Mrs. Henry Wood - Elster\'s Folly

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ELSTER'S FOLLY

A NOVEL BY

MRS. HENRY WOOD

AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," "JOHNNY LUDLOW," ETC.

1916

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. By the Early Train

II. Willy Gum

III. Anne Ashton

IV. The Countess-Dowager

V. Jealousy

VI. At the Bridge

VII. Listeners

VIII. The Wager Boats

IX. Waiting for Dinner

X. Mr. Pike's Visit

XI. The Inquest

XII. Later in the Day

XIII. Fever

XIV. Another Patient

XV. Val's Dilemma

XVI. Between the Two

XVII. An Agreeable Wedding

XVIII. The Stranger

XIX. A Chance Meeting

XX. The Stranger Again

XXI. Secret Care

XXII. Asking the Rector

XXIII. Mr. Carr at Work

XXIV. Somebody Else at Work

XXV. At Hartledon

XXVI. Under the Trees

XXVII. A Tete-a-Tete Breakfast

XXVIII. Once more

XXIX. Cross-questioning Mr. Carr

XXX. Maude's Disobedience

XXXI. The Sword slipped

XXXII. In the Park

XXXIII. Coming Home

XXXIV. Mr. Pike on the Wing

XXXV. The Shed razed

XXXVI. The Dowager's Alarm

XXXVII. A Painful Scene

XXXVIII. Explanations

ELSTER'S FOLLY

CHAPTER I.

BY THE EARLY TRAIN.

The ascending sun threw its slanting rays abroad on a glorious August
morning, and the little world below began to awaken into life--the life
of another day of sanguine pleasure or of fretting care.

Not on many fairer scenes did those sunbeams shed their radiance than on
one existing in the heart of England; but almost any landscape will look
beautiful in the early light of a summer's morning. The county, one of
the midlands, was justly celebrated for its scenery; its rich woods and
smiling plains, its river and gentler streams. The harvest was nearly
gathered in--it had been a late season--but a few fields of golden grain,
in process of reaping, gave their warm tints to the landscape. In no part
of the country had the beauties of nature been bestowed more lavishly
than on this, the village of Calne, situated about seven miles from the
county town.

It was an aristocratic village, on the whole. The fine seat of the Earl
of Hartledon, rising near it, had caused a few families of note to settle
there, and the nest of white villas gave the place a prosperous and
picturesque appearance. But it contained a full proportion of the poor or
labouring class; and these people were falling very much into the habit
of writing the village "Cawn," in accordance with its pronunciation.
Phonetic spelling was more in their line than Johnson's Dictionary. Of
what may be called the middle class the village held few, if any: there
were the gentry, the small shopkeepers, and the poor.

Calne had recently been exalted into importance. A year or two before
this bright August morning some good genius had brought a railway to
it--a railway and a station, with all its accompanying work and bustle.
Many trains passed it in the course of the day; for it was in the direct
line of route from the county town, Garchester, to London, and the
traffic was increasing. People wondered what travellers had done, and
what sort of a round they traversed, before this direct line was made.

The village itself lay somewhat in a hollow, the ground rising to a
gentle eminence on either side. On the one eminence, to the west, was
situated the station; on the other, eastward, rose the large stone
mansion, Hartledon House. The railway took a slight _detour_ outside
Calne, and was a conspicuous feature to any who chose to look at it; for
the line had been raised above the village hollow to correspond with the
height at either end.

Six o'clock was close at hand, and the station began to show signs of
life. The station-master came out of his cottage, and opened one or two
doors on the platform. He had held the office scarcely a year yet; and
had come a stranger to Calne. Sitting down in his little bureau of a
place, on the door of which was inscribed "Station-master--Private," he
began sorting papers on the desk before him. A few minutes, and the clock
struck six; upon which he went out to the platform. It was an open
station, as these small stations generally are, the small waiting-rooms
and offices on either side scarcely obstructing the view of the country,
and the station-master looked far out in the distance, towards the east,
beyond the low-lying village houses, shading his eyes with his hand from
the dazzling sun.

"Her's late this morning."

The interruption came from the surly porter, who stood by, and referred
to the expected train, which ought to have been in some minutes before.
According to the precise time, as laid down in the way-bills, it should
reach Calne seven minutes before six.

"They have a heavy load, perhaps," remarked the station-master.

