CHAPTER XXII.
"MRS. GRUNDY."
General Trecarrel, who was an amiable and well-disposed man, felt the utmost regret in having been present at an interview so painful, unseemly, and perplexing. Notwithstanding the calmness, dignity, and confidence with which Constance asserted her claims to wifehood and nobility, he had his secret doubts—which Downie had not—as to the legality of the ties that had subsisted between her and his late friend, Richard Trevelyan. Yet he could not but think of her kindly, humanely, and with interest; she seemed so perfectly ladylike, was so gentle and so beautiful.
In short, the old soldier, little given to study character or matters not military, felt sorely bewildered by the strange story so suddenly unfolded by his fair neighbour, and withdrew to think over it and to dress for dinner.
"So that odious woman and the cunning minx, her daughter, are gone at last?" said Mrs. Downie—the acknowledged Lady Lamorna—entering the carpeted library, softly and noiselessly, in her usual languid and wearied way.
"Yes, Gartha—at last," replied her husband, who was still seated at the writing-table with his head resting on his left hand, for he was full of thoughts that oppressed him.
"You look disturbed, Downie dear?" she lisped, as she sank into her easy chair and resumed the feather fan or hand screen.
"That idiot Audley has complicated matters by forming an attachment for the woman's daughter; but Trecarrel, who goes soon to India now, shall take him off there at once."
"And what was the object of her visit, pray?"
"Oh, she came here to try the favourite Whig scheme—conciliation at any price, no matter how humiliating; and exhibited a letter she had manufactured, as from my brother; but it won't pass with me—no, no!"
"You are right to repel such attempts as this; and I agree with you that Audley had better relinquish what remains of his leave and quit England," she replied, yet not without a sigh, for her son had been but a short time at home, and India was so far away. But anything was better than that he should entangle himself with a girl like this—her son Audley, when she had almost registered a vow "never to syllable a name unchronicled by Debrett;" the idea was absurd, horrible in the extreme!