They were shut in together: the detective officer, Mr. Carr, and Lord Hartledon. "You may speak freely before this gentleman," observed Mr. Carr, as if in apology for a third being present. "He knows the parties, and is almost as much interested in the affair as I am."
The detective glanced at Lord Hartledon with his deep eyes, but he did not know him, and took out a note-book, on which some words and figures were dotted down, hieroglyphics to any one's eyes but his own. Squaring his elbows on the table, he begun abruptly; and appeared to have a habit of cutting short his words and sentences.
"Haven't succeeded yet as could wish, Mr. Carr; at least not altogether: have had to be longer over it, too, than thought for. George Gordon: Scotch birth, so far as can learn; left an orphan; lived mostly in London. Served time to medical practitioner, locality Paddington. Idle, visionary, loose in conduct, good-natured, fond of roving. Surgeon wouldn't keep him as assistant; might have done it, he says, had G.G. been of settled disposition: saw him in drink three times. Next turns up in Scotland, assistant to a doctor there; name Mair, locality Kirkcudbrightshire. Remained less than a year; left, saying was going to Australia. So far," broke off the speaker, raising his eyes to Mr. Carr's, "particulars tally with the information supplied by you."
"Just so."
"Then my further work began," continued Mr. Green. "Afraid what I've got together won't be satisfactory; differ from you in opinion, at any rate. G.G. went to Australia; no doubt of that; friend of his got a letter or two from him while there: last one enclosed two ten-pound notes, borrowed by G.G. before he went out. Last letter said been up to the diggings; very successful; coming home with his money, mentioned ship he meant to sail in. Hadn't been in Australia twelve months."
"Who was the friend?" asked Mr. Carr.
"Respectable man; gentleman; former fellow-pupil with Gordon in London; in good practice for himself now; locality Kensington. After last letter, friend perpetually looking out for G.G. G.G. did not make his appearance; conclusion friend draws is he did not come back. Feels sure Gordon, whether rich or poor, in ill-report or good-report, would have come direct to him."
"I happen to know that he did come back," said Mr. Carr.
"Don't think it," was the unceremonious rejoinder.
"I know it positively. And that he was in London."
The detective looked over his notes, as if completely ignoring Mr. Carr's words.
"You heard, gentlemen, of that mutiny on board the shipMorning Star, some three years ago? Made a noise at the time."
"Well?"
"Ringleader was this same man, George Gordon."
"No!" exclaimed Mr. Carr.
"No reasonable doubt about it. Friend of his feels none: can't understand how G.G. could have turned suddenly cruel; never was that. Pooh! when men have been leading lawless lives in the bush, perhaps taken regularly to drinking—which G.G. was inclined to before—they're ready for any crime under the sun."
"But how do you connect Gordon with the ringleader of that diabolical mutiny?"
"Easy enough. Same name, George Gordon: wrote to a friend the ship he was coming home in—Morning Star. Itwasthe same; price on G.G.'s head to this day: shouldn't mind getting it. Needn't pother over it, sir; 'twas Gordon: but he'd never put his foot in London."
"If true, it would account for his not showing himself to his friend—assuming that he did come back," observed Mr. Carr.
"Friend says not. Sure that G.G., whatever he might have been guilty of, would go to him direct; knew he might depend on him in any trouble. A proof, he argues, that G.G. never came back."
"But I tell you he did come back," repeated the barrister. "Strange the similarity of name never struck me," he added, turning to Lord Hartledon. "I took some interest in that mutiny at the time; but it never occurred to me to connect this man or his name with it. A noted name, at any rate, if not a very common one."
Lord Hartledon nodded. He had sat silent throughout, a little apart, his face somewhat turned from them, as though the business did not concern him.
"And now I will relate to you what more I know of Gordon," resumed Mr. Carr, moving his chair nearer the detective, and so partially screening Lord Hartledon. "He was in London last year, employed by Kedge and Reck, of Gray's Inn, to serve writs. What he had done with himself from the time of the mutiny—allowing that he was identical with the Gordon of that business—I dare say no one living could tell, himself excepted. He was calling himself Gorton last autumn. Not much of a change from his own name."
"George Gorton," assented the detective.
"Yes, George Gorton. I knew this much when I first applied to you. I did not mention it because I preferred to let you go to work without it. Understand me; that it is the same man, Iknow; but there are nevertheless discrepancies in the case that I cannot reconcile; and I thought you might possibly arrive at some knowledge of the man without this clue better than with it."
"Sorry to differ from you, Mr. Carr; must hold to the belief that George Gorton, employed at Kedge and Reck's, was not the same man at all," came the cool and obstinate rejoinder. "Have sifted the apparent similarity between the two, and drawn conclusions accordingly."
The remark implied that the detective was wiser on the subject of George Gorton than Mr. Carr had bargained for, and a shadow of apprehension stole over him. It was by no means his wish that the sharp detective and the man should come into contact with each other; all he wanted was to find out where he was at present,notthat he should be meddled with. This he had fully explained in the first instance, and the other had acquiesced in his curt way.
"You are thinking me uncommon clever, getting on the track of George Gorton, when nothing on the surface connects him with the man wanted," remarked the detective, with professional vanity. "Came upon it accidentally; as well confess it; don't want to assume more credit than's due. It was in this way. Evening following your instructions, had to see managing clerk of Kedge and Reck; was engaged on a little matter for them. Business over, he asked me if I knew anything of a man named George Gorton, or Gordon—as I seemed to know something of pretty well everybody. Having just been asked here about George Gordon, I naturally connected the two questions together. Inquired of Kimberlywhyhe suspected his clerk Gorton should be Gordon; Kimberly replied he did not suspect him, but a gentleman did, who had been there that day. This put me on Gorton's track."
"And you followed it up?"
"Of course; keeping my own counsel. Took it up in haste, though; no deliberation; went off to Calne, without first comparing notes with Gordon's friend the surgeon."
"To Calne!" explained Mr. Carr, while Lord Hartledon turned his head and took a sharp look at the speaker.
A nod was the only answer. "Got down; thought at first as you do, Mr. Carr, that man was the same, and was on right track. Went to work in my own way; was a countryman just come into a snug bit of inheritance, looking out for a corner of land. Wormed out a bit here and a bit there; heard this from one, that from another; nearly got an interview with my Lord Hartledon himself, as candidate for one of his farms."
"Lord Hartledon was not at Calne, I think," interrupted Mr. Carr, speaking impulsively.
"Know it now; didn't then; and wanted, for own purposes, to get a sight of him and a word with him. Went to his place: saw a queer old creature in yellow gauze; saw my lord's wife, too, at a distance; fine woman; got intimate with butler, named Hedges; got intimate with two or three more; altogether turned the recent doings of Mr. Gorton inside out."
