EXPLANATIONS.
A change for the worse occurred in the child, Lord Elster; and after two
or three weeks' sinking he died, and was buried at Hartledon by the side
of his mother. Hartledon's sister quitted Hartledon House for a change;
but the countess-dowager was there still, and disturbed its silence with
moans and impromptu lamentations, especially when going up and down the
staircase and along the corridors.
Mr. Carr, who had come for the funeral, also remained. On the day
following it he and Lord Hartledon were taking a quiet walk together,
when they met Mrs. Gum. Hartledon stopped and spoke to her in his kindly
manner. She was less nervous than she used to be; and she and her husband
were once more at peace in their house.
"I would not presume to say a word of sympathy, my lord," she said,
curtseying, "but we felt it indeed. Jabez was cut up like anything when
he came in yesterday from the funeral."
Val looked at her, a meaning she understood in his earnest eyes. "Yes, it
is hard to part with our children: but when grief is over, we live in the
consolation that they have only gone before us to a better place, where
sin and sorrow are not. We shall join them later."
She went away, tears of joy filling her eyes. _She_ had a son up there,
waiting for _her_; and she knew Lord Hartledon meant her to think of him
when he had so spoken.
"Carr," said Val, "I never told you the finale of that tragedy. George
Gordon of the mutiny, did turn up: he lived and died in England."
"No!"
"He died at Calne. It was that poor woman's son."
Mr. Carr looked round for an explanation. He knew her as the wife of
clerk Gum, and sister to Hartledon's housekeeper. Val told him all, as
the facts had come out to him.
"Pike always puzzled me," he said. "Disguised as he was with his black
hair, his face stained with some dark juice, there was a look in him that
used to strike some chord in my memory. It lay in the eyes, I think.
You'll keep these facts sacred, Carr, for the parents' sake. They are
known only to four of us."
"Have you told your wife yet?" questioned Mr. Carr, recurring to a
different subject.
"No. I could not, somehow, whilst the child lay dead in the house. She
shall know it shortly."
"And what about dismissing the countess-dowager? You will do it?"
"I shall be only too thankful to do it. All my courage has come back to
me, thank Heaven!"
The Countess-Dowager of Kirton's reign was indeed over; never would he
allow her to disturb the peace of his house again. He might have to
pension her off, but that was a light matter. His intention was to speak
to her in a few days' time, allowing an interval to elapse after the
boy's death; but she forestalled the time herself, as Val was soon to
find.
Dinner that evening was a sad meal--sad and silent. The only one who did
justice to it was the countess-dowager--in a black gauze dress and white
crêpe turban. Let what would betide, Lady Kirton never failed to enjoy
her dinner. She had a scheme in her head; it had been working there since
the day of her grandson's death; and when the servants withdrew, she
judged it expedient to disclose it to Hartledon, hoping to gain her
point, now that he was softened by sorrow.
"Hartledon, I want to talk to you," she began, critically tasting her
wine; "and I must request that you'll attend to me."
Anne looked up, wondering what was coming. She wore an evening dress of
black crêpe, a jet necklace on her fair neck, jet bracelets on her arms:
mourning far deeper than the dowager's.
"Are you listening to me, Val?"
"I am quite ready," answered Val.
"I asked you, once before, to let me have Maude's children, and to allow
me a fair income with them. Had you done so, this dreadful misfortune
would not have overtaken your house: for it stands to reason that if Lord
Elster had been living somewhere else with me, he could not have caught
scarlet-fever in London."
"We never thought he did catch it," returned Hartledon. "It was not
prevalent at the time; and, strange to say, none of the other children
took it, nor any one else in the house."
"Then what gave it him?" sharply uttered the dowager.
What Val answered was spoken in a low tone, and she caught one word only,
Providence. She gave a growl, and continued.
"At any rate, he's gone; and you have now no pretext for refusing me
Maude. I shall take her, and bring her up, and you must make me a liberal
allowance for her."
"I shall not part with Maude," said Val, in quiet tones of decision.
"You can't refuse her to me, I say," rejoined the dowager, nodding her
head defiantly; "she's my own grandchild."
"And my child. The argument on this point years ago was unsatisfactory,
Lady Kirton; I do not feel disposed to renew it. Maude will remain in her
own home."
