Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

“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 curiou
s 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 do
wager 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.