Works of Ellen Wood, page 764
“My conclusion is — the Gordon you spoke to me about was the Gordon who led the mutiny on board the Morning Star; that he never, after that, came back to England; has never been heard of, in short, by any living soul in it. That the Gorton employed by Kedge and Reck was another man altogether. Neither is to be traced; the one may have found his grave in the sea years ago; the other has disappeared out of London life since last October, and I can’t trace how or where.”
Mr. Carr listened in silence. To reiterate that the two men were identical, would have been waste of time, since he could not avow how he knew it, or give the faintest clue. The detective himself had unconsciously furnished a proof.
“Will you tell me your grounds for believing them to be different men?” he asked.
“Nay,” said the keen detective, “the shortest way would be for you to give me your grounds for thinking them to be the same.”
“I cannot do it,” said Mr. Carr. “It might involve — no, I cannot do it.”
“Well, I suspected so. I don’t mind mentioning one or two on my side. The description of Gorton, as I had it from Kimberly, does not accord with that of Gordon as given me by his friend the surgeon. I wrote out the description of Gorton, and took it to him. ‘Is this Gordon?’ I asked. ‘No, it is not,’ said he; and I’m sure he spoke the truth.”
“Gordon, on his return from Australia, might be a different-looking man from the Gordon who went to it.”
“And would be, no doubt. But see here: Gorton was not disguised; Gordon would not dare to be in London without being so; his head’s not worth a day’s purchase. Fancy his walking about with only one letter in his name altered! Rely upon it, Mr. Carr, you are mistaken; Gordon would no more dare come back and put his head into the lion’s mouth than you’d jump into a fiery furnace. He couldn’t land without being dropped upon: the man was no common offender, and we’ve kept our eyes open. And that’s all,” added the detective, after a pause. “Not very satisfactory, is it, Mr. Carr? But, such as it is, I think you may rely upon it, in spite of your own opinion. Meanwhile, I’ll keep on the look-out for Gorton, and tell you if he turns up.”
The conference was over, and Mr. Green took his departure. Thomas Carr saw him out himself, returned and sat down in a reverie.
“It’s a curious tale,” said Lord Hartledon.
“I’m thinking how the fact, now disclosed, of Gordon’s being Gordon of the mutiny, affects you,” remarked Mr. Carr.
“You believe him to be the same?”
“I see no reason to doubt it. It’s not probable that two George Gordons should take their passage home in the Morning Star. Besides, it explains points that seemed incomprehensible. I could not understand why you were not troubled by this man, but rely upon it he has found it expedient to go into effectual hiding, and dare not yet come out of it. This fact is a very great hold upon him; and if he turns round on you, you may keep him in check with it. Only let me alight on him; I’ll so frighten him as to cause him to ship himself off for life.”
“I don’t like that detective’s having gone down to Calne,” remarked Lord Hartledon.
Neither did Mr. Carr, especially if Gordon, or Gorton, should have become talkative, as there was reason to believe he had.
“Gordon is in England, and in hiding; probably in London, for there’s no place where you may hide so effectually. One thing I am astonished at: that he should show himself openly as George Gorton.”
“Look here, Carr,” said Lord Hartledon, leaning forward; “I don’t believe, in spite of you and the detective, that Gordon, our Gordon, was the one connected with the mutiny. I might possibly get a description of that man from Gum of Calne; for his son was coming home in the same ship — was one of those killed.”
“Who’s Gum of Calne?”
“The parish clerk, and a very respectable man. Mirrable, our housekeeper whom you have seen, is related to them. Gum went to Liverpool at the time, I know, and saw the remnant of the passengers those pirates had spared; he was sure to hear a full description of Gordon. If ever I visit Hartledon again I’ll ask him.”
“If ever you visit Hartledon again!” echoed Mr. Carr. “Unless you leave the country — as I advise you to do — you cannot help visiting Hartledon.”
“Well, I would almost as soon be hanged!” cried Val. “And now, what do you want me for, and why have you kept me here?”
Mr. Carr drew his chair nearer to Lord Hartledon. They alone knew their own troubles, and sat talking long after the afternoon was over. Mr. Taylor came to the room; it was past his usual hour of departure.
“I suppose I can go, sir?”
“Not just yet,” replied Mr. Carr.
Hartledon took out his watch, and wondered whether it had been galloping, when he saw how late it was. “You’ll come home and dine with me, Carr?”
“I’ll follow you, if you like,” was the reply. “I have a matter or two to attend to first.”
