CHAPTER XVII.

UFFINGTON'S ERRAND.

The message which the telegraph-boy brought to Woodburn had the effect of throwing a chill upon the spirits of the party, and caused more than ordinary consternation in the breasts of two of its members.

As soon as they reached the house Lady Forestfield retired to her room, not even asking Eleanor to bear her company, so deeply did she feel the necessity for silence and cogitation. Once there, she turned the key in the door to prevent any attempt at intrusion; for she knew Mrs. Chadwick to be one of those persons who are always most inclined to gossip at inconvenient seasons; and settling herself in her favourite chair in the oriel window, gave herself up to thinking of possibilities.

Taking the telegram from her pocket, she reperused it quietly. 'Most important,'--those were the first words. Sir Nugent Uffington, as she well knew, was anything but impulsive, and not in the least likely to use a term stronger than the occasion warranted; nor was it at all probable that, as he had arranged to visit Woodburn at the latter end of the week, and to spend some days there, he would come down, especially for a few hours, unless the business which brought him was of a pressing and particular nature. What could that business be? The first idea that occurred to Lady Forestfield's mind was that the influence, whatever it might have been, which had induced her husband to restore her to her former position, had waned; that the divorce action would be proceeded with, and she would again be driven forth an outcast on the world. The possibility, not the probability, of this being the explanation of the telegram was all that occurred to her; but she yet turned it over in her mind as though it were already an accomplished fact. It would be very terrible, she thought, to have again to face that wretched solitary life in the dull lodging, with all its sordid and mean surroundings; to have her miserable story again publicly commented on, and privately bandied from mouth to mouth, by those amongst whom her name was no more mentioned, and her very existence had long since been forgotten; it would be hard to give up that fresh love of life which, since her residence at Woodburn, had dawned upon her simultaneously with her appreciation of nature and the exquisite enjoyment of the country.

If this supposition were correct, she must have been at fault in the idea that the recent change in Lord Forestfield's conduct had been produced by Sir Nugent Uffington's agency, for she knew Uffington too well to suspect for a moment that anything which he had once taken in hand could be suffered to fail. What, then, could it be? For an instant a burning flush suffused May's neck as a thought, to which she had hitherto never dared to give attention, flashed across her mind. Could it be possible that this close and constant intimacy into which they had been thrown had led him to think of her with something warmer than those feelings of friendship which he had never indeed openly professed, but which by every action he had manifested towards her? She herself knew that for her own part--No, under other circumstances it might have been possible, but now it was hopeless; she had hitherto succeeded in prohibiting such a thought from entering her breast, and it should find a place there no more.

What could it be, then? Could it be the question of Eleanor's future that brought Sir Nugent thither in such haste? From the conversation which she had had with her friend, May was certain that Eleanor was deeply impressed with Uffington, and that though perhaps her rejection of Spiridion Pratt was not entirely influenced by that feeling, it was tolerably certain that, if Uffington had been the suitor, he would have received a very different reply. The spirit and eagerness with which Eleanor had combated the idea of his being too old to marry a young girl had given May a complete insight into her friend's feelings, and if Uffington's errand were to propose for Eleanor Irvine, its success was assured. May could not, however, think that this could be the case; Sir Nugent was to have come down in a few days, and would then have taken advantage of the opportunity to propose for the girl's hand if he had any such intention. It was entirely unlike him to make a special excursion for the purpose, which would necessarily lead to comment and question; moreover, it was to herself, Lady Forestfield, that the telegram was addressed, and the request that she should remain at home was made to her. May gave it up in despair; she was totally unable to divine the cause of Uffington's coming unless it related to private affairs of his own, and she could scarcely think that concerning them it could be necessary to consult her.

