's visit, she and her two sickly
children, "for a little change."

"I dare say!" emphatically cried the dowager. "What next? No, thank you,
my lady; now that I have at least a firm footing in this house--as that
blessed parson said--I am not going to risk it by filling it with every
bothering child I possess. Bob departs as soon as his leg's well. Why
what's this?"

She had come upon a concluding line as she was returning the letter to
the envelope. "P.S. If I don't hear from you _very_ decisively to the
contrary, I shall come, and trust to your good nature to forgive it. I
want to see Bob."

"Oh, that's it, is it!" said the dowager. "She means to come, whether I
will or no. That girl always had enough impudence for a dozen."

Drawing a sheet of paper out of her desk, she wrote a few rapid lines.

  "Dear Jane,

  "For _mercy's_ sake keep those _poor_ children and yourself _away_! We
  have had an _aweful infectious fever_ rageing in the place, which it
  was thought to be _cured_, but it's on the break _out_ again-several
  _deaths_, Hartledon and Maude (_married_ of course) have gone out of
  its reach and I'm thinking of it if _Bob's_ leg which is _better_
  permits. You'd not like I dare say to see the children in a _coffin
  apiece_ and yourself in a _third_, as might be the end. _Small-pox_ is
  raging at _Garchester_ a neighbouring town, that _will_ be awful if it
  gets to _us_ and I _hear_ it's on the _road_ and with kind love
  _believe_ me your affectionate_

  "MOTHER.

  "P.S. I am sorry for _what_ you tell me about _Ugo_ and the _state_
  of affairs chey vous. But you know you _would marry_ him so there's
  _nobody_ to blame. Ah! _Maude_ has gone by _my_ advice and done as _I_
  said and the consequence is _she's_ a peeress for life and got a
  handsome young husband _without_ a _will_ of his own."

The countess-dowager was not very adroit at spelling and composition,
whether French or English, as you observe. She made an end of her
correspondence, and sat down to a delicious little supper alone; as she
best liked to enjoy these treats. The champagne was excellent, and she
poured out a full tumbler of it at once, by way of wishing good luck to
Maude's triumphant wedding.

"And it _is_ a triumph!" she said, as she put down the empty glass. "I
hope it will bring Jane and the rest to a sense of _their_ folly."

A triumph? If you could only have looked into the future, Lady Kirton!
A triumph!

The above was not the only letter written that evening. At the hotel
where Lord and Lady Hartledon halted for the night, when she had retired
under convoy of her maid, then Val's restrained remorse broke out. He
paced the room in a sort of mad restlessness; in the midst of which he
suddenly sat down to a table on which lay pens, ink, and paper, and
poured forth hasty sentences in his mind's wretched tumult.

  "My Dear Mrs. Ashton,

  "I cannot address you in any more formal words, although you will have
  reason to fling down the letter at my presuming to use these now--for
  dear, most dear, you will ever be to me.

  "What can I say? Why do I write to you? Indeed to the latter question I
  can only answer I do not know, save that some instinct of good feeling,
  not utterly dead within me, is urging me to it.

  "Will you let me for a moment throw conventionality aside; will you for
  that brief space of time let me speak truly and freely to you, as one
  might speak who has passed the confines of this world?

  "When a man behaves to a woman as I, to my eternal shame, have this day
  behaved to Anne, it is, I think, a common custom to regard the false
  man as having achieved a sort of triumph; to attribute somewhat of
  humiliation to the other.

  "Dear Mrs. Ashton, I cannot sleep until I have said to you that in my
  case the very contrary is the fact. A more abject, humiliated man than
  I stand at this hour in my own eyes never yet took his sins upon his
  soul. Even you might be appeased if you could look into mine and see
  its sense of degradation.

  "That my punishment has already come home to me is only just; that I
  shall have to conceal it from all the world, including my wife, will
  not lessen its sting.

  "I have this evening married Maude Kirton. I might tell you of unfair
  play brought to bear upon me, of a positive assurance, apparently well
  grounded, that Anne had entered into an engagement to wed another,
  could I admit that these facts were any excuse for me. They are no
  excuse; not the slightest palliation. My own yielding folly alone is
  to blame, and I shall take shame to myself for ever.

  "I write this to you as I might have written it to my own mother, were
  she living; not as an expiation; only to tell of my pain; that I am not
  utterly hardened; that I would sue on my knees for pardon, were it not
  shut out from me by my own act. There is no pardon for such as I. When
  you have torn it in pieces, you will, I trust, forget the writer.

  "God bless you, dear Mrs. Ashton! God bless and comfort another who is
  dear to you!--and believe me with true undying remorse your once
  attached friend,

  "Hartledon."

It was a curious letter to write; but men of Lord Hartledon's sensitive
temperament in regard to others' feelings often do strange things; things
the world at large would stare at in their inability to understand them.
The remorse might not have come home to him quite so soon as this, his
wedding-day, but for the inopportune appearance of Dr. Ashton in the
chapel, speaking those words that told home so forcibly. Such reproach
on these vacillating men inflicts a torture that burns into the heart
like living fire.

He sealed the letter, addressing it to Cannes; called a waiter, late as
it was, and desired him to post it. And then he walked about the room,
reflecting on the curse of his life--his besetting sin--irresolution. It
seemed almost an anomaly for _him_ to make resolves; but he did make one
then; that he would, with the help of Heaven, be a MAN from henceforth,
however it might crucify his sensitive feelings. And for the future, the
obligation he had that day taken upon himself he determined to fulfil to
his uttermost in all honour and love; to cherish his wife as he would
have cherished Anne Ashton. For the past--but Lord Hartledon rose up now
with a start. There was one item of that past he dared not glance at,
which did not, however, relate to Miss Ashton: and it appeared inclined
to thrust itself prominently forward to-night.

Could Lord Hartledon have borrowed somewhat of the easy indifference of
the countess-dowager, he had been a happier man. That lady would have
made a female Nero, enjoying herself while Rome was burning. She remained
on in her snug quarters at Hartledon, and lived in clover.

One evening, rather more than a week after the marriage, Hedges had been
on an errand to Calne, and was hastening home. In the lonely part of the
road near Hartledon, upon turning a sharp corner, he came upon Mirrable,
who was standing talking to Pike, very much to the butler's surprise.
Pike walked away at once; and the butler spoke.

"He is not an acquaintance of yours, that man, Mrs. Mirrable?"

"Indeed no," she answered, tossing her head. "It was like his impudence
to stop me. Rather flurried me too," she continued: and indeed Hedges
noticed that she seemed flurried.

"What did he stop you for? To beg?"

"Not that. I've never heard that he does beg. He accosted me with a cool
question as to when his lordship was coming back to Hartledon. I answered
that it could not be any business of his. And then you came up."

"He is uncommon curious as to my lord. I can't make it out. I've seen him
prowling about the grounds: and the night of the marriage he was mounted
up at the chapel window. Lord Hartledon saw him, too. I should like to
know what he wants."

"By a half-word he let drop, I fancy he has a crotchet in his head that
his lordship will find him some work when he comes home. But I must go on
my way," added Mirrable. "Mrs. Gum's not well, and I sent word I'd look
in for half-an-hour this evening."

Hedges had to go on his way also, for it was close upon the
countess-dowager's dinner-hour, at which ceremony he must attend. Putting
his best foot forward, he walked at more than an ordinary pace, and
overtook a gentleman almost at the very door of Hartledon. The stranger
was approaching the front entrance, Hedges was wheeling off to the back;
but the former turned and spoke. A tall, broad-shouldered, grey-haired
man, with high cheek-bones. Hedges took him for a clergyman from his
attire; black, with a white neckcloth.

"This is Hartledon House, I believe," he said, speaking with a Scotch
accent.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you belong to it?"

"I am Lord Hartledon's butler."

"Is Lord Hartledon at home?"

"No, sir. He is in France."

"I read a notice of his marriage in the public papers," continued the
stranger, whose eyes were fixed on Hedges. "It was, I suppose, a correct
one?"

"My lord was married the week before last: about ten or eleven days ago."

"Ay; April the fourteenth, the paper said. She is one of the Kirton
family. When do you expect him home?"

"I don't know at all, sir. I've not heard anything about it."

"He is in France, you say, Paris, I suppose. Can you furnish me with his
address?"

Up to this point the colloquy had proceeded smoothly on both sides: but
it suddenly flashed into the mind of Hedges that the stranger's manner
was somewhat mysterious, though in what the mystery lay he could not have
defined. The communicative man, true to the interests of his master,
became cautious at once: he supposed some of Lord Hartledon's worries,
contracted when he was Mr. Elster, were returning upon him.

"I cannot give his address, sir. And for the matter of that, it might not
be of use if I could. Lord and Lady Hartledon did not intend remaining
any length of time in one place."

The stranger had dug the point of his umbrella into the level greensward
that bounded the gravel, and swayed the handle about with his hand,
pausing in thought.

"I have come a long way to see Lord Hartledon," he observed. "It might be
less trouble and cost for me to go on to Paris and see him there, than to
start back for home, and come here again when he returns to England. Are
you sure you can't give me his address?"

"I'm very sorry I can't, sir. There was a talk of their going on to
Switzerland," continued Hedges, improvising the journey, "and so coming
back through Germany; and there _was_ a talk of their making Italy before
the heat came on, and stopping there. Any way, sir, I dare say they are
already away from Paris."

The stranger regarded Hedges attentively, rather to the discomfiture of
that functionary, who thought he was doubted. He then asked a great many
questions, some about Lord Hartledon's personal habits, some about Lady
Maude: the butler answered them freely or cautiously, as he thought he
might, feeling inclined all the while to chase the intruder off the
premises. Presently he turned his attention on the house.

"A fine old place, this, Mr. Butler."

"Yes, sir."

"I suppose I could look over it, if I wished?"

Hedges hesitated. He was privately asking himself whether the law would
allow the stranger, if he had come after any debt of Lord Hartledon's, to
refuse to leave the house, once he got into it.

"I could ask Lady Kirton, sir, if you particularly wished it."

"Lady Kirton? You have some one in the house, then!"

"The Dowager Lady Kirton's here, sir. One of her sons also--Captain
Kirton; but he is confined to his room."

"Then I would rather not go in," said the stranger quickly. "I'm very
disappointed to have come all this way and not find Lord Hartledon."

"Can I forward any letter for you, sir? If you'd like to intrust one to
me, I'll send it as soon as we know of any certain address."

"No--no, I think not," said the stranger, musingly. "There might be
danger," he muttered to himself, but Hedges caught the words.

He stood swaying the umbrella-handle about, looking down at it, as if
that would assist his decision. Then he looked at Hedges.

"My business with Lord Hartledon is quite private, and I would rather not
write. I'll wait until he is back in England: and see him then."

"What name, sir?" asked Hedges, as the stranger turned away.

"I would prefer not to leave my name," was the candid answer. "Good
evening."

He walked briskly down the avenue, and Hedges stood looking after him,
slightly puzzled in his mind.

"I don't believe it's a creditor; that I don't. He looks like a parson to
me. But it's some trouble though, if it's not debt. 'Danger' was the
word: 'there might be danger.' Danger in writing, he meant. Any way, I'm
glad he didn't go in to that ferreting old dowager. And whatever it may
be, his lordship's able to pay it now."




CHAPTER XIX.

A CHANCE MEETING.


Some few weeks went by. On a fine June morning Lord and Lady Hartledon
were breakfasting at their hotel in the Rue Rivoli. She was listlessly
playing with her cup; he was glancing over _Galignani's_.

"Maude," he suddenly exclaimed, "the fountains are to play on Sunday at
Versailles. Will you go to see them?"

"I am tired of sight-seeing, and tired of Paris too," was Lady
Hartledon's answer, spoken with apathy.

"Are you?" he returned, with animation, as though not sorry to hear the
avowal. "Then we won't stay in Paris any longer. When shall we leave?"

"Are the letters not late this morning?" she asked, allowing the question
to pass.

Lord Hartledon glanced at the clock. "Very late: and we are late also.
Are you expecting any in particular?"

"I don't know. This chocolate is cold."

"That is easily remedied," said he, rising to ring the bell. "They can
bring in some fresh."

"And keep us waiting half-an-hour!" she grumbled.

"The hotel is crammed up to the mansarde," said good-natured Lord
Hartledon, who was easily pleased, and rather tolerant of neglect in
French hotels. "Is not that the right word, Maude? You took me to task
yesterday for saying garret. The servants are run off their legs."

"Then the hotel should keep more servants. I am quite sick of having to
ring twice. A week ago I wished I was out of the place."

"My dear Maude, why did you not say so? If you'd like to go on at once to
Germany--"

"Lettres et journal pour monsieur," interrupted a waiter, entering with
two letters and the _Times_.

"One for you, Maude," handing a letter to his wife. "Don't go," he
continued to the waiter; "we want some more chocolate; this is cold. Tell
him in French, Maude."

But Lady Hartledon did not hear; or if she heard, did not heed; she was
already absorbed in the contents of her letter.

"Ici," said Hartledon, pushing the chocolate-pot towards the man, and
rallying the best French he could command, "encore du chocolat. Toute
froide, _this_. Et puis dépêchez vous; il est tarde, et nous avons besoin
de sortir."

The man was accustomed to the French of Englishmen, and withdrew without
moving a muscle of his face. But Lady Hartledon's ears had been set on
edge.

"_Don't_ attempt French again, Val. They'll understand you if you speak
in English."

"Did I make any mistake?" he asked good-humouredly. "I could speak French
once; but am out of practice. It's the genders bother one."

"Fine French it must have been!" thought her ladyship. "Who is your
letter from?"

"My bankers, I think. About Germany, Maude--would you like to go there?"

"Yes. Later. After we have been to London."

"To London!"

"We will go to London at once, Percival; stay there for the rest of the
season, and then--"

"My dear," he interrupted, his face overcast, "the season is nearly over.
It will be of no use going there now."

"Plenty of use. We shall have quite six weeks of it. Don't look cross,
Val; I have set my heart upon it."

"But have you considered the difficulties? In the first place, we have no
house in town; in the second--"

"Oh yes we have: a very good house."

Lord Hartledon paused, and looked at her; he thought she was joking.
"Where is it?" he asked in merry tones; "at the top of the Monument?"

"It is in Piccadilly," she coolly replied. "Do you remember, some days
ago, I read out an advertisement of a house that was to be let there for
the remainder of the season, and remarked that it would suit us?"

"That it might suit us, had we wanted one," put in Val.

"I wrote off at once to mamma, and begged her to see after it and engage
it for us," she continued, disregarding her husband's amendment. "She now
tells me she has done so, and ordered servants up from Hartledon. By the
time this letter reaches me she says it will be in readiness."

