CHAPTER VIII.

IN DEFENCE.

Frank Eardley was punctual to his appointment with Sir Nugent Uffington, and the friends started at once for their proposed drive to Richmond.

During this drive, the stroll under the trees and through the fern which followed it, and the dinner which crowned the day's amusement, Sir Nugent Uffington was much more companionable, and took far greater interest in his friend's remarks. The fact was that he had skilfully led the conversation in the direction of Lady Forestfield, and induced Eardley to chat to him unreservedly about that lady and the manner of her life before and after her marriage. On such matters Eardley was just the man to be the mouthpiece of that portion of the world which hears everything that is going on in society, and comments upon it in a broad and genial spirit, untinged by envy or jealousy, but sufficiently flavoured with that sarcasm which comes natural to worldlings in this age of cynicism and disbelief. He had known Lord Stortford; indeed, the worthy peer, who had inherited his father's love of art of all kinds, had been one of the first to discover early indications of the talent which had raised the Royal Academician to his present rank in art, and had given him his earliest commission. Eardley was received in Grosvenor-square on those pleasant terms of equality which were always extended by the host to those whose social manners permitted it, had made May's acquaintance even before she was presented, and had struck up a pleasant friendship with her. Frank Eardley knew too well his own position and the girl's destiny to attempt to convert this friendship into any stronger alliance; and May, who appreciated the state of affairs with equal correctness, made the kindly artist the confidant of many of her hopes and fears. Of Lord Forestfield, who proposed to Miss Dunmow very shortly after his return from a protracted residence abroad, Frank Eardley knew nothing; but he saw enough of him during the few weeks previous to the marriage, to make up his mind that the intended bridegroom was by no means all that could be looked for in the husband of so charming a girl. What May required to guide her aright was a man of sound common sense with a very light hand, who would keep herself sufficiently in check while never allowing her to feel the curb; a man to whom she could look up with respect and admiration, and to whom she could defer even when her wishes were most strongly engaged, knowing that he would be in the right. To Eardley, Lord Forestfield's character seemed wholly different from this: he was at the same time narrow-minded and impetuous, with a strong belief in himself, and an undisguised contempt for the opinion of others. Moreover, the clubs rang with rumours of his previous life, and of his ideas as to domestic loyalty; which argued but ill for the future peace of mind of the girl whose lot in life he was destined to control. After their marriage, Eardley had seen but little of them. He paid his duty call, but May's suggestion that he should be asked to dinner was met with a prompt negative from her husband, who declared his intention of eliminating all 'such kind of people' from his house. They met, however, pretty frequently in society, and though May, in obedience to Lord Forestfield's wishes, restricted her conversation with her old friend to ordinary conventionalities, Eardley saw from her manner that she was unhappy, and soon gathered from general gossip that she was ill-treated. He had seen so many affairs of this kind, that when the gossip further informed him that Lady Forestfield was avenging herself, the kind-hearted artist was thoroughly sorry, but very little surprised. '_Tu l'as voulu, Georges Dandin_,' he muttered to himself with a shrug, as the purveyor of scandal left his studio to proceed further on his self-imposed generous mission. 'I guessed it would come to that, and there is no use in my attempting to stop this stream of poached filth which floods the middle street, which that rascal who has just left is assiduously helping in its course;' but he did what he could to stem the current nevertheless, and there were some people who hesitated to believe the stories whispered against Lady Forestfield's fair fame, simply because Frank Eardley declared them to be false.

He told all this in his simple quiet manner to his friend as they sat over their bottle of claret in the calm evening.

'I have not seen Lady Forestfield since the smash,' he said, 'though, of course, I would do anything in the world I could to be of service to her. But,' he added, looking steadily at Uffington, 'I don't believe, Nugent, in interference in such matters, at all events by men. I am delighted to think that she has Eleanor Irvine with her. A straightforward right-thinking girl like that, whatever the Mrs. Grundys may choose to say, cannot come to any grief herself in keeping up her old friendship with this poor lady, while she may be the means of doing her an infinity of good; but a man who sought to take up any position in the matter would only compromise Lady Forestfield and himself; and is far better out of the scrape. Don't you think so?'

