AT HARTLEDON.
"Hartledon,
"I wonder what you _think_ of yourself, Galloping about _Rotten Row_
with women when your wife's _dying_. Of _course_ it's not your fault
that reports of your goings-on _reach_ her here oh dear no. You are a
moddel husband you are, sending her down here _out of the way_ that you
may take your pleasure. Why did you _marry her_, nobody wanted you to
she sits and _mopes_ and _weeps_ and she's going into the same way that
her father _went_, you'll be glad no doubt to hear it it's what you're
_aiming_ at, once she is in _Calne churchyard_ the _field_ will be open
for your Anne Ashton. I can tell you that if you've a spark of _proper
feeling_ you'll come _down_ for 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 that _he_ was 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."
"Have _you_ been 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."
"You _do_ know. 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
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 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? 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."