The dream she had dreamed--the home-life her fancy had pictured--came back in a moment to Georgie's mental vision; and she said, in a tone of keen distress:
"Don't say these things, Lord Dollamore. I know you don't mean them; but they sound cold and wicked. How could I care for any position? and what is wealth to me?"
"Pretty much what it is to every rational being, Lady Mitford--happiness; or if not quite the real sterling thing, the very best plated or paste imitation of it procurable in this state of existence. But you have not only wealth, rank, position, and a career of fashion and pleasure to look forward to; there are other things in your future. Think of your youth, estimate your beauty;--stay--no, you cannot do that; you never could conceive the effect it must produce on men who are gentlemen and have taste. If you ever learn to use its full power, you will be as dangerous as Helen or Cleopatra."
He had spoken in a calm business-like manner, which disguised the real freedom of his speech; but he lingered just a little over the last few words, and thou went on hurriedly:
"What charm do you think Mrs. Hammond, or all the women like her--who swarm like vipers in society--will have against you? I am not flattering you, Lady Mitford,--you know that; I am merely telling you the simple truth. Your experience has been narrow, and you think all, or most men, are like Mitford. Because she has beaten you in this inglorious strife, do you think she could rival you in a grander and higher warfare?"
"Inglorious!" she said, amazed. "Oh, Lord Dollamore, he is my husband!"
Dollamore smiled--not at all a pleasant smile; there was too much contemptuous toleration in it.
"Your husband! Yes, he is your husband; but is he therefore any the less a commonplace and vulgar-minded person? You are too clever, Lady Mitford" (he understood the art of praising a woman for those qualities which she doesnotpossess), "to believe in or repeat the stupid methodistical cant which would limit a woman's perceptions, sympathies, and associations, to her husband only,--a worse than Eastern bondage; for it does not involve indulgence, and it sins against knowledge. You are not going to 'live forgotten and die forlorn,' because you have married a man who is certainly not much better than his neighbours, and who is really no worse. Of course he does not suit you, and he never would have suited you, if Mrs. Hammond had never existed. You would have found that out a little later, and rather less unpleasantly, perhaps; but why not make the best of the early date of the discovery, which, after all, has its advantages? Mitford does not 'understand' you-that's the phrase, I think. Well, it's no worse because he does 'understand' some one of a lower calibre which is wonderfully like his own. He won't annoy you in any way, I daresay; he is ill at ease in society at the best, and he will keep out of it,--out of good society, I mean--yourset. He will find resources at his own level, I daresay. Then do not trouble yourself about him; by and by, I mean, when the Hammond will be nowhere. Of course that business vexes you now; people always are vexed in the country by things they would never care about in town. It's the trees and the moon and the boredom, I suppose. Make up your mind not to trouble yourself about him; study the advantages of your position well, and determine to take the fullest possible enjoyment of them all."
He paused and looked at her, with a covert anxiety in his gaze. She sat quite still, and she was very pale; but she did not say a word. Her thoughts were painful and confused. Only one thing was clear to her: this man's counsel was very different from that which Colonel Alsager had given her. Which of the two would be the easier to follow? Georgie had strayed--at least a little way--into a dangerous path, when she acknowledged the possibility that it might be a struggle to act upon Alsager's, and might be even possible to follow Lord Dollamore's counsel. The pale face was very still; but Dollamore thought he could read indecision in it. He drew a little nearer to her, and bent a little more towards her, as he said:
"Do you really believe-do you even make-believe-that love is never more to be yours? Put such a cruel delusion far from you. You find it hard to live without love now; you grieve because you cannot keep the old feeling alive in your own heart, as keenly as you grieve because it has died in your husband's. You will find it impossible in the time to come. Then, when the tribute of passionate devotion is offered to you, you will not always refuse to accept it. Then, if one who has seen you in these dark days, radiant in beauty and unequalled in goodness,--one whom you have taught to believe in the reality of--"
A servant entered the room, and handed Lady Mitford a small twisted note. It was from Sir Charles, and merely said, "Come to me at once--to the library."
When Mr. Effingham returned to town after his signal discomfiture at Redmoor by Miss Gillespie, he had only two objects in view: one to prevent Griffiths finding out that he had gone so near to achieving success, but yet had failed; the other to find out whither the young woman, who had so cunningly betrayed him, had betaken herself. The first was not very difficult. The meeting with the object of his search down at a country-house far away in Devon was too improbable to present itself to a far more brilliantly gifted person than Mr. Griffiths; while the receipt of five sovereigns (Sir Charles's donation had this time been represented at twenty-five pounds only) gave that gentleman an increased opinion of his friend's powers of persuasion, and rendered him hopeful for the future.
The accomplishment of the second object was, however, a different matter. Mr. Effingham's innate cunning taught him that after all he had said to Miss Gillespie--or Lizzie Ponsford--about the source of his instructions, the company of her old acquaintances--Messrs. Lyons, Griffiths, Crockett, and Dunks--was about the last she would be likely to affect; and yet in their society only would he have opportunities of seeking her. Through the oft-threaded mazes of that tangled web, in and out, from haunt to haunt, Mr. Effingham once more wended his way,--asking every one, prying into every corner, listening to every conversation,--all to no purpose. He began to think that the object of his search must have departed from her original intention, and instead of coming up to London, have halted on the way; but then, what could she have done alone, unaided, without resources, in any provincial town? Mr. Effingham took to frequenting the Devonshire public-houses and coffee-shops,--queer London holes kept by Devonshire people, who yet preserved a little clannish spirit, who took in a Devon paper, and whose houses were houses-of-call for stray children of the far West, sojourning for business or pleasure in London. Many a long talk was there in Long Acre or Smithfield, surrounded by the foetid atmosphere and the dull rumblings of metropolitan life, of the Exe and the Dart, of the wooded coast of Dawlish and the lovely bay of Babbicombe, of purple moor and flashing cataract, of wrestling-matches and pony-fairs. The cads who dropped in for an accidental half-pint stared with wonder at the brown countrymen, on whom the sun-tan yet remained, who talked a language they had never heard, in an accent they could not understand; who had their own jokes and their own allusions, in which the jolly landlord and his wife bore their part, but which were utterly unintelligible to the cockney portion of the customers. In these houses, among the big burly shoulders of the assembled Devonians, Mr. Effingham's perky little head was now constantly seen. They did not know who he was; but as he was invariably polite and good-natured, took the somewhat ponderous provincial badinage with perfect suavity, and was always ready to drink or smoke with any of them, they tolerated his presence and answered his questions respecting the most recent arrivals from their native county civilly enough. But all was unavailing; to none of them was the personal appearance of Miss Gillespie known. The presence of any stranger in their neighbourhood would not have passed unnoticed; but of the few sojourners who were described to him, none corresponded in the least to that person whom he sought so anxiously.
