LADY FORESTFIELD AT HOME.
'We have been watched, and Forestfield knows all!' Those words seemed
to have crept into Lady Forestfield's heart, deadening its action and
stupefying her brain. She sat perfectly motionless until just before
the curtain fell, then rose, accompanied by the duchess and attended
by the two gentlemen who had subsequently come into the box, and
sought her carriage. While waiting in the crush-room, in reply to a
question put, she scarcely knew by whom, she pleaded a severe
headache, and excused herself from seeing any more of her friends that
night. The after-theatre suppers at Lady Forestfield's house in
Seamore-place were renowned, and the Duchess of Melrose, who had come
to that sensible time of life when eating is regarded as something
more than the mere swallowing of food, and both the attendant sprites
who wanted to fill up a couple of hours before going to Pratt's, were
disappointed; but Lady Forestfield's look was so dazed and colourless
and helpless, that it was evident that her plea was no pretence, and
the duchess took advantage of an opportunity to ask her in a whisper
if anything had happened.
'Nothing,' she replied in a flat tuneless tone, 'nothing.'
'I thought, my dear, from your looks, that a hawk might have dropped
down into the dovecot; but you are very young and very sensitive, my
poor child; in a few years you will learn to treat any little
temporary storms with proper unconcern.' And then the carriages were
signalled, and the ladies took their departure.
On reaching home, Lady Forestfield, with a passing glance into the
dining-room, where the table was set out for supper, went straight to
her room, and dismissing her maid as soon as possible, threw herself
in her peignoir into a low chair near the window overlooking the Park,
and gave herself up to thought.
'Forestfield knows all!' Those words were her social death-knell,
ringing out farewell to friends, to position, to hope, almost to life;
for what would life be to her without the surroundings in which she
had revelled, and which were about to be ruthlessly cut away? Was
there the remotest chance of escape? Could there be any possible
motive by which her husband, cognisant of her crime, would consent to
condone it? Of his own irregularities since their marriage, common and
manifold as they were, she had long since been made aware, and had
suffered them in silence. Might not he, in simplest justice to her, do
likewise? He knew all; but none else, save the creatures in his
employ, whose silence was as easily purchased as their espionage. He
had been with her but five minutes before De Tournefort had told her
the fatal news, and his manner, as ordinarily, was cold and cynically
polite. She had seen him very different at times when she had
unwittingly given him trivial cause for offence, when he had cursed
and sworn, and once seized her arm and wrenched it round so violently
that for weeks she had borne the blue impress of his fingers. Surely
De Tournefort must have been misinformed. Surely, if Richard knew his
disgrace, he would have avoided her in public; and when they met in
private would have wreaked his wrath upon her, as he had done for far
more venial matters.
From thinking of her husband she turned to thinking of herself,
wondering how and why she had fallen; patiently, but in a vague dreamy
kind of manner, analysing her feelings towards the man who had wrought
her ruin, and for whose gratification she had imperilled her social
status and her soul. For _his_ gratification, not for _hers!_ In her
self-examination she did not find one grain of love for Gustave de
Tournefort; she had not even had a caprice, a passion for him, and had
only listened to his oft-urged suit when completely worn out with
solitude, loneliness, and neglect. Love, passion--she had known them
but once, in the early days of her marriage, when she thought that
there had never lived on this earth a man comparable to her husband;
none so handsome, none with such an easy bearing, such biting wit,
such delicious insolence. She had sat down and worshipped him with all
her soul and strength, heedless of her father's good-humoured
raillery, heedless of her mother's tearful entreaties and solemn
warnings; she had set up her idol and bowed down before it, only to
find after a little time that it was a very ordinary kind of fetish
indeed.
Those feelings were played out now, but at one time they had been
all-powerful, and the mere recollection of them had a softening and
humanising effect upon the wretched girl as she sat, her elbows
resting on her knees, the lower part of her face buried in her hands,
looking out across the road dotted with lamps and echoing the rattle
of an occasional carriage, to the park beyond, where the big trees
bent whisperingly to each other, and beckoned solemnly like dim
gigantic spectres.
Suddenly a terror seized her. What Gustave had said must be true;
he would never have dared to trifle with her on such a subject. They
had been watched, and her husband knew all! Her husband would come
home--he was on his way thither at that moment perhaps--and in his
wild ungovernable fury he might murder her. Even if her life were
spared it would be rendered desolate; she would be driven forth from
her home, and left to fight her way in the world alone, without
friends or resources.
