IN DEFENCE.
Frank Eardley was punctual to his appointment with Sir Nugent
Uffington, and the friends started at once for their proposed drive to
Richmond.
During this drive, the stroll under the trees and through the fern
which followed it, and the dinner which crowned the day's amusement,
Sir Nugent Uffington was much more companionable, and took far greater
interest in his friend's remarks. The fact was that he had skilfully
led the conversation in the direction of Lady Forestfield, and induced
Eardley to chat to him unreservedly about that lady and the manner of
her life before and after her marriage. On such matters Eardley was
just the man to be the mouthpiece of that portion of the world which
hears everything that is going on in society, and comments upon it in
a broad and genial spirit, untinged by envy or jealousy, but
sufficiently flavoured with that sarcasm which comes natural to
worldlings in this age of cynicism and disbelief. He had known Lord
Stortford; indeed, the worthy peer, who had inherited his father's
love of art of all kinds, had been one of the first to discover early
indications of the talent which had raised the Royal Academician to
his present rank in art, and had given him his earliest commission.
Eardley was received in Grosvenor-square on those pleasant terms of
equality which were always extended by the host to those whose social
manners permitted it, had made May's acquaintance even before she was
presented, and had struck up a pleasant friendship with her. Frank
Eardley knew too well his own position and the girl's destiny to
attempt to convert this friendship into any stronger alliance; and
May, who appreciated the state of affairs with equal correctness, made
the kindly artist the confidant of many of her hopes and fears. Of
Lord Forestfield, who proposed to Miss Dunmow very shortly after his
return from a protracted residence abroad, Frank Eardley knew nothing;
but he saw enough of him during the few weeks previous to the
marriage, to make up his mind that the intended bridegroom was by no
means all that could be looked for in the husband of so charming a
girl. What May required to guide her aright was a man of sound common
sense with a very light hand, who would keep herself sufficiently in
check while never allowing her to feel the curb; a man to whom she
could look up with respect and admiration, and to whom she could defer
even when her wishes were most strongly engaged, knowing that he would
be in the right. To Eardley, Lord Forestfield's character seemed
wholly different from this: he was at the same time narrow-minded and
impetuous, with a strong belief in himself, and an undisguised
contempt for the opinion of others. Moreover, the clubs rang with
rumours of his previous life, and of his ideas as to domestic loyalty;
which argued but ill for the future peace of mind of the girl whose
lot in life he was destined to control. After their marriage, Eardley
had seen but little of them. He paid his duty call, but May's
suggestion that he should be asked to dinner was met with a prompt
negative from her husband, who declared his intention of eliminating
all 'such kind of people' from his house. They met, however, pretty
frequently in society, and though May, in obedience to Lord
Forestfield's wishes, restricted her conversation with her old friend
to ordinary conventionalities, Eardley saw from her manner that she
was unhappy, and soon gathered from general gossip that she was
ill-treated. He had seen so many affairs of this kind, that when the
gossip further informed him that Lady Forestfield was avenging
herself, the kind-hearted artist was thoroughly sorry, but very little
surprised. '_Tu l'as voulu, Georges Dandin_,' he muttered to himself
with a shrug, as the purveyor of scandal left his studio to proceed
further on his self-imposed generous mission. 'I guessed it would come
to that, and there is no use in my attempting to stop this stream of
poached filth which floods the middle street, which that rascal who
has just left is assiduously helping in its course;' but he did what
he could to stem the current nevertheless, and there were some people
who hesitated to believe the stories whispered against Lady
Forestfield's fair fame, simply because Frank Eardley declared them to
be false.
He told all this in his simple quiet manner to his friend as they sat
over their bottle of claret in the calm evening.
'I have not seen Lady Forestfield since the smash,' he said, 'though,
of course, I would do anything in the world I could to be of service
to her. But,' he added, looking steadily at Uffington, 'I don't
believe, Nugent, in interference in such matters, at all events by
men. I am delighted to think that she has Eleanor Irvine with her. A
straightforward right-thinking girl like that, whatever the Mrs.
Grundys may choose to say, cannot come to any grief herself in keeping
up her old friendship with this poor lady, while she may be the means
of doing her an infinity of good; but a man who sought to take up any
position in the matter would only compromise Lady Forestfield and
himself; and is far better out of the scrape. Don't you think so?'
