INTRODUCTORY NUMBER TWO.
"What ought I to do, papa?" The proposition was in the first instance
made to Mary through the Dean. Lord George had gone to the father, and
the father with many protestations of personal goodwill, had declared
that in such a matter he would not attempt to bias his daughter. "That
the connection would be personally agreeable to myself, I need hardly
say," said the Dean. "For myself, I have no objection to raise. But I
must leave it to Mary. I can only say that you have my permission to
address her." But the first appeal to Mary was made by her father
himself, and was so made in conformity with his own advice. Lord
George, when he left the deanery, had thus arranged it, but had been
hardly conscious that the Dean had advised such an arrangement. And it
may be confessed between ourselves,--between me and my readers, who in
these introductory chapters may be supposed to be looking back together
over past things,--that the Dean was from the first determined that
Lord George should be his son-in-law. What son-in-law could he find
that would redound more to his personal credit, or better advance his
personal comfort. As to his daughter, where could a safer husband be
found! And then she might in this way become a marchioness! His own
father had kept livery stables at Bath. Her other grandfather had been
a candlemaker in the Borough. "What ought I to do, papa?" Mary asked,
when the proposition was first made to her. She of course admired the
Germains, and appreciated, at perhaps more than its full value the
notice she had received from them. She had thought Lord George to be
the handsomest man she had ever seen. She had heard of his love for
Miss De Baron, and had felt for him. She was not as yet old enough to
know how dull was the house at Manor Cross, or how little of resource
she might find in the companionship of such a man as Lord George. Of
her own money she knew almost nothing. Not as yet had her fortune
become as a carcase to the birds. And now, should she decide in Lord
George's favour, would she be saved at any rate from that danger.
"You must consult your own feelings, my dear," said her father. She
looked up to him in blank dismay. She had as yet no feelings.
"But, papa----"
"Of course, my darling, there is a great deal to be said in favour of
such a marriage. The man himself is excellent,--in all respects
excellent. I do not know that there is a young man of higher principles
than Lord George in the whole county."
"He is hardly a young man, papa."
"Not a young man! He is thirty. I hope you do not call that old. I
doubt whether men in his position of life should ever marry at an
earlier age. He is not rich."
"Would that matter?"
"No; I think not. But of that you must judge. Of course with your
fortune you would have a right to expect a richer match. But though he
has not money, he has much that money gives. He lives in a large house
with noble surroundings. The question is whether you can like him?"
"I don't know, papa." Every word she spoke she uttered hesitatingly.
When she had asked whether "that would matter," she had hardly known
what she was saying. The thing was so important to her, and yet so
entirely mysterious and as yet unconsidered, that she could not collect
her thoughts sufficiently for proper answers to her father's sensible
but not too delicate inquiries. The only ideas that had really struck
her were that he was grand and handsome, but very old.
"If you can love him I think you would be happy," said the Dean. "Of
course you must look at it all round. He will probably live to be the
Marquis of Brotherton. From all that I hear I do not think that his
brother is likely to marry. In that case you would be the Marchioness
of Brotherton, and the property, though not great, would then be
handsome. In the meanwhile you would be Lady George Germain, and would
live at Manor Cross. I should stipulate on your behalf that you should
have a house of your own in town, for, at any rate, a portion of the
year. Manor Cross is a fine place, but you would find it dull if you
were to remain there always. A married woman too should always have
some home of her own."
"You want me to do it, papa?"
"Certainly not. I want you to please yourself. If I find that you
please yourself by accepting this man, I myself shall be better pleased
than if you please yourself by rejecting him; but you shall never know
that by my manner. I shall not put you on bread and water, and lock you
up in the garret either if you accept him, or if you reject him." The
Dean smiled as he said this, as all the world at Brotherton knew that
he had never in his life even scolded his daughter.
"And you, papa?"
"I shall come and see you, and you will come and see me. I shall get on
well enough. I have always known that you would leave me soon. I am
prepared for that." There was something in this which grated on her
feelings. She had, perhaps, taught herself to believe that she was
indispensable to her father's happiness. Then after a pause he
continued: "Of course you must be ready to see Lord George when he
comes again, and you ought to remember, my dear, that marquises do not
grow on every hedge."
With great care and cunning workmanship one may almost make a silk
purse out of a sow's ear, but not quite. The care which Dean Lovelace
had bestowed upon the operation in regard to himself had been very
great, and the cunning workmanship was to be seen in every plait and
every stitch. But still there was something left of the coarseness of
the original material. Of all this poor Mary knew nothing at all; but
yet she did not like being told of marquises and hedges where her heart
was concerned. She had wanted,--had unconsciously wanted,--some touch
of romance from her father to satisfy the condition in which she found
herself. But there was no touch of romance there; and when she was left
to herself to work the matter out in her own heart and in her own mind
she was unsatisfied.