"You are a vile man!" cried the dowager, with an inflamed face. "Pass me
the wine."
He filled her glass, and left the decanter with her. She resumed.
"One day, when I was with Maude, in that last illness of hers in London,
when we couldn't find out what was the matter with her, poor dear, she
wrote you a letter; and I know what was in it, for I read it. You had
gone dancing off somewhere for a week."
"To the Isle of Wight, on your account," put in Lord Hartledon, quietly;
"on that unhappy business connected with your son who lives there. Well,
ma'am?"
"In that letter Maude said she wished me to have charge of her children,
if she died; and begged you to take notice that she said it," continued
the dowager. "Perhaps you'll say you never had that letter?"
"On the contrary, madam, I admit receiving it," he replied. "I daresay I
have it still. Most of Maude's letters lie in my desk undisturbed."
"And, admitting that, you refuse to act up to it?"
"Maude wrote in a moment of pique, when she was angry with me. But--"
"And I have no doubt she had good cause for anger!"
"She had great cause," was his answer, spoken with a strange sadness that
surprised both the dowager and Lady Hartledon. Thomas Carr was twirling
his wine-glass gently round on the white cloth, neither speaking nor
looking.
"Later, my wife fully retracted what she said in that letter," continued
Val. "She confessed that she had written it partly at your dictation,
Lady Kirton, and said--but I had better not tell you that, perhaps."
"Then you shall tell me, Lord Hartledon; and you are a two-faced man, if
you shuffle out of it."
"Very well. Maude said that she would not for the whole world allow her
children to be brought up by you; she warned me also not to allow you to
obtain too much influence over them."
"It's false!" said the dowager, in no way disconcerted.
"It is perfectly true: and Maude told me you knew what her sentiments
were upon the point. Her real wish, as expressed to me, was, that the
children should remain with me in any case, in their proper home."
"You say you have that other letter still?" cried the dowager, who was
not always very clear in her conversation.
"No doubt."
"Then perhaps you'll look for it: and read over her wishes in black and
white."
"To what end? It would make no difference in my decision. I tell you,
ma'am, I am consulting Maude's wishes in keeping her child at home."
"I know better," retorted the dowager, completely losing her temper. "I
wish your poor dear wife could rise from her grave and confute you. It's
all stinginess; because you won't part with a paltry bit of money."
"No," said Val, "it's because I won't part with my child. Understand me,
Lady Kirton--had Maude's wishes even been with you in this, I should not
carry them out. As to money--I may have something to say to you on that
score; but suppose we postpone it to a more fitting opportunity."
"You wouldn't carry them out!" she cried. "But you might be forced to,
you mean man! That letter may be as good as a will in the eyes of the
law. You daren't produce it; that's what it is."
"I'll give it you with pleasure," said Val, with a smile. "That is, if
I have kept it. I am not sure."
She caught up her fan, and sat fanning herself. The reservation had
suggested a meaning never intended to her crafty mind; her rebellious
son-in-law meant to destroy the letter; and she began wondering how she
could outwit him.
A sharp cry outside the door interrupted them. The children were only
coming in to dessert now; and Reginald, taking a flying leap down the
stairs, took rather too long a one, and came to grief at the bottom.
Truth to say, the young gentleman, no longer kept down by poor Edward,
was getting high-spirited and venturesome.
"What's that?" asked Anne, as the nurse came in with them, scolding.
"Lord Elster fell down, my lady. He's getting as tiresome as can be. Only
to-day, I caught him astride the kitchen banisters, going to slide down
them."
"Oh, Regy," said his mother, holding up her reproving finger.
The boy laughed, and came forward rubbing his arm, and ashamed of his
tears. Val caught him up and kissed them away, drawing Maude also to his
side.
That letter! The dowager was determined to get it, if there was a
possibility of doing so. A suspicion that she would not be tolerated much
longer in Lady Hartledon's house was upon her, and she knew not where to
go. Kirton had married again; and his new wife had fairly turned her out
more unceremoniously than the late one did. By hook or by crook, she
meant to obtain the guardianship of her granddaughter, because in giving
her Maude, Lord Hartledon would have to allow her an income.
