RATHER "BOISTEROUS."
"After all, he's very dreary!" It was this that Adelaide Houghton spoke
to herself as soon as Lord George had left her. No doubt the whole work
of the interview had fallen on to her shoulders. He had at last been
talked into saying that he loved her, and had then run away frightened
by the unusual importance and tragic signification of his own words.
"After all, he's very dreary."
Mrs. Houghton wanted excitement. She probably did like Lord George as
well as she liked any one. Undoubtedly she would have married him had
he been able to maintain her as she liked to be maintained. But, as he
had been unable, she had taken Mr. Houghton without a notion on her
part of making even an attempt to love him. When she said that she
could not afford to wear a heart,--and she had said so to various
friends and acquaintances,--she did entertain an idea that
circumstances had used her cruelly, that she had absolutely been forced
to marry a stupid old man, and that therefore some little freedom was
due to her as a compensation. Lord George was Lord George, and might,
possibly, some day be a marquis. He was at any rate a handsome man, and
he had owned allegiance to her before he had transferred his homage to
that rich little chit Mary Lovelace. She was incapable of much passion,
but she did feel that she owed it to herself to have some revenge on
Mary Lovelace. The game as it stood had charms sufficient to induce her
to go on with it; and yet,--after all, he was dreary.
Such was the lady's feeling when she was left alone; but Lord George
went away from the meeting almost overcome by the excitement of the
occasion. To him the matter was of such stirring moment that he could
not go home, could not even go to his club. He was so moved by his
various feelings, that he could only walk by himself and consider
things. To her that final embrace had meant very little. What did it
signify? He had taken her in his arms and kissed her forehead. It might
have been her lips had he so pleased. But to him it had seemed to mean
very much indeed. There was a luxury in it which almost intoxicated
him, and a horror in it which almost quelled him. That she should so
love him as to be actually subdued by her love could not but charm him.
He had none of that strength which arms a man against flatterers;--none
of that experience which strengthens a man against female cajolery. It
was to him very serious and very solemn. There might, perhaps, have
been exaggeration in her mode of describing her feelings, but there
could be no doubt in this,--that he had held her in his arms and that
she was another man's wife.
The wickedness of the thing was more wicked to him than the charm of it
was charming. It was dreadful to him to think that he had done a thing
of which he would have to be ashamed if the knowledge of it were
brought to his wife's ears. That he should have to own himself to have
been wrong to her would tear him to pieces! That he should lord it over
her as a real husband, was necessary to his happiness, and how can a
man be a real lord over a woman when he has had to confess his fault to
her, and to beg her to forgive him? A wife's position with her husband
may be almost improved by such asking for pardon. It will enhance his
tenderness. But the man is so lowered that neither of them can ever
forget the degradation. And, though it might never come to that, though
this terrible passion might be concealed from her, still it was a
grievance to him and a disgrace that he should have anything to
conceal. It was a stain in his own eyes on his own nobility, a slur
upon his escutcheon, a taint in his hitherto unslobbered honesty, and
then the sin of it;--the sin of it! To him it already sat heavy on his
conscience. In his ear, even now, sounded that commandment which he
weekly prayed that he might be permitted to keep. While with her there
was hardly left a remembrance of the kiss which he had imprinted on her
brow, his lips were still burning with the fever. Should he make up his
mind, now at once, that he would never, never see her again? Should he
resolve that he would write to her a moving tragic letter,--not a love
letter,--in which he would set forth the horrors of unhallowed love,
and tell her that there must be a gulf between them, over which neither
must pass till age should have tamed their passions! As he walked
across the park he meditated what would be the fitting words for such a
letter, and almost determined that it should be written. Did he not owe
his first duty to his wife, and was he not bound for her sake to take
such a step? Then, as he wandered alone in Kensington Gardens,--for it
had taken him many steps, and occupied much time to think of it
all,--there came upon him an idea that perhaps the lady would not
receive the letter in the proper spirit. Some idea occurred to him of
the ridicule which would befall him should the lady at last tell him
that he had really exaggerated matters. And then the letter might be
shown to others. He did love the lady. With grief and shame and a
stricken conscience he owned to himself that he loved her. But he could
not quite trust her. And so, as he walked down towards the Albert
Memorial, he made up his mind that he would not write the letter. But
he also made up his mind,--he thought that he made up his mind,--that
he would go no more alone to Berkeley Square.
