THE SWORD SLIPPED.
Summer dust was in the London streets, summer weather in the air, and the
carriage of that fashionable practitioner, Sir Alexander Pepps, still
waited before Lord Hartledon's house. It had waited there more frequently
in these later weeks than of old.
The great world--_her_ world--wondered what was the matter with her: Sir
Alexander wondered also. Perhaps had he been a less courtly man he might
have rapped out "obstinacy," if questioned upon the point; as it was, he
murmured of "weakness." Weak she undoubtedly was; and she did not seem to
try in the least to grow strong again. She did not go into society now;
she dressed as usual, and sat in her drawing-room, and received visitors
if the whim took her; but she was usually denied to all; and said she was
not well enough to go out. From her husband she remained bitterly
estranged. If he attempted to be friendly with her, to ask what was
ailing her, she either sharply refused to say, or maintained a persistent
silence. Lord Hartledon could not account for her behaviour, and was
growing tired of it.
Poor Maude! That some grievous blow had fallen upon her was all too
evident. Resentment, anguish, bitter despair alternated within her
breast, and she seemed really not to care whether she lived or died. Was
it for _this_ that she had schemed, and so successfully, to wrest Lord
Hartledon from his promised bride Anne Ashton? She would lie back in her
chair and ask it. No labour of hers could by any possibility have brought
forth a result by which Miss Ashton could be so well avenged. Heaven is
true to itself, and Dr. Ashton had left vengeance with it. Lady Hartledon
looked back on her fleeting triumph; a triumph at the time certainly, but
a short one. It had not fulfilled its golden promises: that sort of
triumph perhaps never does. It had been followed by ennui, repentance,
dissatisfaction with her husband, and it had resulted in a very moonlight
sort of happiness, which had at length centred only in the children. The
children! Maude gave a cry of anguish as she thought of them. No; take it
altogether, the play from the first had not been worth the candle. And
now? She clasped her thin hands in a frenzy of impotent rage--with Anne
Ashton had lain the real triumph, with herself the sacrifice. Too well
Maude understood a remark her husband once made in answer to a reproach
of hers in the first year of their marriage--that he was thankful not to
have wedded Anne.
One morning Sir Alexander Pepps, on his way from the drawing-room
to his chariot--a very old-fashioned chariot that all the world knew
well--paused midway in the hall, with his cane to his nose, and
condescended to address the man with the powdered wig who was escorting
him.
"Is his lordship at home?"
"Yes, sir."
"I wish to see him."
So the wig changed its course, and Sir Alexander was bowed into
the presence. His lordship rose with what the French would call
_empressement_, to receive the great man.
"Thank you, I have not time to sit," said he, declining the offered chair
and standing, cane in hand. "I have three consultations to-day, and some
urgent cases. I grieve to have a painful duty to fulfil; but I must
inform you that Lady Hartledon's health gives me uneasiness."
Lord Hartledon did not immediately reply; but it was not from want of
genuine concern.
"What is really the matter with her?"
"Debility; nothing else," replied Sir Alexander. "But these cases of
extreme debility cause so much perplexity. Where there is no particular
disease to treat, and the patient does not rally, why--"
He understood the doctor's pause to mean something ominous. "What can be
done?" he asked. "I have remarked, with pain, that she does not gain
strength. Change of air? The seaside--"
"She says she won't go," interrupted the physician. "In fact, her
ladyship objects to everything I can suggest or propose."
"It's very strange," said Lord Hartledon.
"At times it has occurred to me that she has something on her mind,"
continued Sir Alexander. "Upon my delicately hinting this opinion to Lady
Hartledon, she denied it with a vehemence which caused me to suspect that
I was correct. Does your lordship know of anything likely to--to torment
her?"
"Not anything," replied Lord Hartledon, confidently. "I think I can
assure you that there is nothing of the sort."
And he spoke according to his belief; for he knew of nothing. He would
have supposed it simply impossible that Lady Hartledon had been made
privy to the dreadful secret which had weighed on him; and he never gave
that a thought.
Sir Alexander nodded, reassured on the point.
"I should wish for a consultation, if your lordship has no objection."
"Then pray call it without delay. Have anything, do anything, that may
conduce to Lady Hartledon's recovery. You do not suspect heart-disease?"
"The symptoms are not those of any heart-disease known to me. Lady Kirton
spoke to me of this; but I see nothing to apprehend at present on that
score. If there's any latent affection, it has not yet shown itself. Then
we'll arrange the consultation for to-morrow."
