LORD GEORGE UP IN LONDON.
Lord George returned to town the day after the lecture, and was not
altogether pleased that his wife should have gone to the Disabilities.
She thought, indeed, that he did not seem to be in a humour to be
pleased with anything. His mind was thoroughly disturbed by the coming
of his brother, and perplexed with the idea that something must be done
though he knew not what. And he was pervaded by a feeling that in the
present emergency it behoved him to watch his own steps, and more
especially those of his wife. An anonymous letter had reached Lady
Sarah, signed, "A Friend of the Family," in which it was stated that
the Marquis of Brotherton had allied himself to the highest blood that
Italy knew, marrying into a family that had been noble before English
nobility had existed, whereas his brother had married the granddaughter
of a stable-keeper and a tallow chandler. This letter had, of course,
been shown to Lord George; and, though he and his sisters agreed in
looking upon it as an emanation from their enemy, the new Marchioness,
it still gave them to understand that she, if attacked, would be
prepared to attack again. And Lord George was open to attack on the
side indicated. He was, on the whole, satisfied with his wife. She was
ladylike, soft, pretty, well-mannered, and good to him. But her
grandfathers had been stable-keepers and tallow-chandlers. Therefore it
was specially imperative that she should be kept from injurious
influences. Lady Selina Protest and Aunt Ju, who were both well-born,
might take liberties; but not so his wife. "I don't think that was a
very nice place to go to, Mary."
"It wasn't nice at all, but it was very funny. I never saw such a
vulgar creature as the Baroness, throwing herself about and wiping her
face."
"Why should you go and see a vulgar creature throw herself about and
wipe her face?"
"Why should anybody do it? One likes to see what is going on, I
suppose. The woman's vulgarity could not hurt me, George."
"It could do you no good."
"Lady Selina Protest was there, and I went with Miss Mildmay."
"Two old maids who have gone crazy about Woman's Rights because nobody
has married them. The whole thing is distasteful to me, and I hope you
will not go there again."
"That I certainly shall not, because it is very dull," said Mary.
"I hope, also, that, independently of that, my request would be
enough."
"Certainly it would, George; but I don't know why you should be so
cross to me."
"I don't think that I have been cross; but I am anxious, specially
anxious. There are reasons why I have to be very anxious in regard to
you, and why you have to be yourself more particular than others."
"What reasons?" She asked this with a look of bewildered astonishment.
He was not prepared to answer the question, and shuffled out of it,
muttering some further words as to the peculiar difficulty of their
position. Then he kissed her and left her, telling her that all would
be well if she would be careful.
If she would be careful! All would be well if she would be careful! Why
should there be need of more care on her part than on that of others?
She knew that all this had reference in some way to that troublesome
lady and troublesome baby who were about to be brought home; but she
could not conceive how her conduct could be specially concerned. It was
a sorrow to her that her husband should allow himself to be ruffled
about the matter at all. It was a sorrow also that her father should do
so. As to herself, she had an idea that if Providence chose to make her
a Marchioness, Providence ought to be allowed to do it without any
interference on her part. But it would be a double sorrow if she were
told that she mustn't do this and mustn't do that because there was
before her a dim prospect of being seated in a certain high place which
was claimed and occupied by another person. And she was aware, too,
that her husband had in very truth scolded her. The ladies at Manor
Cross had scolded her before, but he had never done so. She had got
away from Manor Cross, and had borne the scolding because the prospect
of escape had been before her. But it would be very bad indeed if her
husband should take to scold her. Then she thought that if Jack De
Baron were married he would never scold his wife.
The Dean had not yet gone home, and in her discomfort she had recourse
to him. She did not intend to complain of her husband to her father.
Had any such idea occurred to her, she would have stamped it out at
once, knowing that such a course would be both unloyal and unwise. But
her father was so pleasant with her, so easy to be talked to, so easy
to be understood, whereas her husband was almost mysterious,--at any
rate, gloomy and dark. "Papa," she said, "what does George mean by
saying that I ought to be more particular than other people?"
"Does he say so?"
"Yes; and he didn't like my going with that old woman to hear the other
women. He says that I ought not to do it though anybody else might."
"I think you misunderstood him."
"No; I didn't, papa."
"Then you had better imagine that he was tired with his journey, or
that his stomach was a little out of order. Don't fret about such
things, and whatever you do, make the best of your husband."
"But how am I to know where I may go and where I mayn't? Am I to ask
him everything first?"
"Don't be a child, whatever you do. You will soon find out what pleases
him and what doesn't, and, if you manage well, what you do will please
him. Whatever his manner may be, he is soft-hearted and affectionate."
"I know that, papa."
"If he says a cross word now and again just let it go by. You should
not suppose that words always mean what they seem to mean. I knew a man
who used to tell his wife ever so often that he wished she were dead."
"Good heavens, papa!"
