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 chair 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 had 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!
After all, Val had not quite "bottled it up." He had made it known to his
brother-in-law, Lord Kirton, and also to Mr. Carr. Both had agreed that
nothing had better be said until the christening-day was over.
But there came a reaction. When Lady Hartledon had got over her first
grief, the other annoyance returned to her, and she fell again to
brooding over it in a very disturbing fashion. She merited blame for this
in a degree; but not so much as appears on the surface. If that idea,
which she was taking up very seriously, were correct--that her husband's
succession was imperilled--it would be the greatest misfortune that could
happen to her in life. What had she married for but position?--rank,
wealth, her title? any earthly misfortune would be less keen than this.
Any earthly misfortune! Poor Maude!
It was a sombre dinner that evening; the news of Captain Kirton's death
making it so. Besides relatives, very few guests were staying in the
house; and the large and elaborate dinner-party of the previous day was
reduced to a small one on this. The first to come into the drawing-room
afterwards, following pretty closely on the ladies, was Mr. Carr. The
dowager, who rarely paid attention to appearances, or to anything else,
except her own comfort, had her feet up on a sofa, and was fast asleep;
two ladies were standing in front of the fire, talking in undertones;
Lady Hartledon sat on a sofa a little apart, her baby on her knee; and
her sister-in-law, Lady Kirton, a fragile and rather cross-looking young
woman, who looked as if a breath would blow her away, was standing over
her, studying the infant's face. The latter lady moved away and joined
the group at the fire as Mr. Carr approached Lady Hartledon.
"You have your little charge here, I see!"
"Please excuse it; I meant to have sent him away before any of you came
up," she said, quite pleadingly. "Sarah took upon herself to proclaim
aloud that his eyes were not straight, and I could not help having him
brought down to refute her words. Not straight, indeed! She's only
envious of him."
Sarah was Lady Kirton. Mr. Carr smiled.
"She has no children herself. I think you might be proud of your godson,
Mr. Carr. But he ought not to have been here to receive you, for all
that."
"I have come up soon to say good-bye, Lady Hartledon. In ten minutes I
must be gone."
"In all this snow! What a night to travel in!"
"Necessity has no law. So, sir, you'd imprison my finger, would you!"
He had touched the child's hand, and in a moment it was clasped round his
finger. Lady Hartledon laughed.
"Lady Kirton--the most superstitious woman in the world--would say that
was an omen: you are destined to be his friend through life."
"As I will be," said the barrister, his tone more earnest than the
occasion seemed to call for.
Lady Hartledon, with a graciousness she was little in the habit of
showing to Mr. Carr, made room for him beside her, and he sat down. The
baby lay on his back, his wide-open eyes looking upwards, good as gold.
"How quiet he is! How he stares!" reiterated the barrister, who did not
understand much about babies, except for a shadowy idea that they lived
in a state of crying for the first six months.
"He is the best child in the world; every one says so," she returned.
"He is not the least--Hey-day! what do you mean by contradicting mamma
like that? Behave yourself, sir."
For the infant, as if to deny his goodness, set up a sudden cry. Mr. Carr
laughed. He put down his finger again, and the little fingers clasped
round it, and the cry ceased.
"He does not like to lose his friend, you see, Lady Hartledon."
"I wish you would be my friend as well as his," she rejoined; and the low
meaning tones struck on Mr. Carr's ear.
"I trust I am your friend," he answered.
She was still for a few moments; her pale beautiful face inclining
towards the child's; her large dark eyes bent upon him. She turned them
on Mr. Carr.
"This has been a sad day."
"Yes, for you. It is grievous to lose a brother."
"And to lose him without the opportunity of a last look, a last farewell.
Robert was my best and favourite brother. But the day has been marked as
unhappy for other causes than that."
Was it an uncomfortable prevision of what was coming that caused Mr. Carr
not to answer her? He talked to the unconscious baby, and played with its
cheeks.
"What secret is this that you and my husband have between you, Mr. Carr?"
she asked abruptly.
He ceased his laughing with the baby, said something about its soft face,
was altogether easy and careless in his manner, and then answered in
half-jesting tones:
"Which one, Lady Hartledon?"
"Which one! Have you more than one?" she continued, taking the words
literally.
"We might count up half-a-dozen, I daresay. I cannot tell you how many
things I have not confided to him. We are quite--"
"I mean the secret that affects _him_" she interrupted, in aggrieved
tones, feeling that Mr. Carr was playing with her.
"There is some dread upon him that's wearing him to a shadow, poisoning
his happiness, making his days and nights one long restlessness. Do you
think it right to keep it from me, Mr. Carr? Is it what you and he are
both doing--and are in league with each other to do?"
"_I_ am not keeping any secret from you, Lady Hartledon."
"You know you are. Nonsense! Do you think I have forgotten that evening
that was the beginning of it, when a tall strange man dressed as a
clergyman, came here, and you both were shut up with him for I can't tell
how long, and Lord Hartledon came out from it looking like a ghost? You
and he both misled me, causing me to believe that the Ashtons were
entering an action against him for breach of promise; laying the damages
at ten thousand pounds. I mean _that_ secret, Mr. Carr," she added with
emphasis. "The same man was here on Friday night again; and when you came
to the house afterwards, you and Lord Hartledon sat up until nearly
daylight."
Mr. Carr, who had his eyes on the exacting baby, shook his head, and
intimated that he was really unable to understand her.
"When you are in town he is always at your chambers; when you are away he
receives long letters from you that I may not read."
"Yes, we have been on terms of close friendship for years. And Lord
Hartledon is an idle man, you know, and looks me up."
"He said you were arranging some business for him last autumn."
"Last autumn? Let me see. Yes, I think I was."
"Mr. Carr, is it of any use playing with me? Do you think it right or
kind to do so?"
His manner changed at once; he turned to her with eyes as earnest as her
own.
"Lady Hartledon, I would tell you anything that I could and ought to tell
you. That your husband has been engaged in some complicated business,
which I have been--which I have taken upon myself to arrange for him, is
very true. I know that he does not wish it mentioned, and therefore my
lips are sealed: but it is as well you did not know it, for it would give
you no satisfaction."
"Does it involve anything very frightful?"
"It might involve the--the loss of a large sum of money," he answered,
making the best reply he could.
Lady Hartledon sank her voice to a whisper. "Does it involve the possible
loss of his title?--of Hartledon?"
"No," said Mr. Carr, looking at her with surprise.
"You are sure?"
"Certain. I give you my word. What can have got into your head, Lady
Hartledon?"
She gave a sigh of relief. "I thought it just possible--but I will not
tell you why I thought it--that some claimant might be springing up to
the title and property."
Mr. Carr laughed. "That would be a calamity. Hartledon is as surely your
husband's as this watch"--taking it out to look at the time--"is mine.
When his brother died, he succeeded to him of indisputable right. And now
I must go, for my time is up; and when next I see you, young gentleman,
I shall expect a good account of your behaviour. Why, sir, the finger's
mine, not yours. Good-bye, Lady Hartledon."
She gave him her hand coolly, for she was not pleased. The baby began to
cry, and was sent away with its nurse.
And then Lady Hartledon sat on alone, feeling that if she were ever to
arrive at the solution of the mystery, it would not be by the help of Mr.
Carr. Other questions had been upon her lips--who the stranger was--what
he wanted--five hundred of them: but she saw that she might as well have
put them to the moon.
And Lord Hartledon went out with Mr. Carr in the inclement night, and saw
him off by a Great-Western train.