She was a woman to stop at nothing; and upon quitting the dining-room she
betook herself to the library--a large, magnificent room--the pride of
Hartledon. She had come in search of Val's desk; which she found, and
proceeded to devise means of opening it. That accomplished, she sat
herself down, like a leisurely housebreaker, to examine it, putting on a
pair of spectacles, which she kept surreptitiously in a pocket, and would
not have worn before any one for the world. She found the letter she was
in search of; and she found something else for her pains, which she had
not bargained for.
Not just at first. There were many tempting odds and ends of things to
dip into. For one thing, she found Val's banking book, and some old
cheque-books; they served her for some time. Next she came upon two
packets sealed up in white paper, with Val's own seal. On one was
written, "Letters of Lady Maude;" on the other, "Letters of my dear
Anne." Peering further into the desk, she came upon an obscure inner
slide, which had evidently not been opened for years, and she had
difficulty in undoing it. A paper was in it, superscribed, "Concerning
A.W.;" on opening which she found a letter addressed to Thomas Carr, of
the Temple.
Thomas Carr's letters were no more sacred with her than Lord Hartledon's.
No woman living was troubled with scruples so little as she. It proved to
have been written by a Dr. Mair, in Scotland, and was dated several years
back.
But now--did Lord Hartledon really know he had that dangerous letter by
him? If so, what could have possessed him to preserve it? Or, did he not
rather believe he had returned it to Mr. Carr at the time? The latter,
indeed, proved to be the case; and never, to the end of his life, would
he, in one sense, forgive his own carelessness.
Who was A.W.? thought the curious old woman, as she drew the light nearer
to her, and began the tempting perusal, making the most of the little
time left. They could not be at tea yet, and she had told Lady Hartledon
she was going to take her nap in her own room. The gratification of
rummaging false Val's desk was an ample compensation; and the
countess-dowager hugged herself with delight.
But what was this she had come upon--this paper "concerning A. W."? The
dowager's mouth fell as she read; and gradually her little eyes opened as
if they would start from their sockets, and her face grew white. Have you
ever watched the livid pallor of fear struggling to one of these painted
faces? She dashed off her spectacles; she got up and wrung her hands;
she executed a frantic war-dance; and finally she tore, with the letter,
into the drawing-room, where Val and Anne and Thomas Carr were beginning
tea and talking quietly.
They rose in consternation as she danced in amongst them, and held out
the letter to Lord Hartledon.
He took it from her, gazing in utter bewilderment as he gathered in its
contents. Was it a fresh letter, or--his face became whiter than the
dowager's. In her reckless passion she avowed what she had done--the
letter was secreted in his desk.
"Have you dared to visit my desk?" he gasped--"break my seals? Are you
mad?"
"Hark at him!" she cried. "He calls me to account for just lifting the
lid of a desk! But what is he? A villain--a thief--a spy--a murderer--and
worse than any of them! Ah, ha, my lady!" nodding her false front at
Lady Hartledon, who stood as one petrified, "you stare there at me with
your open eyes; but you don't know what you are! Ask _him_! What was
Maude--Heaven help her--my poor Maude? What was she? And _you_ in the
plot; you vile Carr! I'll have you all hanged together!"
Lord Hartledon caught his wife's hand.
"Carr, stay here with her and tell her all. No good concealing anything
now she has read this letter. Tell her for me, for she would never listen
to me."
He drew his wife into an adjoining room, the one where the portrait of
George Elster looked down on its guests. The time for disclosing the
story to his wife had been somewhat forestalled. He would have given half
his life that it had never reached that other woman, miserable old sinner
though she was.
"You are trembling, Anne; you need not do so. It is not against you that
I have sinned."
Yes, she was trembling very much. And Val, in his honourable, his
refined, shrinking nature, would have given his life's other half not
to have had the tale to tell.
It is not a pleasant one. You may skip it if you please, and go on to the
last page. Val once said he had been more sinned against than sinning: it
may be deemed that in that opinion he was too lenient to himself. Anne,
his wife, listened with averted face and incredulous ears.
"You have wanted a solution to my conduct, Anne--to the strange
preference I seemed to accord the poor boy who is gone; why I could not
punish him; why I was more thankful for the boon of his death than I had
been for his life. He was my child, but he was not Lord Elster."
She did not understand.
"He had no right to my name; poor little Maude has no right to it. Do you
understand me now?"
Not at all; it was as though he were talking Greek to her.
"Their mother, when they were born, was not my wife."
