"Dear Jane,"Formercy'ssake keep thosepoorchildren and yourselfaway! We have had anaweful infectious feverrageing in the place, which it was thought to becured, but it's on the breakoutagain—severaldeaths, Hartledon and Maude (marriedof course) have gone out of its reach and I'm thinking of it ifBob'sleg which isbetterpermits. You'd not like I dare say to see the children in acoffin apieceand yourself in athird, as might be the end.Small-poxis raging atGarchestera neighbouring town, thatwillbe awful if it gets tousand Ihearit's on theroadand with kind lovebelieveme youraffectionate"MOTHER."P.S. I am sorry forwhatyou tell me aboutUgoand thestateof affairs chey vous. But you know youwould marryhim so there'snobodyto blame. Ah!Maudehas gone bymyadvice and done asIsaid and the consequence isshe'sa peeress for life and got a handsome young husbandwithoutawillof his own."
"Dear Jane,
"Formercy'ssake keep thosepoorchildren and yourselfaway! We have had anaweful infectious feverrageing in the place, which it was thought to becured, but it's on the breakoutagain—severaldeaths, Hartledon and Maude (marriedof course) have gone out of its reach and I'm thinking of it ifBob'sleg which isbetterpermits. You'd not like I dare say to see the children in acoffin apieceand yourself in athird, as might be the end.Small-poxis raging atGarchestera neighbouring town, thatwillbe awful if it gets tousand Ihearit's on theroadand with kind lovebelieveme youraffectionate
"MOTHER.
"P.S. I am sorry forwhatyou tell me aboutUgoand thestateof affairs chey vous. But you know youwould marryhim so there'snobodyto blame. Ah!Maudehas gone bymyadvice and done asIsaid and the consequence isshe'sa peeress for life and got a handsome young husbandwithoutawillof his own."
The countess-dowager was not very adroit at spelling and composition, whether French or English, as you observe. She made an end of her correspondence, and sat down to a delicious little supper alone; as she best liked to enjoy these treats. The champagne was excellent, and she poured out a full tumbler of it at once, by way of wishing good luck to Maude's triumphant wedding.
"And itisa triumph!" she said, as she put down the empty glass. "I hope it will bring Jane and the rest to a sense oftheirfolly."
A triumph? If you could only have looked into the future, Lady Kirton! A triumph!
The above was not the only letter written that evening. At the hotel where Lord and Lady Hartledon halted for the night, when she had retired under convoy of her maid, then Val's restrained remorse broke out. He paced the room in a sort of mad restlessness; in the midst of which he suddenly sat down to a table on which lay pens, ink, and paper, and poured forth hasty sentences in his mind's wretched tumult.
"My Dear Mrs. Ashton,"I cannot address you in any more formal words, although you will have reason to fling down the letter at my presuming to use these now—for dear, most dear, you will ever be to me."What can I say? Why do I write to you? Indeed to the latter question I can only answer I do not know, save that some instinct of good feeling, not utterly dead within me, is urging me to it."Will you let me for a moment throw conventionality aside; will you for that brief space of time let me speak truly and freely to you, as one might speak who has passed the confines of this world?"When a man behaves to a woman as I, to my eternal shame, have this day behaved to Anne, it is, I think, a common custom to regard the false man as having achieved a sort of triumph; to attribute somewhat of humiliation to the other."Dear Mrs. Ashton, I cannot sleep until I have said to you that in my case the very contrary is the fact. A more abject, humiliated man than I stand at this hour in my own eyes never yet took his sins upon his soul. Even you might be appeased if you could look into mine and see its sense of degradation."That my punishment has already come home to me is only just; that I shall have to conceal it from all the world, including my wife, will not lessen its sting."I have this evening married Maude Kirton. I might tell you of unfair play brought to bear upon me, of a positive assurance, apparently well grounded, that Anne had entered into an engagement to wed another, could I admit that these facts were any excuse for me. They are no excuse; not the slightest palliation. My own yielding folly alone is to blame, and I shall take shame to myself for ever."I write this to you as I might have written it to my own mother, were she living; not as an expiation; only to tell of my pain; that I am not utterly hardened; that I would sue on my knees for pardon, were it not shut out from me by my own act. There is no pardon for such as I. When you have torn it in pieces, you will, I trust, forget the writer."God bless you, dear Mrs. Ashton! God bless and comfort another who is dear to you!—and believe me with true undying remorse your once attached friend,"Hartledon."
"My Dear Mrs. Ashton,
"I cannot address you in any more formal words, although you will have reason to fling down the letter at my presuming to use these now—for dear, most dear, you will ever be to me.
"What can I say? Why do I write to you? Indeed to the latter question I can only answer I do not know, save that some instinct of good feeling, not utterly dead within me, is urging me to it.
"Will you let me for a moment throw conventionality aside; will you for that brief space of time let me speak truly and freely to you, as one might speak who has passed the confines of this world?
"When a man behaves to a woman as I, to my eternal shame, have this day behaved to Anne, it is, I think, a common custom to regard the false man as having achieved a sort of triumph; to attribute somewhat of humiliation to the other.
