AN ODD FRIENDSHIP.
It was not in a spirit of idle curiosity that Sir Nugent Uffington
induced May Forestfield to talk to him on the events of her past life,
and to accustom herself to talk to him without the slightest reserve
as to her hopes and fears. That he was deeply interested in her he had
long since allowed to himself; but dreamer and idler as he had been
throughout his life, he began to feel that all this interest was of no
avail unless he could turn it to practical use. How that was to be
done, how he could render any assistance to a woman in such a forlorn
situation, he could not for a long time divine; and when after giving
himself up to much solitude and the smoking of innumerable pipes, he
at length hit upon what he considered was best to be done, he had to
confess to himself with much shame that he had not yet discovered the
way to do it.
For the carrying out of his project it was not merely necessary that
he should make Lord Forestfield's acquaintance, but that he should
cultivate a certain amount of intimacy with that distinguished
nobleman; and when Uffington had got over what seemed to him the
superhuman task of forcing himself to consent to such an intimacy, he
had still to encounter the practical difficulty of finding out where
Lord Forestfield was. The only thing to be learned with any certainty
about him was that he was not in London, having quitted town the day
the decree _nisi_ was pronounced; but neither at his clubs nor from
the columns of those courtly journals in which the movements of
distinguished personages are usually announced could Uffington learn
anything of his whereabouts.
There was no reason why he himself should remain any longer in the
solitude of London; the pleasure of seeing May Forestfield daily,
which had been his principal attraction, no longer remained to him. In
conformity with the confidence which had been established between
them, Lady Forestfield had informed him of Gustave de Tournefort's
unexpected visit, of the renewal of his proposals of marriage, and of
the reply which she had given him. Uffington, who seemed considerably
agitated when she commenced her recital, grew calm as she approached
its conclusion, and told her that she had acted exactly as he would
have advised her.
'I think, however,' he added, 'that if I were you I would not give M.
de Tournefort another chance of going into heroics. By what I gather
from you the man has some sense of decency left in him, and probably
means well; but these Frenchmen are desperate fellows for theatrical
display; and as he seems to have taken his departure in the thorough
conviction that your accepting him was merely a matter of time and
importunity, notwithstanding your very convincing refusal, it would
be, I think, advisable that you should do away with any chance of his
proving of farther annoyance to you by rendering it impossible for him
to find your address. He will doubtless remain in town under the
impression that the next time he presents himself before you, you will
be in a far more complacent humour; and in order to prevent any
possible chance of any such annoyance, I propose that you should leave
London at once for a time.'
May was frightened to take such a step. She had become accustomed to
the lodging and to the landlady, who was exceedingly kind to her; she
would have, she was sure, immense difficulty in finding anything that
would suit her as well. The very fact of London being empty made it
pleasant to her, as she was enabled to walk out or to drive in a
hansom cab in the evenings and get the air without the fear of being
seen. She would much rather remain where she was; she did not think
there was any chance of M. de Tournefort attempting again to see her;
and even if he did she would not have the least difficulty in acting
as she had done on the previous occasion, and letting him see that his
pursuit must be fruitless. But Uffington was equally determined on his
side; he combated all she had to say, told her there were scores of
pretty places in which she could pass a few weeks in the utmost
retirement under an assumed name, without the smallest attempt being
made to penetrate her identity. He acknowledged that she was perfectly
able to cope with any farther attempt on De Tournefort's part; but
added that what gave him the most uneasiness, and in his mind rendered
it imperative that she should at once seek change of scene, was the
fact that she was growing pale and thin. It was evident that,
accustomed as she had been all her life to a vast amount of air and
exercise, the deprivation of both which she had recently undergone was
beginning to tell seriously upon her health, and it was absolutely
necessary that she should at once have some change. When May's
reluctant consent had been obtained, Uffington, determined that she
should have no excuse for delay in carrying out the project, set to
work himself. In a few days he had secured for her some rooms in a
farmhouse, in a river-side village within thirty miles of London, but
far removed from any of the haunts of society; and within a fortnight
the Mrs. Murray who entered upon the occupation of these rooms was
well known by sight to nearly all the villagers, who highly approved
of her pretty appearance and gentle manners, without having the
slightest idea that she and the Lady Forestfield, of whose atrocious
behaviour they had read in the penny weekly journal which had found
its way into some of their homesteads, were identical.
