COMING HOME.
Some eighteen months after the event recorded in the last chapter, a
travelling carriage dashed up to a house in Park Lane one wet evening
in spring. It contained Lord Hartledon and his second wife. They were
expected, and the servants were assembled in the hall.
Lord Hartledon led her into their midst, proudly, affectionately; as he
had never in his life led any other. Ah, you need not ask who she was; he
had contrived to win her, to win over Dr. Ashton; and his heart had at
length found rest. Her fair countenance, her thoughtful eyes and sweet
smile were turned on the servants, thanking them for their greeting.
"All well, Hedges?" asked Lord Hartledon.
"Quite well, my lord. But we are not alone."
"No!" said Val, stopping in his progress. "Who's here?"
"The Countess-Dowager of Kirton, my lord," replied Hedges, glancing at
Lady Hartledon in momentary hesitation.
"Oh, indeed!" said Val, as if not enjoying the information. "Just see,
Hedges, that the things inside the carriage are all taken out. Don't come
up, Mrs. Ball; I will take Lady Hartledon to her rooms."
It was the light-hearted Val of the old, old days; his face free from
care, his voice gay. He did not turn into any of the reception-rooms, but
led his wife at once to her chamber. It was nearly dinner-time, and he
knew she was tired.
"Welcome home, my darling!" he whispered tenderly ere releasing her. "A
thousand welcomes to you, my dear, dear wife!"
Tears rose to his eyes with the fervour of the wish. Heaven alone knew
what the past had been; the contrast between that time and this.
"I will dress at once, Percival," she said, after a few moments' pause.
"I must see your children before dinner. Heaven helping me, I shall love
them and always act by them as if they were my own."
"I am so sorry she is here, Anne--that terrible old woman. You heard
Hedges say Lady Kirton had arrived. Her visit is ill-timed."
"I shall be glad to welcome her, Val."
"It is more than I shall be," replied Val, as his wife's maid came into
the room, and he quitted it. "I'll bring the children to you, Anne."
They had been married nearly five weeks. Anne had not seen the children
for several months. The little child, Edward, had shown symptoms of
delicacy, and for nearly a year the children had sojourned at the
seaside, having been brought to the town-house just before their father's
marriage.
The nursery was empty, and Lord Hartledon went down. In the passage
outside the drawing-room was Hedges, evidently waiting for his master,
and with a budget to unfold.
"When did she come, Hedges?"
"My lord, it was only a few days after your marriage," replied Hedges.
"She arrived in the most outrageous tantrum--if I shall not offend your
lordship by saying so--and has been here ever since, completely upsetting
everything."
"What was her tantrum about?"
"On account of your having married again, my lord. She stood in the hall
for five minutes when she got here, saying the most audacious things
against your lordship and Miss Ashton--I mean my lady," corrected Hedges.
"The old hag!" muttered Lord Hartledon.
"I think she's insane at times, my lord; I really do. The fits of passion
she flies into are quite bad enough for insanity. The housekeeper told me
this morning she feared she would be capable of striking my lady, when
she first saw her. I'm afraid, too, she has been schooling the children."
Lord Hartledon strode into the drawing-room. There, as large as
life--and a great deal larger than most lives--was the dowager-countess.
Fortunately she had not heard the arrival: in fact, she had dropped into
a doze whilst waiting for it; and she started up when Val entered.
"How are you, ma'am?" asked he. "You have taken me by surprise."
"Not half as much as your wicked letter took me," screamed the old
dowager. "Oh, you vile man! to marry again in this haste! You--you--I
can't find words that I should not be ashamed of; but Hamlet's mother, in
the play, was nothing to it."
"It is some time since I read the play," returned Hartledon, controlling
his temper under an assumption of indifference. "If my memory serves me,
the 'funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage table.'
_My_ late wife has been dead eighteen months, Lady Kirton."
"Eighteen months! for such a wife as Maude was to you!" raved the
dowager. "You ought to have mourned her eighteen years. Anybody else
would. I wish I had never let you have her."
Lord Hartledon wished it likewise, with all his heart and soul; had
wished it in his wife's lifetime.