Would she not attempt to persevere in the new line of life which she had filled at Redmoor and succeeded in so admirably? As governess and companion she had been seemingly happy and comfortable; as governess and companion she would probably again try her fortune. Forthwith Mr. Effingham had a wild desire to secure the services of a desirable young person to superintend the studies of his supposititious niece; and Mrs. Barbauldson, who kept a "governess agency," and Messrs. Chasuble and Rotchet, who combined the providing of governesses and tutors with "scholastic transfers," vulgarly known as "swopping schools," the engagement of curates, and the sale of clerical vestments and ecclesiastical brass-ware, were soon familiarized with Mr. Effingham's frequent presence. He dropped in constantly at their establishments, and took the liveliest interest in the registers, looking through not merely the actual list of candidates for employment, but searching the books for the past three months. He paid his half-crown fees with great liberality, or else the manner in which he used to bounce in and out the waiting-room and examine the features of the ladies there taking their turn to detail the list of their accomplishments to the clerk, was, to say the least of it, irregular, and contrary to the regulations of the establishment. But all to no purpose,--he could learn nothing of any one in the remotest degree resembling Miss Gillespie: his search among the governess-agencies had been as futile as his visits to the Devonshire public-houses, and all Mr. Effingham's time and trouble had been spent in vain.
What should he try next? He really did not know. He had, ever since his visit to Redmoor, been rather shy of Mr. Griffiths, fearing lest that worthy person might learn more than it was necessary, in Mr. Effingham's opinion, he should know. Griffiths was to him a very useful jackal, and it was not meet that the jackal's opinion of the lion's sagacity and strength should be in any way diminished. Chance had so far favoured him that Mr. Griffiths had recently been absent from town, having accepted a temporary engagement of an important character, as occasional croupier, occasional doorkeeper, to a travelling band of gamblers, who were importing the amusing games of French hazard and roulette into some of the most promising towns in the Midland Counties.
One night Mr. Effingham was sitting in a very moody state at "Johnson's," sipping his grog and wondering vaguely what would be the next best move to make in his pursuit of Miss Gillespie, when raising his eyes, they encountered Mr. Griffiths,--Mr. Griffiths, and not Mr. Griffiths. Gone was the tall shiny hat, its place occupied by a knowing billy-cock; gone were the rusty old clothes, while in their place were garments of provincial cut indeed, but obviously costly material; a slouch poncho greatcoat kept Mr. Griffiths's body warm, while Mr. Griffiths's boots, very much contrary to their usual custom, were sound and whole, and hid Mr. Griffiths's feet from the garish eye of day. Moreover, Mr. Griffiths's manner, usually a pleasing compound of the bearing of Ugolino and the demeanour of the Banished Lord, was, for him, remarkably sprightly. He threw open the swing-door, and brought in his body squarely, instead of butting vaguely in with the tall hat, as was his usual custom; he walked down the centre of the room, instead of shuffling round by the wall; and advancing to the box in which Mr. Effingham was seated in solitary misery, he clapped him on the back and said, "D'Ossay, my buck, how are you?"
The appearance, the manner, and the swaggering speech had a great effect on Mr. Effingham. He looked up, and after shaking hands with his friend, remarked, "You've been doin' it up brown, Griffiths,--you have. They must have suffered for this down about Hull and Grimsby, I should think?" And with a comprehensive sweep of his forefinger he took in Griffiths's outer man from his hat to his boots.
"Well, it warn't bad," said Mr. Griffiths, with a bland smile. "The yokels bled wonderful, and the traps kept off very well, considerin' I'm pretty full of ochre, I am; and so far as a skiv or two goes, I'm ready to stand friend to them as stood friend to me, D'Ossay, my boy. No? Not hard up? Have a drink then, and tell us what's been going on."
The drink was ordered, and Mr. Effingham began to dilate on the various phases of his pursuit of Lizzie Ponsford. As he proceeded, Mr. Griffiths went through a series of pantomimic gestures, which with him were significant of attempts to arouse a dormant memory. He rubbed his head, he scratched his ear, he looked up with a singularly vacant air at the pendent gas-light, he regarded his boots as though they were strange objects come for the first time within his ken. At length, when Mr. Effingham ceased, he spoke.
"It must have been her!" said he, ungrammatically but emphatically, at the same time bringing his fist down heavily on the table to express his assertion.
"What must have been her, Griffiths?" inquired Mr. Effingham, who was growing irritated by the extremely independent tone of his usually deferential subordinate,--"why don't you talk out, instead of snuffling to yourself and makin' those faces at me? What must have been her?"
Successful though he was for the time being, Mr. Griffiths had been too long subservient to the angry little man who addressed him to be able to shake off his bonds. He fell back into his old state of submission, grumbling as he said:
"You're a naggin' me as usual, D'Ossay, you are! Can't let a cove think for a minute and try and recollect what he'd 'eard,--you can't. What I was tryin' to bring back was this--there's a cove as I know, a theatrical gent, gets engagements for lakers and that, and provides managers of provincial gaffs with companies and so on. He was down at Hull, he was, and he come into our place one night with Mr. Munmorency of the T. R. there, as often give us a look up; and when business was over--we was rather slack that night--we went round to his 'otel to have a glass. And while we was drinkin' it and talkin' over old times, he says to me, 'Wasn't you in a swim with old Lyons and Tony Butler once?' he says. 'Not once,' I says, 'but a good many times,' I says. 'I thought so,' he says; 'and wasn't there a handsome gal named Ponsford, did a lot of business for them?' he says. 'There was,' I says; 'fortune-tellin' and Mysterious-Lady business, and all that gaff,' I says. 'That's it,' he says; 'I couldn't think where I'd seen her before.' 'When did you see her last?' I says. 'About three weeks ago,' he says, 'she come to me on a matter of business, and claimed acquaintance with me; and though I knew the face and the name, I could not think where I had seen her before.'"