"Well?" said Mr. Carr, in his surprise.
"Care to hear 'em?" continued the detective, after a moment's pause; and a feeling crossed Mr. Carr, that if ever he had a deep man to deal with it was this one, in spite of his apparent simplicity. "Gorton went down on his errand for Kedge and Reck, writ in pocket for Mr. Elster; had boasted he knew him. Can't quite make out whether he did or not; any rate, served writ on Lord Hartledon by mistake. Lordship made a joke of it; took up the matter as a brother ought; wrote himself to Kedge and Reck to get it settled. Brothers quarrelled; day or two, and elder was drowned, nobody seems to know how. Gorton stopped on, against orders from Kimberly; said afterwards, by way of excuse, had been served with summons to attend inquest. Couldn't say much at inquest, ordidn't; was asked if he witnessed accident; said 'No,' but some still think he did. Showed himself at Hartledon afterwards trying to get interview with new lord; new lord wouldn't see him, and butler turned him out. Gorton in a rage, went back to inn, got some drink, said he might be able tomakehis lordship see him yet; hinted at some secret, but too far gone to know what he said; began boasting of adventures in Australia. Loose man there, one Pike, took him in charge, and saw him off by rail for London."
"Yes?" said Mr. Carr, for the speaker had stopped.
"That's pretty near all as far as Gorton goes. Got a clue to an address in London, where he might be heard of: got it oddly, too; but that's no matter. Came up again and went to address; could learn nothing; tracked here, tracked there, both for Gordon and Gorton; found Gorton disappeared close upon time he was cast adrift by Kimberly. Not in London as far as can be traced; where gone, can't tell yet. So much done, summed up my experiences and came here to-day to state them."
"Proceed," said Mr. Carr.
The detective put his note-book in his pocket, and with his elbows still on the table, pressed his fingers together alternately as he stated his points, speaking less abruptly than before.
"My conclusion is—the Gordon you spoke to me about was the Gordon who led the mutiny on board theMorning Star; that he never, after that, came back to England; has never been heard of, in short, by any living soul in it. That the Gorton employed by Kedge and Reck was another man altogether. Neither is to be traced; the one may have found his grave in the sea years ago; the other has disappeared out of London life since last October, and I can't trace how or where."
Mr. Carr listened in silence. To reiterate that the two men were identical, would have been waste of time, since he could not avow how he knew it, or give the faintest clue. The detective himself had unconsciously furnished a proof.
"Will you tell me your grounds for believing them to be different men?" he asked.
"Nay," said the keen detective, "the shortest way would be for you to give me your grounds for thinking them to be the same."
"I cannot do it," said Mr. Carr. "It might involve—no, I cannot do it."
"Well, I suspected so. I don't mind mentioning one or two on my side. The description of Gorton, as I had it from Kimberly, does not accord with that of Gordon as given me by his friend the surgeon. I wrote out the description of Gorton, and took it to him. 'Is this Gordon?' I asked. 'No, it is not,' said he; and I'm sure he spoke the truth."
"Gordon, on his return from Australia, might be a different-looking man from the Gordon who went to it."
"And would be, no doubt. But see here: Gorton was not disguised; Gordon would not dare to be in London without being so; his head's not worth a day's purchase. Fancy his walking about with only one letter in his name altered! Rely upon it, Mr. Carr, you are mistaken; Gordon would no more dare come back and put his head into the lion's mouth than you'd jump into a fiery furnace. He couldn't land without being dropped upon: the man was no common offender, and we've kept our eyes open. And that's all," added the detective, after a pause. "Not very satisfactory, is it, Mr. Carr? But, such as it is, I think you may rely upon it, in spite of your own opinion. Meanwhile, I'll keep on the look-out for Gorton, and tell you if he turns up."
The conference was over, and Mr. Green took his departure. Thomas Carr saw him out himself, returned and sat down in a reverie.
"It's a curious tale," said Lord Hartledon.
"I'm thinking how the fact, now disclosed, of Gordon's being Gordon of the mutiny, affects you," remarked Mr. Carr.
"You believe him to be the same?"
"I see no reason to doubt it. It's not probable that two George Gordons should take their passage home in theMorning Star. Besides, it explains points that seemed incomprehensible. I could not understand why you were not troubled by this man, but rely upon it he has found it expedient to go into effectual hiding, and dare not yet come out of it. This fact is a very great hold upon him; and if he turns round on you, you may keep him in check with it. Only let me alight on him; I'll so frighten him as to cause him to ship himself off for life."
"I don't like that detective's having gone down to Calne," remarked Lord Hartledon.
Neither did Mr. Carr, especially if Gordon, or Gorton, should have become talkative, as there was reason to believe he had.
"Gordon is in England, and in hiding; probably in London, for there's no place where you may hide so effectually. One thing I am astonished at: that he should show himself openly as George Gorton."
"Look here, Carr," said Lord Hartledon, leaning forward; "I don't believe, in spite of you and the detective, that Gordon, our Gordon, was the one connected with the mutiny. I might possibly get a description of that man from Gum of Calne; for his son was coming home in the same ship—was one of those killed."
"Who's Gum of Calne?"
"The parish clerk, and a very respectable man. Mirrable, our housekeeper whom you have seen, is related to them. Gum went to Liverpool at the time, I know, and saw the remnant of the passengers those pirates had spared; he was sure to hear a full description of Gordon. If ever I visit Hartledon again I'll ask him."
"If ever you visit Hartledon again!" echoed Mr. Carr. "Unless you leave the country—as I advise you to do—you cannot help visiting Hartledon."
"Well, I would almost as soon be hanged!" cried Val. "And now, what do you want me for, and why have you kept me here?"
Mr. Carr drew his chair nearer to Lord Hartledon. They alone knew their own troubles, and sat talking long after the afternoon was over. Mr. Taylor came to the room; it was past his usual hour of departure.
"I suppose I can go, sir?"
"Not just yet," replied Mr. Carr.
Hartledon took out his watch, and wondered whether it had been galloping, when he saw how late it was. "You'll come home and dine with me, Carr?"
"I'll follow you, if you like," was the reply. "I have a matter or two to attend to first."
A few minutes more, and Lord Hartledon and his care went out. Mr. Carr called in his clerk.
"I want to know how you came to learn that the man I asked you about, Gordon, was employed by Kedge and Reck?"
"I heard it through a man named Druitt," was the ready answer. "Happening to ask him—as I did several people—whether he knew any George Gordon, he at once said that a man of that name was at Kedge and Reck's, where Druitt himself had been temporarily employed."
"Ah," said Mr. Carr, remembering this same Druitt had been mentioned to him. "But the man was called Gorton, not Gordon. You must have caught up the wrong name, Taylor. Or perhaps he misunderstood you. That's all; you may go now."