"Dear Mrs. Ashton, I cannot sleep until I have said to you that in my case the very contrary is the fact. A more abject, humiliated man than I stand at this hour in my own eyes never yet took his sins upon his soul. Even you might be appeased if you could look into mine and see its sense of degradation.
"That my punishment has already come home to me is only just; that I shall have to conceal it from all the world, including my wife, will not lessen its sting.
"I have this evening married Maude Kirton. I might tell you of unfair play brought to bear upon me, of a positive assurance, apparently well grounded, that Anne had entered into an engagement to wed another, could I admit that these facts were any excuse for me. They are no excuse; not the slightest palliation. My own yielding folly alone is to blame, and I shall take shame to myself for ever.
"I write this to you as I might have written it to my own mother, were she living; not as an expiation; only to tell of my pain; that I am not utterly hardened; that I would sue on my knees for pardon, were it not shut out from me by my own act. There is no pardon for such as I. When you have torn it in pieces, you will, I trust, forget the writer.
"God bless you, dear Mrs. Ashton! God bless and comfort another who is dear to you!—and believe me with true undying remorse your once attached friend,
"Hartledon."
It was a curious letter to write; but men of Lord Hartledon's sensitive temperament in regard to others' feelings often do strange things; things the world at large would stare at in their inability to understand them. The remorse might not have come home to him quite so soon as this, his wedding-day, but for the inopportune appearance of Dr. Ashton in the chapel, speaking those words that told home so forcibly. Such reproach on these vacillating men inflicts a torture that burns into the heart like living fire.
He sealed the letter, addressing it to Cannes; called a waiter, late as it was, and desired him to post it. And then he walked about the room, reflecting on the curse of his life—his besetting sin—irresolution. It seemed almost an anomaly forhimto make resolves; but he did make one then; that he would, with the help of Heaven, be a MAN from henceforth, however it might crucify his sensitive feelings. And for the future, the obligation he had that day taken upon himself he determined to fulfil to his uttermost in all honour and love; to cherish his wife as he would have cherished Anne Ashton. For the past—but Lord Hartledon rose up now with a start. There was one item of that past he dared not glance at, which did not, however, relate to Miss Ashton: and it appeared inclined to thrust itself prominently forward to-night.
Could Lord Hartledon have borrowed somewhat of the easy indifference of the countess-dowager, he had been a happier man. That lady would have made a female Nero, enjoying herself while Rome was burning. She remained on in her snug quarters at Hartledon, and lived in clover.
One evening, rather more than a week after the marriage, Hedges had been on an errand to Calne, and was hastening home. In the lonely part of the road near Hartledon, upon turning a sharp corner, he came upon Mirrable, who was standing talking to Pike, very much to the butler's surprise. Pike walked away at once; and the butler spoke.
"He is not an acquaintance of yours, that man, Mrs. Mirrable?"
"Indeed no," she answered, tossing her head. "It was like his impudence to stop me. Rather flurried me too," she continued: and indeed Hedges noticed that she seemed flurried.
"What did he stop you for? To beg?"
"Not that. I've never heard that he does beg. He accosted me with a cool question as to when his lordship was coming back to Hartledon. I answered that it could not be any business of his. And then you came up."
"He is uncommon curious as to my lord. I can't make it out. I've seen him prowling about the grounds: and the night of the marriage he was mounted up at the chapel window. Lord Hartledon saw him, too. I should like to know what he wants."
"By a half-word he let drop, I fancy he has a crotchet in his head that his lordship will find him some work when he comes home. But I must go on my way," added Mirrable. "Mrs. Gum's not well, and I sent word I'd look in for half-an-hour this evening."
Hedges had to go on his way also, for it was close upon the countess-dowager's dinner-hour, at which ceremony he must attend. Putting his best foot forward, he walked at more than an ordinary pace, and overtook a gentleman almost at the very door of Hartledon. The stranger was approaching the front entrance, Hedges was wheeling off to the back; but the former turned and spoke. A tall, broad-shouldered, grey-haired man, with high cheek-bones. Hedges took him for a clergyman from his attire; black, with a white neckcloth.
"This is Hartledon House, I believe," he said, speaking with a Scotch accent.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you belong to it?"
"I am Lord Hartledon's butler."
"Is Lord Hartledon at home?"
"No, sir. He is in France."
"I read a notice of his marriage in the public papers," continued the stranger, whose eyes were fixed on Hedges. "It was, I suppose, a correct one?"
"My lord was married the week before last: about ten or eleven days ago."
"Ay; April the fourteenth, the paper said. She is one of the Kirton family. When do you expect him home?"
"I don't know at all, sir. I've not heard anything about it."
"He is in France, you say, Paris, I suppose. Can you furnish me with his address?"
Up to this point the colloquy had proceeded smoothly on both sides: but it suddenly flashed into the mind of Hedges that the stranger's manner was somewhat mysterious, though in what the mystery lay he could not have defined. The communicative man, true to the interests of his master, became cautious at once: he supposed some of Lord Hartledon's worries, contracted when he was Mr. Elster, were returning upon him.