"Their mother was Lady Maude Kirton," she rejoined, in her bewilderment.
"That is exactly where it was," he answered bitterly. "Lady Maude Kirton,
not Lady Hartledon."
She could not comprehend the words; her mind was full of consternation
and tumult. Back went her thoughts to the past.
"Oh, Val! I remember papa's saying that a marriage in that unused chapel
was only three parts legal!"
"It was legal enough, Anne: legal enough. But when that ceremony took
place"--his voice dropped to a miserable whisper, "I had--as they tell
me--a wife living."
Slowly she admitted the meaning of the words; and would have started from
him with a faint cry, but that he held her to him.
"Listen to the whole, Anne, before you judge me. What has been your
promise to me, over and over again?--that, if I would tell you my sorrow,
_you_ would never shrink from me, whatever it might be."
She remembered it, and stood still; terribly rebellious, clasping her
fingers to pain, one within the other.
"In that respect, at any rate, I did not willingly sin. When I married
Maude I had no suspicion that I was not free as air; free to marry her,
or any other woman in the world."
"You speak in enigmas," she said faintly.
"Sit down, Anne, whilst I give you the substance of the tale. Not its
details until I am more myself, and that voice"--pointing to the next
room--"is not sounding in my ears. You shall hear all later; at least, as
much as I know myself; I have never quite believed in it, and it has been
to me throughout as a horrible dream."
Indeed Mr. Carr seemed to be having no inconsiderable amount of trouble,
to judge by the explosions of wrath on the part of the dowager.
She sat down as he told her, her face turned from him, rebellious
at having to listen, but curious yet. Lord Hartledon stood by the
mantelpiece and shaded his eyes with his hand.
"Send your thoughts into the past, Anne; you may remember that an
accident happened to me in Scotland. It was before you and I were
engaged, or it would not have happened. Or, let me say, it might not;
for young men are reckless, and I was no better than others. Heaven have
mercy on their follies!"
"The accident might not have happened?"
"I do not speak of the accident. I mean what followed. When out shooting
I nearly blew off my arm. I was carried to the nearest medical man's, a
Dr. Mair's, and remained there; for it was not thought safe to move me;
they feared inflammation, and they feared locked-jaw. My father was
written to, and came; and when he left after the danger was over he made
arrangements with Dr. Mair to keep me on, for he was a skilful man, and
wished to perfect the cure. I thought the prolonged stay in the strange,
quiet house worse than all the rest. That feeling wore off; we grow
reconciled to most conditions; and things became more tolerable as I grew
better and joined the household. There was a wild, clever, random young
man staying there, the doctor's assistant--George Gordon; and there was
also a young girl, Agnes Waterlow. I used to wonder what this Agnes did
there, and one day asked the old housekeeper; she said the young lady was
there partly that the doctor might watch her health, partly because she
was a relative of his late wife's, and had no home."
He paused, as if in thought, but soon continued.
"We grew very intimate; I, Gordon, and Miss Waterlow. Neither of them was
the person I should have chosen for an intimacy; but there was, in a
sense, no help for it, living together. Agnes was a wild, free, rather
coarse-natured girl, and Gordon drank. That she fell in love with me
there's no doubt--and I grew to like her quite well enough to talk
nonsense to her. Whether any plot was laid between her and Gordon to
entrap me, or whether what happened arose in the recklessness of the
moment, I cannot decide to this hour. It was on my twenty-first birthday;
I was almost well again; we had what the doctor called a dinner, Gordon a
jollification, and Agnes a supper. It was late when we sat down to it,
eight o'clock; and there was a good deal of feasting and plenty of wine.
The doctor was called out afterwards to a patient several miles distant,
and George Gordon made some punch; which rendered none of our heads the
steadier. At least I can answer for mine: I was weak with the long
illness, and not much of a drinker at any time. There was a great deal of
nonsense going on, and Gordon pretended to marry me to Agnes. He said or
read (I can't tell which, and never knew then) some words mockingly out
of the prayer-book, and said we were man and wife. Whilst we were all
laughing at the joke, the doctor's old housekeeper came in, to see what
the noise was about, and I, by way of keeping it up, took Agnes by the
hand, and introduced her as Mrs. Elster. I did not understand the woman's
look of astonishment then; unfortunately, I have understood it too well
since."
Anne was growing painfully interested.