"Didn't you ask him anything more about her?" said Mr. Effingham.
"No, I didn't. 'Twas odd, wasn't it? but I didn't. You see I wasn't on your lay then, D'Ossay, my boy, and I was rather tired with hookin' in the 'arf-crowns and calclatin' the bettin' on the ins and outs, and I was enjoyin' my smoke and lookin' forward to my night's rest."
"What a sleepy-headed cove you are, Griffiths!" said Mr. Effingham with great contempt. "What do you tell me this for, if this is to be the end?"
"But this ain't to be the end, D'Ossay, dear! Mr. Trapman's come back by this time, I dessay, and we'll go and look him up to-morrow and see whether he can tell us anything of any real good about this gal. He's a first-rate hand is Trapman, as knowin' as a ferret; and it won't do to let him know what our game is, else he might go in and spoil it and work it for himself. So just you hold your tongue, if we see him, D'Ossay, and leave me to manage the palaver with him."
Mr. Effingham gave an ungracious assent to his companion's suggestion, and, practical always, asked him to name a time for this meeting on the next day. Mr. Griffiths suggested twelve o'clock as convenient for a glass of ale and a biscuit, and for finding Mr. Trapman at home. So the appointment was made for that hour; and after a little chat on subjects irrelevant to the theme of this story, the worthy pair parted.
The biscuit and the--several--glasses of ale had been discussed the next day, and Mr. Griffiths was maunderingly hinting his desire to remain at Johnson's for some time longer, when Mr. Effingham, burning with impatience, and with the semblance of authority in him, insisted upon his quondam parasite, but present equal, convoying him to the interview with Mr. Trapman. Mr. Trapman's Dramatic Agency Office, so notified in blue letters on a black board, was held at the Pizarro Coffee-house in Beak Street, Drury Lane. A dirty, bygone, greasy, used-up little place the Pizarro Coffee-house, with its fly-blown playbills banging over its wire-blind, its greasy coffee-stained lithograph of Signor Poleno, the celebrated clown, with his performing dogs; its moss-covered basket, which looked as if it had been made in a property-room, containing two obviously fictitious eggs. The supporters of the Pizarro were Mr. Trapman's clients, and Mr. Trapman's clients became perforce supporters of the Pizarro. When an actor was, as he described it, "out of collar," he haunted Beak Street, took "one of coffee and a rasher" at the Pizarro, and entered his name on Mr. Trapman's books. The mere fact of undergoing that process seemed to revivify him at once. He was on Trapman's books, and would probably be summoned at an hour's notice to give 'em his Hamlet at South Shields: a capital fellow, Trapman!--safe to get something through him; and then the candidate for provincial histrionic honour would poodle his hair under his hat and take a glance at himself in the strip of looking-glass that adorned the window of the Roscius' Head, and would wonder when that heiress who should see him from the stage-box O.P., and faint on her mother's neck, exclaiming, "Fitzroy Bellville for my husband, or immediate suicide for me!" would arrive.
There was a strangeclientèlealways gathered round Mr. Trapman's door so long as the great agent was visible, viz. from ten till five; old men in seedy camlet cloaks with red noses and bleared eyes--"heavy fathers" these--and cruel misers and villanous stewards and hard-swearing admirals and libertine peers; dark sunken-eyed gray men, with cheeks so blue from constant shaving that they look as if they had been stained by woad; virtuous and vicious lovers; heroes of romance and single walking-gentlemen; comic men with funny faces and funny figures, ready to play the whole night through from six till twelve, in four pieces, and to interpolate a "variety of singing and dancing" between each; portly matrons--Emilias and Belvideras now-who have passed their entire life upon the stage, and who at five years of age first made their appearance as flying fairies; sharp wizen-faced little old ladies, who can still "make-up young at night," and who are on the lookout for the smartsoubretteand singing-chambermaid's line; and heavy tragedians--these most difficult of all to provide for-with books full of testimonials extracted from the potential criticisms of provincial journals. The ladies looked in, made their inquiries as to "any news," and went away to their homes again; but the gentlemen remained about all day long, lounging in Beak Street, leaning against posts, amicably fencing together with their ashen sticks, gazing at the playbills of the metropolitan theatres, and wondering when their names will appear there.
Through a little knot of these upholders of the mirror, Mr. Effingham and Mr. Griffiths made their way up the dark dirty staircase past the crowded landing, until they came into the sanctuary of the office. Here was a dirty-faced boy acting as clerk, who exhibited a strong desire to enter their names and requirements in a large leather-covered book before him; but Griffiths caught sight of Mr. Trapman engaged in deep and apparently interesting conversation with a short dark man in a braided overcoat, and a telegraphic wink of recognition passed between them. As it was the boy's duty to notice everything, he saw the wink, and left them without further molestation, until Mr. Trapman had got rid of his interlocutor, and had come over to talk to them.
"Well, and how are you?" said he, slapping Mr. Griffiths on the back.--"Servant, sir," to Mr. Effingham.--"And howareyou?" Slaps repeated.
"Fust rate," said Mr. Griffiths, poking him in the ribs. "This is Mr. Effingham, friend of mine, and a re-markably downy card!"
Wouldn't be a friend of yours if he wasn't, said Mr. Trapman, with another bow to D'Ossay. "Well, and what's up? Given up the gaff, I suppose. Seven to nine! all equal!--no more of that just now, eh?"
"No; not in town. Sir Charles Rowan and Colonel Mayne at Scotland Yard, they know too much,--they do. No; I ain't here on business."
"No?" said Mr. Trapman playfully. "I thought you might be goin in for the heavy father, Griffiths, or the comic countryman, since your tour in the provinces."
Mr. Griffiths grinned, and declared that Mr. Trapman was "a chaffin' him." "My friend, Mr. D'Ossay--Effingham is more in that line," he said; "a neat figure, and a smart way he's got."
