On the morning after the day when Miss Gillespie had made so successful a debut among the company assembled at Redmoor, Mr. Effingham, lounging quietly up the road from the Mitford Arms, rang at the lodge-gate, and after a few minutes' conversation with the old portress, passed up the avenue. His conversation was purely of a pleasant character; there was no inquiry as to who he was, or what he wanted,--all that had been settled long ago. He was a gentleman from London, who was writing a book 'bout all the old fam'ly houses, and was going to put our place into it. He knew Sir Charles, and had his leave to come and go when he liked. A civil-spoken gentleman he was, and talked most wonderful; never passed the lodge without stopping to say something. Perhaps of all Mr. Effingham's peculiarities, this impressed the old woman the most; for, like all country people of her class who live a solitary and quiet life, she was thoroughly reticent, and it is questionable whether, beyond the ordinary salutations to those with whom she was brought in contact, she uttered more than a dozen sentences in a week. But Mr. Effingham's light airy chatter was very welcome to the old lady, and, combined with the politeness which he always exhibited, had rendered him a great favourite.
A considerable alteration had been effected in Mr. Effingham's outward man since his first visit to Redmoor. As in the former instance, his first step on receiving the ten pounds from Sir Charles was to purchase a new suit of clothes. He bought them at the neighbouring town, and in pursuance of his intention to assume a literary or artistic character, he had endeavoured to render his apparel suitable, or, as he called it, "to make up for the part." So he now wore a large slouch felt wideawake hat, a dark velveteen jacket, long waistcoat, gray trousers, and ankle-jack boots. Had he carried out his own views of literary attire, he would have adopted a long dressing-gown and Turkish trousers, such as he had seen in the portraits of celebrated authors; but he felt that these would be out of place in the country, and might attract attention. He, however, armed himself with a large notebook and a pencil of portentous thickness, with which he was in the habit of jotting down visionary memoranda whenever he found himself observed. By the initiated and the upper classes this last-described act may have been recognized as an indisputable literary trait; but by the lower orders Mr. Effingham was regarded as a mystic potentate of the turf, whose visit to the Mitford arms had mysterious connection with the proximity of Sir Danesbury Boucher's stables, where Lime-juice, the third favourite for the Derby, was in training; while the entries of the memoranda were by the same people ascribed to the exercise of a process known to them as the booking of bets.
The March morning was so splendid in its freshness and bright glittering sunlight, that Mr. Effingham, although little given to admiring the beauties of nature, could not resist occasionally stopping and looking round him. The old elms forming the avenue were just putting forth their first buds; far away on either side stretched broad alternations of turf in level, hill, and glade, all glistening with the morning dew; while on the horizon fronting him, and behind the house, could be seen the outline of the great Redmoor. The jolly old house stood like some red-faced giant, its mullioned windows winking at the sunlight, the house itself just waking into life. From the stable-yard came a string of rugged and hooded horses for exercise. The gardeners were crossing from the conservatory bearing choice flowers for the decoration of the rooms. At the porch was standing the head-keeper, accompanied by two splendid dogs; a groom on horseback, with the swollen post-bag slung round him, passed Mr. Effingham in the avenue; everywhere around were signs of wealth and prosperity.
"Yes," said Mr. Effingham to himself, as he stopped and surveyed the scene, "this is better than my lodgings in Doory Lane, this is! No end better! And why should this fellow have it, and not me--that's what I want to know? I could do it up pretty brown, here, I'm thinkin'; not like him--not in the same way, that is, but quite as good. There mighn't be so many nobs, but there'd be plenty of good fellers; and as for the nobs, Lord bless you, when they found there was plenty of good grub and drink, and good fun to be had, they'd come fast enough. I should just like to try it, that's all; I'd show him. And why shouldn't I try it? Not in this way, perhaps--not to cut it quite so fat as this, but still reg'lar comfortable and nice. A nice little box at Finchley or Hampstead, with a bit o' lawn, and a pony-trap, and chickens, and a spare bed for a pal,--that's my notion of comfort! And why shouldn't I have it, if I play my cards properly? Damme, I will have it! I'm sick of cadgin' about from hand to mouth, never knowin' what's goin' to turn up next. This bit o' stiff ought to be worth anything to me--anything in reason, that is to say. So, when I've once got it from our friend here, and that won't be just yet,--I must get her away from here, and have her well under my thumb, before I try that on,--when I once get, that docyment, I'll take it straight to Sir Charles, and let him have it for a sum down--must be a big sum too--and then I'll cut the whole lot of 'em, and go and live somewhere in the country by myself! That's what I'll do!"
L'appétit vient en mangeant. When Mr. Effingham was utterly destitute he accommodated himself to his position, and lived on, from hand to mouth, in the best way he could. He retired to the back-ways and slums then, and seeing very few people much better off than he was himself, his envy and jealousy were not excited. Sir Charles's ten pounds had disturbed the little man's mental equilibrium; the readiness with which they melted in his grasp showed him how easily he could get rid of a hundred, of a thousand, of ten thousand. The sight of the comfort and luxury of Redmoor contrasted horribly with the wretchedness of his own lodging, and lashed him into a storm of rage.
"It's too bad!" said he, striking his stick against the tree by which he was standing,--"it's too bad that there should be all this lot of money in the world, and that I should have none of it, while this cove here--O yes, if you please, my horses goin' out with the grooms; my gardeners a bringin' pines and melons and all the rest of it; my keeper a-waitin' to know how many pheasants I'm going to kill to-day! Damme, it's sickening!" Mr. Effingham struck the tree again, pushed his hat over his eyes, and started off in his walk. When he had proceeded about half-way up the avenue, he climbed the iron fence, and started off to the right over the park, until he reached a little knoll, on the top of which were two magnificent cedars. On the other side of these cedars, and completely hidden by them from the house, was a carved rustic seat. On reaching the top of the knoll, Mr. Effingham looked round, and seeing nobody, sat down, put his feet up, and made himself most comfortable.
A lengthened contemplation of the cedars, however, instead, as might have been expected, of bringing calm to his perturbed soul, served only to remind him that they, in common with all the surroundings, were the property of somebody else, and that on that somebody else he had a tremendous hold, provided he went properly to work.
"And I'll do it!" said he, taking his feet off the bench, and pushing the felt wideawake hat into all kinds of shapes in his excitement,--"I'll do it too! Now, let me see! My friend will be here presently--let me just run through what's to be done. Quiet's the game with her, I think; no bullyrag and bluster--quiet and soft. No connection with any one here--never even heard the name--sent by the other parties--I'm so innocent. Yes, I think that will do; then, when we've once started together, I can make my own terms.--How late she is! She must be awfully down on her luck at being spotted down here, and she must suspect something by the quick way in which she agreed to meet me here when I spoke to her yesterday as she was walkin' with the young 'un,--made no bones about it at all. She won't fail me, I suppose."
Oh no, she would not fail him. There she was, crossing the park apparently from the back of the stables, and making straight for the cedars. Could it be she? A figure bent nearly double, dressed in an old-fashioned black-silk cloak and a poke-bonnet, and leaning on a thick umbrella. It was not until she was well under the shadow of the cedars, that she straightened herself, pushed back her bonnet, and stood revealed as Miss Gillespie.
