A PAINFUL SCENE.
Lord and Lady Hartledon were entertaining a family group. The everlasting
dowager kept to them unpleasantly; making things unbearable, and wearing
out her welcome in no slight degree, if she had only been wise enough to
see it. She had escaped scarlet-fever and other dreaded ills; and was
alive still. For that matter, the little Lord Elster had come out of it
also: _not_ unscathed; for the boy remained a sickly wreck, and there was
very little hope that he would really recover. The final close might be
delayed, but it was not to be averted. Before Easter they had left London
for Hartledon, that he might have country air. Lord Hartledon's eldest
sister, Lady Margaret Cooper, came there with her husband; and on this
day the other sister, Lady Laura Level, had arrived from India. Lady
Margaret was an invalid, and not an agreeable woman besides; but to Laura
and Anne the meeting, after so many years' separation, was one of intense
pleasure. They had been close friends from childhood.
They were all gathered together in the large drawing-room after luncheon.
The day was a wet one, and no one had ventured out except Sir James
Cooper. Accustomed to the Scotch mists, this rain seemed a genial shower,
and Sir James was enjoying it accordingly. It was a warm, close day, in
spite of the rain; and the large fire in the grate made the room
oppressive, so that they were glad to throw the windows open.
Lying on a sofa near the fire was the invalid boy. By merely looking at
him you might see that he would never rally, though he fluctuated much.
To-day he was, comparatively speaking, well. Little Maude was threading
beads; and the two others, much younger, stood looking on--Reginald
and Anne. Lady Margaret Cooper, having a fellow-feeling for an invalid,
sat near the sick boy. Lord Hartledon sat apart at a table reading, and
making occasional notes. The dowager, more cumbersome than ever, dozed on
the other side of the hearth. She was falling into the habit of taking a
nap after luncheon as well as after dinner. Lady Laura was in danger of
convulsions every time she looked at the dowager. Never in all her life
had she seen so queer an old figure. She and Anne stood together at an
open window, the one eagerly asking questions, the other answering, all
in undertones. Lady Laura had been away from her own home and kindred
some twelve years, and it seemed to her half a lifetime.
"Anne, how _was_ it?" she exclaimed. "It was a thing that always puzzled
me, and I never came to the bottom of it. My husband said at the time I
used to talk of it in my sleep."
"What do you mean?"
"About you and Val. You were engaged to each other; you loved him, and he
loved you. How came that other marriage about?"
"Well, I can hardly tell you. I was at Cannes with mamma, and he fell
into the meshes. We knew nothing about it until they were married. Never
mind all that now; I don't care to recall it, and it is a very sore point
with Val. The blame, I believe, lay chiefly with _her_."
Anne glanced at the dowager, to indicate whom she meant. Lady Laura's
eyes followed the same direction, and she laughed.
"A painted old guy! She looks like one who would do it. Why doesn't some
one put her under a glass case and take her to the British Museum? When
news of the marriage came out to India I was thunderstruck. I wrote off
at once to Val, asking all sorts of questions, and received quite a
savage reply, telling me to mind my own business. That letter alone would
have told me how Val repented; it was so unlike him. Do you know what I
did?"
"What did you do?"
"Sent him another letter by return mail with only two words in
it--'Elster's Folly.' Poor Val! She died of heart-disease, did she not?"
"Yes. But she seemed to have been ailing for some time. She was greatly
changed."
"Val is changed. There are threads of silver in his hair; and he is so
much quieter than I thought he ever would be. I wonder you took him,
Anne, after all; and I wonder still more that Dr. Ashton allowed it."
A blush tinged Lady Hartledon's face as she looked out at the soft rain,
and a half-smile parted her lips.
"I see, Anne. Love once, love ever; and I suppose it was the same with
Val, in spite of his folly. I should have taken out my revenge by
marrying the first eligible man that offered himself. Talking of
that--is poor Mr. Graves married yet?"
"Yes, at last," said Anne, laughing. "A grand match too for him, poor
timid man: his wife's a lord's daughter, and as tall as a house."
"If ever man worshipped woman he worshipped you, though you were only a
girl."
"Nonsense, Laura."
"Anne, you knew it quite well; and so did Val. Did he ever screw his
courage up to the point of proposing?"
