Elster's Folly

"Oh, you need not 'Madam' me. Maude's gone, and I shall act for her."

"I ask you where my children are?"

"I have sent them away; you may make the most of the information. And when I have remained here as long as I choose, I shall take them with me, and keep them, and bring them up. You can at once decide what sum you will allow me for their education and maintenance: two maids, a tutor, a governess, clothes, toys, and pocket-money. It must be a handsome sum, paid quarterly in advance. And I mean to take a house in London for their accommodation, and shall expect you to pay the rent."

The coolness with which this was delivered turned Val's angry feelings into amusement. He could not help laughing as he looked at her.

"You cannot have my children, Lady Kirton."

"They are Maude's children," snapped the dowager.

"But I presume you admit that they are likewise mine. And I shall certainly not part with them."

"If you oppose me in this, I'll put them into Chancery," cried the dowager. "I am their nearest relative, and have a right to them."

"Nearest relative!" he repeated. "You must have lost your senses. I am their father."

"And have you lived to see thirty, and never learnt that men don't count for anything in the bringing up of infants?" shrilly asked the dowager. "If they had ten fathers, what's that to the Lord Chancellor? No more than ten blocks of wood. What they want is a mother."

"And I have now given them one."

Without another word, with the red flush of emotion on his cheek, he went up to his wife's room. She was alone then, dressed, and just coming out of it. He put his arm round her to draw her in again, as he shortly explained the annoyance their visitor was causing him.

"You must stay here, my dearest, until I can go down with you," he added. "She is in a vile humour, and I do not choose that you should encounter her, unprotected by me."

"But where are you going, Val?"

"Well, I really think I shall get a policeman in, and frighten her into saying what she has done with the children. She'll never tell unless forced into it."

Anne laughed, and Hartledon went down. He had in good truth a great mind to see what the effect would be. The old woman was not a reasonable being, and he felt disposed to show her very little consideration. As he stood at the hall-door gazing forth, who should arrive but Thomas Carr. Not altogether by accident; he had come up exploring, to see if there were any signs of Val's return.

"Ah! home at last, Hartledon!"

"Carr, what happy wind blew you hither?" cried Val, as he grasped the hands of his trusty friend. "You can terrify this woman with the thunders of the law if she persists in kidnapping children that don't belong to her." And he forthwith explained the state of affairs.

Mr. Carr laughed.

"She will not keep them away long. She is no fool, that countess-dowager. It is a ruse, no doubt, to induce you to give them up to her."

"Give them up to her, indeed!" Val was beginning, when Hedges advanced to him.

"Mrs. Ball says the children have only gone to Madame Tussaud's, my lord," quoth he. "The nurse told her so when she went out."

"I wish she was herself one of Madame Tussaud's figure-heads!" cried Val. "Mr. Carr dines here, Hedges. Nonsense, Carr; you can't refuse. Never mind your coat; Anne won't mind. I want you to make acquaintance with her."

"How did you contrive to win over Dr. Ashton?" asked Thomas Carr, as he went in.

"I put the matter before him in its true light," answered Val, "asking him whether, if Anne forgave me, he would condemn us to live out our lives apart from each other: or whether he would not act the part of a good Christian, and give her to me, that I might strive to atone for the past."

"And he did so?"

"After a great deal of trouble. There's no time to give you details. I had a powerful advocate in Anne's heart. She had never forgotten me, for all my misconduct."

"You have been a lucky man at last, taking one thing with another."

"You may well say so," was the answer, in tones of deep feeling. "Moments come over me when I fear I am about to awake and find the present a dream. I am only now beginning to live. The past few years have been—you know what, Carr."

He sent the barrister into the drawing room, went upstairs for Anne, and brought her in on his arm. The dowager was in her chamber, attiring herself in haste.

"My wife, Carr," said Hartledon, with a loving emphasis on the word. She was in an evening dress of white and black, not having yet put off mourning for Mrs. Ashton, and looked very lovely; far more lovely in Thomas Carr's eyes than Lady Maude, with her dark beauty, had ever looked. She held out her hand to him with a frank smile.

"I have heard so much of you, Mr. Carr, that we seem like old friends. I am glad you have come to see me so soon."

"My being here this evening is an accident, Lady Hartledon, as you may see by my dress," he returned. "I ought rather to apologize for intruding on you in the hour of your arrival."

"Don't talk about intrusion," said Val. "You will never be an intruder in my house—and Anne's smile is telling you the same—"

"Who's that, pray?"

The interruption came from the countess-dowager. There she stood, near the door, in a yellow gown and green turban. Val drew himself up and approached her, his wife still on his arm. "Madam," said he, in reply to her question, "this is my wife, Lady Hartledon."

The dowager's gauzes made acquaintance with the carpet in so elaborate a curtsey as to savour of mockery, but her eyes were turned up to the ceiling; not a word or look gave she to the young lady.

"The other one, I meant," cried she, nodding towards Thomas Carr.

"It is my friend Mr. Carr. You appear to have forgotten him."

"I hope you are well, ma'am," said he, advancing towards her.

Another curtsey, and the countess-dowager fanned herself, and sailed towards the fireplace.

Meanwhile the children came home in a cab from Madame Tussaud's, and dinner was announced. Lord Hartledon was obliged to take down the countess-dowager, resigning his wife to Mr. Carr. Dinner passed off pretty well, the dowager being too fully occupied to be annoying; also the good cheer caused her temper to thaw a little. Afterwards, the children came in; Edward, a bold, free boy of five, who walked straight up to his grandmother, saluting no one; and Maude, a timid, delicate little child, who stood still in the middle of the carpet where the maid placed her.

The dowager was just then too busy to pay attention to the children, but Anne held out her hand with a smile. Upon which the child drew up to her father, and hid her face in his coat.

He took her up, and carried her to his wife, placing her upon her knee. "Maude," he whispered, "this is your mamma, and you must love her very much, for she loves you."

Anne's arms fondly encircled the child; but she began to struggle to get down.

"Bad manners, Maude," said her father.

"She's afraid of her," spoke up the boy, who had the dark eyes and beautiful features of his late mother. "We are afraid of bad people."

The observation passed momentarily unnoticed, for Maude, whom Lady Hartledon had been obliged to release, would not be pacified. But when calmness ensued, Lord Hartledon turned to the boy, just then assisting himself to some pineapple.

"What did I hear you say about bad people, Edward?"

"She," answered the boy, pointing towards Lady Hartledon. "She shan't touch Maude. She's come here to beat us, and I'll kick if she touches me."