"Good-morning," said she, so crisply and blithely that Mr. Effingham, who had expected she would adopt a very, different tone, was quite astonished; "I'm afraid I'm a little late, Mr. ----; you did not favour me with your name; but the fact is, as you probably know, I am not my own mistress, and my services were required just as I was about to start."
"All right, miss," said Mr. Effingham, taking off his hat, and making a bow as near as possible after the manner of walking-gentlemen on the stage--a proceeding with which the limpness of the wideawake's brim interfered considerably; "my name's Effingham."
"Indeed! what a pretty name! so romantic. You would not mind my sitting down, would you? No; that's all right. And now, Mr. Effingham, I suppose you want something of me, don't you, after that mysterious communication which you made to me yesterday when I was walking with my pupil? Poor child! she's been in a state of wonderment ever since; and I've had to invent such stories about you. And what is it you want, Mr. Effingham?"
Mr. Effingham scarcely liked the tone; he felt he was being "chaffed;" so he thought he would bring matters to a crisis by saying, "My name's not Effingham--at least, not more than yours is Gillespie."
"Oh, I perceive," said she with a little nod.
"My name's Butler as much as yours is Ponsford. Now d'ye see?"
"O yes; now I see perfectly. Butler, eh? Any relation of a man named Tony Butler who is now dead?"
"Yes--his brother. He may have spoken to you of a brother in America."
"In America! ay, ay. Well, Mr. Butler," she continued with a bright smile, "now I know that you're the brother of Tony Butler, there's scarcely any need of repeating my question whether you wanted anything; for--pardon me--you could hardly belong to that interesting family without wanting something. The question is, what do you want? Money? and if so, how much?"
"No; I don't want money--"
"That's very unlike Tony Butler. I shall begin to discredit your statements," said she, still with the pleasant smile.
"At least not yet, nor from you. But I do want something."
"Ye-es, and that is--"
"I want you to go away from here with me at once."
"To go away from here! O no.Connu, my dear Mr. Butler; I see the whole of the play. This is not your own business at all, dear sir. You dance, and kick your legs and swing your arms very well; but you are a puppet, and the gentleman who pulls the strings lives over yonder;" and she pointed with her umbrella to Redmoor House.
"I can't make out what you mean."
"O yes, you can. 'A master I have, and I am his man.' You are Sir Charles Mitford's man, Mr. Butler; and he has set you on to tell me that I must leave this place and rid him of my influence. Now, you may go back to Sir Charles Mitford, your master, and tell him that I set him utterly at defiance; that I won't move, and that he can't make me. Do you hear that, my dear Mr. Butler?"
She had risen from her seat, and stood erect before him, looking very grand and savage. Her companion knew that the success of his scheme depended wholly upon the manner in which he carried out the next move, and accordingly he threw all his power into the acting of it.
"You're one of those who answer their own questions, I see," said he with perfect calmness. "I've met lots o' that sort in my travels, and I never found 'em do so much good as those that waited. All you've been saying's Greek to me. Who's Sir Charles Mitford? I've heard of him, of course, as the swell that lives in that house. They've never done talking of him at the Mitford Arms and all about there. But what's he to do with you? I suppose it don't matter to him who his friends' governesses is. He's not sweet on you, is he? If so, he wouldn't want you to go away. And what's he to do with me? and how's he likely to hear of my having been in the place? I haven't left my card upon him, I promise you," said Mr. Effingham with a grim humour.
Miss Gillespie looked at him hard, very hard. But his perfect command of feature had often stood Mr. Effingham in good stead, and it did not desert him now. The saucy laughter on his lips corresponded with the easy bantering tone of his voice; he sat swinging his legs and sucking his stick, the incarnation of insolence. So far he was triumphant.
She waited a minute or two, biting her lips, and turning her plans in her mind. Then she said, "Granting what you say--and it was rather a preposterous proposition of mine, I admit--you are still a puppet in somebody's hands. You had no knowledge of my previous life, and yet you come to me and say I must come away at once with you. Why must I come away?"
"Because you're wanted."
"And by whom?"
"By the crew of the Albatross. Ah, I thought you wouldn't be quite so much amused and so full of your grins when I mentioned them."
"Oh," said she, recovering herself, "I can still grin when there's anything to amuse me. But we seem to have changed places; nowyou're talking riddles which I cannot understand."
"Can't you? then I must explain them for you. If what I'm told is right--but it's very little I know--you belonged to that crew yourself once. My brother Tony was one of them, I understand; and though he's dead now, there's several of 'em left. Old Lyons, for instance,--you recollect him? Crockett, Griffiths--"
"Suppose, to avoid giving you further trouble, I say I do recollect them, what then?"
"You're angry, although you smile; I can see that fast enough. But what's the good of being angry with me? You know when a feller gets into their hands what chance he has. You know that fast enough, or ought to. Well, I'm in their hands, and have to do what they order me."
"And they've ordered you to come down to me?"
"They found out where you were, and sent me after you."
"Ha! And what on earth can have induced them, after a certain lapse of time, to be so suddenly solicitous of my welfare?" said Miss Gillespie, laughingly. "There was never any great love between any of those you have named and myself. I have no money for them to rob me of, nor do I see that I can be of any great use to them."
"I don't know that," said Mr. Effingham, laying his forefinger knowingly alongside his nose. "You see, you're a pretty gal, and you've rather got over me--"
"Flattered, I am sure," said Miss Gillespie, showing all her teeth.
"No, it ain't that," said he, with a dim perception that his compliment was not too graciously received; "it ain't that; but I do like a pretty girl somehow. Well, you see, they don't let me much into their secrets--don't tell me the reason why I'm told to do so and so; they only tell me to go and do it. But I don't mind tellin' you--taking an interest in you, as I've just said--that, from what they've let drop accidentally, I think youcanbe of great use to them."
"Indeed! have you any notion how?"
"Well, now look here. I'm blowin' their gaff to you, and you know what I should get if they knew it; so swear you'll never let on. From what I can make out, there's certain games which you used to do for them that they've never been able to find anybody to come near you in. I mean the Mysterious Lady, the fortune-tellin', and the electro-biology business."
Some scenes recalled to her memory by these words seemed to amuse Miss Gillespie, and she laughed heartily.
"But that's 'general work,'" continued Mr. Effingham; "what they want you particularly for just now is this. Some swell, so far as I can make out, came to grief early in life, and made a mistake in putting somebody else's name to paper; what they call forgery, you know."
She nodded.
"Old Lyons has got hold of this paper, and he wants to put the screw on the swell and make him bleed. Now there's none of the lot has half your manner, nor, as they say, half your tact; and that's why, as I believe, is the reason they want you back in town amongst them."
"Ah! to--what did you say?--'to put the screw on a swell and make him bleed,' wasn't it? How very nice! Well, now you've obeyed your orders, and it's for me to speak. And suppose--just suppose for the fun of the thing--I were to hold by my original decision and declare I would not come, what would you do?"
"I should go back to town and tell 'em all that had passed."
"And they?--what would they do?"