Lord Hartledon in his astonishment could scarcely find words to reply.
"You wrote--yourself--and ordered the house to be taken?"

"Yes. You are difficult to convince, Val."

"Then I think it was your duty to have first consulted me, Lady Maude,"
he said, feeling deeply mortified.

"Thank you," she laughed. "I have not been Lady Maude this two months."

"I beg your pardon, Lady Hartledon."

"Now don't pretend to be offended, Val. I have only saved you trouble."

"Maude," he said, rallying his good humour, "it was not right. Let
us--for Heaven's sake let us begin as we mean to go on: our interests
must be _one_, not separate. Why did you not tell me you wished to return
to London, and allow me to see after an abode for us? It would have been
the proper way."

"Well, the truth is, I saw you did not want to go; you kept holding back
from it; and if I _had_ spoken you would have shillyshallied over it
until the season was over. Every one I know is in London now."

The waiter entered with the fresh chocolate, and retired again. Lord
Hartledon was standing at the window then. His wife went up to him, and
stole her hand within his arm.

"I'm sorry if I have offended you, Val. It's no great matter to have
done."

"I think it was, Maude. However--don't act for yourself in future; let me
know your wishes. I do not think you have expressed a wish, or half a
wish, since our marriage, but I have felt a pleasure in gratifying it."

"You good old fellow! But I am given to having a will of my own, and to
act independently. I'm like mamma in that. Val, we will start to-morrow:
have you any orders for the servants? I can transmit them through mamma."

"I have no orders. This is your expedition, Maude, not mine; and, I
assure you, I feel like a man in utter darkness in regard to it. Allow
me to see your mother's letter."

Lady Hartledon had put the letter safely into her pocket.

"I would rather not, Percival: it contains a few private words to myself,
and mamma has always an objection to her letters being shown. I'll read
you all necessary particulars. You must let me have some money to-day."

"How much?" asked he, from between his compressed lips.

"Oceans. I owe for millinery and things. And, Val, I'll go to Versailles
this afternoon, if you like. I want to see some of the rooms again."

"Very well," he answered.

She poured out some chocolate, took it hurriedly, and quitted the room,
leaving her husband in a disheartening reverie. That Lady Hartledon and
Maude Kirton were two very distinct persons he had discovered already;
the one had been all gentleness and childlike suavity, the other was
positive, extravagant, and self-willed; the one had made a pretence of
loving him beyond all other things in life, the other was making very
little show of loving him at all, or of concealing her indifference.
Lord Hartledon was not the only husband who has been disagreeably
astonished by a similar metamorphosis.

The following was the letter of the countess-dowager:

  "Darling Maude,

  "I have _secured_ the _house_ you write about and send by this _post_
  for Hedges and a few of the rest from _Hartledon_. It won't accommodate
  a large _establishment_ I can tell you and you'll be _disappointed_
  when you come over to take _possession_ which you can do when you
  _choose_. Val was a _fool_ for letting his town house in the spring but
  of course we know he is _one_ and must put up with it. Whatever you
  _do_, don't _consult_ him about _any earthly thing_ take _your own
  way_, he never did have _much_ of a will and you must let him _have
  none_ for the future. You've got a splendid _chance_ can spend _what
  you like_ and rule in _society_ and he'll subside into a _tame
  spaniel_.

  "Maude if you are such an idiot I'll _shake_ you. Find you've made a
  _dredful_ mistake?--can't bear your husband?--keep thinking always of
  _Edward_? A child might write such utter _rubish_ but not you, what
  does it matter whether one's husband is _liked_ or _disliked_, provided
  he gives one _position_ and _wealth_? Go to Amiens and stop with _Jane_
  for a _week_ and see her _plight_ and then grumble at your own, you
  _are_ an idiot.

  "I'm quite _glad_ about your taking this town-_house_, and shall enter
  into _posession_ myself as soon as the servants are up, and await you.
  _Bob's_ quite _well_ and joins to-day and of course _gives up_ his
  lodgings, which have been _wretchedly confined_ and uncomfortable and
  where I should have gone to but for this _move_ of yours I don't know.
  Mind you bring me over a Parisian _bonnet_ or two or some articles of
  that _sort_. I'm nearly in _rags_, Kirton's as undutiful as he _can_ be
  but it's that _wife_ of his.

  "Your affectionate mother,

  "C. Kirton."

The letter will give you some guide to the policy of Maude Hartledon
since her marriage. She did find she had made a mistake. She cared no
more for her husband now than she had cared for him before; and it was a
positive fact that she despised him for walking so tamely into the snare
laid for him by herself and her mother. Nevertheless she triumphed; he
had made her a peeress, and she did care for that; she cared also for the
broad lands of Hartledon. That she was unwise in assuming her own will so
promptly, with little regard to consulting his, she might yet discover.

At Versailles that day--to which place they went in accordance with
Maude's wish--there occurred a rencontre which Lord Hartledon would
willingly have gone to the very ends of the earth to avoid. It happened
to be rather full for Versailles; many of the visitors in Paris
apparently having taken it into their minds to go; indeed, Maude's wish
was induced by the fact that some of her acquaintances in the gay capital
were going also.

You may possibly remember a very small room in the galleries, exceedingly
small as compared with the rest, chiefly hung with English portraits.
They were in this room, amidst the little crowd that filled it, when Lord
Hartledon became aware that his wife had encountered some long-lost
friend. There was much greeting and shaking of hands. He caught the
name--Kattle; and being a somewhat singular name, he recognised it for
that of the lady who had been sojourning at Cannes, and had sent the news
of Miss Ashton's supposed engagement to the countess-dowager. There was
the usual babble on both sides--where each was staying, had been staying,
would be staying; and then Lord Hartledon heard the following words from
Mrs. Kattle.

"How strange I should have seen you! I have met you, the Fords, and the
Ashtons here, and did not know that any of you were in Paris. It's true
I only arrived yesterday. Such a long illness, my dear, I had at Turin!"

"The Ashtons!" involuntarily repeated Maude. "Are they here?--in the
château?" And it instantly occurred to her how she should like to meet
them, and parade her triumph. If ever a spark of feeling for her husband
arose within Maude's heart, it was when she thought of Anne Ashton. She
was bitterly jealous of her still.

"Yes, here; I saw them not three minutes ago. They are only now on their
road home from Cannes. Fancy their making so long a stay!"

"You wrote mamma word that Miss Ashton was about to marry some Colonel
Barnaby."

Mrs. Kattle laughed. It is possible that written news might have been
_asked for_ by the countess-dowager.

"Well, my dear, and so I did; but it turned out to be a mistake. He did
admire her; there was no mistake about that; and I dare say she might
have had him if she liked. How's your brother and his poor leg?"

"Oh, he is well," answered Maude. "Au revoir; I can't stand this crush
any longer."

It was really a crush just then in the room; and though Maude escaped
from it dexterously, Lord Hartledon did not. He was wedged in behind some
stout women, and had the pleasure of hearing another word or two from
Mrs. Kattle.

"Who was that?" asked a lady, who appeared to be her companion.

"Lady Hartledon. He was only the younger brother until a few months ago,
but the elder one got drowned in some inexplicable manner on his own
estate, and this one came into the title. The old dowager began at once
to angle for him, and succeeded in hooking him. She used to write me word
how it progressed."

"She is very beautiful."

"Very."

Lord Hartledon made his escape, and found his wife looking round for him.
She was struck by the aspect of his face.

"Are you ill, Percival?"

"Ill? No. But I don't care how soon we get out of these rooms. I can't
think what brings so many people in them to-day."

"He has heard that _she's_ here, and would like to avoid her," thought
Maude as she took the arm he held out. "The large rooms are empty enough,
I'm sure," she remarked. "Shall we have time to go to the Trianon?"

"If you like. Yes."

He began to hurry through the rooms. Maude, however, was in no mood to be
hurried, but stopped here and stopped there. All at once they met a large
party of friends; those she had originally expected to meet. Quitting her
husband's arm, she became lost amongst them.

There was no help for it; and Lord Hartledon, resigning himself to the
detention, took up his standing before the pictures and stared at them,
his back to the room. He saw a good deal to interest him, in spite of his
rather tumultuous state of mind, and remained there until he found
himself surrounded by other spectators. Turning hastily with a view to
escaping, he trod upon a lady's dress. She looked up at his word of
apology, and they stood face to face--himself and Miss Ashton!

That both utterly lost their presence of mind would have been conclusive
to the spectators, had any regarded them; but none did so. They were
strangers amidst the crowd. For the space of a moment each gazed on the
other, spell-bound. Lord Hartledon's honest blue eyes were riveted on her
face with a strangely yearning expression of repentance--her sweet face,
which had turned as white as ashes. He wore mourning still for his
brother, and was the most distinguished-looking man in the château that
day. Anne was in a trailing lilac silk, with a white gossamer-bonnet.
That the heart of each went out to the other, as it had perhaps never
gone out before, it may be no sin to say. Sin or no sin, it was the
truth. The real value of a thing, as you know, is never felt until it
is lost. For two months each had been dutifully striving to forget the
other, and believed they were succeeding; and this first accidental
meeting roused up the past in all its fever of passion.

No more conscious of what he did than if he had been in a dream, Lord
Hartledon held out his hand; and she, quite as unconscious, mechanically
met it with hers. What confused words of greeting went forth from his
lips he never knew; she as little; but this state of bewildered feeling
lasted only a minute; recollection came to both, and she strove to
withdraw her hand to retreat.

"God bless you, Anne!" was all he whispered, his fervent words marred by
their tone of pain; and he wrung her hand as he released it.

Turning away he caught the eyes of his wife riveted on them; she had
evidently seen the meeting, and her colour was high. Lord Hartledon
walked straight into the next room, and Maude went up to Anne.

"How do you do, Miss Ashton? I am so glad to meet you. I have just heard
you were here from Mrs. Kattle. You have been speaking to my husband."

Anne bowed; she did not lose her presence of mind at _this_ encounter. A
few civil words of reply given with courteous dignity, and she moved away
with a bright flush on her cheek, towards Dr. and Mrs. Ashton, who were
standing arm-in-arm enraptured before a remote picture, cognizant of
nothing else.

"How thin she looks!" exclaimed Maude, as she rejoined her husband, and
took his arm.

"Who looks thin?"

"Miss Ashton. I wonder she did not fling your hand away, instead of
putting her own into it!"

"Do you wish to see the Trianon? We shall be late."

"Yes, I do wish to see it. But you need not speak in that tone: it was
not my fault that we met her."

He answered never a syllable. His lips were compressed to pain, and his
face was hectic; but he would not be drawn into reproaching his wife by
so much as a word, for the sort of taste she was displaying. The manner
in which he had treated Miss Ashton and her family was ever in his mind,
more or less, in all its bitter, humiliating disgrace. The worst part of
it to Val was, that there could be no reparation.

The following day Lord Hartledon and his wife took their departure from
Paris; and if anything could have imparted especial gratification on his
arriving in London at the hired house, it was to find that his wife's
mother was not in it. Val had come home against his will; he had not
wished to be in London that season; rather would he have buried himself
and his haunting sense of shame on the tolerant Continent; and he
certainly had not wished his wife to make her debut in a small hired
house. When he let his own, nothing could have been further from his
thoughts than marriage. As to this house--Lady Kirton had told her
daughter she would be disappointed in it; but when Maude saw its
dimensions, its shabby entrance, its want of style altogether, she was
dismayed. "And after that glowing advertisement!" she breathed
resentfully. It was one of the smallest houses facing the Green Park.

Hedges came forward with an apology from the countess-dowager. An apology
for not invading their house and inflicting her presence upon them
uninvited! A telegraphic despatch from Lord Kirton had summoned her to
Ireland on the previous day; and Val's face grew bright as he heard it.

"What was the matter, Hedges?" inquired his mistress. "I'm sure my
brother would not telegraph unless it was something."

"The message didn't say, my lady. It was just a few words, asking her
ladyship to go off by the first train, but giving no reason."

"I wonder she went, then," observed Val to his wife, as they looked into
the different rooms. But Maude did not wonder: she knew how anxious her
mother was to be on good terms with her eldest son, from whom she
received occasional supplies. Rather would she quarrel with the whole
world than with him.

"I think it a good thing she has gone, Maude," said he. "There certainly
would not have been room for her and for us in this house."

"And so do I," answered Maude, looking round her bed-chamber. "If mamma
fancies she's going to inflict herself upon us for good she's mistaken.
She and I might quarrel, perhaps; for I know she'd try to control me.
Val, what are we to do in this small house?"

"The best we can. We have made the bargain, you know, and taken
possession now."

"You are laughing. I declare I think you are glad it has turned out what
it is!"

"I am not sorry," he avowed. "You'll let me cater for you another time,
Maude."

She put up her face to be kissed. "Don't be angry with me. It is our
home-coming."

"Angry!" he repeated. "I have never shown anger to you yet, Maude. Never
a woman had a more indulgent husband than you shall have in me."

"You don't say a loving one, Val!"

"And a loving one also: if you will only let me be so."

"What do you mean?"

"Love requires love in return. We shall be happy, I am sure, if you so
will it. Only let us pull together; one mind, one interest. Here's your
maid. I wonder where my dressing room is?"

And thus they entered on what remained of the London season. The
newspapers announced the arrival of Lord and Lady Hartledon, and Maude
read it aloud to her husband. She might have retained peace longer,
however, had that announcement not gone forth to the four corners of the
land.

"Only let us pull together!" A very few days indeed sufficed to dissipate
that illusion. Lady Hartledon plunged madly into all the gaieties of the
dying season, as though to make up for lost time; Lord Hartledon never
felt less inclined to plunge into anything, unless it was the waters of
oblivion. He held back from some places, but she did not appear to care,
going her way in a very positive, off-hand manner, according to her own
will, and paying not the slightest deference to his.




CHAPTER XX.

THE STRANGER AGAIN.


On a burning day at the end of June, Lord Hartledon was walking towards
the Temple. He had not yet sought out his friend Thomas Carr; a sense of
shame held him back; but he was on his way to do so now.

Turning down Essex Street and so to the left, he traversed the courts
and windings, and mounted the stairs to the barrister's rooms. Many a
merry hour had he passed in those three small rooms, dignified with the
name of "Mr. Carr's chambers," but which were in fact also Mr. Carr's
dwelling-place--and some sad ones.

Lord Hartledon knocked at the outer door with his stick--a somewhat
faint, doubtful knock; not with the free hand of one at ease with himself
and the world. For one thing, he was uncertain as to the reception he
should meet with.

Mr. Carr came to the door himself; his clerk was out. When he saw who was
his visitor he stood in comic surprise. Val stepped in, extending his
hand; and it was heartily taken.

