Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  You may imagine the effect this missive produced upon the proud, high-minded doctor of divinity. He took a sheet of paper and wrote a stinging letter to Lord Hartledon, forbidding him to think again of Anne. But when he was in the act of sealing it a sudden doubt like an instinct rushed over him, whether it might not be a ruse, and nothing else, of the crafty old dowager’s. The doubt was sufficiently strong to cause him to tear up the letter. But he was not satisfied with Lord Hartledon’s own behaviour; had not been for some few months; and he then wrote a second letter, suspending matters until they should meet again. It was in effect what was asked for by the countess-dowager; and he wrote a cold proud letter to that lady, stating what he had done. Of course any honourable woman — any woman with a spark of justice in her heart — would have also forbidden all intercourse with Lady Maude. The countess-dowager’s policy lay in the opposite direction.

  But Lord Hartledon remained in London, utterly oblivious to the hints and baits held out for his return to Calne. He chiefly divided his time between the House of Lords and sitting at home, lamenting over his own ill-starred existence. He was living quite en garçon, with only one man, his house having been let for the season. We always want what we cannot obtain, and because marriage was denied him, he fell into the habit of dwelling upon it as the only boon in life. Thomas Carr was on circuit, so that Hartledon was alone.

  Easter was early that year, the latter end of March. On the Monday in Passion-week there arrived a telegram for Lord Hartledon sent apparently by the butler, Hedges. It was vaguely worded; spoke of a railway accident and somebody dying. Who he could not make out, except that it was a Kirton: and it prayed him to hasten down immediately. All his goodness of heart aroused, Val lost not a moment. He had been engaged to spend Easter with some people in Essex, but dispatched a line of apology, and hastened down to Calne, wondering whether it was the dowager or Maude, and whether death would have taken place before his arrival.

  “What accident has there been?” he demanded, leaping out of the carriage at Calne Station; and the man he addressed happened to be the porter, Jones.

  “Accident?” returned Jones, touching his cap.

  “An accident on the line; somewhere about here, I conclude. People wounded; dying.”

  “There has been no accident here,” said Jones, in his sulky way. “Maybe your lordship’s thinking of the one on the branch line, the bridge that fell in?”

  “Nonsense,” said Lord Hartledon, “that took place a fortnight ago. I received a telegram this morning from my butler, saying some one was dying at Hartledon from a railway accident,” he impatiently added. “I took it to be either Lady Kirton or her daughter.”

  Mr. Jones swung round a large iron key he held in his hand, and light dawned upon him.

  “I know now,” he said. “There was a private accident at the station here last night; your lordship must mean that. A gentleman got out of a carriage before it stopped, and fell between the rail and the platform. His name was Kirton. I saw it on his portmanteau.”

  “Lord Kirton?”

  “No, my lord. Captain Kirton.”

  “Was he seriously hurt?”

  “Well, it was thought so. Mr. Hillary feared the leg would have to come off. He was carried to Hartledon.”

  Very much relieved, Lord Hartledon jumped into a fly and was driven home. The countess-dowager embraced him and fell into hysterics.

  The crafty old dowager, whose displayed emotion was as genuine as she was! She had sent for this son of hers, hoping he might be a decoy-duck to draw Hartledon home again, for she was losing heart; and the accident, which she had not bargained for, was a very god-send to her.

  “Why don’t you word your telegrams more clearly, Hedges?” asked Lord Hartledon of his butler.

  “It wasn’t me worded it at all, my lord. Lady Kirton went to the station herself. She informed me she had sent it in my name.”

  “Has Hillary told you privately what the surgeons think of the case?”

  “Better of it than they did at first, my lord. They are trying to save the leg.”

  This Captain Kirton was really the best of the Kirton bunch: a quiet, unassuming young man, somewhat delicate in health. Lord Hartledon was grieved for his accident, and helped to nurse him with the best heart in the world.