Anne laughed. "If he ever did, I was too vexed to answer him. He will be
very happy, Laura. His wife is a meek, amiable woman, in spite of her
formidable height."
"And now I want you to tell me one thing--How was it that Edward could
not be saved?"
For a moment Lady Hartledon did not understand, and turned her eyes on
the boy.
"I mean my brother, Anne. When news came out to India that he had died in
that shocking manner, following upon poor George--I don't care now to
recall how I felt. Was there _no_ one at hand to save him?"
"No one. A sad fatality seemed to attend it altogether. Val regrets his
brother bitterly to this day."
"And that poor Willy Gum was killed at sea, after all!"
"Yes," said Anne, shortly. "When you spoke of Edward," returning to the
other subject, "I thought you meant the boy."
Lady Laura shook her head. "He will never get well, Anne. Death is
written on his face."
"You would say so, if you saw him some days. He is excitable, and your
coming has roused him. I never saw any one fluctuate so; one day dying,
the next better again. For myself I have very little hope, and Mr.
Hillary has none; but I dare not say so to Margaret and the dowager."
"Why not?"
"It makes them angry. They cannot bear to hear there's a possibility of
his death. Margaret may see the danger, but I don't believe the dowager
does."
"Their wishes must blind them," observed Lady Laura. "The dowager seems
all fury and folly. She scarcely gave herself time to welcome me this
morning, or to inquire how I was after my long voyage; but began
descanting on a host of evils, the chief being that her grandson should
have had fever."
"She would like him to bear a charmed life. Not for love of him, Laura."
"What then?"
"I do not believe she has a particle of love for him. Don't think me
uncharitable; it is the truth; Val will tell you the same. She is not
capable of experiencing common affection for any one; every feeling of
her nature is merged in self-interest. Had her daughter left another boy
she would not be dismayed at the prospect of this one's death; whether he
lived or died, it would be all one to her. The grievance is that Reginald
should have the chance of succeeding."
"Because he is your son. I understand. A vain, puffed-up old thing! the
idea of her still painting her face and wearing false curls! I wonder you
tolerate her in your house, Anne! She's always here."
"How can I help myself? She considers, I believe, that she has more right
in this house than I have."
"Does she make things uncomfortable?"
"More so than I have ever confessed, even to my husband. From the hour of
my marriage she set the two children against me, and against my children
when they came; and she never ceases to do so still."
"Why do you submit to it?"
"She is their grandmother, and I cannot well deny her the house. Val
might do so, but he does not. Perhaps I should have had courage to
attempt it, for the children's own sake, it is so shocking to train them
to ill-nature, but that he appears to think as she does. The petty
disputes between the children are frequent--for my two elder ones are
getting of an age to turn again when put upon--but their father never
corrects Edward and Maude, or allows them to be corrected; let them do
what wrong they will, he takes their part. I believe that if Edward
_killed_ one of my children, he would only caress him."
Lady Laura turned her eyes on the speaker's face, on its flush of pain
and mortification.
"And Val loved you: and did _not_ love Maude! What does it mean, Anne?"
"I cannot tell you. Things altogether are growing more than I can bear."
"Margaret has been with you some time; has she not interfered, or tried
to put things upon a right footing?"
Anne shook her head. "She espouses the dowager's side; upholds the two
children in their petty tyranny. No one in the house takes my part, or my
children's."
"That is just like Margaret. Do you remember how you and I used to dread
her domineering spirit when we were girls? It's time I came, I think, to
set things right."
"Laura, neither you nor any one else can set things right. They have been
wrong too long. The worst is, I cannot see what the evil is, as regards
Val. If I ask him he repels me, or laughs at me, and tells me I am
fanciful. That he has some secret trouble I have long known: his days are
unhappy, his nights restless; often when he thinks me asleep I am
listening to his sighs. I am glad you have come home; I have wanted a
true friend to confide these troubles to, and I could only speak of them
to one of the family."
"It sounds like a romance," cried Laura. "Some secret grief! What can it
be?"
They were interrupted by a commotion. Maude had been threading a splendid
ring all the colours of the rainbow, and now exhibited it for the benefit
of admiring beholders.
"Papa--Aunt Margaret--look at my ring."
Lord Hartledon nodded pleasantly at the child from his distant seat; Lady
Margaret appeared not to have heard; and Maude caught up a soft ball and
threw it at her aunt.