"Charles Surface, Mercushow, Roderigo,--touch-and-go comedy,--that's his line," said Mr. Trapman, glancing at Mr. Effingham. "One fi'-pun-note of the Bank of England, and he opens at Sunderland next week."
Mr. Effingham had been staring in mute wonder at this professional conversation; but he understood the last sentence, and thought enough time had been spent in discussing what they didn't want to know. So he put on his impetuous air and said to Griffiths, "Go in at him now!"
Thus urged, and taking his cue at once, Mr. Griffiths said, "No, no; you've mistaken our line. What we want of you is a little information. Oh, we're prepared to pay the fee!" he added, seeing Mr. Trapman's face grow grave under a rapid impression of wasted time; "only--no fakement; let's have it gospel, or not at all."
"Fire away!" said Mr. Trapman. "I'm here to be pumped--for a sovereign!"
The coin was produced, and handed over.
"Now," said Mr. Trapman, having tested it with his teeth, and then being satisfied, stretched out his arm in imitation of a pump-handle, "go to work!"
"You recollect," said Griffiths, "telling me, when we met down at Hull, that one of our old lot had been to see you lately--a girl called Lizzie Ponsford."
"I do perfectly."
"It's about her we want to know--that's all."
"It ain't much to tell, but it was curous,--that it was. It's six weeks ago now, as I was a-sittin' in this old shop, finishin' some letters for the post, when I looked up and saw a female in the doorway with a veil on. I was goin' on with my letters, takin' no notice, for there'salwayssomebody here, in and out all day they are, when the female lifted up her finger first warning-like, like the ghosts on the stage, and then pointin' to Tom, the boy there, motioned that he should go out of the room. I was a little surprised; for though I had enough of that sort of thing many years ago, I've got out of it now. I thought it was a case of smite; I did indeed. However, I sealed up the letters, and told Tom to take 'em to the post; and then the female came in, shuttin' the door behind her. When she lifted her veil, I thought I knew the face, but couldn't tell where; however she soon reminded me of that first-rate gaff, in--where was it?--out Oxford Street way, where she did the Mysterious Lady, and Seenor Cocqualiqui the conjurin', and Ted Spicer sung comic songs. I remembered her at once then, and asked her what she wanted. 'An engagement,' she says. 'All right,' I says; 'what for?' 'Singin'-chambermaid, walkin'-lady, utility, anything,' she says. 'Walkin'-lady, to grow into leadin' high comedy, 's your line, my dear,' I says: 'you're too tall for chambermaids, and too good for utility. Now, let's look up a place for you.' I was goin' to my books, but she stopped me. 'I don't want a place,' she says; 'I ain't goin' to stop in England; all I want from you,' she says, 'is two or three letters of introduction to managers in New York. You've seen me before the public; and though you've never seen me act, you could tell I wasn't likely to be nervous or stammer, or forget my words.' 'No fear of that,' I says. 'Very well then,' she says, 'as I don't want to hang about when I get there, but want them to give me an appearance at once, just you write me the letters, and'--puttin' two sovereigns on the table--'make 'em as strong as you can for the money.' Oh, a clever girl she is! I sat down to write the letters, and in the middle of the first I looked up, and I says, 'The bearer, Miss ----, what name shall I say?' 'Leave it blank, Mr. Trapman, please,' says she, burstin' out laughin'; 'I haven't decided what my name's to be,' she says; 'and when I have, I think I can fill it in so that no one will know it ain't your writin'.' So I gave her the letters and she went away; and that's my story."
Mr. Griffiths looked downhearted, and was apparently afraid that his patron would imagine he had not had his money's worth; but Mr. Effingham, on the contrary, seemed in much better spirits, and thanked Mr. Trapman, and proposed an adjournment to the Rougepot close by in Salad Yard, where they had their amicable glasses of ale, and discussed the state of the theatrical profession generally.
When they had bidden adieu to Mr. Trapman and were walking away together, Mr. Griffiths reverted to the subject of Miss Ponsford.
"There's an end of that little game, I s'pose," said he; "that document's lost to us for ever."
"Wait!" said Mr. Effingham, with a grin; "I ain't so sure of that. She's gone to New York, you see; now I know every hole and corner in New York, and I'm known everywhere there, as well as any Yankee among them. I could hunt her up there fifty times easier than I could in London."
"I daresay," said Mr. Griffiths; "but you see there's one thing a trifle against that; you ain't in New York."
"But I could go there, I s'pose, stoopid!"
"Yes; but how, stoopid? You can't pad the hoof over the sea; and them steamers lay it on pretty thick, even in the steerage."
"I'm goin' to America within the next week, Griffiths, and I intend a friend of mine to pay for my passage."
"What! the Bart. again?"
"Exactly. The Bart. again!"
"And what game are you goin' to try on with him now?"
"Ah, Griffiths, that's my business, my boy. All you've got to do is to say goodbye to your D'Ossay to-night, for he's got to journey down to that thunderin' old Devonshire again to-morrow; and before a week's out he intends to be on the briny sea."
For the second time Mr. Effingham travelled down to Redmoor, and obtained an interview with Sir Charles Mitford. He found that gentleman very stern and haughty on this occasion; so Mr. Effingham comported himself with great humility.
"Now, sir," said Sir Charles, "you've broken your word for the second time. What do you want now?"
"I'm very sorry, Sir Charles--no intention of givin' offence, Sir Charles; but--"
"You've not got that--that horrible bill?"
"N-no, Sir Charles, I haven't; but--"
"Then what brings you here, sir? more extortion?--a further attempt to obtain money under false pretences?"
"No, no; don't say that, Sir Charles. I'll tell you right off. I may as well make a clean breast of it. I can't find that document anywhere. I don't know where it is; and I'm sick of cadgin' about and spongin' on you. You know when I first saw you up in town I told you I'd come from America. I was a fool to leave it. I did very well there; and I want to go back."
"Well, sir?"
"Well, just as a last chance, do that for me. I've been true to you; all that business of the young woman I managed first-rate--"
"I paid you for it."
"So you did; but try me once again."
"Tell me exactly what you want now."
"Pay my passage out. Don't even give me the money; send some cove to pay it, and bring the ticket to me; and he can come and see me off, if he likes, and give me a trifle to start with on the other side of the water; and you'll never hear of me again."