As he walked on he suddenly came upon his wife walking with Captain De
Baron, and he was immediately struck by the idea that his wife ought
not to be walking in Kensington Gardens with Captain De Baron. The idea
was so strong as altogether to expel from his mind for the moment all
remembrance of Mrs. Houghton. He had been unhappy before because he was
conscious that he was illtreating his wife, but now he was almost more
disturbed because it seemed to him to be possible that his wife was
illtreating him. He had left her but a few minutes ago,--he thought of
it now as being but a few minutes since,--telling her with almost his
last word that she was specially bound, more bound than other women, to
mind her own conduct,--and here she was walking in Kensington Gardens
with a man whom all the world called Jack De Baron? As he approached
them his brow became clouded, and she could see that it was so. She
could not but fear that her companion would see it also. Lord George
was thinking how to address them, and had already determined on tucking
his wife under his own arm and carrying her off, before he saw that a
very little way behind them the Dean was walking with--Adelaide
Houghton herself. Though he had been more than an hour wandering about
the park he could not understand that the lady whom he had left in her
own house so recently, in apparently so great a state of agitation,
should be there also, in her best bonnet and quite calm. He had no
words immediately at command, but she was as voluble as ever. "Doesn't
this seem odd?" she said. "Why, it is not ten minutes since you left me
in Berkeley Square. I wonder what made you come here."
"What made you come?"
"Jack brought me here. If it were not for Jack I should never walk or
ride or do anything, except sit in a stupid carriage. And just at the
gate of the gardens we met the Dean and Lady George."
This was very simple and straightforward. There could be no doubt of
the truth of it all. Lady George had come out with her father and
nothing could be more as it ought to be. As to "Jack" and the lady he
did not, at any rate as yet, feel himself justified in being angry at
that arrangement. But nevertheless he was disturbed. His wife had been
laughing when he first saw her, and Jack had been talking, and they had
seemed to be very happy together. The Dean no doubt was there; but
still the fact remained that Jack had been laughing and talking with
his wife. He almost doubted whether his wife ought under any
circumstances to laugh in Kensington Gardens. And then the Dean was so
indiscreet! He, Lord George, could not of course forbid his wife to
walk with her father;--but the Dean had no idea that any real looking
after was necessary for anybody. He at once gave his arm to his wife,
but in two minutes she had dropped it. They were on the steps of the
Albert Memorial, and it was perhaps natural that she should do so. But
he hovered close to her as they were looking at the figures, and was
uneasy. "I think it's the prettiest thing in London," said the Dean,
"one of the prettiest things in the world."
"Don't you find it very cold?" said Lord George, who did not at the
present moment care very much for the fine arts.
"We have been walking quick," said Mrs. Houghton, "and have enjoyed
it." The Dean with the two others had now passed round one of the
corners. "I wonder," she went on, "I do wonder how it has come to pass
that we should be brought together again so soon!"
"We both happened to come the same way," said Lord George, who was
still thinking of his wife.
"Yes;--that must have been it. Though is it not a strange coincidence?
My mind had been so flurried that I was glad to get out into the fresh
air. When shall I see you again?" He couldn't bring himself to
say--never. There would have been a mock-tragic element about the
single word which even he felt. And yet, here on the steps of the
monument, there was hardly an opportunity for him to explain at length
the propriety of their both agreeing to be severed. "You wish to see
me;--don't you?" she asked.
"I hardly know what to say."
"But you love me!" She was now close to him, and there was no one else
near enough to interfere. She was pressing close up to him, and he was
sadly ashamed of himself. And yet he did love her. He thought that she
had never looked so well as at the present moment. "Say that you love
me," she said, stamping her foot almost imperiously.
"You know I do, but--"
"But what."
"I had better come to you again and tell you all." The words were no
sooner out of his mouth than he remembered that he had resolved that he
would never go to her again. But yet, after what had passed, something
must be done. He had also made up his mind that he wouldn't write. He
had quite made up his mind about that. The words that are written
remain. It would perhaps be better that he should go to her and tell
her everything.
"Of course you will come again," she said. "What is it ails you? You
are unhappy because she is here with my cousin Jack?" It was
intolerable to him that any one should suspect him of jealousy. "Jack
has a way of getting intimate with people, but it means nothing." It
was dreadful to him that an allusion should be made to the possibility
of anybody "meaning anything" with his wife.
Just at this moment Jack's voice was heard coming back round the
corner, and also the laughter of the Dean. Captain De Baron had been
describing the persons represented on the base of the monument, and had
done so after some fashion of his own that had infinitely amused not
only Lady George but her father also. "You ought to be appointed Guide
to the Memorial," said the Dean.
"If Lady George will give me a testimonial no doubt I might get it,
Dean," said Jack.
"I don't think you know anything about any of them," said Lady George.
"I'm sure you've told me wrong about two. You're the last man in the
world that ought to be a guide to anything."
"Will you come and be guide, and I'll just sweep the steps!"
Lord George heard the last words, and allowed himself to be annoyed at
them, though he felt them to be innocent. He knew that his wife was
having a game of pleasant play, like a child with a pleasant
play-fellow. But then he was not satisfied that his wife should play
like a child,--and certainly not with such a playfellow. He doubted
whether his wife ought to allow playful intimacy from any man. Marriage
was to him a very serious thing. Was he not prepared to give up a real
passion because he had made this other woman his wife? In thinking over
all this his mind was not very logical, but he did feel that he was
justified in exacting particularly strict conduct from her because he
was going to make Mrs. Houghton understand that they two, though they
loved each other, must part. If he could sacrifice so much for his
wife, surely she might sacrifice something for him.