The train was chiefly for goods; a slow train, taking no one knew how
many hours to travel from London. It would bring passengers also; but
very few availed themselves of it. Now and then it happened that the
station at Calne was opened for nothing; the train just slackened its
speed and went on, leaving neither goods nor anything else behind it.
Sometimes it took a few early travellers from Calne to Garchester;
especially on Wednesdays and Saturdays, Garchester market-days; but it
rarely left passengers at Calne.

"Did you hear the news, Mr. Markham?" asked the porter.

"What news?" returned the station-master.

"I heard it last night. Jim come into the Elster Arms with it, and _he'd_
heard it at Garchester. We are going to have two more sets o' telegraph
wires here. I wonder how much more work they'll give us to do?"

"So you were at the Elster Arms again last night, Jones?" remarked the
station-master, his tone reproving, whilst he passed over in silence Mr.
Jones's item of news.

"I wasn't in above an hour," grumbled the man.

"Well, it is your own look-out, Jones. I have said what I could to you at
odd times; but I believe it has only tried your patience; so I'll say no
more."

"Has my wife been here again complaining?" asked the man, raising his
face in anger.

"No; I have not seen your wife, except at church, these two months. But
I know what public-houses are to you, and I was thinking of your little
children."

"Ugh!" growled the man, apparently not gratified at the reminder of his
flock; "there's a peck o' _them_ surely! Here she comes!"

The last sentence was spoken in a different tone; one of relief, either
at getting rid of the subject, or at the arrival of the train. It was
about opposite to Hartledon when he caught sight of it, and it came on
with a shrill whistle, skirting the village it towered above; a long line
of covered waggons with a passenger carriage or two attached to them.
Slackening its pace gradually, but not in time, it shot past the station,
and had to back into it again.

The guard came out of his box and opened the door of one of the
carriages--a dirty-looking second-class compartment; the other was a
third-class; and a gentleman leaped out. A tall, slender man of about
four-and-twenty; a man evidently of birth and breeding. He wore a light
summer overcoat on his well-cut clothes, and had a most attractive face.

"Is there any law against putting on a first-class carriage to this
night-train?" he asked the guard in a pleasing voice.

"Well, sir, we never get first-class passengers by it," replied the man;
"or hardly any passengers at all, for the matter of that. We are too long
on the road for passengers to come by us."

"It might happen, though," returned the traveller, significantly. "At
any rate, I suppose there's no law against your carriages being clean,
whatever their class. Look at that one."

He pointed to the one he had just left, as he walked up to the
station-master. The guard looked cross, and gave the carriage door
a slam.

"Was a portmanteau left here last night by the last train from London?"
inquired the traveller of the station-master.

"No, sir; nothing was left here. At least, I think not. Any name on it,
sir?"

"Elster."

A quick glance from the station-master's eyes met the answer. Elster was
the name of the family at Hartledon. He wondered whether this could be
one of them, or whether the name was merely a coincidence.

"There was no portmanteau left, was there, Jones?" asked the
station-master.

"There couldn't have been," returned the porter, touching his cap to the
stranger. "I wasn't on last night; Jim was; but it would have been put in
the office for sure; and there's not a ghost of a thing in it this
morning."

"It must have been taken on to Garchester," remarked the traveller; and,
turning to the guard, he gave him directions to look after it, and
despatch it back again by the first train, slipping at the same time a
gratuity into his hand.

The guard touched his hat humbly; he now knew who the gentleman was. And
he went into inward repentance for slamming the carriage-door, as he got
into his box, and the engine and train puffed on.

"You'll send it up as soon as it comes," said the traveller to the
station-master.

"Where to, sir?"

The stranger raised his eyes in slight surprise, and pointed to the house
in the distance. He had assumed that he was known.

"To Hartledon."

Then he _was_ one of the family! The station-master touched his hat.
Mr. Jones, in the background, touched his, and for the first time the
traveller's eye fell upon him as he was turning to leave the platform.

"Why, Jones! It's never you?"

"Yes, it is, sir." But Mr. Jones looked abashed as he acknowledged
himself. And it may be observed that his language, when addressing this
gentleman, was a slight improvement upon the homely phraseology of his
everyday life.

"But--you are surely not working here!--a porter!"

"My business fell through, sir," returned the man. "I'm here till I can
turn myself round, sir, and get into it again."

"What caused it to fall through?" asked the traveller; a kindly sympathy
in his fine blue eyes.