"I can tell you that, because that was part of my instructions. Old Lyons put that very plain. 'If she rides rusty,' he says,--'and she's got a temper of her own, I can tell you,--just let her know from me that I'll ruin her. I'll never leave her; she knows me of old; it won't be merely,' he says, 'her being turned away in disgrace out of where she is now; but I'll never leave her. She may go where she likes, but I've found her out once, and I'll find her out again; I'll foller her up, and I'll be the ruin of her,' he says, 'so sure's her name's what it is.'"
He looked up to see the effect of his speech, but Miss Gillespie was looking full at him with an expression of great interest and a very pleasant smile, as if she were listening to the narration of a thrilling story with which she had no connection save that of listener.
"Did he indeed say all that?" said she, after a pause. "Oh, he's a most terrible old man, and whatever he determines on, he never fails of carrying out. However, I think I won't put him to much trouble this time."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, do you know I've a strong mind to save you any further worry, and to crown you with glory by allowing you to carry me back in triumph."
"You don't say so! but this is too sudden, you know. I don't put much trust in such sudden conversions."
"Mine is not the least sudden. I generally act on the impulse of the moment. That now urges me to go back to my old life. The shackles of this respectability are beginning to strain a little. I feel cramped by them occasionally, and I suppose I have originally something of the Bohemian in my nature, for you have fired me with au ardent longing for freedom and irresponsibility."
"That's right!" cried Mr. Effingham, delighted at the success of his scheme; "that's just as it should be. It's all very well for those swells to live on here, and go on their daily round. They've got the best of it, so far as they know; but they haven't seen as much as we have. They don't know the pleasure of--well, of pitting your wits against somebody else who think themselves deuced sharp, and beating them, do they?"
"No," said Miss Gillespie, with her crispest little laugh; "of course they don't."
"Well, now," said Mr. Effingham, "you know what old Lyons is, reg'lar man of business; want's everything done at once, right off the reel. When will you be ready to start?"
"What a practical man you are, Mr. Butler!" cried she, still laughing; "it will be quite delightful to get back again into the society of practical people after all this easy-goinglaissez-allertime. But you must not be too hard upon me at first. I've several things to do."
"You won't be saying 'goodbye' to anybody or anything of that sort?"
"O no, nothing of that sort, you may depend."
"That's right; you mean putting your things together, eh?"
"Yes; packing and getting ready to start."
"Well, twenty-four hours will be enough for that, I should think. Suppose we say to-morrow at noon?"
"Ye-es, give me a little longer: say two in the afternoon, then I shall be perfectly ready."
"And where shall we meet?"
"We must get across to the rail at once. Not to Torquay; there's a small station nearer here, where they won't think of looking for us. Not that I suppose they'd take any trouble of that kind when they find I'm once gone. However, it's best to be prepared. Can you drive?"
"I should think so!" said Mr. Effingham with a chuckle. "I've driven most things, from a shofle-cab in town to the mail-sleigh in Canada!"
"How very nice!" said she; "that will do beautifully, then. You must get a gig or a dog-cart, or something light, from some place in Torquay. I shall have very little luggage, and have it all ready at a little side-gate of the park, which you can see--over there," again bringing the umbrella into requisition. "That gate is invisible from the house; it's perfectly quiet and unfrequented, and I have a key of it. That once closed behind me I'm thoroughly safe."
"And there's no chance of our being met, and you being recognized?"
"Not the very smallest. The people staying in the house will all be at luncheon; the gardeners and stable-people, should we come across any, will all be in that state of comatose repletion which succeeds the after-dinner tobacco. Besides, very few of them know me by sight; and the road which I have pointed out skirts the Redmoor, and is very little frequented."
"That'll do! that will be first-rate! Now, let me see if all's understood. A dog-cart to be ready to-morrow at yon gate of the park, at two o'clock sharp. There you'll be and your luggage--eh? By the by, how's that to get there?"
"I told you it would be very little; and there's a boy devoted to my service, who will carry it."
"All right,--I only wanted to know. Two o'clock to-morrow, then." He put out his hand, and as she lightly touched it with the tips of her fingers, offered to seize hers and convey it to his lips; but she slid it through his clumsy fist, and had pulled the poke-bonnet over her face, resumed the bent walk and the clumsy umbrella, and was making her way back across the park almost before he had missed her.
"And if ever a man did a good day's work, I've done one this blessed morning," said Mr. Effingham, as he strolled quietly back through the avenue. "They may talk about great genius, if they please. Great genius means getting hold of a good idea at the right minute, and strikin' while the iron's hot. That's great genius! and they was two great ideas which I've worked just now! That pretendin' to know nothin' of the Bart., and gammonin' her that old Lyons sent me after her, was first-rate! I thought old Lyons's name would bring her round. They're all afraid of him, it seems. Now when we've got some distance on the road, I'll tell her the truth, or, at least, as much as I choose, and just sound her about the bill. D'Ossay, my boy, you've done a good day's work, and can afford to go into Torquay and dine like a swell to-night!"
Mr. Effingham fulfilled his design of going into Torquay and dining well. In his singular costume he created quite a sensation among the invalids on the Parade, who would have severely resented the healthy and sporting tone of his ankle-jacks if it had not been mitigated by his slouch wideawake hat and black jacket. As it was, they merely regarded him as an eccentric person staying at one of the country-houses in the neighbourhood, and they pardoned his not being consumptive on the score of his being probably either rich or distinguished. So he "did" the town and all the lions to his great satisfaction, and, as affording them subject-matter for conversation over their valetudinarian dinners, to the satisfaction of those whom he encountered. He made an excellent dinner at the hotel, and then was driven out of his rural lodgings in a fly, having given orders for a dog-cart to be in readiness for him at the particular gate of Redmoor Park which he described at two o'clock the next day.
It was a brilliant starlight night, and Mr. Effingham had the head of the fly opened; he was well wrapped up, and the air being very mild, he wished to enjoy the beauties of nature and the flavour of his cigar simultaneously. As he lay back puffing the smoke out before him, his thoughts again reverted to his morning's work, and again he found every reason for self-gratulation. There would be the fifty pounds from Sir Charles--that was safe to start with; he should go up and give him notice in the morning, that that cheque might come up by the evening's post. That would help him to tide over any delay there might be in getting this woman to give up the bill. What a funny one she was! what a regular lively one! how she kept on laughing! and how sly she looked when she said that she was tired of that humdrum respectability, and would like to run away to the old adventurous life! Not one to be trifled with, though; none of your larks with her; regular stand-offish party. Well, never mind; that did not matter; what he was about now was business, and she seemed thoroughly up to that. He did not think he should have much trouble in making her see what advantage to them both could be got out of a proper use of the forged bill. One point, on which he at one time had had some doubt, the interview of that morning had satisfactorily set at rest. She had been spoony on Mitford--so Griffiths told him--and he feared that the old feeling might still remain, and she would refuse to take any steps about the bill lest she might injure her old flame. But, Lord! he could see plainly enough she did not care a snuff of a candle for Mitford now; rather more t'other might be judged from the flash in her eyes and the sneer on her lips when she spoke of him. That was all right, so--Ah! perhaps her shrewd notions of business might lead her to seeing the value of the bill and to driving a hard bargain for it. He must be prepared for that; but when he got her up to London she would be much more in his power. The bill must be had somehow, by fair means or foul; and if she resisted--well, there would not be very much trouble in stealing or forcing it from her.
