SIR CHARLES'S VISIT.
Sir Charles Mitford was up betimes the next morning, for he had a
twenty-miles' drive before him. The weather was bright, clear, and
frosty; Sir Charles's spirits were high; he was radiant and buoyant,
and thoroughly in good temper with himself and everybody else. He was
specially kind and affectionate to Georgie, and after breakfast
insisted upon seeing her commence her day of work before he started on
his day of pleasure; and he complimented Mrs. Austin on the progress
her pupil had made under her directions, and on the care, cleanliness,
and order observable throughout the house, and by his few words made a
complete conquest of the old lady, who afterwards told Georgie that
though Sir Percy had been an upright man and a good master, it was all
in a strait-laced kind of way, and no one had ever heard him say a kind
word to herself, let alone any of the servants. And then when the
chestnuts had been brought round in the mail-phaeton, and were
impatiently pawing at the gravel in front of the hall-door, and
champing at their bits, and flecking with foam their plated harness
and their sleek sides, Sir Charles gave his wife an affectionate kiss
and drove away in great glee.
Mrs. Austin's instruction of her mistress was shortened by full five
minutes that morning--five minutes during which Lady Mitford was
occupied in leaning out of the window and watching her husband down
the drive. How handsome he looked! in his big heavy brown driving-coat
with its huge horn buttons, his well-fitting dogskin gloves, and his
natty hat--wideawakes had not then been invented, but driving-men
used to wear a hat low in the crown and broad in the brim, winch,
though a trifle slangy, was in some cases very becoming. The sun shone
on his bright complexion, his breezy golden whiskers, and his
brilliant teeth, as he smiled his adieu; and as he brought the
chestnuts up to their bearings after their first mad plunges, and
standing up got them well in hand and settled them down to their work,
Georgie was lost in admiration of his strong muscular figure, his
pluck and grace. It was a subject on which she would have been
naturally particularly reticent, even had there been any one to "gush"
to; but I think the tears of pleasure welled into her eyes, and
she had a very happy "cry" before she rejoined Mrs. Austin in the
still-room.
And Sir Charles, what were his thoughts during his drive? Among all
the wonderful revelations which the publication of the Divorce-Court
trials has made public, the sad heart-rending misery, the brutal
ruffianism, the heartless villany, the existence of which could
scarcely have been dreamed of, there is one phase of life which, so
far as I have seen--and I have looked for it attentively,--has never
yet been chronicled. The man who leaves his wife and family to get on
as they best can, while he revels in riot and debauchery; the man who
is the blind slave of his own brute passions, and who goes headlong to
destruction without any apparent thought save for his own
gratification; the man who would seem in the iteration of his share of
the marriage-service to have substituted "hate" for "love," and who
either detests his wife with savage rancour, or loathes her with deep
disgust, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and
in health, until the Judge-Ordinary does them part; the respectable
man, so punctual in the discharge of his domestic duties, so
unswerving in the matter of family-prayers, whose conjugal comfort is
one day wrecked by the arrival of a clamorous and not too sober lady
with heightened colour and blackened eyelids:--with all these types we
are familiar enough through the newspaper columns; but there is
another character, by no means so numerously represented, nor so
likely to be brought publicly under notice, who yet exists, and with
specimens of which some of us must be familiar. I mean the man who,
with great affection for his wife and strong desire to do right, is
yet so feeble in moral purpose, so impotent to struggle against
inclination, such a facile prey to temptation, as to be perpetually
doing wrong. He never grows hardened in his vice, he never withdraws
his love from its proper object--for in that case it would quickly be
supplanted by the opposite feeling; he never even grows indifferent:
after every slip he inwardly upbraids himself bitterly and vows
repentance; in his hour of remorse he institutes comparisons between
his proper and improper attractions, in which the virtues of the
former are always very bright and the vices of the latter always very
black; and then on the very next occasion his virtuous resolutions
melt away like snow, and he goes wrong again as pleasantly as
possible.
Sir Charles Mitford was of this class. He would have been horrified if
any one had suggested that he had any intention of wronging his wife;
would have said that such an idea had never crossed his mind--and
truthfully, as whenever it rose he immediately smothered it; would
have declared, as he believed, that Georgie was the prettiest, the
best, and the dearest girl in the world. But he was a man of strong
passions, and most susceptible to flattery; and ever since Mrs.