"Well, after that she threw herself upon me in a manner that--that was
extraordinary to me, not having the key to it; and I--lost my head. Don't
frown, Anne; ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have lost theirs; and
you'll say so if ever I give you the details. Of course blame attached to
me; to me, and not to her. Though at the time I mentally gave her, I
assure you, her full share, somewhat after the manner of the Pharisee
condemning the publican. That also has come home to me: she believed
herself to be legally my wife; I never gave a thought to that evening's
farce, and should have supposed its bearing any meaning a simple
impossibility.
"A short time, and letters summoned me home; my mother was dangerously
ill. I remember Agnes asked me to take her with me, and I laughed at her.
I arranged to write to her, and promised to go back shortly--which, to
tell you the truth, I never meant to do. Having been mistaking her,
mistaking her still, I really thought her worthy of very little
consideration. Before I had been at home a fortnight I received a letter
from Dr. Mair, telling me that Agnes was showing symptoms of insanity,
and asking what provision I purposed making for her. My sin was finding
me out; I wondered how _he_ had found it out; I did not ask, and did not
know for years. I wrote back saying I would willingly take all expenses
upon myself; and inquired what sum would be required by the asylum--to
which he said she must be sent. He mentioned two hundred a-year, and from
that time I paid it regularly."
"And was she really insane?" interrupted Lady Hartledon.
"Yes; she had been so once or twice before--and this was what the
housekeeper had meant by saying she was with the doctor that her health
might be watched. It appeared that when these symptoms came on, after I
left, Gordon took upon himself to disclose to the doctor that Agnes was
married to me, telling the circumstances as they had occurred. Dr. Mair
got frightened: it was no light matter for the son of an English peer to
have been deluded into marriage with an obscure and insane girl; and the
quarrel that took place between him and Gordon on the occasion resulted
in the latter's leaving. I have never understood Gordon's conduct in the
matter: very disagreeable thoughts in regard to it come over me
sometimes."
"What thoughts?"
"Oh, never mind; they can never be set at rest now. Let me make short
work of this story. I heard no more and thought no more; and the years
went on, and then came my marriage with Maude. We went to Paris--_you_
cannot have forgotten any of the details of that period, Anne; and after
our return to London I was surprised by a visit from Dr. Mair. That
evening, that visit and its details stamped themselves on my memory for
ever in characters of living fire."
He paused for a moment, and something like a shiver seized him. Anne said
nothing.
"Maude had gone with some friends to a fête at Chiswick, and Thomas Carr
was dining with me. Hedges came in and said a gentleman wanted to see
me--_would_ see me, and would not be denied. I went to him, and found it
was Dr. Mair. In that interview I learnt that by the laws of Scotland
Miss Waterlow was my wife."
"And the suspicion that she was so had never occurred to you before?"
"Anne! Should I have been capable of marrying Maude, or any one else, if
it had? On my solemn word of honour, before Heaven"--he raised his right
hand as if to give effect to his words--"such a thought had never crossed
my brain. The evening that the nonsense took place I only regarded it as
a jest, a pastime--what you will: had any one told me it was a marriage I
should have laughed at them. I knew nothing then of the laws of Scotland,
and should have thought it simply impossible that that minute's folly,
and my calling her, to keep up the joke, Mrs. Elster, could have
constituted a marriage. I think they all played a deep part, even Agnes.
Not a soul had so much as hinted at the word 'marriage' to me after that
evening; neither Gordon, nor she, nor Dr. Mair in his subsequent
correspondence; and in that he always called her 'Agnes.' However--he
then told me that she was certainly my legal wife, and that Lady Maude
was not.
