All the loneliness, all the dreariness4 of her lot came on her foreboding spirit, as she sat alone in her dressing-room, two days after her parting interview with Sir Laurence. She had been thinking of the day at Redmoor when their first confidence had been interchanged; she had been remembering his counsel, and taking herself to task for having neglected it, or, at any rate, for not having tried more earnestly and more persistently5 to follow it.
"I must have been to blame in some degree," she thought; "I ought to have tried to please him more; but--" and then she sighed--"I had been used to please him without trying, and it is hard to realize the change; and before one does realize it, it is too late. I wonder if there is any case in which it would not be too late from the first; I wonder if any woman in the world ever yet succeeded in retaining or recovering the heart of any man when it had once in the least strayed from her. I don't grieve for myself now,--I cannot; but I blame myself. I might have tried--no doubt I should have failed; but still I might have tried. I might have asserted myself from the moment that they met at Redmoor, and I saw her clasp his hand as she did. But what is the use of asserting oneself, of putting one's position, one's conventional rights, against the perverted6 strength of a man's will? No, no; there is no security where the question is one of feeling; in the insecure holding of love we are but tenants-at-will."
She thought thus mournfully of her own lot, and condemned8 herself for faults she had not committed; she thought of Alsager, and took herself to task because she could not repress or deny the keen and compensating9 joy which the knowledge that he loved her gave; she thought of her husband with infinite compassion10, with apprehension11, and with hopelessness. The downward course had been run with awful rapidity by Sir Charles Mitford. Since he had discarded the gentle influence of Georgie, the benignant restraint, the touch of higher aspiration12, and purer tastes had vanished, and he had returned to all the low habits and coarse vices13 of his earlier career. Georgie knew this vaguely14, and she experienced all the horror and disgust which were natural to such a mind as hers. At first, when she recognized in the fullest extent the fact of her husband's infatuation with Mrs. Hammond, she could not understand why he should not be restrained by that passion, as he had been by his evanescent love for herself, from coarse and debasing pleasures. But she soon found out, by the light of her clear perceptions and the aid of her intuitive refinement15 of mind, how widely different were the sentiments which she had ignorantly compared; and learned that while there is no temporal salvation16 for a man so powerful as love, there is no swifter or surer curse and ruin than an illicit17 passion. When Georgie came to understand this fully7, her apprehensions18 concerning her husband reached a height of intensity19 which would have been unreasonable20, had she not possessed21 the painful knowledge of what his former career had been. She had hardly understood it at the time indeed, and her father had softened22 matters down very much, partly through the invincible23 amiability24 of his own disposition25, and partly because he believed, in simple sincerity26, that all "Charley's" misbehaviour had been caused by want of money alone; and that once rich, and holding a responsible position, he would not again be assailed27 by temptations to disreputable conduct. Whence it is presumable that the good parson knew a great deal more of the next world than he knew of this.
Lady Mitford's dreary28 reverie was interrupted by the entrance of her maid, who handed her a letter from Alsager. As she took it in her hand, she saw that it had been sealed with the ring which she had given him, and she broke it open with mingled29 joy and fear. The letter was brief, kind, and earnest. Sir Laurence told her that he was leaving England, and wished, before doing so, to place within her reach a source of consolation30 which he felt she might to surely need. Then, in a few words, he told her of his letter to Helen Manningtree; and besought31 her in any emergency, in any unpleasantness, if she were ill, or even if she were only lonely,--as he knew she had cultivated no intimacies32 in her own circle,--to send for Helen. He had not waited for Helen's reply; he knew so well how warm and sincere an acquiescence33 in his request it would convey. He told her of the attachment34 existing between Helen and the curate, and said, "Had there been no other reason for my rejecting your advice, I knew she was, at the time of my father's death, virtually affianced to Cuthbert Farleigh."
"Cuthbert Farleigh!" she repeated; "surely it must be the same--it must be poor papa's old pupil; how very odd, if it should be! If he had ever mentioned me before him at Knockholt, he would have remembered me."
Her thoughts strayed back to her childhood and her old home, and she sat absorbed in a reverie.
"How thoughtful he is for me!" she said to herself softly; "how truly considerate! I will obey him in this and in everything. I will make this young lady's acquaintance-not just yet, but later, when I am more composed."
