Two, by Tricks: A Novel

by Edmund Yates

'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.'