"At first," continued Val, "I did not believe it; but Dr. Mair persisted
he was right, and the horror of the situation grew upon me. I told all to
Carr, and took him up to Dr. Mair. They discussed Scottish law and
consulted law-books; and the truth, so far, became apparent. Dr. Mair was
sorry for me; he saw I had not erred knowingly in marrying Maude. As to
myself, I was helpless, prostrated. I asked the doctor, if it were really
true, why the fact had been kept from me: he replied that he supposed I
knew it, and that delicacy alone had caused him to abstain from alluding
to it in his letters. He had been very angry when Gordon told him, he
said; grew half frightened as to consequences; feared he should get into
trouble for allowing me to be so entrapped in his house; and he and
Gordon parted at once. And then Dr. Mair asked a question which I could
not very well answer, why, if I did not know she was my wife, I had paid
so large a sum for Agnes. He had been burying the affair in silence, as
he had assumed I was doing; and it was only the announcement of my
marriage with Maude in the newspapers that aroused him. He had thought
I was acting this bad part deliberately; and he went off at once to
Hartledon in anger; found I had gone abroad; and now came to me on my
return, still in anger, saying at first that he should proceed against
me, and obtain justice for Agnes. When he found how utterly ignorant of
wrong I had been, his tone changed; he was truly grieved and concerned
for me. Nothing was decided: except that Dr. Mair, in his compassion
towards Lady Maude, promised not to be the first to take legal steps.
It seemed that there was only him to fear: George Gordon was reported
to have gone to Australia; the old housekeeper was dead; Agnes was
deranged. Dr. Mair left, and Carr and I sat on till midnight. Carr took
what I thought a harsh view of the matter; he urged me to separate from
Maude--"
"I think you should have done so for her sake," came the gentle
interruption.
"For her sake! the words Carr used. But, Anne, surely there were two
sides to the question. If I disclosed the facts, and put her away from
me, what was she? Besides, the law might be against me--Scotland's
iniquitous law; but in Heaven's sight _Maude_ was my wife, not the other.
So I temporized, hoping that time might bring about a relief, for Dr.
Mair told me that Miss Waterlow's health was failing. However, she
lived on, and--"
Lady Hartledon started up, her face blanching.
"Is she not dead now? Was she living when you married me? Am _I_ your
wife?"
He could hardly help smiling. His calm touch reassured her.
"Do you think you need ask, Anne? The next year Dr. Mair called upon me
again--it was the evening before the boy was christened; he had come to
London on business of his own. To my dismay, he told me that a change for
the better was appearing in Miss Waterlow's mental condition; and he
thought it likely she might be restored to health. Of course, it
increased the perplexities and my horror, had that been needed; but the
hope or fear, or what you like to call it, was not borne out. Three years
later, the doctor came to me for the third and final time, to bring me
the news that Agnes was dead."
As the relief had been to him then, so did it almost seem now to Anne. A
sigh of infinite pain broke from her. She had not seen where all this was
tending.
"Imagine, if you can, what it was for me all those years with the
knowledge daily and nightly upon me that the disgraceful truth might at
any moment come out to Maude--to her children, to the world! Living in
the dread of arrest myself, should the man Gordon show himself on the
scene! And now you see what it is that has marred my peace, and broken
the happiness of our married life. How could I bear to cross those two
deeply-injured children, who were ever rising up in judgment against me?
How take our children's part against them, little unconscious things? It
seemed that I had always, daily, hourly, some wrong to make up to them.
The poor boy was heir to Hartledon in the eyes of the world; but, Anne,
your boy was the true heir."
"Why did you not tell me?--all this time!"
"I could not. I dared not. You might not have liked to put Reginald out
of his rights."
"Oh, Percival; how can you so misjudge me?" she asked, in tones of pain.
"I would have guarded the secret as jealously as you. I must still do it
for Maude."
"Poor Maude!" he sighed. "Her mother forgave me before she died--"
"She knew it, then?"
"Yes. She learned--"
Sounds of drumming on the door, and the countess-dowager's voice, stopped
Lord Hartledon.
"I had better face her," he said, as he unlocked it. "She will arouse the
household."
Wild, intemperate, she met him with a volley of abuse that startled Lady
Hartledon. He got her to a sofa, and gently held her down there.
"It's what I've been obliged to do all along," said Thomas Carr; "I don't
believe she has heard ten words of my explanation."
"Pray be calm, Lady Kirton," said Hartledon, soothingly; "be calm, as you
value your daughter's memory. We shall have the servants at the doors."
"I won't be calm; I will know the worst."
"I wish you to know it; but not others."
"Was Maude your wife?"
"No," he answered, in low tones. "Not--"
"And you are not ashamed to confess it?" she interrupted, not allowing
him to continue. But she was a little calmer in manner; and Val stood
upright before her with folded arms.