Hammond had seemed to select him for special notice, more especially
since she had assumed the habit of occasionally looking pensively at
him, with a kind of dreamy languor in her large eyes, he had thought
more of her, in both senses of the phrase, than was right. He was
thinking of her even then, as he sat square and erect in his phaeton,
before he passed out of Georgie's gaze; thinking of her large eyes and
their long glances, her full rounded figure, a peculiar hand-clasp
which she gave, a thrill without a grip, a scarcely perceptible
unforgettable pressure. Then his horsey instincts rose within him, and
he began to take coachman's notice of the chestnuts; saw the merits
and demerits of each, and almost unconsciously set about the work of
educating the former, and checking the latter; and thus he employed
himself until the white houses of Torquay came within sight, and
glancing at his watch he found he should have done his twenty miles in
an hour and forty minutes.
Mrs. Hammond had told him that he would be sure of finding their
address at the Royal Hotel; so to the Royal Hotel he drove. The
chestnuts went bounding through the town, attracting attention from
all the valetudinarians then creeping about on their shopping or
anteprandial walks. These poor fellows in respirators and high shawls,
bending feebly on sticks or tottering on each other's arms, resented
the sight of this great strong Phoebus dashing along with his spinning
chariot-wheels. When he pulled up at the door of the Royal, a little
crowd of invalids crept out of sunny nooks, and sheltered corners,
where they had been resting, to look at him. The waiter, a fat greasy
man, who used to let the winter-boarders tear many times at the bell
before he dreamt of answering it, heard the tramp of the horses, and
the violent pull given to the door-bell by Sir Charles's groom, and in
a kind of hazy dream thought that it must be summer again, and that it
must be some of the gents from the yachts, as was always so noisy and
obstreperous. Before he could rouse himself sufficiently to get to the
door, he had been anticipated by the landlord, wit° had scarcely made
his bow, before Dr. Bronk, who had noticed the phaeton dashing round
the corner, fancied it might be a son or a nephew on the lookout for
quarters--and medical attendance--for some invalid relative, came into
the portico, and bestowed the greatest care in rubbing his shoes on
the hall-mat.
Mr. Hammond? No, the landlord had never heard the name. Constant
change of faces renders landlords preternaturally stupid on this
point, they can never fit names to faces or faces to names. Hammond?
no, he thought not. John! did John know the name of Hammond? But
before John could sufficiently focus his wits to know whether he did
or not, Dr. Bronk had heard all, had stepped up to the side of the
phaeton, had made a half-friendly, half-deferential bow, and was in
full swing.
Mr. Hammond? a middle-aged gentleman,--well, who perhaps might be
described as rather elderly, yes. Bald,--yes. With a young daughter
and a very charming wife? Yes, O yes; certainly he knew them; he had
the honour of being their medical attendant,--Dr. Bronk of the
Paragon. Lately had come down to Torquay, recommended to him by
his--he was proud to say--old friend and former fellow-pupil, Sir
Charles Dumfunk, now President of the College of Physicians. Where
were they? well, they had been really unfortunate. Torquay, my
dear sir, every year rising in importance, every year more sought
after,--for which perhaps some little credit was due to a little
medical brochure of his, _Torquay and its Climate_,--Torquay was so
full that when Mrs. Hammond sent down that admirable person, Miss
Gillespie,--whom of course the gentleman knew,--there was only one
house vacant. So the family had been forced to content themselves with
a mansion--No. 2, Cleveland Gardens, very nice, sheltered, and yet
with a charming sea-view. Where was it? Did the gentleman see the
bow-windowed shop at the corner? Second turning to the right, just
beyond that--"Se-cond turn-ing to the right!" This shouted after Sir
Charles, who, with a feeling that the chestnuts were too rapidly
cooling after their sharp drive, had started them off the minute he
had obtained the information.
The second turning to the right was duly taken, and No. 2, Cleveland
Gardens, was duly reached. It was the usual style of seaside-house,
with stuccoed front and green veranda, and the never-failing creeper
which the Devonians always grow to show the mildness of their climate.
The groom's thundering knock produced a smart waiting-maid, who
acknowledged that Mrs. Hammond lived there; and the sending in of Sir
Charles Mitford's card produced a London flunkey, on whom the country
air had had a demoralizing influence, so far as his outward appearance
was concerned. But he acknowledged Sir Charles's arrival with a
deferential bow, and begging him to walk in, assured him that his
mistress would come down directly. So the groom was sent round, to put
up his horses at the stables of the Royal, and Sir Charles followed
the footman into the drawing-room.
