by Ellen Wood
“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.”
&n
bsp; “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 f
riend 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.