Then there arose suddenly in her mind a scene which she had witnessed
during the previous autumn, when she and Lord Forestfield were
travelling in Germany. They were travelling from Ischl to Salzburg,
and at the driver's request halted midway that he might bait his
horses. A kermesse was being held in the little village, and amongst
the numerous carts gathered together before the inn-door was a
travelling-carriage, from which the horses had been removed. It was,
however, still occupied, and nestled into one corner under the hood
May Forestfield had made out the dim outline of a female form. The
courier attached to this carriage, of course making friends and
drinking with the Forestfields' courier, told him that the lady whom
he was taking to Ischl was an Englishwoman, and very ill, so ill that
the baths and waters of Ischl had been prescribed for her as a last
resource. Lady Forestfield, hearing this from her maid, inquired the
name of the lady, which in the courier's mouth was unintelligible; but
May, learning that the invalid was alone, and all but unattended,
acting under the kindly impulsive wish to be of some use, she scarcely
knew how, made her way to the side of the carriage, and in her sweet
tone spoke a few words of sympathy. The invalid, who had been lying
huddled in the corner, turned quickly at the sound of the voice; and
worn and ghastly as was her face, Lady Forestfield recognised her in
an instant as Fanny Erle, an intimate acquaintance, who two years
before had fled from her husband's roof, and had since been divorced.
Some one else had recognised her at the same moment--Lord Forestfield,
who, following his wife, had a look over her shoulder and instantly
divined what had taken place. Mrs. Erle, on whose pale cheeks two
bright red spots suddenly appeared, would have spoken; but Lord
Forestfield, seizing his wife by the shoulder, hurried her away, and
peremptorily insisted on her making no farther attempt to see the
wretched woman again, speaking of her crime with the bitterest
reprobation, and of the punishment which had fallen upon her with
genuine contemptuous approbation.
Before Lady Forestfield's eyes, which were apparently fixed on the dim
and distant park, rose this scene in all its minutest details: she
heard the noisy laughter of the peasants; the jingle of the horses'
bells and the rattle of their rope harness; the shouts and cries of
the vendors in the kermesse; she saw the little square in which the
inn stood, with the quaint gabled houses opposite, the loiterers round
the carriage, the two couriers drinking beer on the steps of the inn;
and above all, she saw the miserable look which Fanny Erle gave when
Lord Forestfield hurried her away, and heard the moan of despair with
which the wretched woman fell back into the corner of the carriage.
Was she to be like that, a leprous object, a pariah, from the
contemplation of which people would turn in disgust? God forbid! And
yet the sin of Fanny Erle was hers; why should she not incur the
penalty?
Wearied and heart-sore, she at last made her way to bed, and fell into
a heavy slumber, from which she did not wake till noon. Her first care
was to inquire after her husband's movements. Her maid learned from
the valet that his lordship had gone out early in a cab which had been
fetched for him; the valet could not recollect the directions given to
the driver, but had an idea it was to somewhere in the City; his
lordship had said nothing as to when he should be back.
There was a respite, then. No man, May Forestfield thought, having
sinister intentions would act in such a manner; he would either have
blazed out at her in a personal interview, when murder might have been
done, or he would have written her a cutting letter, stating the
discovery he had made, and his consequent intention of getting rid of
her. It was plain to Lady Forestfield that Gustave had been
misinformed, and that her husband knew nothing. Though a constant
attendant at afternoon service at All Saints', and quite familiar with
as much of the liturgy as is then and there intoned, May Forestfield
was not in the habit of putting much heart into her supplications; but
in the belief that a great and deserved punishment had been averted
from her, she knelt down and implored the Divine forgiveness for her
past crime, and pledged herself to sin no more.
As usual there was a little luncheon party in Seamore-place, to which
came Mrs. Ingram and Lady Northaw--of course, unaccompanied by their
husbands--and Captain Seaver, of the Blues, and Sir Wolfrey Delapryme.