When he had seen her safely off, and felt that with her departure
London had no farther attraction for him, Nugent Uffington thought it
was time for him to make a start. He knew that in his early days Lord
Forestfield had been a great yachting man; and thought, though he no
longer owned a vessel, he might probably be sailing with some
acquaintance, yachtsmen of the present day being peculiarly
susceptible to the charms of titled friends, and being willing to
condone any amount of bad conduct in a member of the peerage; so he
first visited the Isle of Wight, where he found Ryde and Cowes
presenting a very different appearance from that familiar to them at
regatta time, being now given up to stout women in alpaca gowns and
flapping straw hats; their husbands, in serge suits and canvas shoes
out of the slop-sellers' shops; and brown-faced batheable children.
Lord Forestfield was not there. 'Hadn't been there that season,' said
old Mr. Woolsey, whom Uffington found at his usual post in the club,
giving at the same time a very knowing wink, as much as to convey that
he for one had not been sorry at the noble lord's absence. 'I don't
think,' added Mr. Woolsey, 'that he is out sailing at all this year.
People have fought rather shy of Master Forestfield since all that
business about his wife; but if he is sailing with anybody, it will
probably be with Spokeshave; and a nice pair they will make, for
Spokeshave is about as unpopular as Forestfield himself, though from a
very different cause. I heard of him in the west, and I shouldn't be
surprised if you picked him up somewhere round Torquay way.'
It was no matter to Nugent Uffington where he went, and, as he was
told that Torquay was pretty and the Imperial Hotel comfortable, he
started off there at once. But they knew nothing of Lord Forestfield
at the Imperial, for at the cozy little club overlooking the harbour;
and after a stay of two or three days, during which he had enjoyed the
severest idleness, Nugent was consulting Bradshaw with the view of
ascertaining to what place he should next bend his steps, when he felt
a slap on the shoulder, and looking up, saw Tom Lydyeard's grizzled
beard and bronzed face bending over him.
'I thought I was not mistaken, though I could not see your face,' said
Tom, in his great cheery voice. 'What on earth brings you to this
place? You haven't got a yacht here, have you? you are not a
flower-show frequenter, or an archery-fête supporter, or anything of
that kind; and you don't take any interest in the fine new harbour
which Sir Lawrence has built for these Torquay folk? Then what brings
you here?'
'I might ask the same question of you,' said Uffington. 'I don't
suppose you are particularly wedded to any of the wildly-exciting
diversions you have named, and yet here you are, looking as much at
home as if you lived in the place.'
'O, I am staying over at Portslade, shooting with Billy Norreys, who
has got a whole houseful of people there, and I only came over because
I got a confounded twist of tic last night, and have emptied my
neuraline bottle.'
'You must have done a deal of shooting, or the sun must be
considerably more powerful down here than it is in other parts of the
country, to have turned you that colour, Lydyeard,' said Uffington,
with a smile. 'You look like a young brave on the war-path.'
'This is continental painting, sir, not English work,' said Toni
Lydyeard. 'I had an invitation to go North with McDiarmid; man who
used to be in the regiment--you must remember him--and who has since
come into a lot of money, and got the best moor, they tell me, in
Aberdeenshire; but I find I am growing a little too old for that kind
of gunning; I don't walk as lightly as I did, and--well, I suppose the
truth is, I don't care to let the fellows see that I am ageing a bit.
Pheasant-shooting I can manage easily enough; so to fill up the time
between Goodwood and the last of August, when I was due with Billy
Norreys, I went abroad.'
'Where did you go to?' asked Uffington, with an assumption of
interest; for he was rather glad to find some one whom he liked, and
who in his way amused him, to speak to.
'O, Hombourg, Baden, and all that round,' said Lydyeard. 'Never saw
places so altered in my life--just like going into Hurlingham in the
winter, don't you know? There are the places which one knows so well,
the rooms and the gardens and the orchestra where the band plays, and
the hotels and all that kind of thing, but there is nobody there; no
French--not a single Frenchman or Frenchwoman, and you know what
crowds there used to be--and no English to speak of only a few old
boys drinking the waters for gout and that sort of thing. The whole
place is filled up with Germans, sir, fat stuffy men who do nothing
but eat and smoke, and fat fubsy women who do nothing but eat and
knit; horrible people! very domesticated, I daresay, but I hate that
sort of middle-class domesticity.'
'Well, there is one comfort, then, to think that domesticity in the
upper classes doesn't trouble them very much, does it, Lydyeard?' said
Uffington with a smile.
'No, by Jove, not at all,' said Tom Lydyeard. 'By the way, talking of
that, you recollect my showing you Lady Forestfield at the Opera that
night, when that French fellow De Tournefort was in her box paying her
such attention?'
