"ARE WE TO CALL HIM POPENJOY?"
The news which he had heard did afflict Lord George very much. A day or
two after the dinner-party in Berkeley Square he found Mr. Knox, his
brother's agent, and learned from him that Miss Houghton's story was
substantially true. The Marquis had informed his man of business that
an heir had been born to him, but had not communicated the fact to any
one of the family! This omission, in such a family, was, to Lord
George's thinking, so great a crime on the part of his brother, as to
make him doubt whether he could ever again have fraternal relations
with a man who so little knew his duty. When Mr. Knox showed him the
letter his brow became very black. He did not often forget
himself,--was not often so carried away by any feeling as to be in
danger of doing so. But on this occasion even he was so moved as to be
unable to control his words. "An Italian brat? Who is to say how it was
born?"
"The Marquis, my Lord, would not do anything like that," said Mr. Knox,
very seriously.
Then Lord George was ashamed of himself, and blushed up to the roots of
his hair. He had hardly himself known what he had meant. But he
mistrusted an Italian widow, because she was an Italian, and because
she was a widow, and he mistrusted the whole connexion, because there
had been in it none of that honourable openness which should, he
thought, characterise all family doings in such a family as that of the
Germains. "I don't know of what kind you mean," he said, shuffling, and
knowing that he shuffled. "I don't suppose my brother would do anything
really wrong. But it's a blot to the family--a terrible blot."
"She is a lady of good family,--a Marchese," said Mr. Knox.
"An Italian Marchese!" said Lord George, with that infinite contempt
which an English nobleman has for foreign nobility not of the highest
order.
He had learnt that Miss Houghton's story was true, and was certainly
very unhappy. It was not at all that he had pictured to himself the
glory of being himself the Marquis of Brotherton after his brother's
death; nor was it only the disappointment which he felt as to any
possible son of his own, though on that side he did feel the blow. The
reflection which perplexed him most was the consciousness that he must
quarrel with his brother, and that after such a quarrel he would become
nobody in the world. And then, added to this, was the sense of family
disgrace. He would have been quite content with his position had he
been left master of the house at Manor Cross, even without any of his
brother's income wherewith to maintain the house. But now he would only
be his wife's husband, the Dean's son-in-law, living on their money,
and compelled by circumstances to adapt himself to them. He almost
thought that had he known that he would be turned out of Manor Cross,
he would not have married. And then, in spite of his disclaimer to Mr.
Knox, he was already suspicious of some foul practise. An heir to the
title and property, to all the family honours of the Germains, had
suddenly burst upon him, twelve months,--for aught that he knew, two or
three years,--after the child's birth! Nobody had been informed when
the child was born, or in what circumstances,--except that the mother
was an Italian widow! What evidence on which an Englishman might rely
could possibly be forthcoming from such a country as Italy! Poor Lord
George, who was himself as honest as the sun, was prepared to believe
all evil things of people of whom he knew nothing! Should his brother
die,--and his brother's health was bad,--what steps should he take?
Would it be for him to accept this Italian brat as the heir to
everything, or must he ruin himself by a pernicious lawsuit? Looking
forward he saw nothing but family misery and disgrace, and he saw,
also, inevitable difficulties with which he knew himself to be
incapable to cope. "It is true," he said to his wife very gloomily,
when he first met her after his interview with Mr. Knox.
"What Miss Houghton said? I felt sure it was true, directly she told
me."
"I don't know why you should have felt sure, merely on her word, as to
a thing so monstrous as this is. You don't seem to see that it concerns
yourself."
"No; I don't. It doesn't concern me at all, except as it makes you
unhappy." Then there was a pause for a moment, during which she crept
close up to him, in a manner that had now become usual with her. "Why
do you think I married you?" she said. He was too unhappy to answer her
pleasantly,--too much touched by her sweetness to answer her
unpleasantly; and so he said nothing. "Certainly not with any hope that
I might become Marchioness of Brotherton. Whatever may have made me do
such a thing, I can assure you that that had nothing to do with it."
"Can't you look forward? Don't you suppose that you may have a son?"
Then she buried her face upon his shoulder. "And if so, would it not be
better that a child so born should be the heir, than some Italian baby,
of whom no one knows anything?"
