Laura Armstrong was sitting at an ebony writing-table, with innumerable little drawers pulled out to their utmost extent, and all running over with papers, a chaotic mass of open letters before her, and a sheet of foolscap scrawled over with names. She had been planning her campaign for the season—so many dinners, so many dances, alternate Thursdays in May and June; and a juvenile fancy ball, at which a Pompadour of seven years of age could lead off the Lancers with a Charles the Twelfth of ten, with an eight-year-old Mephistopheles and a six-year-old Anna Boleyn for their vis-à-vis.
As the footman opened the door, and ushered in Mrs. Granger, there was a faint rustling of silk behind the portière dividing Lady Laura's room from the next apartment; but Clarissa was too agitated to notice this.
Laura Armstrong received her with effusion.
"My dearest girl," she exclaimed, rising, and grasping both Clarissa's hands, as the man closed the door, "how glad I am to see you! Do you know, something told me you would come to me? Yes, dear; I said to myself ever so many times, 'That poor misguided child will come to me.' O, Clary, Clary, what have you been doing! Your husband is like a rock. He was at Arden for a few days, about a fortnight ago, and I drove over to see him, and entreated him to confide in me; but he would tell nothing. My poor, poor child! how pale, how changed!"
She had thrown back Clarissa's veil, and was scrutinising the haggard face with very womanly tenderness.
"Sit down, dear, and tell me everything. You know that you can trust me. If you had gone ever so wrong—and I don't believe it is in you to do that—I would still be your friend."
Clarissa made a faint effort to speak, and then burst into tears. This loving welcome was quite too much to bear.
"He told me he was going to take my boy away from me," she sobbed, "so I ran away from him, with my darling—and now my angel is dying!"
And then, with many tears, and much questioning and ejaculation from Lady Laura, she told her pitiful story—concealing nothing, not even her weak yielding to temptation, not even her love for George Fairfax.
"I loved him always," she said; "yes—always, always, always—from that first night when we travelled together! I used to dream of him sometimes, never hoping to see him again, till that summer day when he came suddenly upon me in Marley Wood. But I kept my promise; I was true to you, Lady Laura; I kept my promise."