"You are not offended with me, then, Carr?"

"Nay," said Mr. Carr, "I have no reason to be offended. Your sin was not
against me."

"That's a strong word, 'sin.'"

"It is spoken," was the answer; "but I need not speak it again. I don't
intend to quarrel with you. I was not, I repeat, the injured party."

"Yet you took yourself off in dudgeon, as though you were, leaving me
without a groomsman."

"I would not remain to witness a marriage that--that you ought not to
have entered upon."

"Well, it's done and over, and need not be brought up again," returned
Hartledon, a shade of annoyance in his tones.

"Certainly not. I have no wish or right to bring it up. How is Lady
Hartledon?"

"She is very well. And now what has kept you away, Carr? We have been in
London nearly a fortnight, and you've never been near me. I thought you
_were_ going to quarrel."

"I did not know you had returned."

"Not know it! Why all the newspapers had it in amongst the 'fashionable
intelligence.'"

"I have more to do with my time than to look at the fashionable portion
of the papers. Not being fashionable myself, it doesn't interest me."

"Yes, it's about a fortnight since we came back to this hateful place,"
returned Hartledon, his light tone subsiding into seriousness. "I am out
of conceit with England just now; and would far rather have gone to the
Antipodes."

"Then why did you come back to it?" inquired the barrister, in surprise.

"My wife gave me no choice. She possesses a will of her own. It is the
ordinary thing, perhaps, for wives to do so."

"Some do, and some don't," observed Thomas Carr, who never flattered at
the expense of truth. "Are you going down to Hartledon?"

"Hartledon!" with a perceptible shiver. "In the mind I am in, I shall
never visit Hartledon again; there are some in its vicinity I would
rather not insult by my presence. Why do you bring up disagreeable
subjects?"

"You will have to get over that feeling," observed Mr. Carr, disregarding
the hint, and taking out his probing-knife. "And the sooner it is got
over the better for all parties. You cannot become an exile from your own
place. Are they at Calne now?"

"Yes. They were in Paris just before we left it, and there was an
encounter at Versailles. I wished myself dead; I declare I did. A day or
two after we came to England they crossed over, and went straight down to
Calne. There--don't say any more."

"The longer you keep away from Hartledon the greater effort it will cost
you to go down to it; and--"

"I won't go to Hartledon," he interrupted, in a sort of fury; "neither
perhaps would you, in my place."

"Sir," cried Mr. Carr's clerk, bustling in and addressing his master,
"you are waited for at the chambers of Serjeant Gale. The consultation is
on."

Lord Hartledon rose.

"I will not detain you, Carr; business must be attended to. Will you come
and dine with us this evening? Only me and my wife. Here's where we are
staying--Piccadilly. My own house is let, you know."

"I have no engagement, and will come with pleasure," said Mr. Carr,
taking the card. "What hour?"

"Ah, that's just what I can't tell you. Lady Hartledon orders dinner to
suit her engagements--any time between six and nine! I never know. We are
a fashionable couple, don't you see?"

"Stay, though, Hartledon; I forget. I have a business appointment for
half-past eight. Perhaps I can put it off."

"Come up at six. You'll be all right, then, in any case."

Lord Hartledon left the Temple, and sauntered towards home. He had
no engagement on hand--nothing to kill time. He and his wife were
falling naturally into the way of--as he had just cynically styled
it--fashionable people. She went her way and he went his.

Many a cabman held up his hand or his whip; but in his present mood
walking was agreeable to him: why should he hurry home, when he had
nothing on earth to do there? So he stared here, and gazed there, and
stopped to speak to this acquaintance, and walked a few steps with that,
went into his club for ten minutes, and arrived home at last.

His wife's carriage was at the door waiting for her. She was bound on an
expedition to Chiswick: Lord Hartledon had declined it. He met her
hastening out as he entered, and she was looking very cross.

"How late you are going, Maude!"

"Yes, there has been a mistake," she said peevishly, turning in with him
to a small room they used as a breakfast-room. "I have been waiting all
this time for Lady Langton, and she, I find, has been waiting for me. I'm
now going round to take her up. Oh, I have secured that opera-box, Val,
but at an extravagant price, considering the little time that remains of
the season."

"What opera-box?"

"Didn't I tell you? It's one I heard of yesterday. I was not going again
to put up with the wretched little box they palmed you off with. I did
tell you that."

"It was the only one I could get, Maude: there was no other choice."

"Yes, I know. Well, I have secured another for the rest of the season,
and you must not talk about extravagance, please."

"Very well," said Val, with a smile. "For what hour have you ordered
dinner?"

"Nine o'clock."

"Nine o'clock! That's awkward--and late."

"Why awkward? You may have to wait for me even then. It is impossible to
say when we shall get home from Chiswick. All the world will be there."

"I have just asked Carr to dine with us, and told him to come at six. I
don't fancy these hard-working men care to wait so long for their dinner.
And he has an appointment for half-past eight."

The colour came flushing into Lady Hartledon's face, an angry light into
her eyes.

"You have asked Carr to dinner! How dared you?"

Val looked up in quiet amazement.

"Dared!"

"Well--yes. Dared!"

"I do not understand you, Maude. I suppose I may exercise the right of
inviting a friend to dinner."

"Not when it is objectionable to me. I dislike that man Carr, and will
not receive him."

"You can have no grounds for disliking him," returned Lord Hartledon
warmly. "He has been a good and true friend to me ever since I knew what
friendship meant; and he is a good and true man."

"Too much of a friend," she sarcastically retorted. "You don't need him
now, and can drop him."

"Maude," said Lord Hartledon, very quietly, "I have fancied several times
lately that you are a little mistaking me. I am not to have a will of my
own; I am to bend in all things to yours; you are to be mistress and
master, I a nonentity: is it not so? This is a mistake. No woman ever had
a better or more indulgent husband than you shall find in me: but in all
necessary things, where it is needful and expedient that I should
exercise my own judgment, and act as master, I shall do it."

She paused in very astonishment: the tone was so calmly decisive.

"My dear, let us have no more of this; something must have vexed you
to-day."

"We will have no more of it," she passionately retorted; "and I'll have
no more of your Thomas Carrs. It is not right that you should bring a man
here who has deliberately insulted me. Be quiet, Lord Hartledon; he has.
What else was it but an insult--his going out of the chapel in the manner
he did, when we were before the altar? It was a direct intimation that he
did not countenance the marriage. He would have preferred, I suppose,
that you should marry your country sweetheart, Anne Ashton."

A hot flush rose to Lord Hartledon's brow, but his tone was strangely
temperate. "I have already warned you, Maude, that we shall do well to
discard that name from our discussions, and if possible from our
thoughts; it may prove better for both of us."

"Better for you, perhaps; but you are _not_ going to exercise any control
over my will, or words, or action; and so I tell you at once. I'm quite
old enough to be out of leading-strings, and I'll be mistress in my own
house. You will do well to send a note to your amiable friend Carr; it
may save him a useless journey; for at my table he shall not sit. Now you
know, Val."

She spoke impatiently, haughtily, and swept out to her carriage. Val did
not follow to place her in; he positively did not, but left her to the
servants. Never in his whole life perhaps had he felt so nettled, never
so resolute: the once vacillating, easily-persuaded man, when face to
face with people, was speedily finding the will he had only exercised
behind their backs. He rang the bell for Hedges.

"Her ladyship has ordered dinner for nine o'clock," he said, when the
butler appeared.

"I believe so, my lord."

"It will be inconvenient to me to wait so long to-day. I shall dine at
seven. You can serve it in this room, leaving the dining-room for Lady
Hartledon. Mr. Carr dines with me."

So Hedges gave the necessary orders, and dinner was laid in the
breakfast-room. Thomas Carr came in, bringing the news that he had
succeeded in putting off his appointment. Lord Hartledon received him in
the same room, fearing possibly the drawing-room might be invaded by his
wife. She was just as likely to be home early from Chiswick as late.

"We have it to ourselves, Carr, and I am not sorry. There was no
certainty about my wife's return, so I thought we'd dine alone."

They very much enjoyed their tête-à-tête dinner; as they had enjoyed many
a one in Hartledon's bachelor days. Thomas Carr--one of the quiet, good
men in a fast world--was an admirable companion, full of intelligence and
conversation. Hedges left them alone after the cloth was removed, but in
a very few minutes returned; his step rather more subdued than usual, as
if he came upon some secret mission.

"Here's that stranger come again, sir," he began, in low tones; and it
may as well be remarked that in moments of forgetfulness he often did
address his master as he used to address him in the past. "He asked if--"

"What stranger?" rather testily interposed Lord Hartledon. "I am at
dinner, and can't see any stranger now. What are you thinking about,
Hedges?"

"It is what I said," returned Hedges; "but he would not take the answer.
He said he had come a long way to see your lordship, and he would see
you; his business was very important. My lady asked him--"

"Has Lady Hartledon returned?"

"She came in now, my lord, while I was denying you to him. Her ladyship
heard him say he would see you, and she inquired what his business was;
but he did not tell her. It was private business, he remarked, and could
only be entered into with your lordship."

"Who is it, Hedges? Do you know him?"

Lord Hartledon had dropped his voice to confidential tones. Hedges was
faithful, and had been privy to some of his embarrassments in the old
days. The man looked at the barrister, and seemed to hesitate.

"Speak out. You can say anything before Mr. Carr."

"I don't know him," answered Hedges. "It is the gentleman who came to
Hartledon the week after your lordship's marriage, asking five hundred
questions, and wanting--"

"He, is it?" interrupted Val. "You told me about him when I came home,
I remember. Go on, Hedges."

"That's all, my lord. Except that he is here now"--and Hedges nodded his
head towards the room-door. "He seems very inquisitive. When my lady went
upstairs, he asked whether that was the countess, and followed her to the
foot of the stairs to look after her. I never saw any gentleman stare
so."

Val played with his wine-glass, and pondered. "I don't believe I owe a
shilling in the world," quoth he--betraying the bent of his thoughts, and
speaking to no one in particular. "I have squared-up every debt, as far
as I know."

"He does not look like a creditor," observed Hedges, with a fatherly air.
"Quite superior to that: more like a parson. It's his manner that makes
one doubt. There was a mystery about it at Hartledon that I didn't like;
and he refused to give his name. His insisting on seeing your lordship
now, at dinner or not at dinner, is odd too; his voice is quiet, just as
if he possessed the right to do this. I didn't know what to do, and
as I say, he's in the hall."

"Show him in somewhere, Hedges. Lady Hartledon is in the drawing-room, I
suppose: let him go into the dining-room."

"Her ladyship's dinner is being laid there, my lord," dissented the
cautious retainer. "She said it was to be served as soon as it was ready,
having come home earlier than she expected."

"Deuce take it!" testily responded Val, "one can't swing a cat in these
cramped hired houses. Show him into my smoking-den upstairs."

"Let me go there," said Mr. Carr, "and you can see him in this room."

"No; keep to your wine, Carr. Take him up there, Hedges."

The butler retired, and Lord Hartledon turned to his guest. "Carr, can
you give a guess at the fellow's business?"

"It's nothing to trouble you. If you have overlooked any old debt, you
are able to give a cheque for it. But I should rather suspect your
persevering friend to be some clergyman or missionary, bent on drawing
a good subscription from you."

Val did not raise his eyes. He was playing again with his empty
wine-glass, his face grave and perplexed.

"Do they serve writs in these cases?" he suddenly asked.

Mr. Carr laughed. "Is the time so long gone by that you have forgotten
yours? You have had some in your day."

"I am not thinking of debt, Carr: that is over for me. But there's no
denying that I behaved disgracefully to--you know--and Dr. Ashton has
good reason to be incensed. Can he be bringing an action against me, and
is this visit in any way connected with it?"

"Nonsense," said Mr. Carr.

"Is it nonsense! I'm sure I've heard of their dressing-up these
serving-officers as clergymen, to entrap the unwary. Well, call it
nonsense, if you like. What of my suggestion in regard to Dr. Ashton?"

Thomas Carr paused to consider. That it was most improbable in all
respects, he felt sure; next door to impossible.

"The doctor is too respectable a man to do anything of the sort," he
answered. "He is high-minded, honourable, wealthy: there's no inducement
whatever. _No._"

"Yes, there may be one: that of punishing me by bringing my disgrace
before the world."

"You forget that he would bring his daughter's name before it at the same
time. It is quite out of the range of possibility. The Ashtons are not
people to seek legal reparation for injury of this sort. But that your
fears are blinding you, you would never suspect them of being capable of
it."

"The stranger is upstairs, my lord," interrupted Hedges, coming back to
the room. "I asked him what name, and he said your lordship would know
him when you saw him, and there was no need to give it."

Lord Hartledon went upstairs, marshalled by the butler. Hedges was
resenting the mystery; very much on his master's account, a little on his
own, for it cannot be denied that he was given to curiosity. He threw
open the door of the little smoking-den, and in his loftiest, loudest,
most uncompromising voice, announced:

"The gentleman, my lord."

Then retired, and shut them in.

Thomas Carr remained alone. He was not fond of wine, and did not
help himself during his host's absence. Five minutes, ten minutes,
half-an-hour, an hour; and still he was alone. At the end of the first
half-hour he began to think Val a long time; at the end of the hour he
feared something must have happened. Could he be quarrelling with the
mysterious stranger? Could he have forgotten him and gone out? Could
he--

The door softly opened, and Lord Hartledon came in. Was it Lord
Hartledon? Thomas Carr rose from his chair in amazement and dread. It was
like him, but with some awful terror upon him. His face was of an ashy
whiteness; the veins of his brow stood out; his dry lips were drawn.

"Good Heavens, Hartledon!" uttered Thomas Carr. "What is it? You look as
if you had been accused of murder."

"I have been accused of it," gasped the unhappy man, "of worse than
murder. Ay, and I have done it."

The words called up a strange confusion of ideas in the mind of Thomas
Carr. Worse than murder!

"What is it?" cried he, aloud. "I am beginning to dream."

"Will you stand by me?" rejoined Hartledon, his voice seeming to have
changed into something curiously hollow. "I have asked you before for
trifles; I ask you now in the extremity of need. Will you stand by me,
and aid me with your advice?"

"Y--es," answered Mr. Carr, his excessive astonishment causing a
hesitation. "Where is your visitor?"

"Upstairs. He holds a fearful secret, and has me in his power. Do you
come back with me, and combat with him against its betrayal."

"A fearful secret!" was Thomas Carr's exclamation. "What brings you with
one?"

Lord Hartledon only groaned. "You will stand by me, Carr? Will you come
upstairs and do what you can for me?"