A few minutes more, and Lord Hartledon and his care went out. Mr. Carr called in his clerk.
“I want to know how you came to learn that the man I asked you about, Gordon, was employed by Kedge and Reck?”
“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 that reports of your goings-on reach her here oh dear no. You are a moddel husband you are, sending her down here out of the way that you may take your pleasure. Why did you marry her, nobody wanted you to she sits and mopes and weeps and she’s going into the same way that her father went, you’ll be glad no doubt to hear it it’s what you’re aiming at, once she is in Calne churchyard the field will be open for your Anne Ashton. I can tell you that if you’ve a spark of propper feeling you’ll come down for its killing her,
“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 fashion, 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 assistance, 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 passed 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 instituted 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—”
“Yes,” she interrupted. “It was the night that stranger called at our house, when you and Mr. Carr were closeted with him so long.”
He could not deny it; but he had been thankful that she should forget the stranger and his visit. Maude waited.
“Then it was an action, but not brought by the Ashtons?” she resumed, finding he did not speak. “Mamma remarked that you were just the one to propose to half-a-dozen girls.”
“It was not an action at all of that description; and I never proposed to any girl except Miss Ashton,” he returned, nettled at the remark.
“Is it over?”
“Not quite;” and there was some hesitation in his tone. “Carr is settling it for me. I trust, Maude, you will never hear of it again — that it will never trouble you.”
She sat looking at him with her wistful eyes.
“Won’t you tell me its nature?”
“I cannot tell you, Maude, believe me. I am as candid with you as it is possible to be; but there are some things best — best not spoken of. Maude,” he repeated, rising impulsively and taking both her hands in his, “do you wish to earn my love — my everlasting gratitude? Then you may do it by nevermore alluding to this.”
It was a mistaken request; an altogether unwise emotion. Better that he had remained at the window, and drawled out a nonchalant denial. But he was apt to be as earnestly genuine on the surface as he was in reality. It set Lady Hartledon wondering; and she resolved to “bide her time.”
“As you please, of course, Val. But why should it agitate you?”
“Many a little thing seems to agitate me now,” he answered. “I have not felt well of late; perhaps that’s the reason.”
“I think you might have satisfied me a little better. I expect it is some enormous debt risen up against you.”
Better she should think so! “I shall tide it over,” he said aloud. “But indeed, Maude, I cannot bear for you delicate women to be brought into contact with these things; they are fit for us only. Think no more about it, and rely on me to keep trouble from you if it can be kept. Where’s Bob? He is here, I suppose?”
“Bob’s in his room. He is going into a way, I think. When he wrote and asked me if I would allow him to come here for a little change, the medical men saying he must have it, mamma sent a refusal by return of post; she had had enough of Bob, she said, when he was here before. But I quietly wrote a note myself, and Bob came. He looked ill, and gets worse instead of better.”
“What do you mean by saying he is going into a way?” asked Lord Hartledon.
“Consumption, or something of that sort. Papa died of it. You are not angry with me for having Bob?”
“Angry! My dear Maude, the house is yours; and if poor Bob stayed with us for ever, I should welcome him as a brother. Every one likes Bob.”
“Except mamma. She does not like invalids in the house, and has been saying you don’t like it; that it was helping to keep you away. Poor Bob had out his portmanteau and began to pack; but I told him not to mind her; he was my guest, not hers.”
“And mine also, you might have added.”
He left the room, and went to the chamber Captain Kirton had occupied when he was at Hartledon in the spring. It was empty, evidently not being used; and Hartledon sent for Mirrable. She came, looking just as usual, wearing a dark-green silk gown; for the twelve-month had expired, and their mourning was over.
“Captain Kirton is in the small blue rooms facing south, my lord. They were warmer for him than these.”
“Is he very ill, Mirrable?”
“Very, I think,” was the answer. “Of course he may get better; but it does not look like it.”
He was a tall, thin, handsome man, this young officer — a year or two older than Maude, whom he greatly resembled. Seated before a table, he was playing at that delectable game “solitaire;” and his eyes looked large and wild with surprise, and his cheeks became hectic, when Lord Hartledon entered.
“Bob, my dear fellow, I am glad to see you.”
He took his hands and sat down, his face full of the concern he did not care to speak. Lady Hartledon had said he was going into a way; it was evidently the way of the grave.
He pushed the balls and the board from him, half ashamed of his employment. “To think you should catch me at this!” he exclaimed. “Maude brought it to me yesterday, thinking I was dull up here.”
