You may imagine the effect this missive produced upon the proud, high-minded doctor of divinity.  He took a sheet of paper and wrote a stinging letter to Lord Hartledon, forbidding him to think again of Anne.  But when he was in the act of sealing it a sudden doubt like an instinct rushed over him, whether it might not be a ruse, and nothing else, of the crafty old dowager’s.  The doubt was sufficiently strong to cause him to tear up the letter.  But he was not satisfied with Lord Hartledon’s own behaviour; had not been for some few months; and he then wrote a second letter, suspending matters until they should meet again.  It was in effect what was asked for by the countess-dowager; and he wrote a cold proud letter to that lady, stating what he had done.  Of course any honourable woman—­any woman with a spark of justice in her heart—­would have also forbidden all intercourse with Lady Maude.  The countess-dowager’s policy lay in the opposite direction.

But Lord Hartledon remained in London, utterly oblivious to the hints and baits held out for his return to Calne.  He chiefly divided his time between the House of Lords and sitting at home, lamenting over his own ill-starred existence.  He was living quite en garcon, with only one man, his house having been let for the season.  We always want what we cannot obtain, and because marriage was denied him, he fell into the habit of dwelling upon it as the only boon in life.  Thomas Carr was on circuit, so that Hartledon was alone.

Easter was early that year, the latter end of March.  On the Monday in Passion-week there arrived a telegram for Lord Hartledon sent apparently by the butler, Hedges.  It was vaguely worded; spoke of a railway accident and somebody dying.  Who he could not make out, except that it was a Kirton:  and it prayed him to hasten down immediately.  All his goodness of heart aroused, Val lost not a moment.  He had been engaged to spend Easter with some people in Essex, but dispatched a line of apology, and hastened down to Calne, wondering whether it was the dowager or Maude, and whether death would have taken place before his arrival.

“What accident has there been?” he demanded, leaping out of the carriage at Calne Station; and the man he addressed happened to be the porter, Jones.

“Accident?” returned Jones, touching his cap.

“An accident on the line; somewhere about here, I conclude.  People wounded; dying.”

“There has been no accident here,” said Jones, in his sulky way.  “Maybe your lordship’s thinking of the one on the branch line, the bridge that fell in?”

“Nonsense,” said Lord Hartledon, “that took place a fortnight ago.  I received a telegram this morning from my butler, saying some one was dying at Hartledon from a railway accident,” he impatiently added.  “I took it to be either Lady Kirton or her daughter.”

Mr. Jones swung round a large iron key he held in his hand, and light dawned upon him.