It was not an apartment to be left alone in for long. No doubt the
family of the owner, a younger brother of an Irish peer, found it
pleasant and airy when they were down there in the summer, and the
owner himself found the rent of it for the spring, autumn, and winter,
a very hopeful source of income; but it bore "lodging-house" on every
scrap of furniture throughout it. Sir Charles stared round at the bad
engravings, at the bad old-fashioned artists on the walls; looked with
concentrated interest on a plaster-model of the Leaning Tower of Pisa,
and wondered whether the mortar shrinking had warped it; peeped into
two or three books on the table; looked out of the window at the
promenading invalids and the green twinkling sea; and was relieved
beyond measure when he heard a woman's step on the staircase outside.
The door opened, and a woman entered--but not Mrs. Hammond. A tall
woman, with sallow cheeks and great eyes, and a thickish nose and
large full lips, with a low forehead, over which tumbled waves of
crisp brown hair, with a marvellous lithe figure and a peculiar
swinging walk. Shifty in her glance, stealthy in her walk, cat-like in
her motions, her face deadly pale,--a volcano crumbled into ashes,
with no trace of its former fire save in her eyes,--a woman at once
uncomfortable, uncanny, noticeable, and fearsome,--Miss Gillespie.
The family of the younger brother of the Irish peer owning the house
prided themselves immensely on certain pink-silk blinds to the
windows, which happened at that moment to be down. There must have
been some very peculiar effect in the tint thrown by those blinds to
have caused Sir Charles Mitford to stare so hard at the new-comer, or
to lose all trace of his ordinary colour as he gazed at her.
She spoke first. Her full lips parted over a brilliant set of teeth as
with a slight inclination she said, "I have the pleasure of addressing
Sir Charles Mitford? Mrs. Hammond begs me to say that she is at
present in attendance upon Mr. Hammond, who is forbidden to-day to
leave his room; but she hopes to be with you in a very few minutes."
A polite but sufficiently ordinary speech; certainly not in itself
calculated to call forth Mitford's rejoinder--"In God's name, how did
you come here?"
"You still keep up that horrid habit of swearing! _Autre temps, autres
moeurs_, as I teach my young lady from the French proverb-book. What
was it you asked?"
"How did you come here? what are you doing here?"
"I came here through the medium of the Ladies' Association for
Instructors, to whom I paid a registration-fee of five shillings. What
am I doing here? Educating youth, and making myself generally useful.
I am Miss Gillespie, of whom I know you have heard."
"You have seen me before this, since--since the old days?"
"I don't know what is meant by 'old days.' I was born two years ago,
just before Mrs. Hammond married, and was christened Ruth Gillespie.
My mother was the Ladies' Association for Instructors, and she at once
placed me where I am. Except this I have no past."
"And your future?"
"Can take care of itself: sufficient for the day, &c.; and the present
days are very pleasant. There is no past for you either, is there? so
far as I am concerned, I mean. I first saw Sir Charles Mitford when I
was sitting in Mrs. Hammond's phaeton in the Park with my Shetland
veil down, I recollect; and as I had heard the story of the romantic
manner in which he had succeeded to the title and estates, I asked
full particulars about him from--well--my mistress. I learned that he
had married, and that his wife was reported to be very lovely--oh,
very lovely indeed!" she almost purred as she said this, and undulated
as though about to spring.
"Be good enough to leave my wife's name alone. You say there is no
past for either of us. Let our present be as wide asunder as
possible."
"That all rests with you."
"I wonder," said Sir Charles, almost below his breath, "what infernal
chance has sent you here!"
"If 'infernal' were a word to be used by a lady--I doubt whether it
should be used in a lady's presence; but that is a matter of taste--I
should reiterate your sentiment; because, if you remark, you are the
interloper and intruder. I am going on perfectly quietly, earning my
living, giving every satisfaction to my employers,--living, in fact,
like the virtuous peasant on the stage or in the penny romances,--when
chance brings you into my line of life, and you at once grumble at me
for being there."
"You can understand fast enough, I suppose," said Sir Charles,
sulkily, "that my associations with my former life are not such as I
take great pleasure in recalling."
"If a lady _might_ say such a word, I should say, upon my soul I can't
understand any such thing. Though I go quietly enough in harness, and
take my share of the collar-work too, they little think how I long
sometimes to kick over the traces, to substitute Alfred de Musset for
Fénelon in my pupil's reading, or to let my fingers and voice stray
off from _Adeste Fideles_ into _Eh, ioup, ioup, ioup, tralala, lala!_
How it would astonish them! wouldn't it?--the files, I mean; not Mrs.
Hammond, who knows everything, and I've no doubt would follow on with
_Mon père est à Paris_ as naturally as possible."
Sir Charles was by no means soothed by this rattle, but frowningly
asked, "How long do you mean to remain here?"
