LAST WORDS.
The equipage and the establishment, the diamonds and the dress, of the
Princess Tchernigow, furnished the gay inhabitants of the gayest and
most gossiping city in the world with a subject for almost
inexhaustible discussion. There was no sameness about them, but an
ever-varying change; so that curiosity was never sated, and the last
select few who had met the Princess, and told their story of her
magnificence, had materials afforded them for a version of the
princely splendours which differed materially from the version given
by the select few of the immediately preceding occasion. With the
proverbial impenetrability of the French to English social facts and
customs, the Parisian _beau monde_ could not be made to understand
that there was "anything against" the Princess. They knew and cared
nothing about the date at which the former husband of that fortunate
lady had departed this life, and that at which he had been replaced by
the Prince. Many good-natured and strictly moral English people
endeavoured to instruct the Parisian mind on this point, and to make
it understand that the Princess would have some difficulty with
"society" in her own country. But these _idées insulaires_ had no
success.
Tchernigow had been popular in Paris before he had gratified it by
bringing a new princess to sparkle and glitter, by her beauty and her
splendour, in the Bois, at the Opera, at the balls, and at the Court.
Paris admired the Calmuck; first because he was so immensely rich
because there was nothing in the place, which contains everything in
the world worth having, that he could not buy; and secondly because he
was odd, so _bizarre;_ because his character was as much out of the
common as his wealth, and his eccentricities afforded them an
increasing source of remark and speculation. He was the most polished
Russian that had ever appeared in Parisian society--the most widely
removed from the train-oil-drinking and no-shirt-wearing tradition of
the Muscovites.
And the Princess? She had not been by any means unknown to fame in
Paris. She had visited that city during her first bridal tour, and she
had had a great success. The freshness and perfection of her beauty,
which owed nothing to artificial means, but could bear any kind or
degree of light; the piquancy of her manner, her first-rate seat on
horseback, her dancing,--all these things had captivated the
Parisians. Then, was she not so interesting, this beautiful little
English lady, whose husband was so far from young? It was so charming
to see them together, because one knew that in England marriages of
reason had no place; and this fair creature must have reposed her
affections in the feeble elderly gentleman, to whom she was so
delightfully devoted, and who was so proud of her. She had had a train
of admirers then, naturally; but it was early days, and there was
nothing very _prononcé_.
Mrs. Hammond had been in Paris again and again after that first
successful appearance; and if her devotion to the feeble elderly
gentleman had been less conspicuous, her beauty and her vivacity had
been more so. Of course she was "talked about;" but that mysterious
and terrible word has one signification and effect in London, and
quite another in Paris; and Mrs. Hammond's reign was undimmed.
When the Prince and Princess Tchernigow made their appearance on the
scene in their attractive character of bride and bridegroom,
considerable curiosity had been excited about them, quite apart from
the legitimate interest to which they were entitled on their separate
merits, and to which their union added vigour and intensity. The Baden
story had of course got about, with more or less correctness of time,
place, and circumstances; and the combination of a duel, involving
the death of his adversary, with a wedding, in which the bride had
been _affichée_ to the slain man, was an irresistibly piquant
anecdote,--and "so like" Tchernigow.
The Princess came off remarkably well in the innumerable discussions
to which the affair gave rise. In the first place Mitford was dead,
which was a great point; and in the second, the catalogue of the
Prince's luxuries including some useful and devoted toadies, who made
it their business to spread abroad a report which gained ample
credence, that the unfortunate Englishman was a violent fellow, who
had no manners, and who had assumed a tone towards Mrs. Hammond wholly
unjustified by their antecedents; in fact, had persecuted that lady,
and been _excessivement brutale_.
So it was all plain sailing with the Prince and Princess, and even the
women took the liveliest interest in the latter. Poor dear creature,
they said, how very sad, but how charmingly romantic it was! To think
that she had been quite ignorant of the duel, and had not had the
least idea that her bridegroom had shot a man just before he had
married her! When she discovered it, how strange she must have felt!
They wondered if it made her experience for a moment a very little of
repulsion. But no, probably not,--the Prince was really such a
gentleman; and the other deplorable person it was impossible to pity.
Prince Tchernigow possessed a mansion in the Champs Elysées; and
thither, a short time after the arrival of the pair, all Paris
(presentable Paris, of course) flocked to pay their respects, and
inspect the magnificence of the possessions in the midst of which
Tchernigow had installed his bride--doubtless the most precious of
them all. Then came brilliant entertainments, and the Princess
achieved at one stroke the almost incredible eminence of being
declared by common consent the best-dressed woman in Europe--Paris
meaning that continent, of course.