"I am quite ready," replied Thomas Carr, quickly. "I will stand by you
now, as ever. But--I seem to be in a maze. Is it a true charge?"

"Yes, in so far as that--But I had better tell you the story," he broke
off, wiping his brow. "I must tell it you before you go upstairs."

He linked his arm within his friend's, and drew him to the window. It
was broad daylight still, but gloomy there: the window had the pleasure
of reposing under the leads, and was gloomy at noon. Lord Hartledon
hesitated still. "Elster's folly!" were the words mechanically floating
in the mind of Thomas Carr.

"It is an awful story, Carr; bad and wicked."

"Let me hear it at once," replied Thomas Carr.

"I am in danger of--of--in short, that person upstairs could have me
apprehended to-night. I would not tell you but that I must do so. I must
have advice, assistance; but you'll start from me when you hear it."

"I will stand by you, whatever it may be. If a man has ever need of a
friend, it must be in his extremity."

Lord Hartledon stood, and whispered a strange tale. It was anything but
coherent to the clear-minded barrister; nevertheless, as he gathered one
or two of its points he did start back, as Hartledon had foretold, and an
exclamation of dismay burst from his lips.

"And you could _marry_--with this hanging over your head!"

"Carr--"

The butler came in with an interruption.

"My lady wishes to know whether your lordship is going out with her
to-night."

"Not to-night," answered Lord Hartledon, pointing to the door for the man
to make his exit. "It is of her I think, not of myself," he murmured to
Mr. Carr.

"And he"--the barrister pointed above to indicate the
stranger--"threatens to have you apprehended on the charge?"

"I hardly know what he threatens. _You_ must deal with him, Carr;
I cannot. Let us go; we are wasting time."

As they left the room to go upstairs Lady Hartledon came out of the
dining-room and crossed their path. She was deeply mortified at her
husband's bringing Mr. Carr to the house after what she had said; and
most probably came out at the moment to confront them with her haughty
and disapproving face. However that might have been, all other emotions
gave place to surprise, when she saw _their_ faces, each bearing a livid
look of fear.

"I hope you are well, Lady Hartledon," said Mr. Carr.

She would not see the offered hand, but swept onwards with a cold
curtsey, stopping just a moment to speak to her husband.

"You are not going out with me, Lord Hartledon?"

"I cannot to-night, Maude. Business detains me."

She passed up the stairs, vouchsafing no other word. They lingered a
minute to let her get into the drawing-room.

"Poor Maude! What will become of her if this is brought home to me?"

"And if it is not brought home to you--the fact remains the same," said
Mr. Carr, in his merciless truth.

"And our children, our children!" groaned Hartledon, a hot flush of dread
arising in his white face.

They shut themselves in with the stranger, and the conference was
renewed. Presently lights were rung for; Hedges brought them himself,
but gained nothing by the movement; for Mr. Carr heard him coming, rose
unbidden, and took them from him at the door.

Lady Hartledon's curiosity was excited. It had been aroused a little by
the stranger himself; secondly by their scared faces; thirdly by this
close conference.

"Who is that strange gentleman, Hedges?" she asked, from the
drawing-room, as the butler descended.

"I don't know, my lady."

"What is his name?"

"I have not heard it, my lady."

"He looks like a clergyman."

"He does, my lady."

Apparently Hedges was impenetrable, and she allowed him to go down. Her
curiosity was very much excited; it may be said, uneasily excited; there
is no accounting for these instincts that come over us, shadowing forth
a vague sense of dread. Although engaged out that night to more than one
place, Lady Hartledon lingered on in the drawing-room.

They came out of the room at last and passed the drawing-room door. She
pushed it to, only peeping out when they had gone by. There was nothing
to hear; they were talking of ordinary matters. The stranger, in his
strong Scotch accent, remarked what a hot day it had been. In travelling,
no doubt very, responded Mr. Carr. Lady Hartledon condescended to
cautiously put her head over the balustrades. There was no bell rung;
Lord Hartledon showed his visitor out himself.

"And now for these criminal law books, Carr, that bear upon the case," he
said, returning from the front-door.

"I must go down to my chambers for them."

"I know they can't bring it home to me; I know they can't!" he exclaimed,
in tones so painfully eager as to prove to Lady Hartledon's ears that he
thought they could, whatever the matter might be. "I'll go with you,
Carr; this uncertainty is killing me."

"There's little uncertainty about it, I fear," was the grave reply. "You
had better look the worst in the face."

They went out, intending to hail the first cab. Very much to Lord
Hartledon's surprise he saw his wife's carriage waiting at the door, the
impatient horses chafing at their delay. What could have detained her?
"Wait for me one moment, Carr," he said. "Stop a cab if you see one."

He dashed up to the drawing-room; his wife was coming forth then, her
cloak and gloves on, her fan in her hand. "Maude, my darling," he
exclaimed, "what has kept you? Surely you have not waited for me?--you
did not misunderstand me?"

"I hardly know what has kept me," she evasively answered. "It is late,
but I'm going now."

It never occurred to Lord Hartledon that she had been watching or
listening. Incapable of any meanness of the sort, he could not suspect it
in another. Lady Hartledon's fertile brain had been suggesting a solution
of this mystery. It was rather curious, perhaps, that her suspicions
should take the same bent that her husband's did at first--that of
instituting law proceedings by Dr. Ashton.

She said nothing. Her husband led her out, placed her in the carriage,
and saw it drive away. Then he and the barrister got into a cab and went
to the Temple.

"We'll take the books home with us, Carr," he said, feverishly. "You
often have fellows dropping in to your chambers at night; at my house we
shall be secure from interruption."

It was midnight when Lady Hartledon returned home. She asked after her
husband, and heard that he was in the breakfast-room with Mr. Carr.

She went towards it with a stealthy step, and opened the door very
softly. Had Lord Hartledon not been talking, they might, however, have
heard her. The table was strewed with thick musty folios; but they
appeared to be done with, and Mr. Carr was leaning back in his chair with
folded arms.

"I have had nothing but worry all my life," Val was saying; "but compared
with this, whatever has gone before was as nothing. When I think of
Maude, I feel as if I should go mad."

"You must quietly separate from her," said Mr. Carr.

A slight movement. Mr. Carr stopped, and Lord Hartledon looked round.
Lady Hartledon was close behind him.

"Percival, what is the matter?" she asked, turning her back on Mr. Carr,
as if ignoring his presence. "What bad news did that parson bring you?--a
friend, I presume, of Dr. Ashton's."

They had both risen. Lord Hartledon glanced at Mr. Carr, the perspiration
breaking out on his brow. "It--it was not a parson," he said, in his
innate adherence to truth.

"I ask _you_, Lord Hartledon," she resumed, having noted the silent
appeal to Mr. Carr. "It requires no third person to step between man and
wife. Will you come upstairs with me?"

Words and manner were too pointed, and Mr. Carr hastily stacked the
books, and carried them to a side-table.

"Allow these to remain here until to-morrow," he said to Lord Hartledon;
"I'll send my clerk for them. I'm off now; it's later than I thought.
Good-night, Lady Hartledon."

He went out unmolested; Lady Hartledon did not answer him; Val nodded his
good-night.

"Are you not ashamed to face me, Lord Hartledon?" she then demanded.
"I overheard what you were saying."

"Overheard what we were saying?" he repeated, gazing at her with a scared
look.

"I heard that insidious man give you strange advice--'_you must quietly
separate from her_,' he said; meaning from me. And you listened
patiently, and did not knock him down!"

"Maude! Maude! was that all you heard?"

"_All!_ I should think it was enough."

"Yes, but--" He broke off, so agitated as scarcely to know what he was
saying. Rallying himself somewhat, he laid his hand upon the white cloak
covering her shoulders.

"Do not judge him harshly, Maude. Indeed he is a true friend to you and
to me. And I have need of one just now."

"A true friend!--to advise that! I never heard of anything so monstrous.
You must be out of your mind."

"No, I am not, Maude. Should--disgrace"--he seemed to hesitate for a
word--"fall upon me, it must touch you as connected with me. I _know_,
Maude, that he was thinking of your best and truest interests."

"But to talk of separating husband and wife!"

"Yes--well--I suppose he spoke strongly in the heat of the moment."

There was a pause. Lord Hartledon had his hand still on his wife's
shoulder, but his eyes were bent on the table near which they stood. She
was waiting for him to speak.

"Won't you tell me what has happened?"

"I can't tell you, Maude, to-night," he answered, great drops coming out
again on his brow at the question, and knowing all the time that he
should never tell her. "I--I must learn more first."

"You spoke of disgrace," she observed gently, swaying her fan before her
by its silken cord. "An ugly word."

"It is. Heaven help me!"

"Val, I do think you are the greatest simpleton under the skies!" she
exclaimed out of all patience, and flinging his hand off. "It's time you
got rid of this foolish sensitiveness. I know what is the matter quite
well; and it's not so very much of a disgrace after all! Those Ashtons
are going to make you pay publicly for your folly. Let them do it."

He had opened his lips to undeceive her, but stopped in time. As a
drowning man catches at a straw, so did he catch at this suggestion in
his hopeless despair; and he suffered her to remain in it. Anything to
stave off the real, dreadful truth.

"Maude," he rejoined, "it is for your sake. If I am sensitive as to
any--any disgrace being brought home to me, I declare that I think of
you more than of myself."

"Then don't think of it. It will be fun for me, rather than anything
else. I did not imagine the Ashtons would have done it, though. I wonder
what damages they'll go in for. Oh, Val, I should like to see you in the
witness-box!"

He did not answer.

"And it was not a parson?" she continued. "I'm sure he looked as much
like one as old Ashton himself. A professional man, then, I suppose,
Val?"

"Yes, a professional man." But even that little answer was given with
some hesitation, as though it had evasion in it.

Maude broke into a laugh. "Your friend, Pleader Carr--or whatever he
calls himself--must be as thin-skinned as you are, Val, to fancy that a
rubbishing action of that sort, brought against a husband, can reflect
disgrace on the wife! Separate, indeed! Has he lived in a wood all his
life? Well, I am going upstairs."

"A moment yet, Maude! You will take a caution from me, won't you? Don't
speak of this; don't allude to it, even to me. It may be arranged yet,
you know."

"So it may," acquiesced Maude. "Let your friend Carr see the doctor, and
offer to pay the damages down."

He might have resented this speech for Dr. Ashton's sake, in a happier
moment, but resentment had been beaten out of him now. And Lady Hartledon
decided that her husband was a simpleton, for instead of going to sleep
like a reasonable man, he tossed and turned by her side until daybreak.




CHAPTER XXI.

SECRET CARE.


From that hour Lord Hartledon was a changed man. He went about as one who
has some awful fear upon him, starting at shadows. That his manner was
inexplicable, even allowing that he had some great crime on his
conscience, a looker-on had not failed to observe. He was very tender
with his wife; far more so than he had been at all; anxious, as it
seemed, to indulge her every fancy, gratify her every whim. But when it
came to going into society with her, then he hesitated; he would and he
wouldn't, reminding Maude of his old vacillation, which indeed had seemed
to have been laid aside for ever. It was as though he appeared not to
know what to do; what he ought to do; his own wish or inclination having
no part in it.

"Why _won't_ you go with me?" she said to him angrily one day that he had
retracted his assent at the last moment. "Is it that you care so much for
Anne Ashton, that you don't care to be seen with me?"

"Oh, Maude! If you knew how little Anne Ashton is in my thoughts now!
When by chance I do think of her, it is to be thankful I did not marry
her," he added, in a tone of self-communing.

Maude laughed a light laugh. "This movement of theirs is putting you out
of conceit of your old love, Val."

"What movement?" he rejoined; and he would not have asked the question
had his thoughts not gone wool-gathering.

"You are dreaming, Val. The action."

"Ah, yes, to be sure."

"Have you heard yet what damages they claim?"

He shook his head. "You promised not to speak of this, Maude; even to
me."

"Who is to help speaking of it, when you allow it to take your ease away?
I never in my life saw any one so changed as you are. I wish the thing
were over and done with, though it left you a few thousand pounds the
poorer. _Will_ you accompany me to this dinner to-day? I am sick of
appearing alone and making excuses for you."

"I wish I knew what to do for the best--what my course ought to be!"
thought Hartledon within his conscience. "I can't bear to be seen with
her in public. When I face people with her on my arm, it seems as if they
must know what sort of man she, in her unconsciousness, is leaning upon."

"I'll go with you to-day, Maude, as you press it. I was to have seen Mr.
Carr, but can send down to him."

"Then don't be five minutes dressing: it is time we went."

She heard him despatch a footman to the Temple with a message that he
should not be at Mr. Carr's chambers that evening; and she lay back in
her chair, waiting for him in her dinner-dress of black and white. They
were in mourning still for his brother. Lord Hartledon had not left it
off, and Maude had loved him too well to grumble at the delay.

She had grown tolerant in regard to the intimacy with Mr. Carr. That her
husband should escape as soon and as favourably as possible out of the
dilemma in which he was plunged, she naturally wished; that he should
require legal advice and assistance to accomplish it, was only
reasonable, and therefore she tolerated the visits of Mr. Carr. She had
even gone so far one evening as to send tea in to them when he and Val
were closeted together.

But still Lady Hartledon was not quite prepared to find Mr. Carr at
their house when they returned. She and Lord Hartledon went forth to
the dinner; the latter behaving as though his wits were in some far-off
hemisphere rather than in this one, so absent-minded was he. From the
dinner they proceeded to another place or two; and on getting home,
towards one in the morning, there was the barrister.

"Mr. Carr is waiting to see you, my lord," said Hedges, meeting them in
the passage. "He is in the dining-room."

"Mr. Carr! Now!"

The hall-lamp shone full on his face as he spoke. He had been momentarily
forgetting care; was speaking gaily to his wife as they entered. She saw
the change that came over it; the look of fear, of apprehension, that
replaced its smile. He went into the dining-room, and she followed him.

"Why, Carr!" he exclaimed. "Is it you?"

Mr. Carr, bowing to Lady Hartledon, made a joke of the matter. "Having
waited so long, I thought I'd wait it out, Hartledon. As good be hung for
a sheep as a lamb, you know, and I have no wife sitting up for me at
home."

"You had my message?"

"Yes, and that brought me here. I wanted just to say a word to you, as
I am going out of town to-morrow."

"What will you take?"

"Nothing at all. Hedges has been making me munificent offers, but I
declined them. I never take anything after dinner, except a cup of tea or
so, as you may remember, keeping a clear head for work in the morning."

There was a slight pause. Lady Hartledon saw of course that she was _de
trop_ in the conference; that Mr. Carr would not speak his "word" whilst
she was present. She had never understood why the matter should be kept
apart from her; and in her heart resented it.