"I cannot give his address, sir. And for the matter of that, it might not be of use if I could. Lord and Lady Hartledon did not intend remaining any length of time in one place."
The stranger had dug the point of his umbrella into the level greensward that bounded the gravel, and swayed the handle about with his hand, pausing in thought.
"I have come a long way to see Lord Hartledon," he observed. "It might be less trouble and cost for me to go on to Paris and see him there, than to start back for home, and come here again when he returns to England. Are you sure you can't give me his address?"
"I'm very sorry I can't, sir. There was a talk of their going on to Switzerland," continued Hedges, improvising the journey, "and so coming back through Germany; and therewasa talk of their making Italy before the heat came on, and stopping there. Any way, sir, I dare say they are already away from Paris."
The stranger regarded Hedges attentively, rather to the discomfiture of that functionary, who thought he was doubted. He then asked a great many questions, some about Lord Hartledon's personal habits, some about Lady Maude: the butler answered them freely or cautiously, as he thought he might, feeling inclined all the while to chase the intruder off the premises. Presently he turned his attention on the house.
"A fine old place, this, Mr. Butler."
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose I could look over it, if I wished?"
Hedges hesitated. He was privately asking himself whether the law would allow the stranger, if he had come after any debt of Lord Hartledon's, to refuse to leave the house, once he got into it.
"I could ask Lady Kirton, sir, if you particularly wished it."
"Lady Kirton? You have some one in the house, then!"
"The Dowager Lady Kirton's here, sir. One of her sons also—Captain Kirton; but he is confined to his room."
"Then I would rather not go in," said the stranger quickly. "I'm very disappointed to have come all this way and not find Lord Hartledon."
"Can I forward any letter for you, sir? If you'd like to intrust one to me, I'll send it as soon as we know of any certain address."
"No—no, I think not," said the stranger, musingly. "There might be danger," he muttered to himself, but Hedges caught the words.
He stood swaying the umbrella-handle about, looking down at it, as if that would assist his decision. Then he looked at Hedges.
"My business with Lord Hartledon is quite private, and I would rather not write. I'll wait until he is back in England: and see him then."
"What name, sir?" asked Hedges, as the stranger turned away.
"I would prefer not to leave my name," was the candid answer. "Good evening."
He walked briskly down the avenue, and Hedges stood looking after him, slightly puzzled in his mind.
"I don't believe it's a creditor; that I don't. He looks like a parson to me. But it's some trouble though, if it's not debt. 'Danger' was the word: 'there might be danger.' Danger in writing, he meant. Any way, I'm glad he didn't go in to that ferreting old dowager. And whatever it may be, his lordship's able to pay it now."
Some few weeks went by. On a fine June morning Lord and Lady Hartledon were breakfasting at their hotel in the Rue Rivoli. She was listlessly playing with her cup; he was glancing overGalignani's.
"Maude," he suddenly exclaimed, "the fountains are to play on Sunday at Versailles. Will you go to see them?"
"I am tired of sight-seeing, and tired of Paris too," was Lady Hartledon's answer, spoken with apathy.
"Are you?" he returned, with animation, as though not sorry to hear the avowal. "Then we won't stay in Paris any longer. When shall we leave?"
"Are the letters not late this morning?" she asked, allowing the question to pass.
Lord Hartledon glanced at the clock. "Very late: and we are late also. Are you expecting any in particular?"
"I don't know. This chocolate is cold."
"That is easily remedied," said he, rising to ring the bell. "They can bring in some fresh."
"And keep us waiting half-an-hour!" she grumbled.
"The hotel is crammed up to the mansarde," said good-natured Lord Hartledon, who was easily pleased, and rather tolerant of neglect in French hotels. "Is not that the right word, Maude? You took me to task yesterday for saying garret. The servants are run off their legs."
"Then the hotel should keep more servants. I am quite sick of having to ring twice. A week ago I wished I was out of the place."
"My dear Maude, why did you not say so? If you'd like to go on at once to Germany—"
"Lettres et journal pour monsieur," interrupted a waiter, entering with two letters and theTimes.
"One for you, Maude," handing a letter to his wife. "Don't go," he continued to the waiter; "we want some more chocolate; this is cold. Tell him in French, Maude."
But Lady Hartledon did not hear; or if she heard, did not heed; she was already absorbed in the contents of her letter.
"Ici," said Hartledon, pushing the chocolate-pot towards the man, and rallying the best French he could command, "encore du chocolat. Toute froide,this. Et puis dépêchez vous; il est tarde, et nous avons besoin de sortir."
The man was accustomed to the French of Englishmen, and withdrew without moving a muscle of his face. But Lady Hartledon's ears had been set on edge.
"Don'tattempt French again, Val. They'll understand you if you speak in English."
"Did I make any mistake?" he asked good-humouredly. "I could speak French once; but am out of practice. It's the genders bother one."
"Fine French it must have been!" thought her ladyship. "Who is your letter from?"
"My bankers, I think. About Germany, Maude—would you like to go there?"