The clerk departed. Mr. Carr took his hat and followed him down; but before joining Lord Hartledon he turned into the Temple Gardens, and strolled towards the river; a few moments of fresh air—fresh to those hard-worked denizens of close and crowded London—seemed absolutely necessary to the barrister's heated brain.
He sat down on a bench facing the water, and bared his brow to the breeze. A cool head, his; never a cooler brought thought to bear upon perplexity; nevertheless it was not feeling very collected now. He could not reconcile sundry discrepancies in the trouble he was engaged in fathoming, and he saw no release whatever for Lord Hartledon.
"It has only complicated the affair," he said, as he watched the steamers up and down, "this calling in Green the detective, and the news he brings. Gordon the Gordon of the mutiny! I don't like it: the other Gordon, simple enough and not bad-hearted, was easy to deal with in comparison; this man, pirate, robber, murderer, will stand at nothing. We should have a hold on him, it's true, in his own crime; but what's to prevent his keeping himself out of the way, and selling Hartledon to another? Why he has not sold him yet, I can't think. Unless for some reason he is waiting his time."
He put on his hat and began to count the barges on the other side, to banish thought. But it would not be banished, and he fell into the train again.
"Mair's behaving well; with Christian kindness; but it's bad enough to be even inhispower. There's something in Lord Hartledon he 'can't help loving,' he writes. Who can? Here am I, giving up circuit—such a thing as never was heard of—calling him friend still, and losing my rest at night for him! Poor Val! better he had been the one to die!"
"Please, sir, could you tell us the time?"
The spell was broken, and Mr. Carr took out his watch as he turned his eyes on a ragged urchin who had called to him from below.
The tide was down; and sundry Arabs were regaling their naked feet in the mud, sporting and shouting. The evening drew in earlier than they did, and the sun had already set.
Quitting the garden, Mr. Carr stepped into a hansom, and was conveyed to Grafton Street. He found Lord Hartledon knitting his brow over a letter.
"Maude is growing vexed in earnest," he began, looking up at Mr. Carr. "She insists upon knowing the reason that I do not go home to her."
"I don't wonder at it. You ought to do one of two things: go, or—"
"Or what, Carr?"
"You know. Never go home again."
"I wish I was out of the world!" cried the unhappy man.
"Hartledon,"I wonder what youthinkof yourself, Galloping aboutRotten Rowwith women when your wife'sdying. Ofcourseit's not your fault that reports of your goings-onreachher here oh dear no. You are a moddel husband you are, sending her down hereout of the waythat you may take your pleasure. Why did youmarry her, nobody wanted you to she sits andmopesandweepsand she's going into the same way that her fatherwent, you'll be glad no doubt to hear it it's what you'reaimingat, once she is inCalne churchyardthefieldwill be open for your Anne Ashton. I can tell you that if you've a spark ofpropper feelingyou'll comedownfor its killing her,"Your wicked mother,"C. Kirton."
"Hartledon,
"I wonder what youthinkof yourself, Galloping aboutRotten Rowwith women when your wife'sdying. Ofcourseit's not your fault that reports of your goings-onreachher here oh dear no. You are a moddel husband you are, sending her down hereout of the waythat you may take your pleasure. Why did youmarry her, nobody wanted you to she sits andmopesandweepsand she's going into the same way that her fatherwent, you'll be glad no doubt to hear it it's what you'reaimingat, once she is inCalne churchyardthefieldwill be open for your Anne Ashton. I can tell you that if you've a spark ofpropper feelingyou'll comedownfor its killing her,
"Your wicked mother,
"C. Kirton."
Lord Hartledon turned this letter about in his hand. He scarcely noticed the mistake at the conclusion: the dowager had doubtless intended to imply thathewas wicked, and the slip of the pen in her temper went for nothing.
Galloping about Rotten Row with women!
Hartledon sent his thoughts back, endeavouring to recollect what could have given rise to this charge. One morning, after a sleepless night, when he had tossed and turned on his uneasy bed, and risen unrefreshed, he hired a horse, for he had none in town, and went for a long ride. Coming back he turned into Rotten Row. He could not tell why he did so, for such places, affected by the gay, empty-headed votaries of fashion, were little consonant to his present state. He was barely in it when a lady's horse took fright: she was riding alone, with a groom following; Lord Hartledon gave her his assistance, led her horse until the animal was calm, and rode side by side with her to the end of the Row. He knew not who she was; scarcely noticed whether she was young or old; and had not given a remembrance to it since.
When your wife's dying! Accustomed to the strong expressions of the countess-dowager, he passed that over. But, "going the same way that her father went;" he paused there, and tried to remember how her father did "go." All he could recollect now, indeed all he knew at the time, was, that Lord Kirton's last illness was reported to have been a lingering one.
Such missives as these—and the countess-dowager favoured him with more than one—coupled with his own consciousness that he was not behaving to his wife as he ought, took him at length down to Hartledon. That his presence at the place so soon after his marriage was little short of an insult to Dr. Ashton's family, his sensitive feelings told him; but his duty to his wife was paramount, and he could not visit his sin upon her.
She was looking very ill; was low-spirited and hysterical; and when she caught sight of him she forgot her anger, and fell sobbing into his arms. The countess-dowager had gone over to Garchester, and they had a few hours' peace together.
"You are not looking well, Maude!"
"I know I am not. Why do you stay away from me?"
"I could not help myself. Business has kept me in London."
"Haveyoubeen ill also? You look thin and worn."
"One does grow to look thin in heated London," he replied evasively, as he walked to the window, and stood there. "How is your brother, Maude—Bob?"
"I don't want to talk about Bob yet; I have to talk to you," she said. "Percival, why did you practise that deceit upon me?"
"What deceit?"
"It was a downright falsehood; and made me look awfully foolish when I came here and spoke of it as a fact. That action."
Lord Hartledon made no reply. Here was one cause of his disinclination to meet his wife—having to keep up the farce of Dr. Ashton's action. It seemed, however, that there would no longer be any farce to keep up. Had it exploded? He said nothing. Maude gazing at him from the sofa on which she sat, her dark eyes looking larger than of yore, with hollow circles round them, waited for his answer.
"I do not know what you mean, Maude."
"Youdoknow. You sent me down here with a tale that the Ashtons had entered an action against you for breach of promise—damages, ten thousand pounds—"
"Stay an instant, Maude. I did not 'send you down' with the tale. I particularly requested you to keep it private."
"Well, mamma drew it out of me unawares. She vexed me with her comments about your staying on in London, and it made me tell her why you had stayed. She ascertained from Dr. Ashton that there was not a word of truth in the story. Val, I betrayed it in your defence."