"You won't say to my husband before me what you have come to say, Mr.
Carr."

It was strictly the truth, but the abrupt manner of bringing it home to
him momentarily took away Mr. Carr's power of repartee, although he was
apt enough in general, as became a special pleader.

"You have had news from the Ashtons; that is, of their cause, and you
have come to tell it. I don't see why you and Lord Hartledon should so
cautiously keep everything from me."

There was an eager look on Lord Hartledon's face as he stood behind his
wife. It was directed to Mr. Carr, and said as plainly as look could say,
"Don't undeceive her; keep up the delusion." But Thomas Carr was not so
apt at keeping up delusions at the expense of truth, and he only smiled
in reply.

"What damages are they suing for?"

"Oh," said Mr. Carr, with a laugh, and ready enough now: "ten thousand
pounds will cover it."

"Ten thousand pounds!" she echoed. "Of course they won't get half of it.
In this sort of action--breach of promise--parties never get so much as
they ask for, do they?"

"Not often."

She laughed a little as she quitted the room. It was difficult to remain
longer, and it never occurred to her to suspect that any graver matter
than this action was in question.

"Now, Carr?" began Lord Hartledon, seating himself near the table as he
closed the door after her, and speaking in low tones.

"I received this letter by the afternoon mail," said Mr. Carr, taking one
from the safe enclosure of his pocket-book. "It is satisfactory, so far
as it goes."

"I call it very satisfactory," returned Hartledon, glancing through it.
"I thought he'd listen to reason. What is done cannot be undone, and
exposure will answer no end. I wrote him an urgent letter the other day,
begging him to be silent for Maude's sake. Were I to expiate the past
with my life, it could not undo it. If he brought me to the bar of my
country to plead guilty or not guilty, the past would remain the same."

"And I put the matter to him in my letter somewhat in the same light,
though in a more business-like point of view," returned Mr. Carr. "There
was no entreaty in mine. I left compassion, whether for you or others,
out of the argument; and said to him, what will you gain by exposure, and
how will you reconcile it to your conscience to inflict on innocent
persons the torture exposure must bring?"

"I shall breathe freely now," said Hartledon, with a sigh of relief."
If that man gives his word not to stir in the matter, not to take
proceedings against me; in short, to bury what he knows in secrecy and
silence, as he has hitherto done; it will be all I can hope for."

Mr. Carr lifted his eyebrows.

"I perceive what you think: that the fact remains. Carr, I know it as
well as you; I know that _nothing_ can alter it. Don't you see that
remorse is ever present with me? driving me mad? killing me by inches
with its pain?"

"Do you know what I should be tempted to do, were the case mine?"

"Well?"

"Tell my wife."

"Carr!"

"I almost think I should; I am not quite sure. Should the truth ever come
to her--"

"But I trust it never will come to her," interrupted Hartledon, his face
growing hot.

"It's a delicate point to argue," acknowledged Mr. Carr, "and I cannot
hope to bring you into my way of looking at it. Had you married Miss
Ashton, it appears to me that you would have no resource but to tell
her: the very fact of being bound to you would kill a religious,
high-principled woman."

"Not if she remained in ignorance."

"There it is. Ought she to remain in ignorance?"

Lord Hartledon leaned his head on his hand as one faint and weary.
"Carr, it is of no use to go over all this ground again. If I disclose
the whole to Maude, how would it make it better for her? Would it not
render it a hundred times worse? She could not inform against me; it
would be contrary to human nature to suppose it; and all the result
would be, that she must go through life with the awful secret upon her,
rendering her days a hell upon earth, as it is rendering mine. It's true
she might separate from me; I dare say she would; but what satisfaction
would that bring her? No; the kinder course is to allow her to remain in
ignorance. Good Heavens! tell my wife! I should never dare do it!"

Mr. Carr made no reply, and a pause ensued. In truth, the matter was
encompassed with difficulties on all sides; and the barrister could but
acknowledge that Val's argument had some sort of reason in it. Having
bound her to himself by marriage, it might be right that he should study
her happiness above all things.

"It has put new life into me," Val resumed, pointing to the letter. "Now
that he has promised to keep the secret, there's little to fear; and I
know that he will keep his word. I must bear the burden as I best can,
and keep a smiling face to the world."

"Did you read the postscript?" asked Mr. Carr; a feeling coming over him
that Val had not read it.

"The postscript?"

"There's a line or two over the leaf."

Lord Hartledon glanced at it, and found it ran thus:

  "You must be aware that another person knows of this besides myself. He
  who was a witness at the time, and from whom _I_ heard the particulars.
  Of course for him I cannot answer, and I think he is in England. I
  allude to G.G. Lord H. will know."

"Lord H." apparently did know. He gazed down at the words with a knitted
brow, in which some surprise was mingled.

"I declare that I understood him that night to say the fellow had died.
Did not you?"

"I did," acquiesced Mr. Carr. "I certainly assumed it as a fact, until
this letter came to-day. Gordon was the name, I think?"

"George Gordon."

"Since reading the letter I have been endeavouring to recollect exactly
what he did say; and the impression on my mind is, that he spoke of
Gordon as being _probably_ dead; not that he knew it for a certainty.
How I could overlook the point so as not to have inquired into it more
fully, I cannot imagine. But, you see, we were not discussing details
that night, or questioning facts: we were trying to disarm him--get him
not to proceed against you; and for myself, I confess I was so utterly
stunned that half my wits had left me."

"What is to be done?"

"We must endeavour to ascertain where Gordon is," replied Mr. Carr, as
he re-enclosed the letter in his pocket-book. "I'll write and inquire
what _his_ grounds are for thinking he is in England; and then trace him
out--if he is to be traced. You give me carte-blanche to act?"

"You know I do, Carr."

"All right."

"And when you have traced him--what then?"

"That's an after-question, and I must be guided by circumstances. And now
I'll wish you good-night," continued the barrister, rising. "It's a shame
to have kept you up; but the letter contains some consolation, and I knew
I could not bring it you to-morrow."

The drawing-room was lighted when Lord Hartledon went upstairs; and his
wife sat there with a book, as if she meant to remain up all night. She
put it down as he entered.

"Are you here still, Maude! I thought you were tired when you came home."

"I felt tired because I met no one I cared for," she answered, in rather
fractious tones. "Every one we know is leaving town, or has left."

"Yes, that's true."

"I shall leave too. I don't mind if we go to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" he echoed. "Why, we have the house for three weeks longer."

"And if we have? We are not obliged to remain in it."

Lord Hartledon put back the curtain, and stood leaning out at the open
window, seeking a breath of air that hot summer's night, though indeed
there was none to be found; and if there had been, it could not have
cooled the brow's inward fever. The Park lay before him, dark and misty;
the lights of the few vehicles passing gleamed now and again; the hum of
life was dying out in the streets, men's free steps, careless voices. He
looked down, and wondered whether any one of those men knew what care
meant as _he_ knew it; whether the awful skeleton, that never quitted
him night or day, could hold such place with another. He was Earl of
Hartledon; wealthy, young, handsome; he had no bad habits to hamper him;
and yet he would willingly have changed lots at hazard with any one of
those passers-by, could his breast, by so doing, have been eased of its
burden.

"What are you looking at, Val?"

His wife had come up and stolen her arm within his, as she asked the
question, looking out too.

"Not at anything in particular," he replied, making a prisoner of her
hand. "The night's hot, Maude."

"Oh, I am getting tired of London!" she exclaimed. "It is always hot now;
and I believe I ought to be away from it."

"Yes."

"That letter I had this morning was from Ireland, from mamma. I told her,
when I wrote last, how I felt; and you never read such a lecture as she
gave me in return. She asked me whether I was mad, that I should be going
galvanizing about when I ought rather to be resting three parts of my
time."

"Galvanizing?" said Lord Hartledon.

"So she wrote: she never waits to choose her words--you know mamma!
I suppose she meant to imply that I was always on the move."

"Do you feel ill, Maude?"

"Not exactly ill; but--I think I ought to be careful. Percival," she
breathed, "mamma asked me whether I was trying to destroy the hope of an
heir to Hartledon."

An ice-bolt shot through him at the reminder. Better an heir should never
be born, if it must call him father!

"I fainted to-day, Val," she continued to whisper.

He passed his arm round his wife's waist, and drew her closer to him.
Not upon her ought he to visit his sin: she might have enough to bear,
without coldness from him; rather should he be doubly tender.

"You did not tell me about it, love. Why have you gone out this evening?"
he asked reproachfully.

"It has not harmed me. Indeed I will take care, for your sake. I should
never forgive myself."

"I have thought since we married, Maude, that you did not much care for
me."

Maude made no immediate answer. She was looking out straight before her,
her head on his shoulder, and Lord Hartledon saw that tears were
glistening in her eyes.

"Yes, I do," she said at length; and as she spoke she felt very conscious
that she _was_ caring for him. His gentle kindness, his many attractions
were beginning to tell upon her heart; and a vision of the possible
future, when she should love him, crossed her then and there as she
stood. Lord Hartledon bent his face, and let it rest on hers.

"We shall be happy yet, Val; and I will be as good as gold. To begin
with, we will leave London at once. I ought not to remain, and I know you
have not liked it all along. It would have been better to wait until next
year, when we could have had our own house; only I was impatient. I felt
proud of being married; of being your wife--I did indeed, Val--and I was
in a fever to be amidst my world of friends. And there's a real
confession!" she concluded, laughing.

"Any more?" he asked, laughing with her.

"I don't remember any more just now. Which day shall we go? You shall
manage things for me now: I won't be wilful again. Shall the servants go
on first to Hartledon, or with us?"

"To Hartledon!" exclaimed Val. "Is it to Hartledon you think of going?"

"Of course it is," she said, standing up and looking at him in surprise.
"Where else should I go?"

"I thought you wished to go to Germany!"

"And so I did; but that would not do now."

"Then let us go to the seaside," he rather eagerly said. "Somewhere in
England."

"No, I would rather go to Hartledon. In one's own home rest and comfort
can be insured; and I believe I require them. Don't you wish to go
there?" she added, watching his perplexed face.

"No, I don't. The truth is, I cannot go to Hartledon."

"Is it because you do not care to face the Ashtons? I see! You would like
to have this business settled first."

Lord Hartledon hardly heard the words, as he stood leaning against the
open casement, gazing into the dark and misty past. No man ever shrank
from a prison as he shrank from Hartledon.

"I cannot leave London at all just yet. Thomas Carr is remaining here for
me, when he ought to be on circuit, and I must stay with him. I wish you
would go anywhere else, rather than to Hartledon."

The tone was so painfully earnest, that a momentary suspicion crossed her
of his having some other motive. It passed away almost as it arose, and
she accused him of being unreasonable.

Unreasonable it did appear to be. "If you have any real reason to urge
against Hartledon, tell it me," she said. But he mentioned none--save
that it was his "wish" not to go.

And Lady Hartledon, rather piqued, gave the necessary orders on the
following day for the removal. No further confidential converse, or
approach to it, took place between her and her husband; but up to the
last moment she thought he would relent and accompany her. Nothing of the
sort. He was anxious for her every comfort on the journey, and saw her
off himself: nothing more.

"I never thought you would allow me to go alone," she resentfully
whispered, as he held her hand after she was seated in the train.

He shook his head. "It is your fault, Maude. I told you I could not go to
Hartledon."

And so she went down in rather an angry frame of mind. Many a time and
oft had she pictured to herself the triumph of their first visit to
Calne, the place where she had taken so much pains to win him: but the
arrival was certainly shorn of its glory.




CHAPTER XXII.

ASKING THE RECTOR.


Perhaps Lady Hartledon had never in all her life been so much astonished
as when she reached Hartledon, for the first person she saw there was her
mother: her mother, whom she had believed to be in some remote district
of Ireland. For the moment she almost wondered whether it was really
herself or her ghost. The countess-dowager came flying down the steps--if
that term may be applied to one of her age and size--with rather
demonstrative affection; which, however, was not cordially received.

"What's the matter, Maude? How you stare!"

"_Is_ it you, mamma? How _can_ it be you?"

"How can it be me?" returned the dowager, giving Maude's bonnet a few
kisses. "It _is_ me, and that's enough. My goodness, Maude, how thin you
look! I see what it is! you've been killing yourself in that racketing
London. It's well I've come to take care of you."

Maude went in, feeling that she could have taken care of herself, and
listening to the off-hand explanations of the countess-dowager. "Kirton
offended me," she said. "He and his wife are like two bears; and so I
packed up my things and came away at once, and got here straight from
Liverpool. And now you know."

"And is Lady Kirton quite well again?" asked Maude, helplessly, knowing
she could not turn her mother out.

"She'd be well enough but for temper. She _was_ ill, though, when they
telegraphed for me; her life for three days and nights hanging on a
shred. I told that fool of a Kirton before he married her that she had no
constitution. I suppose you and Hart were finely disappointed to find I
was not in London when you got there."

"Agreeably disappointed, I think," said Maude, languidly.

"Indeed! It's civil of you to say so."

"On account of the smallness of the house," added Maude, endeavouring to
be polite. "We hardly knew how to manage in it ourselves."

"You wrote me word to take it. As to me, I can accommodate myself to any
space. Where there's plenty of room, I take plenty; where there's not, I
can put up with a closet. I have made Mirrable give me my old rooms here:
you of course take Hart's now."

"I am very tired," said Maude. "I think I will have some tea, and go to
bed."

"Tea!" shrieked the dowager. "I have not yet had dinner. And it's
waiting; that's more."

"You can dine without me, mamma," she said, walking upstairs to the new
rooms. The dowager stared, and followed her. There was an indescribable
something in Maude's manner that she did not like; it spoke of incipient
rebellion, of an influence that had been, but was now thrown off. If she
lost caste once, with Maude, she knew that she lost it for ever.

"You could surely take a little dinner, Maude. You must keep up your
strength, you know."

"Not any dinner, thank you. I shall be all right to-morrow, when I've
slept off my fatigue."

"Well, I know I should like mine," grumbled the countess-dowager, feeling
her position in the house already altered from what it had been during
her former sojourn, when she assumed full authority, and ordered things
as she pleased, completely ignoring the new lord.

"You can have it," said Maude.

"They won't serve it until Hartledon arrives," was the aggrieved answer.
"I suppose he's walking up from the station. He always had a queer habit
of doing that."

Maude lifted her eyes in slight surprise. Her solitary arrival was a
matter of fact so established to herself, that it sounded strange for any
one else to be in ignorance of it.

"Lord Hartledon has not come down. He is remaining in London."

The old dowager peered at Maude through her little eyes. "What's that
for?"

"Business, I believe."

"Don't tell me an untruth, Maude. You have quarrelled."