Kate Ingram was a tiny blonde, with pretty fair hair and blue eyes, a
creamy complexion, and the wee-est imaginable hands and feet. She was
very spirituelle, and better educated than most of her class, spoke
French and German to perfection, and acted and sang admirably. Théo
herself, whom she much resembled, could not have given more
unmistakable point and colour to a _chansonette grivoise_ than did
Mrs. Ingram, who was the daughter of a Church dignitary, and the wife
of a director of the Bank of England. Her father, long since in his
grave, would have been very much astonished at a display of the
accomplishments by which his daughter had made herself attractive in
the highest quarters; but her husband, like Gallio, 'cared for none of
these things.' Lady Northaw was a brunette, with regular features,
sleepy black eyes, and blue-black hair; a tall imperial Juno-like
woman, with full bust and rounded arms, and a grand way of carrying
herself. It is scarcely necessary to say that every rickety little
knock-kneed subaltern in the Guards worshipped her. Both ladies were
intimate friends of May Forestfield, both were very liberal in all
their notions, and both spoke the _argot_ of the day with perfect
fluency.
There were three vacant places at the round table where M. de
Tournefort usually found himself at two o'clock; this day, however, he
was an absentee; but one of the places soon after the meal commenced
was occupied by Lord Forestfield, who came in with a smiling
salutation, which included the company, and an apology for being late,
having been detained on business.
'Business?' growled Sir Wolfrey Delapryme, deep in investigating
the recesses of a pie; 'nice man of business you are! What was
it--horse-chaunting or rigging the market that you have been up to?'
'Don't speak with your mouth full, Wolfrey, and never talk of things
you don't understand,' said Lord Forestfield. 'I assure you I have
been on important business to the City.'
'I wish I had a pal who would put me up to something good in the
City,' murmured Mrs. Ingram plaintively. 'I don't see the good of
having a Bank director for one's husband if he can't help himself to
coin.'
'Plain enough he cannot do that,' said Captain Seaver, 'or he would
get himself a new hat; never saw such a confounded bad hat as Ingram
wears in all my life.'
'He has to have it made large,' growled Sir Wolfrey to Lady Northaw;
'particularly over the forehead.'
'Hush!' said her ladyship with a deprecatory smile; then added aloud:
'Are any of you going to Lady Paribole's? I understand all the smart
people in London are to be there.'
'I lay odds that one who thinks herself very smart won't show up,'
said Mrs. Ingram; 'because I happen to know that a "distinguished
person," as the newspapers say, sent for the list and ran his pen
through her name.'
'Whom do you mean?' asked Lady Forestfield.
'Why, that horrible old Mrs. Van Groot, who, because she is hideous
and common-looking, is always going about saying atrocious things of
everybody nice.'
'I don't care much about Mrs. Van Groot myself,' said Sir Wolfrey;
'but it's enough to make a woman rear and plunge a bit when she has to
run in double harness with such an unmitigated cad as Van Groot. The
little Dutch pug is always getting up in the House, whelping and
snarling at his betters.'
'I don't think it makes much matter what sort of a husband a woman may
happen to have,' said Lord Forestfield, speaking deliberately, and
looking round with his cold cynical smile. 'If she is naturally
wicked, the vice is sure to show itself, no matter what treatment she
may receive.'
May Forestfield struggled hard but ineffectually to repress her rising
colour, and the other ladies bit their lips in silence. Ugly topics
such as crime (when called up for punishment), duty, and death were
habitually testily ignored by them.
Captain Seaver struck in to the rescue. 'I suppose you will be going
away about the beginning of next month, Lady Forestfield?' he said.
'You generally stay at your place in Sussex--I forget its name--first,
don't you?'
'You mean Woodburn?' said May, whose voice exhibited traces of the
emotion under which she was suffering.
'Ay, Woodburn,' said the Captain; 'handy for Goodwood, isn't it,
Dick?'
'Very handy, and a pleasant place,' said Lord Forestfield quietly. 'I
am going down there this afternoon.'
'To tell the people to get it all in readiness,' said Mrs. Ingram.
'What a delightful man to take such trouble off one's hands!'
'I hope you will manage to take Snubs with you, Lady Forestfield,'
said Sir Wolfrey. 'He has always been accustomed to go out of town,
and he would feel it horribly if he were left behind.'
'And the cat, May, your lovely cat,' said Lady Northaw.
'I am afraid she would not stay,' said May.
'Probably not,' said Lord Forestfield; 'cats are like statesmen--they
prefer places to persons. Now I must go to catch my train;' and with a
smile and a general bow he left the room.
There was little reticence in that company, and so, as soon as the
door was closed, Captain Seaver said, 'I wonder what Dick has got in
hand now! I always notice that peculiar expression on his face just
before he is going to land some great _coup_. He looked just like that
when he won at Stockbridge last year.'