He stood at the window in silence, his lips compressed.
"I looked so foolish in the eyes of Dr. Ashton! The Sunday evening after I came down here I had a sort of half-fainting-fit, coming home from church. He overtook me, and was very kind, and gave me his arm. I said a word to him; I could not help it; mamma had worried me on so; and I learned that no such action had ever been thought of. You had no right to subject me to the chance of such mortification. Why did you do so?"
Lord Hartledon came from the window and sat down near his wife, his elbow on the table. All he could do now was to make the best of it, and explain as near to the truth as he could.
"Maude, you must not expect full confidence on this subject, for I cannot give it you. When I found I had reason to believe that some—some legal proceedings were about to be instituted against me, just at the first intimation of the trouble, I thought it must emanate from Dr. Ashton. You took up the same idea yourself, and I did not contradict it, simply because I could not tell you the real truth—"
"Yes," she interrupted. "It was the night that stranger called at our house, when you and Mr. Carr were closeted with him so long."
He could not deny it; but he had been thankful that she should forget the stranger and his visit. Maude waited.
"Then it was an action, but not brought by the Ashtons?" she resumed, finding he did not speak. "Mamma remarked that you were just the one to propose to half-a-dozen girls."
"It was not an action at all of that description; and I never proposed to any girl except Miss Ashton," he returned, nettled at the remark.
"Is it over?"
"Not quite;" and there was some hesitation in his tone. "Carr is settling it for me. I trust, Maude, you will never hear of it again—that it will never trouble you."
She sat looking at him with her wistful eyes.
"Won't you tell me its nature?"
"I cannot tell you, Maude, believe me. I am as candid with you as it is possible to be; but there are some things best—best not spoken of. Maude," he repeated, rising impulsively and taking both her hands in his, "do you wish to earn my love—my everlasting gratitude? Then you may do it by nevermore alluding to this."
It was a mistaken request; an altogether unwise emotion. Better that he had remained at the window, and drawled out a nonchalant denial. But he was apt to be as earnestly genuine on the surface as he was in reality. It set Lady Hartledon wondering; and she resolved to "bide her time."
"As you please, of course, Val. But why should it agitate you?"
"Many a little thing seems to agitate me now," he answered. "I have not felt well of late; perhaps that's the reason."
"I think you might have satisfied me a little better. I expect it is some enormous debt risen up against you."
Better she should think so! "I shall tide it over," he said aloud. "But indeed, Maude, I cannot bear for you delicate women to be brought into contact with these things; they are fit for us only. Think no more about it, and rely on me to keep trouble from you if it can be kept. Where's Bob? He is here, I suppose?"
"Bob's in his room. He is going into a way, I think. When he wrote and asked me if I would allow him to come here for a little change, the medical men saying he must have it, mamma sent a refusal by return of post; she had had enough of Bob, she said, when he was here before. But I quietly wrote a note myself, and Bob came. He looked ill, and gets worse instead of better."
"What do you mean by saying he is going into a way?" asked Lord Hartledon.
"Consumption, or something of that sort. Papa died of it. You are not angry with me for having Bob?"
"Angry! My dear Maude, the house is yours; and if poor Bob stayed with us for ever, I should welcome him as a brother. Every one likes Bob."
"Except mamma. She does not like invalids in the house, and has been saying you don't like it; that it was helping to keep you away. Poor Bob had out his portmanteau and began to pack; but I told him not to mind her; he was my guest, not hers."
"And mine also, you might have added."
He left the room, and went to the chamber Captain Kirton had occupied when he was at Hartledon in the spring. It was empty, evidently not being used; and Hartledon sent for Mirrable. She came, looking just as usual, wearing a dark-green silk gown; for the twelve-month had expired, and their mourning was over.
"Captain Kirton is in the small blue rooms facing south, my lord. They were warmer for him than these."
"Is he very ill, Mirrable?"
"Very, I think," was the answer. "Of course he may get better; but it does not look like it."
He was a tall, thin, handsome man, this young officer—a year or two older than Maude, whom he greatly resembled. Seated before a table, he was playing at that delectable game "solitaire;" and his eyes looked large and wild with surprise, and his cheeks became hectic, when Lord Hartledon entered.
"Bob, my dear fellow, I am glad to see you."
He took his hands and sat down, his face full of the concern he did not care to speak. Lady Hartledon had said he was going into a way; it was evidently the way of the grave.
He pushed the balls and the board from him, half ashamed of his employment. "To think you should catch me at this!" he exclaimed. "Maude brought it to me yesterday, thinking I was dull up here."
"As good that as anything else. I often think what a miserably restless invalidIshould make. But now, what's wrong with you?"
"Well, I suppose it's the heart."
"The heart?"
"The doctors say so. No doubt they are right; those complaints are hereditary, and my father had it. I got quite unfit for duty, and they told me I must go away for change; so I wrote to Maude, and she took me in."
"Yes, yes; we are glad to have you, and must try and get you well, Bob."
"Ah, I can't tell about that. He died of it, you know."
"Who?"
"My father. He was ill for some time, and it wore him to a skeleton, so that people thought he was in a decline. If I could only get sufficiently well to go back to duty, I should not mind; it is so sad to give trouble in a strange house."
"In a strange house it might be, but it would be ungrateful to call this one strange," returned Lord Hartledon, smiling on him from his pleasant blue eyes. "We must get you to town and have good advice for you. I suppose Hillary comes up?"
"Every-day."
"Doeshesay it's heart-disease?"
"I believe he thinks it. It might be as much as his reputation is worth to say it in this house."
"How do you mean?"
"My mother won't have it said. She ignores the disease altogether, and will not allow it to be mentioned, or hinted at. It's bronchitis, she tells everyone; and of course bronchitis it must be. I did have a cough when I came here: my chest is not strong."
"But why should she ignore heart-disease?"
"There was a fear that Maude would be subject to it when she was a child. Should it be disclosed to her that it is my complaint, and were I to die of it, she might grow so alarmed for herself as to bring it on; and agitation, as we know, is often fatal in such cases."
Lord Hartledon sat in a sort of horror. Maude subject to heart-disease! when at any moment a certain fearful tale, of which he was the guilty centre, might be disclosed to her! Day by day, hour by hour, he lived in dread of this story's being brought to light. This little unexpected communication increased that dread fourfold.
"Have I shocked you?" asked Captain Kirton. "I may yet get the better of it."
"I believe I was thinking of Maude," answered Hartledon, slowly recovering from his stupor. "I never heard—I had no idea that Maude's heart was not perfectly sound."