"We have not quarrelled. We are perfectly good friends."

"And do you mean to tell me that he sent you down alone?"

"He sent the servants with me."

"Don't be insolent, Maude. You know what I mean."

"Why, mamma, I do not wish to be insolent. I can't tell you more, or
tell it differently. Lord Hartledon did not come down with me, and the
servants did."

She spoke sharply. In her tired condition the petty conversation was
wearying her; and underlying everything else in her heart, was the
mortifying consciousness that he had _not_ come down with her, chafing
her temper almost beyond repression. Considering that Maude did not
profess to love her husband very much, it was astonishing how keenly she
felt this.

"Are you and Hartledon upon good terms?" asked the countess-dowager after
a pause, during which she had never taken her eyes from her daughter's
face.

"It would be early days to be on any other."

"Oh," said the dowager. "And you did not write me word from Paris that
you found you had made a mistake, that you could not bear your husband!
Eh, Maude?"

A tinge came into Maude's cheeks. "And you, mamma, told me that I was to
rule my husband with an iron hand, never allowing him to have a will of
his own, never consulting him! Both you and I were wrong," she continued
quietly. "I wrote that letter in a moment of irritation; and you were
assuming what has not proved to be a fact. I like my husband now quite
well enough to keep friends with him; his kindness to me is excessive;
but I find, with all my wish to rule him, if I had the wish, I could not
do it. He has a will of his own, and he exerts it in spite of me; and I
am quite sure he will continue to exert it, whenever he fancies he is in
the right. You never saw any one so changed from what he used to be."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean in asserting his own will. But he is changed in other ways. It
seems to me that he has never been quite the same man since that night in
the chapel. He has been more thoughtful; and all the old vacillation is
gone."

The countess-dowager could not understand at all; neither did she
believe; and she only stared at Maude.

"His _not_ coming down with me is a proof that he exercises his own will
now. I wished him to come very much, and he knew it; but you see he has
not done so."

"And what do you say is keeping him?" repeated the countess-dowager.

"Business--"

"Ah," interrupted the dowager, before Maude could finish, "that's the
general excuse. Always suspect it, my dear."

"Suspect what?" asked Maude.

"When a man says that, and gets his wife out of the way with it, rely
upon it he is pursuing some nice little interests of his own."

Lady Hartledon understood the implication; she felt nettled, and a flush
rose to her face. In her husband's loyalty (always excepting his feeling
towards Miss Ashton) she rested fully assured.

"You did not allow me to finish," was the cold rejoinder. "Business _is_
keeping him in town, for one thing; for another, I think he cannot get
over his dislike to face the Ashtons."

"Rubbish!" cried the wrathful dowager. "He does not tell you what the
business is, does he?" she cynically added.

"I happen to know," answered Maude. "The Ashtons are bringing an action
against him for breach of promise; and he and Mr. Carr the barrister are
trying to arrange it without its coming to a trial."

The old lady opened her eyes and her mouth.

"It is true. They lay the damages at ten thousand pounds!"

With a shriek the countess-dowager began to dance. Ten thousand pounds!
Ten thousand pounds would keep her for ever, invested at good interest.
She called the parson some unworthy names.

"I cannot give you any of the details," said Maude, in answer to the
questions pressed upon her. "Percival will never speak of it, or allow
me to do so. I learnt it--I can hardly tell you how I learnt it--by
implication, I think; for it was never expressly told me. We had a
mysterious visit one night from some old parson--parson or lawyer; and
Percival and Mr. Carr, who happened to be at our house, were closeted
with him for an hour or two. I saw they were agitated, and guessed what
it was; Dr. Ashton was bringing an action. They could not deny it."

"The vile old hypocrite!" cried the incensed dowager. "Ten thousand
pounds! Are you sure it is as much as that, Maude?"

"Quite. Mr. Carr told me the amount."

"I wonder you encourage that man to your house."

"It was one of the things I stood out against--fruitlessly," was the
quiet answer. "But I believe he means well to me; and I am sure he is
doing what he can to serve my husband. They are often together about this
business."

"_Of course_ Hartledon resists the claim?"

"I don't know. I think they are trying to compromise it, so that it shall
not come into court."

"What does Hartledon think of it?"

"It is worrying his life out. No, mamma, it is not too strong an
expression. He says nothing; but I can see that it is half killing him.
I don't believe he has slept properly since the news was brought to him."

"What a simpleton he must be! And that man will stand up in the pulpit
to-morrow and preach of charity!" continued the dowager, turning her
animadversions upon Dr. Ashton. "You are a hypocrite too, Maude, for
trying to deceive me. You and Hartledon are _not_ on good terms; don't
tell me! He would never have let you come down alone."

Lady Hartledon would not reply. She felt vexed with her mother, vexed
with her husband, vexed on all sides; and she took refuge in her fatigue
and was silent.

The dowager went to church on the following day. Maude would not go. The
hot anger flushed into her face at the thought of showing herself there
for the first time, unaccompanied by her husband: to Maude's mind it
seemed that she must look to others so very much like a deserted wife.
She comes home alone; he stays in London! "Ah, why did he not come down
only for this one Sunday, and go back again--if he must have gone?" she
thought.

A month or two ago Maude had not cared enough for him to reason like
this. The countess-dowager ensconced herself in a corner of the Hartledon
state-pew, and from her blinking eyes looked out upon the Ashtons. Anne,
with her once bright face looking rather wan, her modest demeanour; Mrs.
Ashton, so essentially a gentlewoman; the doctor, sensible, clever,
charitable, beyond all doubt a good man--a feeling came over the mind of
the sometimes obtuse woman that of all the people before her they looked
the least likely to enter on the sort of lawsuit spoken of by Maude. But
never a doubt occurred to her that they _had_ entered on it.

Lady Hartledon remained at home, her prayer-book in her hand. She was
thinking she could steal out to the evening service; it might not be so
much noticed then, her being alone. Listlessly enough she sat, toying
with her prayer-book rather than reading it. She had never pretended to
be religious, had not been trained to be so; and reading a prayer-book,
when not in church, was quite unusual to her. But there are seasons in
a woman's life, times when peril is looked forward to, that bring thought
even to the most careless nature. Maude was trying to play at "being
good," and was reading the psalms for the day in an absent fashion, her
thoughts elsewhere; and the morning passed on. The quiet apathy of her
present state, compared with the restless fever which had stirred her
during her last sojourn at Hartledon, was remarkable.

Suddenly there burst in upon her the countess-dowager: that estimable
lady's bonnet awry, her face scarlet, herself in a commotion.

"I didn't suppose you'd have done it, Maude! You might play tricks upon
other people, I think, but not upon your own mother."

The interlude was rather welcome to Maude, rousing her from her apathy.
Not for some few moments, however, could she understand the cause of
complaint.

It appeared that the countess-dowager, with that absence of all sense of
the fitness of things which so eminently characterized her, had joined
the Ashtons after service, inquiring with quite motherly solicitude after
Mrs. Ashton's health, complimenting Anne upon her charming looks; making
herself, in short, as agreeable as she knew how, and completely ignoring
the past in regard to her son-in-law. Gentlewomen in mind and manners,
they did not repulse her, were even courteously civil; and she graciously
accompanied them across the road to the Rectory-gate, and there took a
cordial leave, saying she would look in on the morrow.

In returning she met Dr. Ashton. He was passing her with nothing but a
bow; but he little knew the countess-dowager. She grasped his hand; said
how grieved she was not to have had an opportunity of explaining away her
part in the past; hoped he would let bygones be bygones; and finally,
whilst the clergyman was scheming how to get away from her without
absolute rudeness, she astonished him with a communication touching the
action-at-law. There ensued a little mutual misapprehension, followed by
a few emphatic words of denial from Dr. Ashton; and the countess-dowager
walked away with a scarlet face, and an explosion of anger against her
daughter.

Lady Hartledon was not yet callous to the proprieties of life; and the
intrusion on the Ashtons, which her mother confessed to, half frightened,
half shamed her. But the dowager's wrath at having been misled bore down
everything. Dr. Ashton had entered no action whatever against Lord
Hartledon; had never thought of doing it.

"And you, you wicked, ungrateful girl, to come home to me with such an
invention, and cause me to start off on a fool's errand! Do you suppose I
should have gone and humbled myself to those people, but for hoping to
bring the parson to a sense of what he was doing in going-in for those
enormous damages?"

"I have not come home to you with any invention, mamma. Dr. Ashton has
entered the action."

"He has not," raved the dowager. "It is an infamous hoax you have played
off upon me. You couldn't find any excuse for your husband's staying in
London, and so invented this. What with you, and what with Kirton's
ingratitude, I shall be driven out of house and home!"

"I won't say another word until you are calm and can talk common sense,"
said Maude, leaning back in her chair, and putting down her prayer-book.

"Common sense! What am I talking but common sense? When a child begins to
mislead her own mother, the world ought to come to an end."

Maude took no notice.

There happened to be some water standing on a table, and the dowager
poured out a tumblerful and drank it, though not accustomed to the
beverage. Untying her bonnet-strings she sat down, a little calmer.

"Perhaps you'll explain this at your convenience, Maude."

"There is nothing to explain," was the answer. "What I told you was the
truth. The action _has_ been entered by the Ashtons."

"And I tell you that the action has not."

"I assure you that it has," returned Maude. "I told you of the evening we
first had notice of it, and the damages claimed; do you think I invented
that, or went to sleep and dreamt it? If Val has gone down once to that
Temple about it, he has gone fifty times. He would not go for pleasure."

The countess-dowager sat fanning herself quietly: for her daughter's
words were gaining ground.

"There's a mistake somewhere, Maude, and it is on your side and not mine.
I'll lay my life that no action has been entered by Dr. Ashton. The man
spoke the truth; I can read the truth when I see it as well as anyone:
his face flushed with pain and anger at such a thing being said of him.
It may not be difficult to explain this contradiction."

"Do you think not?" returned Maude, her indifference exciting the
listener to anger.

"_I_ should say Hartledon is deceiving you. If any action is entered
against him at all, it isn't that sort of action; or perhaps the young
lady is not Miss Ashton, but some other; he's just the kind of man to be
drawn into promising marriage to a dozen or two. Very clever of him to
palm you off with this tale: a man may get into five hundred troubles not
convenient to disclose to his wife."

Except that Lady Hartledon's cheek flushed a little, she made no answer;
she held firmly--at least she thought she held firmly--to her own side
of the case. Her mother, on the contrary, adopted the new view, and
dismissed it from her thoughts accordingly.

Maude went to church in the evening, sitting alone in the great pew, pale
and quiet. Anne Ashton was also alone; and the two whilom rivals, the
triumphant and the rejected, could survey each other to their heart's
content.

Not very triumphant was Maude's feeling. Strange perhaps to say, the
suggestion of the old dowager, like instilled poison, was making its way
into her very veins. Her thoughts had been busy with the matter ever
since. One positive conviction lay in her heart--that Dr. Ashton, now
reading the first lesson before her, for he was taking the whole of the
service that evening, could not, under any circumstance, be guilty of a
false assertion or subterfuge. One solution of the difficulty presented
itself to her--that her mother, in her irascibility, had misunderstood
the Rector; and yet that was improbable. As Maude half sat, half lay back
in the pew, for the faint feeling was especially upon her that evening,
she thought she would give a great deal to set the matter at rest.

When the service was over she took the more secluded way home; those of
the servants who had attended returning as usual by the road. On reaching
the turning where the three paths diverged, the faintness which had been
hovering over her all the evening suddenly grew worse; and but for a
friendly tree, she might have fallen. It grew better in a few moments,
but she did not yet quit her support.

Very surprised was the Rector of Calne to come up and see Lady Hartledon
in this position. Every Sunday evening, after service, he went to visit
a man in one of the cottages, who was dying of consumption, and he was on
his way there now. He would have preferred to pass without speaking: but
Lady Hartledon looked in need of assistance; and in common Christian
kindness he could not pass her by.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Hartledon. Are you ill?"

She took his offered arm with her disengaged hand, as an additional
support; and her white face turned a shade whiter.

"A sudden faintness overtook me. I am better now," she said, when able to
speak.

"Will you allow me to walk on with you?"

"Thank you; just a little way. If you will not mind it."

That he must have understood the feeling which prompted the concluding
words was undoubted: and perhaps had Lady Hartledon been in possession
of her keenest senses, she might never have spoken them. Pride and health
go out of us together. Dr. Ashton took her on his arm, and they walked
slowly in the direction of the little bridge. Colour was returning to her
face, strength to her frame.

"The heat of the day has affected you, possibly?"

"Yes, perhaps; I have felt faint at times lately. The church was very hot
to-night."

Nothing more was said until the bridge was gained, and then Maude
released his arm.

"Dr. Ashton, I thank you very much. You have been a friend in need."

"But are you sure you are strong enough to go on alone? I will escort you
to the house if you are not."

"Quite strong enough now. Thank you once again."

As he was bowing his farewell, a sudden impulse to speak, and set the
matter that was troubling her at rest, came over her. Without a moment's
deliberation, without weighing her words, she rushed upon it; the
ostensible plea an apology for her mother's having spoken to him.

"Yes, I told Lady Kirton she was labouring under some misapprehension,"
he quietly answered.

"Will you forgive _me_ also for speaking of it?" she murmured. "Since my
mother came home with the news of what you said, I have been lost in a
sea of conjecture: I could not attend to the service for dwelling upon
it, and might as well not have been in church--a curious confession to
make to you, Dr. Ashton. Is it indeed true that you know nothing of
the matter?"

"Lady Kirton told me in so many words that I had entered an action
against Lord Hartledon for breach of promise, and laid the damages at ten
thousand pounds," returned Dr. Ashton, with a plainness of speech and a
cynical manner that made her blush. And she saw at once that he had done
nothing of the sort; saw it without any more decisive denial.

"But the action has been entered," said Lady Hartledon.

"I beg your pardon, madam. Lord Hartledon is, I should imagine, the only
man living who could suppose me capable of such a thing."

"And you have _not_ entered on it!" she reiterated, half bewildered by
the denial.

"Most certainly not. When I parted with Lord Hartledon on a certain
evening, which probably your ladyship remembers, I washed my hands of him
for good, desiring never to approach him in any way whatever, never hear
of him, never see him again. Your husband, madam, is safe for me: I
desire nothing better than to forget that such a man is in existence."

Lifting his hat, he walked away. And Lady Hartledon stood and gazed after
him as one in a dream.




CHAPTER XXIII.

MR. CARR AT WORK.


Thomas Carr was threading his way through the mazy precincts of Gray's
Inn, with that quick step and absorbed manner known only, I think, to the
busy man of our busy metropolis. He was on his way to make some inquiries
of a firm of solicitors, Messrs. Kedge and Reck, strangers to him in all
but name.