"I am ashamed and grieved to confess it; but I did not knowingly inflict
the injury. In Scotland--"
"Don't repeat the shameful tale," she cried; "I have heard from your
confederate, Carr, as much as I want to hear. What do you deserve for
your treachery to Maude?"
"All I have reaped--and more. But it was not intentional treachery; and
Maude forgave me before she died."
"She knew it! You told her? Oh, you cruel monster!"
"I did not tell her. She did as you have just done--interfered in what
did not concern her, in direct disobedience to my desire; and she found
it out for herself, as you, ma'am, have found it out."
"When?"
"The winter before her death."
"Then the knowledge killed her!"
"No. Something else killed her, as you know. It preyed upon her spirits."
"Lord Hartledon, I can have you up for fraud and forgery, and I'll do it.
It will be the consideration of Maude's fame against your punishment, and
I'll make a sacrifice to revenge, and prosecute you."
"There is no fraud where an offence is committed unwittingly," returned
Lord Hartledon; "and forgery is certainly not amongst my catalogue of
sins."
"You are liable for both," suddenly retorted the dowager; "you have stuck
up 'Maude, Countess of Hartledon,' on her monument in the church; and
what's that but fraud and forgery?"
"It is neither. If Maude did not live Countess of Hartledon, she at least
so went to her grave. We were remarried, privately, before she died. Mr.
Carr can tell you so."
"It's false!" raved the dowager.
"I arranged it, ma'am," interposed Mr. Carr. "Lord Hartledon and your
daughter confided the management to me, and the ceremony was performed in
secrecy in London"
The dowager looked from one to the other, as if she were bewildered.
"Married her again! why, that was making bad worse. Two false marriages!
Did you do it to impose upon her?"
"I see you do not understand," said Lord Hartledon. "The--my--the person
in Scotland was dead then. She was dead, I am thankful to say, before
Maude knew anything of the affair."
Up started the dowager. "Then is the woman dead now? was she dead when
you married _her_?" laying her hand upon Lady Hartledon's arm. "Are her
children different from Maude's?"
"They are. It could not be otherwise."
"Her boy is really Lord Elster?"
She flung Lady Hartledon's arm from her. Her voice rose to a shriek.
"Maude is not Lady Maude?"
Val shook his head sadly.
"And your children are lords and ladies and honourables," darting a look
of consternation at Anne, "whilst my daughter's--"
"Peace, Lady Kirton!" sternly interrupted Val. "Let the child, Maude, be
Lady Maude still to the world; let your daughter's memory be held sacred.
The facts need never come out: I do not fear now that they ever will. I
and my wife and Thomas Carr, will guard the secret safely: take you care
to do so."
"I wish you had been hung before you married Maude!" responded the
aggrieved dowager.
"I wish I had," said he.
"Ugh!" she grunted wrathfully, the ready assent not pleasing her.
"With my poor boy's death the chief difficulty has passed away. How
things would have turned out, or what would have been done, had he lived,
it has well-nigh worn away my brain to dwell upon. Carr knows that it has
nearly killed me: my wife knows it."
"Yes, you could tell her things, and keep the diabolical secret from poor
Maude and from me," she returned, rather inconsistently. "I don't doubt
you and your wife have exulted enough over it."
"I never knew it until to-night," said Anne, gently turning to the
dowager. "It has grieved me deeply. I shall never cease to feel for your
daughter's wrongs; and it will only make me more tender and loving to her
child. The world will never know that she is not Lady Maude."
"And the other name--Elster--because you know she has no right to it,"
was the spiteful retort. "I wish to my heart you had been drowned in your
brother's place, Lord Hartledon; I wished it at the time."
"I know you did."
"You could not then have made fools of me and my dear daughter; and the
darling little cherub in the churchyard would have been the real heir.
There'd have been a good riddance of you."
"It might have been better for me in the long run," said he, quietly,
passing over the inconsistencies of her speech. "Little peace or
happiness have I had in living. Do not let us recriminate, Lady Kirton,
or on some scores I might reproach you. Maude loved my brother, and you
knew it; I loved Miss Ashton, and you knew that; yet from the very hour
the breath was out of my brother's body you laid your plans and began
your schemes upon me. I was weak as water in your hands, and fell into
the snare. The marriage was your work entirely; and in the fruits it has
brought forth there might arise a nice question, Lady Kirton, which of us
is most to blame: I, who erred unwittingly, or you who--"
"Will you have done?" she cried.
