Two, by Tricks: A Novel

by Edmund Yates

The happy change which had come over Lady Forestfield's life had its effect in restoring her bodily health and, to a certain degree, her mental quietude. When Uffington first told her that her husband had consented to her taking up her abode at Woodburn she had ventured upon some slight objection. The place, beautiful as it was, had not, in her most favourable recollection of it, been what, according to her present idea, a home should be. It had been filled with people whom she never cared to see again, and had been the scene of many escapades, in which Mrs. Ingram, Lady Northaw, and their friends had played the principal characters, and the very memory of which was now repulsive to May. She had never known the place more than as one where, though nominally the mistress, she had really left all the arrangements to the housekeeper, and contented herself with the leading part in the follies which were perpetrated. And then there was the recollection of the last time she had visited Woodburn; that fatal night when, after having been spurned by her husband, she had sunk senseless on the door-step, and had been carried away, how she knew not. It was impossible, she thought, that she could go there; but Uffington firmly, but with great delicacy, urged her to reconsider this determination, pointing out the necessity of her being in her husband's house, and promising her, not merely the utmost respect and the acknowledgment of her proper position from the servants, which was guaranteed by Lord Forestfield's own written order, but the certainty of a quiet unmolested life.

So Lady Forestfield came to Woodburn, and a very few days after her arrival acknowledged to herself the wisdom of Uffington's counsel. The fresh pure air brought back the roses to her cheeks; and in her daily wanderings in the park and through the surrounding woods she gradually acquired the calm happiness and peace of mind which nature can alone restore to a soul that has been bruised and buffeted in its conflict with the world. Hitherto, at least since the days of her childhood, May had had but little appreciation of the beauties of nature; the park had been merely so much land lying between the house and the village, and she had only visited the woods for the sake of having luncheon with a shooting-party. Now all their beauties were gradually revealed to her. She would sit for hours in an oriel window of a little room which she had taken for her own, and which overlooked the park, watching the sun doing battle with the heavy dun autumnal clouds, and the wide expanse of landscape kindling into light. She took delight even in gazing on the great bare fields whence the golden grain had been reaped and carried, and the long ranges of hops gathered by the busy pickers, their dark poles, piled together in fantastic shapes, alone remaining to remind one of their recent existence. She loved to ramble in the home wood, which on her first arrival had been a sombre mass of dark green, and which now stood out flecked here and there with tints of yellow, brown, and red. For all she met she had a kindly greeting and a pleasant word. The husbandman, tramping over the newly-turned fresh-smelling earth as his furrow made the never-varying pattern, and the toiling many-childrened women in the cottages, for the first time began to understand that the 'people in the 'All' could take any interest in their welfare. When the days were wet, too, May was never dull or depressed; for the library was filled with books, and literature, which in her childhood she had loved so much, but had so long left unheeded, now again became her constant solace; and in her walks and drives, in her studies and endeavours to help the poor of the estate, May had a ready and intelligent companion in Eleanor Irvine, who, at her urgent request, came to her almost as soon as she was settled at Woodburn, and had remained with her ever since.

How this happy change in her life had been brought about, how Lord Forestfield had been induced to forego the further proceedings against her, and to consent to her being reinstalled in her own proper position, she had never learned; but she knew generally that it was Uffington's work, and to him she was proportionately grateful. She had scarcely seen him since she had been at Woodburn, but had received several letters written in the common-sense friendly spirit which had characterised all his communications with her. She found herself wondering what had led him--whom all the world looked on as a heartless cynic--to feel such interest in her, and take the trouble which she knew he must have taken in order to compel her husband to give up his long-cherished scheme of revenge, and to restore her to that position from which he imagined he had completely ousted her.

'He cannot be as cynical as people say,' thought May. 'I remember having heard that he had some great trouble in his early life, and the effect of that has probably been to make him eschew society and the pleasures which society affects; and the people whom he has scorned have repaid him by branding him as a cynic. As to his real goodness of heart, however, there can be no doubt. It has been sufficiently proved by the generosity with which, at what trouble to himself I shall never know, he has advocated my cause. I wonder whether admiration of Eleanor has anything to do with it? It seems almost ungenerous in me to suspect such a thing for an instant; and yet there is no doubt that Eleanor is very good-looking, and that Sir Nugent has always shown the kindliest feeling towards her. It would be strange indeed if my misfortune should be the means of bringing together the two persons who have been kindest to me in my trouble.'

This idea presented itself pretty frequently to May's mind. Since she had been taken into Eleanor's confidence respecting her rejection of Spiridion Pratt, and by her counsel had enabled that romantic gentleman to bear his disappointment with greater fortitude than at one time he believed would have been possible, Lady Forestfield had given great consideration to Eleanor's future. The mere fact of having herself made an unhappy match did not make May think it necessary to indulge in invective against the matrimonial state, and she allowed to herself that Eleanor's gentle disposition, patient temper, and clear common sense eminently fitted her for a wife. She would have been completely thrown away upon Mr. Pratt, with whom she had not one single sentiment in common, and whom she had always regarded with a feeling of contempt softened by pity. The man whom Eleanor should marry, thought May, must be one whom she could look up to, and who would expect to find in his wife some more sterling qualities than the stock-in-trade of those which constitute a frivolous woman of the world.

Oddly enough the conversation between the two friends, which had ranged over most topics, had never touched upon this, until one day when, warmly wrapped up in furs--for the first breath of winter was in the air--they were driving in May's pony-phaeton in the park; and thus it came about.

'I have a letter from your sister this morning, Eleanor,' said Lady Forestfield, 'written in remarkably good spirits, and with many affectionate messages to you. She seems to have quite forgiven your bouleversement of her favourite plan for marrying you to Mr. Spiridion Pratt.'

'I knew that her anger on that account would not last very long,' said Eleanor. 'You don't know Fanny, dear May; but when you do you will find that she is the most extraordinary reflection of all that is passing around her. During the season she saw all her friends, and those whose example she thinks fit to copy, intent on matrimonial schemes; Fanny did not like to be out of the fashion, and fortunately there I was ready to her hand. The next thing was to look round for the other victim, and she speedily settled upon poor Mr. Pratt, who, I firmly believe, was never more astonished in his life than when it was first hinted to him that he was desperately in love with me. This attempt at match-making served to amuse Fanny during the season, and having talked of it so much, she had really begun herself to believe in its possibility, and was therefore vexed when she found I could not be so easily disposed of. But I knew her annoyance would soon be over, and therefore I am not surprised at what you tell me.'

'She seems to be a very forgiving person,' said May, with the least tone of malice in her voice. 'You remember my discovering the difficulties you had in coming to me in Podbury-street, when you told me her objections and the strict surveillance in which she kept you. Her sentiments as regards me must also have undergone a great change, for she not only writes in the most friendly manner, but says that she and Mr. Chadwick will be delighted to accept the invitation I sent them to come and spend a fortnight here.'

'Fanny is very human, dearest May,' said Eleanor, with a blush. 'I was perfectly certain that so soon as your time of trouble was over, and you were restored to your old position, she would be quite as much in your favour as she had been the reverse. And so she, is coming down to stay here. It was out of kindness for me that you asked her, I know.'