Elster's Folly by Mrs. Henry Wood (buy e reader .TXT) 📕

"I Shall Be Only Too Thankful To Do It. All My Courage Has Come Back To

Me,  Thank Heaven!"

The Countess-Dowager Of Kirton's Reign Was Indeed Over; Never Would He

Allow Her To Disturb The Peace Of His House Again. He Might Have To

Pension Her Off,  But That Was A Light Matter. His Intention Was To Speak

To Her In A Few Days' Time,  Allowing An Interval To Elapse After The

Boy's Death; But She Forestalled The Time Herself,  As Val Was Soon To

Find.

Dinner That Evening Was A Sad Meal--Sad And Silent. The Only One Who Did

Justice To It Was The Countess-Dowager--In A Black Gauze Dress And White

Crepe Turban. Let What Would Betide,  Lady Kirton Never Failed To Enjoy

Her Dinner. She Had A Scheme In Her Head; It Had Been Working There Since

The Day Of Her Grandson's Death; And When The Servants Withdrew,  She

Judged It Expedient To Disclose It To Hartledon,  Hoping To Gain Her

Point,  Now That He Was Softened By Sorrow.

"Hartledon,  I Want To Talk To You," She Began,  Critically Tasting Her

Wine; "And I Must Request That You'll Attend To Me."

Anne Looked Up,  Wondering What Was Coming. She Wore An Evening Dress Of

Black Crepe,  A Jet Necklace On Her Fair Neck,  Jet Bracelets On Her Arms:

Mourning Far Deeper Than The Dowager's.

"Are You Listening To Me,  Val?"

"I Am Quite Ready," Answered Val.

"I Asked You,  Once Before,  To Let Me Have Maude's Children,  And To Allow

Me A Fair Income With Them. Had You Done So,  This Dreadful Misfortune

Would Not Have Overtaken Your House: For It Stands To Reason That If Lord

Elster Had Been Living Somewhere Else With Me,  He Could Not Have Caught

Scarlet-Fever In London."

"We Never Thought He Did Catch It," Returned Hartledon. "It Was Not

Prevalent At The Time; And,  Strange To Say,  None Of The Other Children

Took It,  Nor Any One Else In The House."

"Then What Gave It Him?" Sharply Uttered The Dowager.

What Val Answered Was Spoken In A Low Tone,  And She Caught One Word Only,

Providence. She Gave A Growl,  And Continued.

"At Any Rate,  He's Gone; And You Have Now No Pretext For Refusing Me

Maude. I Shall Take Her,  And Bring Her Up,  And You Must Make Me A Liberal

Allowance For Her."

"I Shall Not Part With Maude," Said Val,  In Quiet Tones Of Decision.

"You Can't Refuse Her To Me,  I Say," Rejoined The Dowager,  Nodding Her

Head Defiantly; "She's My Own Grandchild."

"And My Child. The Argument On This Point Years Ago Was Unsatisfactory,

Lady Kirton; I Do Not Feel Disposed To Renew It. Maude Will Remain In Her

Own Home."

"You Are A Vile Man!" Cried The Dowager,  With An Inflamed Face. "Pass Me

The Wine."

He Filled Her Glass,  And Left The Decanter With Her. She Resumed.

"One Day,  When I Was With Maude,  In That Last Illness Of Hers In London,

When We Couldn't Find Out What Was The Matter With Her,  Poor Dear,  She

Wrote You A Letter; And I Know What Was In It,  For I Read It. You Had

Gone Dancing Off Somewhere For A Week."

"To The Isle Of Wight,  On Your Account," Put In Lord Hartledon,  Quietly;

"On That Unhappy Business Connected With Your Son Who Lives There. Well,

Ma'am?"

"In That Letter Maude Said She Wished Me To Have Charge Of Her Children,

If She Died; And Begged You To Take Notice That She Said It," Continued

The Dowager. "Perhaps You'll Say You Never Had That Letter?"

"On The Contrary,  Madam,  I Admit Receiving It," He Replied. "I Daresay I

Have It Still. Most Of Maude's Letters Lie In My Desk Undisturbed."

"And,  Admitting That,  You Refuse To Act Up To It?"

"Maude Wrote In A Moment Of Pique,  When She Was Angry With Me. But--"

"And I Have No Doubt She Had Good Cause For Anger!"