And then she thought how delightful36 it would be to talk with Helen about Laurence; to hear from her all the particulars of his life at Knockholt; to make all those researches and studies which have such an ineffable37 attraction for loving hearts. There could be nothing wrong in this; men and angels might scrutinize38 her feelings towards Laurence Alsager, and find nothing to blame.
There was little more in the letter, which concluded with an expression of the warmest regard.
Lady Mitford felt happier for the receipt of this parting note from Sir Laurence. It seemed to decrease her loneliness--to surround her with an atmosphere of protection. Georgie had never associated much with women in her father's secluded39 parish. The inhabitants had been chiefly of the lower classes; and since she had emerged from the gushing40 schoolroom period, she had had none of those intimacies which make up so great a part of the happiness of young womanhood. Perhaps she had concentrated her affections in the object who had proved so unworthy all the more obstinately42, and had lavished43 them upon him all the more unrestrainedly, because she had none of the lesser44 claimants for them.
She looked forward now with almost girlish pleasure to making Helen's acquaintance and winning her affections, as she determined45 she would try to do; and she was surprised at herself as she felt her spirits rising, and recognized in herself more energy and hopefulness than she had felt for a long time.
Time slipped away, weighted though it was with care, and brought no change in Sir Charles Mitford's evil life. The husband and wife rarely met now; and when they did, their casual association was distressing46 to Lady Mitford, and embarrassing to him. Their wealth, the magnitude and style of their establishment, and the routine of life among persons in their position, afforded them facilities for a complete and tacit estrangement47, such as the pressure of narrow circumstances would have rendered impossible. They went their separate ways, and were more strange and distant to each other than the merest surface acquaintances. Lady Mitford was, as it was natural to suppose she would be, the last person to hear particulars of her husband's conduct; but she watched him as closely as her limited opportunities permitted. For some time she had observed that he seemed restless and unhappy, and that the moroseness49 and discontent, which had been early indications of his relapse from his improved condition, were trying to the household, and, on rare occasions when she had to encounter them, distressing to her. He had no air of triumph now; he had no assured complacency of manner; these were gone, and in their place were the symptoms of suffering, of incertitude50, of disappointment.
"I suppose she is treating him unkindly," Lady Mitford thought. "It must be something concerning her which is distressing him; he does not care about anything else. He is so infatuated with her now, that I verily believe, when he drinks to the frightful52 excess he sometimes does, it is to stupify himself between the time he leaves her and the time he sees her again. Poor fellow! poor Charley!"
She pitied him now with her good and generous heart. Perhaps the time that she had foreseen was near--the time which she had once hoped for, and now dreaded53, though prepared to meet it with all the dutifulness of her nature--the time when the wicked woman who had taken him from her, who had laid the fabric54 of her happiness low, would tire of him and discard him; and he would seek forgiveness from the wife he had so cruelly wronged.
The moodiness55 and moroseness, the restlessness and irritability56 of Sir Charles had been peculiarly noticeable for some time after Lady Mitford had received Sir Laurence's letter, and they had not failed to receive the imprecations of the servants'-hall. Lady Mitford had been aware that much information might have been obtained through that fruitful medium, but she would not at any time have deigned57 to have recourse to it; and would have shrunk from doing so with additional distaste just now, as she could not avoid perceiving that she was the subject of closer observation than usual on the part of the domestics, especially her own maid and Mr. Banks.
One day, when Lady Mitford returned from her solitary58 drive, and having alighted from her carriage, was passing through the hall, she was encountered by Captain Bligh, coming quickly from the library. She saluted59 him courteously60, and was about to pass on, when he begged to be permitted to speak with her. She acquiesced62, and they went upstairs and into the long drawing-room.
She knew in a moment that he had come to tell her bad news, and she nerved herself to bear it, whatever it might be, by a strong effort. He waited until she had seated herself, and then said:
"I fear, Lady Mitford, I can hardly escape some share of your displeasure, incurred63 by my having undertaken the mission which has brought me here to-day."
She looked at him, and turned very pale, but she remained quite silent and still.
"You look frightened, Lady Mitford. Pray don't fear anything. There is much to grieve you, but no cause for alarm."