Up some dark and dingy stairs, he knocked at a dark and dingy door:
which, after a minute, opened of itself by some ingenious contrivance,
and let him into a passage, whence he turned into a room, where two
clerks were writing at a desk.

"Can I see Mr. Kedge?"

"Not in," said one of the clerks, without looking up.

"Mr. Reck, then?"

"Not in."

"When will either of them be in?" continued the barrister; thinking that
if he were Messrs. Kedge and Reck the clerk would get his discharge for
incivility.

"Can't say. What's your business?"

"My business is with them: not with you."

"You can see the managing clerk."

"I wish to see one of the partners."

"Could you give your name?" continued the gentleman, equably.

Mr. Carr handed in his card. The clerk glanced at it, and surreptitiously
showed it to his companion; and both of them looked up at him. Mr. Carr
of the Temple was known by reputation, and they condescended to become
civil.

"Take a seat for a moment, sir," said the one. "I'll inquire how long Mr.
Kedge will be; but Mr. Reek's not in town to-day."

A few minutes, and Thomas Carr found himself in a small square room with
the head of the firm, a youngish man and somewhat of a dandy, especially
genial in manner, as though in contrast to his clerk. He welcomed the
rising barrister.

"There's as much difficulty in getting to see you as if you were Pope of
Rome," cried Mr. Carr, good humouredly.

The lawyer laughed. "Hopkins did not know you: and strangers are
generally introduced to Mr. Reck, or to our managing clerk. What can
I do for you, Mr. Carr?"

"I don't know that you can do anything for me," said Mr. Carr, seating
himself; "but I hope you can. At the present moment I am engaged in
sifting a piece of complicated business for a friend; a private matter
entirely, which it is necessary to keep private. I am greatly interested
in it myself, as you may readily believe, when it is keeping me from
circuit. Indeed it may almost be called my own affair," he added,
observing the eyes of the lawyer fixed upon him, and not caring they
should see into his business too clearly. "I fancy you have a clerk, or
had a clerk, who is cognizant of one or two points in regard to it: can
you put me in the way of finding out where he is? His name is Gordon."

"Gordon! We have no clerk of that name. Never had one, that I remember.
How came you to fancy it?"

"I heard it from my own clerk, Taylor. One day last week I happened to
say before him that I'd give a five-pound note out of my pocket to get
at the present whereabouts of this man Gordon. Taylor is a shrewd
fellow; full of useful bits of information, and knows, I really believe,
three-fourths of London by name. He immediately said a young man of that
name was with Messrs. Kedge and Reck, of Gray's Inn, either as clerk, or
in some other capacity; and when he described this clerk of yours, I felt
nearly sure that it was the man I am looking for. I got Taylor to make
inquiries, and he did, I believe, of one of your clerks; but he could
learn nothing, except that no one of that name was connected with you
now. Taylor persists that he is or was connected with you; and so
I thought the shortest plan to settle the matter was to ask yourselves."

"We have no clerk of that name," repeated Mr. Kedge, pushing back some
papers on the table. "Never had one."

"Understand," said Mr. Carr, thinking it just possible the lawyer might
be mistaking his motives, "I have nothing to allege against the man, and
do not seek to injure him. The real fact is, that I do not want to see
him or to be brought into personal contact with him; I only want to know
whether he is in London, and, if so, where?"

"I assure you he is not connected with us," repeated Mr. Kedge. "I would
tell you so in a moment if he were."

"Then I can only apologise for having troubled you," said the barrister,
rising. "Taylor must have been mistaken. And yet I would have backed his
word, when he positively asserts a thing, against the world. I hardly
ever knew him wrong."

Mr. Kedge was playing with the locket on his watch-chain, his head bent
in thought.

"Wait a moment, Mr. Carr. I remember now that we took a clerk temporarily
into the office in the latter part of last year. His writing did not
suit, and we kept him only a week or two. I don't know what his name was,
but it might have been Gordon."

"Do you remember what sort of a man he was?" asked Mr. Carr, somewhat
eagerly.

"I really do not. You see, I don't come much into contact with our
clerks. Reck does; but he's not here to-day. I fancy he had red hair."

"Gordon had reddish hair."

"You had better see Kimberly," said the solicitor, ringing a bell. "He is
our managing clerk, and knows everything."

A grey-haired, silent-looking man came in with stooping shoulders. Mr.
Kedge, without any circumlocution, asked whether he remembered any clerk
of the name of Gordon having been in the house. Mr. Kimberly responded by
saying that they never had one in the house of the name.

"Well, I thought not," observed the principal. "There was one had in for
a short time, you know, while Hopkins was ill. I forget his name."

"His name was Druitt, sir. We employed a man of the name of Gorton to do
some outdoor business for us at times," continued the managing clerk,
turning his eyes on the barrister; "but not lately."

"What sort of business?"

"Serving writs."

"Gorton is not Gordon," remarked Mr. Kedge, with legal acumen. "By the
way, Kimberly, I have heard nothing of Gorton lately. What has become of
him?"

"I have not the least idea, sir. We parted in a huff, so he wouldn't
perhaps be likely to come in my way again. Some business that he
mismanaged, if you remember, sir, down at Calne."

"When he arrested one man for another," laughed the lawyer, "and got
entangled in a coroner's inquest, and I don't know what all."

Mr. Carr had pricked up his ears, scarcely daring to breathe. But his
manner was careless to a degree.

"The man he arrested being Lord Hartledon; the man he ought to have
arrested being the Honourable Percival Elster," he interposed, laughing.

"What! do you know about it?" cried the lawyer.

"I remember hearing of it; I was intimate with Mr. Elster at the time."

"He has since become Lord Hartledon."

"Yes. But about this Gorton! I should not be in the least surprised if he
is the man I am inquiring for. Can you describe him to me, Mr. Kimberly?"

"He is a short, slight man, under thirty, with red hair and whiskers."

Mr. Carr nodded.

"Light hair with a reddish tinge it has been described to me. Do you
happen to be at all acquainted with his antecedents?"

"Not I; I know nothing about, the man," said Mr. Kedge. "Kimberly does,
perhaps."

"No, sir," dissented Kimberly. "He had been to Australia, I believe; and
that's all I know about him."

"It is the same man," said Mr. Carr, quietly. "And if you can tell me
anything about him," he continued, turning to the older man, "I shall be
exceedingly obliged to you. To begin with--when did you first know him?"

But at this juncture an interruption occurred. Hopkins the discourteous
came in with a card, which he presented to his principal. The gentleman
was waiting to see Mr. Kedge. Two more clients were also waiting, he
added, Thomas Carr rose, and the end of it was that he went with Mr.
Kimberly to his own room.

"It's Carr of the Inner Temple," whispered Mr. Kedge in his clerk's ear.

"Oh, I know him, sir."

"All right. If you can help him, do so."

"I first knew Gorton about fifteen months ago," observed the clerk, when
they were shut in together. "A friend of mine, now dead, spoke of him to
me as a respectable young fellow who had fallen in the world, and asked
if I could help him to some employment. I think he told me somewhat of
his history; but I quite forget it. I know he was very low down then,
with scarcely bread to eat."

"Did this friend of yours call him Gorton or Gordon?" interrupted Mr.
Carr.

"Gorton. I never heard him called Gordon at all. I remember seeing a
book of his that he seemed to set some store by. It was printed in old
English, and had his name on the title-page: 'George Gorton. From his
affectionate father, W. Gorton.' I employed him in some outdoor work.
He knew London perfectly well, and seemed to know people too."

"And he had been to Australia?"

"He had been to Australia, I feel sure. One day he accidentally let slip
some words about Melbourne, which he could not well have done unless he
had seen the place. I taxed him with it, and he shuffled out of it with
some excuse; but in such a manner as to convince me he had been there."

"And now, Mr. Kimberly, I am going to ask you another question. You spoke
of his having been at Calne; I infer that you sent him to the place on
the errand to Mr. Elster. Try to recollect whether his going there was
your own spontaneous act, or whether he was the original mover in the
journey?"

The grey-haired clerk looked up as though not understanding.

"You don't quite take me, I see."

"Yes I do, sir; but I was thinking. So far as I can recollect, it was our
own spontaneous act. I am sure I had no reason to think otherwise at the
time. We had had a deal of trouble with the Honourable Mr. Elster; and
when it was found that he had left town for the family seat, we came to
the resolution to arrest him."

Thomas Carr paused. "Do you know anything of Gordon's--or Gorton's doings
in Calne? Did you ever hear him speak of them afterwards?"

"I don't know that I did particularly. The excuse he made to us for
arresting Lord Hartledon was, that the brothers were so much alike he
mistook the one for the other."

"Which would infer that he knew Mr. Elster by sight."

"It might; yes. It was not for the mistake that we discharged him;
indeed, not for anything at all connected with Calne. He did seem to have
gone about his business there in a very loose way, and to have paid less
attention to our interests than to the gossip of the place; of which
there was a tolerable amount just then, on account of Lord Hartledon's
unfortunate death. Gorton was set upon another job or two when he
returned; and one of those he contrived to mismanage so woefully, that
I would give him no more to do. It struck me that he must drink, or else
was accessible to a bribe."

Mr. Carr nodded his head, thinking the latter more than probable. His
fingers were playing with a newspaper which happened to lie on the
clerk's desk; and he put the next question with a very well-assumed air
of carelessness, as if it were but the passing thought of the moment.

"Did he ever talk about Mr. Elster?"

"Never but once. He came to my house one evening to tell me he had
discovered the hiding-place of a gentleman we were looking for. I was
taking my solitary glass of gin and water after supper, the only
stimulant I ever touch--and that by the doctor's orders--and I could not
do less than ask him to help himself. You see, sir, we did not look upon
him as a common sheriff's man: and he helped himself pretty freely. That
made him talkative. I fancy his head cannot stand much; and he began
rambling upon recent affairs at Calne; he had not been back above a week
then--"

"And he spoke of Mr. Elster?"

"He spoke a good deal of him as the new Lord Hartledon, all in a rambling
sort of way. He hinted that it might be in his power to bring home to him
some great crime."

"The man must have been drunk indeed!" remarked Mr. Carr, with the most
perfect assumption of indifference; a very contrast to the fear that shot
through his heart. "What crime, pray? I hope he particularized it."

"What he seemed to hint at was some unfair play in connection with his
brother's death," said the old clerk, lowering his voice. "'A man at his
wits' end for money would do many queer things,' he remarked."

Mr. Carr's eyes flashed. "What a dangerous fool he must be! You surely
did not listen to him!"

"I, sir! I stopped him pretty quickly, and bade him sew up his mouth
until he came to his sober senses again. Oh, they make great simpletons
of themselves, some of these young fellows, when they get a little drink
into them."

"They do," said the barrister. "Did he ever allude to the matter again?"

"Never; and when I saw him the next day, he seemed ashamed of himself,
and asked if he had not been talking a lot of nonsense. About a fortnight
after that we parted, and I have never seen him since."

"And you really do not know what has become of him?"

"Not at all. I should think he has left London."

"Why?"

"Because had he remained in it he'd be sure to have come bothering me to
employ him again; unless, indeed, he has found some one else to do it."

"Well," said Mr. Carr, rising, "will you do me this favour? If you come
across the man again, or learn tidings of him in any way, let me know it
at once. I do not want him to hear of me, or that I have made inquiries
about him. I only wish to ascertain _where_ he is, if that be possible.
Any one bringing me this information privately will find it well worth
his while."

He went forth into the busy streets again, sick at heart; and upon
reaching his chambers wrote a note for a detective officer, and put some
business into his hands.

Meanwhile Lord Hartledon remained in London. When the term for which
they had engaged the furnished house was expired he took lodgings in
Grafton Street; and there he stayed, his frame of mind restless and
unsatisfactory. Lady Hartledon wrote to him sometimes, and he answered
her. She said not a word about the discovery she had made in regard to
the alleged action-at-law; but she never failed in every letter to ask
what he was doing, and when he was coming home--meaning to Hartledon.
He put her off in the best way he could: he and Carr were very busy
together, he said: as to home, he could not mention any particular time.
And Lady Hartledon bottled up her curiosity and her wrath, and waited
with what patience she possessed.

The truth was--and, perhaps, the reader may have divined it--that graver
motives than the sensitive feeling of not liking to face the Ashtons were
keeping Lord Hartledon from his wife and home. He had once, in his
bachelor days, wished himself a savage in some remote desert, where his
civilized acquaintance could not come near him; he had a thousand times
more reason to wish himself one now.

One dusty day, when the excessive heat of summer was on the wane, he went
down to Mr. Carr's chambers, and found that gentleman out. Not out for
long, the clerk thought; and sat down and waited. The room he was in
looked out on the cool garden, the quiet river; in the one there was not
a soul except Mr. Broom himself, who had gone in to watch the progress
of his chrysanthemums, and was stooping lovingly over the beds; on the
other a steamer, freighted with a straggling few, was paddling up the
river against the tide, and a barge with its brown sail was coming down
in all its picturesque charm. The contrast between this quiet scene and
the bustling, dusty, jostling world he had come in from, was grateful
even to his disturbed heart; and he felt half inclined to go round to
the garden and fling himself on the lawn as a man might do who was free
from care.

Mr. Carr indulged in the costly luxury of three rooms in the Temple; his
sitting-room, which was his work-room, a bedroom, and a little outer
room, the sanctum of his clerk. Lord Hartledon was in the sitting-room,
but he could hear the clerk moving about in the ante-room, as if he had
no writing on hand that morning. When tired of waiting, he called him in.

"Mr. Taylor, how long do you think he will be? I've been dozing, I
think."

"Well, I thought he'd have been here before now, my lord. He generally
tells me if he is going out for any length of time; but he said nothing
to-day."

"A newspaper would be something to while away one's time, or a book,"
grumbled Hartledon. "Not those," glancing at a book-case full of
ponderous law-volumes.

"Your lordship has taken the cream out of them already," remarked the
clerk, with a laugh; and Hartledon's brow knitted at the words. He had
"taken the cream" out of those old law-books, if studying them could do
it, for he had been at them pretty often of late.

But Mr. Taylor's remarks had no ulterior meaning. Being a shrewd man, he
could not fail to suspect that Lord Hartledon was in a scrape of some
sort; but from a word dropped by his master he supposed it to involve
nothing more than a question of debt; and he never suspected that the
word had been dropped purposely. "Scamps would claim money twice over
when they could," said Mr. Carr; and Elster was a careless man, always
losing his receipts. He was a short, slight man, this clerk--in build
something like his master--with an intelligent, silent face, a small,
sharp nose, and fair hair. He had been born a gentleman, he was wont to
say; and indeed he looked one; but he had not received an education
commensurate with that fact, and had to make his own way in the world.
He might do it yet, perhaps, he remarked one day to Lord Hartledon; and
certainly, if steady perseverance could effect it, he would: all his
spare time was spent in study.