"She Had Great Cause," Was His Answer,  Spoken With A Strange Sadness That

Surprised Both The Dowager And Lady Hartledon. Thomas Carr Was Twirling

His Wine-Glass Gently Round On The White Cloth,  Neither Speaking Nor

Looe Had Never

Heard Of. She Had Lain Awake Hours At Night And Stared With Wide-Open

Eyes At The Darkness,  Picturing To Her Inner Soul The Dream Of Splendour

That She Would Be Part Of,  The Solace For Past Miseries,  The High

Revenges For Past Slights That Would Be Hers After The Hour In Which She

Heard The Words Osborn Had Just Quoted,  "Walderhurst Died Last Night!"

Oh! If Luck Had Only Helped Them! If The Spells Her Ayah Had Taught Her

In Secret Had Only Worked As They Would Have Worked If She Had Been A

Native Woman And Had Really Used Them Properly! There Was A Spell She

Had Wrought Once Which Ameerah Had Sworn To Her Was To Be Relied On. It

Took Ten Weeks To Accomplish Its End. In Secret She Had Known Of A Man

On Whom It Had Been Worked. She Had Found Out About It Partly From The

Remote Hints Which Had Aided Her Half Knowledge Of Strange Things And By

Keeping A Close Watch. The Man Had Died--He Had Died. She Herself,  And

With Her Own Eyes Had Seen Him Begin To Ail,  Had Heard Of His Fevers And

Pains And Final Death. He Had Died. She Knew That. And She Had Tried The

Thing Herself In Dead Secrecy. And At The Fifth Week,  Just As With The

Native Who Had Died,  She Heard That Walderhurst Was Ill. During The Next

Four Weeks She Was Sick With The Tension Of Combined Horror And Delight.

But He Did Not Die In The Tenth Week. They Heard That He Had Gone To

Tangiers With A Party Of Notable People,  And That His "Slight"

Indisposition Had Passed,  Leaving Him In Admirable Health And Spirits.

Her Husband Had Known Nothing Of Her Frenzy. She Would Not Have Dared To

Tell Him. There Were Many Things She Did Not Tell Him. He Used To Laugh

At Her Native Stories Of Occult Powers,  Though She Knew That He Had Seen

Some Strange Things Done,  As Most Foreigners Had. He Always Explained

Such Things Contemptuously On Grounds Which Presupposed In The

Performers Of The Mysteries Powers Of Agility,  Dexterity,  And Universal

Knowledge Quite As Marvellous As Anything Occult Could Have Been. He Did

Not Like Her To Show Belief In The "Tricks Of The Natives," As He Called

Them. It Made A Woman Look A Fool,  He Said,  To Be So Credulous.

During The Last Few Months A New Fever Had Tormented Her. Feelings Had

Awakened In Her Which Were New. She Thought Things She Had Never Thought

Before. She Had Never Cared For Children Or Suspected Herself Of Being

The Maternal Woman. But Nature Worked In Her After Her Weird Fashion.

She Began To Care Less For Some Things And More For Others. She Cared

Less For Osborn's Moods And Was Better Able To Defy Them. He Began To Be

Afraid Of Her Temper,  And She Began To Like At Times To Defy His. There

Had Been Some Fierce Scenes Between Them In Which He Had Found Her Meet

With A Flare Of Fury Words She Would Once Have Been Cowed By. He Had

Spoken One Day With The Coarse Slightingness Of A Selfish,  Irritable

Brute,  Of The Domestic Event Which Was Before Them. He Did Not Speak

Twice.

She Sprang Up Before Him And Shook Her Clenched Fist In His Face,  So

Near That He Started Back.

"Don't Say A Word!" She Cried. "Don't Dare--Don't Dare. I Tell You--Look

Out,  If You Don't Want To Be Killed."

During The Outpouring Of Her Frenzy He Saw Her In An Entirely New Light

And Made Discoveries. She Would Fight For Her Young,  As A Tigress Fights

For Hers. She Was Nursing A Passion Of Secret Feeling Of Which He Had

Known Nothing. He Had Not For A Moment Suspected Her Of It. She Had Not

Seemed That Kind Of Girl. She Had Been Of The Kind That Cares For Finery

And Social Importance And The World's Favour,  Not For Sentiments.