  And now what devilry (there were people in Calne who called it nothing less) the old countess-dowager set afloat to secure her ends I am unable to tell you. She was a perfectly unscrupulous woman — poverty had rendered her wits keen; and her captured lion was only feebly struggling to escape from the net. He was to blame also. Thrown again into the society of Maude and her beauty, Val basked in its sunshine, and went drifting down the stream, never heeding where the current led him. One day the countess-dowager put it upon his honour — he must marry Maude. He might have held out longer but for a letter that came from some friend of the dowager’s opportunely located at Cannes; a letter that spoke of the approaching marriage of Miss Ashton to Colonel Barnaby, eldest son of a wealthy old baronet, who was sojourning there with his mother. No doubt was implied or expressed; the marriage was set forth as an assured fact.

  “And I believe you meant to wait for her?” said the countess-dowager, as she put the letter into his hand, with a little laugh. “You are free now for my darling Maude.”

  “This may not be true,” observed Lord Hartledon, with compressed lips. “Every one knows what this sort of gossip is worth.”

  “I happen to know that it is true,” spoke Lady Kirton, in a whisper. “I have known of it for some time past, but would not vex you with it.”

  Well, she convinced him; and from that moment had it all her own way, and carried out her plots and plans according to her own crafty fancy. Lord Hartledon yielded; for the ascendency of Maude was strong upon him. And yet — and yet — whilst he gave all sorts of hard names to Anne Ashton’s perfidy, lying down deep in his heart was a suspicion that the news was not true. How he hated himself for his wicked assumption of belief in after-years!

  “You will be free as air,” said the dowager, joyously. “You and Maude shall get ahead of Miss Ashton and her colonel, and have the laugh at them. The marriage shall be on Saturday, and you can go away together for months if you like, and get up your spirits again; I’m sure you have both been dull enough.”

  Lord Hartledon was certainly caught by the words “free as air;” as he had been once before. But he stared at the early day mentioned.

  “Marriages can’t be got up as soon as that.”

  “They can be got up in a day if people choose, with a special license; which, of course, you will have,” said the dowager. “I’ll arrange things, my dear Val; leave it all to me. I intend Maude to be married in the little chapel.”

  “What little chapel?”

  “Your own private chapel.”

  Lord Hartledon stared with all his eyes. The private chapel, built out from the house on the side next Calne, had not been used for years and years.

  “Why, it’s all dust and rust inside; its cushions moth-eaten and fallen to pieces.”

  “Is it all dust and rust!” returned the dowager. “That shows how observant you are. I had it put in order whilst you were in London; it was a shame to let a sacred place remain in such a state. I should like it to be used for Maude; and mind, I’ll see to everything; you need not give yourself any trouble at all. There’s only one thing I must enjoin on you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Secrecy. Don’t let a hint of your intentions get abroad. Whatever you do, don’t write a word to that Carr friend of yours; he’s as sharp as a two-edged sword. As well let things be done privately; it is Maude’s wish.”

  “I shall not write to him,” cried Hartledon, feeling a sudden heat upon his face, “or to any one else.”

  “Here’s Maude. Step this way, Maude. Hartledon wants the ceremony to take place on Saturday, and I have promised for you.”

  Lady Maude advanced; she had really come in by acc
ident; her head was bent, her eyelashes rested on her flushed cheeks. A fair prize; very, very fair! The old dowager put her hand into Lord Hartledon’s.

  “You will love her and cherish her, Percival?”

  What was the young man to do? He murmured some unintelligible assent, and bent forward to kiss her. But not until that moment had he positively realized the fact that there would be any marriage.

  Time went on swimmingly until the Saturday, and everything was in progress. The old dowager deserved to be made commander of a garrison for her comprehensive strategy, the readiness and skill she displayed in carrying out her arrangements. For what reason, perhaps she could not have explained to herself; but an instinct was upon her that secrecy in all ways was necessary; at any rate, she felt surer of success whilst it was maintained. Hence her decision in regard to the unused little chapel; and that this one particular portion of the project had been long floating in her mind was proved by the fact that she had previously caused the chapel to be renovated. But that it was to serve her own turn, she would have let it remain choked up with dust for ever.