"Yes. Later. After we have been to London."
"To London!"
"We will go to London at once, Percival; stay there for the rest of the season, and then—"
"My dear," he interrupted, his face overcast, "the season is nearly over. It will be of no use going there now."
"Plenty of use. We shall have quite six weeks of it. Don't look cross, Val; I have set my heart upon it."
"But have you considered the difficulties? In the first place, we have no house in town; in the second—"
"Oh yes we have: a very good house."
Lord Hartledon paused, and looked at her; he thought she was joking. "Where is it?" he asked in merry tones; "at the top of the Monument?"
"It is in Piccadilly," she coolly replied. "Do you remember, some days ago, I read out an advertisement of a house that was to be let there for the remainder of the season, and remarked that it would suit us?"
"That it might suit us, had we wanted one," put in Val.
"I wrote off at once to mamma, and begged her to see after it and engage it for us," she continued, disregarding her husband's amendment. "She now tells me she has done so, and ordered servants up from Hartledon. By the time this letter reaches me she says it will be in readiness."
Lord Hartledon in his astonishment could scarcely find words to reply. "You wrote—yourself—and ordered the house to be taken?"
"Yes. You are difficult to convince, Val."
"Then I think it was your duty to have first consulted me, Lady Maude," he said, feeling deeply mortified.
"Thank you," she laughed. "I have not been Lady Maude this two months."
"I beg your pardon, Lady Hartledon."
"Now don't pretend to be offended, Val. I have only saved you trouble."
"Maude," he said, rallying his good humour, "it was not right. Let us—for Heaven's sake let us begin as we mean to go on: our interests must beone, not separate. Why did you not tell me you wished to return to London, and allow me to see after an abode for us? It would have been the proper way."
"Well, the truth is, I saw you did not want to go; you kept holding back from it; and if Ihadspoken you would have shillyshallied over it until the season was over. Every one I know is in London now."
The waiter entered with the fresh chocolate, and retired again. Lord Hartledon was standing at the window then. His wife went up to him, and stole her hand within his arm.
"I'm sorry if I have offended you, Val. It's no great matter to have done."
"I think it was, Maude. However—don't act for yourself in future; let me know your wishes. I do not think you have expressed a wish, or half a wish, since our marriage, but I have felt a pleasure in gratifying it."
"You good old fellow! But I am given to having a will of my own, and to act independently. I'm like mamma in that. Val, we will start to-morrow: have you any orders for the servants? I can transmit them through mamma."
"I have no orders. This is your expedition, Maude, not mine; and, I assure you, I feel like a man in utter darkness in regard to it. Allow me to see your mother's letter."
Lady Hartledon had put the letter safely into her pocket.
"I would rather not, Percival: it contains a few private words to myself, and mamma has always an objection to her letters being shown. I'll read you all necessary particulars. You must let me have some money to-day."
"How much?" asked he, from between his compressed lips.
"Oceans. I owe for millinery and things. And, Val, I'll go to Versailles this afternoon, if you like. I want to see some of the rooms again."
"Very well," he answered.
She poured out some chocolate, took it hurriedly, and quitted the room, leaving her husband in a disheartening reverie. That Lady Hartledon and Maude Kirton were two very distinct persons he had discovered already; the one had been all gentleness and childlike suavity, the other was positive, extravagant, and self-willed; the one had made a pretence of loving him beyond all other things in life, the other was making very little show of loving him at all, or of concealing her indifference. Lord Hartledon was not the only husband who has been disagreeably astonished by a similar metamorphosis.
The following was the letter of the countess-dowager:
"Darling Maude,"I havesecuredthehouseyou write about and send by thispostfor Hedges and a few of the rest fromHartledon. It won't accommodate a largeestablishmentI can tell you and you'll bedisappointedwhen you come over to takepossessionwhich you can do when youchoose. Val was afoolfor letting his town house in the spring but of course we know he isoneand must put up with it. Whatever youdo, don'tconsulthim aboutany earthly thingtakeyour own way, he never did havemuchof a will and you must let himhave nonefor the future. You've got a splendidchancecan spendwhat you likeand rule insocietyand he'll subside into atame spaniel."Maude if you are such an idiot I'llshakeyou. Find you've made adredfulmistake?—can't bear your husband?—keep thinking always ofEdward? A child might write such utterrubishbut not you, what does it matter whether one's husband islikedordisliked, provided he gives onepositionandwealth? Go to Amiens and stop withJanefor aweekand see herplightand then grumble at your own, youarean idiot."I'm quitegladabout your taking this town-house, and shall enter intoposessionmyself as soon as the servants are up, and await you.Bob'squitewelland joins to-day and of coursegives uphis lodgings, which have beenwretchedly confinedand uncomfortable and where I should have gone to but for thismoveof yours I don't know. Mind you bring me over a Parisianbonnetor two or some articles of thatsort. I'm nearly inrags, Kirton's as undutiful as hecanbe but it's thatwifeof his."Your affectionate mother,"C. Kirton."