Mr. Jones shuffled upon one foot. He would not have given the true
answer--"Drinking"--for the world.

"There's such opposition started up in the place, sir; folks would draw
your heart's blood from you if they could. And then I've such a lot of
mouths to feed. I can't think what the plague such a tribe of children
come for. Nobody wants 'em."

The traveller laughed; but put no further questions. Remembering somewhat
of Mr. Jones's propensity in the old days, he thought perhaps something
besides children and opposition had had to do with the downfall. He stood
for a moment looking at the station which had not been completed when he
last saw it--and a very pretty station it was, surrounded by its gay
flowerbeds--and then went down the road.

"I suppose he is one of the Hartledon family, Jones?" said the
station-master, looking after him.

"He's the earl's brother," replied Mr. Jones, relapsing into sulkiness.
"There's only them two left; t'other died. Wonder if they be coming to
Hartledon again? Calne haven't seemed the same since they left it."

"Which is this one?"

"He can't be anybody but himself," retorted Mr. Jones, irascibly, deeming
the question superfluous. "There be but the two left, I say--the earl and
him; everybody knows him for the Honourable Percival Elster. The other
son, George, died; leastways, was murdered."

"Murdered!" echoed the station-master aghast.

"I don't see that it could be called much else but murder," was Mr.
Jones's answer. "He went out with my lord's gamekeepers one night and
got shot in a poaching fray. 'Twas never known for certain who fired the
shot, but I think I could put my finger on the man if I tried. Much good
_that_ would do, though! There's no proof."

"What are you saying, Jones?" cried the station-master, staring at his
subordinate, and perhaps wondering whether he had already that morning
paid a visit to the tap of the Elster Arms.

"I'm saying nothing that half the place didn't say at the time, Mr.
Markham. _You_ hadn't come here then, Mr. Elster--he was the Honourable
George--went out one night with the keepers when warm work was expected,
and got shot for his pains. He lived some weeks, but they couldn't cure
him. It was in the late lord's time. _He_ died soon after, and the place
has been deserted ever since."

"And who do you suppose fired the shot?"

"Don't know that it 'ud be safe to say," rejoined the man. "He might give
my neck a twist some dark night if he heard on't. He's the blackest sheep
we've got in Calne, sir."

"I suppose you mean Pike," said the station-master. "He has the character
for being that, I believe. I've seen no harm in the man myself."

"Well, it was Pike," said the porter. "That is, some of us suspected him.
And that's how Mr. George Elster came by his death. And this one, Mr.
Percival, shot up into notice, as being the only one left, except Lord
Elster."

"And who's Lord Elster?" asked the station-master, not remembering to
have heard the title before.

Mr. Jones received the question with proper contempt. Having been
familiar with Hartledon and its inmates all his life, he had as little
compassion for those who were not so, as he would have had for a man who
did not understand that Garchester was in England.

"The present Earl of Hartledon," said he, shortly. "In his father's
lifetime--and the old lord lived to see Mr. George buried--he was Lord
Elster. Not one of my tribe of brats but could tell that any Lord Elster
must be the eldest son of the Earl of Hartledon," he concluded with a
fling at his superior.

"Ah, well, I have had other things to do since I came here besides
inquiring into titles and folks that don't concern me," remarked the
station-master. "What a good-looking man he is!"

The praise applied to Mr. Elster, after whom he was throwing a parting
look. Jones gave an ungracious assent, and turned into the shed where the
lamps were kept, to begin his morning's work.

All the world would have been ready to echo the station-master's words
as to the good looks of Percival Elster, known universally amidst his
friends as Val Elster; for these good looks did not lie so much in actual
beauty--which one lauds, and another denies, according to its style--as
in the singularly pleasant expression of countenance; a gift that finds
its weight with all.

He possessed a bright face; his complexion was fair and fresh, his eyes
were blue and smiling, his features were good; and as he walked down
the road, and momentarily lifted his hat to push his light hair--as much
of a golden colour as hair ever is--from his brow, and gave a cordial
"good-day" to those who met him on their way to work--few strangers but
would have given him a second look of admiration. A physiognomist might
have found fault with the face; and, whilst admitting its sweet
expression, would have condemned it for its utter want of resolution.
What of that? The inability to say "no" to any sort of persuasion,
whether for good or ill; in short, a total absence of what may be called
moral courage; had been from his childhood Val Elster's besetting sin.