May was not the only one who was brooding over what the message might portend; Eleanor Irvine, so soon as she could rid herself of the fussy companionship of Mrs. Chadwick, devoted her energies to its solution. To her the fact that the writer attached importance to an interview with Lady Forestfield seemed of alarming significance. More than once during the last few months Eleanor's heart had been wrung with the idea that an attachment had innocently, and perhaps without their knowing it, sprung up between May Forestfield and Sir Nugent Uffington. It seemed to her impossible that two such persons could be thrown together without falling in love with each other, for May, in Eleanor's eyes, was the prettiest, the sweetest, the most lovable of women; while, as for Uffington, when her own heart told her that she loved him with all the admiration and affection of which her deep strong nature was capable, she, of course, thought that every other woman must be similarly fascinated. May had never given her the smallest hint to lead her to believe in the existence of such a state of things, and, indeed, during their last conversation when the merits of Uffington and the reasons for his having hitherto remained unmarried had been fully discussed, Eleanor had taken the opportunity of narrowly watching Lady Forestfield, and was at the time convinced that no feeling stronger than grateful friendship had dictated her panegyrics. Of Uffington, however, Eleanor had never been so sure. She had fancied once or twice that he seemed attached to herself, but in such matters had had little experience, and thought she might possibly have been deceived. It seemed almost absurd to think that a man of such taste and refinement could have been thrown so much as he had recently been into the society of a woman like May without bowing to the spell which her beauty and fascination never failed to exercise. And if such were the case, if Uffington's errand were to implore May to let the decree _nisi_ be confirmed and to trust her future to him, Eleanor felt certain that May would not have the power to resist. What would then become of her?

Mrs. Chadwick, from the sanctity of the connubial bedchamber, screamed to Mr. Chadwick, who was washing his hands before luncheon in the adjacent dressing-room, that she thought both Lady Forestfield and Eleanor were 'behaving very oddly,' but she had little idea what was going on or what importance was attached both by her sister and her hostess to the message which had just arrived. Mr. Chadwick, who was always good-tempered, contented himself by remarking that apparently something was 'up,' but that it was 'none of their business;' and adroitly turned the subject by praising the beauty of the place and the friendly warmth of their reception by Lady Forestfield.

They were all seated at luncheon, when a fly from the station was seen coming up the avenue, and Lady Forestfield, asking her friends to excuse her, at once proceeded to her boudoir, to which room she directed her servants that Sir Nugent Uffington should be conducted. That sad sinking of the heart, that painful feeling of impending danger which she had before experienced, came upon her strongly as she heard Uffington's footstep on the stairs; and, as the door opened, she had to summon all her fortitude to avoid fainting.

Uffington was perhaps a thought paler than usual, and looked anxious and careworn. He advanced towards Lady Forestfield in his usual earnest manner, and taking her hand, and holding it for an instant in his grasp, he said: 'You received the telegram?'

'Certainly,' said May, 'and I was fully expecting you. You said that your business was important--I fear also that your errand is a melancholy one.'

'What makes you think that?' said Uffington, evading her gaze.

'I do not know--I cannot tell, save that I have a certain inward consciousness of coming misery. I have been so happy for the last few weeks that, perhaps, I am more acutely sensitive of even the shadow of sorrow. But you yourself, Sir Nugent, look tired and worn--will you not have some luncheon?'

'Not until I have explained my errand, which, as you have correctly judged, is a melancholy one. You must hear with courage all I have to say, and then quietly and deliberately make up your mind as to what is the best course for you to pursue, for by what you do to-day the whole tenor of your future life will be influenced.'

The burning flush which had suffused May's features during her self-examination that morning crept over them again, caused by the same thought; but as quickly as before she east it forth, and said: 'What have you to tell me?'

'I am here to speak to you of your husband; he is very ill.'

'Richard very ill!' cried May. 'Where is he? what is the matter with him?'

'He is at the house in Seamore-place,' said Uffington. 'He was in an unsettled, unhealthy state when he arrived there a few days ago from Paris, where, for the last few weeks, he had been leading a hard life and drinking to excess. Yesterday I chanced to call upon some business, and found that during the night he had been attacked with typhus fever. His recent career has been anything but favourable to him under the circumstances, and the truth is that he is lying in a very dangerous state.'

'Good Heavens, how dreadful' said May. 'Is he properly cared for?'