As the reflections passed through his mind the carriage in which he sat reached the top of a height, whence was obtained a view of Redmoor House; its outline standing black and heavy against the sky, its lower windows blazing with light. The sight turned Mr. Effingham's thoughts into a slightly different current.
"O yes! go it; that's your sort," he said to himself with a certain amount of bitterness; "fine games goin' on there, I've no doubt; the best of drink, and coves with powdered heads to wait on you; game o' billiards afterwards, or some singin' and a dance with the women in the droring-room. That's the way to keep it up; go it while you're young. But, my friend the Bart., you'd sing another toon and laugh the wrong side o' your mouth, and cut a very different kind o' caper, if you knew what was so close to you. I've heard of a cove smokin' a pipe and not knowing that what he was sittin' on was a powder-barrel; and this seems to me very much the same sort o' thing. To think that close under his nose is the dockyment that would just crop his 'air, put him into a gray soot, Cole-Barth Fields, Milbank, and Portland, and that cussed stonequarryin' which, from all I've heard, is the heart-breakin'est work. To think that he's been payin' me to get the bill, and I've been employin' Griffiths and givin' skivs to old Lyons and settin' half Doory Lane at work to hunt up the gal, and that there she was under his roof, the whole time--it's tremenjous!"
And Mr. Effingham laughed aloud, and lit a fresh cigar, and pulled the rug tighter over his legs.
"She's a rum 'un, she is. I wonder which of them lights is in her room. There's one a long way off the rest, up high all by itself; that's it, I shouldn't wonder. She's not fit company for the swells downstairs, I suppose. Well, perhaps not, if they knew everythin'! But what a blessin' it is people don't know everythin'! Perhaps if they did, some of 'em wouldn't be quite so fond of sittin' down with the Bart. I wonder what she's doin' just now. Packin' her traps ready for our start, I shouldn't wonder. What a game it will be! Yes, D'Ossay, my boy, this is the best days work you ever did in your life; and your poor brother Tony little thought what a power of good he was doin' you when he first let you into the secret of Mr. Mitford and his little games."
And with these reflections, and constantly-renewed cigars, Mr. Effingham beguiled the tedium of his journey to the Mitford Arms.
He was up betimes the next morning, making his preparations for departure. His very small wardrobe--its very smallness regarded by the landlady of the inn as a proof of the eccentricity of literary genius--was packed in a brown-paper parcel. He discharged his modest bill, and began to fidget about until it was time to give his employer a final and fancy sketch of how he had accomplished his mission. Entirely fictional was this sketch intended to be, as widely diverging from fact as possible. Mr. Effingham knew well enough that so long as the removal of Miss Gillespie, or Lizzie Ponsford, had been effected, Sir Charles Mitford would care very little indeed about the means by which it had been accomplished. And as Mr. Effingham was playing a double game, it would be necessary for him to be particularly cautious in making any statement which might reveal the real state of the case to Sir Charles. These reflections, bringing clearly again before him the great fact of the entire business,--that he was being paid for communicating with a person, to communicate with whom he would have gladly paid a considerable sum of money had he possessed it,--put Mr. Effingham into the most satisfactory state of mind, and caused the time, which would otherwise have hung heavily on his hands, to pass pleasantly and quickly.
He knew that there was little use in attempting to see Sir Charles before eleven o'clock; so about that time he made his way up the avenue, on this occasion cutting short the old portress, who, contrary to the usual custom, was beginning to enter into some little story. It was Mr. Effingham's plan--and one which is pretty generally adopted in this world, especially by the lower order of Mr. Smiles's friends, the "self-made" men,--to kick down the ladder after he had landed from its top; and as Mr. Effingham thought he should be able to make no more use of this old woman, he did not choose to be bored by her conversation. So he cut her short with a nod, and walked up the avenue with a swaggering gait, which she had never known before, and which very much astonished her. He met no one on his way; and when he reached the house he went modestly round to a side-door leading to the billiard-room, through the window of which he observed no less a personage than Mr. Banks, Sir Charles's man, who was by himself, with his coat off and a cue in his hand trying a few hazards. Mr. Effingham gave a sharp tap at the glass, which made Mr. Banks start guiltily, drop his cue, and resume his garment; but when he looked up and saw who had caused him this fright, he waxed very wroth and said, "Hallo! is it you? what do you want now?"
His tone did not at all suit Mr. Effingham, who replied sharply, "Your master; go and tell him I'm here."
"He ain't up yet," said Mr. Banks.
"Did you hear what I said? Go and tell him I'm here."
"Did you hear whatIsaid, that Sir Charles ain't stir-run'?"
"It'll be as much as your place is worth, my man, if you don't do what I tell you. Have I been here before, or 'ave I not? Have I been let in to him at once before, or 'ave I not? Does he see me d'rectly you tell him who's waitin', or does he not? Now--go."
This speech had such an effect upon Mr. Banks, who remembered that the little man only spoke the truth in his statement of the readiness with which Sir Charles always saw him, that he opened the door, showed Mr. Effingham into the billiard-room (which was decorated with empty tumblers, fragments of lemon-peel, tobacco-ash, and other remnants of the preceding night, and smelt powerfully of stale tobacco), suggested that he should "knock the balls about a bit," and went up to tell his master.
When he returned he said, "He's just finished dressin', and I'm to take you up in five minutes. You seem quite a favourite of his."
Mr. Effingham laughed. "Yes," he said; "he and I understand one another."
Mr. Banks looked at him for a moment, and then said, "Was you ever in the Pacific?"
"In the what?"
"The Pacific."
Mr. Effingham changed colour. He did not half like this. He thought it was the name of some prison, and that the valet had found him out. But he put a bold face on and said, "What's the Pacific?"
"Ocean," said Mr. Banks.
"No," said Mr. Effingham, "certainly not--nothing of the sort."
"Not when you and he," pointing to the ceiling, "was together?"
"Certainty not."
"Ah!" said Mr. Banks, "kept at home, I suppose; it ain't so dangerous or such hard work at home, is it?--Portsmouth and round there?"
"It's hard enough at Portsmouth, from what I've heard," said Mr. Effingham; "that diggin' away at Southsea's dreadful work."
"Diggin' aboard ship!" said Banks in astonishment.
"How do you mean 'aboard ship'?" said the other.
"Why, I'm talkin' of when you and him was on board the--what was it?--you know--Albatross."
"Oh!" said Mr. Effingham, greatly relieved, and bursting into a fit of laughter; "we went everywhere then. And that's where I learned something I don't mind teaching you."
"What's that?"
"Never to keep Sir Charles waiting. The five minutes is up."
Mr. Banks looked half-annoyed, but his companion had already risen, so he made the best of it, pretended to laugh, and showed Mr. Effingham into Sir Charles Mitford's private snuggery.
Sir Charles was drinking a cup of coffee. He looked eagerly at Mr. Effingham, and when Banks had closed the door, said:
"By the expression of your face I should say you bring good news. In two words--do you, or do you not?"
"In two words--I do."
Mitford set down his cup. Through his mind rushed one thought--the spy over his flirtation with Mrs. Hammond was removed! henceforward he could sit with her, talk to her, look at her, with the consciousness that his words would reach her ear alone, that his actions would not be overlooked. His face flushed with anticipated pleasure as he said:
"How was it managed? Did she make much resistance?"
