Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Maude, do not let them dance to-night.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have a reason. My dear, won’t you oblige me in this?”

  “Tell me the reason, and perhaps I will; not otherwise.”

  “I will tell it you another time. Trust me, I have a good one. What is it, Hedges?”

  The butler had come up to his master in the unobtrusive manner of a well-trained servant, and was waiting an opportunity to speak. He said a word in Lord Hartledon’s ear, and Lady Hartledon saw a shiver of surprise run through her husband. He looked here, looked there, as one perplexed with fear, and finally went out of the room with a calm face, but one that was turning livid.

  Lady Hartledon followed in an impulse of curiosity. She looked after him over the balustrades, and saw him turn into the library below. Hedges was standing near the drawing-room door.

  “Does any one want Lord Hartledon?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know, my lady. Some gentleman.”

  She ran lightly down the stairs, pausing at the foot, as if ashamed of her persistent curiosity. The well-lighted hall was before her; the dining-room on one side; the library and a small room communicating on the other. Throwing back her head, as in defiance, she boldly crossed the hall and opened the library door.

  Now what Lady Hartledon had really thought was that the visitor was Mr. Carr; her husband was going to steal a quiet half-hour with him; and Hedges was in the plot. She had not lived with Hartledon the best part of a year without learning that Hedges was devoted heart and soul to his master.

  She opened the library-door. Her husband’s back was towards her; and facing him, his arms raised as if in anger or remonstrance, was the same stranger who had caused some commotion in the other house. She knew him in a moment: there he was, with his staid face, his black clothes, and his white neckcloth, looking so like a clergyman. Lord Hartledon turned his head.

  “I am engaged, Maude; you can’t come in,” he peremptorily said; and closed the door upon her.

  She went slowly up the stairs again, not choosing to meet the butler’s eyes, past the drawing-rooms, and up to her own. The sight of the stranger, coupled with her husband’s signs of emotion, had renewed all her old suspicions, she knew not, she never had known, of what. Jumping to the conclusion that those letters must be in some way connected with the mystery, perhaps an advent of the visit, it set her thinking, and rebellion arose in her heart.

  “I wonder if he put them in the ebony cabinet?” she exclaimed. “I have a key that will fit that.”

  Yes, she had a key to fit it. A few weeks before, Lord Hartledon mislaid his keys; he wanted something out of this cabinet, in which he did not, as a rule, keep anything of consequence, and tried hers. One was found to unlock it, and he jokingly told her she had a key to his treasures. But himself strictly honourable, he could not suspect dishonour in another; and Lord Hartledon supposed it simply impossible that she should attempt to open it of her own accord.

  They were of different natures; and they had been reared in different schools. Poor Maude Kirton had learnt to be anything but scrupulous, and really thought it a very slight thing she was about to do, almost justifiable under the circumstances. Almost, if not quite. Nevertheless she would not have liked to be caught at it.

  She took her bunch of keys and went into her husband’s dressing-room, which opened from their bedroom: but she went on tip-toe, as one who knows she is doing wrong. It took some little time to try the keys, for there were several on the ring, and she did not know the right one: but the lid flew open at last, and disclosed the two letters lying there.

  She snatched at one, either that came first, and opened it. It happened to be the one from Mr. Carr, and she began to read it, her heart beating.

  “Dear Hartledon,

  “I think I have at last found some trace of Gorton. There’s a man of that name in the criminal calendar here, down for trial to-morrow; I shall see then whether it is the same, but the description tallies. Should it be our Gorton, I think the better plan will be to leave him entirely alone: a man undergoing a criminal sentence — and this man is sure of a long period of it — has neither the means nor the motive to be dangerous. He cannot molest you whilst he is working on Portland Island; and, so far, you may live a little eased from fear. I wish—”

  Mr. Carr’s was a close handwriting, and this concluded the first page. She was turning it over, when Lord Hartledon’s voice on the stairs caught her ear. He seemed to be coming up.

  Ay, and he would have caught her at her work but for the accidental circumstance of the old dowager’s happening to look out of the drawing-room and detaining him, as he was hastening onwards up the stairs. She did her daughter good service that moment, if she had never done it before. Maude had time to fold the letter, put it back, lock the cabinet, and escape. Had she been a nervous woman, given to being flurried and to losing her presence of mind, she might not have succeeded; but she was cool and quick in emergency, her brain and fingers steady.

  Nevertheless her heart beat a little as she stood within the other room, the door not latched behind her. She did not stir, lest he should hear her; and she hoped to remain unseen until he went down again. A ready excuse was on her lips, if he happened to look in, which was not probable: that she fancied she heard baby cry, and was listening.

  Lord Hartledon was walking about his dressing-room, pacing it restlessly, and she very distinctly heard suppressed groans of mortal anguish breaking from his lips. How he had got rid of his visitor, and what the visitor came for, she knew not. He seemed to halt before the washhand-stand, pour out some water, and dash his face into it.

  “God help me! God help Maude!” he ejaculated, as he went down again to the drawing-room.