"How long? Well, my movements are of course controlled by Mrs.
Hammond. It is betraying no confidence to say that I know she is
expecting an invitation to Redmoor (you see I know the name of your
place); and as this house is not particularly comfortable, and your
hospitality is boundless, I conclude, when once we get there, we shall
not leave much before we return to town for the season."
"We!" exclaimed Sir Charles; "why, do you mean to say that _you_ are
coming to stay at my house?"
"Of course I am. Mrs. Hammond told me that she gave you distinctly to
understand that she must bring Miss Gillespie with her when she came
to stop at Redmoor."
"True; but then--"
"Then you did not know Miss Gillespie. Well, you'll find she's not a
bad fellow, after all."
"Look here," said Mitford with knitted brows and set teeth: "there's a
point to which you may go, but which you sha'n't pass. If you dare to
come into my house as my guest, look to yourself; for, by the Lord, it
shall be the worse for you!"
"The privileges of the salt, monseigneur!" cried Miss Gillespie, with
a crisp laugh; "the salt, 'that sacred pledge, which once partaken
blunts the sabre's edge.' You would never abuse the glorious rites of
hospitality?"
"You were always fond of d--d stage-jargon; but you ought to have
known me long enough to know that it would have no effect on me. Take
the warning I've given you in good part, and stay away."
"And take the warning I give you in good part and in good earnest,
Charles Mitford," said Miss Gillespie, with a sudden change of voice
and manner; "I've been tolerant to you hitherto for the sake of the
old times which I love and you loathe; but don't you presume upon
that. I could crush you like a snail: now this is no stage-jargon, but
simple honest fact. You'll recollect that though perhaps a little
given to rodomontade, in matters of business I was truthful. I can
crush you like a snail; and if you cross me in my desires,--which are
of the humblest; merely to be allowed to continue my present mode of
life in peace,--so help me Heaven, I'll do it!"
All claws out here.
"You mean war, then?
"Hush! not a word; here's Mrs. Hammond coming down. I _do_ mean war,
under circumstances; but you won't drive me to that. Yes, as you say,
Sir Charles, it is the very place for an invalid."
As she spoke Mrs. Hammond entered the room, looking very fresh and
pretty; her dark-blue merino dress with its close-fitting body
displaying her round figure, and its sweeping skirts, and its tight
sleeves, with natty linen cuffs. She advanced with outstretched hand
and with a pleasant smile, showing all her fresh wholesome teeth.
"So you've come at last," she said; "it's no great compliment to say
that we have anxiously expected you--for anything like the horror of
this place you cannot imagine. Everybody you meet looks as if that day
were their last, and that they had just crawled out to take farewell
of the sun. And there's not a soul we know here, except the doctor
who's attending Mr. Hammond, and he's an odious little chatterbox. And
how is dear Lady Mitford? and how did you find the house? and did
Captain Bligh make the arrangements as nicely as we thought he would?
Come, sit down and tell me all about it."
It was at this period, and before they seated themselves, that Miss
Gillespie said she thought she would go and see what Alice was doing.
And Mrs. Hammond asked her to tell Newman that Sir Charles Mitford
would dine with them; and that as he had a long drive home, they had
better say six-o'clock dinner. And charged with these messages, Miss
Gillespie retired.
Then Mrs. Hammond sunk down into a pleasant ottoman fitted into a
recess close by the glowing fire, and Sir Charles Mitford, looking
round for a seat, obeyed the silent invitation conveyed to him in her
eyes and in the movement of her dress, and seated himself by her side.
"Well, you must have a great deal to tell me," she commenced. "I saw
in the _Post_ that you had left town, and therefore imagined that
Captain Bligh's arrangements were concluded. And how do you like
Redmoor?"
"It's a glorious place, really a glorious place, though I've been
rather bored there for the last two or three days--wanted people
there, you know, and that sort of thing. But the place itself is
first-rate. I've chosen your rooms. I did that the first day."
"Did you?" said she, her eyes sparkling with delight; "and where are
they?"
"They are in the south wing, looking over the civilized side of the
country, and are to my thinking the very best rooms in the house."
"And you chose them for us, and thought of us directly you arrived!
How very, very kind of you! But suppose we should be unable to come?"
"What! unable to come! Mrs. Hammond, you're chaffing me, eh?"
"No, indeed. Mr. Hammond's health is in that wretched state, that I
doubt whether Dr. Bronk would sanction his being moved, even to the
soft air and all the luxuries of Redmoor."