There was a joke against little Val when he was a boy of seven. Some
playmates had insisted upon his walking into a pond, and standing there.
Poor Val, quite unable to say "no," walked in, and was nearly drowned for
his pains. It had been a joke against him then; how many such "jokes"
could have been brought against him since he grew up, Val himself could
alone tell. As the child had been, so was the man. The scrapes his
irresolution brought him into he did not care to glance at; and whilst
only too well aware of his one lamentable deficiency, he was equally
aware that he was powerless to stand against it.

People, in speaking of this, called it "Elster's Folly." His extreme
sensitiveness as to the feelings of other people, whether equals or
inferiors, was, in a degree, one of the causes of this yielding nature;
and he would almost rather have died than offer any one a personal
offence, an insulting word or look. There are such characters in the
world; none can deny that they are amiable; but, oh, how unfit to battle
with life!

Mr. Elster walked slowly through the village on his way to Hartledon,
whose inmates he would presently take by surprise. It was about twenty
months since he had been there. He had left Hartledon at the close of the
last winter but one; an appointment having been obtained for him as an
_attache_ to the Paris embassy. Ten months of service, and some scrape he
fell into caused him (a good deal of private interest was brought to bear
in the matter) to be removed to Vienna; but he had not remained there
very long. He seemed to have a propensity for getting into trouble, or
rather an inability to keep out of it. Latterly he had been staying in
London with his brother.

His thoughts wandered to the past as he looked at the chimneys of
Hartledon--all he could see of it--from the low-lying ground. He
remembered the happy time when they had been children in it; five of
them--the three boys and the two girls--he himself the youngest and the
pet. His eldest sister, Margaret, had been the first to leave it. She
married Sir James Cooper, and went with him to his remote home in
Scotland, where she was still. The second to go was Laura, who married
Captain Level, and accompanied him to India. Then he, Val, a young man in
his teens, went out into the world, and did all sorts of harm in it in an
unintentional sort of way; for Percival Elster never did wrong by
premeditation. Next came the death of his mother. He was called home from
a sojourn in Scotland--where his stay had been prolonged from the result
of an accident--to bid her farewell. Then he was at home for a year or
more, making love to charming Anne Ashton. The next move was his
departure for Paris; close upon which, within a fortnight, occurred the
calamity to his brother George. He came back from Paris to see him in
London, whither George had been conveyed for medical advice, and there
then seemed a chance of his recovery; but it was not borne out, and the
ill-fated young man died. Lord Hartledon's death was the next. He had an
incurable complaint, and his death followed close upon his son's. Lord
Elster became Earl of Hartledon; and he, Val, heir-presumptive.
Heir-presumptive! Val Elster was heir to all sorts of follies, but--

"Good morning to your lordship!"

The speaker was a man in a smock-frock, passing with a reaping-hook on
his shoulder. Mr. Elster's sunny face and cheery voice gave back the
salutation with tenfold heartiness, smiling at the title. Half the
peasantry had been used to addressing the brothers so, indiscriminately;
they were all lords to them.

The interruption awoke Mr. Elster from his thoughts, and he marched gaily
on down the middle of the road, noting its familiar features. The small
shops were on his right hand, the line of rails behind them. A few white
villas lay scattered on his left, and beyond them, but not to be seen
from this village street, wound the river; both running parallel with the
village lying between them. Soon the houses ceased; it was a small place
at best; and after an open space came the church. It lay on his right, a
little way back from the road, and surrounded by a large churchyard.
Almost opposite, on the other side of the road, but much further back,
was a handsome modern white house; its delightful gardens sloping almost
to the river. This was the residence of the Rector, Dr. Ashton, a wealthy
man and a church dignitary, prebendary and sub-dean of Garchester
Cathedral. Percival Elster looked at it yearningly, if haply he might see
there the face of one he loved well; but the blinds were drawn, and the
inmates were no doubt steeped in repose.

"If she only knew I was here!" he fondly aspirated.

On again a few steps, and a slight turn in the road brought him to a
small red-brick house on the same side as the church, with green shutters
attached to its lower windows. It lay in the midst of a garden well
stocked with vegetables, fruit, and the more ordinary and brighter
garden-flowers. A straight path led to the well-kept house-door, its
paint fresh and green, and its brass-plate as bright as rubbing could
make it. Mr. Elster could not read the inscription on the plate from
where he was, but he knew it by heart: "Jabez Gum, Parish Clerk." And
there was a smaller plate indicating other offices held by Jabez Gum.