Sir Alexander Pepps was bowed out; and the consultation took place; which
left the matter just where it was before. The wise doctors thought there
was nothing radically wrong; but strongly recommended change of air. Sir
Alexander confidently mentioned Torbay; he had great faith in Torbay;
perhaps his lordship could induce Lady Hartledon to try it? She had
flatly told the consultation that she would _not_ try it.
Lady Hartledon was seated in the drawing-room when he went in, willing to
do what he could; any urging of his had not gone far with her of late. A
white silk shawl covered her dress of green check silk; she wore a shawl
constantly now, having a perpetual tendency to shiver; her handsome
features were white and attenuated, but her eyes were brilliant still,
and her dark hair was dressed in elaborate braids.
"So you have had the doctors here, Maude," he remarked, cheerfully.
She nodded a reply, and began to fidget with the body of her gown. It
seemed that she had to do something or other always to her attire
whenever he spoke to her--which partially took away her attention.
"Sir Alexander tells me they have been recommending you Torbay."
"I am not going to Torbay."
"Oh yes, you are, Maude," he soothingly said. "It will be a change for us
all. The children will benefit by it as much as you, and so shall I."
"I tell you I shall not go to Torbay."
"Would you prefer any other place?"
"I will not go anywhere; I have told them so."
"Then I declare that I'll carry you off by force!" he cried, rather
sharply. "Why do you vex me like this? You know you must go?"
She made no reply. He drew a chair close to her and sat down.
"Maude," he said, speaking all the more gently for his recent outbreak,
"you must be aware that you do not recover as quickly as we could wish--"
"I do not recover at all," she interrupted. "I don't want to recover."
"My dear, how can you talk so? There is nothing the matter with you but
weakness, and that will soon be overcome if you exert yourself."
"No, it won't. I shall not leave home."
"Somewhere you must go, for the workmen are coming into the house; and
for the next two months it will not be habitable."
"Who is bringing them in?" she asked, with flashing eyes.
"You know it was decided long ago that the house should be done up this
summer. It wants it badly enough. Torbay--"
"I will not go to Torbay, Lord Hartledon. If I am to be turned out of
this house, I'll go to the other."
"What other?"
"Hartledon."
"Not to Hartledon," said he, quickly, for his dislike to the place had
grown with time, and the word grated on his ear.
"Then I remain where I am."
"Maude," he resumed in quiet tones, "I will not urge you to try sea-air
for my sake, because you do what you can to show me I am of little moment
to you; but I will say try it for the sake of the children. Surely, they
are dear to you!"
A subdued sound of pain broke from her lips, as if she could not bear to
hear them named.
"It's of no use prolonging this discussion," she said. "An invalid's
fancies may generally be trusted, and mine point to Hartledon--if I am to
be disturbed at all. I should not so much mind going there."
A pause ensued. Lord Hartledon had taken her hand, and was mechanically
turning round her wedding-ring, his thoughts far away; it hung
sufficiently loosely now on the wasted finger. She lay back in her
chair, looking on with apathy, too indifferent to withdraw her hand.
"Why did you put it on?" she asked, abruptly.
"Why indeed?" returned his lordship, deep in his abstraction. "What did
you say, Maude?" he added, awaking in a flurry. "Put what on?"
"My wedding-ring."
"My dear! But about Hartledon--if you fancy that, and nowhere else,
I suppose we must go there."
"You also?"
"Of course."
"Ah! when your wife's chord of life is loosening what model husbands you
men become!" she uttered. "You have never gone to Hartledon with me; you
have suffered me to be there alone, through a ridiculous reminiscence;
but now that you are about to lose me you will go!"
"Why do you encourage these gloomy thoughts about yourself, Maude?" he
asked, passing over the Hartledon question. "One would think you wished
to die."
"I do not know," she replied in tones of deliberation. "Of course, no
one, at my age, can be tired of the world, and for some things I wish to
live; but for others, I shall be glad to die."
"Maude! Maude! It is wrong to say this. You are not likely to die."
"I can't tell. All I say is, I shall be glad for some things, if I do."
"What is all this?" he exclaimed, after a bewildered pause. "Is there
anything on your mind, Maude? Are you grieving after that little infant?"
"No," she answered, "not for him. I grieve for the two who remain."
Lord Hartledon looked at her. A dread, which he strove to throw from him,
struggling to his conscience.
"I think you are deceived in my state of health. And if I object to going
to the seaside, it is chiefly because I would not die in a strange place.
If I am to die, I should like to die at Hartledon."
His hair seemed to rise up in horror at the words. "Maude! have you any
disease you are concealing from me?"
"Not any. But the belief has been upon me for some time that I should not
get over this. You must have seen how I appear to be sinking."
"And with no disease upon you! I don't understand it."