"Sir Charles is well; there is nothing of that sort the matter. But I have a painful task to fulfil. Lady Mitford, are you aware that Sir Charles has left London?"
She fell back in her seat, and deathlike cold crept through her. She did not faint, but a momentary65 sensation like fainting passed over her. Her eyes closed, and her hands grew cold and damp. It had come, then, the catastrophe66! She was deserted67; he had left England with that woman; and it was all over! She was to be alone, and he was utterly68 ruined; there was no hope, no rescue for him now!
Captain Bligh was not a person adapted to act with discretion69 in a crisis of this kind. He did not understand women's ways, as he was accustomed to proclaim. He had a kind heart, however, and it supplied the deficiencies of his judgment70. He merely handed Lady Mitford a scent-bottle, and waited until she had recovered herself. After a few moments she sat upright and opened her eyes.
"That's right!" said the honest Captain encouragingly; "I knew you would bear it well; I knew you had such pluck. By Jove, I haven't forgotten the ponies71!"
"Tell me what you came to say, Captain Bligh," said Lady Mitford. "I am quite strong now;" and she looked so.
"Well, the truth is, Lady Mitford, things have gone too far, and Sir Charles is conscious of the fact. I would not have done such a thing for any one in the world but him. He and I have always been good friends, though he has done many things I could hardly stand. You mustn't mind my not being polished,--I don't mean to be rude; but I have such unpleasant things to say, that, by Jove, I can't manage to say them pleasantly!" He floundered very much in his speech, and fidgeted distractingly; but she sat quite still and listened to him. At last he blurted73 out desperately74, "The truth is, that she-devil Laura Hammond has driven him mad! She has snubbed him, and tried to throw him over, and gone off to Baden without letting him know."
"Without letting him know! Then they are not gone together? I thank God!" said Georgie emphatically.
"Gone together! No; she never would be such a fool as that, whatever he might be. I beg your pardon, Lady Mitford. She has gone, as he believes, with the intention of throwing him off entirely75, and trying it on with Tchernigow the Russian, you know; and Mitford would not stand it, and he has gone. He heard something last night which exasperated76 him, and he came to my rooms this morning--only a small portmanteau with him--and told me he was going. He told me to come down here, and send Banks off to-night with his things. I said everything I could think of, but it was no use,--he was simply desperate. Then, Lady Mitford"--and here Captain Bligh lowered his voice, and spoke77 with great gentleness-"then I asked him if he remembered the consequences of this to you."
"To me, Captain Bligh! What worse consequences can come to me than have come already?"
"Many, Lady Mitford, and much worse. You cannot live any longer under the same roof with Sir Charles; the scandal is too open and too great. He will disgrace himself, and make himself ridiculous at Baden, if much more serious mischief78 does not ensue; and you must keep aloof79 from the scandal."
"I am as much aloof from it as I can be here, I think, Captain Bligh," said poor Georgie; "and I will not leave my husband's house until he bids me. He may find that his going to Baden is useless; if she is resolved to discard him, she will do so as resolutely80 and as effectually there as here. No, Captain Bligh; this is my home, and here I will remain until I see the end of this matter. I will not forsake81 him, as he has forsaken82 me, at the beginning of it; I will not heap additional disgrace upon him, and give this story additional publicity83, by leaving his house, unless he has told me, through you, to do so."
"No, no, Lady Mitford," said Bligh; "he has not done that. He begged of me to come to you, and tell you that he had gone. He would not try to deceive you, he said; if he could induce her to allow him to remain with her, he would, and never return to England. Yes, indeed,--so far had his madness driven him: but at all events he would never ask you to see him again; and whatever arrangements you might choose to make, he would be quite prepared to carry into effect. He said he supposed you would not remain here."
"He was mistaken," she said, very quietly and sadly; "I will remain here. Tell me what more passed between you, Captain Bligh."
"Indeed, not much, dear Lady Mitford. He was dreadfully excited and wretched, and looked fearfully ill,--he had been drinking deeply last night, I am sure,--and his manner was agitated85 and incoherent. He talked of his persecutions and his miseries86, as every man who has the best blessings87 of life at his command and throws them away does talk; and his lamentations about this cursed infatuation of his were mixed up with self-reproaches on your account, and imprecations on the men who have tabooed him, and especially because he was rejected at the Maecenas."