"I have nearly done. I only wish you to remember that others may have
been wrong, as well as myself. Dr. Ashton warned us that night that the
marriage might not bring a blessing. Anne, it was a cruel wrong upon
you," he added, impulsively turning to her; "you felt it bitterly, I
shamefully; but, my dear wife, you have lived to see that it was in
reality a mercy in disguise."
The countess-dowager, not finding words strong enough to express her
feelings at this, made a grimace at him.
"Let us be friends, Lady Kirton! Let us join together silently in
guarding Maude's good name, and in burying the past. In time perhaps even
I may live it down. Not a human being knows of it except we who are here
and Dr. Mair, who will for his own sake guard the secret. Maude was my
wife always in the eyes of the world; and Maude certainly died so: all
peace and respect to her memory! As for my share, retribution has held
its heavy hand upon me; it is upon me still, Heaven knows. It was for
Maude I suffered; for Maude I felt; and if my life could have repaired
the wrong upon her, I would willingly have sacrificed it. Let us be
friends: it may be to the interest of both."
He held out his hand, and the dowager did not repulse it. She had caught
the word "interest."
"_Now_ you might allow me Maude and that income!"
"I think I had better allow you the income without Maude."
"Eh? what?" cried the dowager, briskly. "Do you mean it?"
"Indeed I do. I have been thinking for some little time that you would be
more comfortable in a home of your own, and I am willing to help you to
one. I'll pay the rent of a nice little place in Ireland, and give you
six hundred a-year, paid quarterly, and--yes--make you a yearly present
of ten dozen of port wine."
Ah, the crafty man! The last item had a golden sound in it.
"Honour bright, Hartledon?"
"Honour bright! You shall never want for anything as long as you live.
But you must not"--he seemed to search for his words--"you must undertake
not to come here, upsetting and indulging the children."
"I'll undertake it. Good vintage, mind."
"The same that you have here."
The countess-dowager beamed. In the midst of her happiness--and it was
what she had not felt for many a long day, for really the poor old
creature had been put about sadly--she bethought herself of propriety.
Melting into tears, she presently bewailed her exhaustion, and said she
should like some tea: perhaps good Mr. Carr would bring her a teaspoonful
of brandy to put into it.
They brought her hot tea, and Mr. Carr put the brandy into it, and
Anne took it to her on the sofa, and administered it, her own tears
overflowing. She was thinking what an awful blow this would have been
to her own mother.
"Little Maude shall be very dear to me always, Val," she whispered. "This
knowledge will make me doubly tender with her."
He laid his hand fondly upon her, giving her one of his sweet sad smiles
in answer. She could at length understand what feelings, in regard to the
children, had actuated him. But from henceforth he would be just to all
alike; and Maude would receive her share of correction for her own good.
"I always said you did not give me back the letter," observed Mr. Carr,
when they were alone together later, and Val sat tearing up the letter
into innumerable bits.
"And I said I did, simply because I could not find it. You were right,
Carr, as you always are."
"Not always. But I am sorry it came to light in this way."
"Sorry! it is the greatest boon that could have fallen on me. The secret
is, so to say, off my mind now, and I can breathe as I have not breathed
for years. If ever a heartfelt thanksgiving went up to Heaven one from me
will ascend to-night. And the dowager does not feel the past a bit. She
cared no more for Maude than for any one else. She can't care for any
one. Don't think me harsh, Carr, in saying so."
"I am sure she does not feel it," emphatically assented Mr. Carr. "Had
she felt it she would have been less noisy. Thank heaven for your sake,
Hartledon, that the miserable past is over."
"And over more happily than I deserved."
A silence ensued, and Lord Hartledon flung the bits of paper carefully
into the fire. Presently he looked up, a strange earnestness in his face.
"It is the custom of some of our cottagers here to hang up embossed cards
at the foot of their bed, with texts of Scripture written on them. There
is one verse I should like to hang before every son of mine, though I had
ten of them, that it might meet their eyes last ere the evening's
sleeping, in the morning's first awakening. The ninth verse of the
eleventh chapter of Ecclesiastes."
"I don't remember," observed Thomas Carr, after a pause of thought.
"'Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth: and let thy heart cheer thee in the
days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight
of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all these things God will bring
thee into judgment.'"
THE END