'Yes,' said Uffington. 'I inquired into that. His servant Stephens, who remained with him in all his various fortunes, sent off at once for Dr. Whitaker, who, as you know, had attended Forestfield once or twice before. Whitaker fortunately was in town, and came at once. Stephens told me that he shook his head when he saw the patient, and, knowing the confidential position which Stephens occupied, told him that he thought very badly of the case. And now, dear Lady Forestfield, I am coming to what more immediately concerns you. From something Stephens told me, I sent up for the nurse in attendance, and had a little conversation with her. Afterwards I made a point of seeing Dr. Whitaker, and from each of them I learned that both during the time of delirium and in his saner moments Forestfield has made frequent reference to you.'

'To me?' cried May, trembling from head to foot; 'to me?'

'To you,' said Uffington; 'speaking of you as his wife, calling on you by your Christian name, and declaring that you are "his _after all_."

'O, thank God! thank God!' cried May, burying her face in her hands and bursting into tears. 'I knew the time would come when he would say that of me.'

'Do not excite yourself, for you will have need of your strength,' said Uffington. 'The question is now, what do you think it right to do?'

'What do I think it right to do?' repeated May, raising her head. 'Can there be any question about it? Before you told me that he had mentioned my name and spoken of me in that manner, I hesitated, simply because I was afraid that my presence might irritate him and make him worse; but now that I have heard what you said, I have no longer any reason for indecision. Will you take me to Seamore-place at once?'

'I imagined that your good heart would prompt that determination,' said Uffington; 'but, dear Lady Forestfield, it is my duty to lay the case before you in all its bareness, and you must remember that if you go to Seamore-place, and install yourself as Forestfield's nurse, as is no doubt your intention, you run the greatest risk of catching the fever.'

'I should be but little worth if I allowed such a consideration to weigh with me for an instant,' said May, with a sad smile. 'My life has not been so full of happiness that I need be particularly careful of it, and there can be no doubt that my place at such a time is by my husband's side. Will you take me with you back to town?'

'Certainly,' said Uffington. 'The express passes at five, and we will go by that.'

'By that time I will have everything ready,' said Lady Forestfield, 'and in the mean while I will see Eleanor, tell her what has occurred, and ask her to make my excuses to her sister, who has unfortunately just arrived on a visit. And now for yourself, Sir Nugent. I am sure you are sinking from hunger and fatigue, and I will order some fresh luncheon for you at once.'

Mr. Chadwick, who seldom allowed anything to put him out, had ensconced himself in a corner of the library, and deep in a volume of the _Life of Joseph Locke_, was thoroughly enjoying the early struggles of that celebrated engineer, whose career greatly resembled his own, when he was startled by the loud tones of his wife's voice, and looking up, saw that lady in a state of great agitation by his side.

'O, here you are at last, James,' she said. 'I have been looking for you all over the house, and never thought you would have hidden yourself away among these dull, musty, old books. I wonder people of position do not attend more to their libraries. Now on our shelves there is not one single volume that is not handsomely bound.'

'Still, I would not mind swopping my book collection for this,' said the boiler-maker, looking round him with pleased eyes--'there are some rare works here, my Fan. However, I suppose it was not to talk about books that you have been "hunting" me, as you say?'

'No, indeed,' said Mrs. Chadwick; 'I have got the most extraordinary news for you. O, what do you think was the business that brought Sir Nugent Uffington here today?'

'Well, indeed, I cannot say,' said Mr. Chadwick reflectively, unless it were to propose for our pretty Eleanor. 'I have fancied ever since I first saw them together that Sir Nugent had a sneaking kindness for that girl.'

'Propose for Eleanor, indeed!' cried Mrs. Chadwick; 'nothing of the sort. No such idea ever entered Sir Nugent Uffington's head. He has fixed his fancy on some one else; and he is very likely to have his way.'

'Indeed!' said Mr. Chadwick, who, when the question of Eleanor was thus disposed of, had no farther interest in Sir Nugent Uffington's matrimonial project; 'indeed!'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Chadwick; 'and the chance has come about in this way. Sir Nugent has come down to say that Lord Forestfield is very ill indeed--almost dying, I believe--and that he wishes to be reconciled to his wife before his death.