It was at the second of these entertainments that Madame de Soubise
remarked to Madame de Somme, in a pregnant little sentence, beginning
with the invariable "_dites-donc, chère Adèle_," that Madame la
Princesse seemed a little _distraite_, and had begun to wear rouge
like the rest of the world. Madame de Somme acquiesced in her friend's
remark, and further added on her own account, that the English
complexions, undeniably charming, were very evanescent, and that
really the Princess had no longer the appearance of being young. It
was on the same occasion that several of the company had asked who was
the "_petite dame_," so beautifully dressed, so quiet, and yet so
_spirituelle_, to whom the Princess was so caressing, and the "best"
men were invariably presented. The "_petite dame_" was small and
slight, pale-faced, and rather plain, perhaps, than pretty. Her
features had nothing remarkable about them, and her figure was
redeemed from insignificance only by the taste and richness of her
dress. But she was eminently attractive; and before long rumours
circulated about the _salons_ to the effect that the little lady--the
close, the inseparable friend of the Princess; a charming Irish widow,
who spoke French remarkably well, but with perhaps the slightest
defect in the accent (it is so difficult to be certain that one is
taught by persons who are _comme il faut_)--was as witty, as
brilliant, as her friend was beautiful. She was so completely at her
ease, and she enjoyed herself so much; and how delightful it was to
see the affection which subsisted between the little lady and the
Princess! Did one hint to the former that the Princess looked a little
fatigued, she would be all concern and agitation; she would fly to her
cherished Laura, and ask her in fervent tones if the pleasures, the
delights of this evening of Paradise had been too much for her; and
the two women would form the prettiest tableau in the world.
Did any of the worshippers at Laura's _canapé_, beside which the
Prince, most attentive of bridegrooms, most devoted of men, kept his
place steadily all the evening, admire the vivacity, the wit, the
grace of the little lady, the Princess would reply warmly, that her
dear Lucy was fortunate in possessing such a charming flow of spirits;
and Tchernigow would remark that Madame Seymour was indeed a
captivating islander, but that he understood the Irish ladies
resembled the French in wit and vivacity.
When the season in Paris approached its termination, the _beau monde_
was distressed to learn that the health of the Princess was not in so
satisfactory a condition as the host of friends who were desolated by
the intelligence could have desired. She was as much seen as ever; she
was the gayest of the gay, the richest of the rich, the most
brilliant of the brilliant; but she was not as beautiful at the close
of the season as she had been at the beginning; and it was not to be
denied that Lady Walford and Mrs. Fane--the last new brides and
beauties from the English capital--had as many admirers, if not more.
The Princess still dressed better than any woman in Europe,
conventionally defined; and her diamonds at least were unapproachable,
though there might possibly be brighter eyes to be now seen under the
Paris moonlight and waxlight.
"Going to St. Petersburg, are they?" said Lord Dollamore to his
bosom-friend the Malacca cane, as he retreated gracefully from the
side of the Princess's carriage, after a brief conversation with her.
"Going to St. Petersburg, are they? She does not look enchanted; on
the contrary, rather frightened, I thought. And that little devil
Marcelline, doing her beloved compatriots with such perfect composure
and success! I would not have lost seeing that for a good deal. Gad,
the bow she bestowed upon me when the Princess introduced me would
have done credit to a duchess! Madame Seymour, hey?--and Irish! By
Jove, I have not enjoyed anything so much for an age!"
Lord Dollamore walked on chuckling and tapping his ear in his old
manner. After a little his face grew graver and his confidences with
his cane were resumed in a different tone.
"What the deuce has come over her, I wonder?" he said. "I see a
change; but I don't know where it is. Is it in her face? is it in her
manner? She's very handsome--she's wonderfully handsome still,
though she rouges; but that's of course here-every one does it;
though it's not a case of painting the lily, so far as the
Parisiennes are concerned. Stop, though: there's such a thing as an
orange-lily--forgot that. It's something in the expression, I
fancy--something which gives one an impression that she's thinking of
one thing and talking of another, which was never _la belle_ Laura's
way: she knew her _monde_ better than to shock their self-love by
anything of that kind. Yes: that's it, by Jove!" and Lord Dollamore
struck himself quite a sharp little blow on the ear; "I've hit it: the
expression in her face is fear!"
When Lord Dollamore had stepped back from the side of her carriage,
and the horses were once more whirling it along, to the admiration of
the multitude, the Princess sank back upon the luxurious cushions with
a deep sigh. Madame Seymour looked at her with steady composure and
not a little contempt.
"Agitated, are you?" she said; "and quite upset by old memories and
all that sort of thing? What a weak fool you are! you are thinking of
the last time you and that very estimable nobleman met, I daresay, and
feeling quite sentimental. If you would remember, in addition, what
you intended to do when that interesting interview took place (I
remember it: I thought I never saw anything cooler or cleverer than
his polite unconsciousness of the identity of your _dame de
compagnie_; he used to walk with me in the shrubberies at Redmoor, and
I've given him a kiss occasionally for a guinea),--if you would
remember what you intended to do, and how completely you have done it,
it would be more to the purpose."