"And I don't know but that it is sound; it was only a fancy when she was a child, and there might have been no real grounds for it. My mother is full of crotchets on the subject of illness; and says she won't have anything about heart-disease put into Maude's head. She is right, of course, so far, in using precaution; so please remember that I am suffering from any disorder but that," concluded the young officer with a smile.
"How did yours first show itself?"
"I hardly know. I used to be subject to sudden attacks of faintness; but I am not sure that they had anything to do with the disease itself."
Just what Maude was becoming subject to! She had told him of a fainting-fit in London; had told him of another now.
"I suppose the doctors warn you against sudden shocks, Bob?"
"More than against anything. I am not to agitate myself in the least; am not to run or jump, or fly into a temper. They would put me in a glass case, if they could."
"Well, we'll see what skill can do for you," said Hartledon, rousing himself. "I wonder if a warmer climate would be of service? You might have that without exertion, travelling slowly."
"Couldn't afford it," was the ingenuous answer. "I have forestalled my pay as it is."
Lord Hartledon smiled. Never a more generous disposition than his; and if money could save this poor Bob Kirton, he should not want it.
Walking forth, he strolled down the road towards Calne, intending to ask a question or two of the surgeon. Mr. Hillary was at home. His house was at this end of Calne, just past the Rectory and opposite the church, with a side view of Clerk Gum's. The door was open, and Lord Hartledon strolled into the surgery unannounced, to the surprise of Mr. Hillary, who did not know he was at Calne.
The surgeon's opinion was not favourable. Captain Kirton had heart-disease beyond any doubt. His chest was weak also, the lungs not over-sound; altogether, the Honourable Robert Kirton's might be called a bad life.
"Would a warmer climate do anything for him?" asked Lord Hartledon.
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders. "He would be better there for some things than here. On the whole it might temporarily benefit him."
"Then he shall go. And now, Hillary, I want to ask you something else—and you must answer me, mind. Captain Kirton tells me the fact of his having heart-disease is not mentioned in the house lest it should alarm Lady Hartledon, and develop the same in her. Is there any fear of this?"
"It is true that it's not spoken of; but I don't think there's any foundation for the fear."
"The old dowager's very fanciful!" cried Lord Hartledon, resentfully.
"A queer old—girl," remarked the surgeon. "Can't help saying it, though she is your mother-in-law."
"I wish she was any one else's! She's as likely as not to let out something of this to Maude in her tantrums. But I don't believe a word of it; I never saw the least symptom of heart-disease in my wife."
"Nor I," said the doctor. "Of course I have not examined her; neither have I had much opportunity for ordinary observation."
"I wish you would contrive to get the latter. Come up and call often; make some excuse for seeing Lady Hartledon professionally, and watch her symptoms."
"I am seeing her professionally now; once or twice a week. She had one or two fainting-fits after she came down, and called me in."
"Kirton says he used to have those fainting-fits. Are they a symptom of heart-disease?"
"In Lady Hartledon I attribute them entirely to her present state of health. I assure you, I don't see the slightest cause for fear as regards your wife's heart. She is of a calm temperament too; as far as I can observe."
They stood talking for a minute at the door, when Lord Hartledon went out. Pike happened to pass on the other side of the road.
"He is here still, I see," remarked Hartledon.
"Oh dear, yes; and likely to be."
"I wonder how the fellow picks up a living?"
The surgeon did not answer. "Are you going to make a long stay with us?" he asked.
"A very short one. I suppose you have had no return of the fever?"
"Not any. Calne never was more healthy than it is now. As I said to Dr. Ashton yesterday, but for his own house I might put up my shutters and take a lengthened holiday."
"Who is ill at the Rectory? Mrs. Ashton?"
"Mrs. Ashton is not strong, but she's better than she was last year. I have been more concerned for Anne than for her."
"Issheill?" cried Lord Hartledon, a spasm seizing his throat.
"Ailing. But it's an ailing I do not like."
"What's the cause?" he rejoined, feeling as if some other crime were about to be brought home to him.
"That's a question I never inquire into. I put it upon the air of the Rectory," added the surgeon in jesting tones, "and tell them they ought to go away for a time, but they have been away too much of late, they say. She's getting over it somewhat, and I take care that she goes out and takes exercise. What has it been? Well, a sort of inward fever, with flushed cheeks and unequal spirits. It takes time for these things to be got over, you know. The Rector has been anything but well, too; he is not the strong, healthy man he was."
"And allmywork; my work!" cried Hartledon to himself, almost gnashing his teeth as he went back down the street. "Whatrighthad I to upset the happiness of that family? I wish it had pleased God to take me first! My father used to say that some men seem born into the world only to be a blight to it; it's what I have been, Heaven knows."
He knew only too well that Anne Ashton was suffering from the shock caused by his conduct. The love of these quiet, sensitive, refined natures, once awakened, is not given for a day, but for all time; it becomes a part of existence; and cannot be riven except by an effort that brings destruction to even future hope of happiness. Not even Mr. Hillary, not even Dr. and Mrs. Ashton, could discern the utter misery that was Anne's daily portion. She strove to conceal it all. She went about the house cheerfully, wore a smiling face when people were present, dressed well, laughed with their guests, went about the parish to rich and poor, and was altogether gay. Ah, do you know what it is, this assumption of gaiety when the heart is breaking?—this dread fear lest those about you should detect the truth? Haveyouever lived with this mask upon your face?—which can only be thrown off at night in the privacy of your own chamber, when you may abandon yourself to your desolation, and pray heaven to take you or give you increased strength toliveandbear? It may seem a light thing, this state of heart that I am telling you about; but it has killed both men and women, for all that; and killed them in silence.
Anne Ashton had never complained. She did everything she had been used to doing, was particular about all her duties; but a nervous cough attacked her, and her frame wasted, and her cheek grew hectic. Try as she would she could not eat: all she confessed to, when questioned by Mrs. Ashton, was "a pain in her throat;" and Mr. Hillary was called in. Anne laughed: there was nothing the matter with her, she said, and her throat was better; she had strained it perhaps. The doctor was a wise doctor; his professional visits were spent in gossip; and as to medicine, he sent her a tonic, and told her to take it or not as she pleased. Only time, he said to Mrs. Ashton—she would be all right in time; the summer heat was making her languid.
The summer heat had nearly passed now, and perhaps some of the battle was passing with it. None knew—let me repeat it—what that battle had been; none ever can know, unless they go through it themselves. In Miss Ashton's case there was a feature some are spared—her love had been known—and it increased the anguish tenfold. She would overcome it if she could only forget him; but it would take time; and she would come out of it an altogether different woman, her best hope in life gone, her heart dead.