"Lady Kirton, listen to me! Let us understand each other. Your visit here
is ill-timed; you ought to feel it so; nevertheless, if you stay it out,
you must observe good manners. I shall be compelled to request you to
terminate it if you fail one iota in the respect due to this house's
mistress, my beloved and honoured wife."
"Your _beloved_ wife! Do you dare to say it to me?"
"Ay; beloved, honoured and respected as no woman has ever been by me yet,
or ever will be again," he replied, speaking too plainly in his warmth.
"What a false-hearted monster!" cried the dowager, shrilly,
apostrophizing the walls and the mirrors. "What then was Maude?"
"Maude is gone, and I counsel you not to bring up her name to me," said
Val, sternly. "Your treachery forced Maude upon me; and let me tell you
now, Lady Kirton, if I have never told you before, that it wrought upon
her the most bitter wrong possible to be inflicted; which she lived to
learn. I was a vacillating simpleton, and you held me in your trammels.
The less we rake up old matters the better. Things have altered. I am
altered. The moral courage I once lacked does not fail me now; and I have
at least sufficient to hold my own against the world, and protect from
insult the lady I have made my wife. I beg your pardon if my words seem
harsh; they are true; and I am sorry you have forced them from me."
She was standing still for a moment, staring at him, not altogether
certain of her ground.
"Where are the children?" he asked.
"Where you can't get at them," she rejoined hotly. "You have your beloved
wife; you don't want them."
He rang the bell, more loudly than he need have done; but his usually
sweet temper was provoked. A footman came in.
"Tell the nurse to bring down the children."
"They are not at home, my lord."
"Not at home! Surely they are not out in this rain!--and so late!"
"They went out this afternoon, my lord: and have not come in, I believe."
"There, that will do," tartly interposed the dowager. "You don't know
anything about it, and you may go."
"Lady Kirton, where are the children?"
"Where you can't get at them, I say," was Lady Kirton's response. "You
don't think I am going to suffer Maude's children to be domineered over
by a wretch of a step-mother--perhaps poisoned."
He confronted her in his wrath, his eyes flashing.
"Madam!"
"Oh, you need not 'Madam' me. Maude's gone, and I shall act for her."
"I ask you where my children are?"
"I have sent them away; you may make the most of the information. And
when I have remained here as long as I choose, I shall take them with me,
and keep them, and bring them up. You can at once decide what sum you
will allow me for their education and maintenance: two maids, a tutor,
a governess, clothes, toys, and pocket-money. It must be a handsome sum,
paid quarterly in advance. And I mean to take a house in London for their
accommodation, and shall expect you to pay the rent."
The coolness with which this was delivered turned Val's angry feelings
into amusement. He could not help laughing as he looked at her.
"You cannot have my children, Lady Kirton."
"They are Maude's children," snapped the dowager.
"But I presume you admit that they are likewise mine. And I shall
certainly not part with them."
"If you oppose me in this, I'll put them into Chancery," cried the
dowager. "I am their nearest relative, and have a right to them."
"Nearest relative!" he repeated. "You must have lost your senses. I am
their father."
"And have you lived to see thirty, and never learnt that men don't count
for anything in the bringing up of infants?" shrilly asked the dowager.
"If they had ten fathers, what's that to the Lord Chancellor? No more
than ten blocks of wood. What they want is a mother."
"And I have now given them one."
Without another word, with the red flush of emotion on his cheek, he went
up to his wife's room. She was alone then, dressed, and just coming out
of it. He put his arm round her to draw her in again, as he shortly
explained the annoyance their visitor was causing him.
"You must stay here, my dearest, until I can go down with you," he added.
"She is in a vile humour, and I do not choose that you should encounter
her, unprotected by me."
"But where are you going, Val?"
"Well, I really think I shall get a policeman in, and frighten her into
saying what she has done with the children. She'll never tell unless
forced into it."
Anne laughed, and Hartledon went down. He had in good truth a great mind
to see what the effect would be. The old woman was not a reasonable
being, and he felt disposed to show her very little consideration. As he
stood at the hall-door gazing forth, who should arrive but Thomas Carr.
Not altogether by accident; he had come up exploring, to see if there
were any signs of Val's return.
"Ah! home at last, Hartledon!"