On This Morning Of The Letter's Arrival He Watched Her Sobbing And

Clutching The Tablecloth,  And Reflected. He Walked Up And Down And

Pondered. There Were A Lot Of Things To Be Thought Over.

"We May As Well Accept The Invitation At Once," He Said. "Grovel As Much

As You Choose. The More The Better. They'll Like It."

The Osborns Arrived At The Kennel Farm On A Lovely Rainy Morning. The

Green Of The Fields And Trees And Hedges Were Many Tempting Odds And Ends Of Things To

Dip Into. For One Thing,  She Found Val's Banking Book,  And Some Old

Cheque-Books; They Served Her For Some Time. Next She Came Upon Two

Packets Sealed Up In White Paper,  With Val's Own Seal. On One Was

Written,  "Letters Of Lady Maude;" On The Other,  "Letters Of My Dear

Anne." Peering Further Into The Desk,  She Came Upon An Obscure Inner

Slide,  Which Had Evidently Not Been Opened For Years,  And She Had

Difficulty In Undoing It. A Paper Was In It,  Superscribed,  "Concerning

A.W.;" On Opening Which She Found A Letter Addressed To Thomas Carr,  Of

The Temple.

Thomas Carr's Letters Were No More Sacred With Her Than Lord Hartledon's.

No Woman Living Was Troubled With Scruples So Little As She. It Proved To

Have Been Written By A Dr. Mair,  In Scotland,  And Was Dated Several Years

Back.

But Now--Did Lord Hartledon Really Know He Had That Dangerous Letter By

Him? If So,  What Could Have Possessed Him To Preserve It? Or,  Did He Not

Rather Believe He Had Returned It To Mr. Carr At The Time? The Latter,

Indeed,  Proved To Be The Case; And Never,  To The End Of His Life,  Would

He,  In One Sense,  Forgive His Own Carelessness.

Who Was A.W.? Thought The Curious Old Woman,  As She Drew The Light Nearer

To Her,  And Began The Tempting Perusal,  Making The Most Of The Little

Time Left. They Could Not Be At Tea Yet,  And She Had Told Lady Hartledon

She Was Going To Take Her Nap In Her Own Room. The Gratification Of

Rummaging False Val's Desk Was An Ample Compensation; And The

Countess-Dowager Hugged Herself With Delight.

But What Was This She Had Come Upon--This Paper "Concerning A. W."? The

Dowager's Mouth Fell As She Read; And Gradually Her Little Eyes Opened As

If They Would Start From Their Sockets,  And Her Face Grew White. Have You

Ever Watched The Livid Pallor Of Fear Struggling To One Of These Painted

Faces? She Dashed Off Her Spectacles; She Got Up And Wrung Her Hands;

She Executed A Frantic War-Dance; And Finally She Tore,  With The Letter,

Into The Drawing-Room,  Where Val And Anne And Thomas Carr Were Beginning

Tea And Talking Quietly.

They Rose In Consternation As She Danced In Amongst Them,  And Held Out

The Letter To Lord Hartledon.

He Took It From Her,  Gazing In Utter Bewilderment As He Gathered In Its

Contents. Was It A Fresh Letter,  Or--His Face Became Whiter Than The

Dowager's. In Her Reckless Passion She Avowed What She Had Done--The

Letter Was Secreted In His Desk.

"Have You Dared To Visit My Desk?" He Gasped--"Break My Seals? Are You

Mad?"

"Hark At Him!" She Cried. "He Calls Me To Account For Just Lifting The

Lid Of A Desk! But What Is He? A Villain--A Thief--A Spy--A Murderer--And

Worse Than Any Of Them! Ah,  Ha,  My Lady!" Nodding Her False Front At

Lady Hartledon,  Who Stood As One Petrified,  "You Stare There At Me With

Your Open Eyes; But You Don't Know What You Are! Ask _Him_! What Was

Maude--Heaven Help Her--My Poor Maude? What Was She? And _You_ In The

Plot; You Vile Carr! I'll Have You All Hanged Together!"

Lord Hartledon Caught His Wife's Hand.

"Carr,  Stay Here With Her And Tell Her All. No Good Concealing Anything

Now She Has Read This Letter. Tell Her For Me,  For She Would Never Listen

To Me."

He Drew His Wife Into An Adjoining Room,  The One Where The Portrait Of

George Elster Looked Down On Its Guests. The Time For