"Poor Charles!" said Lady Mitford musingly88; "all the enemies he has ever had could have done him little harm, had he not doubled in his own person the strength of his enemies to injure him. He began ill; and when he made an effort to do well, some gloomy recollection, some haunting fear, always seemed to keep him back. There was some evil power over him, Captain Bligh, before this woman laid her spells upon him--a power which made him moody89 and wretched and reckless. This was a subject upon which it was impossible for me to speak to him; and I accounted for it easily enough, and I have no doubt with tolerable correctness. You know, and I know, that the early years of Sir Charles's life were full of dark days and questionable90 associations. He was unfortunate at least as much as guilty; and not the smallest of the misfortunes of such a career is the power it gives to miscreants91 of every kind to embitter92 one's future and tarnish93 one's fame, to blight94 the hopes and the efforts with which one endeavours to rise above the mud-deposit of follies95 and sins repented96 and abandoned. There has never been a case, I am sure, in which a man who had gone extensively wrong, and who then tried to go right, and got a good chance of doing it, was not pursued and persecuted97 by harpies of the old brood, whose talons98 perpetually branded him, and whose inexorable pursuit kept him constantly depressed99 and miserable100. Then he will be driven to excitement, to dissipation, to anything--which will enable him to forget the torture; but this very necessity deprives all his efforts of vigour101, and renders him hopeless of success. I am confident that some such merciless grinding misery102 lay hidden in Sir Charles's life. I saw it very shortly after we came to town; and I had reason to suspect that he met with some annoyance103 of the same kind down at Redmoor. But he never told me, and there is no good in our speculating upon any matter of this kind. I can hardly consider myself entitled now to inquire into any affair of his. Did he give you any instructions, Captain Bligh? did he give you any address?"
"No," replied the good-natured Captain, quite saddened and distressed104 to witness her misery, and moved at the same time to great simple admiration105 by her composure and firmness, which the Captain denominated "pluck." "He did not say many words to me. He told me to come here and tell you what I have told you, and he said he would write. Let me leave you now, dear Lady Mitford, and let me return to-morrow and take your commands."
"Thank you," she said simply; and then he left her; and perhaps in the whole course of his chequered existence, and among his numerous and varied106 experiences, he had never felt so much pure and deep respect for any woman as for the deserted wife to whom he had had to disclose the full measure of her sorrow.
The days passed, and no tidings of Sir Charles Mitford came. Georgie had seen Banks, and had given him some directions relative to the things which Sir Charles required him to take to Baden, in an unconcerned and dignified107 manner, which had impressed that functionary108 as much as her conduct of the previous day had affected109 Captain Bligh.
"She's a deal too good for Mitford, and always was, even before he took to brandy and that ere Laurer 'Ammond," soliloquized Mr. Banks; "and I hope, for my part, he'll never come back."
Mr. Banks left town early in the morning of the day which succeeded the interview between Lady Mitford and Captain Bligh, and Georgie remained in her own rooms the entire day. An agitated restlessness was upon her, a feeling of suspense110 and apprehension, which deprived her of the power of thinking consecutively111, and distracted her sorrow by changing its character. She expected to see Captain Bligh, and in her confused state of mind she had forgotten to say that no other visitors were to be admitted. At three in the afternoon, as she was sitting in her boudoir, striving, quite ineffectually, to fix her attention on some piece of feminine industry, a servant announced,
"Miss Gillespie."
Lady Mitford heard the name with unbounded astonishment112. At first she associated no idea whatever with it; she felt certain she had never known any one so designated. But before the bearer of the name entered the room, she had remembered the handsome young woman whose superb singing and sudden disappearance113 had occasioned so much wonder and discussion at Redmoor. The association of ideas was not pleasant; and it was with a heightened colour, and something in her manner different from its customary graceful114 sweetness, that she rose to receive her unlooked-for visitor.