Unfortunately, it took a wrong direction, and struck the nodding dowager
on the nose. She rose up in a fury and some commotion ensued.
"Make me a ring, Maude," little Anne lisped when the dowager had subsided
into her chair again. Maude took no notice; her finger was still lifted
with the precious ornament.
"Can you see it from your sofa, Edward?"
The boy rose and stretched himself. "Pretty well. You have put it on the
wrong finger, Maude. Ladies don't wear rings on the little finger."
"But it won't go on the others," said Maude dolefully: "it's too small."
"Make a larger one."
"Make one for me, Maude," again broke in Anne's little voice.
"No, I won't!" returned Maude. "You are big enough to thread beads for
yourself."
"No, she's not," said Reginald. "Make her one, Maude."
"No, don't, Maude," said Edward. "Let them do things for themselves."
"You hear!" whispered Lady Hartledon.
"I do hear. And Val sits there and never reproves them; and the old
dowager's head and eyes are nodding and twinkling approval."
Lady Laura was an energetic little woman, thin, and pale, and excessively
active, with a propensity for setting the world straight, and a tongue as
unceremoniously free as the dowager's. In the cause of justice she would
have stood up to battle with a giant. Lady Hartledon was about to make
some response, but she bade her wait; her attention was absorbed by the
children. Perhaps the truth was that she was burning to have a say in the
matter herself.
"Maude," she called out, "if that ring is too small for you, it would do
for Anne, and be kind of you to give it her."
Maude looked dubious. Left to herself, the child would have been generous
enough. She glanced at the dowager.
"May I give it her, grand'ma?"
Grand'ma was conveniently deaf. She would rather have cut the ring in
two than it should be given to the hated child: but, on the other hand,
she did not care to offend Laura Level, who possessed inconveniently
independent opinions, and did not shrink from proclaiming them. Seizing
the poker, she stirred the fire, and created a divertissement.
In the midst of it, Edward left his sofa and walked up to the group and
their beads. He was very weak, and tottered unintentionally against Anne.
The touch destroyed her equilibrium, and she fell into Maude's lap. There
was no damage done, but the box of beads was upset on to the carpet.
Maude screamed at the loss of her treasures, rose up with anger, and
slapped Anne. The child cried out.
"Why d'you hit her?" cried Reginald. "It was Edward's fault; he pushed
her."
"What's that!" exclaimed Edward. "My fault! I'll teach you to say that,"
and he struck Reginald a tingling slap on the cheek.
Of course there was loud crying. The dowager looked on with a red face.
Lady Margaret Cooper, who had no children of her own, stopped her ears.
Lady Laura laid her hand on her sister-in law's wrist.
"And you can witness these scenes, and not check them! You are changed,
indeed, Anne!"
"If I interfere to protect my children, I am checked and prevented,"
replied Lady Hartledon, with quivering lips. "This scene is nothing to
what we have sometimes."
"Who checks you--Val?"
"The dowager. But he does not interpose for me. Where the children are
concerned, he tacitly lets her have sway. It is not often anything of
this sort takes place in his presence."
The noise continued: all the children seemed to be fighting together.
Anne went forward and drew her own two out of the fray.
"Pray send those two screamers to the nursery, Lady Hartledon," cried the
dowager.
"I cannot think why they are allowed in the drawing-room at all," said
Lady Margaret, addressing no one in particular, unless it was the
ceiling. "Edward and Maude would be quiet enough without them."
Anne did not retort: she only glanced at her husband, silent reproach on
her pale face, and took up Anne in her arms to carry her from the room.
But Lady Laura, impulsive and warm, came forward and stopped the exit.
"Lady Kirton, I am ashamed of you! Margaret, I am ashamed of you! I am
ashamed of you all. You are doing the children a lasting injury, and you
are guilty of cruel insult to Lady Hartledon. This is the second scene I
have been a witness to, when the elder children were encouraged to behave
badly to the younger; the first was in the nursery this morning; and I
have been here only a few hours. And you, Lord Hartledon, their head and
father, responsible for your children's welfare, can tamely sit by, and
suffer it, and see your wife insulted! Is this what you married Anne
Ashton for?"
Lord Hartledon rose: a strange look of pain on his features. "You are
mistaken, Laura. I wish every respect to be shown to my wife; respect
from all. Anne knows it."