"Well, it wasn't a very easy job, and that's the fact. I've seen many women as could be got over with much less trouble. You see the party seems to be in very comfortable quarters here,--all right to eat and drink, and not too much to do, and that sort of thing."
"Well, what then?"
"Why, when parties are in that way they naturally don't like movin'. Besides, there's another strong reason I've found out why that young woman don't want to go."
"And that is--"
"She's uncommon fond, of you. Ah, you may shake your head, but I'm sure of it."
"If she made you believe that, Mr. Effingham," said Sir Charles with a very grim smile, "I'm afraid she's got the better of you altogether."
"Has she, by Jove! No, no. The proof of the puddin's in the eatin', Sir Charles; and whether I've done the trick or not you'll find out before I've finished. Any how, I'm satisfied."
"Well, as you say that, and as the payment of the fifty pounds depends upon the 'trick being done,' as you call it, I suppose before you've finished your story I shall be satisfied too."
"What was I saying? Oh, about her being nuts on you still,--O yes,--and I had to talk to her about that, and tell her it wouldn't do now you was married, and, in fact, that that was one of the great reasons for her to go, as parties had observed her feelin's. That seemed to touch her,--for her pride's awful,--and she began to give way, and at last, after a long palaver, she said she'd go, though not before I--"
"Beg your pardon, Sir Charles," said Banks, opening the door; "Mrs. Hammond, Sir Charles, wishes to speak to you, Sir Charles: she's here at the door."
"Show her in, by all means," said Mitford, turning to Effingham and laying his finger on his lips; then to him,sotto voce, "Keep your mouth shut!"
"I'm very sorry to trouble you, Sir Charles," said Mrs. Hammond, entering hurriedly, with a slight bow to the stranger and a glance of astonishment at his appearance; "but I will detain you only an instant. Have you heard anything of Miss Gillespie?"
"Of Miss Gillespie? I, Mrs. Hammond? Not a word. What has happened?"
"Of course you haven't, but the most extraordinary thing! This morning Miss Gillespie did not come into Alice's room as usual; so the child dressed by herself, and went to Miss Gillespie's room. She tried the door, and found it fast; so, concluding that her governess was ill,--she's subject to headaches, I believe,--Alice went down to breakfast. Afterwards she tried Miss Gillespie's door again, but with no better success; and then she came to me. I sent for Gifford, Mr. Hammond's man, you know; and after calling out once or twice, he burst the door open; we all rushed in, and found the room empty."
"Empty!" cried Sir Charles.
"The devil!" burst out Mr. Effingham. "I beg your pardon! What an odd thing!"
"Empty," repeated Mrs. Hammond. "The bed hadn't been slept in; her boxes were open, and some of the things had been taken out; while on the dressing-table was this note addressed to me."
She handed a small slip of paper to Sir Charles, who opened it and read aloud:
"You will never see me again. Search for me will be useless.
"R. G."
"Yes," said Mrs. Hammond, "she's gone. 'Search for me will be useless.' So provoking too; just the sort of person one liked to have about one; and I had got quite accustomed to her and all that. 'Never see me again;' I declare it's horribly annoying. Now, Sir Charles, I want to ask your advice: what would you do? Would you have people sent after her in all directions, eh?"
"Well, 'pon my word, I don't see how you can do that," said Sir Charles. "She hasn't taken anything of yours, I suppose,--no, of course not,--so, you see, she has a right to go away when she likes. Needn't give a month's warning, eh?"
"Right to go away! Well, I don't know,--I suppose she has--and I suppose I haven't any right to stop her; but it is annoying; and yet it's highly ridiculous, isn't it?" "What on earth can have driven her away? Nobody rude to her, I should think; she wasn't that sort of person. Well, I won't bore you any more now about it, particularly as you're busy. We shall meet at luncheon, and then we can talk further over this unpleasant affair." And with a smile to Sir Charles, and another slight bow to Mr. Effingham, she left the room.
"Well, you certainly have done your work excellently, Mr. Effingham," said Sir Charles, as soon as the door had closed; "in the most masterly manner!"
"Yes, it ain't bad, I think," said Mr. Effingham, with a ghastly attempt at a grin; "I told you it was all square."
"Yes; but I had no notion it would come about so quickly."
"Why, I hadn't half time to tell you about it. However, there it is, done, cut, and dried,--all finished except the payment; and I'm ready for that whenever you like."
"Our agreement was, that the cheque was to be sent to London, to an address which you gave me--"
"Yes, but as I'm here, I may as well take it myself. You haven't got it in notes or gold, have you? It would be handier."
"No, not sufficient; but they would change my cheque at the bank in Torquay, I've no doubt."
"No, thank you, never mind, it ain't worth the trouble. I shall have to go to town, I suppose, and I shan't want it till I get there--that is, if you can lend me a couple of sovereigns just to help me on my way. Thank you; much obliged. Now, you've got my address, and you know where to find me when you want me; and you may depend on not seein' me for a very long time. Good morning to you."
He took the cheque and the sovereigns and put them in his waistcoat-pocket, made a clumsy bow, and was gone. Then Sir Charles Mitford rose from his chair and walked to the window, radiant with delight. It was all clear before him now; the incubus was removed, and he was free to carry out his projects.
Mr. Effingham strode down the avenue, switching his stick and muttering:
"Done! sold! swindled!" he exclaimed; "regularly roped,--that's what I am! It was lucky I kept my face before the Bart., or I should never have collared the cheque; but that's all right. So far he thinks it was my doin', and forked out accordin'. That's the only bright part of it. To think that a yellow-faced meek-lookin' thing like that should have taken me in to that toon! What can her game be? To get clear of the lot of us?--that's it! Pretendin' to be all square with me, and then cuttin' and runnin' and shakin' it all off! Oh, a deep 'un, a regular deep 'un! Now what's my game? After her as hard as I can. Where will she make for? London, I should think,--try hidin' somewhere. Ah! if she does that, I'll ferret her out. It'll be a quiet place that I don't hunt her up in, with the means I have for workin' a search. Here's two skivs to the good from the Bart. I'll meet the dog-cart and get down to Torquay, and go up at once by the express. Hallo! gate, there!"
"Why, you are in a hurry, sir!" said the old portress, coming out; "mist as pressed as the young woman as knocked me up at day-dawn this morning."
"Ah! what was that?" said Mr. Effingham stopping short.
"I would have told you this morning when you came in; but you were so short and snappish!" said the old lady. "She came down wi' a little passel in her hand, and knocked at my door and ast for the key. And I got up to let her out, and there were a fly outside--Mullins's fly, and young Mullins to drive; and she got in, and off they went."
"Ay, ay where does Mullins live?"
"Just close by Mitford Arms. His father were wi' my father--"
"Yes, yes; thank you! all right! goodbye!" and Mr. Effingham rushed off up the by-lane to where he knew the dog-cart was waiting.