Miss Gillespie was looking very handsome; and the agitation115 under which she was evidently labouring had not the usual effect of destroying ease and gracefulness116. She had always been quiet, and to a certain extent ladylike in her manners. Even in the Lizzie-Ponsford days she had not degenerated117 into the coarseness which might have been supposed to be an inevitable118 attendant or result of such a career. The ease and rapidity with which she had mastered the high-comedy style of performance, the finish of her acting72, and the perfect appreciation119 of the refinement and repose120 which mark the demeanour of the true grande dame121, afforded ample proof of Miss Gillespie's tact122 and readiness. She had needed only the accessories, and now she had procured123 them; and as she walked slowly and gracefully124 up to the spot where Lady Mitford stood to receive her, her rich and elegant but studiously-simple dress, her courteous61 gesture of salutation, and her nicely-modulated voice were all perfect.
"I daresay you have forgotten me, Lady Mitford," said she, "though you were very kind indeed to me when I accompanied my employers to your house at Redmoor; and your kindness made my position very different from what it had ever been before under similar circumstances."
"Pray be seated, Miss Gillespie," said Lady Mitford, softened by her respectful and graceful manner; "I am very glad to know that you have any pleasant recollections of your visit to Redmoor."
"But you are at a loss to account for my seeking you here, Lady Mitford, and venturing to call upon you without having first asked and obtained your permission."
Georgie's nature was so truthful125 that even the little every-day conventional matter-of-course falsehoods of society refused to come trippingly from her tongue. She was surprised at Miss Gillespie's visit, and she had let it appear that she was.
"If I am at a loss to account for your visit," she said, in her own sweet persuasive126 manner, "do not therefore suppose that it is not agreeable to me. I am very glad to see you, Miss Gillespie; and I hope it was not any unhappy circumstance which obliged you to leave Redmoor so abruptly127 at that time."
"One of the objects of my visit to you to-day, Lady Mitford, is to explain my conduct on that occasion. I am sure you will be infinitely128 surprised to learn that you were nearly, though unconsciously, concerned in it."
"I, Miss Gillespie! Surely I had not done anything--nothing had occurred at Redmoor--"
"No, no; you mistake my meaning, which, indeed, I must explain, if you will permit me to do so, by telling you a long story. Have I your permission, Lady Mitford?"
Georgie's astonishment was increasing. She marked the earnest gaze her strange visitor fixed129 upon her. She saw how her face softened and glowed as she looked at her. She knew that this young woman had a kindly51 feeling towards her; and she was so lonely, so deserted, that she felt grateful for that, though the person who bestowed130 it upon her was only a humble131 governess. She stretched out her hand by a sudden impulse, and Miss Gillespie caught and kissed it with intense fervour.
"You shall stay with me as long as you please, and tell me all your story, Miss Gillespie. I have done nothing to deserve the interest I see you feel in me; but I thank you for it."
Her visitor did not immediately reply: she sat looking at Georgie's face, more beautiful in its expression of grief and courage than when it was at its brightest, as though she were learning the features by heart. Lady Mitford blushed a little under the scrutiny132, and smiled, as she said:
"You look at me very earnestly, Miss Gillespie. What is there in my face to fix your attention?"
"There is everything that I once did not believe in, while I longed to see it. There is beauty, Lady Mitford--well, I have seen enough of that; but there is truth and gentleness, sweet self-forgetfulness, and an impulse of kindness to everything that lives and feels and can suffer. The first time I saw that face I thought of the common saying about the face of an angel; but I soon ceased to think it was like that. Angels are in heaven, where their sinless and sorrowless sphere lies. Such women as you are on earth, to teach those who, standing133 far off, see them, to hope, and believe, and take comfort, because they exist and have their part in the same troubled world with themselves, but always bringing the image and the ideal of a better nearer, and making it real."
Her voice trembled, and tears stood in her eyes. Georgie wondered more and more.
"When I have told you my story, Lady Mitford," she went on, "you will be able to understand in a degree--you never could quite comprehend it--the effect that such a woman as you produces upon such a woman as I; for I studied you more closely than you could have suspected in that brief time at Redmoor; and I hold a clue to your history, of whose existence you were ignorant."
"Do not tell me anything that it will pain you to repeat, Miss Gillespie," said Georgie, seeing that she hesitated and changed colour.