The Princess turned towards her companion, and said in a hurried
broken voice:
"You are wrong, Marcelline,--you are quite wrong; I was not thinking
of anything of the kind. I was only thinking of this horrible journey
to Russia. It terrifies me."
"Yes; but everything terrifies you, you know. How odd that Madame la
Princesse should not be _enthousiasmé_ at the prospect of beholding
the ancestral home of Monsieur le Prince, of being presented to the
gracious and urbane monarch who rules the Russias and the Russians!
They are a little difficult to rule as individuals, I fear; but as a
nation, no doubt, charming. I should have thought madame would have
seized the occasion with transport."
"Marcelline," pleaded Laura, "don't laugh at me; I am in deadly terror
of this journey. You can save me from it if you will. Do, do,
Marcelline! It is all dreadful enough even here, where I have some
protection--where at least he dares not kill me. But if I am taken
there, to his dreadful country, I shall be quite helpless in his
hands. He might kill me there, and none would interfere--no one would
even know, perhaps."
"How ignorant she is!" thought Mademoiselle Marcelline, "and how
cowardly! He has impressed himself upon her tolerably effectually,
this lacquered savage, and she has succumbed. These Englishwomen are
very shallow after all, no matter how bad they may be."
The Princess still pleaded, and Mademoiselle Marcelline, having
derived sufficient amusement just then from her companion's weakness,
and being somewhat fatigued by her importunity, told her at length,
and shortly, that she desired to enjoy the drive, and therefore
intended to change the subject. For her part, she did not particularly
care about going to Russia; she understood that travelling in that
empire had not been sufficiently systematized on that scale of comfort
indispensable to persons of condition; and, on the whole, she rather
thought they were not likely to go to Russia just then.
Madame Seymour's apartments in the Hôtel Tchernigow were among the
most luxurious and elegant which that palatial edifice contained. They
were inferior to those of the Princess in size alone; in every detail
of comfort and sybarite ease they equalled hers. A tiny and delicious
little boudoir made one of the _suite;_ and this beautiful retreat was
the scene that same evening of a rather remarkable conversation. The
speakers were the mistress of the gem-like apartment and Prince
Tchernigow. The former-dressed in the most tasteful and becoming
evening dress it was possible for human milliners to concoct, and
adorned with jewels, which also differed from those worn by the
Princess chiefly by their size-and the latter, in his usual faultless
attire, had met in the boudoir previous to accompanying the Princess
to the very last entertainment at which they intended to appear.
"Well, Marcelline," said the Prince, "you did me the honour to summon
me. What is it? Merely that I should tell you that you never looked so
charming?"
"For nothing of the sort," said she, putting aside the compliment as
beneath her notice and beside the question; "I sent for you to tell
you that the Princess does not wish to go to St. Petersburg. She is
nervous, I believe, and has some strange notions of the impunity of
Russian princes on their own versts. At all events, she does not wish
to go."
"I am perfectly aware of that fact, Madame Seymour," said the Prince,
with a peculiar smile; "but we are going to St. Petersburg, _quand
même_."
"Very well," said Marcelline; and she held her wrist towards the
Prince as a tacit intimation that he was to button her dainty glove.
"Then we shall not meet for some time, for I have not the most remote
intention of going to St. Petersburg."
"What!" said the Prince, with an angry start; "you will not come? You
are not serious, Marcelline?"
"I am perfectly serious, Prince Tchernigow. I have no intention
whatever of going to St. Petersburg at present, and I beg I may hear
no more on the subject. Have the goodness to ascertain if the Princess
is ready!" She sat down and turned over the leaves of a book.
The Prince walked two or three times up and down the little apartment,
and swore a Cossack oath or two under his breath. Then he stopped
opposite to her and said:
"Where will you consent to go then, Marcelline?"
"H-m!" She paused, with an exasperating air of indecision. "I don't
exactly know; I think I shouldn't mind the Mediterranean."
As she took her place beside the Princess, whose beauty was less
brilliant than ever that evening, and whose depression her attendants
had not failed to mark, she said, "Don't look so wretchedly subdued
and terrified, Madame la Princesse; you are not going to behold your
princely spouse in the cradle of his race and the midst of a grateful
peasantry. You are going to the Mediterranean instead."
And then she said to herself, "Poor wretch! I am glad I saved her from
that for the present. I really object to torturing her, when there's
nothing to gain."
Another season, and another, and the Hôtel Tchernigow opened its
hospitable doors, and maintained its reputation for splendour,
profusion, and fashion. But the health of the Princess afforded more
and more reason for solicitude to the hosts of friends who were
desolated by the intelligence that she was indisposed; and the beauty
of the Princess began to require that adornment from dress which it
had hitherto bestowed upon the utmost resources of decoration. Ugly
rumours regarding the princely _ménage_ had begun to circulate; and a
few, a very few, of those in high places had abated the alacrity with
which they had been wont to welcome the appearance of the Muscovite
magnate in their _salons_. French society does not tolerate overt
brutality; and there had been a story about a fall, and a broken arm;
and though no doubt both circumstances were purely accidental, and
indeed the fullest particulars were given to the numerous callers who
were so anxious to hear of the dear Princess's progress towards
recovery, the matter left an unpleasant impression, which all the
efforts made by the Princess to convince the world that she was not
only the richest, but the happiest, woman in Paris did not succeed in
removing.