'Yes,' said Sir Nugent; 'it depends a good deal on the kind of
assistance intended, and upon the manner in which it is proffered; but
I think upon the whole you are right. Now let us go.'
Nevertheless, when he found himself alone in his chambers, thinking
over the occurrences of the previous night, and over all that he had
so recently heard of Lady Forestfield's trials and temptations, the
desire to know something more of her and of the league which bound
Eleanor Irvine to her arose more strongly than ever within him. He had
chosen to express his agreement with what Frank Eardley had said about
interference, partly in order to avoid a further discussion on the
subject, and partly that he might not be suspected of carrying out his
decided intention of moving in the matter. If he had been called upon
to define the impulse which prompted him he could not have done so;
but he had a vague idea that he might be able in some way and at some
future time to be of assistance to this stricken woman; and under that
influence he sat down and wrote the following letter:
'The Albany, Thursday night.
'Dear Lady Forestfield,--I have just returned to England, after a long
absence, and, as is usually the case with wanderers, find that many of
my familiar friends are no longer here to greet me, and many of the
houses where I once was welcome are now in the hands of strangers. In
my early days in London, when you were a very little child, Lady
Stortford was good enough to distinguish me with her notice and her
friendship, and it is impossible for me ever to forget the kindness
which I received at her hands. Very frequently in my travels I had
looked forward with sincere pleasure to the thought of meeting her
again. As this is not to be, I have ventured to ask my friend Mr.
Eardley for your address, and I write to express a hope that you will
allow me as your mother's old friend to call upon you.--Sincerely
yours,
'NUGENT UFFINGTON.'
'That reference to Eardley,' said Uffington to himself as he folded
the letter, 'will let her know that I am in full possession of the
facts of her story, and am not writing under any misapprehension. Take
this,' he added, giving the note to his servant, 'early in the
morning; and be sure to bring me back an answer.'
The next morning he found a small hand-delivered note lying on his
breakfast table amongst the correspondence which the post had brought
him. He seized upon it at once, and read as follows:
'Lady Forestfield will be happy to receive Sir Nugent Uffington
between the hours of three and five on this or any other afternoon.'
To his own surprise and amusement, Uffington found himself making a
more elaborate toilette than usual, and at the hour named he presented
himself in Podbury-street.
Hitherto he had only had slight opportunity of seeing Lady
Forestfield, and he had no idea she was so beautiful. She was very
simply dressed in a plain muslin morning gown, and her whole
appearance coincided with the neat and modest rooms in which she was
living. Uffington was struck at once with the classical beauty of her
head, with her wavy dark hair, taken off from her forehead and
gathered in a clump behind, with her large lustrous melancholy eyes,
and with her bright fresh colour. She received him kindly, but with
some embarrassment, which he endeavoured at once to dissipate.
'You will probably have been surprised at the receipt of my letter,
Lady Forestfield,' he said; 'but I fear it must be self-explanatory,
as I have very little to add to it in justification of my desire to
see you. I have always had the keenest remembrance of Lady Stortford's
kindness, at a time when her support and countenance were most
valuable to me; have always had a hope of thanking her for it; and
when I found that was beyond my power, I desired to thank her
representative.'
'I am scarcely in that position, Sir Nugent Uffington, I fear,' said
Lady Forestfield, flushing deeply.
'You are her ladyship's daughter, Lady Forestfield,' said Uffington
quickly, 'and as such worthy of all respect from me.'
'I am grateful to Providence that my mother is no longer alive to see
me as I am,' said May with bitter emphasis. 'It would be worse than
useless for me to disguise from myself that you are perfectly well
acquainted with my present position, Sir Nugent Uffington.'
'If I had not been, had your position been other than it is, Lady
Forestfield,' said Nugent, 'I scarcely think I should be here now.
Believe me, my earnest desire is to serve you in any possible way.'
'I am grateful to you for these expressions, Sir Nugent Uffington, but
I do not see how you can aid me. There is nothing to be done,' she
added with a sigh; 'I have taken my own course, and I must abide the
consequences.'
'There is much to be done,' said Uffington gently, 'in mitigating the
severity of your sentence, though the person with whom one has to deal
renders the operation somewhat difficult.'