"If you are unhappy, George, I shall be unhappy. But for myself I will
not affect to care anything. I don't want to be a Marchioness. I only
want to see you without a frown on your brow. To tell the truth, if you
didn't mind it, I should care nothing about your brother and his
doings. I would make a joke of this Marchese, who, Miss Houghton says,
is a puckered-faced old woman. Miss Houghton seems to care a great deal
more about it than I do."
"It cannot be a subject for a joke." He was almost angry at the idea of
the wife of the head of the family being made a matter of laughter.
That she should be reprobated, hated,--cursed, if necessary,--was
within the limits of family dignity; but not that she should become a
joke to those with whom she had unfortunately connected herself. When
he had finished speaking to her she could not but feel that he was
displeased, and could not but feel also the injustice of such
displeasure. Of course she had her own little share in the general
disappointments. But she had striven before him to make nothing of it,
in order that he might be quite sure that she had married him--not with
any idea of rank or wealth, but for himself alone. She had made light
of the family misfortune, in order that he might be relieved. And yet
he was angry with her! This was unreasonable. How much had she done for
him! Was she not striving every hour of her life to love him, and, at
any rate, to comfort him with the conviction that he was loved? Was she
not constant in her assurance to herself that her whole life should be
devoted to him? And yet he was surly to her simply because his brother
had disgraced himself! When she was left alone she sat down and cried,
and then consoled herself by remembering that her father was coming to
her.
It had been arranged that the last days of February should be spent by
Lord George with his mother and sisters at Cross Hall, and that the
Dean should run up to town for a week. Lord George went down to
Brotherton by a morning train, and the Dean came up on the same
afternoon. But the going and coming were so fixed that the two men met
at the deanery. Lord George had determined that he would speak fully to
the Dean respecting his brother. He was always conscious of the Dean's
low birth, remembering, with some slight discomfort, the stable-keeper
and the tallow-chandler; and he was a little inclined to resent what he
thought to be a disposition on the part of the Dean to domineer. But
still the Dean was a practical, sagacious man, in whom he could trust;
and the assistance of such a friend was necessary to him. Circumstances
had bound him to the Dean, and he was a man not prone to bind himself
to many men. He wanted and yet feared the confidence of friendship. He
lunched with the Dean, and then told his story. "You know," he said,
"that my brother is married?"
"Of course, we all heard that."
"He was married more than twelve months before he informed us that he
was going to be married."
"No!"
"It was so."
"Do you mean, then, that he told you a falsehood?"
"His letter to me was very strange, though I did not think much of it
at the time. He said, 'I am to be married'--naming no day."
"That certainly was--a falsehood, as, at that time, he was married."
"I do not know that harsh words will do any good."
"Nor I. But it is best, George, that you and I should be quite plain in
our words to each other. Placed as he was, and as you were, he was
bound to tell you of his marriage as soon as he knew it himself. You
had waited till he was between forty and fifty, and, of course, he must
feel that what you would do would depend materially upon what he did."
"It didn't at all."
"And then, having omitted to do his duty, he screens his fault by
a----positive misstatement, when his intended return home makes further
concealment impossible."
"All that, however, is of little moment," said Lord George, who could
not but see that the Dean was already complaining that he had been left
without information which he ought to have possessed when he was giving
his daughter to a probable heir to the title. "There is more than
that."
"What more?"
"He had a son born more than twelve months since."
"Who says so?" exclaimed the Dean, jumping up from his chair.
"I heard it first,--or rather Mary did,--in common conversation, from
an old friend. I then learned the truth from Knox. Though he had told
none of us, he had told Knox."
"And Knox has known it all through?"
"No, only lately. But he knows it now. Knox supposes that they are
coming home so that the people about may be reconciled to the idea of
his having an heir. There will be less trouble, he thinks, if the boy
comes now, than if he were never heard of till he was ten or fifteen
years old,--or perhaps till after my brother's death."
"There may be trouble enough still," said the Dean, almost with a gasp.
The Dean, it was clear, did not believe in the boy. Lord George
remembered that he himself had expressed disbelief, and that Mr. Knox
had almost rebuked him. "I have now told you all the facts," said Lord
George, "and have told them as soon as I knew them."
"You are as true as the sun," said the Dean, putting his hand on his
son-in-law's shoulder. "You will be honest. But you must not trust in
the honesty of others. Poor Mary!"
"She does not feel it in the least;--will not even interest herself
about it."
"She will feel it some day. She is no more than a child now. I feel it,
George;--I feel it; and you ought to feel it."