'That's good,' said honest Mr. Chadwick, slapping his great band on the book to emphasise his declaration; 'that is the best thing I have ever heard of that chap. And the poor lady, she is going, of course?'

'Of course?' repeated Mrs. Chadwick. 'I really do not see any "of course" in the matter; considering the manner in which he has treated her, and the horrible life which, according to Charley Qrmerod's account, Lord Forestfield has been living for the last few months. However, she is going, says that nothing in the world will keep her away from him, and all that sort of thing, and has sent Eleanor to beg us to accept her excuses for having to leave so hurriedly. Lady Forestfield said, too, that if we thought the change was doing us good, she would only be too delighted for us to remain, and Eleanor would make an excellent hostess; but of course, that is out of the question. What I am looking at is, what is to be the result of all this?'

'The result of our not remaining?' asked Mr. Chadwick. 'I don't see that that requires much foresight. Of course I shall go and take a house at Brighton, and you will be very happy there till Christmas, when we will return home.'

'You silly James, I did not mean that at all; I meant the result of this illness and reconciliation and that--and I see it all. I have a kind of inward conviction that Lord Forestfield will die, and then the way will be clear for the others.'

'What others?' asked Mr. Chadwick, who did not follow the thread of his wife's discourse, and was longing to get back to his _Life of Locke_.

'Why, Sir Nugent Uffington and Lady Forestfield, of course,' said Mrs. Chadwick. 'You must have seen--but I declare you have no eyes. It has been perfectly plain to me for months past that he has been deeply smitten with her, else why should he have taken all this trouble of getting her back into her former position, arranging her affairs, and all that; besides, I have seen them together, and I am a pretty good judge of such matters. Now, when she is once a widow there will be no bar to their union, and you may depend upon it that that will be a match within a very few months.'

'It would seem to me to be a sensible proceeding,' said Mr. Chadwick; 'they are both well suited to each other, and if he is as devoted as you say, he might make up to her for the hard lines which she has suffered with her first husband, poor creature.'

'I wonder,' said Mrs. Chadwick, speaking to herself rather than to her companion--'I wonder what she will be called: whether she will continue Lady Forestfield, or become Lady Uffington. They are both "Ladies," of course; but I don't think if I had been a viscountess I should like descending to be a mere baronet's wife. I don't know how that is, and I shall have to wait till we get to town before I can learn, for there is no one here to tell me. I could not ask Lady Forestfield under the circumstances, and Eleanor is dreadfully ignorant on such subjects. By the way, I wonder where Eleanor is?'

It was lucky that Mrs. Chadwick did not know; for certainly Eleanor had no desire to be interrupted by her sister at that moment. After she had received the news from Lady Forestfield, and broken it to Mrs. Chadwick, Eleanor, on May's assurance that she could render her no assistance, had returned to the boudoir, and was standing in a pensive attitude at the oriel window, musing over what had occurred, when Uffington, who had finished his luncheon, entered the room. He stole quietly up behind her and called her by her name.

Eleanor started. 'I had no notion you were here, Sir Nugent,' she said with a blush.

'Fortune has so far favoured me as to find you alone, Miss Irvine,' said Uffington, 'for I have something very special to say to you; and under the present aspect of affairs it seems doubtful whether I may have another chance. I am a man of few words, but little speech is necessary to declare my intentions, and I am willing to accept your decision in a single syllable. Since I first saw you I have been irresistibly attracted towards you, and have remarked in you qualities such as I have never noticed in another woman. In short, I have learned to love you very dearly, and though my life has been neither an uneventful nor an unclouded one, I think I may say there has been nothing in it which should prevent me from placing the rest of it at your disposal if you will honour me by becoming my wife.'

Why stop to record the trembling words of happiness in which Eleanor accepted this proposal, so oddly and so bluntly made? Nugent Uffington had been the ideal man of her life, and she now saw him at her feet, conscious too that love such as his was not transient, but of that enduring quality which lasts for life.