"Darling Maude,
"I havesecuredthehouseyou write about and send by thispostfor Hedges and a few of the rest fromHartledon. It won't accommodate a largeestablishmentI can tell you and you'll bedisappointedwhen you come over to takepossessionwhich you can do when youchoose. Val was afoolfor letting his town house in the spring but of course we know he isoneand must put up with it. Whatever youdo, don'tconsulthim aboutany earthly thingtakeyour own way, he never did havemuchof a will and you must let himhave nonefor the future. You've got a splendidchancecan spendwhat you likeand rule insocietyand he'll subside into atame spaniel.
"Maude if you are such an idiot I'llshakeyou. Find you've made adredfulmistake?—can't bear your husband?—keep thinking always ofEdward? A child might write such utterrubishbut not you, what does it matter whether one's husband islikedordisliked, provided he gives onepositionandwealth? Go to Amiens and stop withJanefor aweekand see herplightand then grumble at your own, youarean idiot.
"I'm quitegladabout your taking this town-house, and shall enter intoposessionmyself as soon as the servants are up, and await you.Bob'squitewelland joins to-day and of coursegives uphis lodgings, which have beenwretchedly confinedand uncomfortable and where I should have gone to but for thismoveof yours I don't know. Mind you bring me over a Parisianbonnetor two or some articles of thatsort. I'm nearly inrags, Kirton's as undutiful as hecanbe but it's thatwifeof his.
"Your affectionate mother,
"C. Kirton."
The letter will give you some guide to the policy of Maude Hartledon since her marriage. She did find she had made a mistake. She cared no more for her husband now than she had cared for him before; and it was a positive fact that she despised him for walking so tamely into the snare laid for him by herself and her mother. Nevertheless she triumphed; he had made her a peeress, and she did care for that; she cared also for the broad lands of Hartledon. That she was unwise in assuming her own will so promptly, with little regard to consulting his, she might yet discover.
At Versailles that day—to which place they went in accordance with Maude's wish—there occurred a rencontre which Lord Hartledon would willingly have gone to the very ends of the earth to avoid. It happened to be rather full for Versailles; many of the visitors in Paris apparently having taken it into their minds to go; indeed, Maude's wish was induced by the fact that some of her acquaintances in the gay capital were going also.
You may possibly remember a very small room in the galleries, exceedingly small as compared with the rest, chiefly hung with English portraits. They were in this room, amidst the little crowd that filled it, when Lord Hartledon became aware that his wife had encountered some long-lost friend. There was much greeting and shaking of hands. He caught the name—Kattle; and being a somewhat singular name, he recognised it for that of the lady who had been sojourning at Cannes, and had sent the news of Miss Ashton's supposed engagement to the countess-dowager. There was the usual babble on both sides—where each was staying, had been staying, would be staying; and then Lord Hartledon heard the following words from Mrs. Kattle.
"How strange I should have seen you! I have met you, the Fords, and the Ashtons here, and did not know that any of you were in Paris. It's true I only arrived yesterday. Such a long illness, my dear, I had at Turin!"
"The Ashtons!" involuntarily repeated Maude. "Are they here?—in the château?" And it instantly occurred to her how she should like to meet them, and parade her triumph. If ever a spark of feeling for her husband arose within Maude's heart, it was when she thought of Anne Ashton. She was bitterly jealous of her still.
"Yes, here; I saw them not three minutes ago. They are only now on their road home from Cannes. Fancy their making so long a stay!"
"You wrote mamma word that Miss Ashton was about to marry some Colonel Barnaby."
Mrs. Kattle laughed. It is possible that written news might have beenasked forby the countess-dowager.
"Well, my dear, and so I did; but it turned out to be a mistake. He did admire her; there was no mistake about that; and I dare say she might have had him if she liked. How's your brother and his poor leg?"
"Oh, he is well," answered Maude. "Au revoir; I can't stand this crush any longer."
It was really a crush just then in the room; and though Maude escaped from it dexterously, Lord Hartledon did not. He was wedged in behind some stout women, and had the pleasure of hearing another word or two from Mrs. Kattle.
"Who was that?" asked a lady, who appeared to be her companion.
"Lady Hartledon. He was only the younger brother until a few months ago, but the elder one got drowned in some inexplicable manner on his own estate, and this one came into the title. The old dowager began at once to angle for him, and succeeded in hooking him. She used to write me word how it progressed."
"She is very beautiful."
"Very."
Lord Hartledon made his escape, and found his wife looking round for him. She was struck by the aspect of his face.
"Are you ill, Percival?"
"Ill? No. But I don't care how soon we get out of these rooms. I can't think what brings so many people in them to-day."
"He has heard thatshe'shere, and would like to avoid her," thought Maude as she took the arm he held out. "The large rooms are empty enough, I'm sure," she remarked. "Shall we have time to go to the Trianon?"
"If you like. Yes."
He began to hurry through the rooms. Maude, however, was in no mood to be hurried, but stopped here and stopped there. All at once they met a large party of friends; those she had originally expected to meet. Quitting her husband's arm, she became lost amongst them.