What efforts they were! How she rouged, and dressed, and danced, and
talked! How she drove out with the Prince, and talked to him, and
smiled at him! How she playfully wore the injured arm in a very
conspicuous sling, and lamented that she was obliged to let "Alexis"
drive her darling ponies for her, until her tiresome arm should be
quite well, and how he perfectly ruined them! How she talked
about the polished _parquets_ as being so charming, but then so
dangerous,--"witness my poor arm, you know,"--and held the beautiful
limb out for pity and admiration! How she complained that she could
not ride any more that season, the injury having been inflicted on the
"bridle-arm;" and exulted in the promise of "Alexis" that if she would
only take good care of herself, and get quite well, she should hunt in
Leicestershire next season!
It was all very clever, but it did not do; and Tchernigow knew that it
did not; and the Princess knew it also and better.
One night, at the Italiens, an Englishman who had known the Princess
in former days saw her in her box, sitting radiantly in the front,
while Madame Seymour occupied a less prominent position, and a couple
of the most fashionable dandies of the day occupied the background.
This gentleman had left a party of ladies in the boxes, and gone down
to the stalls, and he now remarked to his companion:
"How awfully she is altered! I never saw such a wreck in so short a
time. And surely that lady with her is some one I have seen before. Do
you know who she is, Dollamore?"
"Yes, I do, of course. That lady is Madame Seymour, an Irish lady, a
widow of large fortune, who is devotedly attached to the Princess
Tchernigow. She lives with her,--for her, it almost appears; and she
speaks French so like a native, that it is difficult to distinguish
any difference."
"Ah, then, I am wrong; and we don't know her," said the gentleman,
still looking curiously at the party.
"Well, perhaps you don't exactly know her," said Dollamore; "but you
are right in thinking you had seen her. Madame Seymour used to be
known at Redmoor as Mademoiselle Marcelline, and she was Mrs.
Hammond's maid."
His hearer's exclamation of astonishment was checked by a sudden
commotion in the Princess's box. She had recognized the English party
at the moment when his companion addressed his last question to Lord
Dollamore. She had fought hard for a moment against her overwhelming
emotion; but the days of Laura's strength and self-mastery were over,
and she fell fainting from her chair.
Very shortly after this occurrence the paternal yearnings of the Czar
to behold Prince Tchernigow once more in the land of his birth proved
too strong for his resistance. The Prince and Princess left France for
Holy Russia; and that was the last that was seen of them in Paris.
Miss Constance Greenwood, Miss Gillespie, Lizzie Ponsford,--which you
will--never saw Lady Mitford after that memorable occasion on which
she yielded up possession of the forged bill. A considerable time
afterwards Lady Mitford wrote to her a long and sweet letter, in
which she reiterated her thanks for the great service which Miss
Gillespie--so she still called her--had intended doing her; but she
said, "even had the talisman which you left with me possessed the
powers which you wished to invest it with, it was useless--it was too
late." Lady Mitford added, that she had not forgotten the name under
which Miss Gillespie had told her she was pursuing a theatrical
career; that she had made inquiries, and found that "Miss Constance
Greenwood" was spoken of in the highest terms, not merely for her
transcendent abilities, but for the rectitude of her conduct. In
conclusion, Lady Mitford invited her correspondent to come and stay
with her when she would, and not to fail to apply immediately and
directly to her when she was in strait or difficulty of any kind.
People had said that Miss Constance Greenwood's stage-tears were the
most natural throughout the profession. They were not nearly so
natural as those which welled up hot and blinding into her eyes as she
perused Lady Mitford's letter, and which showered down thick and heavy
on to the paper as she pressed it to her lips. That letter is yellow
with age now; but, all stained and tear-blurred as it is, it is the
choicest object in that delicate little desk in which Miss Constance
Greenwood keeps all her treasures.
Not that she was Miss Constance Greenwood very long after the receipt
of that letter. She had risen to the very height of popularity with
the public, and had drawn a large amount of money into Mr. Wuff's
treasury, when Mr. Wuff sent for her one day to his room, and told her
in confidence that Mr. Frank Likely was going to give up the
Parthenium next week and go into the Queen's Bench, where he would
remain until he was "whitewashed;" after undergoing which process he
and Mrs. Likely would undertake an engagement at the Hatton-Garden
Theatre. "And the worst of it is," said Mr. Wuff,--"the worst of it
is, my dear, that Mrs. Likely says she won't have any better-looking
woman than herself playing leading business in the theatre. That's a
compliment to you, my dear; but it seems that you must go; and as I've
made an engagement with the Likelys, I am afraid you and I must part
at the end of the season."