'Certainly,' said Uffington.
'Well, that affair éclatéd soon afterwards, as everybody thought it
would, and Forestfield went in for a divorce, which he got.'
'Not exactly,' said Uffington. 'Lord Forestfield has hitherto only
obtained the first portion of what he seeks--the decree _nisi_.'
'O, you know all about it,' said Lydyeard. 'I thought with your passion
for wandering you might have rushed away immediately after I saw you,
and only just returned. What I was going to say was that I came across
Forestfield the other day.'
'The deuce you did!' said Uffington, now really interested; 'how long
ago?'
'O, just before I came down here, about ten days since. I came home
through Paris, and there I found our young friend. He must be
desperately hard up for some one to speak to, I imagine, as, though I
know very little of him, he seemed to make tremendous advances for my
society.'
'In Paris, was he?' said Uffington. 'Do you think he is there still?'
'O yes,' said Lydyeard. 'He said he should probably remain the winter,
and I should think very likely he would from all I saw and heard.'
'Where is he staying?' asked Uffington.
'Nominally at Meurice's, but he is only to be found there between five
in the morning, when he goes to bed, and three in the afternoon, when
he gets up. I didn't mix myself up with him much, for he isn't quite
my style, as you know; but from what I hear I have an idea that he
must have taken to punting again--he used to be death on that when he
was quite a lad, but I understood he had quite given it up. Now he
seems to have gone at it again with additional vigour. He is a bad lot
anyhow, and will come to a bad end. How long are you going to stay
here? Why don't you come over and see Billy Norreys? He would be
delighted to give you as much shooting as you liked.'
'Thanks. I don't know Mr. Norreys, but I am happy to assume his
kindness, and yours, too, in thinking of me; but I must go to town
this morning by express, as I want to catch the night mail to Paris.'
'You going to Paris? Then perhaps you will come across Forestfield. If
you do, take my advice, and don't play with him. I shouldn't have said
anything more if you hadn't been likely to meet; but I may tell you
now that I heard he was mixed up with a very shady lot.'
'Much obliged for the warning,' said Uffington, with a light laugh,
'but I don't think I have much cause for fear. At games of skill I can
hold my own with most men, and I rarely, if ever, play at games of
chance. And now I must go and give my servant notice to pack; so
good-bye. You don't know how pleased I am to have seen you.' He shook
Lydyeard's hand warmly, and left the room.
'There is something more than I can quite make out in all this,' said
Tom Lydyeard, whose powers of comprehension were somewhat limited. 'It
strikes me that Uffington had no idea of going to Paris when I saw him
ten minutes ago, and now he is off as fast as train and boat can carry
him. I wonder what his motive can be. Let me see; I told him about
Forestfield and his having taken to play. Perhaps Uffington intends to
bleed him. I have heard said, by fellows who have met him abroad, that
he is first rate at picquet and écarté I never heard of his rooking
anybody, and there is no reason why he should, as he has plenty of
money of his own. Perhaps he is smitten with my lady--he seemed to
take great notice of her that night at the Opera--and has gone over to
shoot Forestfield; but that is quite unnecessary, for if he wants to
marry her he has only to wait a little time, and she will be regularly
divorced. Perhaps he wants to "avenge" her, as they say on the stage,
and is going over to call Forestfield out on that account; but that
sort of thing has long died out among Englishmen. I cannot make out
what he is going over for, it quite beats me,' said honest Tom, 'and
after all it's no business of mine;' with which remark he was in the
habit of consoling himself when he found his intelligence at fault.
'Now blessings on that worthy old gentleman at Cowes Castle who was
good enough to send me on to Torquay,' said Uffington to himself, as
he took his seat, an hour after this conversation, in the up express,
'and blessings on the tic or toothache, or whatever it was, that
knocked off a day of Tom Lydyeard's pheasant-shooting, and sent him
into the town for a bottle of medicine. There is probably no other man
in England who could have given me the exact information I wanted.'
He reached London in time to catch the mail, and the next morning at
seven o'clock rang the great bell at Meurice's so loudly as to startle
the porter, who, in his high sabots, was actively engaged with the
flexible hose in drenching the glazed roof of the courtyard.
Meurice's was not a house with which Nugent Uffington was familiar; he
had made a practice during his long sojourn abroad of shunning all
those hotels which were generally patronised by his countrymen. At one
or two old-fashioned establishments on the Quay Voltaire, the whole
household would have rushed to greet his arrival, but to the porter of
Meurice's he was a stranger. So much the better, he thought, as, while
his luggage was being brought in, he asked if Lord Forestfield was
staying in the house.