"Whenever he said so she always put a little magnesia into his beer,
and things went on as comfortably as possible. Never magnify things,
even to yourself. I don't suppose Lord George wants magnesia as yet,
but you will understand what I mean." She said that she did; but she
had not, in truth, quite comprehended the lesson as yet, nor could her
father as yet teach it to her in plainer language.
On that same afternoon Lord George called in Berkeley Square and saw
Mrs. Houghton. At this time the whole circle of people who were in any
way connected with the Germain family, or who, by the circumstances of
their lives were brought within the pale of the Germain influence, were
agog with the marriage of the Marquis. The newspapers had already
announced the probable return of the Marquis and the coming of a new
Marchioness and a new Lord Popenjoy. Occasion had been taken to give
some details of the Germain family, and public allusion had even been
made to the marriage of Lord George. These are days in which, should
your wife's grandfather have ever been insolvent, some newspaper, in
its catering for the public, will think it proper to recall the fact.
The Dean's parentage had been alluded to, and the late Tallowax will,
and the Tallowax property generally. It had also been declared that the
Marchesa Luigi,--now the present Marchioness,--had been born an Orsini;
and also, in another paper, the other fact (?) that she had been
divorced from her late husband. This had already been denied by Mr.
Knox, who had received a telegram from Florence ordering such denial to
be made. It may, therefore, be conceived that the Germains were at this
moment the subject of much conversation, and it may be understood that
Mrs. Houghton, who considered herself to be on very confidential terms
with Lord George, should, as they were alone, ask a few questions and
express a little sympathy. "How does the dear Marchioness like the new
house?" she asked.
"It is tolerably comfortable."
"That Price is a darling, Lord George; I've known him ever so long.
And, of course, it is the dower house."
"It was the suddenness that disturbed my mother."
"Of course; and then the whole of it must have gone against the grain
with her. You bear it like an angel."
"For myself, I don't know that I have anything to bear."
"The whole thing is so dreadful. There are you and your dear
wife,--everything just as it ought to be,--idolized by your mother,
looked up to by the whole country, the very man whom we wish to see the
head of such a family."
"Don't talk in that way, Mrs. Houghton."
"I know it is very distant; but still, I do feel near enough related to
you all to be justified in being proud, and also to be justified in
being ashamed. What will they do about calling upon her?"
"My brother will, of course, come to my mother first. Then Lady Sarah
and one of her sisters will go over. After that he will bring his wife
to Cross Hall if he pleases."
"I am so glad it is all settled; it is so much better. But you know,
Lord George,--I must say it to you as I would to my own brother,
because my regard for you is the same,--I shall never think that that
woman is really his wife." Lord George frowned heavily, but did not
speak. "And I shall never think that that child is really Lord
Popenjoy."
Neither did Lord George in his heart of hearts believe that the Italian
woman was a true Marchioness or the little child a true Lord Popenjoy;
but he had confessed to himself that he had no adequate reason for such
disbelief, and had perceived that it would become him to keep his
opinion to himself. The Dean had been explicit with him, and that very
explicitness had seemed to impose silence on himself. To his mother he
had not whispered an idea of a suspicion. With his sisters he had been
reticent, though he knew that Lady Sarah, at any rate, had her
suspicions. But now an open expression of the accusation from so dear a
friend as Mrs. Houghton,--from the Adelaide De Baron whom he had so
dearly loved,--gratified him and almost tempted him into confidence. He
had frowned at first, because his own family was to him so august that
he could not but frown when anyone ventured to speak of it. Even
crowned princes are driven to relax themselves on occasions, and Lord
George Germain felt that he would almost like, just for once, to talk
about his brothers and sisters as though they were Smiths and Joneses.
"It is very hard to know what to think," he said.
Mrs. Houghton at once saw that the field was open to her. She had
ventured a good deal, and, knowing the man, had felt the danger of
doing so; but she was satisfied now that she might say almost anything.
"But one is bound to think, isn't one? Don't you feel that? It is for
the whole family that you have to act."
"What is to be done? I can't go and look up evidence."
"But a paid agent can. Think of Mary. Think of Mary's child,--if she
should have one." As she said this she looked rather anxiously into his
face, being desirous of receiving an answer to a question which she did
not quite dare to ask.
"Of course there's all that," he said, not answering the question.
"I can only just remember him though papa knew him so well. But I
suppose he has lived abroad till he has ceased to think and feel like
an Englishman. Could anyone believe that a Marquis of Brotherton would
have married a wife long enough ago to have a son over twelve months
old, and never to have said a word about it to his brother or mother? I
don't believe it."
"I don't know what to believe," said Lord George.
"And then to write in such a way about the house! Of course I hear it
talked of by people who won't speak before you; but you ought to know."
"What do people say?"