"In that case I should tell you nothing, Lady Mitford; for there is little in my life that has not been painful. I daresay you would find it difficult to realize, if I could put it before you in the plainest words; and I am sure, even if you did realize it, you would judge it mercifully--you would remember the difficulties and the dangers of such an existence, and suffer them to have their weight as against its sins and sorrows. You know what it is to be motherless, Lady Mitford; but yours was a guarded childhood, hedged about with pious134 care and fatherly love,--they told me all about you down at Redmoor. Mine was a motherless childhood; and my father was a thief, and the companion of thieves. This is the simple English of the matter. You would not understand the refinements135 and distinctions by which the dishonest classes describe their different ranks in the army of thieves; you could not comprehend the scenes and the influences among which my childhood was passed; and I will not try to explain them, because they have no bearing upon what it concerns you to hear."
She had rested her arm upon a table beside her chair, and supported her head on her hand.
"My wretched childhood had passed by, and my more wretched girlhood had reached its prime, when I was brought in contact with Sir Charles Mitford."
"I was associated at that time with some men who made their livelihood138 in a number of dishonest ways; and one of them had in his possession a document, by means of which he had maintained a hold over Mitford, then a young man of small means and very indirect expectations. The man I speak of died, and accident placed me in possession of the document. It was a forged bill!"
Lady Mitford covered her face with her hands; and as Miss Gillespie continued, the slow tears began to force their way through the slender fingers.
"Others knew of the existence of this bill, Lady Mitford, and I have no doubt whatever that they traded upon their knowledge. Every effort, direct and indirect, was made to get the bill out of my possession; but I resolved to keep it, and every effort failed. Perhaps I might have used it for my own purposes against Sir Charles some day, if I had never seen or known you. It is certain that I should have given it to him, and set him free for ever from an apprehension which constantly beset139 and tortured him, had I not known how unworthily he was treating you, how completely all the hard lessons of his life of poverty and shifts had failed to correct his low instincts and his utter untrustworthiness. Don't cry, dear Lady Mitford,--your tears pain me keenly; I must draw them forth140 a little while, and then I trust to dry them.
"I saw Sir Charles when he first visited Mrs. Hammond at Torquay. By that time I had drifted to land somehow, and I had contrived141 to get my wandering feet within the confines of respectability. I was quiet, even happy, in Mrs. Hammond's employment, though I soon perceived her to be the most worthless of her sex. That, however, troubled me little; and when Sir Charles came to the house and recognized me, and I said a few words to him which were not pleasant to hear, and I saw that he was in the toils142, as--he had so often been before, I did not much care either. I disliked and despised him, and I liked to think of the hidden weapon in my possession, and to picture his amazement144 if he knew that not only was I Lizzie Ponsford,--acquainted with all his doings and all his disreputable associates,--but that I actually held in my possession the document for which he would have given so large a price, and which would have ruined him at any moment. I liked to know that my presence made him uncomfortable, and I suffered him to experience that discomfort145 to the fullest extent.
"You are shocked, Lady Mitford; such feelings are incomprehensible to you but I tell you simply and plainly that they were mine, because I am coming to the portion of lay story which concerns you. I went to Redmoor with Mrs. Hammond, and on the first evening of our visit I saw that you were suspicious and uneasy. I saw you, Lady Mitford; I observed you closely, and I loved you; not so much as I did afterwards, when every day brought some gift, some grace, some beauty of your mind and disposition freshly before me; not so much as I did when your sweet gentleness, your kindly courtesy, your unfailing consideration filled me with sentiments which I had never known before, when for the first time I learned what it was to be cared for as an individual. Do you remember the day you took me to your dressing-room, Lady Mitford, and lent me some of your favourite books, and talked with me of what kind of reading I liked, and showed an interest in me, as if I had been a lady and one of your most considered guests? No, you do not remember it, but I do. Then I determined to use the power I had over him on your behalf. I knew it would not avail long; I knew if even he were rescued from her, he never could realize your hopes, never could be worthy41 of you; but at least I could control him for the time. I tried and succeeded. I threatened him with exposure if he did not desist. I cannot tell you exactly the course of subsequent events; I have never been able to make that out to my own satisfaction; but I have a theory which I think is a right one. A few days after I had the interview I have mentioned with Sir Charles, a man appeared who had been mixed up in many of the transactions of the time past to which I had been a party. He met me, und told me a story which I did not believe, but which altered my position completely. He had come down to get me away; and whether he came as Sir Charles's employé or on his own account, I have never been certain. I believe the latter to be the more likely. He had two alternatives at his command: he might expose me if I refused to leave Redmoor quietly, and destroy all my hopes of attaining146 respectability in future, or he might take the bill from me by force or fraud, if I yielded to his threats. I did neither; I temporized147; I made an appointment with him for two o'clock on the following day, and I left Redmoor, without clue by which I could be tracked, at daybreak. Let who would be the author of Mr. Effingham's proceeding148 (he called himself Effingham), I had balked149 their scheme, and I turned my back on Redmoor with one bitter pang150 of regret mingled with my triumph. I should see your face, Lady Mitford, no more, and I could no longer interfere151 to prevent the deadly wrong which was being done by your faithless husband and your false friend.