Miss Greenwood shrugged her shoulders and bowed her head. She knew
that with her present _prestige_ any manager in London would be glad
to engage her. She was in no hurry, therefore, to seek for work. The
Parthenium closed; Mr. Frank Likely's body was seized by the myrmidons
of the sheriff; Mr. Wuff's season came to an end; and still Miss
Greenwood had not looked after another engagement, though she had
innumerable offers of terms.
How did Sir Laurence Alsager, so far away from England, keep _au
courant_ with London theatrical matters? Just as Miss Greenwood was
weighing two offers in her mind, doubtful which to accept, she had a
visit from an old gentleman, who announced himself as Sir Laurence
Alsager's solicitor, and handed her a letter--a letter which said
that the writer had never forgotten her intended kindness to a
certain person; that he had heard of her theatrical success, and
desired to serve her. Would she not like to be the lessee of the
Parthenium--then, as he understood, vacant? If so, his lawyer had
instructions to act in any way she wished; to draw what money she
required, and to carry through the arrangement for her. Miss Greenwood
gave a little cry of delight; her old love of fun sprung up in her.
How glorious it would be to beat the Likelys with their own weapons
and in their own den! She accepted Sir Laurence Alsager's kind
proposition, she said; and while the lawyer went to work at his
business, she went to work at hers. She set the eminent Spofforth to
work on a new piece; she engaged Dacre Pontifex, who was as
distasteful to Mr. Frank Likely as was Miss Greenwood to his wife. She
got together a capital stock-company, and took the town by storm.
Everything prospered with her, and at the end of each season she found
large gains. She has long since repaid Sir Laurence Alsager's advance;
and she has now great wealth, and some one to share it with her. Dacre
Pontifex, who had so long made love to her on the stage, at length
made love to her in earnest; and as he had always proved himself a
thoroughly good fellow, she accepted him, And there is no happier
couple in England. They have almost given up acting now; but they
still retain the theatre, and are thought highly of by all who know
them.
And Lord Dollamore? Lord Dollamore still lives, as well as, and in
some respects better than, ever. He superintended all the arrangements
for sending Sir Charles Mitford's body to England under the charge of
Banks--a duty which that functionary performed with the greatest
reluctance, declaring that he had not been engaged to "wait upon
corpses;" and then Dollamore had a long and serious consultation with
his stick, the subject of which was whether it would be expedient for
him to make any change in his mode of life. The idea of marriage had
never entered his head; but now that he knew Lady Mitford was free, he
began to experience a curious sensation at his heart, which caused him
at first the wildest astonishment, and then a considerable amount of
trouble. He had watched Georgie through all her trials and
temptations, and the sight had impressed him deeply. For the first
time since manhood he confessed (to himself) a belief in virtue,
bravery, and selflessness; for the first time in his life he felt an
irrepressible yearning towards the possessor of these qualities; and
he thought how the companionship of such a woman would illumine the
decline of his aimless, purposeless life.
He was for some days in doubt whether he should not return at once to
England, and after a decent interval proceed tentatively to see
whether an offer of his hand to Lady Mitford would be likely to be
successful; but he finally decided otherwise. He was no longer young,
his manner of life was formed; and he doubted whether he should have
strength to keep to all his good resolutions--in which case, and in
the event of his marriage with Georgie, her old troubles would be
renewed when she had less strength to bear them.
There is no doubt, however, that the mere fact of his indulging in
such thoughts proved that he was to a certain extent an altered man.
His tongue is much less bitter, his manner much less rough, his
thoughts much less cynical than they were. The person who suffers most
from him now is the _chef_ of the Maecenas, when Dollamore rules the
House-Committee. When that unfortunate Frenchman hears from the
house-steward that Lord Dollamore has been seen whispering to his
stick about an _entrée_ or an omelette, he knows what to expect the
next day.
* * * * *
When Lady Mitford was told by Captain Bligh, who executed his task
with great feeling, if not with profound skill, that her waiting was
all in vain,--that her letter had never reached her unfortunate
husband, but had been carefully enclosed with the effects of the
deceased, and consigned to the custody of Mr. Banks, she was not so
completely overwhelmed as might have been expected. She listened
patiently to all the details which it was considered necessary to give
her, and bore herself with a gentle fortitude which surprised all who
saw her.
The remains of the unfortunate Baronet arrived in due time; the
funeral was "performed;" and Sir Charles Mitford rested in the family
burial-place--the most unfortunate of a race who had been generally
rather uninterestingly prosperous.