'I can look for no mercy at Lord Forestfield's hands,' said May,
shaking her head; 'from him I can only expect the worst that could
befall me.'
'Under compulsion a man has to set aside his own wishes and desires,
and one might find means of making even Lord Forestfield do much that
would be naturally disagreeable to him,' said Nugent. 'I know nothing
of him, but from what I have heard, I cannot imagine how Lady
Stortford, with her knowledge of the world, could have permitted you,
child as you were, to make such a marriage.'
'Child as I was, I had a strong will of my own,' said May--'a will
which I was accustomed to indulge, no matter what opposition was made
to it or by whom. My poor mother, who, in this instance at least,
seemed to be endowed with strange foresight, prayed me to reject Lord
Forestfield's advances, urging as a reason that she was sure I was but
temporarily infatuated, and that I should soon repent my
determination. I would not listen to her, I would not hear a word
against him; I had my own way, and--this is the result.'
'Temporarily infatuated. Was Lady Stortford right? were you, then, so
deeply fascinated by this man?'
May paused an instant. 'All that you have ever heard or read of insane
infatuation was nothing to mine,' she said; 'I worshipped him with all
my soul. Brought up strictly as I had been, I believed there was no
position in the world I would not have gladly accepted to insure
always being at his side. I cannot tell,' she said, after another
pause, 'why I am speaking thus freely to you, except that I have had
no one in the world to open my heart to; and though I have never seen
you before, I have instinctive confidence in you.'
'You will find that confidence is not misplaced,' said Uffington
gravely. 'When did you first find your mother's words come true?'
'Not until some little time after she was dead, not until my husband
had begun to weary of his plaything; for that I was, and nothing more.
During the first months of our marriage, my life was one of perfect
happiness; the man whom I adored was constant in his attentions to me;
I was indulged in every whim, and flattered to the top of my bent.
Money was recklessly lavished upon me, and as I had all I wished and
all my pleasures were shared by my husband, my happiness was greater
than even I ever deemed possible.'
'And that happiness lasted?'
'Just as long as pleased Lord Forestfield's fancy, and no longer. He
told me afterwards, with much bitter frankness, that I ought to be
very proud of having kept him in thrall for such a length of time,
adding that he was changeable by nature, and had never before
worshipped so long at one shrine.'
'What an infernal scoundrel!' muttered Uffington, under his breath.
Then aloud: 'Did he break with you at once?'
'O no,' said May. 'So long as he cared for me in his own peculiar way,
he had given me the fullest liberty, knowing that I never had any
thought but for him; but after he wearied of me he began to grow, or
to pretend to grow, absurdly jealous. It has been truly said that
there is no love without jealousy, and could I have persuaded myself
that my husband's passion for me had not changed, I should not have
minded jealousy and suspicion, even misplaced as his were, but should
rather have regarded them as proofs of his attachment; but knowing
what I did, it was easy for me to perceive that this jealousy sprang
from temper, and not from love, and was a degradation instead of what
it would otherwise have been, a tribute.'
'Your sad experience seems to have taught you much,' said Uffington,
looking at her compassionately.
'So I thought myself; and yet it failed me in my direst end,' said
May. 'My sad experience stripped the mask from my demigod, and showed
him to me as he was, simply a libertine, cold, selfish, and exacting.
Having no fault to find with me, save that I had failed any longer to
please or amuse him, he vented his rage on me under the frivolous
pretext of being jealous, when he knew that I had no eyes or voice for
any one in the world but him.'
'To a man of this stamp the possession of such a wife must always be a
matter of congratulation; he must at least have been proud of you,
though you say you no longer pleased his fancy.'
'I suppose so,' said May sadly; 'for though his insults to me in
private were constant and unsparing, he always paraded me in public,
and seemed to look upon me as a portion of his state. There came a
time when these insults were not confined to our private interviews,
when he would not scruple to outrage and humiliate me before our own
acquaintances, and those acquaintances did not hesitate to say that he
wanted to get rid of me. This, of course, I did not know until later.
Up to that time I had suffered silently, hoping, believing that some
change would take place, that what I still fancied had been his
genuine love for me would return, and that all would go on as
in the first days of our marriage; but when I found from looks and
half-dropped hints that I had become a subject of pity for my friends,
my pride stepped in to my assistance, and I revolted.'
