by Ellen Wood
“It is some time since I read the play,” returned Hartledon, controlling his temper under an assumption of indifference. “If my memory serves me, the ‘funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage table.’ My late wife has been dead eighteen months, Lady Kirton.”
“Eighteen months! for such a wife as Maude was to you!” raved the dowager. “You ought to have mourned her eighteen years. Anybody else would. I wish I had never let you have her.”
Lord Hartledon wished it likewise, with all his heart and soul; had wished it in his wife’s lifetime.
“Lady Kirton, listen to me! Let us understand each other. Your visit here is ill-timed; you ought to feel it so; nevertheless, if you stay it out, you must observe good manners. I shall be compelled to request you to terminate it if you fail one iota in the respect due to this house’s mistress, my beloved and honoured wife.”
“Your beloved wife! Do you dare to say it to me?”
“Ay; beloved, honoured and respected as no woman has ever been by me yet, or ever will be again,” he replied, speaking too plainly in his warmth.
“What a false-hearted monster!” cried the dowager, shrilly, apostrophizing the walls and the mirrors. “What then was Maude?”
“Maude is gone, and I counsel you not to bring up her name to me,” said Val, sternly. “Your treachery forced Maude upon me; and let me tell you now, Lady Kirton, if I have never told you before, that it wrought upon her the most bitter wrong possible to be inflicted; which she lived to learn. I was a vacillating simpleton, and you held me in your trammels. The less we rake up old matters the better. Things have altered. I am altered. The moral courage I once lacked does not fail me now; and I have at least sufficient to hold my own against the world, and protect from insult the lady I have made my wife. I beg your pardon if my words seem harsh; they are true; and I am sorry you have forced them from me.”
She was standing still for a moment, staring at him, not altogether certain of her ground.
“Where are the children?” he asked.
“Where you can’t get at them,” she rejoined hotly. “You have your beloved wife; you don’t want them.”
He rang the bell, more loudly than he need have done; but his usually sweet temper was provoked. A footman came in.
“Tell the nurse to bring down the children.”
“They are not at home, my lord.”
“Not at home! Surely they are not out in this rain! — and so late!”
“They went out this afternoon, my lord: and have not come in, I believe.”
“There, that will do,” tartly interposed the dowager. “You don’t know anything about it, and you may go.”
“Lady Kirton, where are the children?”
“Where you can’t get at them, I say,” was Lady Kirton’s response. “You don’t think I am going to suffer Maude’s children to be domineered over by a wretch of a step-mother — perhaps poisoned.”
He confronted her in his wrath, his eyes flashing.
“Madam!”
“Oh, you need not ‘Madam’ me. Maude’s gone, and I shall act for her.”
“I ask you where my children are?”
“I have sent them away; you may make the most of the information. And when I have remained here as long as I choose, I shall take them with me, and keep them, and bring them up. You can at once decide what sum you will allow me for their education and maintenance: two maids, a tutor, a governess, clothes, toys, and pocket-money. It must be a handsome sum, paid quarterly in advance. And I mean to take a house in London for their accommodation, and shall expect you to pay the rent.”
The coolness with which this was delivered turned Val’s angry feelings into amusement. He could not help laughing as he looked at her.
“You cannot have my children, Lady Kirton.”
“They are Maude’s children,” snapped the dowager.
“But I presume you admit that they are likewise mine. And I shall certainly not part with them.”
“If you oppose me in this, I’ll put them into Chancery,” cried the dowager. “I am their nearest relative, and have a right to them.”
“Nearest relative!” he repeated. “You must have lost your senses. I am their father.”
“And have you lived to see thirty, and never learnt that men don’t count for anything in the bringing up of infants?” shrilly asked the dowager. “If they had ten fathers, what’s that to the Lord Chancellor? No more than ten blocks of wood. What they want is a mother.”
“And I have now given them one.”