Lady Mitford found herself very rich. Not only did she come into
possession of an ample jointure, but the entire sum destined for a
provision for younger children was bequeathed to her, in case of the
non-existence or death of such children. She was very much surprised
to find that Sir Charles had made a will, not many months prior to his
death, by which he had left her considerable personal property also;
so that her position was an enviable one, as far as pecuniary affairs
were concerned. How far that was, she had yet to learn. She had
courage, resignation, and patience; and she had the good gift of
common sense, enabling her to lay plans and make arrangements with
judgment and foresight; but she was not cold-hearted, nor callous, and
the time lay yet a good way distant at which she could reckon her
riches and feel her freedom.
The next heir to the title and entailed estates was a boy named Edward
Mitford, whom Lady Mitford had never seen, and who, with his widowed
mother, lived in an obscure village in Warwickshire, where the heir to
so much wealth and position picked up a very indifferent education at
a school of fourth-rate pretensions and sixth-rate performances. No
mention of this youth had been made by Sir Charles, who had, very
naturally, bestowed no thought upon the distant contingency of his
succession. The house in London had been rented by Sir Charles for a
term of years; and Lady Mitford determined to retain it in her own
possession. Having formed this resolution, and ascertained all that
was necessary relative to her position, Lady Mitford wrote to the
Reverend Cuthbert Farleigh. She recalled herself to his recollection,
and appealed to his kindness. She was very friendless, she said, and
wanted advice. Sir Laurence Alsager had told her that the kindness of
heart which had been so distinguishing a characteristic of Cuthbert
Farleigh in his boyhood was no less conspicuous in his more advanced
and responsible years, and she asked him to come to her. She did not
make any mention of Helen in the letter; she would defer that until
they could talk it over, she thought; and then he would perhaps make
her an offer of Helen's society, which she would gladly accept.
The Reverend Cuthbert answered the letter in person; and the meeting
between the former friends and companions under such altered
circumstances could hardly have failed to be affecting. Georgie
thanked him with all her heart, and felt less lonely and desolate that
evening than she had felt since the day on which Sir Laurence Alsager
had left her. He had arrived late; and they agreed to postpone the
discussion of the serious matters on which Georgie desired his advice
until the following day.
As Lady Mitford sat alone that night before the bright fire in her
dressing-room, she passed her life before her in mental review. She
questioned herself concerning the grief which she felt so keenly, and
yet blamed herself for not feeling with still greater acuteness. The
oppression, the vague gloom of a great change, of a tremendous shock,
from whose first effects she had not suffered so much as from that
which succeeded, were on her. The dreadful death of her husband
appalled her; less because it was _he_ who had been killed, and
because he had been killed in so awful manner, than because it seemed
to set the seal of the curse upon their marriage. She saw that
marriage now as it was,--a mistake first; then a disaster; finally a
catastrophe;--and she recoiled with horror from the awful lesson of
life thus opened out before her.
"Swift and sure," she thought, "punishment has followed wrong in _his_
case. It seems hard, too; he was not the only man beguiled by a wanton
woman, not the only man who betrayed and deserted his wife. Little as
I have seen of the world, I have seen instances of the same thing; but
these men, who had as little conscience, had more self-control, more
judgment, more self-respect, and did not expose themselves to the
risks which he dared, and which have been fatal to him. Poor fellow!
poor Charley!"
Her reveries always ended thus, in sweet womanly compassion and
forgiveness. She did not deceive herself; she did not lament for Sir
Charles with the intense and passionate grief of bereavement; she did
not make any false estimate of her loss, or give way to any sentiment
in which the perfect truth did not abide; but she shrank appalled and
miserable from the contemplation of so total a wreck as her wretched
husband's life had been, from the possibilities of sin and suffering
which it revealed to her.
Lord Dollamore had written to her,--Banks had brought the letter; and
so she learned that the last thought of the dying man had been of her,
the last word he had spoken had been her name. Georgie did not attach
greater importance to this fact than it deserved. She knew how to
discriminate between remorse and repentance too well to make a
mistake; but she was very thankful for the message, very thankful that
her husband had been permitted to utter it. She knew that in the
future, as long as she should live, those words would be a comforting
recollection to her; and she fully comprehended how much harder it
would all have been to endure, had the silence which had subsisted
between her and Sir Charles for several days before he left town never
been broken, even by those two gasping, hardly-articulate sounds.
Cuthbert Farleigh and Lady Mitford held a long consultation, as they
had agreed to do; and during its progress the curate learned that she
was acquainted with the fact of his engagement to Helen Manningtree;
and Lady Mitford imparted to him the permission and counsel Sir
Laurence Alsager had given her to ask Helen to come to her in any time
of need.
"You have had more than one such time of need, dear Lady Mitford," said
Cuthbert, "since Sir Laurence wrote to you and to Helen; and why have
you never made a sign, why have you never asked Helen to come to you?"
"Because I could not think it right, Cuthbert. The trouble I was in
was of a peculiar kind,--my sorrow was the result of another's sin;
and I don't think it would have been right to have brought a young
girl like Helen in contact with it. When I think of my own girlhood,
when I remember how far I was from the mere knowledge of such
perversities in human relations being possible, I am sure I was
right."