"I feel his ill-treatment of myself."
"What--in not telling you? That is probably no more than a small part
of a wide scheme. We must find out the truth of all this."
"I don't know what there is to find out," said Lord George, hoarsely.
"Nor do I; but I do feel that there must be something. Think of your
brother's position and standing,--of his past life and his present
character! This is no time now for being mealy-mouthed. When such a man
as he appears suddenly with a foreign woman and a foreign child, and
announces one as his wife and the other as his heir, having never
reported the existence of one or of the other, it is time that some
enquiry should be made. I, at any rate, shall make enquiry. I shall
think myself bound to do so on behalf of Mary." Then they parted as
confidential friends do part, but each with some feeling antagonistic
to the other. The Dean, though he had from his heart acknowledged that
Lord George was as honest as the sun, still felt himself to be
aggrieved by the Germain family, and doubted whether his son-in-law
would be urgent enough and constant in hostility to his own brother. He
feared that Lord George would be weak, feeling; as regarded himself,
that he would fight till he had spent his last penny, as long as there
was a chance that, by fighting, a grandson of his own might be made
Marquis of Brotherton. He, at any rate, understood his own heart in the
matter, and knew what it was that he wanted. But Lord George, though he
had found himself compelled to tell everything to the Dean, still
dreaded the Dean. It was not in accordance with his principles that he
should be leagued against his brother with such a man as Dean Lovelace,
and he could see that the Dean was thinking of his own possible
grandchildren, whereas he himself was thinking only of the family of
Germain.
He found his mother and sister at the small house,--the house at which
Farmer Price was living only a month or two since. No doubt it was the
recognised dower house, but nevertheless there was still about it a
flavour of Farmer Price. A considerable sum of money had been spent
upon it, which had come from a sacrifice of a small part of the capital
belonging to the three sisters, with an understanding that it should be
repaid out of the old lady's income. But no one, except the old lady
herself, anticipated such repayment. All this had created trouble and
grief, and the family, which was never gay, was now more sombre than
ever. When the further news was told to Lady Sarah it almost crushed
her. "A child!" she said in a horror-stricken whisper, turning quite
pale, and looking as though the crack of doom were coming at once. "Do
you believe it?" Then her brother explained the grounds he had for
believing it. "And that it was born in wedlock twelve months before the
fact was announced to us."
"It has never been announced to us," said Lord George.
"What are we to do? is my mother to be told? She ought to know at once;
and yet how can we tell her? What shall you do about the Dean?"
"He knows."
"You told him?"
"Yes; I thought it best."
"Well,--perhaps. And yet it is terrible that any man so distant from us
should have our secrets in his keeping."
"As Mary's father, I thought it right that he should know."
"I have always liked the Dean personally," said Lady Sarah. "There is a
manliness about him which has recommended him, and having a full hand
he knows how to open it. But he isn't----; he isn't quite----"
"No; he isn't quite----," said Lord George, also hesitating to
pronounce the word which was understood by both of them.
"You must tell my mother, or I must. It will be wrong to withhold it.
If you like, I will tell Susanna and Amelia."
"I think you had better tell my mother," said Lord George; "she will
take it more easily from you. And then, if she breaks down, you can
control her better." That Lady Sarah should have the doing of any
difficult piece of work was almost a matter of course. She did tell the
tale to her mother, and her mother did break down. The Marchioness,
when she found that an Italian baby had been born twelve months before
the time which she had been made to believe was the date of the
marriage, took at once to her bed. What a mass of horrors was coming on
them! Was she to go and see a woman who had had a baby under such
circumstances? Or was her own eldest son, the very, very Marquis of
Brotherton, to be there with his wife, and was she not to go and see
them? Through it all her indignation against her son had not been hot
as had been theirs against their brother. He was her eldest son,--the
very Marquis,--and ought to be allowed to do almost anything he
pleased. Had it not been impossible for her to rebel against Lady Sarah
she would have obeyed her son in that matter of the house. And, even
now, it was not against her son that her heart was bitter, but against
the woman, who, being an Italian, and having been married, if married,
without the knowledge of the family, presumed to say that her child was
legitimate. Had her eldest son brought over with him to the halls of
his ancestors an Italian mistress that would, of course, have been very
bad, but it would not have been so bad as this. Nothing could be so bad
as this. "Are we to call him Popenjoy?" she asked with a gurgling voice
from amidst the bed clothes. Now the eldest son of the Marquis of
Brotherton would, as a matter of course, be Lord Popenjoy, if
legitimate. "Certainly we must," said Lady Sarah, authoritatively,
"unless the marriage should be disproved."
