"WHAT MATTER IF SHE DOES?"
About noon on the day after the occurrences related in the last chapter
Lady George owned to herself that she was a most unfortunate young
woman. Her husband had gone out, and she had not as yet told him
anything of what that odious Augusta Mildmay had said to her. She had
made various little attempts but had not known how to go on with them.
She had begun by giving him her history of the Baroness, and he had
scolded her for giving the woman a sovereign and for taking the woman
about London in her carriage. It is very difficult to ask in a fitting
way for the sympathies and co-operation of one who is scolding you. And
Mary in this matter wanted almost more than sympathy and co-operation.
Nothing short of the fullest manifestation of affectionate confidence
would suffice to comfort her; and, desiring this, she had been afraid
to mention Captain De Baron's name. She thought of the waltzing,
thought of Susanna, and was cowardly. So the time slipped away from
her, and when he left her on the following morning her story had not
been told. He was no sooner gone than she felt that if it were to be
told at all it should have been told at once.
Was it possible that that venomous girl should really go to her husband
with such a complaint? She knew well enough, or at any rate thought
that she knew, that there had never been an engagement between the girl
and Jack De Baron. She had heard it all over and over again from
Adelaide Houghton, and had even herself been present at some joke on
the subject between Adelaide and Jack. There was an idea that Jack was
being pursued, and Mrs. Houghton had not scrupled to speak of it before
him. Mary had not admired her friend's taste, and had on such
occasions thought well of Jack because he had simply disowned any
consciousness of such a state of things. But all this had made Mary
sure that there was not and that there never had been any engagement;
and yet the wretched woman, in her futile and frantic endeavours to
force the man to marry her, was not ashamed to make so gross an attack
as this!
If it hadn't been for Lady Susanna and those wretched fortune-telling
cards, and that one last waltz, there would be nothing in it; but as it
was, there might be so much! She had begun to fear that her husband's
mind was suspicious,--that he was prone to believe that things were
going badly. Before her marriage, when she had in truth known him not
at all, her father had given her some counsels in his light airy way,
which, however, had sunk deep into her mind and which she had
endeavoured to follow to the letter. He had said not a word to her as
to her conduct to other men. It would not be natural that a father
should do so. But he had told her how to behave to her husband. Men, he
had assured her, were to be won by such comforts as he described. A
wife should provide that a man's dinner was such as he liked to eat,
his bed such as he liked to lie on, his clothes arranged as he liked to
wear them, and the household hours fixed to suit his convenience. She
should learn and indulge his habits, should suit herself to him in
external things of life, and could thus win from him a liking and a
reverence which would wear better than the feeling generally called
love, and would at last give the woman her proper influence. The Dean
had meant to teach his child how she was to rule her husband, but of
course had been too wise to speak of dominion. Mary, declaring to
herself that the feeling generally called love should exist as well as
the liking and the reverence, had laboured hard to win it all from her
husband in accordance with her father's teaching; but it had seemed to
her that her labour was wasted. Lord George did not in the least care
what he ate. He evidently had no opinion at all about the bed; and as
to his clothes, seemed to receive no accession of comfort by having one
wife and her maid, instead of three sisters and their maid and old Mrs.
Toff to look after them. He had no habits which she could indulge. She
had looked about for the weak point in his armour, but had not found
it. It seemed to her that she had no influence over him whatever. She
was of course aware that they lived upon her fortune; but she was aware
also that he knew that it was so, and that the consciousness made him
unhappy. She could not, therefore, even endeavour to minister to his
comfort by surrounding him with pretty things. All expenditure was
grievous to him. The only matter in which she had failed to give way to
any expressed wish had been in that important matter of their town
residence; and, as to that, she had in fact had no power of yielding.
It had been of such moment as to have been settled for her by previous
contract. But, she had often thought, whether in her endeavour to force
herself to be in love with him, she would not persistently demand that
Munster Court should be abandoned, and that all the pleasures of her
own life should be sacrificed.
Now, for a day or two, she heartily wished that she had done so. She
liked her house; she liked her brougham; she liked the gaieties of her
life; and in a certain way she liked Jack De Baron; but they were all
to her as nothing when compared to her duty and her sense of the
obligations which she owed to her husband. Playful and childish as she
was, all this was very serious to her;--perhaps the more serious
because she was playful and childish. She had not experience enough to
know how small some things are, and how few are the evils which cannot
be surmounted. It seemed to her that if Miss Mildmay were at this
moment to bring the horrid charge against her, it might too probably
lead to the crash of ruin and the horrors of despair. And yet, through
it all, she had a proud feeling of her own innocence and a
consciousness that she would speak out very loudly should her husband
hint to her that he believed the accusation.