  The special license had arrived; the young clergyman who was to perform the service was located at Hartledon. Seven o’clock was the hour fixed for the marriage: it would be twilight then, and dinner over. Immediately afterwards the bride and bridegroom were to depart. So far, so good. But Lady Kirton was not to have it quite her own way on this same Saturday, although she had enjoyed it hitherto.

  A rumour reached her ears in the afternoon that Dr. Ashton was at the Rectory. The doctor had been spending Easter at Cannes, and the dowager had devoutly prayed that he might not yet return. The news turned her cheeks blue and yellow; a prevision rushing over her that if he and Lord Hartledon met there might be no wedding after all. She did her best to keep Lord Hartledon indoors, and the fact of the Rector’s return from him.

  Now who is going to defend Lord Hartledon? Not you or I. More foolish, more culpable weakness was never shown than in thus yielding to these schemes. Though ensnared by Maude’s beauty, that was no excuse for him.

  An accident — or what may be called one — delayed dinner. Two county friends of Hartledon’s, jolly fox-hunters in the season, had come riding a long way across country, and looked in to beg some refreshment. The dowager fumed, and was not decently civil; but she did not see her way to turning them out.

  They talked and laughed and ate; and dinner was indefinitely prolonged. When the dowager and Lady Maude rose from table the former cast a meaning look at Lord Hartledon. “Get rid of them as soon as you can,” it plainly said.

  But the fox-hunters liked good drinking as well as good eating, and sat on, enjoying their wine; their host, one of the most courteous of living men, giving no sign, by word or look, that he wished for their departure. He was rather silent, they observed; but the young clergyman, who made the fourth at the table, was voluble by nature. Captain Kirton had not yet left his sick bed.

  Lady Maude sat alone in her room; the white robes upon her, the orthodox veil, meant to shade her fair face thrown back from it. She had sent away her attendants, bolted the door against her mother, and sat waiting her summons. Waiting and thinking. Her cheek rested on her hand, and her eyes were dreamy.

  Is it true that whenever we are about to do an ill or unjust deed a shadow of the fruits it will bring comes over us as a warning? Some people will tell you so. A vision of the future seemed to rest on Maude Kirton as she sat there; and for the first time all the injustice of the approaching act rose in her mind as a solemn omen. The true facts were terribly distinct. Her own dislike (it was indeed no less than dislike) of the living lord, her lasting love for the dead one. All the miserable stratagems they had been guilty of to win him; the dishonest plotting and planning. What was she about to do? For her own advancement, to secure herself a position in the great world, and not for love, she was about to separate two hearts, which but for her would have been united in this world and the next. She was thrusting herself upon Lord Hartledon, knowing that in his true heart it was another that he loved, not her. Yes, she knew that full well. He admired her beauty, and was marrying her; marrying partly in pique against Anne Ashton; partly in blindfold submission to the deep schemes of her mother, brought to bear on his yielding nature. All the injustice done to Anne Ashton was in that moment beating its refrain upon her heart; and a thought crossed her — would God not avenge it? Another time she might have smiled at the thought as fanciful: it seemed awfully real now. “I might give Val up yet,” she murmured; “there’s just time.”

  She did not act upon the suggestion. Whether it was her warning, or whether it was not, she allowed it to slip from her. Hartledon’s broad lands and coronet resumed their fascination over her soul; and when her door was tried, Lady Maude had lost herself in that famous Spanish château we have all occupied on occasion, touching the alterations she had mentally planned in their town-house.

  “Goodness, Maude, what do you lock yourself in for?”

  Maude opened the door, and the countess-dowager floundered in. She was resplendent in one of her old yellow satin gowns, a white turban with a silver feather, and a pink scarf thrown on for ornament. The colours would no doubt blend well by candlelight.

  “Come, Maude. There’s no time to be lost.”

  “Are the men gone?”

  “Yes, they are gone; no thanks to Hartledon, though. He sat mooning on, never giving them the least hint to depart. Priddon told me so. I’ll tell you what it is, Maude, you’ll have to shake your husband out of no end of ridiculous habits.”

  “It is growing dark,” exclaimed Maude, as she stepped into the corridor.