"All such regrets were, however, utterly vain. The imminent152 risk of exposure left me no choice. At least I would punish Sir Charles so far: he should never have the bill--he should never have the satisfaction of feeling that that ghost was laid. So I left the only place in which I had ever tasted happiness, and set my face to the hard world again. But before I stole away from your house that morning, I wrote a line to Colonel Alsager, and told him to take up the watch I had been obliged to relinquish1. You are astonished, Lady Mitford; and well you may be. I had never exchanged more than a dozen sentences with Colonel Alsager; but I knew that the interest he felt in you was in no way inferior to mine; while his opportunities of exhibiting it were infinitely greater, and so I wrote to him."
"What did you do, Miss Gillespie, when you left Redmoor? I fear you had very little money. Forgive me if I offend you, but I gathered that from something Mrs. Hammond said."
"You are right, Lady Mitford; and it is like you to think of a need which you have never known. I had very little money; but I had a friend who put me in the way of earning some--how, I will tell you when I have finished the portion of my story in which you are interested."
The gentle look of forbearance and compassion in Georgie's face seemed to touch Miss Gillespie very deeply. Once more she took her hand and kissed it. Then she continued:
"I went to America, and for a long time I heard nothing of you, though I longed most ardently153 to do so. The echoes of the great world did not reach me in the distant sphere of my toil143, and I longed to know how the only person with whom I had ever felt true human sympathy was wearing through her day. This may seem to you an unnatural154 and overstrained sentiment; and so it would be in the mind of any one who had any natural ties, or who was less desolate155 than I; but you must be able to comprehend my life before you could understand these inconsistencies. Let me leave this, then, unexplained, and tell you that I came back to England, and that I have heard all that has befallen you since I went away. I have never felt anything that has happened to myself in my vagabond life so much. Incidents I heard, but no one could tell me anything of you individually,--of how you were bearing your trials, of what face you showed the world, which would coldly criticise156 you--a creature as far beyond its comprehension as any angel in the heaven far beyond their sphere."
She spoke with intense feeling, and her fine face glowed with the depth of her sympathy and admiration.
"At last I caught sight of Colonel Alsager."
Georgie blushed, but her visitor did not appear to observe her emotion.
"I knew he could tell me what I thirsted to know, and I went to his hotel on the following day, but failed to see him; and when I sent a note, asking him to let me speak a few words with him, it was returned. Colonel Alsager had left town. I learned that his father was dead, and he, of course, a baronet now; but I heard nothing further--no one could tell me if his absence were likely to be prolonged. I had the strongest, the most insatiable desire to see you, Lady Mitford. I wanted to see the face that I had never forgotten, and find it as beautiful, as good as ever."
Georgie smiled sadly "Ah, Miss Gillespie, I have suffered much, and am greatly changed."
"Only for the better," she said eagerly; "only for the better. Every line in your face is lighted up with spiritual light now. When I saw it last, the girlish softness had not left the features and given the expression fair play."
Her enthusiasm--her feeling--were so real, and there was such a strong dash of the artist in her remarks, that it would have been impossible to resent them. Lady Mitford once more smiled sadly.
"I knew there was no chance that I should see you in any public place--your deep mourning precluded157 that possibility--and so I resolved to come here and present myself boldly before you. In the ordinary sense of society, between you and me there is a gulf158 fixed; but I thought your gentleness would span it. It has done so. You have permitted me to speak to you face to face; you have gratified the wish which another might have resented as mere48 insolent159 curiosity."