Her father would now be in London in a day or two, and on this occasion
would again be staying in Munster Court. At last she made up her mind
that she would tell everything to him. It was not, perhaps, the wisest
resolution to which she could have come. A married woman should not
usually teach herself to lean on her parents instead of her husband,
and certainly not on her father. It is in this way that divided
households are made. But she had no other real friend of whom she could
ask a question. She liked Mrs. Houghton, but, as to such a matter as
this, distrusted her altogether. She liked Miss Houghton, her friend's
aunt, but did not know her well enough for such service as this. She
had neither brother nor sister of her own, and her husband's brothers
and sisters were certainly out of the question. Old Mrs. Montacute
Jones had taken a great fancy to her, and she almost thought that she
could have asked Mrs. Jones for advice; but she had no connection with
Mrs. Jones, and did not dare to do it. Therefore she resolved to tell
everything to her father.
On the evening before her father came to town there was another ball at
Mrs. Montacute Jones's. This old lady, who had no one belonging to her
but an invisible old husband, was the gayest of the gay among the gay
people of London. On this occasion Mary was to have gone with Lady
Brabazon, who was related to the Germains, and Lord George had arranged
an escape for himself. They were to drive out together, and when she
went to her ball he would go to bed. But in the course of the afternoon
she told him that she was writing to Lady Brabazon to decline. "Why
won't you go?" said he.
"I don't care about it."
"If you mean that you won't go without me, of course I will go."
"It isn't that exactly. Of course it is nicer if you go; though I
wouldn't take you if you don't like it. But----"
"But what, dear?"
"I think I'd rather not to-night. I don't know that I am quite strong
enough." Then he didn't say another word to press her,--only begging
that she would not go to the dinner either if she were not well. But
she was quite well, and she did go to the dinner.
Again she had meant to tell him why she would not go to Mrs. Jones's
ball, but had been unable. Jack De Baron would be there, and would want
to know why she would not waltz. And Adelaide Houghton would tease her
about it, very likely before him. She had always waltzed with him, and
could not now refuse without some reason. So she gave up her ball,
sending word to say that she was not very well. "I shouldn't at all
wonder if he has kept her at home because he's afraid of you," said
Mrs. Houghton to her cousin.
Late in the following afternoon, before her husband had come home from
his club, she told her father the whole story of her interview with
Miss Mildmay. "What a tiger," he said, when he had heard it. "I have
heard of women like that before, but I have never believed in them."
"You don't think she will tell him?"
"What matter if she does? What astonishes me most is that a woman
should be so unwomanly as to fight for a man in such a way as that. It
is the sort of thing that men used to do. 'You must give up your claim
to that lady, or else you must fight me.' Now she comes forward and
says that she will fight you."
"But, papa, I have no claim."
"Nor probably has she?"
"No; I'm sure she has not. But what does that matter? The horrid thing
is that she should say all this to me. I told her that she couldn't
know that I was married."
"She merely wanted to make herself disagreeable. If one comes across
disagreeable people one has to bear with it. I suppose she was jealous.
She had seen you dancing or perhaps talking with the man."
"Oh, yes."
"And in her anger she wanted to fly at some one."
"It is not her I care about, papa."
"What then?"
"If she were to tell George."
"What if she did? You do not mean to say that he would believe her? You
do not think that he is jealous?"
She began to perceive that she could not get any available counsel from
her father unless she could tell him everything. She must explain to
him what evil Lady Susanna had already done; how her sister-in-law had
acted as duenna, and had dared to express a suspicion about this very
man. And she must tell him that Lord George had desired her not to
waltz, and had done so, as she believed, because he had seen her
waltzing with Jack De Baron. But all this seemed to her to be
impossible. There was nothing which she would not be glad that he
knew, if only he could be made to know it all truly. But she did not
think that she could tell him what had really happened; and were she to
do so, there would be horrid doubts on his mind. "You do not mean to
say that he is given to that sort of thing?" asked the Dean, again with
a look of anger.
"Oh no,--at least I hope not. Susanna did try to make mischief."
"The d---- she did," said the Dean. Mary almost jumped in her chair,
she was so much startled by such a word from her father's mouth. "If
he's fool enough to listen to that old cat, he'll make himself a
miserable and a contemptible man. Did she say anything to him about
this very man?"
"She said something very unpleasant to me, and of course I told
George."
"Well?"
"He was all that was kind. He declared that he had no objection to make
to Captain De Baron at all. I am sure there was no reason why he
should."
"Tush!" exclaimed the Dean, as though any assurance or even any notice
of the matter in that direction were quite unnecessary. "And there was
an end of that?"
"I think he is a little inclined to be--to be----"
"To be what? You had better tell it all out, Mary."
"Perhaps what you would call strict. He told me not to waltz any more
the other day."
"He's a fool," said the Dean angrily.