Without another word, with the red flush of emotion on his cheek, he went up to his wife’s room. She was alone then, dressed, and just coming out of it. He put his arm round her to draw her in again, as he shortly explained the annoyance their visitor was causing him.
“You must stay here, my dearest, until I can go down with you,” he added. “She is in a vile humour, and I do not choose that you should encounter her, unprotected by me.”
“But where are you going, Val?”
“Well, I really think I shall get a policeman in, and frighten her into saying what she has done with the children. She’ll never tell unless forced into it.”
Anne laughed, and Hartledon went down. He had in good truth a great mind to see what the effect would be. The old woman was not a reasonable being, and he felt disposed to show her very little consideration. As he stood at the hall-door gazing forth, who should arrive but Thomas Carr. Not altogether by accident; he had come up exploring, to see if there were any signs of Val’s return.
“Ah! home at last, Hartledon!”
“Carr, what happy wind blew you hither?” cried Val, as he grasped the hands of his trusty friend. “You can terrify this woman with the thunders of the law if she persists in kidnapping children that don’t belong to her.” And he forthwith explained the state of affairs.
Mr. Carr laughed.
“She will not keep them away long. She is no fool, that countess-dowager. It is a ruse, no doubt, to induce you to give them up to her.”
“Give them up to her, indeed!” Val was beginning, when Hedges advanced to him.
“Mrs. Ball says the children have only gone to Madame Tussaud’s, my lord,” quoth he. “The nurse told her so when she went out.”
“I wish she was herself one of Madame Tussaud’s figure-heads!” cried Val. “Mr. Carr dines here, Hedges. Nonsense, Carr; you can’t refuse. Never mind your coat; Anne won’t mind. I want you to make acquaintance with her.”
“How did you contrive to win over Dr. Ashton?” asked Thomas Carr, as he went in.
“I put the matter before him in its true light,” answered Val, “asking him whether, if Anne forgave me, he would condemn us to live out our lives apart from each other: or whether he would not act the part of a good Christian, and give her to me, that I might strive to atone for the past.”
“And he did so?”
“After a great deal of trouble. There’s no time to give you details. I had a powerful advocate in Anne’s heart. She had never forgotten me, for all my misconduct.”
“You have been a lucky man at last, taking one thing with another.”
“You may well say so,” was the answer, in tones of deep feeling. “Moments come over me when I fear I am about to awake and find the present a dream. I am only now beginning to live. The past few years have been — you know what, Carr.”
He sent the barrister into the drawing room, went upstairs for Anne, and brought her in on his arm. The dowager was in her chamber, attiring herself in haste.
“My wife, Carr,” said Hartledon, with a loving emphasis on the word. She was in an evening dress of white and black, not having yet put off mourning for Mrs. Ashton, and looked very lovely; far more lovely in Thomas Carr’s eyes than Lady Maude, with her dark beauty, had ever looked. She held out her hand to him with a frank smile.
“I have heard so much of you, Mr. Carr, that we seem like old friends. I am glad you have come to see me so soon.”
“My being here this evening is an accident, Lady Hartledon, as you may see by my dress,” he returned. “I ought rather to apologize for intruding on you in the hour of your arrival.”
“Don’t talk about intrusion,” said Val. “You will never be an intruder in my house — and Anne’s smile is telling you the same—”
“Who’s that, pray?”
The interruption came from the countess-dowager. There she stood, near the door, in a yellow gown and green turban. Val drew himself up and approached her, his wife still on his arm. “Madam,” said he, in reply to her question, “this is my wife, Lady Hartledon.”
The dowager’s gauzes made acquaintance with the carpet in so elaborate a curtsey as to savour of mockery, but her eyes were turned up to the ceiling; not a word or look gave she to the young lady.
“The other one, I meant,” cried she, nodding towards Thomas Carr.
“It is my friend Mr. Carr. You appear to have forgotten him.”
“I hope you are well, ma’am,” said he, advancing towards her.
