"A very short one. I suppose you have had no return of the fever?"
"Not any. Calne never was more healthy than it is now. As I said to Dr. Ashton yesterday, but for his own house I might put up my shutters and take a lengthened holiday."
"Who is ill at the Rectory? Mrs. Ashton?"
"Mrs. Ashton is not strong, but she's better than she was last year. I have been more concerned for Anne than for her."
"Is she ill?" cried Lord Hartledon, a spasm seizing his throat.
"Ailing. But it's an ailing I do not like."
"What's the cause?" he rejoined, feeling as if some other crime were about to be brought home to him.
"That's a question I never inquire into. I put it upon the air of the Rectory," added the surgeon in jesting tones, "and tell them they ought to go away for a time, but they have been away too much of late, they say. She's getting over it somewhat, and I take care that she goes out and takes exercise. What has it been? Well, a sort of inward fever, with flushed cheeks and unequal spirits. It takes time for these things to be got over, you know. The Rector has been anything but well, too; he is not the strong, healthy man he was."
"And all my work; my work!" cried Hartledon to himself, almost gnashing his teeth as he went back down the street. "What right had I to upset the happiness of that family? I wish it had pleased God to take me first! My father used to say that some men seem born into the world only to be a blight to it; it's what I have been, Heaven knows."
He knew only too well that Anne Ashton was suffering from the shock caused by his conduct. The love of these quiet, sensitive, refined natures, once awakened, is not given for a day, but for all time; it becomes a part of existence; and cannot be riven except by an effort that brings destruction to even future hope of happiness. Not even Mr. Hillary, not even Dr. and Mrs. Ashton, could discern the utter misery that was Anne's daily portion. She strove to conceal it all. She went about the house cheerfully, wore a smiling face when people were present, dressed well, laughed with their guests, went about the parish to rich and poor, and was altogether gay. Ah, do you know what it is, this assumption of gaiety when the heart is breaking?—this dread fear lest those about you should detect the truth? Have you ever lived with this mask upon your face?—which can only be thrown off at night in the privacy of your own chamber, when you may abandon yourself to your desolation, and pray heaven to take you or give you increased strength to live and bear? It may seem a light thing, this state of heart that I am telling you about; but it has killed both men and women, for all that; and killed them in silence.