"What brought him down here?" mentally questioned Mr. Hillary, in an explosion of wrath, as he watched his visitor down the street. "It will undo all I have been doing. He, and his wife too, might have had the grace to keep away for this year at least. I loved him once, with all his faults; but I should like to see him in the pillory now. It has told on him also, if I'm any reader of looks. And now, Miss Anne, you go off from Calne to-morrow an I can prevail. I only hope you won't come across him in the meantime."
It was the same noble-looking man Calne had ever known, as he went down the road, throwing a greeting to one and another. Lord Hartledon was not a whit less attractive than Val Elster, who had won golden opinions from all. None would have believed that the cowardly monster Fear was for ever feasting upon his heart.
He came to a standstill opposite the clerk's house, looked at it for a moment, as if deliberating whether he should enter, and crossed the road. The shades of evening had begun to fall whilst he talked with the surgeon. As he advanced up the clerk's garden, some one came out of the house with a rush and ran against him.
"Take care," he lazily said.
The girl—it was no other than Miss Rebecca Jones—shrank away when she recognized her antagonist. Flying through the gate she rapidly disappeared up the street. Lord Hartledon reached the house, and made his way in without ceremony. At a table in the little parlour sat the clerk's wife, presiding at a solitary tea-table by the light of a candle.
"How are you, Mrs. Gum?"
She had not heard him enter, and started at the salutation. Lord Hartledon laughed.
"Don't take me for a housebreaker. Your front-door was open, and I came in without knocking. Is your husband at home?"
What with shaking and curtseying, Mrs. Gum could scarcely answer. It was surprising how a little shock of this sort, or indeed of any sort, would upset her. Gum was away on some business or other, she replied—which caused their tea-hour to be delayed—but she expected him in every moment. Would his lordship please to wait in the best parlour, she asked, taking the candle to marshal him into the state sitting-room.
No; his lordship would not go into the best parlour; he would wait two or three minutes where he was, provided she did not disturb herself, and went on with her tea.
Mrs. Gum dusted a large old-fashioned oak chair with her apron; but he perched himself on one of its elbows.
"And now go on with your tea, Mrs. Gum, and I'll look on with all the envy of a thirsty man."
Mrs. Gum glanced up tremblingly. Might she dare offer his lordship a cup? She wouldn't make so bold but teawasrefreshing to a parched throat.
"And mine's always parched," he returned. "I'll drink some with you, and thank you for it. It won't be the first time, will it?"
"Always parched!" remarked Mrs. Gum. "Maybe you've a touch of fever, my lord. Many folk get it at the close of summer."
Lord Hartledon sat on, and drank his tea. He said well that he was always thirsty, though Mrs. Gum's expression was the better one. That timid matron, overcome by the honour accorded her, sat on the edge of her chair, cup in hand.
"I want to ask your husband if he can give me a description of the man who was concerned in that wretched mutiny on board theMorning Star," said Lord Hartledon, somewhat abruptly. "I mean the ringleader, Gordon. Why—What's the matter?"
Mrs. Gum had jumped up from her chair and began looking about the room. The cat, or something else, had "rubbed against her legs."
No cat could be found, and she sat down again, her teeth chattering. Lord Hartledon came to the conclusion that she was only fit for a lunatic asylum. Why did she keep a cat, if its fancied caresses were to terrify her like that?
"It was said, you know—at least it has been always assumed—that Gordon did not come back to England," he continued, speaking openly of his business, where a more prudent man would have kept his lips closed. "But I have reason to believe that he did come back, Mrs. Gum; and I want to find him."
Mrs. Gum wiped her face, covered with drops of emotion.
"Gordon never did come back, I am sure, sir," she said, forgetting all about titles in her trepidation.
"You don't know that he did not. You may think it; the public may think it; what's of more moment to Gordon, the police may think it: but you can'tknowit. I know he did."
"My lord, he did not; I could—I almost think I could be upon my oath he did not," she answered, gazing at Lord Hartledon with frightened eyes and white lips, which, to say the truth, rather puzzled him as he gazed back from his perch.
"Will you tell me why you assert so confidently that Gordon did not come back?"
She could not tell, and she knew she could not.
"I can't bear to hear him spoken of, my lord," she said. "He—we look upon him as my poor boy's murderer," she broke off, with a sob; "and it is not likely that I could."
Not very logical; but Lord Hartledon allowed for confusion of ideas following on distress of mind.
"I don't like to speak about him any more than you can like to hear," he said kindly. "Indeed I am sorry to have grieved you; but if the man is in London, and can be traced—"
"In London!" she interrupted.
"He was in London last autumn, as I believe—living there."
An expression of relief passed over her features that was quite perceptible to Lord Hartledon.
"I should not like to hear of his coming near us," she sighed, dropping her voice to a whisper. "London: that's pretty far off."
"I suppose you are anxious to bring him to justice, Mrs. Gum?"
"No, sir, not now; neither me nor Gum," shaking her head. "Time was, sir—my lord—that I'd have walked barefoot to see him hanged; but the years have gone by; and if sorrow's not dead, it's less keen, and we'd be thankful to let the past rest in peace. Oh, my lord,don'trake him up again!"
The wild, imploring accents quite startled Lord Hartledon.
"You need not fear," he said, after a pause. "I do not care to see Gordon hanged either; and though I want to trace his present abode—if it can be traced—it is not with a view to injuring him."
"But we don't know his abode, my lord," she rejoined in faint remonstrance.
"I did not suppose you knew it. All I want to ask your husband is, to give me a description of Gordon. I wish to see if it tallies with—with some one I once knew," he cautiously concluded. "Perhaps you remember what the man was said to be like?"
She put her fingers up to her brow, leaning her elbow on the table. He could not help observing how the hand shook.
"I think it was said that he had red hair," she began, after a long pause; "and was—tall, was it?—either tall or short; one of the two. And his eyes—his eyes were dark eyes, either brown or blue."
Lord Hartledon could not avoid a smile. "That's no description at all."
"My memory is not over-good, my lord: I read his description in the handbills offering the reward; and that's some time ago now."
"The handbills!—to be sure!" interrupted Lord Hartledon, springing from his perch. "I never thought of them; they'll give me the best description possible. Do you know where—"
The conference was interrupted by the clerk. He came in with a large book in his hand; and a large dog, which belonged to a friend, and had followed him home. For a minute or two there was only commotion, for the dog was leaping and making friends with every one. Lord Hartledon then said a few words of explanation, and the quiet demeanour of the clerk, as he calmly listened, was in marked contrast to his wife's nervous agitation.
"Might I inquire your lordship's reasons for thinking that Gordon came back?" he quietly asked, when Lord Hartledon had ceased.
"I cannot give them in detail, Gum. That he did come back, there is no doubt about whatever, though how he succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the police, who were watching for him, is curious. His coming back, however, is not the question: I thought you might be able to give me a close description of him. You went to Liverpool when the unfortunate passengers arrived there."