  And Lady Hartledon went down also, for the interruption had frightened her, and she did not attempt to open the cabinet again. She never knew more of the contents of Mr. Carr’s letter; and only the substance of the other, as communicated to her by her husband.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  CROSS-QUESTIONING MR. CARR.

  Not until the Sunday morning did Lady Hartledon speak to her husband of the stranger’s visit. There seemed to have been no previous opportunity. Mr. Carr had arrived late on the Friday night; indeed it was Saturday morning, for the trains were all detained; and he and Hartledon sat up together to an unconscionable hour. For this short visit he was Lord Hartledon’s guest. Saturday seemed to have been given to preparation, to gaiety, and to nothing else. Perhaps also Lady Hartledon did not wish to mar that day by an unpleasant word. The little child was christened; the names given him being Edward Kirton: the countess-dowager, who was in a chronic state of dissatisfaction with everything and every one, angrily exclaimed at the last moment, that she thought at least her family name might have been given to the child; and Lord Hartledon interposed, and said, give it. Lord and Lady Hartledon, and Mr. Carr, were the sponsors: and it would afford food for weeks of grumbling to the old dowager. Hilarity reigned, and toasts were given to the new heir of Hartledon; and the only one who seemed not to enter into the spirit of the thing, but on the contrary to be subdued, absent, nervous, was the heir’s father.

  And so it went on to the Sunday morning. A cold, bleak, bitter morning, the wind howling, the snow flying in drifts. Mr. Carr went to church, and he was the only one of the party in the house who did go. The countess-dowager the previous night had proclaimed the fact that she meant to go — as a sort of reproach to any who meant to keep away. However, when the church-bells began, she was turning round in her warm bed for another nap.

  Maude did not go down early; had not yet taken to doing so. She breakfasted in her room, remained toying with her baby for some time, and then went into her own sitting-room; a small cosy apartment on the drawing-room floor, into which visitors did not intrude. It looked on to Hyde Park, and a very white and dreary park it was on that particular day.

  Drawing a cha
ir to the window, she sat looking out. That is, her eyes were given to the outer world, but she was so deep in thought as to see nothing of it. For two nights and a day, burning with curiosity, she had been putting this and that together in her own mind, and drawing conclusions according to her own light. First, there was the advent of the visitor; secondly, there was the letter she had dipped into. She connected the two with each other and wondered WHAT the secret care could be that had such telling effect upon her husband.

  Gorton. The name had struck upon her memory, even whilst she read it, as one associated with that terrible time — the late Lord Hartledon’s death. Gradually the floodgates of recollection opened, and she knew him for the witness at the inquest about whom some speculation had arisen as to who he was, and what his business at Calne might have been with Lord Hartledon and his brother, Val Elster.

  Why should her husband be afraid of this man? — as it seemed he was afraid, by Mr. Carr’s letter. What power had he of injuring Lord Hartledon? — what secret did he possess of his, that might be used against him? Turning it about in her mind, and turning it again, searching her imagination for a solution, Lady Hartledon at length arrived at one, in default of others. She thought this man must know some untoward fact by which the present Lord Hartledon’s succession was imperilled. Possibly the late Lord Hartledon had made some covert and degrading marriage; leaving an obscure child who possessed legal rights, and might yet claim them. A romantic, far-fetched idea, you will say; but she could think of no other that was in the least feasible. And she remembered some faint idea having arisen in her mind at the time, that the visit of the man Gorton was in some way connected with trouble, though she did not know with which brother.

  Val came in and shut the door. He stirred the fire into a blaze, making some remark about the snow, and wondering how Carr would get down to the country again. Maude gave a slight answer, and then there was silence. Each was considering how best to say something to the other. She was the quicker.

  “Lord Hartledon, what did that man want on Friday?”

  “What man?” he rejoined, rather wincing — for he knew well enough to what she alluded.

  “The man — gentleman, or whatever he is — who had you called down to him in the library.”

  “By the way, Maude — yes — you should not dart in when I am engaged with visitors on business.”

  “Well, I thought it was Mr. Carr,” she replied, glancing at his heightened colour. “What did he want?”

  “Only to say a word to me on a matter of business.”

  “It was the same person who upset you so when he called last autumn. You have never been the same man since.”

  “Don’t take fancies into your head, Maude.”

  “Fancies! you know quite well there is no fancy about it. That man holds some unpleasant secret of yours, I am certain.”

  “Maude!”

  “Will you tell it me?”

  “I have nothing to tell.”

  “Ah, well; I expected you wouldn’t speak,” she answered, with subdued bitterness; as much as to say, that she made a merit of resigning herself to an injustice she could not help. “You have been keeping things from me a long time.”

  “I have kept nothing from you it would give you pleasure to know. It is not — Maude, pray hear me — it is not always expedient for a man to make known to his wife the jars and rubs he has himself to encounter. A hundred trifles may arise that are best spared to her. That gentleman’s business concerned others as well as myself, and I am not at liberty to speak of it.”

  “You refuse, then, to admit me to your confidence?”

  “In this I do. I am the best judge — and you must allow me to be so — of what ought, and what ought not, to be spoken of to you. You may always rely upon my acting for your best happiness, as far as lies in my power.”