'Yes, sir,' replied the porter, 'milord has the suite of rooms number
thirty-seven.'
'And milord was in them now?' asked Uffington, with a smile.
'_En effet_,' replied the porter, looking up at the clock, and
perfectly comprehending the joke, 'it was probable that milord had not
yet risen. Shall I give him the gentleman's name when he comes down,
and say that he has been inquired after?'
'On the contrary,' said Uffington, 'you had better forget that I have
ever spoken to you on the subject.'
'Parfaitement,' said the porter, whose knowledge of life was
necessarily so large that he was never astonished at anything.
That day, about two o'clock, as Uffington was lounging in the
courtyard, Lord Forestfield appeared with a cigar in his mouth, for
which he was seeking a light. He searched two of the china match-boxes
standing on the round zinc tables outside the reading-room window
without effect, for they were empty, and he was turning round to curse
the waiter, when Uffington offered him a light from his cigar.
Lord Forestfield took the light, and, after returning the cigar and
touching his hat, was moving away, when Uffington said, 'I think I
have the pleasure of speaking to Lord Forestfield? My name is Sir
Nugent Uffington, and we have no doubt many common friends, among them
Colonel Lydyeard, who happened to mention you were here.'
Lord Forestfield bowed. 'Very happy to make your acquaintance, Sir
Nugent Uffington, I am sure,' he said. 'Heard of you very often,
though you were rather before my time, and have been living abroad a
good deal since, haven't you? Excellent fellow, Toni Lydyeard--liked
by every one who knows him. Are you staying here?'
'Yes,' answered Uffington; 'and, so far as I can see, for some little
time.'
'I shall have the pleasure, then, of seeing you again, I hope. For the
present _au revoir_.' And Lord Forestfield sauntered away into his
brougham, which just then drove up to the door.
He could not tell where he had seen Uffington, and yet he had some
faint recollection of him. Not a pleasant recollection either, as it
seemed to him, but one to which he could assign no particulars. He was
very much pleased on the whole that he had been addressed, for such an
experience was rare with him nowadays, and Uffington was a man who,
although he had been for a long time away from England, and was looked
upon as somewhat _rococo_ and bygone, was yet a member of some of the
best clubs, and had been in his early days, so Lord Forestfield had
heard, very highly thought of in society.
Uffington saw no more of his newly-formed acquaintance that day, but
strolling in the evening into the Cirque d'Eté in the Champs Elysées,
he saw the British milord in the middle of a large party of French
people in the best seats in the house. There was a flush on Lord
Forestfield's face, and an _empressement_ in his manner towards his
next neighbour, a very handsome woman, which made Uffington suspect
that he had been drinking freely. This was quite a new phase in
Forestfield, whom Uffington had always heard described as of a cold,
phlegmatic, cynical character; but as it chimed in well with his
purpose he was not displeased to remark it. Uffington left the Cirque
before the performance was over, and strolled to his hotel. On
arrival, he received from the porter a note from Lord Forestfield
requesting the pleasure of his company at breakfast at Bignon's the
next day at one o'clock.
He went, and the breakfast was excellent. The other guests were three
Frenchmen, well-dressed, _decorés_, pleasant-mannered, and, so far as
is possible with Frenchmen, convivial persons. No other Englishman was
present. The conversation was of the kind usual when such men are
gathered together. In it Lord Forestfield took the lead, and Uffington
was astonished to find that his host, who in England had the character
of being very reticent, here told stories which were remarkable for
their breadth as well as their length, and seemed to be looked upon by
his _convives_ as a table-wit of the first order. No doubt the
excellency of Bignon's cellar contributed to this result. So much wine
was consumed that if Uffington's head had not been casehardened, he
must have felt its effect. As it was, the deep red flush stood in Lord
Forestfield's cheeks, and there was a thickness in is speech as, at
the close of the repast, while they were finishing their cigars, he
said to his companion, 'You are here _en garçon_, I suppose?'
'O yes,' said Uffington, with a laugh, 'here and everywhere else--I
have no ties.'
'So much the better,' said Forestfield, frowning heavily; 'they are
infernal things, and I, at least, have reason for saying so. However,
that is neither here nor there. I must go now, but if you like to come
to-night to 240 Avenue Marigny, I will introduce you to some friends
of mine, and show you some life.'
'Good,' said Uffington; 'you may depend upon it, I will be there.'