But Clerk Gum was unable to give any satisfactory response. No doubt he had heard enough of what Gordon was like at the time, he observed, but it had passed out of his memory. A fair man, he thought he was described, with light hair. He had heard nothing of Gordon since; didn't want to, if his lordship would excuse his saying it; firmly believed he was at the bottom of the sea.
Patient, respectful, apparently candid, he spoke, attending his guest, hat in hand, to the outer gate, when it pleased him to depart. But, take it for all in all, there remained a certain doubtful feeling in Lord Hartledon's mind regarding the interview; for some subtle discernment had whispered to him that both Gum and his wife could have given him the description of Gordon, and would not do so.
He turned slowly towards home, thinking of this. As he passed the waste ground and Pike's shed, he cast his eyes towards it; a curl of smoke was ascending from the extemporized chimney, still discernible in the twilight. It occurred to Lord Hartledon that this man, who had the character of being so lawless, had been rather suspiciously intimate with the man Gorton. Not that the intimacy in itself was suspicious; birds of a feather flocked together; but the most simple and natural thing connected with Gorton would have borne suspicion to Hartledon's mind now.
He had barely passed the gate when some shouting arose in the road behind him. A man, driving a cart recklessly, had almost come in contact with another cart, and some hard language ensued. Lord Hartledon turned his head quickly, and just caught Mr. Pike's head, thrust a little over the top of the gate, watching him. Pike must have crouched down when Lord Hartledon passed. He went back at once; and Pike put a bold face on the matter, and stood up.
"So you occupy your palace still, Pike?"
"Such as it is. Yes."
"I half-expected to find that Mr. Marris had turned you from it," continued Lord Hartledon, alluding to his steward.
"He wouldn't do it, I expect, without your lordship's orders; and I don't fancy you'll give 'em," was the free answer.
"I think my brother would have given them, had he lived."
"But he didn't live," rejoined Pike. "He wasn't let live."
"What do you mean?" asked Lord Hartledon, mystified by the words.
Pike ignored the question. "'Twas nearly a smash," he said, looking at the two carts now proceeding on their different ways. "That cart of Floyd's is always in hot water; the man drinks; Floyd turned him off once."
The miller's cart was jogging up the road towards home, under convoy of the offending driver; the boy, David Ripper, sitting inside on some empty sacks, and looking over the board behind: looking very hard indeed, as it seemed, in their direction. Mr. Pike appropriated the gaze.
"Yes, you may stare, young Rip!" he apostrophized, as if the boy could hear him; "but you won't stare yourself out of my hands. You're the biggest liar in Calne, but you don't mislead me."
"Pike, when you made acquaintance with that man Gorton—you remember him?" broke off Lord Hartledon.
"Yes, I do," said Pike emphatically.
"Did he make you acquainted with any of his private affairs?—his past history?"
"Not a word," answered Pike, looking still after the cart and the boy.
"Were those fine whiskers of his false? that red hair?"
Pike turned his head quickly. The question had aroused him.
"False hair and whiskers! I never knew it was the fashion to wear them."
"It may be convenient sometimes, even if not the fashion," observed Lord Hartledon, his tone full of cynical meaning; and Mr. Pike surreptitiously peered at him with his small light eyes.
"If Gorton's hair was false, I never noticed it, that's all; I never saw him without a hat, that I remember, except in that inquest-room."
"Had he been to Australia?"
Pike paused to take another surreptitious gaze.
"Can't say, my lord. Never heard."
"Was his name Gorton, or Gordon? Come, Pike," continued Lord Hartledon, good-humouredly, "there's a sort of mutual alliance between you and me; you did me a service once unasked, and I allow you to live free and undisturbed on my ground. I think youdoknow something of this man; it is a fancy I have taken up."
"I never knew his name was anything but Gorton," said Pike carelessly; "never heard it nor thought it."
"Did you happen to hear him ever speak of that mutiny on board the Australian shipMorning Star? You have heard of it, I daresay: a George Gordon was the ringleader."
If ever the cool impudence was suddenly taken out of a man, this question seemed to take it out of Pike. He did not reply for some time; and when he did, it was in low and humble tones.
"My lord, I hope you'll pardon my rough thoughts and ways, which haven't been used to such as you—and the sight of that boy put me up, for reasons of my own. As to Gorton—I never did hear him speak of the thing you mention. His name's Gorton, and nothing else, as far as I know; and his hair's his own, for all I ever saw."
"He did not give you his confidence, then?"
"No, never. Not about himself nor anything else, past or present."
"And did not let a word slip? As to—for instance, as to his having been a passenger on board theMorning Starat the time of the mutiny?"
Pike had moved away a step, and stood with his arms on the hurdles, his head bent on them, his face turned from Lord Hartledon.
"Gorton said nothing to me. As to that mutiny—I think I read something about it in the newspapers, but I forget what. I was just getting up from some weeks of rheumatic fever at the time; I'd caught it working in the fields; and news don't leave much impression in illness. Gorton never spoke of it to me. I never heard him say who or what he was; and I couldn't speak more truly if your lordship offered to give me the shed as a bribe."
"Do you know where Gorton might be found at present?"
"I swear before Heaven that I know nothing of the man, and have never heard of him since he went away," cried Pike, with a burst of either fear or passion. "He was a stranger to me when he came, and he was a stranger when he left. I found out the little game he had come about, and saved your lordship from his clutches, which he doesn't know to this day. I know nothing else about him at all."
"Well, good evening, Pike. You need not put yourself out for nothing."
He walked away, taking leave of the man as civilly as though he had been a respectable member of society. It was not in Val's nature to show discourtesy to any living being. Why Pike should have shrunk from the questions he could not tell; but that he did shrink was evident; perhaps from a surly dislike to being questioned at all; but on the whole Lord Hartledon thought he had spoken the truth as to knowing nothing about Gorton.
Crossing the road, he turned into the field-path near the Rectory; it was a little nearer than the road-way, and he was in a hurry, for he had not thought to ask at what hour his wife dined, and might be keeping her waiting.
Who was this Pike, he wondered as he went along; as he had wondered before now. When the man was off his guard, the roughness of his speech and demeanour was not so conspicuous; and the tone assumed a certain refinement that seemed to say he had some time been in civilized society. Again, how did he live? A tale was told in Calne of Pike's having been disturbed at supper one night by a parcel of rude boys, who had seen him seated at a luxurious table; hot steak and pudding before him. They were not believed, certainly; but still Pike must live; and how did he find the means to do so? Why did he live there at all? what had caused him to come to Calne? Who—
These reflections might have lasted all the way home but for an interruption that drove every thought out of Lord Hartledon's mind, and sent the heart's blood coursing swiftly through his veins. Turning a corner of the dark winding path, he came suddenly upon a lady seated on a bench, so close to the narrow path that he almost touched her in passing. She seemed to have sat down for a moment to do something to her hat, which was lying in her lap, her hands busied with it.