  He had been pacing the room whilst he spoke. Lady Hartledon was in too resentful a mood to answer. Glancing at her, he stood by the mantelpiece and leaned his elbow upon it.

  “I want to make known to you another matter, Maude. If I have kept it from you—”

  “Does it concern this secret business of yours?” she interrupted.

  “No.”

  “Then let us have done with this first, if you please. Who is Gorton?”

  “Who is — Gorton?” he repeated, after a dumbfounded pause. “What Gorton?”

  “Well, I don’t know; unless it’s that man who gave evidence at the inquest on your brother.”

  Lord Hartledon stared at her, as well he might; and gulped down his breath, which seemed choking him. “But what about Gorton? Why do you ask me the question?”

  “Because I fancy he is connected with this trouble. I — I thought I heard you and Mr. Carr mention the name yesterday when you were whispering together. I’m sure I did — there!”

  As far as Lord Hartledon remembered, he and Mr. Carr had not been whispering together yesterday; had not mentioned the name of Gorton. They had done with the subject at that late sitting, the night of the barrister’s arrival; who had brought news that the Gorton, that morning tried for a great crime, was not the Gorton of whom they were in search. Lord Hartledon gazed at his wife with questioning eyes, but she persisted in her assertion. It was sinfully untrue; but how else could she account for knowing the name?

  “Do you suppose I dreamed it, Lord Hartledon?”

  “I don’t know whether you dreamed it or not, Maude. Mr. Carr has certainly spoken to me since he came of a man of that name; but as certainly not in your hearing. One Gorton was tried for his life on Friday — or almost for his life — and he mentioned to me the circumstances of the case: housebreaking, accompanied by violence, which ended in death. I cannot understand you, Maude, or the fancies you seem to be taking up.”

  She saw how it was — he would admit nothing: and she looked straight out across the dreary park, a certain obstinate defiance veiled in her eyes. By the help of Heaven or earth, she would find out this secret that he refused to disclose to her.

  “Almost every action of your life bespeaks concealment,” she resumed. “Look at those letters you received in your dressing-room on Friday night: you just opened them and thrust them unread into your pocket, because I happened to be there. And yet you talk of caring for me! I know those letters contained some secret or other you dare not tell me.”

  She rose in some temper, and gave the fire a fierce stir.

  Lord Hartledon kept her by him.

  “One of those letters was from Mr. Carr; and I presume you can make no objection to my hearing from him. The other — Maude, I have waited until now to disclose its contents to you; I would not mar your happiness yesterday.”

  She looked up at him. Something in his voice, a sad pitying tenderness, caused her heart to beat a shade quicker. “It was a foreign letter, Maude. I think you observed that. It bore the French postmark.”

  A light broke upon her. “Oh, Percival, it is about Robert! Surely he is not worse!”

  He drew her closer to him: not speaking.

  “He is not dead?” she said, with a rush of tears. “Ah, you need not tell me; I see it. Robert! Robert!”

  “It has been a happy death, Maude, and he is better off. He was quite ready to go. I wish we were as ready!”

  Lord Hartledon took out the letter and read the chief portion of it to her. One little part he dexterously omitted, describing the cause of death — disease of the heart.

  “But I thought he was getting so much better. What has killed him in this sudden manner?”

  “Well, there was no great hope from the first. I confess I have entertained none. Mr. Hillary, you know, warned us it might end either way.”

  “Was it decline?” she asked, her tears falling.

  “He has been declining gradually, no doubt.”

  “Oh, Percival! Why did you not tell me at once? It seems so cruel to have had all that entertainment yesterday! This is why you did not wish us to dance!”

  “And if I h
ad told you, and stopped the entertainment, allowing the poor little fellow to be christened in gloom and sorrow, you would have been the first to reproach me; you might have said it augured ill-luck for the child.”

  “Well, perhaps I should; yes, I am sure I should. You have acted rightly, after all, Val.” And it was a candid admission, considering what she had been previously saying. He bent towards her with a smile, his voice quite unsteady with its earnestness.

  “You see now with what motive I kept the letter from you. Maude! cannot this be an earnest that you should trust me for the rest? In all I do, as Heaven is my witness, I place your comfort first and foremost.”

  “Don’t be angry with me,” she cried, softening at the words.

  He laid his hand on his wife’s bent head, thinking how far he was from anger. Anger? He would have died for her then, at that moment, if it might have saved her from the sin and shame that she must share with him.

  “Have you told mamma, Percival?”

  “Not yet. It would not have been kept from you long had she known it. She is not up yet, I think.”

  “Who has written?”

  “The doctor who attended him.”

  “You’ll let me read the letter?”

  “I have written to desire that full particulars may be sent to you: you shall read that one.”

  The tacit refusal did not strike her. She only supposed the future letter would be more explanatory. He was always anxious for her; and he had written off on the Friday night to ask for a letter giving fuller particulars, whilst avoiding mention of the cause of death.

  Thus harmony for the hour was restored between them; and Lord Hartledon stood the dowager’s loud reproaches with equanimity. In possession of the news of that darling angel’s death ever since Friday night, and to have bottled it up within him till Sunday! She wondered what he thought of himself!