Two or three days after this Mary received notice that her lover was
coming. The Dean had seen him and had absolutely fixed a time. To poor
Mary this seemed to be most unromantic, most unpromising. And though
she had thought of nothing else since she had first heard of Lord
George's intention, though she had laid awake struggling to make up her
mind, she had reached no conclusion. It had become quite clear to her
that her father was anxious for the marriage, and there was much in it
which recommended it to herself. The old elms of the park of Manor
Cross were very tempting. She was not indifferent to being called My
Lady. Though she had been slightly hurt when told that marquises did
not grow on hedges, still she knew that it would be much to be a
marchioness. And the man himself was good, and not only good but very
handsome. There was a nobility about him beyond that of his family.
Those prone to ridicule might perhaps have called him Werter-faced, but
to Mary there was a sublimity in this. But then was she in love with
him?
She was a sweet, innocent, ladylike, high-spirited, joyous creature.
Those struggles of her father to get rid of the last porcine taint,
though not quite successful as to himself, had succeeded thoroughly in
regard to her. It comes at last with due care, and the due care had
here been taken. She was so nice that middle-aged men wished themselves
younger that they might make love to her, or older that they might be
privileged to kiss her. Though keenly anxious for amusement, though
over head and ears in love with sport and frolic, no unholy thought had
ever polluted her mind. That men were men, and that she was a woman,
had of course been considered by her. Oh, that it might some day be her
privilege to love some man with all her heart and all her strength,
some man who should be, at any rate to her, the very hero of heroes,
the cynosure of her world! It was thus that she considered the matter.
There could surely nothing be so glorious as being well in love. And
the one to be thus worshipped must of course become her husband.
Otherwise would her heart be broken, and perhaps his,--and all would be
tragedy. But with tragedy she had no sympathy. The loved one must
become her husband. But the pictures she had made to herself of him
were not at all like Lord George Germain. He was to be fair, with
laughing eyes, quick in repartee, always riding well to hounds. She had
longed to hunt herself, but her father had objected. He must be sharp
enough sometimes to others, though ever soft to her, with a silken
moustache and a dimpled chin, and perhaps twenty-four years old. Lord
George was dark, his eyes never laughed; he was silent generally, and
never went out hunting at all. He was dignified, and tall, very
handsome, no doubt,--and a lord. The grand question was that;--could
she love him? Could she make another picture, and paint him as her
hero? There were doubtless heroic points in the side wave of that
coal-black lock,--coal-black where the few grey hairs had not yet shown
themselves, in his great height, and solemn polished manners.
When her lover came, she could only remember that if she accepted him
she would please everybody. The Dean had taken occasion to assure her
that the ladies at Manor Cross would receive her with open arms. But on
this occasion she did not accept him. She was very silent, hardly able
to speak a word, and almost sinking out of sight when Lord George
endeavoured to press his suit by taking her hand. But she contrived at
last to make him the very answer that Adelaide De Baron had made. She
must take time to think of it. But the answer came from her in a
different spirit. She at any rate knew as soon as it was given that it
was her destiny in life to become Lady George Germain. She did not say
"Yes" at the moment, only because it is so hard for a girl to tell a
man that she will marry him at the first asking! He made his second
offer by letter, to which the Dean wrote the reply:--
"My dear Lord George,
"My daughter is gratified by your affection, and flattered by your
manner of showing it. A few plain words are perhaps the best. She
will be happy to receive you as her future husband, whenever it
may suit you to come to the deanery.
"Yours affectionately,
"HENRY LOVELACE."
Immediately upon this the conduct of Lord George was unexceptionable.
He hurried over to Brotherton, and as he clasped his girl in his arms,
he told her that he was the happiest man in England. Poor as he was he
made her a handsome present, and besought her if she had any mercy, any
charity, any love for him, to name an early day. Then came the four
ladies from Manor Cross,--for Lady Alice had already become Lady Alice
Holdenough,--and caressed her, and patted her, and petted her, and told
her that she should be as welcome as flowers in May. Her father, too,
congratulated her with more of enthusiasm, and more also of
demonstrated feeling than she had ever before seen him evince. He had
been very unwilling, he said, to express any strong opinion of his own.
It had always been his desire that his girl should please herself. But
now that the thing was settled he could assure her of his thorough
satisfaction. It was all that he could have desired; and now he would
be ready at any time to lay himself down, and be at rest. Had his girl
married a spendthrift lord, even a duke devoted to pleasure and
iniquity, it would have broken his heart. But he would now confess that
the aristocracy of the county had charms for him; and he was not
ashamed to rejoice that his child should be accepted within their pale.