'He is uncommonly wide awake,' said Sir Wolfrey; 'though what can he
be going down to Woodburn for just now? Have you any notion, Lady
Forestfield?'
'Not the faintest,' said May, whose courage by this time had pretty
well returned. 'One can never account for Dick or his ways. He has the
habit of running off when one least expects it, and never gives one a
notion of when he will return.'
'That must be very inconvenient,' said Mrs. Ingram.
'I was hearing his praises sung the other night,' said Lady Northaw.
'Mrs. Rouge-croix says there is no man in the world so well able to
put one up to a wrinkle or two.'
'That is not necessary in her case,' growled Sir Wolfrey, 'for she has
quite enough of her own.'
'Well,' said Mrs. Ingram, rising, 'I cannot wait, even to hear the
glorification of Lord Forestfield, as I have some calls to make.
Recollect, May; you come to my box at the French plays, and we can
afterwards go on to Lady Paribole's.'
When her guests were gone, Lady Forestfield went to her boudoir, and
seated herself at her little writing-table. Not that she had any
intention of writing; her hand toyed with the pen, and wandered idly
among the nicknacks with which the table was covered, as she thought
of the occurrences of the morning, and tried to find a clue to the
future in anything her husband had said or done. There had been
nothing extraordinary, she thought; he had been quiet and reticent in
his usual cool cynical way; and though she had winced at his speech
about wifely duties and wifely sins, it was probably merely a
conscience smart, as the observation was not pointedly addressed to
her. Not another word had she heard from Gustave, who, had he found
his suspicions correct, would undoubtedly have found some means of
giving her farther warning. He must have been deceived; a man of Lord
Forestfield's temper, with such knowledge rankling in his breast,
could not have come quietly home, taken his luncheon with her in the
presence of friends, and gone off to the country, as was his frequent
custom, without making any sign. The danger was over, she thought; but
the vow of resistance to temptation which she had made that morning
should be steadfastly kept.
The door opened, and a servant presented her with a card. It bore the
words, 'Mr. Bristow, 96 Bedford-row.' She knew the name to be that of
the family solicitor, a gentleman enjoying an exceptionally
confidential position, and who was in the habit of dining with them
once or twice in the season; and she gave orders for his admission.
Mr. Bristow, a tall, white-haired, white-whiskered man, scrupulously
clean and very neatly attired, appeared in the doorway, and made a
grave bow.
'How do you do, Mr. Bristow?' said Lady Forestfield, rising from her
chair. 'It is seldom you give us the pleasure of a visit, but I am
very glad to see you.'
'I am come, Lady Forestfield,' said Mr. Bristow, 'on peculiarly
painful business.'
'Painful business!' she echoed, with a sudden sinking at her heart.
'Very painful business,' he repeated. 'I have,' he added, drawing a
paper from his pocket, 'to serve this paper upon you.'
'What is it?' she added, shrinking back.
'It is a citation from the Divorce Court,' said Mr. Bristow, 'which I
serve upon you on behalf of Lord Forestfield. Be good enough to sit
down and read it.'
She took the paper tremblingly, and glancing at it saw her name. Then
she let it drop to the ground. 'What does it mean?'
'It means,' said Mr. Bristow, 'that Lord Forestfield is about to
divorce your ladyship on the ground of adultery with Monsieur Gustave
de Tournefort.'
'Good God!' cried May, 'why does Lord Forestfield not come to me?'
'Your ladyship will never see him again,' said Mr. Bristow quietly.
'Never see him again!' she cried. 'Why, he was here an hour ago! He
has only gone down to Woodburn, and he will be back tomorrow.'
'Lord Forestfield has not left town,' said Mr. Bristow; 'nor has he
any intention of leaving it at present.'
'But I must see him!' cried May.
'It is perfectly impossible,' said Mr. Bristow. 'I have now discharged
my very painful duty, and all that is left for me is to express a hope
on Lord Forestfield's part that your ladyship will employ a
respectable solicitor.' Then turning to the door he said, 'You can
come in;' and four persons entered, his own clerks and her servants,
which or what May never clearly knew. 'You are witnesses that I have
served this citation from the Divorce Court upon Lady Forestfield.'
Then with a grave bow he left the room, and in the last glimpse he had
of May Forestfield, she was standing like a statue, dumb, motionless,
with the paper on the ground at her feet.