by Ellen Wood
“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 sa
me.”
“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 t
his 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.”