'The old story,' muttered Nugent Uffington, shrugging his shoulders,
and speaking more to himself than his companion; 'that was the time
when above all others you wanted some one at hand to help and sustain
you.'
'You are right,' said May. 'And some one was there, though with other
plans and other motives. My pride was outraged, my heart was
lacerated, and there was some one ready if necessary to avenge the one
and to bind up the other, to sympathise, sentimentalise, and console.'
'Always so, always so!' muttered Uffington. 'And you accepted this
sympathy and consolation?'
'Not at first,' said May. 'Stung to madness though I was by mingled
pride and sorrow, I still kept my senses sufficiently to discern the
fatal gulf that lay before me, and to feel hurt and grieved at the
condolence, glossed over as it was in the most specious manner, which
was offered to me. But the man, who for his own purposes had
constituted himself my champion, from long practice knew every trick
and turn of the game he was playing, and was thoroughly well aware of
the advantage of waiting. He waited--and won! That is my story, Sir
Nugent Uffington. I have told it to you--not because I thought you
could in any way assist me, but because I felt it would be a relief to
tell it in my own way to any one who could understand it, and because
you are the only person of what was once my own social standing--save
one, who is even more powerless than yourself--who for weeks has
spoken a kind word to me.'
Uffington bowed his head, but affected not to notice that tears were
streaming down Lady Forestfield's face. He did not choose to speak for
an instant; indeed, he had but little to say--he knew well enough from
his own past experience that in such a wreck as that which she
described all future hope was almost necessarily lost, and that of the
_débris_ which after a time came floating to the surface nothing
serviceable could be made. He knew this, and acknowledged it in his
own mind, but did not choose at once to acknowledge it to her, so
asked her, when he saw that the tears had ceased to flow and that she
was somewhat more composed, 'Can anything be done?'
'Nothing,' she replied quietly--'nothing at all. So far as the world
is concerned my life is ended. When my child was taken from me I
grieved bitterly; now I acknowledge the wisdom of the sentence, and am
grateful to Providence that her life was not spared--better far she
should be dead than that she should have grown up to know me as I am,
and be parted from me, living.' And once more she broke down and
buried her face in her hands.
'I am not sure even now that I cannot be of some service to you, Lady
Forestfield,' said Uffington, after a pause; 'but my plan, if I form
one, will require consideration, and cannot be proceeded with hastily.
In the mean time, you can thoroughly depend on my warm friendship and
readiness to help you in any way suggested. By the way, you alluded to
a friend who has seen you in your trouble. You will not think me
impertinent in asking if you were referring to Miss Eleanor Irvine?'
'Yes,' said Lady Forestfield, 'I alluded to Miss Irvine. I have known
her for years, and am very much attached to her. Have you ever met
her?'
'I dined in her company the night before last, and judged, from
something she said, that she was a warm friend of yours.'
'She comes to see me every day,' said Lady Forestfield; 'that is to
say, she has done so up to this time.'
'And is she going to discontinue her visits?'
'I fear I must insist upon her doing so,' said May.
'And why? You must find them a pleasant break in the monotony of your
life.'
'They are far more than that to me,' said May, 'but when Eleanor was
here last, I discovered quite accidentally that she visits me without
the knowledge of her sister, with whom she lives, and to whom she is
much indebted. Then, for the girl's own sake, I spoke out frankly. I
told her this must not be, and that she must either tell her sister
where she came to daily, or cease seeing me. Did not I do right?'
'Quite right in theory, but in practice I think you were a little too
punctilious towards Mrs. Chadwick, who, though a practical,
well-meaning woman, would scarcely be able to appreciate the delicacy
of your motives.'
'Let all my misery rest on my own head,' said May. 'I am very fond of
Eleanor Irvine, her visits are inexpressibly precious to me, and yet I
have doubted whether I ought to let her come to this house.'
'I have not the slightest doubt in the matter,' said Uffington; 'on
the contrary, I am certain that from you and from your valuable
experience of life, Miss Irvine will learn to avoid much which may be
before her in that curious position in society which she now
occupies.'
And then he took his leave, promising to see Lady Forestfield again
very shortly.