"Everybody thinks that there is some fraud. There is old Mrs. Montacute
Jones,--I don't know anybody who knows everything better than she
does,--and she was saying that you would be driven by your duty to
investigate the matter. 'I daresay he'd prefer to do nothing,' she
said, 'but he must.' I felt that to be so true! Then Mr. Mildmay, who
is so very quiet, said that there would be a lawsuit. Papa absolutely
laughed at the idea of the boy being Lord Popenjoy, though he was
always on good terms with your brother. Mr. Houghton says that nobody
in society will give the child the name. Of course he's not very
bright, but on matters like that he does know what he's talking about.
When I hear all this I feel it a great deal, Lord George."
"I know what a friend you are."
"Indeed I am. I think very often what I might have been, but could not
be; and though I am not jealous of the happiness and honours of
another, I am anxious for your happiness and your honours." He was
sitting near her, on a chair facing the fire, while she was leaning
back on the sofa. He went on staring at the hot coals, flattered, in
some sort elate, but very disturbed. The old feeling was coming back
upon him. She was not as pretty as his wife,--but she was, he thought,
more attractive, had more to say for herself, was more of a woman. She
could pour herself into his heart and understand his feelings, whereas
Mary did not sympathize with him at all in this great family trouble.
But then Mary was, of course, his wife, and this woman was the wife of
another man. He would be the last man in the world,--so he would have
told himself could he have spoken to himself on the subject,--to bring
disgrace on himself and misery on other people by declaring his love to
another man's wife. He was the last man to do an injury to the girl
whom he had made his own wife! But he liked being with his old love,
and felt anxious to say a word to her that should have in it something
just a little beyond the ordinary tenderness of friendship. The proper
word, however, did not come to him at that moment. In such moments the
proper word very often will not come. "You are not angry with me for
saying so?" she asked.
"How can I be angry?"
"I don't think that there can have been such friendship, as there was
between you and me, and that it should fade and die away, unless there
be some quarrel. You have not quarrelled with me?"
"Quarrelled with you? Never!"
"And you did love me once?" She at any rate knew how to find the tender
words that were required for her purpose.
"Indeed I did."
"It did not last very long; did it, Lord George?"
"It was you that--that--. It was you that stopped it."
"Yes, it was I that stopped it. Perhaps I found it easier to--stop than
I had expected. But it was all for the best. It must have been
stopped. What could our life have been? I was telling a friend to mine
the other day, a lady, that there are people who cannot afford to wear
hearts inside them. If I had jumped at your offer,--and there was a
moment when I would have done so----"
"Was there?"
"Indeed there was, George." The "George" didn't mean quite as much as
it might have meant between others, because they were cousins. "But, if
I had, the joint home of us all must have been in Mr. Price's
farm-house."
"It isn't a farm-house."
"You know what I mean. But I want you to believe that I thought of you
quite as much as of myself,--more than of myself. I should at any rate
have had brilliant hopes before me. I could understand what it would be
to be the Marchioness of Brotherton. I could have borne much for years
to think that at some future day I might hang on your arm in London
salons as your wife. I had an ambition which now can never be
gratified. I, too, can look on this picture and on that. But I had to
decide for you as well as for myself, and I did decide that it was not
for your welfare nor for your honour, nor for your happiness to marry a
woman who could not help you in the world." She was now leaning forward
and almost touching his arm. "I think sometimes that those most nearly
concerned hardly know what a woman may have to endure because she is
not selfish."
How could any man stand this? There are words which a man cannot resist
from a woman even though he knows them to be false. Lord George, though
he did not quite believe that all these words were sincere, did think
that there was a touch of sincerity about them--an opinion which the
reader probably will not share with Lord George. "Have you suffered?"
he said, putting out his hand to her and taking hers.
"Suffered!" she exclaimed, drawing away her hand, and sitting bolt
upright and shaking her head. "Do you think that I am a fool, not to
know! Do you suppose that I am blind and deaf? When I said that I was
one of those who could not afford to wear a heart, did you imagine that
I had been able to get rid of the article? No, it is here still," and
she put her hand upon her side. "It is here still, and very troublesome
I find it. I suppose the time will come when it will die away. They say
that every plant will fade if it be shut in from the light, and never
opened to the rains of heaven."
"Alas! alas!" he said. "I did not know that you would feel like that."
"Of course I feel. I have had something to do with my life, and I have
done this with it! Two men have honoured me with their choice, and out
of the two I have chosen--Mr. Houghton. I comfort myself by telling
myself that I did right;--and I did do right. But the comfort is not
very comforting." Still he sat looking at the fire. He knew that it was
open to him to get up and swear to her that she still had his heart.
She could not be angry with him as she had said as much to himself. And
he almost believed at the moment that it was so. He was quite alive to
the attraction of the wickedness, though, having a conscience, he was
aware that the wickedness should, if possible, be eschewed. There is no
romance in loving one's own wife. The knowledge that it is a duty
deadens the pleasure. "I did not mean to say all this," she exclaimed
at last, sobbing.
"Adelaide!" he said.
"Do you love me? You may love me without anything wrong."
"Indeed I do." Then there was an embrace, and after that he hurried
away, almost without another word.