'Yes,' said Sir Nugent; 'it depends a good deal on the kind of assistance intended, and upon the manner in which it is proffered; but I think upon the whole you are right. Now let us go.'

Nevertheless, when he found himself alone in his chambers, thinking over the occurrences of the previous night, and over all that he had so recently heard of Lady Forestfield's trials and temptations, the desire to know something more of her and of the league which bound Eleanor Irvine to her arose more strongly than ever within him. He had chosen to express his agreement with what Frank Eardley had said about interference, partly in order to avoid a further discussion on the subject, and partly that he might not be suspected of carrying out his decided intention of moving in the matter. If he had been called upon to define the impulse which prompted him he could not have done so; but he had a vague idea that he might be able in some way and at some future time to be of assistance to this stricken woman; and under that influence he sat down and wrote the following letter:

'The Albany, Thursday night.

'Dear Lady Forestfield,--I have just returned to England, after a long absence, and, as is usually the case with wanderers, find that many of my familiar friends are no longer here to greet me, and many of the houses where I once was welcome are now in the hands of strangers. In my early days in London, when you were a very little child, Lady Stortford was good enough to distinguish me with her notice and her friendship, and it is impossible for me ever to forget the kindness which I received at her hands. Very frequently in my travels I had looked forward with sincere pleasure to the thought of meeting her again. As this is not to be, I have ventured to ask my friend Mr. Eardley for your address, and I write to express a hope that you will allow me as your mother's old friend to call upon you.--Sincerely yours,

'NUGENT UFFINGTON.'

'That reference to Eardley,' said Uffington to himself as he folded the letter, 'will let her know that I am in full possession of the facts of her story, and am not writing under any misapprehension. Take this,' he added, giving the note to his servant, 'early in the morning; and be sure to bring me back an answer.'

The next morning he found a small hand-delivered note lying on his breakfast table amongst the correspondence which the post had brought him. He seized upon it at once, and read as follows:

'Lady Forestfield will be happy to receive Sir Nugent Uffington between the hours of three and five on this or any other afternoon.'

To his own surprise and amusement, Uffington found himself making a more elaborate toilette than usual, and at the hour named he presented himself in Podbury-street.

Hitherto he had only had slight opportunity of seeing Lady Forestfield, and he had no idea she was so beautiful. She was very simply dressed in a plain muslin morning gown, and her whole appearance coincided with the neat and modest rooms in which she was living. Uffington was struck at once with the classical beauty of her head, with her wavy dark hair, taken off from her forehead and gathered in a clump behind, with her large lustrous melancholy eyes, and with her bright fresh colour. She received him kindly, but with some embarrassment, which he endeavoured at once to dissipate.

'You will probably have been surprised at the receipt of my letter, Lady Forestfield,' he said; 'but I fear it must be self-explanatory, as I have very little to add to it in justification of my desire to see you. I have always had the keenest remembrance of Lady Stortford's kindness, at a time when her support and countenance were most valuable to me; have always had a hope of thanking her for it; and when I found that was beyond my power, I desired to thank her representative.'

'I am scarcely in that position, Sir Nugent Uffington, I fear,' said Lady Forestfield, flushing deeply.

'You are her ladyship's daughter, Lady Forestfield,' said Uffington quickly, 'and as such worthy of all respect from me.'

'I am grateful to Providence that my mother is no longer alive to see me as I am,' said May with bitter emphasis. 'It would be worse than useless for me to disguise from myself that you are perfectly well acquainted with my present position, Sir Nugent Uffington.'

'If I had not been, had your position been other than it is, Lady Forestfield,' said Nugent, 'I scarcely think I should be here now. Believe me, my earnest desire is to serve you in any possible way.'

'I am grateful to you for these expressions, Sir Nugent Uffington, but I do not see how you can aid me. There is nothing to be done,' she added with a sigh; 'I have taken my own course, and I must abide the consequences.'

'There is much to be done,' said Uffington gently, 'in mitigating the severity of your sentence, though the person with whom one has to deal renders the operation somewhat difficult.'