"Oh, do him good, I'm sure; could do him no possible harm. He should
have everything he wanted, you know; and the doctor could come
spinning over there every day, for the matter of that. But at any rate
_you_ won't disappoint us?"
"I don't think my not coming would be keenly felt by many."
"It would by me," said Mitford in a low voice.
She looked him full in the face for an instant. "I believe it would,"
said she; "frankly I believe it would;" and she stretched out her hand
almost involuntarily. Sir Charles took it, pressed it, and would have
retained it, but she withdrew it gently. "No, that would never do.
Mrs. Grundy would have a great deal to say on the subject; and
besides, my place is at his side." If "his side" were her husband's,
Mrs. Hammond was far more frequently out of place than in it. "My
place is by his side," she repeated. "Ah, Sir Charles, you've no idea
what a life I lead!"
He was looking at her hand as she spoke, was admiring its plumpness
and whiteness, and was idly following with his eye the track of the
violet veins. There is a something legible in the back of a hand,
something which chiromancy wots not of, and Sir Charles Bell has left
unexplained. Mitford was wondering whether he read this problem aright
when the last words fell on his ear; and feeling it was necessary that
he should reply, said, "It must be dull, eh?"
"Dull! you've no conception how dull. And I often think I was meant
for something different,--something better than a sick-man's nurse, to
bear his whims, and be patient under his irritability. I often
think--But what nonsense I'm talking!--what are my thoughts to you?"
"A great deal more than you know of. Go on, please."
"I often think that if I had been married to a man who could
understand me, who could appreciate me, I should have been a very
happy and a good woman. Good and happy! God knows very different from
what I am now."
With her right hand she touched her eyes with a delicate little
handkerchief. In her left hand she had held a small feather fan, with
which she had screened herself from the fire; but the fan had fallen
to the floor and lay there unnoticed, while the hand hung listlessly
by her side close by Sir Charles. Gradually their hands touched, and
this time she made no effort to withdraw hers from his clasp.
There was silence for a few moments, broken by her saying, "There,
there is an end of that! It is but seldom that I break down, and
show myself in my true colours; but there is something in you
which--inexplicably to myself--won my confidence, and now I've bored
you with my troubles. There, let me go now, and I'll promise never to
be so silly again." She struggled to free her hand, but he held it
firmly.
"Leave it there," said he; "you have not misplaced your confidence, as
you know very well. Oh, you needn't shake your head; you know that I
would do anything to serve you."
He spoke in a low earnest voice; and as she looked up at him with one
of her long deep dreamy looks, she saw a sudden thrill run through
him, and felt his hand which held hers tremble.
"I _do_ know it," she said; "and we will be the best, the very best of
friends. Now let us talk of something else."
He was with her the whole of that day in a state of dreamful
happiness, drinking in the music of her voice, watching her graceful
motions, delighted with a certain bold recklessness, a contempt for
the conventional rules of society, a horror of obedience to prescribed
ordinances, which now and then her conversation betrayed. They saw
nothing more of Miss Gillespie, save at dinner, when Mitford noticed
that Mrs. Hammond made no alteration in her manner towards him, unless
indeed it was a little more _prononcé_ than when they had been alone.
Miss Gillespie did not appear to remark it, but sat and purred from
time to time in a very amiable and pleasant manner. She retired after
dinner, and then Sir Charles's phaeton was brought round, and it was
time to say adieu.
He said it in the little library, where the brother of the Irish peer
kept his boots and his driving-whips, as he was lighting a cigar for
which Mrs. Hammond held a cedar-match. As he bent over her, he felt
her breath upon his face, and felt his whiskers touch her scented
hair. He had not been inattentive to some Burgundy, which the invalid
upstairs had specially commended to him in a message, and his blood
coursed like fire through his veins. At that moment Miss Gillespie
appeared at the open door with a glove which she had found in the
hall, and with her dark-green eyes gleaming with rage. So Sir Charles
only took Mrs. Hammond's hand, whispering "Friends?" receiving a long
pressure and "Always!" for answer; and passing with a bow Miss
Gillespie, whose eyes still gleamed ferociously sprang into his
phaeton and drove off.
That last pressure of Mrs. Hammond's hand was on his hand, that last
word of hers rung in his ear all the way home. All the way home his
fevered fancy brought her image alluringly before him--more
frequently, more alluringly than it had been in his morning's drive.
But there was another figure which he had not thought of in the
morning, and which now rose up;--the figure of a woman, green-eyed,
pale-faced, cat-like in her motions. And when Sir Charles Mitford
thought of her, he stamped his foot savagely and swore.