Sir Charles reflected a few moments; then said, "Will you go at once?"
"At once-this week; sooner the better."
"Have you made any inquiries about ships?"
"There's one sails from Liverpool on Friday."
"On Friday-and to-day is Saturday; just a week. I shan't trust you in the matter, Mr. Butler," said Sir Charles, taking up a letter lying on the table. "I shall adopt that precaution which you yourself suggested. A friend of mine, coming through from Scotland, will be in Liverpool on Wednesday night. Yes," he added, referring to the letter, "Wednesday night. I'll ask him to stop there a day, to take your ticket and to see you sail; and with the ticket he shall give you twenty pounds."
Mr. Effingham was delighted; he had succeeded better even than he had hoped, and he commenced pouring out his thanks. But Sir Charles cut him very short, saying:
"You will ask for Captain Bligh at the Adelphi Hotel; and recollect, Mr. Butler, this is the last transaction between us;" and he left the room.
"For the present, dear sir," said Mr. Effingham, taking up his hat; "the last transaction for the present; but if our little New York expedition turns you and I will meet again on a different footing."
On the Friday morning Mr. Effingham sailed from Liverpool for New York in the fast screw-steamer Pocahontas, his ticket having been taken and the twenty pounds paid to him on board by Captain Bligh, who stood by leaning against a capstan while the vessel cleared out of dock.
When Mrs. Hammond left the dinner-table on the evening destined to add a new sorrow to Georgie Mitford's sorely-troubled lot, she really had gone, as she had announced her intention of going, to her husband's room. The old man was lying in his bed, propped up with pillows, his face turned to the large window, through which the rays of the moon were shining, and mingling in a cold and ghastly manner with the light in the room. The invalid had a fancy for seeing the dark clumps of trees on the rising grounds, and the cold moon shining over their heads. Gifford, his confidential servant, sat at the bed's head, and had been reading to his master. Mrs. Hammond asked him several questions in a tone of interest which sounded almost genuine as to how Mr. Hammond had been; and then saying she meant to remain with the invalid for a while, she dismissed him, and took her seat by the window, in a position enabling her to see quite distinctly a portion of the broad carriage-drive to the right of the entrance, across which the rays of the moon flung their uninterrupted radiance. Laura did not exert herself much for the amusement of the invalid. The few questions he asked her she answered listlessly, then sunk into silence. After a short time her stepdaughter came softly into the room to bid her father goodnight.
"You are rather late, Alice; where have you been?" said Laura, without turning her head towards the child, still looking fixedly at the patch of ground in the moonlight.
"With Lady Mitford, mamma," answered Alice.
"Have the gentlemen left the dining-room?"
"Lord Dollamore came into the drawing-room, and I saw Sir Charles crossing the hall into the library; but I don't know about the others," answered Alice.
Mrs. Hammond said no more; and Alice, having received an affectionate embrace from her father, and the coldest conceivable touch of Mrs. Hammond's lips on the edge of her cheek, went off to bed. The silence continued in the sick man's room, and Laura's gaze never turned from the window. At length a figure passed across the moonlit space, and was instantly lost in the darkness beyond. Then Mrs. Hammond drew down the blind, and changed her seat to a chair close by the bedside. She took up the book which Gifford had laid down, and asked her husband if he would like her to read on.
"If you please, my dear," said Mr. Hammond, "if it won't tire you; and you won't mind my falling asleep, which I may do, for I feel very drowsy."
Laura was quite sure it would not tire her to read, and she would be delighted if her reading should have so soothing an effect.
"If I do fall asleep, you must not stay with me, Laura; you must go downstairs again. Promise me you will; and you need not call Gifford,--I don't require any one; I am much better to-night."
Very well; Laura would promise not to stay in his room if he should fall asleep; and as she really did think him very much better, she would not summon Gifford.
Mrs. Hammond possessed several useful and attractive accomplishments; among others, that of reading aloud to perfection. She did not exhibit her skill particularly on this occasion--her voice was languid and monotonous; and the author would have had ample reason to complain had he heard his sentences rendered so expressionless. She read on and on, in a sullen monotone; and after a quarter of an hour had elapsed, she had the pleasure of seeing that her kind intention was fulfilled. Her voice had been very soothing, and her husband had fallen into a profound sleep. Then she passed through an open door into her dressing-room, and reappeared, wrapped in a dark warm cloak, the hood thrown over her head. If any one had taken the place she had so lately occupied at the window, that person would have seen, after the lapse of a few moments, a second figure flit across the moonlit space, and disappear into the darkness beyond.
About half an hour later Banks tapped at the door of the smoking-room, and was gruffly bidden to "come in" by Captain Bligh.
"If you please, Captain," said Banks, upon whom the atmosphere of that particular apartment always produced a distressingly-choky and eye-smarting effect,--"if you please, Captain, I can't find Sir Charles. He ain't in the library, nor yet in the droring-room, and he's wanted very particular."
"Perhaps he has gone up to see Mr. Hammond," suggested Bligh.
"No, Captain, he ain't; I've bin and ast Gifford, and he says as his missis has been along o' the old gentleman since dinner-time, and she's there now, and nobody ain't with them."
"That's odd," said Captain Bligh; "but who wants him? Perhaps I might do."
"I beg your pardon, Captain," said the peremptory Banks, "but nobody won't do but Sir Charles hisself. It's a party as has been sent up from Fishbourne, where my lady comes from, and his orders is to see Sir Charles alone, and not to let out his message to nobody else."
The good-natured Captain looked extremely grave. Only one occurrence could have rendered so much precaution necessary, and he conjectured at once that that occurrence had taken place.
"I fear Mr. Stanfield is dead," he said to his companions. "I must go and find Mitford. Just excuse me for a while, and make yourselves comfortable here, will you?--Come with me, Banks, and take care your mistress gets no hint of this person's being here."
"There ain't no fear of that, Captain," replied the man; "my lady's in the droring-room, along o' Lord Dollamore; and I knew that Sir Charles worn't there, so I didn't go to look for him."