Another curtsey, and the countess-dowager fanned herself, and sailed towards the fireplace.
Meanwhile the children came home in a cab from Madame Tussaud’s, and dinner was announced. Lord Hartledon was obliged to take down the countess-dowager, resigning his wife to Mr. Carr. Dinner passed off pretty well, the dowager being too fully occupied to be annoying; also the good cheer caused her temper to thaw a little. Afterwards, the children came in; Edward, a bold, free boy of five, who walked straight up to his grandmother, saluting no one; and Maude, a timid, delicate little child, who stood still in the middle of the carpet where the maid placed her.
The dowager was just then too busy to pay attention to the children, but Anne held out her hand with a smile. Upon which the child drew up to her father, and hid her face in his coat.
He took her up, and carried her to his wife, placing her upon her knee. “Maude,” he whispered, “this is your mamma, and you must love her very much, for she loves you.”
Anne’s arms fondly encircled the child; but she began to struggle to get down.
“Bad manners, Maude,” said her father.
“She’s afraid of her,” spoke up the boy, who had the dark eyes and beautiful features of his late mother. “We are afraid of bad people.”
The observation passed momentarily unnoticed, for Maude, whom Lady Hartledon had been obliged to release, would not be pacified. But when calmness ensued, Lord Hartledon turned to the boy, just then assisting himself to some pineapple.
“What did I hear you say about bad people, Edward?”
“She,” answered the boy, pointing towards Lady Hartledon. “She shan’t touch Maude. She’s come here to beat us, and I’ll kick if she touches me.”
Lord Hartledon, with an unmistakable look at the countess-dowager, rose from his seat in silence and rang the bell. There could be no correction in the presence of the dowager; he and Anne must undo her work alone. Carrying the little girl in one arm, he took the boy’s hand, and met the servant at the door.
“Take these children back to the nursery.”
“I want some strawberries,” the boy called out rebelliously.
“Not to-day,” said his father. “You know quite well that you have behaved badly.”
His wife’s face was painfully flushed. Mr. Carr was critically examining the painted landscape on his plate; and the turban was enjoying some fruit with perfect unconcern. Lord Hartledon stood an instant ere he resumed his seat.
“Anne,” he said in a voice that trembled in spite of its displeased tones, “allow me to beg your pardon, and I do it with shame that this gratuitous insult should have been offered you in your own house. A day or two will, I hope, put matters on their right footing; the poor children, as you see, have been tutored.”
“Are you going to keep the port by you all night, Hartledon?”
Need you ask from whom came the interruption? Mr. Carr passed it across to her, leaving her to help herself; and Lord Hartledon sat down, biting his delicate lips.
When the dowager seemed to have finished, Anne rose. Mr. Carr rose too as soon as they had retired.
“I have an engagement, Hartledon, and am obliged to run away. Make my adieu to your wife.”
“Carr, is it not a crying shame? — enough to incense any man?”
“It is. The sooner you get rid of her the better.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
When Lord Hartledon reached the drawing-room, the dowager was sleeping comfortably. Looking about for his wife, he found her in the small room Maude used to make exclusively her own, which was not lighted up. She was standing at the window, and her tears were quietly falling. He drew her face to his own.
“My darling, don’t let it grieve you! We shall soon right it all.”
“Oh, Percival, if the mischief should have gone too far! — if they should never look upon me except as a step-mother! You don’t know how sick and troubled this has made me feel! I wanted to go to them in the nursery when I came up, and did not dare! Perhaps the nurse has also been prejudiced against me!”
“Come up with me now, love,” he whispered.
They went silently upstairs, and found the children were then in bed and asleep. They were tired with sight-seeing, the nurse said apologetically, curtseying to her new mistress.
The nurse withdrew, and they stood over the nursery fire, talking. Anne could scarcely account for the extreme depression the event seemed to have thrown upon her. Lord Hartledon quickly recovered his spirits, vowing he should like to “serve out” the dowager.