'I can look for no mercy at Lord Forestfield's hands,' said May, shaking her head; 'from him I can only expect the worst that could befall me.'

'Under compulsion a man has to set aside his own wishes and desires, and one might find means of making even Lord Forestfield do much that would be naturally disagreeable to him,' said Nugent. 'I know nothing of him, but from what I have heard, I cannot imagine how Lady Stortford, with her knowledge of the world, could have permitted you, child as you were, to make such a marriage.'

'Child as I was, I had a strong will of my own,' said May--'a will which I was accustomed to indulge, no matter what opposition was made to it or by whom. My poor mother, who, in this instance at least, seemed to be endowed with strange foresight, prayed me to reject Lord Forestfield's advances, urging as a reason that she was sure I was but temporarily infatuated, and that I should soon repent my determination. I would not listen to her, I would not hear a word against him; I had my own way, and--this is the result.'

'Temporarily infatuated. Was Lady Stortford right? were you, then, so deeply fascinated by this man?'

May paused an instant. 'All that you have ever heard or read of insane infatuation was nothing to mine,' she said; 'I worshipped him with all my soul. Brought up strictly as I had been, I believed there was no position in the world I would not have gladly accepted to insure always being at his side. I cannot tell,' she said, after another pause, 'why I am speaking thus freely to you, except that I have had no one in the world to open my heart to; and though I have never seen you before, I have instinctive confidence in you.'

'You will find that confidence is not misplaced,' said Uffington gravely. 'When did you first find your mother's words come true?'

'Not until some little time after she was dead, not until my husband had begun to weary of his plaything; for that I was, and nothing more. During the first months of our marriage, my life was one of perfect happiness; the man whom I adored was constant in his attentions to me; I was indulged in every whim, and flattered to the top of my bent. Money was recklessly lavished upon me, and as I had all I wished and all my pleasures were shared by my husband, my happiness was greater than even I ever deemed possible.'

'And that happiness lasted?'

'Just as long as pleased Lord Forestfield's fancy, and no longer. He told me afterwards, with much bitter frankness, that I ought to be very proud of having kept him in thrall for such a length of time, adding that he was changeable by nature, and had never before worshipped so long at one shrine.'

'What an infernal scoundrel!' muttered Uffington, under his breath. Then aloud: 'Did he break with you at once?'

'O no,' said May. 'So long as he cared for me in his own peculiar way, he had given me the fullest liberty, knowing that I never had any thought but for him; but after he wearied of me he began to grow, or to pretend to grow, absurdly jealous. It has been truly said that there is no love without jealousy, and could I have persuaded myself that my husband's passion for me had not changed, I should not have minded jealousy and suspicion, even misplaced as his were, but should rather have regarded them as proofs of his attachment; but knowing what I did, it was easy for me to perceive that this jealousy sprang from temper, and not from love, and was a degradation instead of what it would otherwise have been, a tribute.'

'Your sad experience seems to have taught you much,' said Uffington, looking at her compassionately.

'So I thought myself; and yet it failed me in my direst end,' said May. 'My sad experience stripped the mask from my demigod, and showed him to me as he was, simply a libertine, cold, selfish, and exacting. Having no fault to find with me, save that I had failed any longer to please or amuse him, he vented his rage on me under the frivolous pretext of being jealous, when he knew that I had no eyes or voice for any one in the world but him.'

'To a man of this stamp the possession of such a wife must always be a matter of congratulation; he must at least have been proud of you, though you say you no longer pleased his fancy.'

'I suppose so,' said May sadly; 'for though his insults to me in private were constant and unsparing, he always paraded me in public, and seemed to look upon me as a portion of his state. There came a time when these insults were not confined to our private interviews, when he would not scruple to outrage and humiliate me before our own acquaintances, and those acquaintances did not hesitate to say that he wanted to get rid of me. This, of course, I did not know until later. Up to that time I had suffered silently, hoping, believing that some change would take place, that what I still fancied had been his genuine love for me would return, and that all would go on as in the first days of our marriage; but when I found from looks and half-dropped hints that I had become a subject of pity for my friends, my pride stepped in to my assistance, and I revolted.'