When Laurence Alsager awoke the morning after Miss Gillespie's piano-performance, his thoughts immediately turned to the mysterious note which he had received on the previous evening, and he stretched out his hand and took it from the dressing-table, where he had placed it just before dropping off to sleep. He read it again and again, and each perusal strengthened his belief. It was written by Miss Gillespie--of that he had little doubt--and was intended to convey a warning of proximate danger to Lady Mitford, and counsel to him to avert this danger if possible, by remaining at Redmoor. It seemed further to imply that some protection which had hitherto been extended over her would necessarily be withdrawn, and that his presence was consequently more than ever needful. At this conclusion Laurence arrived; it was but a lame and impotent one, after all, and he determined to seek the solution at an interview with Miss Gillespie as soon as possible.
He was the earliest in the breakfast-room, and found a batch of letters lying in his accustomed place. They were of all kinds,--foreign letters from men whose acquaintance he had made abroad, and the gist of whose correspondence lay in an endeavour to tempt him to come out to them again; a business letter or two about the investment of some spare cash; a line from Blab Bertram, wondering when L. A. was coming to town, and "what was the use of leaving Egypt if you stuck down in Devon?" and a thick old-fashioned letter, on yellowish gilt-edged paper, sealed with a large seal, and directed in a bold yet tremulous hand--his father's. Alsager's conscience pricked him as he came upon this letter at the bottom of the little pile; he had been two months in England, after two years' absence, and had not yet found time to visit his father. They had been always very good friends; indeed when Laurence was at Eton, the tie between them was of the strongest, and they were more like brothers than father and son. With the young man's life at Oxford their relations were a little less intimate; Laurence was beginning to see life with his coevals, and found Sir Peregrine's society a check and hindrance on his enjoyment. The father perceived this, and weakly allowed himself to be annoyed at it. He was hurt and jealous at his son's preference of younger companions, at his own inability to amuse or interest his son's friends; and from that time forth there was a slight estrangement between them. Laurence had the enjoyment of his mother's fortune on coming of age, so that he was perfectly independent of his father; and his joining the Guards was entirely his own doing, and to a certain extent against his father's wish. Sir Peregrine was of that old-fashioned school which abhorred London and its ways, and thought a country gentleman ought to live entirely on his own estate, in superintending which, and in joining the sports of the field, he would find plenty of amusement and occupation. Their ideas and tastes being thus different, it was tacitly felt by both that they were best apart, and during the last few years they had not met a dozen times. Sir Peregrine's annual visit to London was generally made in the winter, when Laurence was staying with country friends; and Laurence found little attraction in the dozy, prosy county-magistrate society which the old gentleman gathered round him at Knockholt.
But his conscience pricked him when he saw the old gentleman's letter, which had been forwarded to him from his club--pricked him sharply after he had opened it and read as follows:
"Knockholt, Friday.
"My Dear Lance,--If you have not any very particular engagements, I think it would be as well if you were to come down here for a day or two. There are some things I want to talk over with you, and I think the sooner our business is done the better. I had a nasty fall a fortnight ago, when I was out with Lord Hawkshaw's pack; and though Galton says it's nothing, I was a good deal shaken at the time, and feel it has jarred me more than they think; for I have an odd kind of all-overish pain, which I can't explain to them, and can't account for to myself. Not that I am going to die, that I know of; but one does not fall lightly when one weighs fifteen stone, nor get over a cropper quickly when one is sixty-seven years old. So, my dear Lance, put up with the old house and the old man for a few days, and come. I have a surprise for you.--Your affectionate father, P. A.
"P.S.--Captain Freeman saw you looking out of the club-window when he was in London in January. He says you had a beard like a billy-goat. For God's sake, my dear Lance, go to a barber before I see you! I hate all such foreign affectations. P. A."
Laurence looked grave over the letter, but could not help smiling at the postscript, so characteristic of his father. He did not at all like the aspect of affairs at Knockholt; his father was evidently far more hurt than either the doctors imagined or he himself would allow. His ward, Miss Manningtree, and her governess, resided with the old gentleman; but Laurence knew too little of either to feel confidence in their capacity, their care, or their judgment in the matter of medical advice. They might think Galton all-sufficient and infallible; he didn't. He would go down at once, at least as soon as he had learned from Miss Gillespie what really was meant by her mysterious letter. He had been too long dallying at Capri; but now that duty called him away, he would obey cheerfully. By the time he had finished his letter and formed his resolution, Captain Bligh had entered the room, and had plunged deeply into his breakfast, which he took standing, now making a dive at the toast-rack, now impaling a bloater, now walking round and pouring out a cup of tea; for there were no ladies present, and the captain was in a hurry, having much business on hand.
"Morning, Alsager," said the Captain, when Laurence looked up. "Queer start this, isn't it?"
"What? I'm only just down; I've seen nobody and heard nothing."
"Oh, about that girl that sung last night,--Mrs. Hammond's governess. What's her name?"
"Miss Gillespie?"
"Ah, that's she! Wouldn't have thought it of her--would you?"
"What's she done?"
"Done! Bolted, that's all!--bolted slick away, no one knows where!"
"What on earth for?"
"No one knows that either. Rummest thing is, that she hasn't taken anything with her--anything of anybody else's, I mean. Now, if she'd walked off with some of that little Hammond woman's swell clothes, or jool'ry, one could understand it; but she's left a lot of her own behind."
"Did she give no hint of this? Has she left no explanation?"
"Well, I don't know about explanation. She's left a note for Mrs. Hammond, which I've got in my pocket. Mrs. Hammond gave it to Mitford, and he sent for me and handed it over, and asked me what I thought of it."
"It's not private, I suppose. May I look at it?"
"By all means--nothing private about it. Can't conceive why Mitford gave it to me. I can do nothing with it." So saying Captain Bligh took out the little scrap of paper from his waistcoat pocket, and handed it to Alsager.
There was no longer the least doubt about Laurence's mysterious correspondent. Both notes were in the same handwriting.
At luncheon that day Miss Gillespie's disappearance was the principal theme of conversation, and many and various were the comments it evoked. Lady Mitford seemed a little scandalized at the circumstance; but Mrs. Hammond, her first astonishment over, treated it very lightly. She had always thought Miss Gillespie a "curious person," she said; there was always something "odd" about her. Very likely, when they got back to town, they would find she would return to them. Perhaps, after all, the reason of her flight was that she was a little bored in the country. And then Mrs. Hammond forgot all about Miss Gillespie in her delight at having Sir Charles Mitford sitting next her again, at finding him paying her little attentions and compliments, talking to her in a dropped voice, and regarding her with deep tender glances, just as he had done in the first days of her visit to Redmoor. She delighted in all this, and her delight was increased when she marked the grave gloom on Laurence Alsager's face, as she shot a glance of saucy triumph across at him. Then he guessed the meaning of Miss Gillespie's note more thoroughly than he had yet done. She had had some hold either on Mrs. Hammond or on Sir Charles; that was gone, and he alone was left to do his best to keep them in check. And what could he do? Any overt act of his would be misconstrued by Mrs. Hammond, and turned to her own purposes, while over Mitford he had not the smallest power. What could he do? Had Lord Dollamore given any sign of intending to persecute Lady Mitford with his attentions, Laurence thought that his staying in the house might be of some use; but Dollamore had hitherto been perfectly respectful. So Alsager determined that he would remain a couple of days longer, and then start off for Knockholt.