"Why do you speak thus, Miss Gillespie? Why should there be a gulf between you and me? I am not aware of any reason. I do not despise you because you are a governess, because you use the talents and the education you possess to earn an honourable160 livelihood. Why do you speak thus?"
Miss Gillespie looked at her, and an expression of deep suffering crossed her face.
"I will explain my meaning presently," she said; "but now I have something else to say. Is it true that Sir Charles Mitford has followed this woman to Baden? They say so at the clubs, and I heard it this morning. Pardon me, and tell me. I don't ask the question for my own sake, or out of idle curiosity. I have a serious, a most serious meaning."
"Yes, it is too true," said Lady Mitford.
"Then listen. He must be brought back: he is only gone to mortification161 and ridicule162. I know a great many queer people, and I hear a great many strange things; and I heard this to-day: Mrs. Hammond is going to marry the Russian Prince Tchernigow, a man who is a violent, jealous, brutal163 wretch84,--I know all about him,--a man whose cruelty and vindictiveness164 are not to be surpassed; her punishment is in safe hands Dear Lady Mitford, I understand that look. You don't wish her to be punished, I am sure--quite sure of that; but if she marries Tchernigow, she must be. But it is not with that we are concerned: it is to bring him home--to rescue him from danger and disgrace and ridicule, for your sake; and you can do it--you, and you only."
Georgie was breathless with astonishment. Miss Gillespie rose and caught her by both hands. Then she went on speaking with great rapidity:
"Yes, I say you can do it. Write to him to-day--now, this very hour-and tell him Lizzie Ponsford has been with you; that she holds the bill which he employed that poor wretch Effingham to get for him; that Effingham cheated him from first to last--from the time of the Albatross till the day he went to the bottom of the sea with the Pocahontas. Tell him he shall have it placed in his hands on the day he returns to London. Your letter will reach him when he has learned the faithlessness of the woman for whom he has betrayed you. Do you not think it will touch him, written as you will write it,--with the gentleness, the pity, the pardon it will convey? At the moment of his greatest exasperation165, in the full tide of his bitterness, a way of escape from one constant, overhanging, torturing cause of uneasiness will be removed; and by whose hands? Yours!"
She paused, breathless in her excitement, and took from her bosom166 a paper, which she laid on the table before Lady Mitford, who looked at it pale and trembling.
"You will do as I say, dear Lady Mitford--you will do it for his sake, and your own, and for mine? Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that I have been able to do this service for you--the only service I have ever done any one; the only one. I fear, I have ever wished to do."
"O no, don't say that," said Lady Mitford. "You misjudge yourself; I am sure you do, dear Miss Gillespie, or why should you have felt so much for me, and done me such a service? Do not write hard things against yourself. I will do this--it may succeed; but whether it succeeds or not, I shall ever be grateful to you, ever bless you for this act; and you will let me serve you in turn--you will tell me your wishes, and let me try to carry them out. You said you would tell me how you have been engaged since you left Redmoor."
"Thank you, dear Lady Mitford," said Miss Gillespie, in a low deep tone; "but you cannot serve me. I told you there was a gulf fixed between you, the patrician167 lady, and me. I am an actress, and my stage-name is Constance Greenwood."
Lady Mitford wrote the letter to Sir Charles, as her strange visitor had counselled her to do. She suffered much in writing it; she hoped much from its effect. Time rolled on, and she knew that Sir Charles must have received the letter; then she counted the days which must elapse before the answer could arrive, and, arming herself with patience, she waited.
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1
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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moroseness
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incertitude
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| n.疑惑，不确定 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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53
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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54
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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miscreants
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| n.恶棍，歹徒( miscreant的名词复数 ) | |
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embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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tarnish
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| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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107
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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108
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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109
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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110
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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111
consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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112
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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113
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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114
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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115
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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116
gracefulness
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117
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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119
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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121
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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122
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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123
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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125
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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136
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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143
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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145
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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temporized
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| v.敷衍( temporize的过去式和过去分词 )；拖延；顺应时势；暂时同意 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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151
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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154
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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155
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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157
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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161
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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162
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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163
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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164
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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166
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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