Elster's Folly Part 75

"What's the matter, Edward?" called out Lord Hartledon to his son.

"Young lordship wants to ride the pony, my lord," said the groom. "My lady ordered me to ride it."

At this juncture Lady Hartledon appeared on the scene, ready for her drive. She had intended to take her little son with her--as she generally did--but the child boisterously demanded that he should ride the pony for once, and she weakly yielded. Lord Hartledon's private opinion, looking on, was that she was literally incapable of denying him any earthly thing he chose to demand. He went out.

"He had better go with you in the carriage, Maude."

"Not at all. He sits very well now, and the pony's perfectly quiet."

"But he is too young to ride by the side of any vehicle. It is not safe.

Let him sit with you as usual."

"Nonsense! Edward, you shall ride the pony. Help him up, Ralph."

"No, Maude. He--"

"Be quiet!" said Lady Hartledon, bending towards her husband and speaking in low tones. "It is not for you to interfere. Would you deny him everything?"

A strangely bitter expression sat on Val's lips. Not of anger; not even mortification, but sad, cruel pain. He said no more.

And the cavalcade started. Lady Hartledon driving, the boy-groom sitting beside her, and Eddie's short legs striding the pony. They were keeping to the Park, she called to her husband, and she should drive slowly.

There was no real danger, as Val believed; only he did not like the child's wilful temper given way to. With a deep sigh he turned indoors for his hat, and went strolling down the avenue. Mrs. Capper dropped a curtsey as he pa.s.sed the lodge.

"Have you heard from your son yet?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord, many thanks to you. The school suits him bravely."

Turning out of the gates, he saw Floyd, the miller, walking slowly along.

The man had been confined to his bed for weeks in the summer, with an attack of acute rheumatism, and to the house afterwards. It was the first time they had met since that morning long ago, when the miller brought up the purse. Lord Hartledon did not know him at first, he was so altered; pale and reduced.

"Is it really you, Floyd?"

"What's left of me, my lord."

"And that's not much; but I am glad to see you so far well," said Hartledon, in his usual kindly tone. "I have heard reports of you from Mr. Hillary."

"Your lordship's altered too."

"Am I?"

"Well, it seems so to me. But it's some few years now since I saw you.

Nothing has ever come to light about that pocket-book, my lord."

"I conclude not, or I should have heard of it."

"And your lordship never came down to see the place!"

"No. I left Hartledon the same day, I think, or the next. After all, Floyd, I don't see that it is of any use looking into these painful things: it cannot bring the dead to life again."

"That's, true," said the miller.

He was walking into Calne. Lord Hartledon kept by his side, talking to him. He promised to be as popular a man as his father had been; and that was saying a great deal. When they came opposite the Rectory, Lord Hartledon wished him good day and more strength, in his genial manner, and turned in at the Rectory gates.

About once a week he was in the habit of calling upon Mrs. Ashton. Peace was between them; and these visits to her sick-chamber were strangely welcome to her heart. She had loved Val Elster all her life, and she loved him still, in spite of the past. For Val was curiously subdued; and his present mood, sad, quiet, thoughtful, was more endearing than his gayer one had been. Mrs. Ashton did not fail to read that he was a disappointed man, one with some constant care upon him.

Anne was in the hall when he entered, talking to a poor applicant who was waiting to see the Rector. Lord Hartledon lifted his hat to her, but did not offer to shake hands. He had never presumed to touch her hand since the reconciliation; in fact, he scarcely ever saw her.

"How is Mrs. Ashton to-day?"

"A little better, I think. She will be glad to see you."

He followed the servant upstairs, and Anne turned to the woman again.

Mrs. Ashton was in an easy-chair near the window; he drew one close to her.

"You are looking wonderful to-day, do you know?" he began in tones almost as gay as those of the light-hearted Val Elster. "What is it? That very becoming cap?"

"The cap, of course. Don't you see its pink ribbons? Your favourite colour used to be pink, Val. Do you remember?"

"I remember everything. But indeed and in truth you look better, dear Mrs. Ashton."

"Yes, better to-day," she said, with a sigh. "I shall fluctuate to the end, I suppose; one day better, the next worse. Val, I think sometimes it is not far off now."

Very far off he knew it could not be. But he spoke of hope still: it was in his nature to do so. In the depths of his heart, so hidden from the world, there seemed to be hope for the whole living creation, himself excepted.

"How is your wife to-day?"

"Quite well. She and Edward are out with the ponies and carriage."

"She never comes to see me."

"She does not go to see anyone. Though well, she's not very strong yet."

"But she's young, and will grow strong. I shall only grow weaker. I am brave to-day; but you should have seen me last night. So prostrate! I almost doubted whether I should rise from my bed again. I do not think you will have to come here many more times."

"Oh, Mrs. Ashton!"

"A little sooner or a little later, what does it matter, I try to ask myself; but parting is parting, and my heart aches sometimes. One of my aches will be leaving you."

"A very minor one then," he said, with deprecation; but tears shone in his dark blue eyes.

"Not a minor one. I have loved you as a son. I never loved you more, Percival, than when that letter of yours came to me at Cannes."

It was the first time she had alluded to it: the letter written the evening of his marriage. Val's face turned red, for his perfidy rose up before him in its full extent of shame.

"I don't care to speak of that," he whispered. "If you only knew what my humiliation has been!"

"Not of that, no; I don't know why I mentioned it. But I want you to speak of something else, Val. Over and over again has it been on my lips to ask it. What secret trouble is weighing you down?"