"No particular physical disease."
"You are weak, dispirited--I cannot pursue these questions," he broke
off. "Tell me in a word: is there any cause for this?"
"Yes."
Percival gathered up his breath. "What is it?"
"What is it!" her eyes ablaze with sudden light. "What has weighed _you_
down, not to the grave, for men are strong, but to terror, and shame, and
sin? What secret is it, Lord Hartledon?"
His lips were whitening. "But it--even allowing that I have a
secret--need not weigh you down."
"Not weigh me down!--to terror deeper than yours; to shame more abject?
Suppose I know the secret?"
"You cannot know it," he gasped. "It would have killed you."
"And what _has_ it done? Look at me."
"Oh, Maude!" he wailed, "what is it that you do, or do not know? How did
you learn anything about it?"
"I learnt it through my own folly. I am sorry for it now. My knowing it
can make the fact neither better nor worse; and perhaps I might have been
spared the knowledge to the end."
"But what is it that you know?" he asked, rather wishing at the moment he
was dead himself.
"_All._"
"It is impossible."
"It is true."
And he felt that it was true; here was the solution to the conduct which
had puzzled him, puzzled the doctors, puzzled the household and the
countess-dowager.
"And how--and how?" he gasped.
"When that stranger was here last, I heard what he said to you," she
replied, avowing the fact without shame in the moment's terrible anguish.
"I made the third at the interview."
He looked at her in utter disbelief.
"You refused to let me go down. I followed you, and stood at the little
door of the library. It was open, and I--heard--every word."
The last words were spoken with an hysterical sobbing. "Oh, Maude!" broke
from the lips of Lord Hartledon.
"You will reproach me for disobedience, of course; for meanness, perhaps;
but I _knew_ there was some awful secret, and you would not tell me. I
earned my punishment, if that will be any satisfaction to you; I have
never since enjoyed an instant's peace, night or day."
He hid his face in his pain. This was the moment he had dreaded for
years; anything, so that it might be kept from her, he had prayed in his
never-ceasing fear.
"Forgive, forgive me! Oh, Maude, forgive me!"
She did not respond; she did not attempt to soothe him; if ever looks
expressed reproach and aversion, hers did then.
"Have compassion upon me, Maude! I was more sinned against than sinning."
"What compassion had you for me? How dared you marry me? you, bound with
crime?"
"The worst is over, Maude; the worst is over."
"It can never be over: you are guilty of wilful sophistry. The crime
remains; and--Lord Hartledon--its fruits remain."
He interrupted her excited words by voice and gesture; he took her hands
in his. She snatched them from him, and burst into a fit of hysterical
crying, which ended in a faintness almost as of death. He did not dare to
call assistance; an unguarded word might have slipped out unawares.
Shut them in; shut them in! they had need to be alone in a scene such as
that.
Lord and Lady Hartledon went down to Calne, as she wished. But not
immediately; some two or three weeks elapsed, and during that time Mr.
Carr was a good deal with both of them. Their sole friend: the only man
cognizant of the trouble they had yet to battle with; who alone might
whisper a word of something like consolation.
Lady Hartledon seemed to improve. Whether it was the country, or the sort
of patched-up peace that reigned between her and her husband, she grew
stronger and better, and began to go out again and enjoy life as usual.
But in saying life, it must not be thought that gaiety is implied; none
could shun that as Lady Hartledon now seemed to shun it. And he, for
the first time since his marriage, began to take some interest in his
native place, and in his own home. The old sensitive feeling in regard to
meeting the Ashtons lingered still; was almost as strong as ever; and he
had the good sense to see that this must be overcome, if possible, if he
made Hartledon his home for the future, as his wife now talked of doing.
As a preliminary step to it, he appeared at church; one, two, three
Sundays. On the second Sunday his wife went with him. Anne was in her
pew, with her younger brother, but not Mrs. Ashton: she, as Lord
Hartledon knew by report, was too ill now to go out. Each day Dr. Ashton
did the whole duty; his curate, Mr. Graves, was taking a holiday. Lord
Hartledon heard another report, that the curate had been wanting to
press his attentions on Miss Ashton. The truth was, as none had known
better than Val Elster, Mr. Graves had wanted to press them years and
years ago. He had at length made her an offer, and she had angrily
refused him. A foolish girl! said indignant Mrs. Graves, reproachfully.