"He has not gone to one of those blessed consultations in somebody's
chambers, has he?" cried Val. "I have known them last three hours."

"I have known them last longer than that," said the clerk equably. "But
there are none on just now."

"I can't think what has become of him. He made an appointment with me for
this morning. And where's his _Times_?"

Mr. Taylor could not tell where; he had been looking for the newspaper on
his own account. It was not to be found; and they could only come to the
conclusion that the barrister had taken it out with him.

"I wish you'd go out and buy me one," said Val.

"I'll go with pleasure, my lord. But suppose any one comes to the door?"

"Oh, I'll answer it. They'll think Carr has taken on a new clerk."

Mr. Taylor laughed, and went out. Hartledon, tired of sitting, began
to pace the room and the ante-room. Most men would have taken their
departure; but he had nothing to do; he had latterly shunned that portion
of the world called society; and was as well in Mr. Carr's chambers as
in his own lodgings, or in strolling about with his troubled heart.
While thus occupied, there came a soft tap to the outer door--as was
sure to be the case, the clerk being absent--and Val opened it. A
middle-aged, quiet-looking man stood there, who had nothing specially
noticeable in his appearance, except a pair of deep-set dark eyes, under
bushy eyebrows that were turning grey.

"Mr. Carr within?"

"Mr. Carr's not in," replied the temporary clerk. "I dare say you can
wait."

"Likely to be long?"

"I should think not. I have been waiting for him these two hours."

The applicant entered, and sat down in the clerk's room. Lord Hartledon
went into the other, and stood drumming on the window-pane, as he gazed
out upon the Temple garden.

"I'd go, but for that note of Carr's," he said to himself. "If--Halloa!
that's his voice at last."

Mr. Carr and his clerk had returned together. The former, after a few
moments, came in to Lord Hartledon.

"A nice fellow you are, Carr! Sending me word to be here at eleven
o'clock, and then walking off for two mortal hours!"

"I sent you word to wait for me at your own home!"

"Well, that's good!" returned Val. "It said, 'Be here at eleven,' as
plainly as writing could say it."

"And there was a postscript over the leaf telling you, on second thought,
_not_ to be here, but to wait at home for me," said Mr. Carr. "I
remembered a matter of business that would take me up your way this
morning, and thought I'd go on to you. It's just your careless fashion,
Hartledon, reading only half your letters! You should have turned it
over."

"Who was to think there was anything on the other side? Folk don't turn
their letters over from curiosity when they are concluded on the first
page."

"I never had a letter in my life but I turned it over to make sure,"
observed the more careful barrister. "I have had my walk for nothing."

"And I have been cooling my heels here! And you took the newspaper with
you!"

"No, I did not. Churton sent in from his rooms to borrow it."

"Well, let the misunderstanding go, and forgive me for being cross. Do
you know, Carr, I think I am growing ill-tempered from trouble. What
news have you for me?"

"I'll tell you by-and-by. Do you know who that is in the other room?"

"Not I. He seemed to stare me inside-out in a quiet way as I let him in."

"Ay. It's Green, the detective. At times a question occurs to me whether
that's his real name, or one assumed in his profession. He has come to
report at last. Had you better remain?"

"Why not?"

Mr. Carr looked dubious.

"You can make some excuse for my presence."

"It's not that. I'm thinking if you let slip a word--"

"Is it likely?"

"Inadvertently, I mean."

"There's no fear. You have not mentioned my name to him?"

"I retort in your own words--Is it likely? He does not know why he is
being employed or what I want with the man I wish traced. At present he
is working, as far as that goes, in the dark. I might have put him on a
false scent, just as cleverly and unsuspiciously as I dare say he could
put me; but I've not done it. What's the matter with you to-day,
Hartledon? You look ill."

"I only look what I am, then," was the answer. "But I'm no worse
than usual. I'd rather be transported--I'd rather be hanged, for that
matter--than lead the life of misery I am leading. At times I feel
inclined to give in, but then comes the thought of Maude."




CHAPTER XXIV.

SOMEBODY ELSE AT WORK.


They were shut in together: the detective officer, Mr. Carr, and Lord
Hartledon. "You may speak freely before this gentleman," observed Mr.
Carr, as if in apology for a third being present. "He knows the parties,
and is almost as much interested in the affair as I am."

The detective glanced at Lord Hartledon with his deep eyes, but he did
not know him, and took out a note-book, on which some words and figures
were dotted down, hieroglyphics to any one's eyes but his own. Squaring
his elbows on the table, he begun abruptly; and appeared to have a habit
of cutting short his words and sentences.

"Haven't succeeded yet as could wish, Mr. Carr; at least not altogether:
have had to be longer over it, too, than thought for. George Gordon:
Scotch birth, so far as can learn; left an orphan; lived mostly in
London. Served time to medical practitioner, locality Paddington. Idle,
visionary, loose in conduct, good-natured, fond of roving. Surgeon
wouldn't keep him as assistant; might have done it, he says, had G.G.
been of settled disposition: saw him in drink three times. Next turns
up in Scotland, assistant to a doctor there; name Mair, locality
Kirkcudbrightshire. Remained less than a year; left, saying was going
to Australia. So far," broke off the speaker, raising his eyes to Mr.
Carr's, "particulars tally with the information supplied by you."

"Just so."

"Then my further work began," continued Mr. Green. "Afraid what I've got
together won't be satisfactory; differ from you in opinion, at any rate.
G.G. went to Australia; no doubt of that; friend of his got a letter or
two from him while there: last one enclosed two ten-pound notes, borrowed
by G.G. before he went out. Last letter said been up to the diggings;
very successful; coming home with his money, mentioned ship he meant to
sail in. Hadn't been in Australia twelve months."

"Who was the friend?" asked Mr. Carr.

"Respectable man; gentleman; former fellow-pupil with Gordon in London;
in good practice for himself now; locality Kensington. After last letter,
friend perpetually looking out for G.G. G.G. did not make his appearance;
conclusion friend draws is he did not come back. Feels sure Gordon,
whether rich or poor, in ill-report or good-report, would have come
direct to him."

"I happen to know that he did come back," said Mr. Carr.

"Don't think it," was the unceremonious rejoinder.

"I know it positively. And that he was in London."

The detective looked over his notes, as if completely ignoring Mr. Carr's
words.

"You heard, gentlemen, of that mutiny on board the ship _Morning Star_,
some three years ago? Made a noise at the time."

"Well?"

"Ringleader was this same man, George Gordon."

"No!" exclaimed Mr. Carr.

"No reasonable doubt about it. Friend of his feels none: can't
understand how G.G. could have turned suddenly cruel; never was that.
Pooh! when men have been leading lawless lives in the bush, perhaps taken
regularly to drinking--which G.G. was inclined to before--they're ready
for any crime under the sun."

"But how do you connect Gordon with the ringleader of that diabolical
mutiny?"

"Easy enough. Same name, George Gordon: wrote to a friend the ship he was
coming home in--_Morning Star_. It _was_ the same; price on G.G.'s head
to this day: shouldn't mind getting it. Needn't pother over it, sir;
'twas Gordon: but he'd never put his foot in London."

"If true, it would account for his not showing himself to his
friend--assuming that he did come back," observed Mr. Carr.

"Friend says not. Sure that G.G., whatever he might have been guilty of,
would go to him direct; knew he might depend on him in any trouble. A
proof, he argues, that G.G. never came back."

"But I tell you he did come back," repeated the barrister. "Strange the
similarity of name never struck me," he added, turning to Lord Hartledon.
"I took some interest in that mutiny at the time; but it never occurred
to me to connect this man or his name with it. A noted name, at any rate,
if not a very common one."

Lord Hartledon nodded. He had sat silent throughout, a little apart, his
face somewhat turned from them, as though the business did not concern
him.

"And now I will relate to you what more I know of Gordon," resumed Mr.
Carr, moving his chair nearer the detective, and so partially screening
Lord Hartledon. "He was in London last year, employed by Kedge and Reck,
of Gray's Inn, to serve writs. What he had done with himself from the
time of the mutiny--allowing that he was identical with the Gordon of
that business--I dare say no one living could tell, himself excepted. He
was calling himself Gorton last autumn. Not much of a change from his own
name."

"George Gorton," assented the detective.

"Yes, George Gorton. I knew this much when I first applied to you.
I did not mention it because I preferred to let you go to work without
it. Understand me; that it is the same man, I _know_; but there are
nevertheless discrepancies in the case that I cannot reconcile; and I
thought you might possibly arrive at some knowledge of the man without
this clue better than with it."

"Sorry to differ from you, Mr. Carr; must hold to the belief that George
Gorton, employed at Kedge and Reck's, was not the same man at all," came
the cool and obstinate rejoinder. "Have sifted the apparent similarity
between the two, and drawn conclusions accordingly."

The remark implied that the detective was wiser on the subject of George
Gorton than Mr. Carr had bargained for, and a shadow of apprehension
stole over him. It was by no means his wish that the sharp detective and
the man should come into contact with each other; all he wanted was to
find out where he was at present, _not_ that he should be meddled with.
This he had fully explained in the first instance, and the other had
acquiesced in his curt way.

"You are thinking me uncommon clever, getting on the track of George
Gorton, when nothing on the surface connects him with the man wanted,"
remarked the detective, with professional vanity. "Came upon it
accidentally; as well confess it; don't want to assume more credit than's
due. It was in this way. Evening following your instructions, had to see
managing clerk of Kedge and Reck; was engaged on a little matter for
them. Business over, he asked me if I knew anything of a man named George
Gorton, or Gordon--as I seemed to know something of pretty well
everybody. Having just been asked here about George Gordon, I naturally
connected the two questions together. Inquired of Kimberly _why_ he
suspected his clerk Gorton should be Gordon; Kimberly replied he did not
suspect him, but a gentleman did, who had been there that day. This put
me on Gorton's track."

"And you followed it up?"

"Of course; keeping my own counsel. Took it up in haste, though; no
deliberation; went off to Calne, without first comparing notes with
Gordon's friend the surgeon."

"To Calne!" explained Mr. Carr, while Lord Hartledon turned his head and
took a sharp look at the speaker.

A nod was the only answer. "Got down; thought at first as you do, Mr.
Carr, that man was the same, and was on right track. Went to work in my
own way; was a countryman just come into a snug bit of inheritance,
looking out for a corner of land. Wormed out a bit here and a bit there;
heard this from one, that from another; nearly got an interview with my
Lord Hartledon himself, as candidate for one of his farms."

"Lord Hartledon was not at Calne, I think," interrupted Mr. Carr,
speaking impulsively.

"Know it now; didn't then; and wanted, for own purposes, to get a sight
of him and a word with him. Went to his place: saw a queer old creature
in yellow gauze; saw my lord's wife, too, at a distance; fine woman; got
intimate with butler, named Hedges; got intimate with two or three more;
altogether turned the recent doings of Mr. Gorton inside out."

"Well?" said Mr. Carr, in his surprise.

"Care to hear 'em?" continued the detective, after a moment's pause; and
a feeling crossed Mr. Carr, that if ever he had a deep man to deal with
it was this one, in spite of his apparent simplicity. "Gorton went down
on his errand for Kedge and Reck, writ in pocket for Mr. Elster; had
boasted he knew him. Can't quite make out whether he did or not; any
rate, served writ on Lord Hartledon by mistake. Lordship made a joke of
it; took up the matter as a brother ought; wrote himself to Kedge and
Reck to get it settled. Brothers quarrelled; day or two, and elder was
drowned, nobody seems to know how. Gorton stopped on, against orders from
Kimberly; said afterwards, by way of excuse, had been served with summons
to attend inquest. Couldn't say much at inquest, or _didn't_; was asked
if he witnessed accident; said 'No,' but some still think he did. Showed
himself at Hartledon afterwards trying to get interview with new lord;
new lord wouldn't see him, and butler turned him out. Gorton in a rage,
went back to inn, got some drink, said he might be able to _make_ his
lordship see him yet; hinted at some secret, but too far gone to know
what he said; began boasting of adventures in Australia. Loose man there,
one Pike, took him in charge, and saw him off by rail for London."

"Yes?" said Mr. Carr, for the speaker had stopped.

"That's pretty near all as far as Gorton goes. Got a clue to an address
in London, where he might be heard of: got it oddly, too; but that's no
matter. Came up again and went to address; could learn nothing; tracked
here, tracked there, both for Gordon and Gorton; found Gorton disappeared
close upon time he was cast adrift by Kimberly. Not in London as far as
can be traced; where gone, can't tell yet. So much done, summed up my
experiences and came here to-day to state them."

"Proceed," said Mr. Carr.

The detective put his note-book in his pocket, and with his elbows still
on the table, pressed his fingers together alternately as he stated his
points, speaking less abruptly than before.

"My conclusion is--the Gordon you spoke to me about was the Gordon who
led the mutiny on board the _Morning Star_; that he never, after that,
came back to England; has never been heard of, in short, by any living
soul in it. That the Gorton employed by Kedge and Reck was another man
altogether. Neither is to be traced; the one may have found his grave in
the sea years ago; the other has disappeared out of London life since
last October, and I can't trace how or where."

Mr. Carr listened in silence. To reiterate that the two men were
identical, would have been waste of time, since he could not avow how
he knew it, or give the faintest clue. The detective himself had
unconsciously furnished a proof.

"Will you tell me your grounds for believing them to be different men?"
he asked.

"Nay," said the keen detective, "the shortest way would be for you to
give me your grounds for thinking them to be the same."

"I cannot do it," said Mr. Carr. "It might involve--no, I cannot do it."

"Well, I suspected so. I don't mind mentioning one or two on my side.
The description of Gorton, as I had it from Kimberly, does not accord
with that of Gordon as given me by his friend the surgeon. I wrote out
the description of Gorton, and took it to him. 'Is this Gordon?' I
asked. 'No, it is not,' said he; and I'm sure he spoke the truth."

"Gordon, on his return from Australia, might be a different-looking man
from the Gordon who went to it."

"And would be, no doubt. But see here: Gorton was not disguised; Gordon
would not dare to be in London without being so; his head's not worth a
day's purchase. Fancy his walking about with only one letter in his name
altered! Rely upon it, Mr. Carr, you are mistaken; Gordon would no more
dare come back and put his head into the lion's mouth than you'd jump
into a fiery furnace. He couldn't land without being dropped upon: the
man was no common offender, and we