"Carr, what happy wind blew you hither?" cried Val, as he grasped the
hands of his trusty friend. "You can terrify this woman with the thunders
of the law if she persists in kidnapping children that don't belong to
her." And he forthwith explained the state of affairs.
Mr. Carr laughed.
"She will not keep them away long. She is no fool, that countess-dowager.
It is a ruse, no doubt, to induce you to give them up to her."
"Give them up to her, indeed!" Val was beginning, when Hedges advanced to
him.
"Mrs. Ball says the children have only gone to Madame Tussaud's, my
lord," quoth he. "The nurse told her so when she went out."
"I wish she was herself one of Madame Tussaud's figure-heads!" cried Val.
"Mr. Carr dines here, Hedges. Nonsense, Carr; you can't refuse. Never
mind your coat; Anne won't mind. I want you to make acquaintance with
her."
"How did you contrive to win over Dr. Ashton?" asked Thomas Carr, as he
went in.
"I put the matter before him in its true light," answered Val, "asking
him whether, if Anne forgave me, he would condemn us to live out our
lives apart from each other: or whether he would not act the part of a
good Christian, and give her to me, that I might strive to atone for the
past."
"And he did so?"
"After a great deal of trouble. There's no time to give you details. I
had a powerful advocate in Anne's heart. She had never forgotten me, for
all my misconduct."
"You have been a lucky man at last, taking one thing with another."
"You may well say so," was the answer, in tones of deep feeling.
"Moments come over me when I fear I am about to awake and find the
present a dream. I am only now beginning to _live_. The past few years
have been--you know what, Carr."
He sent the barrister into the drawing room, went upstairs for Anne, and
brought her in on his arm. The dowager was in her chamber, attiring
herself in haste.
"My wife, Carr," said Hartledon, with a loving emphasis on the word.
She was in an evening dress of white and black, not having yet put off
mourning for Mrs. Ashton, and looked very lovely; far more lovely in
Thomas Carr's eyes than Lady Maude, with her dark beauty, had ever
looked. She held out her hand to him with a frank smile.
"I have heard so much of you, Mr. Carr, that we seem like old friends.
I am glad you have come to see me so soon."
"My being here this evening is an accident, Lady Hartledon, as you may
see by my dress," he returned. "I ought rather to apologize for intruding
on you in the hour of your arrival."
"Don't talk about intrusion," said Val. "You will never be an intruder in
my house--and Anne's smile is telling you the same--"
"Who's that, pray?"
The interruption came from the countess-dowager. There she stood, near
the door, in a yellow gown and green turban. Val drew himself up and
approached her, his wife still on his arm. "Madam," said he, in reply to
her question, "this is my wife, Lady Hartledon."
The dowager's gauzes made acquaintance with the carpet in so elaborate
a curtsey as to savour of mockery, but her eyes were turned up to the
ceiling; not a word or look gave she to the young lady.
"The other one, I meant," cried she, nodding towards Thomas Carr.
"It is my friend Mr. Carr. You appear to have forgotten him."
"I hope you are well, ma'am," said he, advancing towards her.
Another curtsey, and the countess-dowager fanned herself, and sailed
towards the fireplace.
Meanwhile the children came home in a cab from Madame Tussaud's, and
dinner was announced. Lord Hartledon was obliged to take down the
countess-dowager, resigning his wife to Mr. Carr. Dinner passed off
pretty well, the dowager being too fully occupied to be annoying; also
the good cheer caused her temper to thaw a little. Afterwards, the
children came in; Edward, a bold, free boy of five, who walked straight
up to his grandmother, saluting no one; and Maude, a timid, delicate
little child, who stood still in the middle of the carpet where the maid
placed her.
The dowager was just then too busy to pay attention to the children, but
Anne held out her hand with a smile. Upon which the child drew up to her
father, and hid her face in his coat.
He took her up, and carried her to his wife, placing her upon her knee.
"Maude," he whispered, "this is your mamma, and you must love her very
much, for she loves you."
Anne's arms fondly encircled the child; but she began to struggle to get
down.
"Bad manners, Maude," said her father.
"She's afraid of her," spoke up the boy, who had the dark eyes and
beautiful features of his late mother. "We are afraid of bad people."
The observation passed momentarily unnoticed, for Maude, whom Lady
Hartledon had been obliged to release, would not be pacified. But when
calmness ensued, Lord Hartledon turned to the boy, just then assisting
himself to some pineapple.
