by Ellen Wood
“As good that as anything else. I often think what a miserably restless invalid I should 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.”
“Does he say 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.”
“Is she ill?” 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 all my work; my work!” cried Hartledon to himself, almost gnashing his teeth as he went back down the street. “What right had I to upset the happiness of that family? I wish it had plea
sed 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? Have you ever 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 to live and bear? 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.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
UNDER THE TREES.
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 tea was refreshing 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 the Morning 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’t know it. 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 t
o 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’t rake 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.