The Captain found the messenger in the library, where Banks had sent him to await Sir Charles's appearance. He was a respectable elderly man, and he answered Captain Bligh's inquiry at once. He had been sent by poor Georgie's old friend, the curate, to convey to Sir Charles Mitford the melancholy intelligence of Mr. Stanfield's death, which had taken place early that morning; and particulars of which event were contained in a letter which he was charged to deliver to the Baronet. He had received special injunctions to communicate the event to Sir Charles alone, and leave it to be "broken" to Lady Mitford by her husband. The simple curate had little thought how difficult Sir Charles would find it to assume even a temporary sympathy with the feelings of his wife.
Captain Bligh ordered refreshments to be served to the bringer of evil tidings; requested him not to communicate with any of the other servants; and strictly enjoining Banks to secrecy, went out of the front door and into the shrubbery on the left of the house. Mitford was not unaccustomed to take fits of sullen moodiness at times, and the Captain thought that he might perhaps find him walking about and smoking, in all the enjoyment of his ill-humour.
The intelligent Banks had asked Gifford if he thought it likely that Sir Charles was in his master's room, in the presence of several of the ladies and gentlemen of the household, assembled in a comfortable and spacious apartment which the insolence of a dominant class caused to be known as the servants'-hall. Among the number of those who heard the question and its answer was Mademoiselle Marcelline, Mrs. Hammond's "own maid." She was a trim-looking French girl, who had not anything remarkable in her appearance except its neatness, or in her manner except its quietness. She was seated at a large table, on which a number of workboxes were placed, for the women-servants at Redmoor greatly affected needlework, and had a good deal of time to devote to it; and she was embroidering a collar with neatness, dexterity, and rapidity, eminently French. Mademoiselle Marcelline made no observation, and did not raise her eyes, or discontinue her work for a moment, during the discussion as to where Sir Charles could be, which had ensued upon Banks's inquiry. She had spoken only once indeed since his entrance. When Gifford had said Sir Charles Mitford could not be in Mr. Hammond's room, because her mistress had been, and was there still, he had asked, "Isn't she there still, mam'selle?" Mam'selle had answered, "Yes, Monsieur Giffore, madame is there still."
Mademoiselle Marcelline was so very quiet a little person, and differed so much from French ladies'-maids in general, by the unobtrusiveness of her manners and her extreme taciturnity--to be sure she spoke very little English, but that circumstance is rarely found to limit the loquacity of her class--that her exit from the servants'-hall was scarcely noticed, when she presently looked at her little Geneva watch, made up her embroidery into a tidy parcel, and went away with her usual noiseless step. Mademoiselle Marcelline mounted the stairs with great deliberation, and smiling a little, until she reached the corridor into which the suite of apartments occupied by the Hammonds opened. The rooms were five in number, and each communicated with the other. They were two bed-rooms, two dressing-rooms, and a bath-room. The latter occupied the central space, and had no external door. Mademoiselle Marcelline entered the last room of the suite, corresponding with that in which Mr. Hammond lay,--this was Laura's bed-room,--and gently locked the door. She passed through the adjoining apartment--her mistress's dressing-room--and paused before a large wardrobe, without shelves, in which hung a number of dresses and cloaks. She opened the doors, but held them one in each hand, looked in for a moment, and then shut them, and smiled still more decidedly. Then she softly locked the door of this room which opened into the corridor, and passing through the bath-room secured that of Mr. Hammond's dressing-room also; after which, with more precaution against noise than ever, she glided into the old man's room. He was sleeping soundly still, and his face looked wasted and ashen in the abstraction of slumber. Mademoiselle Marcelline glanced at him, shrugged her shoulders, sat down on a couch at the foot of the bed, where she was effectually screened from view by the heavy carved bedpost and the voluminous folds of the purple curtain, and waited.
Meantime, Captain Bligh had not succeeded in finding Sir Charles, though he had sought for him in the shrubbery and in the stable-yard. He could not make out whither he had gone, and returned to the house to take counsel with Banks. That functionary suggested that Sir Charles might have gone up to the keeper's house; and though the Captain could not imagine why Sir Charles should have gone thither at such an inconvenient time, as he had no other to offer, he accepted this suggestion, and said he would go thither and look for him.
"Shall I go with you, Captain?" asked Banks, who felt curious to discover what "Mitford was up to."
Since Mr. Effingham's visit, and the polite fiction of the yacht--endeared to Mr. Banks by his own joke about the Fleet Prison, which he considered so good that society was injured by its suppression within his own bosom--the incredulous flunkey had experienced an increased share of the curiosity with which their masters' affairs invariably inspire servants. He was much pleased then that Captain Bligh answered,
"Yes, yes, you can come with me."
The keeper's cottage was not very far from the great house, from which, however, it was entirely hidden by a thick fir-plantation which covered a long and wide space of undulating land, and through which several narrow paths led to the open ground beyond. The Captain and his attendant struck into one of those paths, which led directly in the direction of the keeper's house.
"We can't miss Sir Charles, I think, if he really has gone up to Hutton's," said the Captain.
"No, sir, I think not, unless he has taken a very roundabout way," answered Banks.
They walked quickly on for some distance, the Captain's impatience momentarily increasing, and also his doubts that Mitford had gone in this direction at all. At length they reached a point at which the path, cutting the plantation from east to west, was intersected by one running from north to south. Here they paused, and the Captain said testily,
"By Jove, Banks, I hardly know what to do. The messenger from Fishbourne's shut up in the library all this time, and all the servants in a fuss, and Sir Charles not forthcoming! I wish I had broken the news of her father's death to Lady Mitford before I came out; it would have been by far the best plan. She's sure to hear it by accident now."
The Captain spoke to himself rather than to the servant, and in a particularly emphatic voice--a testimony to his vexation. Then he strode onwards with increased speed, little knowing that he had spoken within the startled hearing of the man whom he was seeking, and who was so near him, as he stood where the paths met, that he could have touched him by stretching out his arm,--touched him and his cowering frightened companion.
They kept a breathless silence until the Captain and Banks were quite out of hearing. Then Sir Charles said: "What is to be done? Did you hear what Bligh said, Laura? Some one has been sent from Fishbourne to tell me that Mr. Stanfield is dead, and they are searching for me everywhere. What a cursed accident! There is not a chance of concealing your absence. My darling, my life, what is to be done?"