Cuthbert Farleigh remembered his own words to Helen,--"You are better
without the confidence of an unhappy wife,"--and admired the
directness with which the instinct and the principle of this woman had
guided her to a similar conclusion.
"But now," she said, "that is all over. When you and I come to the end
of our conversation, let the days which preceded the dark and terrible
one of his death"--she paused for a moment to command her voice,-"let
them be consigned to oblivion. There are no faults in the grave; all
is so trifling, so small, so contemptible in the presence of that
great mystery. I think it is a happy thing, Cuthbert, that the death
of a person who has ever been beloved blots out not only anger, but
dulls remembrance. I know this is the truth, that many and many a day
I sat brooding over small offences, little slights, trifling but
significant departures from the courtesies and the graces of love; and
oh how miserable such brooding made me! Well, I forget them all now;
every trace of bitterness has disappeared,--I remember only all the
good there was in my poor Charley, Yes, Cuthbert, he is mine again
now; he had ceased to be hers before he was slain; now he is mine
again, and I am not going to dwell on his faults."
Cuthbert Farleigh was privately of opinion that Lady Mitford proposed
to herself an exceedingly limited sphere of contemplation in respect
to her late estimable lord; but he admired, he reverenced, as every
man with the heart of a gentleman must, the simple, beautiful,
unreasoning instinct of womanly tenderness.
"So now," she went on, "there can be no harm in Helen's coming to me.
I am a widow so much sadder and more pitiable than other widows, that
I cannot talk of him whom I have lost with that free outspoken pride
which is so instinctive in other women, and which must be so sweet and
so bitter too, so precious and so terrible. I am truly widowed; for
life robbed me of my husband before death came to hide him from my
eyes. The world will cease to talk about him soon, and it will forget
me when it does not see me. There will be nothing objectionable in the
quiet life which I shall ask Helen to share with me until you ask her
to leave my home for yours."
Helen Manningtree obeyed Lady Mitford's summons; and from the first
hours of their mutual association Sir Laurence Alsager's hopes and
expectations were fulfilled. They "suited each other" exactly, and
their companionship was beneficial to both.
Helen Manningtree and Mrs. Chisholm corresponded with great regularity
with Sir Laurence, now travelling somewhere in the East, and
furnishing the most inscrutable addresses for their letters, the
attempt to decipher which they ordinarily gave up in despair and
pasted them bodily on the envelopes. Their letters were written from
London and from Knockholt respectively, and furnished the recipient
with the fullest particulars respecting their writers, and the most
accurate details of the few events which marked the first year of Lady
Mitford's widowhood.
Thus from Helen Sir Laurence learned that the young Sir Edward and his
mother had come to town on Lady Mitford's invitation, and that Georgie
and the quiet little lady from the country soon became great friends;
that the young baronet was a promising boy enough, but given to
idleness, the avoidance of soap-and-water, and the pursuit of useless
amusements, such as cricket and fishing, as contra-distinguished from
classical and useful learning; that his mother and Lady Mitford having
duly consulted the family advisers, and received from them the simple
counsel that they had better manage the boy as they thought proper,
had considered that the very best way of managing him would be to
establish him comfortably under the charge of a private tutor of
unusually desirable attainments.
When Ellen next wrote she informed Sir Laurence that the private tutor
of unusually desirable attainments had been found in the person of
Cuthbert Farleigh, who had, moreover, been provided with a very
comfortable living not very far distant from Knockholt, by virtue of a
mysterious arrangement whereby somebody gave up this piece of
preferment at the present, in consideration of some other "good thing"
of a similar kind which would be at the young baronet's disposal in
the future. Helen did not understand the arrangement very clearly, but
she had a perfect appreciation of its results; and though her account
of the transaction, as written "out" to Sir Laurence (who, though he
wrote vaguely of coming soon, was still beyond the reach of
civilization and spelling), was remarkably confused, two facts
appeared with unmistakable clearness. The one was that the family
lawyers were satisfied with the arrangements ("There's no simony in
it, then, or bedevilment of that kind," thought Sir Laurence, relieved
when he ascertained this first fact); the second was that Helen's
marriage could not take place so early as she and Cuthbert had hoped,
because since Cuthbert had ceased to be a curate, the cares of
property and position had fallen upon him, involving the repairing and
altering of his parsonage-house, new furnishing, &c., &c. "So now, as
it is so far off, dear Laurence," wrote Helen, "you really must come
home in time for my wedding. I think we should have put the event off,
at all events, in order to admit of Lady Mitford's being present; and
now, as her year's deep mourning will have more than expired, she has
promised to come. Indeed, I rather think our marriage will take place
here. You would be much surprised, if you could see her, at her
cheerfulness. I am sure it must arise from her perfect forgetfulness
of self. She lives entirely for others, and her serenity and sweetness
tell that peace is the result. Sir Edward is greatly attached to her;
he and Cuthbert also get on very well together. As usual, Lady Mitford
sends her kindest regards."
