Elster's Folly

Lord Hartledon was liberal. He gave her a handsome sum for her journey, and a cheque besides; most devoutly praying that she might keep guard over Kirton for ever. He escorted her to the station himself in a closed carriage, an omnibus having gone before them with a mountain of boxes, at which all Calne came out to stare.

And the same week, confiding his children to the joint care of Mirrable and their nurse—an efficient, kind, and judicious woman—Lord Hartledon departed from home and England for a sojourn on the Continent, long or short, as inclination might lead him, feeling as a bird released from its cage.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

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!"