'The old story,' muttered Nugent Uffington, shrugging his shoulders, and speaking more to himself than his companion; 'that was the time when above all others you wanted some one at hand to help and sustain you.'

'You are right,' said May. 'And some one was there, though with other plans and other motives. My pride was outraged, my heart was lacerated, and there was some one ready if necessary to avenge the one and to bind up the other, to sympathise, sentimentalise, and console.'

'Always so, always so!' muttered Uffington. 'And you accepted this sympathy and consolation?'

'Not at first,' said May. 'Stung to madness though I was by mingled pride and sorrow, I still kept my senses sufficiently to discern the fatal gulf that lay before me, and to feel hurt and grieved at the condolence, glossed over as it was in the most specious manner, which was offered to me. But the man, who for his own purposes had constituted himself my champion, from long practice knew every trick and turn of the game he was playing, and was thoroughly well aware of the advantage of waiting. He waited--and won! That is my story, Sir Nugent Uffington. I have told it to you--not because I thought you could in any way assist me, but because I felt it would be a relief to tell it in my own way to any one who could understand it, and because you are the only person of what was once my own social standing--save one, who is even more powerless than yourself--who for weeks has spoken a kind word to me.'

Uffington bowed his head, but affected not to notice that tears were streaming down Lady Forestfield's face. He did not choose to speak for an instant; indeed, he had but little to say--he knew well enough from his own past experience that in such a wreck as that which she described all future hope was almost necessarily lost, and that of the _débris_ which after a time came floating to the surface nothing serviceable could be made. He knew this, and acknowledged it in his own mind, but did not choose at once to acknowledge it to her, so asked her, when he saw that the tears had ceased to flow and that she was somewhat more composed, 'Can anything be done?'

'Nothing,' she replied quietly--'nothing at all. So far as the world is concerned my life is ended. When my child was taken from me I grieved bitterly; now I acknowledge the wisdom of the sentence, and am grateful to Providence that her life was not spared--better far she should be dead than that she should have grown up to know me as I am, and be parted from me, living.' And once more she broke down and buried her face in her hands.

'I am not sure even now that I cannot be of some service to you, Lady Forestfield,' said Uffington, after a pause; 'but my plan, if I form one, will require consideration, and cannot be proceeded with hastily. In the mean time, you can thoroughly depend on my warm friendship and readiness to help you in any way suggested. By the way, you alluded to a friend who has seen you in your trouble. You will not think me impertinent in asking if you were referring to Miss Eleanor Irvine?'

'Yes,' said Lady Forestfield, 'I alluded to Miss Irvine. I have known her for years, and am very much attached to her. Have you ever met her?'

'I dined in her company the night before last, and judged, from something she said, that she was a warm friend of yours.'

'She comes to see me every day,' said Lady Forestfield; 'that is to say, she has done so up to this time.'

'And is she going to discontinue her visits?'

'I fear I must insist upon her doing so,' said May.

'And why? You must find them a pleasant break in the monotony of your life.'

'They are far more than that to me,' said May, 'but when Eleanor was here last, I discovered quite accidentally that she visits me without the knowledge of her sister, with whom she lives, and to whom she is much indebted. Then, for the girl's own sake, I spoke out frankly. I told her this must not be, and that she must either tell her sister where she came to daily, or cease seeing me. Did not I do right?'

'Quite right in theory, but in practice I think you were a little too punctilious towards Mrs. Chadwick, who, though a practical, well-meaning woman, would scarcely be able to appreciate the delicacy of your motives.'

'Let all my misery rest on my own head,' said May. 'I am very fond of Eleanor Irvine, her visits are inexpressibly precious to me, and yet I have doubted whether I ought to let her come to this house.'

'I have not the slightest doubt in the matter,' said Uffington; 'on the contrary, I am certain that from you and from your valuable experience of life, Miss Irvine will learn to avoid much which may be before her in that curious position in society which she now occupies.'

And then he took his leave, promising to see Lady Forestfield again very shortly.