"Respect!" scornfully retorted Lady Laura. "When you do not give her
so much as a voice in her own house; when you allow her children to be
trampled on, and beaten--_beaten_, sir--and she dare not interfere!
I blush for you, and could never have believed you would so behave to
your wife. Who are you, madam," turning again, in her anger, on the
countess-dowager, "and who are you, Margaret, that you should dare to
encourage Edward and Maude in rebellion against their present mother?"
Taken by surprise, the dowager made no answer. Lady Margaret looked
defiance.
"You and Anne have invited me to your house on a lengthened visit, Lord
Hartledon," continued Laura; "but I promise you that if this is to
continue I will not remain in it; I will not witness insult to my early
friend; and I will not see children incited to evil passions. Undress
that child, sir," she sharply added, directing Val's attention to
Reginald, "and you will see bruises on his back and shoulder. I saw them
this morning, and asked the nurse what caused them and was told Lord
Elster kicked him."
"It was the little beggar's own fault," interposed Edward, who was
standing his ground with equanimity, and seemed to enjoy the scene.
Lady Laura caught him sharply by the arm. "Of whom are you speaking!
Who's a little beggar?"
"Regy is."
"Who taught you to call him one?"
"Grand'ma."
"There, go away; go away all of you," cried Lady Laura, turning the two
elder ones from the room imperatively, after Anne and her children. "Oh,
so you are going also, Val! No wonder you are ashamed to stay here."
He was crossing the room; a curious expression on his drawn lips. Laura
watched him from it; then went and stood before the dowager; her back to
her sister.
"Has it ever struck you, Lady Kirton, that you may one day have to
account for this?"
"It strikes me that you are making a vast deal of unnecessary noise,
Madame Laura!"
"If your daughter could look on, from the other world, at earth and
its scenes--and some hold a theory that such a state of things is not
impossible--what would be her anguish, think you, at the evil you are
inculcating in her children? One of them will very soon be with her--"
The dowager interrupted with a sort of howl.
"He will; there is no mistaking it. You who see him constantly may not
detect it; but it is evident to a stranger. Were it not beneath me, I
might ask on what grounds you tutor him to call Reginald a beggar,
considering that your daughter brought my brother nothing but a few
debts; whilst Miss Ashton brought him a large fortune?"
"I wouldn't condescend to be mean, Laura," put in Lady Margaret, whilst
the dowager fanned her hot face.
They were interrupted by Hedges, showing in visitors. How much more Lady
Laura might have said must remain unknown: she was in a mood to say a
great deal.
"Mr. and Mrs. Graves."
It was the curate; and the tall, meek woman spoken of by Anne. Laura
laughed as she shook hands with the former; whom she had known when a
girl, and been given to ridiculing more than was quite polite.
Lord Hartledon had left the room after his wife. She sent the children
to the nursery; and he found her alone in her chamber sobbing bitterly.
Certainly he was a contradiction. He fondly took her in his arms,
beseeching her to pardon him, if he had unwittingly slighted her, as
Laura implied; and his blue eyes were beaming with affection, his voice
was low with persuasive tenderness.
"There are times," she sobbed, "when I am tempted to wish myself back in
my father's house!"
"I cannot think whence all this discomfort arises!" he weakly exclaimed.
"Of one thing, Anne, rest assured: as soon as Edward changes for the
better or the worse--and one it must inevitably be--that mischief-making
old woman shall quit my house for ever."
"Edward will never change for the better," she said. "For the worse, he
may soon: for the better, never."
"I know: Hillary has told me. Bear with things a little longer, and
believe that I will remedy them the moment remedy is possible. I am your
husband."
Lady Hartledon lifted her eyes to his. "We cannot go on as we are going
on now. Tell me what it is you have to bear. You remind me that you are
my husband; I now remind you that I am your wife: confide in me. I will
be true and loving to you, whatever it may be."
"Not yet; in a little time, perhaps. Bear with me still, my dear wife."
His look was haggard; his voice bore a sound of anguish; he clasped her
hand to pain as he left her. Whatever might be his care, Anne could not
doubt his love.
And as he went into the drawing-room, a smile on his face, chatting with
the curate, laughing with his newly-married wife, both those unsuspicious
visitors could have protested when they went forth, that never was a man
more free from trouble than that affable servant of her Majesty's the
Earl of Hartledon.