Chapter 57
"I heard it through a man named Druitt," was the ready answer. "Happening to ask him--as I did several people--whether he knew any George Gordon, he at once said that a man of that name was at Kedge and Reck's, where Druitt himself had been temporarily employed."
"Ah," said Mr. Carr, remembering this same Druitt had been mentioned to him. "But the man was called Gorton, not Gordon. You must have caught up the wrong name, Taylor. Or perhaps he misunderstood you. That's all; you may go now."
The clerk departed. Mr. Carr took his hat and followed him down; but before joining Lord Hartledon he turned into the Temple Gardens, and strolled towards the river; a few moments of fresh air--fresh to those hard-worked denizens of close and crowded London--seemed absolutely necessary to the barrister's heated brain.
He sat down on a bench facing the water, and bared his brow to the breeze. A cool head, his; never a cooler brought thought to bear upon perplexity; nevertheless it was not feeling very collected now. He could not reconcile sundry discrepancies in the trouble he was engaged in fathoming, and he saw no release whatever for Lord Hartledon.
"It has only complicated the affair," he said, as he watched the steamers up and down, "this calling in Green the detective, and the news he brings. Gordon the Gordon of the mutiny! I don't like it: the other Gordon, simple enough and not bad-hearted, was easy to deal with in comparison; this man, pirate, robber, murderer, will stand at nothing. We should have a hold on him, it's true, in his own crime; but what's to prevent his keeping himself out of the way, and selling Hartledon to another? Why he has not sold him yet, I can't think. Unless for some reason he is waiting his time."
He put on his hat and began to count the barges on the other side, to banish thought. But it would not be banished, and he fell into the train again.
"Mair's behaving well; with Christian kindness; but it's bad enough to be even in _his_ power. There's something in Lord Hartledon he 'can't help loving,' he writes. Who can? Here am I, giving up circuit--such a thing as never was heard of--calling him friend still, and losing my rest at night for him! Poor Val! better he had been the one to die!"
"Please, sir, could you tell us the time?"
The spell was broken, and Mr. Carr took out his watch as he turned his eyes on a ragged urchin who had called to him from below.
The tide was down; and sundry Arabs were regaling their naked feet in the mud, sporting and shouting. The evening drew in earlier than they did, and the sun had already set.
Quitting the garden, Mr. Carr stepped into a hansom, and was conveyed to Grafton Street. He found Lord Hartledon knitting his brow over a letter.
"Maude is growing vexed in earnest," he began, looking up at Mr. Carr.
"She insists upon knowing the reason that I do not go home to her."
"I don't wonder at it. You ought to do one of two things: go, or--"
"Or what, Carr?"
"You know. Never go home again."
"I wish I was out of the world!" cried the unhappy man.
CHAPTER XXV.
AT HARTLEDON.
"Hartledon,
"I wonder what you _think_ of yourself, Galloping about _Rotten Row_ with women when your wife's _dying_. Of _course_ it's not your fault
"Your wicked mother,
"C. Kirton."
Lord Hartledon turned this letter about in his hand. He scarcely noticed the mistake at the conclusion: the dowager had doubtless intended to imply that _he_ was wicked, and the slip of the pen in her temper went for nothing.
Galloping about Rotten Row with women!
Hartledon sent his thoughts back, endeavouring to recollect what could have given rise to this charge. One morning, after a sleepless night, when he had tossed and turned on his uneasy bed, and risen unrefreshed, he hired a horse, for he had none in town, and went for a long ride.
Coming back he turned into Rotten Row. He could not tell why he did so, for such places, affected by the gay, empty-headed votaries of fas.h.i.+on, were little consonant to his present state. He was barely in it when a lady's horse took fright: she was riding alone, with a groom following; Lord Hartledon gave her his a.s.sistance, led her horse until the animal was calm, and rode side by side with her to the end of the Row. He knew not who she was; scarcely noticed whether she was young or old; and had not given a remembrance to it since.
When your wife's dying! Accustomed to the strong expressions of the countess-dowager, he pa.s.sed that over. But, "going the same way that her father went;" he paused there, and tried to remember how her father did "go." All he could recollect now, indeed all he knew at the time, was, that Lord Kirton's last illness was reported to have been a lingering one.
Such missives as these--and the countess-dowager favoured him with more than one--coupled with his own consciousness that he was not behaving to his wife as he ought, took him at length down to Hartledon. That his presence at the place so soon after his marriage was little short of an insult to Dr. Ashton's family, his sensitive feelings told him; but his duty to his wife was paramount, and he could not visit his sin upon her.
She was looking very ill; was low-spirited and hysterical; and when she caught sight of him she forgot her anger, and fell sobbing into his arms.
The countess-dowager had gone over to Garchester, and they had a few hours' peace together.
"You are not looking well, Maude!"
"I know I am not. Why do you stay away from me?"
"I could not help myself. Business has kept me in London."
"Have _you_ been ill also? You look thin and worn."
"One does grow to look thin in heated London," he replied evasively, as he walked to the window, and stood there. "How is your brother, Maude--Bob?"
"I don't want to talk about Bob yet; I have to talk to you," she said.
"Percival, why did you practise that deceit upon me?"
"What deceit?"
"It was a downright falsehood; and made me look awfully foolish when I came here and spoke of it as a fact. That action."
Lord Hartledon made no reply. Here was one cause of his disinclination to meet his wife--having to keep up the farce of Dr. Ashton's action. It seemed, however, that there would no longer be any farce to keep up. Had it exploded? He said nothing. Maude gazing at him from the sofa on which she sat, her dark eyes looking larger than of yore, with hollow circles round them, waited for his answer.
"I do not know what you mean, Maude."
"You _do_ know. You sent me down here with a tale that the Ashtons had entered an action against you for breach of promise--damages, ten thousand pounds--"
"Stay an instant, Maude. I did not 'send you down' with the tale.
I particularly requested you to keep it private."
"Well, mamma drew it out of me unawares. She vexed me with her comments about your staying on in London, and it made me tell her why you had stayed. She ascertained from Dr. Ashton that there was not a word of truth in the story. Val, I betrayed it in your defence."
He stood at the window in silence, his lips compressed.
"I looked so foolish in the eyes of Dr. Ashton! The Sunday evening after I came down here I had a sort of half-fainting-fit, coming home from church. He overtook me, and was very kind, and gave me his arm. I said a word to him; I could not help it; mamma had worried me on so; and I learned that no such action had ever been thought of. You had no right to subject me to the chance of such mortification. Why did you do so?"
Lord Hartledon came from the window and sat down near his wife, his elbow on the table. All he could do now was to make the best of it, and explain as near to the truth as he could.
"Maude, you must not expect full confidence on this subject, for I cannot give it you. When I found I had reason to believe that some--some legal proceedings were about to be inst.i.tuted against me, just at the first intimation of the trouble, I thought it must emanate from Dr. Ashton.
You took up the same idea yourself, and I did not contradict it, simply because I could not tell you the real truth--"