by Ellen Wood
“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 r
efused, 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.