She was very pale and trembling, and the words came hard and hoarse, as she replied,
"I know not. If we must brave it out we must; but there is a chance yet. Do you stay here, and meet Bligh as he comes back; you can be strolling along the cross path. Have you a cigar? No; you are in dinner-dress, of course. Stay; you have an overcoat on; search the pockets. Yes, yes; what luck! Here's a cigar-case, and your light-box hangs to your chain,--I'll never call it vulgar again,--light a cigar at once, and contrive to show the light when you hear them. I will go to the house. You left the side window open, did you not?"
"Yes, yes." His agitation was increasing; hers was subsiding.
"If I can get into the house unseen, all is right. I can pass through my own rooms into Hammond's. Send there for me if all is safe; the servants think I am there."
She turned away to leave him; but he caught her in his arms, and said in a tone of agony,
"Laura! Laura! if I have exposed you to danger--if--"
"Hush!" she said, disengaging herself; "you have not exposed me to danger any more than I have exposed myself; but don't talk of this as a hopeless scrape until we know that there is no way out of it." She was out of sight in an instant.
Mademoiselle Marcelline sat at the foot of Mr. Hammond's bed without the least impatience. She did not fidget, she did not look at the clock, she did not doze. The time passed apparently to her perfect satisfaction. The invalid slept on very peacefully, and the whole scene wore an eminently comfortable aspect. At length her acute ears discerned a light footfall at the end of the corridor, and then she heard the handle of Mrs. Hammond's dressing-room door gently turned--in vain. Then the footstep came on, and another door-handle was turned, equally in vain.
Mademoiselle Marcelline smiled. "It would have been so convenient for madame to have hung her cloak up and smoothed her hair before monsieur should see her, after madame's promenade in the clear of the moon," thought Mademoiselle Marcelline. "What a pity that those tiresome doors should unhappily be locked! What a sorrowful accident!"
The door opened, and Laura looked cautiously into the room. All was as she had left it; the sleeping face of her husband was turned towards her. The pathetic unconsciousness of sleep was upon it; she did not heed the pathos, but the unconsciousness was convenient. The minutest change that would have intimated that any one had entered the room would not have escaped her notice, but there was no such thing. She came in, and softly closed the heavy perfectly-hung door; she made a few steps forward, uttered a deep sigh of relief, and said in an involuntary whisper, "What a risk, and what an escape!"
Her heavy cloak hung upon her; she pushed back the hood, and her chestnut hair, in wild disorder, shone with red gleams in the firelight. She lifted her white hands and snatched impatiently at the tasseled cord which held the garment at the throat; and Mademoiselle Marcelline emerged from the shadow of the bed-curtains, and with perfect propriety and an air of entire respect requested that madame would permit her to remove the cloak which was so heavy, and also madame's boots, which must be damp, for the promenade of evening had inconveniences.
Laura started violently, and then stood looking at the demure figure before her with a kind of incredulous terror. Mademoiselle Marcelline composedly untied the refractory cords and removed the mantle, which she immediately replaced in the wardrobe. Would Madame have the goodness to consider what she had said about the boots, and to go into her dressing-room? Madame followed her like one in a dream. She placed a chair before the dressing-table, and Laura mechanically sat down; she took off her boots and substituted slippers; she restored the symmetry of the crushed dress; she threw a dressing-gown over the beautiful shoulders, folded it respectfully over the bosom heaving with terror and anger, and began to brush her mistress's hair with a wholly unperturbed demeanour. Laura looked at the demure composed face which appeared over her shoulder in the glass, and at length she said:
"How came you in that room?"
"Ah, madame, what a happy chance! One came to the salon of the servants, and demanded of Monsieur Giffore if Sir Charles might be in the chamber of monsieur. Then Monsieur Giffore say that no; that madame was there, and is there. And Monsieur Giffore asked me if he have reason; and I say, 'Certainly, madame is still in the chamber of monsieur.'"
"Well," said Laura, for Mademoiselle Marcelline had paused, "what has that to do with your being in that room?"
"It has much, if madame will take the trouble to listen. I know that servants are curious,--ah, how curious servants are, my God!--and I thought one of them might have curiosity enough to see for herself madame, so affectionate, passing the long, long evening with poor monsieur, who is not gay,--no, he is not gay, they say that in the salon of the servants. So, as it is not agreeable to be listened and spied, and as servants are so curious, I locked the doors of the rooms consecrated to the privacy of madame, and rejoiced to know that madame might read excellent books of exalted piety to monsieur, or refresh her spirits, so tired by her solicitude, with a promenade in the clear of the moon--madame is so poetic!--as she chose, without being teased by observation. I respect also that good Monsieur Giffore, and I would not have him disprove. 'Madame is still there, mam'sell?' he asks; and I say, 'Yes; madame is still there.'"
All the time she was speaking, Mademoiselle Marcelline quietly pursued her task. The long silken tresses lay now in a well-brushed shining heap over her left arm, and she looked at them with complacent admiration.
"Heaven! but madame has beautiful hair!" she went on, while Laura, pale and motionless, at taking into her heart the full meaning of this terrible complication of her position. "It is, however, fortunate that she does not adopt the English style, for promenades at the clear of the moon are enemy to curls--to those long curls which the young ladies, lastly gone away, and who were so fond of madame, wore. They avoided the damp of the forest in the evening, the young ladies; they were careful of their curls. But madame has not need to be careful of anything--nothing and nobody can hurt madame, who is so beloved by monsieur. Ah, what a destiny! and monsieur so rich!"
She had by this time braided the shining hair, and was dexterously folding the plaits round and round the small head, after a fashion which Laura had lately adopted. Still her mistress sat silent, with moody downcast eyes. As she interrupted her speech for a moment to take a fresh handful of hair-pins from the dressing-table, Banks knocked at the door of the adjoining room. Mademoiselle Marcelline did not raise her voice to bid him enter; always considerate, she remembered that an indiscreet sound might trouble the repose of the invalid, so she stepped gently to the door and opened it.
"Is Mrs. Hammond here, mam'sell?" asked Banks.
"Oh, but yes, Monsieur Banks, madame is always here."