There was no help for it; and Lord Hartledon, resigning himself to the detention, took up his standing before the pictures and stared at them, his back to the room. He saw a good deal to interest him, in spite of his rather tumultuous state of mind, and remained there until he found himself surrounded by other spectators. Turning hastily with a view to escaping, he trod upon a lady's dress. She looked up at his word of apology, and they stood face to face—himself and Miss Ashton!
That both utterly lost their presence of mind would have been conclusive to the spectators, had any regarded them; but none did so. They were strangers amidst the crowd. For the space of a moment each gazed on the other, spell-bound. Lord Hartledon's honest blue eyes were riveted on her face with a strangely yearning expression of repentance—her sweet face, which had turned as white as ashes. He wore mourning still for his brother, and was the most distinguished-looking man in the château that day. Anne was in a trailing lilac silk, with a white gossamer-bonnet. That the heart of each went out to the other, as it had perhaps never gone out before, it may be no sin to say. Sin or no sin, it was the truth. The real value of a thing, as you know, is never felt until it is lost. For two months each had been dutifully striving to forget the other, and believed they were succeeding; and this first accidental meeting roused up the past in all its fever of passion.
No more conscious of what he did than if he had been in a dream, Lord Hartledon held out his hand; and she, quite as unconscious, mechanically met it with hers. What confused words of greeting went forth from his lips he never knew; she as little; but this state of bewildered feeling lasted only a minute; recollection came to both, and she strove to withdraw her hand to retreat.
"God bless you, Anne!" was all he whispered, his fervent words marred by their tone of pain; and he wrung her hand as he released it.
Turning away he caught the eyes of his wife riveted on them; she had evidently seen the meeting, and her colour was high. Lord Hartledon walked straight into the next room, and Maude went up to Anne.
"How do you do, Miss Ashton? I am so glad to meet you. I have just heard you were here from Mrs. Kattle. You have been speaking to my husband."
Anne bowed; she did not lose her presence of mind atthisencounter. A few civil words of reply given with courteous dignity, and she moved away with a bright flush on her cheek, towards Dr. and Mrs. Ashton, who were standing arm-in-arm enraptured before a remote picture, cognizant of nothing else.
"How thin she looks!" exclaimed Maude, as she rejoined her husband, and took his arm.
"Who looks thin?"
"Miss Ashton. I wonder she did not fling your hand away, instead of putting her own into it!"
"Do you wish to see the Trianon? We shall be late."
"Yes, I do wish to see it. But you need not speak in that tone: it was not my fault that we met her."
He answered never a syllable. His lips were compressed to pain, and his face was hectic; but he would not be drawn into reproaching his wife by so much as a word, for the sort of taste she was displaying. The manner in which he had treated Miss Ashton and her family was ever in his mind, more or less, in all its bitter, humiliating disgrace. The worst part of it to Val was, that there could be no reparation.
The following day Lord Hartledon and his wife took their departure from Paris; and if anything could have imparted especial gratification on his arriving in London at the hired house, it was to find that his wife's mother was not in it. Val had come home against his will; he had not wished to be in London that season; rather would he have buried himself and his haunting sense of shame on the tolerant Continent; and he certainly had not wished his wife to make her debut in a small hired house. When he let his own, nothing could have been further from his thoughts than marriage. As to this house—Lady Kirton had told her daughter she would be disappointed in it; but when Maude saw its dimensions, its shabby entrance, its want of style altogether, she was dismayed. "And after that glowing advertisement!" she breathed resentfully. It was one of the smallest houses facing the Green Park.
Hedges came forward with an apology from the countess-dowager. An apology for not invading their house and inflicting her presence upon them uninvited! A telegraphic despatch from Lord Kirton had summoned her to Ireland on the previous day; and Val's face grew bright as he heard it.
"What was the matter, Hedges?" inquired his mistress. "I'm sure my brother would not telegraph unless it was something."
"The message didn't say, my lady. It was just a few words, asking her ladyship to go off by the first train, but giving no reason."
"I wonder she went, then," observed Val to his wife, as they looked into the different rooms. But Maude did not wonder: she knew how anxious her mother was to be on good terms with her eldest son, from whom she received occasional supplies. Rather would she quarrel with the whole world than with him.
"I think it a good thing she has gone, Maude," said he. "There certainly would not have been room for her and for us in this house."
"And so do I," answered Maude, looking round her bed-chamber. "If mamma fancies she's going to inflict herself upon us for good she's mistaken. She and I might quarrel, perhaps; for I know she'd try to control me. Val, what are we to do in this small house?"
"The best we can. We have made the bargain, you know, and taken possession now."
"You are laughing. I declare I think you are glad it has turned out what it is!"
"I am not sorry," he avowed. "You'll let me cater for you another time, Maude."
She put up her face to be kissed. "Don't be angry with me. It is our home-coming."
"Angry!" he repeated. "I have never shown anger to you yet, Maude. Never a woman had a more indulgent husband than you shall have in me."
"You don't say a loving one, Val!"
"And a loving one also: if you will only let me be so."
"What do you mean?"