From Mrs. Chisholm Sir Laurence received good tidings of affairs
at Knockholt Park. That excellent lady prided herself upon her
letter-writing, fondly flattering herself, at times, that she turned
her sentences in something of the same manner in which her gifted
Augustine had rounded those flowing periods which had been so
effective when the departed curate occupied the pulpit at St.
Parable's. She liked writing letters, and especially to Sir Laurence;
and though she furnished him with plentiful details concerning
individuals of whose identity he had the most vague and confused
ideas; and though she was very pathetic indeed on the theme of
Cuthbert's removal "to a sphere of, I trust, greatly extended
usefulness, but that usefulness to others to be purchased at the price
of a relapse into spiritual destitution here very sad to
contemplate,"--Sir Laurence liked receiving her letters.
The truth was, his heart yearned towards England And home. He had
imposed upon himself a fixed term of absence, and nothing would have
induced him to abridge that period; but all his resolution did not
check his imagination, did not arrest his fancy, did not quell his
longing for its expiration. The smallest details which reached him
from the distant households in which he was held in such affectionate
remembrance had ineffable charm for him. He found himself, under the
most unpropitious circumstances and in the most unheard-of places,
writing lengthy epistles to Mrs. Chisholm--letters full of almost
feminine inquisitiveness, and enjoining the immediate despatch of
voluminous replies. He rejoiced the good lady's heart by the sympathy
which he expressed in all the local matters which she detailed; and he
soothed her sorrows concerning the departure of Cuthbert by so
dexterous an argument in favour of the almost inevitable eligibility
of the curate destined to succeed him, that Mrs. Chisholm actually
prepared to receive him with a gracious and hopeful welcome. Sir
Laurence was right; only a young man of exemplary piety and
conscientious intentions in the direction of parish-work would be at
all likely to accept so poor a provision as the curacy at Laneham,--no
doubt all would be well; and she hoped dear Cuthbert would not be led
away by his preferment. It was, however, melancholy to observe how
great a contrast sometimes existed between the lowly and hard-working
curate and the proud, lazy, and worldly-minded rector. She trusted
such a contrast might never exist in the case of dear Cuthbert.
The simple-minded lady was thinking, as she thus expressed her
guileless hopes and fears, of one curate to whom preferment never
came, and whom it never could have spoiled. She had a strong
conviction that if there should prove to be any celestial institution
at all resembling a bench of bishops in a future state, she should
find her Augustine occupying a very prominent place among its
occupants.
So the time passed on, and the period appointed for Helen's marriage
drew near. The wedding was to be a very quiet one, as Lady Mitford had
insisted on its taking place at her house, and the first year of her
widowhood would have expired only a few weeks before the time for the
marriage.
Mrs. Chisholm, Mrs. Mitford, the young baronet, and the Reverend
Cuthbert Farleigh (rector of Everingham and principal on this
auspicious occasion), Helen, and her hostess, were assembled at Lady
Mitford's house on the last evening but one before the event. They
were all together in the drawing-room, and were engaged in discussing
the chances for and against the arrival of Sir Laurence Alsager in
time for the wedding.
"I am afraid he has made a mistake," said Cuthbert, "about a steamer
to Trieste. I can find no announcement of one for a week to come."
"No, no," said Helen; "Laurence said he would come, and Laurence will
be here. I would not give him up if we were all in the church."
"What do you think, Lady Mitford?" asked Sir Edward; "I'm awfully
anxious to see this Sir Laurence you and Helen are for ever jawing
about,--I'm sure he's awfully jolly, though I suppose he's no end of a
swell."
The Reverend Cuthbert Farleigh considered it his duty to correct the
young gentleman's vernacular at this juncture, and Lady Mitford did
not appear to have heard the question. At all events she allowed it to
remain unanswered.
At this moment a servant brought Helen a note. "Come by hand from the
Clarendon, ma'am," he explained.
Helen exclaimed rapturously:
"It's from Laurence! He's in London! We shall see him to-morrow!
There, Cuthbert, you incredulous person, will you ever doubt
Laurence's promise or dispute my opinion again?"
"Certainly not, after the day after to-morrow, Nelly," replied
Cuthbert.
There was a small enclosure in Sir Laurence's note to Helen, which she
had slipped into her pocket unperceived. It bore Lady Mitford's name;
but Helen waited until she was about to take leave of her, as usual,
for the night at the door of her own room before she handed it to her.
When she was alone Georgie opened the note. It was very brief; it
contained only three words. They were:
"FORTITER--FIDELITER--FELICITER?"
Georgie's reply to this query was perfectly satisfactory to Sir
Laurence Alsager.
THE END.
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JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.