"Not exactly," thought Banks, puzzled by her idiom; but he merely said, "Bad news has reached the family. My lady's father is dead, which he was a good old gentleman indeed; and she ain't seen him neither, not for some time; and my lady she's been a faintin' away in the libery like anythin'; and Sir Charles, he's been a holdin' of her hup, leastways him and Lord Dollamore, and there's the deuce to pay down there."
Mademoiselle listened with polite attention to Mr. Banks's statement of the condition of affairs; but she was not warmly interested.
"Monsieur Banks will pardon me," she said; "but at present I coif madame; I think he demanded madame?"
"Yes, I did, marm'sell," said Banks, abashed and convicted by this quiet little person of undue loquacity; "only I thought you'd like to hear. Mostly servants does; but," here Mr. Banks floundered again, "you ain't much like the rest of us, miss--mam'sell, I mean."
Mademoiselle Marcelline acknowledged the compliment with a very frigid smile, and again inquired what she might have the pleasure of telling madame, on the part of Monsieur Banks.
"Sir Charles begs Mrs. Hammond will come down to the libery if quite convenient to her, as he wishes to speak to her about some necessary arrangements."
Mr. Banks delivered his message with elaboration, and waited the reply with dignity. Mademoiselle Marcelline repeated the communication to her mistress, word for word, and did not suffer the slightest trace of expression to appear in her face.
"Yes, I will go down immediately," said Laura, much relieved at the prospect of escaping from the presence of her maid, and having time to consider her position.
Mr. Banks went away to deliver Mrs. Hammond's message, and mademoiselle, in perfect silence, removed the dressing-gown from her mistress's shoulders; and Laura, her dress in complete order, and her nerves to all appearance as well arranged, rose from her chair.
"Give me a lace shawl," she said, in her customary imperious manner; "if Lady Mitford has lost her father, she will not be gratified by my making my appearance in full-dress, and I have no time to change it."
"Madame is so considerate," remarked Mademoiselle Marcelline, as she folded a web of fine black lace round Mrs. Hammond's form; "and Lady Mitford owes her so much. Poor lady, she is sensitive; she has not the courage of madame. Madame must form her."
"Go for Gifford to sit with Mr. Hammond," said Laura. "You can wait for me in my room as usual;" and she walked out of the dressing-room, having previously ordered her maid to unlock the door, without any outward sign of disturbance. Slowly she went down the great staircase, and as she went she asked herself, "Shall I tell Charles? Could any worse complication arise out of my concealing this dreadful thing from him?" At length she made up her mind, just as she reached the door of the library. "No," she said, "I will not tell him. He has no nerve, and would blunder, and the less one tells any man the better."
Poor Georgie, now indeed lonely and desolate, had been taken to her room, and induced to lie down on her bed, by the housekeeper and her maid, who proposed to watch by their unhappy mistress all night. She and Sir Charles were to proceed to Fishbourne on the following day. She had earnestly entreated her husband to take her with him, and he had consented. She was quite worn-out and stupefied with grief, and had hardly noticed Mrs. Hammond's presence in the library at all. It was agreed that Lord. Dollamore should leave Redmoor on the following day, a little later than Sir Charles and Lady Mitford, and that the Hammonds should go to Torquay as soon as the physicians would permit their patient to make so great an effort.
"It is impossible to say how soon I shall get back, or how long I may be detained," said Sir Charles; "and it's a confounded nuisance having to go."
Lord Dollamore looked at him with tranquil curiosity, and tapped first his teeth and then his ear with his inseparable cane.
"I hope they will make you comfortable here. Bligh will see to everything, I know. Perhaps they won't let Hammond move at all--very likely, for there's an east wind--and you'll be here when we return."
Very gravely Mrs. Hammond answered him: "That will be impossible, Sir Charles. Lady Mitford could not possibly be expected to have any one in her house under such circumstances. Mr. Hammondmustbe brought to Torquay."
Sir Charles was puzzled; he could not quite understand her tone; he did not think it was assumed entirely, owing to the presence of Lord Dollamore, for that had seldom produced any effect on Laura. No, she was completely in earnest. She gave her hand to each gentleman in turn, but the clasp she bestowed on each was equally warm; and when Sir Charles, as she passed out of the door, shot one passionate glance at her, unseen by Dollamore, she completely ignored it, and walked gracefully away.
"By Jove!" said Lord Dollamore, when he had gotten rid of Mitford and was safe in his own room, "it was a lucky thing Buttons made his appearance just when he did. I should have hopelessly committed myself in another minute; and then, on the top of that fine piece of sentiment, we should have had the scene of this evening's news. No matter how she had taken it, I should have been in an awful scrape. If she had taken it well, I should have had to do a frightful amount of sympathy and condolence--the regular 'water-cart business' in fact; and if she had taken it ill, egad, she's just the woman to blurt it all out in a fit of conscience, and to believe that her father's death is a judgment upon her for not showing me up to Mitford! As it is, the matter remains in a highly-satisfactory condition; I am not committed to anything: I might have been pleading my own cause, or a friend's, or some wholly imaginary personage's; and I can either resume the argument precisely where I dropped it, if I think proper, or I can cut the whole affair. Bless you, my Buttons!"
As Georgie was driving over to the railway-station on the following day,--her maid and she occupying the inside of the carriage, and Sir Charles, availing himself of his well-known objection to allow any one but himself to drive when he was present, to avoid atête-à-têtewith his wife, on the box,--she raised her heavy veil for a while, and drawing a letter from her pocket, read and re-read it through her blinding tears. It was from Colonel Alsager. At length Georgie put it away, and lay back in the carriage, with closed eyes, thinking of the writer.
"He has suffered a great deal also," she thought; "and he has more to suffer. How sorely he must repent his neglect of his father! as sorely as I repent my neglect of mine." Here the tears, which had already burned her eyelids into a state of excruciating soreness, burst forth again. "What must he have felt when he read his father's letter!--the letter written to be read after the writer's death,--the letter he will show to me, he says, though to no one else in the world, except, I suppose, the young lady whom Sir Peregrine entreated him in it to marry. I wonder if he will,--I wonder if she is nice, and good, and likely to make him happy! It is strange that a similar calamity should have befallen him and me. He can feel for my grief now--I have always felt for his!"