"Love requires love in return. We shall be happy, I am sure, if you so will it. Only let us pull together; one mind, one interest. Here's your maid. I wonder where my dressing room is?"
And thus they entered on what remained of the London season. The newspapers announced the arrival of Lord and Lady Hartledon, and Maude read it aloud to her husband. She might have retained peace longer, however, had that announcement not gone forth to the four corners of the land.
"Only let us pull together!" A very few days indeed sufficed to dissipate that illusion. Lady Hartledon plunged madly into all the gaieties of the dying season, as though to make up for lost time; Lord Hartledon never felt less inclined to plunge into anything, unless it was the waters of oblivion. He held back from some places, but she did not appear to care, going her way in a very positive, off-hand manner, according to her own will, and paying not the slightest deference to his.
On a burning day at the end of June, Lord Hartledon was walking towards the Temple. He had not yet sought out his friend Thomas Carr; a sense of shame held him back; but he was on his way to do so now.
Turning down Essex Street and so to the left, he traversed the courts and windings, and mounted the stairs to the barrister's rooms. Many a merry hour had he passed in those three small rooms, dignified with the name of "Mr. Carr's chambers," but which were in fact also Mr. Carr's dwelling-place—and some sad ones.
Lord Hartledon knocked at the outer door with his stick—a somewhat faint, doubtful knock; not with the free hand of one at ease with himself and the world. For one thing, he was uncertain as to the reception he should meet with.
Mr. Carr came to the door himself; his clerk was out. When he saw who was his visitor he stood in comic surprise. Val stepped in, extending his hand; and it was heartily taken.
"You are not offended with me, then, Carr?"
"Nay," said Mr. Carr, "I have no reason to be offended. Your sin was not against me."
"That's a strong word, 'sin.'"
"It is spoken," was the answer; "but I need not speak it again. I don't intend to quarrel with you. I was not, I repeat, the injured party."
"Yet you took yourself off in dudgeon, as though you were, leaving me without a groomsman."
"I would not remain to witness a marriage that—that you ought not to have entered upon."
"Well, it's done and over, and need not be brought up again," returned Hartledon, a shade of annoyance in his tones.
"Certainly not. I have no wish or right to bring it up. How is Lady Hartledon?"
"She is very well. And now what has kept you away, Carr? We have been in London nearly a fortnight, and you've never been near me. I thought youweregoing to quarrel."
"I did not know you had returned."
"Not know it! Why all the newspapers had it in amongst the 'fashionable intelligence.'"
"I have more to do with my time than to look at the fashionable portion of the papers. Not being fashionable myself, it doesn't interest me."
"Yes, it's about a fortnight since we came back to this hateful place," returned Hartledon, his light tone subsiding into seriousness. "I am out of conceit with England just now; and would far rather have gone to the Antipodes."
"Then why did you come back to it?" inquired the barrister, in surprise.
"My wife gave me no choice. She possesses a will of her own. It is the ordinary thing, perhaps, for wives to do so."
"Some do, and some don't," observed Thomas Carr, who never flattered at the expense of truth. "Are you going down to Hartledon?"
"Hartledon!" with a perceptible shiver. "In the mind I am in, I shall never visit Hartledon again; there are some in its vicinity I would rather not insult by my presence. Why do you bring up disagreeable subjects?"
"You will have to get over that feeling," observed Mr. Carr, disregarding the hint, and taking out his probing-knife. "And the sooner it is got over the better for all parties. You cannot become an exile from your own place. Are they at Calne now?"
"Yes. They were in Paris just before we left it, and there was an encounter at Versailles. I wished myself dead; I declare I did. A day or two after we came to England they crossed over, and went straight down to Calne. There—don't say any more."
"The longer you keep away from Hartledon the greater effort it will cost you to go down to it; and—"
"I won't go to Hartledon," he interrupted, in a sort of fury; "neither perhaps would you, in my place."
"Sir," cried Mr. Carr's clerk, bustling in and addressing his master, "you are waited for at the chambers of Serjeant Gale. The consultation is on."
Lord Hartledon rose.
"I will not detain you, Carr; business must be attended to. Will you come and dine with us this evening? Only me and my wife. Here's where we are staying—Piccadilly. My own house is let, you know."
"I have no engagement, and will come with pleasure," said Mr. Carr, taking the card. "What hour?"
"Ah, that's just what I can't tell you. Lady Hartledon orders dinner to suit her engagements—any time between six and nine! I never know. We are a fashionable couple, don't you see?"
"Stay, though, Hartledon; I forget. I have a business appointment for half-past eight. Perhaps I can put it off."
"Come up at six. You'll be all right, then, in any case."
Lord Hartledon left the Temple, and sauntered towards home. He had no engagement on hand—nothing to kill time. He and his wife were falling naturally into the way of—as he had just cynically styled it—fashionable people. She went her way and he went his.
Many a cabman held up his hand or his whip; but in his present mood walking was agreeable to him: why should he hurry home, when he had nothing on earth to do there? So he stared here, and gazed there, and stopped to speak to this acquaintance, and walked a few steps with that, went into his club for ten minutes, and arrived home at last.