"I wonder if Jabez is as shadowy as ever?" thought Mr. Elster, as he
walked on.

One more feature, and that is the last you shall hear of until Hartledon
is reached. Close to the clerk's garden, on a piece of waste land, stood
a small wooden building, no better than a shed.

It had once been a stable, but so long as Percival Elster could remember,
it was nothing but a receptacle for schoolboys playing at hide-and-seek.
Many a time had he hidden there. Something different in this shed now
caught his eye; the former doorway had been boarded up, and a long iron
tube, like a thin chimney, ascended from its roof.

"Who on earth has been adding that to it?" exclaimed Mr. Elster.

A little way onward, and he came to the lodge-gates of Hartledon. The
house was on the same side as the Rectory, its park stretching eastward,
its grounds, far more beautiful and extensive than those of the Rectory,
descending to the river. As he went in at the smaller side-gate, he
turned his gaze on the familiar road he had quitted, and most distinctly
saw a wreath of smoke ascending from the pipe above the shed. Could it
be a chimney, after all?

The woman of the lodge, hearing footsteps, came to her door with hasty
words.

"Now then! What makes you so late this morning? Didn't I--" And there she
stopped in horror; transfixed; for she was face to face with Mr. Elster.

"Law, sir! _You!_ Mercy be good to us!"

He laughed. In her consternation she could only suppose he had dropped
from the clouds. Giving her a pleasant greeting, he drew her attention to
the appearance that was puzzling him. The woman came out and looked at
it.

"_Is_ it a chimney, Mrs. Capper?"

"Well, yes, sir, it be. Pike have put it in. He come here, nobody knew
how or when, he put himself into the old shed, and has never left it
again."

"Who is 'Pike'?"

"It's hard to say, sir; a many would give a deal to know. He lay in the
shed a bit at first, as it were, all open. Then he boarded up that front
doorway, opened a door at the back, cut out a square hole for a window,
and stuck that chimney in the roof. And there he's lived ever since, and
nobody interferes with him. His name's Pike, and that's all that's known.
I should think my lord will see to it when he comes."

"Does he work for his living?"

"Never does a stroke o' work for nobody, sir. And how he lives is just
one o' them mysteries that can't be dived into. He's a poacher, a snarer,
and a robber of the fishponds--any one of 'em when he gets the chance;
leastways it's said so; and he looks just like a wild man o' the woods;
wilder than any Robison Crusoe! And he--but you might not like me to
mention that, sir."

"Mention anything," replied Mr. Elster. "Go on."

"Well, sir, it's said by some that his was the shot that killed Mr.
George," she returned, dropping her voice; and Percival Elster started.

"Who is he?" he exclaimed.

"He is not known to a soul. He came here a stranger."

"But--he was not here when I left home. And I left it, you may remember,
only a few days before that night."

"He must have come here at that very time, sir; just as you left."

"But what grounds were there for supposing that he--that he--I think you
must be mistaken, Mrs. Capper. Lord Hartledon, I am sure, knows nothing
of this suspicion."

"I never heard nothing about grounds, sir," simply replied the woman. "I
suppose folks fastened it on him because he's a loose character: and his
face is all covered with hair, like a howl."

He almost laughed again as he turned away, dismissing the suspicion she
had hinted at as unworthy a moment's credit. The broad gravel-walk
through this portion of the park was very short, and the large grey-stone
house was soon reached. Not to the stately front entrance did he bend his
steps, but to a small side entrance, which he found open. Pursuing his
way down sundry passages, he came to what used to be called the "west
kitchen;" and there sat three women at breakfast.

"Well, Mirrable! I thought I should find you up."

The two servants seated opposite stared with open mouths; neither knew
him: the one he had addressed as Mirrable turned at the salutation,
screamed, and dropped the teapot. She was a thin, active woman, of forty
years, with dark eyes, a bunch of black drooping ringlets between her cap
and her thin cheeks, a ready tongue and a pleasant manner. Mirrable had
been upper maid at Hartledon for years and years, and was privileged.

"Mr. Percival! Is it your ghost, sir?"

"I think it's myself, Mirrable."

"My goodness! But, sir, how did you get here?"

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