Her son was a model son, and would make a model husband; and he would
be a wealthy man, as Anne knew, for he must sooner or later come into the
entailed property of his uncle. It was not at all pleasant to Lord
Hartledon to stand there in his pew, with recollection upon him, and the
gaze of the Ashtons studiously turned from him, and Jabez Gum looking out
at him from the corners of his eyes as he made his sonorous responses. A
wish for reconciliation took strong possession of Lord Hartledon, and he
wondered whether he could not bring himself to sue for it. He wanted
besides to stay for the after-service, which he had not done since he was
a young man--never since his marriage. Maude had stayed occasionally, as
was the fashion; but he never. I beg you not to quarrel with me for the
word; some of the partakers in that after-service remain from no higher
motive. Certainly poor Maude had not.
On the third Sunday, Lord Hartledon went to church in the evening--alone;
and when service was over he waited until the church had emptied itself,
and then made his way into the vestry. Jabez was passing out of it, and
the Rector was coming out behind him. Lord Hartledon stopped the latter,
and craved a minute's conversation. Dr. Ashton bowed rather stiffly, put
his hat down, and Jabez shut them in.
"Is there any service you require of me?" inquired the Rector, coldly.
It was the impulsive Val Elster of old days who answered; his hand held
out pleadingly, his ingenuous soul shining forth from his blue eyes.
"Yes, there is, Doctor Ashton; I have come to pray for it--your
forgiveness."
"My Christian forgiveness you have had already," returned the clergyman,
after a pause.
"But I want something else. I want your pardon as a man; I want you to
look at me and speak to me as you used to do. I want to hear you call me
'Val' again; to take my hand in yours, and not coldly; in short, I want
you to help me to forgive myself."
In that moment--and Dr. Ashton, minister of the gospel though he was,
could not have explained it--all the old love for Val Elster rose
bubbling in his heart. A stubborn heart withal, as all hearts are since
Adam sinned; he did not respond to the offered hand, nor did his features
relax their sternness in spite of the pleading look.
"You must be aware, Lord Hartledon, that your conduct does not merit
pardon. As to friendship--which is what you ask for--it would be
incompatible with the distance you and I must observe towards each
other."
"Why need we observe it--if you accord me your true forgiveness?"
The question was one not easy to respond to candidly. The doctor could
not say, Your intercourse with us might still be dangerous to the peace
of one heart; and in his inner conviction he believed that it might be.
He only looked at Val; the yearning face, the tearful eyes; and in that
moment it occurred to the doctor that something more than the ordinary
wear and tear of life had worn the once smooth brow, brought streaks of
silver to the still luxuriant hair.
"Do you know that you nearly killed her?" he asked, his voice softening.
"I have known that it might be so. Had _any_ atonement lain in my power;
any means by which her grief might have been soothed; I would have gone
to the ends of the earth to accomplish it. I would even have died if it
could have done good. But, of all the world, I alone might attempt
nothing. For myself I have spent the years in misery; not on that score,"
he hastened to add in his truth, and a thought crossed Dr. Ashton that he
must allude to unhappiness with his wife--"on another. If it will be any
consolation to know it--if you might accept it as even the faintest
shadow of atonement--I can truly say that few have gone through the care
that I have, and lived. Anne has been amply avenged."
The Rector laid his hand on the slender fingers, hot with fever, whiter
than they ought to be, betraying life's inward care. He forgave him from
that moment; and forgiveness with Dr. Ashton meant the full meaning of
the word.
"You were always your own enemy, Val."
"Ay. Heaven alone knows the extent of my folly; and of my punishment."
From that hour Lord Hartledon and the Rectory were not total strangers to
each other. He called there once in a way, rarely seeing any one but the
doctor; now and then Mrs. Ashton; by chance, Anne. Times and again was it
on Val's lips to confide to Dr. Ashton the nature of the sin upon his
conscience; but his innate sensitiveness, the shame it would reflect
upon him, stepped in and sealed the secret.
Meanwhile, perhaps he and his wife had never lived on terms of truer
cordiality. _There were no secrets between them_: and let me tell you
that is one of the keys to happiness in married life. Whatever the past
had been, Lady Hartledon appeared to condone it; at least she no longer
openly resented it to her husband. It is just possible that a shadow of
the future, a prevision of the severing of the tie, very near now, might
have been unconsciously upon her, guiding her spirit to meekness, if not
yet quite to peace. Lord Hartledon thought she was growing strong; and,
save that she would rather often go into a passion of hysterical tears as
she clasped her children to her, particularly the boy, her days passed
calmly enough. She indulged the children beyond all reason, and it was of
no use for their father to interfere. Once when he stepped in to prevent
it, she flew out almost like a tigress, asking what business it was of
his, that he should dare to come between her and them. The lesson was an
effectual one; and he never interfered again. But the indulgence was
telling on the boy's naturally haughty disposition; and not for good.