"What did I hear you say about bad people, Edward?"
"She," answered the boy, pointing towards Lady Hartledon. "She shan't
touch Maude. She's come here to beat us, and I'll kick if she touches
me."
Lord Hartledon, with an unmistakable look at the countess-dowager, rose
from his seat in silence and rang the bell. There could be no correction
in the presence of the dowager; he and Anne must undo her work alone.
Carrying the little girl in one arm, he took the boy's hand, and met the
servant at the door.
"Take these children back to the nursery."
"I want some strawberries," the boy called out rebelliously.
"Not to-day," said his father. "You know quite well that you have behaved
badly."
His wife's face was painfully flushed. Mr. Carr was critically examining
the painted landscape on his plate; and the turban was enjoying some
fruit with perfect unconcern. Lord Hartledon stood an instant ere he
resumed his seat.
"Anne," he said in a voice that trembled in spite of its displeased
tones, "allow me to beg your pardon, and I do it with shame that this
gratuitous insult should have been offered you in your own house. A day
or two will, I hope, put matters on their right footing; the poor
children, as you see, have been tutored."
"Are you going to keep the port by you all night, Hartledon?"
Need you ask from whom came the interruption? Mr. Carr passed it across
to her, leaving her to help herself; and Lord Hartledon sat down, biting
his delicate lips.
When the dowager seemed to have finished, Anne rose. Mr. Carr rose too as
soon as they had retired.
"I have an engagement, Hartledon, and am obliged to run away. Make my
adieu to your wife."
"Carr, is it not a crying shame?--enough to incense any man?"
"It is. The sooner you get rid of her the better."
"That's easier said than done."
When Lord Hartledon reached the drawing-room, the dowager was sleeping
comfortably. Looking about for his wife, he found her in the small room
Maude used to make exclusively her own, which was not lighted up. She was
standing at the window, and her tears were quietly falling. He drew her
face to his own.
"My darling, don't let it grieve you! We shall soon right it all."
"Oh, Percival, if the mischief should have gone too far!--if they should
never look upon me except as a step-mother! You don't know how sick and
troubled this has made me feel! I wanted to go to them in the nursery
when I came up, and did not dare! Perhaps the nurse has also been
prejudiced against me!"
"Come up with me now, love," he whispered.
They went silently upstairs, and found the children were then in bed and
asleep. They were tired with sight-seeing, the nurse said apologetically,
curtseying to her new mistress.
The nurse withdrew, and they stood over the nursery fire, talking. Anne
could scarcely account for the extreme depression the event seemed to
have thrown upon her. Lord Hartledon quickly recovered his spirits,
vowing he should like to "serve out" the dowager.
"I was thankful for one thing, Val; that you did not betray anger to
them, poor little things. It would have made it worse."
"I was on the point of betraying something more than anger to Edward; but
the thought that I should be punishing him for another's fault checked
me. I wonder how we can get rid of her?"
"We must strive to please her while she stays."
"Please her!" he echoed. "Anne, my dear, that is stretching Christian
charity rather too far."
Anne smiled. "I am a clergyman's daughter, you know, Val."
"If she is wise, she'll abstain from offending you in my presence. I'm
not sure but I should lose command of myself, and send her off there and
then."
"I don't fear that. She was quite civil when we came up from dinner,
and--"
"As she generally is then. She takes her share of wine."
"And asked me if I would excuse her falling into a doze, for she never
felt well without it."
Anne was right. The cunning old woman changed her tactics, finding those
she had started would not answer. It has been remarked before, if you
remember, that she knew particularly well on which side her bread was
buttered. Nothing could exceed her graciousness from that evening. The
past scene might have been a dream, for all traces that remained of it.
Out of the house she was determined not to go in anger; it was too
desirable a refuge for that. And on the following day, upon hearing
Edward attempt some impudent speech to his new mother, she put him across
her knee, pulled off an old slipper she was wearing, and gave him a
whipping. Anne interposed, the boy roared; but the good woman had
her way.
"Don't put yourself out, dear Lady Hartledon. There's nothing so good
for them as a wholesome whipping. I used to try it on my own children
at times."