"Oh no, papa; don't say that. Of course he has a right to think as he
likes, and of course I am bound to do as he says."
"He has no experience, no knowledge of the world. Perhaps one of the
last things which a man learns is to understand innocence when he sees
it." The word innocence was so pleasant to her that she put out her
hand and touched his knee. "Take no notice of what that angry woman
said to you. Above all, do not drop your acquaintance with this
gentleman. You should be too proud to be influenced in any way by such
scandal."
"But if she were to speak to George?"
"She will hardly dare. But if she does, that is no affair of yours. You
can have nothing to do with it till he shall speak to you."
"You would not tell him?"
"No; I should not even think about it. She is below your notice. If it
should be the case that she dares to speak to him, and that he should
be weak enough to be moved by what such a creature can say to him, you
will, I am sure, have dignity enough to hold your own with him. Tell
him that you think too much of his honour as well of your own to make
it necessary for him to trouble himself. But he will know that himself,
and if he does speak to you, he will speak only in pity for her." All
this he said slowly and seriously, looking as she had sometimes seen
him look when preaching in the cathedral. And she believed him now as
she always believed him then, and was in a great measure comforted.
But she could not but be surprised that her father should so absolutely
refuse to entertain the idea that any intimacy between herself and
Captain De Baron should be injurious. It gratified her that it should
be so, but nevertheless she was surprised. She had endeavoured to
examine the question by her own lights, but had failed in answering it.
She knew well enough that she liked the man. She had discovered in him
the realization of those early dreams. His society was in every respect
pleasant to her. He was full of playfulness, and yet always gentle. He
was not very clever, but clever enough. She had made the mistake in
life,--or rather others had made it for her,--of taking herself too
soon from her playthings and devoting herself to the stern reality of a
husband. She understood something of this, and liked to think that she
might amuse herself innocently with such a one as Jack De Baron. She
was sure that she did not love him,--that there was no danger of her
loving him; and she was quite confident also that he did not love her.
But yet,--yet there had been a doubt on her mind. Innocent as it all
was, there might be cause of offence to her husband. It was this
thought that had made her sometimes long to be taken away from London
and be immured amidst the dulness of Cross Hall. But of such dangers
and of such fears her father saw nothing. Her father simply bade her to
maintain her own dignity and have her own way. Perhaps her father was
right.
On the next day the Dean and his son-in-law went, according to
appointment, to Mr. Battle. Mr. Battle received them with his usual
bland courtesy, and listened attentively to whatever the two gentlemen
had to say. Lawyers who know their business always allow their clients
to run out their stories even when knowing that the words so spoken are
wasted words. It is the quickest way of arriving at their desired
result. Lord George had a good deal to say, because his mind was full
of the conviction that he would not for worlds put an obstacle in the
way of his brother's heir, if he could be made sure that the child was
the heir. He wished for such certainty, and cursed the heavy chance
that had laid so grievous a duty on his shoulders.
When he had done, Mr. Battle began. "I think, Lord George, that I have
learned most of the particulars."
Lord George started back in his chair. "What particulars?" said the
Dean.
"The Marchioness's late husband,--for she doubtless is his Lordship's
wife,--was a lunatic."
"A lunatic!" said Lord George.
"We do not quite know when he died, but we believe it was about a month
or two before the date at which his Lordship wrote home to say that he
was about to be married."
"Then that child cannot be Lord Popenjoy," said the Dean with
exultation.
"That's going a little too fast, Mr. Dean. There may have been a
divorce."
"There is no such thing in Roman Catholic countries," said the Dean.
"Certainly not in Italy."
"I do not quite know," said the lawyer. "Of course we are as yet very
much in the dark. I should not wonder if we found that there had been
two marriages. All this is what we have got to find out. The lady
certainly lived in great intimacy with your brother before her first
husband died."
"How do you know anything about it?" asked Lord George.
"I happened to have heard the name of the Marchese Luigi, and I knew
where to apply for information."
"We did not mean that any inquiry should be made so suddenly," said
Lord George angrily.
"It was for the best," said the Dean.
"Certainly for the best," said the unruffled lawyer. "I would now
recommend that I may be commissioned to send out my own confidential
clerk to learn all the circumstances of the case; and that I should
inform Mr. Stokes that I am going to do so, on your instructions, Lord
George." Lord George shivered. "I think we should even offer to give
his Lordship time to send an agent with my clerk if he pleases to do
so, or to send one separately at the same time, or to take any other
step that he may please. It is clearly your duty, my Lord, to have the
inquiry made."
"Your manifest duty," said the Dean, unable to restrain his triumph.
Lord George pleaded for delay, and before he left the lawyer's chambers
almost quarrelled with his father-in-law; but before he did leave them
he had given the necessary instructions.