A faint cry escaped her, and she rose up. It was caused partly by emotion, partly by surprise at seeing him, for she did not know he was within a hundred miles of the place. And very probably she would have liked to box her own ears for showing any. The hat fell from her knees as she rose, and both stooped for it.
"Forgive me," he said. "I fear I have startled you."
"I am waiting for papa," she answered, in hasty apology for being found there. And Lord Hartledon, casting his eyes some considerable distance ahead, discerned the indistinct forms of two persons talking together. He understood the situation at once. Dr. Ashton and his daughter had been to the cottages; and the doctor had halted on their return to speak to a day-labourer going home from his work, Anne walking slowly on.
And there they stood face to face, Anne Ashton and her deceitful lover! How their hearts beat to pain, how utterly oblivious they were of everything in life save each other's presence, how tumultuously confused were mind and manner, both might remember afterwards, but certainly were not conscious of then. It was a little glimpse of Eden. A corner of the dark curtain thrown between them had been raised, and so unexpectedly that for the moment nothing else was discernible in the dazzling light.
Forget! Not in that instant of sweet confusion, during which nothing seemed more real than a dream. He was the husband of another; she was parted from him for ever; and neither was capable of deliberate thought or act that could intrench on the position, or tend to return, even momentarily, to the past. And yet there they stood with beating hearts, and eyes that betrayed their own tale—that the marriage and the parting were in one sense but a hollow mockery, and their love was indelible as of old.
Each had been "forgetting" to the utmost of the poor power within, in accordance with the high principles enshrined in either heart. Yet what a mockery that forgetting seemed, now that it was laid before them naked and bare! The heart turning sick to faintness at the mere sight of each other, the hands trembling at the mutual touch, the wistful eyes shining with a glance that too surely spoke of undying love!
But not a word of this was spoken. However true their hearts might be, there was no fear of the tongue following up the error. Lord Hartledon would no more have allowed himself to speak than she to listen. Neither had the hands met in ordinary salutation; it was only when he resigned the hat to her that the fingers touched: a touch light, transient, almost imperceptible; nevertheless it sent a thrill through the whole frame. Not exactly knowing what to do in her confusion, Miss Ashton sat down on the bench again and put her hat on.
"I must say a word to you before I go on my way," said Lord Hartledon. "I have been wishing for such a meeting as this ever since I saw you at Versailles; and indeed I think I wished for nothing else before it. When you think of me as one utterly heartless—"
"Stay, Lord Hartledon," she interrupted, with white lips. "I cannot listen to you. You must be aware that I cannot, and ought not. What are you thinking about?"
"I know that I have forfeited all right to ask you; that it is an unpardonable intrusion my presuming even to address you. Well, perhaps, you are right," he added, after a moment's pause; "it may be better that I should not say what I was hoping to say. It cannot mend existing things; it cannot undo the past. I dare not ask your forgiveness: it would seem too much like an insult; nevertheless, I would rather have it than any earthly gift. Fare you well, Anne! I shall sometimes hear of your happiness."
"Have you been ill?" she asked in a kindly impulse, noticing his altered looks in that first calm moment.
"No—not as the world counts illness. If remorse and shame and repentance can be called illness, I have my share. Ill deeds of more kinds than one are coming home to me. Anne," he added in a hoarse whisper; his face telling of emotion, "if there is one illumined corner in my heart, where all else is very dark, it is caused by thankfulness to Heaven that you were spared."
"Spared!" she echoed, in wonder, so completely awed by his strange manner as to forget her reserve.
"Spared the linking of your name with mine. I thank God for it, for your sake, night and day. Had trouble fallen on you through me, I don't think I could have survived it. May you be shielded from all such for ever!"
He turned abruptly away, and she looked after him, her heart beating a great deal faster than it ought to have done.
That she was his best and dearest love, in spite of his marriage, it was impossible not to see; and she strove to think him very wicked for it, and her cheek was red with a feeling that seemed akin to shame. But—trouble?—thankful for her sake, night and day, that her name was not linked with his? He must allude to debt, she supposed: some of those old embarrassments had augmented themselves into burdens too heavy to be safely borne.
The Rector was coming on now at a swift pace. He looked keenly at Lord Hartledon; looked twice, as if in surprise. A flush rose to Val's sensitive face as he passed, and lifted his hat. The Rector, dark and proud, condescended to return the courtesy: and the meeting was over.
Toiling across Lord Hartledon's path was the labourer to whom the Rector had been speaking. He had an empty bottle slung over his shoulder, and carried a sickle. The man's day's work was over, and had left fatigue behind it.
"Good-night to your lordship!"
"Is it you, Ripper?"
He was the father of the young gentleman in the cart, whom Mr. Pike had not long before treated to his opinion: young David Ripper, the miller's boy. Old Ripper, a talkative, discontented man, stopped and ventured to enter on his grievances. His wife had been pledging things to pay for a fine gown she had bought; his two girls were down with measles; his son, young Rip, plagued his life out.
"How does he plague your life out?" asked Lord Hartledon, when he had listened patiently.
"Saying he'll go off and enlist for a soldier, my lord; he's saying it always: and means it too, only he's over-young for't."
"Over-young for it; I should think so. Why, he's not much more than a child. Our sergeants don't enlist little boys."
"Sometimes he says he'll drown himself by way of a change," returned old Ripper.
"Oh, does he? Folk who say it never do it. I should whip it out of him."
"He's never been the same since the lord's death that time. He's always frightened: gets fancying things, and saying sometimes he sees his shadder."
"Whose shadow?"
"His'n: the late lord's."
"Why does he fancy that?" came the question, after a perceptible pause.
Old Ripper shook his head. It was beyond his ken, he said. "There be only two things he's afeared of in life," continued the man, who, though generally called old Ripper, was not above five-and-thirty. "The one's that wild man Pike; t'other's the shadder. He'd run ten mile sooner than see either."
"Does Pike annoy the boy?"
"Never spoke to him, as I knows on, my lord. Afore that drowning of his lordship last year, Davy was the boldest rip going," added the man, who had long since fallen into the epithet popularly applied to his son. "Since then he don't dare say his soul's his own. We had him laid up before the winter, and I know 'twas nothing but fear."
Lord Hartledon could not make much of the story, and had no time to linger. Administering a word of general encouragement, he continued his way, his thoughts going back to the interview with Anne Ashton, a line or two of Longfellow's "Fire of Driftwood" rising up in his mind—