His wife's carriage was at the door waiting for her. She was bound on an expedition to Chiswick: Lord Hartledon had declined it. He met her hastening out as he entered, and she was looking very cross.
"How late you are going, Maude!"
"Yes, there has been a mistake," she said peevishly, turning in with him to a small room they used as a breakfast-room. "I have been waiting all this time for Lady Langton, and she, I find, has been waiting for me. I'm now going round to take her up. Oh, I have secured that opera-box, Val, but at an extravagant price, considering the little time that remains of the season."
"What opera-box?"
"Didn't I tell you? It's one I heard of yesterday. I was not going again to put up with the wretched little box they palmed you off with. I did tell you that."
"It was the only one I could get, Maude: there was no other choice."
"Yes, I know. Well, I have secured another for the rest of the season, and you must not talk about extravagance, please."
"Very well," said Val, with a smile. "For what hour have you ordered dinner?"
"Nine o'clock."
"Nine o'clock! That's awkward—and late."
"Why awkward? You may have to wait for me even then. It is impossible to say when we shall get home from Chiswick. All the world will be there."
"I have just asked Carr to dine with us, and told him to come at six. I don't fancy these hard-working men care to wait so long for their dinner. And he has an appointment for half-past eight."
The colour came flushing into Lady Hartledon's face, an angry light into her eyes.
"You have asked Carr to dinner! How dared you?"
Val looked up in quiet amazement.
"Dared!"
"Well—yes. Dared!"
"I do not understand you, Maude. I suppose I may exercise the right of inviting a friend to dinner."
"Not when it is objectionable to me. I dislike that man Carr, and will not receive him."
"You can have no grounds for disliking him," returned Lord Hartledon warmly. "He has been a good and true friend to me ever since I knew what friendship meant; and he is a good and true man."
"Too much of a friend," she sarcastically retorted. "You don't need him now, and can drop him."
"Maude," said Lord Hartledon, very quietly, "I have fancied several times lately that you are a little mistaking me. I am not to have a will of my own; I am to bend in all things to yours; you are to be mistress and master, I a nonentity: is it not so? This is a mistake. No woman ever had a better or more indulgent husband than you shall find in me: but in all necessary things, where it is needful and expedient that I should exercise my own judgment, and act as master, I shall do it."
She paused in very astonishment: the tone was so calmly decisive.
"My dear, let us have no more of this; something must have vexed you to-day."
"We will have no more of it," she passionately retorted; "and I'll have no more of your Thomas Carrs. It is not right that you should bring a man here who has deliberately insulted me. Be quiet, Lord Hartledon; he has. What else was it but an insult—his going out of the chapel in the manner he did, when we were before the altar? It was a direct intimation that he did not countenance the marriage. He would have preferred, I suppose, that you should marry your country sweetheart, Anne Ashton."
A hot flush rose to Lord Hartledon's brow, but his tone was strangely temperate. "I have already warned you, Maude, that we shall do well to discard that name from our discussions, and if possible from our thoughts; it may prove better for both of us."
"Better for you, perhaps; but you arenotgoing to exercise any control over my will, or words, or action; and so I tell you at once. I'm quite old enough to be out of leading-strings, and I'll be mistress in my own house. You will do well to send a note to your amiable friend Carr; it may save him a useless journey; for at my table he shall not sit. Now you know, Val."
She spoke impatiently, haughtily, and swept out to her carriage. Val did not follow to place her in; he positively did not, but left her to the servants. Never in his whole life perhaps had he felt so nettled, never so resolute: the once vacillating, easily-persuaded man, when face to face with people, was speedily finding the will he had only exercised behind their backs. He rang the bell for Hedges.
"Her ladyship has ordered dinner for nine o'clock," he said, when the butler appeared.
"I believe so, my lord."
"It will be inconvenient to me to wait so long to-day. I shall dine at seven. You can serve it in this room, leaving the dining-room for Lady Hartledon. Mr. Carr dines with me."
So Hedges gave the necessary orders, and dinner was laid in the breakfast-room. Thomas Carr came in, bringing the news that he had succeeded in putting off his appointment. Lord Hartledon received him in the same room, fearing possibly the drawing-room might be invaded by his wife. She was just as likely to be home early from Chiswick as late.
"We have it to ourselves, Carr, and I am not sorry. There was no certainty about my wife's return, so I thought we'd dine alone."
They very much enjoyed their tête-à-tête dinner; as they had enjoyed many a one in Hartledon's bachelor days. Thomas Carr—one of the quiet, good men in a fast world—was an admirable companion, full of intelligence and conversation. Hedges left them alone after the cloth was removed, but in a very few minutes returned; his step rather more subdued than usual, as if he came upon some secret mission.
"Here's that stranger come again, sir," he began, in low tones; and it may as well be remarked that in moments of forgetfulness he often did address his master as he used to address him in the past. "He asked if—"
"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."
"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 couldmarry—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.Youmust 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 sawtheirfaces, 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 askyou, 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 friend 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. Iknow, 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.
"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.