After luncheon a proposal was made to go and see some new horses which Captain Bligh had inspected when last in Torquay, and which he thought might be obtained as bargains. So most of the party adjourned to the stable-yard, where these horses had been brought; and the visit ended in a pair of them being put to, and Sir Charles and Mrs. Hammond mounting the phaeton to which they were harnessed. The horses were young and fresh, and plunged a great deal at starting; but Sir Charles had them well in hand, and with his companion by his side and a groom in the back-seat, went flying down the avenue. It was full an hour before they returned, and Sir Charles's verdict on the pair was that they were too hot to hold. He had had all his work, he said, to keep them at all within bounds. Mrs. Hammond looked flushed and elated; but she went straight up to Lady Mitford, and told her how she had enjoyed the drive, and was full of praises of Sir Charles's powers of coachmanship.
That evening Sir Charles took Mrs. Hammond in to the dining-room, and addressed his conversation principally to her. He drank a great deal of wine both with and after dinner, and was in more boisterous spirits than any of his friends had yet seen him. When they went into the drawing-room he made straight for Mrs. Hammond's chair, and there he remained the whole evening, talking to her in a lowered tone, and regarding her with glances the fire of which had by no means been subdued by the quantity of claret he had drunk. Poor Georgie! The events of this day, culminating as they were, had totally upset her, and had reduced her very much to the same condition as when she begged Alsager to be her charioteer to Egremont Priory. There could be no mistake about it now. Surely it was a flagrant case; and the colour flushed in her cheeks as she saw Mrs. Masters's shoulder-shrugs and marked Lord Dollamore's ill-disguised cynical manner. Poor Georgie! She asked Mrs. Charteris to sing, and sat and listened to her as usual, and thanked her at the end of the performance; and she chatted with the Tyrrell girls, and she took the deepest interest in Mrs. Masters's embroidery,--and all the time her heart was sick within her, and she kept stealing glances at the couple seated in the embrasure of the window, with their heads so nearly touching. All present noticed her state of mind; but no one understood it or pitied it like Laurence Alsager, who began to confess to himself that what Dollamore had prophesied at the club was undoubtedly coming true, so far as Mitford was concerned; and did, not the wife's future, even in Lord Dollamore's prophecy, hinge upon the husband's conduct? It was a most horrible shame; but how on earth was he to protest against it? He had no position to enable him to do anything of the kind. There was only one thing that he could do, and that was to speak to Laura Hammond. He could do that; it might not be of much use, but he would do it.
So, accordingly, the next morning after breakfast Colonel Alsager sent to Mrs. Hammond a polite little note, in which he presented his compliments, and requested the pleasure of a few minutes' conversation; and to which a verbal answer was returned to the effect that Mrs. Hammond would be delighted to see Colonel Alsager, if he could come up at once. He followed the lady's-maid, and found Mrs. Hammond in the boudoir, dressed in her habit and hat. She received him with great cordiality.
"I am so sorry to have sent what may have seemed a peremptory message, Colonel Alsager," she said; "but the fact is, Sir Charles has been round here just now, and we have arranged a little riding-party,--he and I, and Emily Tyrrell, and Captain Bligh, and Mr. Somers, and one or two more; and I promised to be ready by eleven."
"Make no excuses, pray," said Laurence, in a hard dry tone. "I won't detain you, as your time's valuable, by any preamble. I will simply ask, are you determined to persist in your present course?"
"In what course, my dear Colonel Alsager?"
"In bringing destruction on a household, Laura Hammond! In blighting the happiness of a young wife, and spreading snares for a foolish husband! In rendering yourself conspicuous, and your host contemptible! Do I speak plainly enough?"
"Scarcely," said she with a little smile; "for though you insult me, and give way to your own rage, you do not condescend to--or you dare not--explain your motives. Don't think that I am weak enough to imagine that you are jealous of me, Laurence. I know you too well for that. I know that whatever command I may have had over you is past and gone. But perhaps the passion, thecapricethat I had for you--call it what you will--continues. Suppose it does? Suppose the sight of you, the meeting with you after so long a separation, has renewed the dormant flame? You scorn me, and I see you prostrate at the feet of a sweetly pretty piece of propriety and innocence--don't interrupt me, please--who then becomes my rival? Revenge is sweet, especially to women, you know. This child of the fields makes herself my rival,--I make myself hers! I show to you and others, that if you care for me no longer, there are others who will. I show to her and others, that if she is preferred to me by one I--yes, I love,--I am preferred to her by one she loves. As yet I have never run second for anything for which I've entered, Colonel Alsager, and I don't intend to do so now."
"You are arguing on utterly false premises,--you are talking worse than nonsense. Between me and the lady to whom you allude there is nothing. You need not smile in that way. I swear it! She is as pure as--"
"Oh, pray spare me! Don't fall into raptures about her purity,--there's a good creature. Dear me, dear me! this must be a very bad case, when a man like Colonel Alsager takes a poetical view of his lady-love, and talks about her purity."
"I came to ask you to abandon this shameless flirtation, Laura Hammond, for the sake of our old friendship,--as an act of kindness to me. Your reply is mockery and ridicule. I may use other means to bring about what I want."
"Ah, you threaten! Then I shall certainly get Mr. Hammond to fight you! He was out once at Nusserabad, or Hylunjee, or some such place, I believe. And we can prop him up on his crutches, and get his man to hold him, and I've no doubt he'd be strong enough to fire a pistol.--No," she added, suddenly changing her tone, "don't threaten, and don't thwart me; else let our innocent young friend look to herself. I'll break her heart, and then I'll spoil her name,--that's all. And now, I really must run away. Sir Charles will have been waiting for me full ten minutes." She touched the brim of her hat, in salute, with the handle of her riding-whip, gathered up her habit with her other hand, and left the room.
"And that is the woman," said Laurence, looking after her, "for whom I nearly broke my heart; whose rejection of my suit caused me to leave England,--intending, hoping, never to return. Great Heavens! once in that state, what idiots we become! Think of this fool flinging away a pearl of price, reputation, decency,--and all forthat!Think of that poor child his wife having pinned her faith and her affections on to such a shallow oaf! There can be no doubt about Miss Gillespie's meaning now; no doubt that, partly from innate devilry, partly from pique, Laura Hammond will pursue her scheme to the very end. And I am powerless to interfere."
He went down to the library with the intention of writing a letter to his father announcing his immediate arrival; but as he entered the room, he saw through the deep bay-window fronting him, which looked down upon the terrace, the cavalcade departing down the avenue. At some considerable distance behind the others rode Sir Charles Mitford and Mrs. Hammond; and he was bending towards her, and talking in an apparently impressive manner.
Laurence shrugged his shoulders and turned away in disgust; but he had not reached the writing-table before he heard a deep sigh, succeeded by a passionate sobbing, and turning quickly round, saw Lady Mitford leaning against the window and half-hidden by the heavy curtains,--her face buried in her hands, her whole frame convulsed with the violence of her grief. Laurence would have retreated from the room, but his footsteps had attracted her attention; and as she looked their eyes met. He at once approached her, saying, "You will believe me when I say that it was quite by chance I entered the room, Lady Mitford,--without the least idea that you were here; but I am glad now that I came, for you are, I fear, very unwell; and--"
"It is nothing," she said, with a strong but ineffectual effort to resume her usual calmness; "it is nothing, indeed, Colonel Alsager; a little silly woman's weakness--nothing more. I am over-tired, I think; we have been up later the last few nights, you know, and I am so totally unused to dissipation even of the mildest kind."