"Poor dear little thing," said the Marchioness, beginning to feel some
pity for the odious stranger as soon as she was told that he really was
to be called Popenjoy. Then the Ladies Susanna and Amelia were
informed, and the feeling became general throughout the household that
the world must be near its end. What were they all to do when he should
come? That was the great question. He had begun by declaring that he
did not want to see any of them. He had endeavoured to drive them away
from the neighbourhood, and had declared that neither his mother nor
his sisters would "get on" with his wife. All the ladies at Cross Hall
had a very strong opinion that this would turn out to be true, but
still they could not bear to think that they should be living as it
were next door to the head of the family, and never see him. A feeling
began to creep over all of them, except Lady Sarah, that it would have
been better for them to have obeyed the head of the family and gone
elsewhere. But it was too late now. The decision had been made, and
they must remain.
Lady Sarah, however, never gave way for a minute. "George," she said
very solemnly, "I have thought a great deal about this, and I do not
mean to let him trample upon us."
"It is all very sad," said Lord George.
"Yes, indeed. If I know myself, I think I should be the last person to
attribute evil motives to my elder brother, or to stand in his way in
aught that he might wish to do in regard to the family. I know all that
is due to him. But there is a point beyond which even that feeling
cannot carry me. He has disgraced himself." Lord George shook his head.
"And he is doing all he can to bring disgrace upon us. It has always
been my wish that he should marry."
"Of course, of course."
"It is always desirable that the eldest son should marry. The heir to
the property then knows that he is the heir, and is brought up to
understand his duties. Though he had married a foreigner, much as I
should regret it, I should be prepared to receive her as a sister; it
is for him to please himself; but in marrying a foreigner he is more
specially bound to let it be known to all the world, and to have
everything substantiated, than if he had married an English girl in her
own parish church. As it is, we must call on her, because he says that
she is his wife. But I shall tell him that he is acting very wrongly by
us all, especially by you, and most especially by his own child, if he
does not take care that such evidence of his marriage is forthcoming as
shall satisfy all the world."
"He won't listen to you."
"I think I can make him, as far as that goes; at any rate I do not mean
to be afraid of him. Nor must you."
"I hardly know whether I will even see him."
"Yes; you must see him. If we are to be expelled from the family house,
let it be his doing, and not ours. We have to take care, George, that
we do not make a single false step. We must be courteous to him, but
above all we must not be afraid of him."
In the meantime the Dean went up to London, meaning to spend a week
with his daughter in her new house. They had both intended that this
should be a period of great joy to them. Plans had been made as to the
theatres and one or two parties, which were almost as exciting to the
Dean as to his daughter. It was quite understood by both of them that
the Dean up in London was to be a man of pleasure, rather than a
clergyman. He had no purpose of preaching either at St. Paul's or the
Abbey. He was going to attend no Curates' Aid Society or Sons of the
Clergy. He intended to forget Mr. Groschut, to ignore Dr. Pountney, and
have a good time. That had been his intention, at least till he saw
Lord George at the deanery. But now there were serious thoughts in his
mind. When he arrived Mary had for the time got nearly rid of the
incubus of the Italian Marchioness with her baby. She was all smiles as
she kissed him. But he could not keep himself from the great subject.
"This is terrible news, my darling," he said at once.
"Do you think so, papa?"
"Certainly I do."
"I don't see why Lord Brotherton should not have a son and heir as well
as anybody else."
"He is quite entitled to have a son and heir,--one may almost say more
entitled than anyone else, seeing that he has got so much to leave to
him,--but on that very account he is more bound than anyone else to let
all the world feel sure that his declared son and heir is absolutely
his son and heir."
"He couldn't be so vile as that, papa!"
"God forbid that I should say that he could. It may be that he
considers himself married, though the marriage would not be valid here.
Maybe he is married, and that yet the child is not legitimate." Mary
could not but blush as her father spoke to her thus plainly. "All we do
know is that he wrote to his own brother declaring that he was about to
be married twelve months after the birth of the child whom he now
expects us to recognise as the heir to the title. I for one am not
prepared to accept his word without evidence, and I shall have no
scruple in letting him know that such evidence will be wanted."