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.