They returned altogether to Hyde Park Corner and then they separated.
Jack went away towards Berkeley Square with his cousin; the Dean got
himself taken in a cab to his club; and Lord George walked his wife
down Constitution Hill towards their own home. He felt it to be
necessary that he should say something to his wife; but, at the same
time, was specially anxious that he should give her no cause to suspect
him of jealousy. Nor was he jealous, in the ordinary sense of the word.
He did not suppose for a moment that his wife was in love with Jack De
Baron, or Jack with his wife. But he did think that whereas she had
very little to say to her own husband she had a great deal to say to
Jack. And he was sensible, also, of a certain unbecomingness in such
amusement on her part. She had to struggle upwards, so as to be able to
sustain properly the position and dignity of Lady George Germain, and
the possible dignity of the Marchioness of Brotherton. She ought not to
want playfellows. If she would really have learned the names of all
those artists on the base of the Memorial, as she might so easily have
done, there would have been something in it. A lady ought to know, at
any rate, the names of such men. But she had allowed this Jack to make
a joke of it all, and had rather liked the joke. And the Dean had
laughed loud,--more like the son of a stable-keeper than a Dean. Lord
George was almost more angry with the Dean than with his wife. The
Dean, when at Brotherton, did maintain a certain amount of dignity; but
here, up in London, he seemed to be intent only on "having a good
time," like some schoolboy out on a holiday.
"Were you not a little loud when you were on the steps of the
Memorial?" he said.
"I hope not, George; not too loud."
"A lady should never be in the least loud, nor for the matter of that
would a gentleman either if he knew what he was about."
She walked on a little way, leaning on his arm in silence, considering
whether he meant anything by what he was saying, and how much he meant.
She felt almost sure that he did mean something disagreeable, and that
he was scolding her. "I don't quite know what you mean by loud, George?
We were talking, and of course wanted to make each other hear. I
believe with some people loud means--vulgar. I hope you didn't mean
that."
He certainly would not tell his wife that she was vulgar. "There is,"
he said, "a manner of talking which leads people on to--to--being
boisterous."
"Boisterous, George? Was I boisterous?"
"I think your father was a little."
She felt herself blush beneath her veil as she answered. "Of course if
you tell me anything about myself, I will endeavour to do as you tell
me; but, as for papa, I am sure he knows how to behave himself. I don't
think he ought to be found fault with because he likes to amuse
himself."
"And that Captain De Baron was very loud," said Lord George, conscious
that though his ground might be weak in reference to the Dean, he could
say what he pleased about Jack De Baron.
"Young men do laugh and talk, don't they, George?"
"What they do in their barracks, or when they are together, is nothing
to you or me. What such a one may do when he is in company with my wife
is very much to me, and ought to be very much to you."
"George," she said, again pausing for a moment, "do you mean to tell me
that I have misbehaved myself? Because, if so, speak it out at once."
"My dear, that is a foolish question for you to ask. I have said
nothing about misbehaviour, and you ought, at any rate, to wait till I
have done so. I should be very sorry to use such a word, and do not
think that I shall ever have occasion. But surely you will admit that
there may be practises, and manners, and customs on which I am at
liberty to speak to you. I am older than you."
"Husbands, of course, are older than their wives, but wives generally
know what they are about quite as well as their husbands."
"Mary, that isn't the proper way to take what I say. You have a very
peculiar place to fill in the world,--a place for which your early life
could not give you the very fittest training."
"Then why did you put me there?"
"Because of my love, and also because I had no doubt whatever as to
your becoming fit. There is a levity which is often pretty and becoming
in a girl, in which a married woman in some ranks of life may, perhaps,
innocently indulge, but which is not appropriate to higher positions."
"This is all because I laughed when Captain De Baron mispronounced the
men's names. I don't know anything peculiar in my position. One would
suppose that I was going to be made a sort of female bishop, or to sit
all my life as a chairwoman, like that Miss Mildmay. Of course I laugh
when things are said that make me laugh. And as for Captain De Baron, I
think he is very nice. Papa likes him, and he is always at the
Houghtons, and I cannot agree that he was loud and vulgar, or
boisterous, because he made a few innocent jokes in Kensington
Gardens."
He perceived now, for the first time since he had known her, that she
had a temper of her own, which he might find some difficulty in
controlling. She had endured gently enough his first allusions to
herself, but had risen up in wrath against him from the moment in which
he had spoken disparagingly of her father. At the moment he had nothing
further to say. He had used what eloquence there was in him, what words
he had collected together, and then walked home in silence. But his
mind was full of the matter; and though he made no further allusion on
that day, or for some subsequent days either to this conversation or to
his wife's conduct in the park, he had it always in his mind. He must
be the master, and in order that he might be master the Dean must be as
little as possible in the house. And that intimacy with Jack De Baron
must be crushed,--if only that she might be taught that he intended to
be master.
Two or three days passed by, and during those two or three days he did
not go to Berkeley Square.