"You will be better when you return to London, perhaps," said Laurence; "I have a strong notion that the marsh on this great Redmoor is anything but a sanitary adjunct to the property. I should really advise your getting back to town as soon as possible, now Parliament has met; and soon everybody will be there."
In London, Laurence thought, Mrs. Hammond will at all events be out of the house, and in other gaiety there might be a chance of Mitford's getting rid of his infatuation.
"Oh, I'm frightened at the very thought of returning to town; and yet, down here, there are--I mean--it's--how very silly of me!--you must excuse me, Colonel Alsager, I am anything but strong;" and poor Georgie's tears began to flow again.
"So I see," said Laurence, in a very gentle tone. She had seated herself in one corner of a low brown morocco-leather couch that stood across the window. Hitherto he had been standing, but he now placed himself at the other end of the sofa.
"I think," said he, bending forward, and speaking in the same low earnest voice,--"I think, dear Lady Mitford, that you will be disposed to give me credit for taking a deep and friendly interest in you."
She looked at him through the tears that still stood in her splendid eyes--a frank, trusting, honest glance; and as he hesitated, she said, "I know it--I have proved it."
"Then, though your sex is taught to believe that mine is thoroughly selfish and heartless,--never moving without some end for its own benefit in view,--you still believe that what I am about to say to you is dictated simply by the hope to serve you, the desire to see you happy?"
She bowed her head, but did not speak this time. Her tears were gone, but there was a painful look of anxiety in her eyes, and the spasmodic motion of the muscles of the mouth betrayed her agitation.
"You are very young," he continued, "and wholly unacquainted with the world. I am certainly past the freshness of youth, and I should think there are not many of my age more thoroughly versed in the world's ways. And one of its ways, dear Lady Mitford, one of its never-failing and most repulsive ways, is to rob life of the glamour with which youth invests it; to lift up a corner of the silken curtain of the fairy temple and show the rough bare boards and wooden trestles behind it; to throw stumbling-blocks in the paths of happiness, and to drag down those now falling to a lower depth; to poison truth's well, to blacken innocence, and to sow distrust and misery broadcast,--these are among the world's ways. To be pure, noble, and beloved, is at once to provoke the world's hatred. Is it any wonder then that some of its emissaries are plotting againstyou?"
A faint blush overspread her cheeks as she said, "I have done nothing to provoke them."
"Pardon me," said Laurence, "you have offended in the three ways I have just pointed out: there are few who offer such a combination of offences. And the world will have revenge for all. To besmirch your purity, to lower the nobleness of your nature, are tasks which as yet it dare not attempt. But to prevent your being beloved,--by those whose love you have a right to claim,--is apparently, not really, far more easily done."
"It is, indeed," cried poor Georgie, mournfully; "it is, indeed."
"I said apparently, not really," continued Laurence. "To defeat such an attempt as this is the easiest thing in the world, if you only have thesavoir faire, and will use the weapons in your armoury. Even in the most purely pastoral times, love in marriage was not all that was requisite for happiness. If Phyllis had done nothing but sit at Corydon's feet and worship him--if she had not been his companion and friend as well as his wife,--now talking to him about the crop in the forty-acre pasture, now telling him of the pigs eating the beech-nuts under that wide-spreading tree where that lazy Tityrus used to lie in the summer; moreover, if Corydon had not had his farm and flock to attend to,--he would at a very early period of their married life have left her solitary, while he sported with Amaryllis in the shade, or played with the tangle of Neaera's hair."
He stopped as he marked her half-puzzled, half-frightened look. "Dear, dear Lady Mitford," he continued, "let me drop parable and mystery, and speak plainly to you. I am going away to-morrow or the next day, and should probably have left with this unsaid; but the accidental sight of your sorrow has emboldened me to speak, and--and you know I would say nothing which you should not hear."
At the last words she seemed reassured, and with a little effort she said, "Speak on, pray, Colonel Alsager; I know I can trust you entirely."
"Thank you," he said, with a very sweet smile; "I am very proud of that belief. Now listen: you married when you were a child, and you have not yet put away childish things. Your notion of married life is a childish romance, and you are childishly beginning to be frightened because a cloud has come over it. In his wife a man wants a companion as well as a plaything, and some one who will amuse as well as worship him. Your husband is essentially a man of this kind; his resources within himself are of the very smallest kind; he cares very little for field-sports, and he conjugates the verbs'ennuyerthroughout the entire day. Consequently, and not unnaturally, he becomes readily charmed when any one amuses him and takes him out of himself,--more especially if that some one be pretty and otherwise agreeable. Why should not you be that some one? Why should not you, dropping--pardon me for saying it--a little of the visible worship with which you now regard him,--why should not you be his constant companion, riding with him, making him drive you out, planning schemes for his amusement? If you once do this, and get him to look upon you as his companion as well as his wife, there will be no more cause for tears, Lady Mitford, depend upon it."
"Do you think so?--do you really think so? Oh, I would give anything for that!"
"And get him to London quickly, above all things. You are to have your opera-box, I heard you say; and there is the Park; and in this your first season you will never be allowed to be quiet for an instant."
"Yes; I think you're right. I will ask Charley to go back to town at once. There will be no difficulty, I think. The Charterises are gone; Mrs. Masters and the Tyrrells go to-morrow; and Captain Bligh is going to Scotland to look at some shooting-quarters for Charley in the autumn. There are only--only the Hammonds."
"I really do not think it necessary to take them into account in making your arrangements," said Laurence. "Besides, unless I'm very much mistaken, when Mrs. Hammond finds the house emptying, Mr. Hammond's bronchitis will either be so much better that there will be no harm in his going to town, or so much worse that there will be imperative necessity for his consulting a London physician."
"And now, Colonel Alsager, how can I sufficiently thank you for all this kind advice?" said Georgie hesitatingly.
"By acting up to it, dear Lady Mitford. I hope to hear the best account of your health and spirits."
"To hear! Will you not be in London?"
"Not just at present. I am at last really going to my father's, and shall remain there a few weeks. But I shall hear about you from Bertram, and when I return I shall come and see you."
"There will be no one more welcome," said she, frankly putting out her hand.
Just at that moment the door opened, and Mr. Banks advanced and handed a closed envelope to Alsager, saying, "From the railway, Colonel."
It was a telegraphic message; and as such things were rare in those days, Laurence's heart sunk within him before he broke the envelope. It was from Dr. Galton at Knockholt, and said,
"Lose no time in coming. Sir Peregrine has had a paralytic stroke."
Half an hour afterwards Laurence was in a phaeton spinning to the railway. His thoughts were full of self-reproach at his having hitherto neglected to go to his father; but ever across them came a vision of Georgie Mitford in the passion of her grief. "Ah, poor child," he said to himself, "how lovely she looked, and what a life she has in prospect! I am glad I have left her, for it was beginning to grow desperate--and yet how I long, oh how I long to be at her side again!"