  “Dark! of course it’s dark,” was the irascible answer; “and they have had to light up the chapel, or Priddon couldn’t have seen to read his book. And all through those confounded fox-hunters!”

  Lord Hartledon was not in the drawing-room, where Lady Kirton had left him only a minute before; and she looked round sharply.

  “Has he gone on to the chapel?” she asked of the young clergyman.

  “No, I think not,” replied Mr. Priddon, who was already in his canonicals. “Hedges came in and said something to him, and they went out together.”

  A minute or two of impatience — she was in no mood to wait long — and then she rang the bell. It should be remarked that the old lady, either from excitement or some apprehension of failure, was shaking and jumping as if she had St. Vitus’s dance. Hedges came in.

  “Where’s your master?” she tartly asked.

  “With Mr. Carr, my lady.”

  “With Mr. — What did you say?”

  “My lord is with Mr. Carr. He has just arrived.”

  A moment given to startled consternation and then the fury broke forth. The young parson had never had the pleasure of seeing one of these war-dances before, and backed against the wall in his starched surplice.

  “What brings him here? How dare he come uninvited?”

  “I heard him say, my lady, that finding he had a Sunday to spare, he thought he would come and pass it at Hartledon,” said the well-trained Hedges.

  Ere the words had left his lips Lord Hartledon and Mr. Carr were present; the latter in a state of utter amazement and in his travelling dress, having only removed his overcoat.

  “You’ll be my groomsman, Carr,” said Hartledon. “We have no adherents; this is a strictly private affair.”

  “Did you send for Mr. Carr?” whispered the countess-dowager, looking white through her rouge.

  “No; his coming has taken me by surprise,” replied Hartledon, with a nervousness he could not wholly conceal.

  They passed rapidly through the passages, marshalled by Hedges. Lord Hartledon led his bride, the countess-dowager walked with the clergyman, and Mr. Carr brought up the rear. The latter gentleman was wondering whether he had fallen into a dream that he should wake up from in the morning. The mode of procession was a little out of the common order of such affairs; but so was the marriage.


  Now it happened, not very long before this, that Dr. Ashton was on his way home from a visit to a sick parishioner — a poor man, who said he believed life had been prolonged in him that his many years’ minister should be at his deathbed. Dr. Ashton’s road lay beyond Hartledon, and in returning he crossed the road, which brought him out near the river, between Hartledon and the Rectory. Happening to cast his eyes that way, he saw a light where he had never seen one before — in the little unused chapel. Peering through the trees at the two low diamond-paned windows, to make sure he was not mistaken, Dr. Ashton quickened his pace: his thoughts glancing at fire.

  He was well acquainted with Hartledon; and making his way in by the nearest entrance, he dashed along the passages to the chapel, meeting at length one of the servants.

  “John,” he panted, quite out of breath with hurrying, “there’s a light in the chapel. I fear it is on fire.”

  “Not at all, sir,” replied the man. “We have been lighting it up for my lord’s marriage. They have just gone in.”

  “Lighting it up for what?” exclaimed Dr. Ashton.

  “For my lord’s marriage, sir. He’s marrying Lady Maude. It’s the old dowager, sir, who has got it up in this queer way,” continued the man, venturing on a little confidential gossip with his Rector.

  Dr. Ashton paused to collect his wits ere he walked into the chapel. The few wax-candles the servants had been able to put about only served to make the gloom visible. The party were taking their places, the young clergyman directing them where to stand. He opened his book and was commencing, when a hand was laid upon Hartledon’s shoulder.

  “Lord Hartledon, what is the meaning of this?”

  Lord Hartledon recognised the voice, and broke into a cold perspiration. He gave no answer; but the countess-dowager made up for his silence. Her temper, none of the mildest, had been considerably exasperated by the visit of the fox-hunters; it was made worse by the arrival of Mr. Carr. When she turned and saw what this formidable interruption was, she lost it altogether, as few, calling themselves gentlewomen, can lose it. As she peered into the face of Dr. Ashton, her own was scarlet and yellow, and her voice rose to a shriek.