“I was thankful for one thing, Val; that you did not betray anger to them, poor little things. It would have made it worse.”
“I was on the point of betraying something more than anger to Edward; but the thought that I should be punishing him for another’s fault checked me. I wonder how we can get rid of her?”
“We must strive to please her while she stays.”
“Please her!” he echoed. “Anne, my dear, that is stretching Christian charity rather too far.”
Anne smiled. “I am a clergyman’s daughter, you know, Val.”
“If she is wise, she’ll abstain from offending you in my presence. I’m not sure but I should lose command of myself, and send her off there and then.”
“I don’t fear that. She was quite civil when we came up from dinner, and—”
“As she generally is then. She takes her share of wine.”
“And asked me if I would excuse her falling into a doze, for she never felt well without it.”
Anne was right. The cunning old woman changed her tactics, finding those she had started would not answer. It has been remarked before, if you remember, that she knew particularly well on which side her bread was buttered. Nothing could exceed her graciousness from that evening. The past scene might have been a dream, for all traces that remained of it. Out of the house she was determined not to go in anger; it was too desirable a refuge for that. And on the following day, upon hearing Edward attempt some impudent speech to his new mother, she put him across her knee, pulled off an old slipper she was wearing, and gave him a whipping. Anne interposed, the boy roared; but the good woman had her way.
“Don’t put yourself out, dear Lady Hartledon. There’s nothing so good for them as a wholesome whipping. I used to try it on my own children at times.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MR. PIKE ON THE WING.
The time went on. It may have been some twelve or thirteen months later that Mr. Carr, sitting alone in his chambers, one evening, was surprised by the entrance of his clerk — who possessed a latch-key as well as himself.
“Why, Taylor! what brings you here?”
“I thought you would most likely be in, sir,” replied the clerk. “Do you remember some few years ago making inquiries about a man named Gorton — and you could not find him?”
“And never have found him,” was Mr. Carr’s comment. “Wel
l?”
“I have seen him this evening. He is back in London.”
Thomas Carr was not a man to be startlingly affected by any communication; nevertheless he felt the importance of this, for Lord Hartledon’s sake.
“I met him by chance, in a place where I sometimes go of an evening to smoke a cigar, and learned his name by accident,” continued Mr. Taylor. “It’s the same man that was at Kedge and Reck’s, George Gorton; he acknowledged it at once, quite readily.”
“And where has he been hiding himself?”
“He has been in Australia for several years, he says; went there directly after he left Kedge and Reck’s that autumn.”
“Could you get him here, Taylor? I must see him. Tell me: what coloured hair has he?”
“Red, sir; and plenty of it. He says he’s doing very well over there, and has only come home for a short change. He does not seem to be in concealment, and gave me his address when I asked him for it.”
According to Mr. Carr’s wish, the man Gorton was brought to his chambers the following morning by Taylor. To the barrister’s surprise, a well-dressed and really rather gentlemanly man entered. He had been accustomed to picturing this Gorton as an Arab of London life. Casting a keen glance at the red hair, he saw it was indisputably his own.
A few rapid questions, which Gorton answered without the slightest demur, and Mr. Carr leaned back in his chair, knowing that all the trouble he had been at to find this man might have been spared: for he was not the George Gordon they had suspected. But Mr. Carr was cautious, and betrayed nothing.
“I am sorry to have troubled you,” he said. “When I inquired for you of Kedge and Reck some years ago, it was under the impression that you were some one else. You had left; and they did not know where to find you.”
“Yes, I had displeased them through arresting a wrong man, and other things. I was down in the world then, and glad to do anything for a living, even to serving writs.”
“You arrested the late Lord Hartledon for his brother,” observed Mr. Carr, with a careless smile. “I heard of it. I suppose you did not know them apart.”
“I had never set eyes on either of them before,” returned Gorton; unconsciously confirming a point in the barrister’s mind; which, however, was already sufficiently obvious.