Then he brushed a real tear from his eyes, and Mary threw herself into
his arms. The tear was real, and in all that he said there was not an
insincere word. It was to him a very glory of glories that his child
should be in the way of becoming the Marchioness of Brotherton. It was
even a great glory that she should be Lady George Germain. The Dean
never forgot the livery stable, and owned day and night that God had
been very good to him.
It was soon settled that Mary was to be allowed three months for
preparation, and that the marriage was to be solemnized in June. Of
course she had much to do in preparing her wedding garments, but she
had before her a much more difficult task than that at which she worked
most sedulously. It was now the great business of her life to fall in
love with Lord George. She must get rid of that fair young man with the
silky moustache and the darling dimple. The sallow, the sublime, and
the Werter-faced must be made to take the place of laughing eyes and
pink cheeks. She did work very hard, and sometimes, as she thought,
successfully. She came to a positive conclusion that he was the
handsomest man she ever saw, and that she certainly liked the few grey
hairs. That his manner was thoroughly noble no one could doubt. If he
were seen merely walking down the street he would surely be taken for a
great man. He was one of whom, as her husband, she could be always
proud;--and that she felt to be a great thing. That he would not play
lawn tennis, and that he did not care for riding were points in his
character to be regretted. Indeed, though she made some tenderly
cautious inquiries, she could not find what were his amusements. She
herself was passionately fond of dancing, but he certainly did not
dance. He talked to her, when he did talk, chiefly of his family, of
his own poverty, of the goodness of his mother and sisters, and of the
great regret which they all felt that they should have been deserted by
the head of their family.
"He has now been away," said Lord George, "for ten years; but not
improbably he may return soon, and then we shall have to leave Manor
Cross."
"Leave Manor Cross!"
"Of course we must do so should he come home. The place belongs to him,
and we are only there because it has not suited him to reside in
England."
This he said with the utmost solemnity, and the statement had been
produced by the answer which the Marquis had made to a letter
announcing to him his brother's marriage. The Marquis had never been a
good correspondent. To the ladies of the house he never wrote at all,
though Lady Sarah favoured him with a periodical quarterly letter. To
his agent, and less frequently to his brother, he would write curt,
questions on business, never covering more than one side of a sheet of
notepaper, and always signed "Yours, B." To these the inmates of Manor
Cross had now become accustomed, and little was thought of them; but on
this occasion he had written three or four complete sentences, which
had been intended to have, and which did have, a plain meaning. He
congratulated his brother, but begged Lord George to bear in mind that
he himself might not improbably want Manor Cross for his own purpose
before long. If Lord George thought it would be agreeable, Mr. Knox,
the agent, might have instructions to buy Miss Lovelace a present. Of
this latter offer Lord George took no notice; but the intimation
concerning the house sat gravely on his mind.
The Dean did exactly as he had said with reference to the house in
town. Of course it was necessary that there should be arrangements as
to money between him and Lord George, in which he was very frank.
Mary's money was all her own,--giving her an income of nearly L1500
per annum. The Dean was quite of opinion that this should be left to
Lord George's management, but he thought it right as Mary's father to
stipulate that his daughter should have a home of her own. Then he
suggested a small house in town, and expressed an opinion that his
daughter should be allowed to live there six months in the year. The
expense of such a sojourn might be in some degree shared by himself if
Lord George would receive him for a month or so in the spring. And so
the thing was settled, Lord George pledging himself that the house
should be taken. The arrangement was distasteful to him in many ways,
but it did not seem to be unreasonable, and he could not oppose it.
Then came the letter from the Marquis. Lord George did not consider
himself bound to speak of that letter to the Dean; but he communicated
the threat to Mary. Mary thought nothing about it, except that her
future brother-in-law must be a very strange man.
During all those three months she strove very hard to be in love, and
sometimes she thought that she had succeeded. In her little way she
studied the man's character, and did all she could to ingratiate
herself with him. Walking seemed to be his chief relaxation, and she
was always ready to walk with him. She tried to make herself believe
that he was profoundly wise. And then, when she failed in other things,
she fell back upon his beauty. Certainly she had never seen a handsomer
face, either on a man's shoulders or in a picture. And so they were
married.
Now I have finished my introduction,--having married my heroine to my
hero,--and have, I hope, instructed my reader as to those hundred and
twenty incidents, of which I spoke--not too tediously. If he will go
back and examine, he will find that they are all there. But perhaps it
will be better for us both that he should be in quiet possession of
them without any such examination.