MR. HOUGHTON WANTS A GLASS OF SHERRY.
Lord George, when he got out of the lawyer's office with his
father-in-law, expressed himself as being very angry at what had been
done. While discussing the matter within, in the presence of Mr.
Battle, he had been unable to withstand the united energies of the Dean
and the lawyer, but, nevertheless, even while he had yielded, he had
felt that he was being driven.
"I don't think he was at all justified in making any inquiry," he said,
as soon as he found himself in the Square.
"My dear George," replied the Dean, "the quicker this can be done the
better."
"An agent should only act in accordance with his instructions."
"Without disputing that, my dear fellow, I cannot but say that I am
glad to have learned so much."
"And I am very sorry."
"We both mean the same thing, George."
"I don't think we do," said Lord George, who was determined to be
angry.
"You are sorry that it should be so,--and so am I." The triumph which
had sat in the Dean's eye when he heard the news in the lawyer's
chambers almost belied this latter assertion. "But I certainly am glad
to be on the track as soon as possible, if there is a track which it is
our duty to follow."
"I didn't like that man at all," said Lord George.
"I neither like him nor dislike him; but I believe him to be honest,
and I know him to be clever. He will find out the truth for us."
"And when it turns out that Brotherton was legally married to the
woman, what will the world think of me then?"
"The world will think that you have done your duty. There can be no
question about it, George. Whether it be agreeable or disagreeable, it
must be done. Could you have brought yourself to have thrown the burden
of doing this upon your own child, perhaps some five-and-twenty years
hence, when it may be done so much easier now by yourself."
"I have no child," said Lord George.
"But you will have." The Dean, as he said this, could not keep himself
from looking too closely into his son-in-law's face. He was most
anxious for the birth of that grandson who was to be made a Marquis by
his own energies.
"God knows. Who can say?"
"At any rate there is that child at Manor Cross. If he be not the
legitimate heir, is it not better for him that the matter should be
settled now than when he may have lived twenty years in expectation of
the title and property?" The Dean said much more than this, urging the
propriety of what had been done, but he did not succeed in quieting
Lord George's mind.
That same day the Dean told the whole story to his daughter, perhaps in
his eagerness adding something to what he had heard from the lawyer.
"Divorces in Roman Catholic countries," he said, "are quite impossible.
I believe they are never granted, except for State purposes. There may
be some new civil law, but I don't think it; and then, if the man was
an acknowledged lunatic, it must have been impossible."
"But how could the Marquis be so foolish, papa?"
"Ah, that is what we do not understand. But it will come out. You may
be sure it will all come out. Why did he come home to England and bring
them with him? And why just at this time? Why did he not communicate
his first marriage; and if not that, why the second? He probably did
not intend at first to put his child forward as Lord Popenjoy, but has
become subsequently bold. The woman, perhaps, has gradually learned the
facts and insisted on making the claim for her child. She may gradually
have become stronger than he. He may have thought that by coming here
and declaring the boy to be his heir, he would put down suspicion by
the very boldness of his assertion. Who can say? But these are the
facts, and they are sufficient to justify us in demanding that
everything shall be brought to light." Then for the first time, he
asked her what immediate hope there was that Lord George might have an
heir. She tried to laugh, then blushed; then wept a tear or two, and
muttered something which he failed to hear. "There is time enough for
all that, Mary," he said, with his pleasantest smile, and then left
her.
Lord George did not return home till late in the afternoon. He went
first to Mrs. Houghton's house, and told her nearly everything. But he
told it in such a way as to make her understand that his strongest
feeling at the present moment was one of anger against the Dean.
"Of course, George," she said, for she always called him George
now,--"The Dean will try to have it all his own way."
"I am almost sorry that I ever mentioned my brother's name to him."
"She, I suppose, is ambitious," said Mrs. Houghton. 'She,' was intended
to signify Mary.
"No. To do Mary justice, it is not her fault. I don't think she cares
for it."
"I dare say she would like to be a Marchioness as well as any one else.
I know I should."
"You might have been," he said, looking tenderly into her face.
"I wonder how I should have borne all this. You say that she is
indifferent. I should have been so anxious on your behalf,--to see you
installed in your rights!"
"I have no rights. There is my brother."
"Yes; but as the heir. She has none of the feeling about you that I
have, George." Then she put out her hand to him, which he took and
held. "I begin to think that I was wrong. I begin to know that I was
wrong. We could have lived at any rate."
"It is too late," he said, still holding her hand.
"Yes,--it is too late. I wonder whether you will ever understand the
sort of struggle which I had to go through, and the feeling of duty
which overcame me at last. Where should we have lived?"
"At Cross Hall, I suppose."
"And if there had been children, how should we have brought them up?"
She did not blush as she asked the question, but he did. "And yet I
wish that I had been braver. I think I should have suited you better
than she."
"She is as good as gold," he said, moved by a certain loyalty which,
though it was not sufficient absolutely to protect her from wrong, was
too strong to endure to hear her reproached.
"Do not tell me of her goodness," said Mrs. Houghton, jumping up from
her seat. "I do not want to hear of her goodness. Tell me of my
goodness. Does she love you as I do? Does she make you the hero of her
thoughts? She has no idea of any hero. She would think more of Jack De
Baron whirling round the room with her than of your position in the
world, or of his, or even of her own." He winced visibly when he heard
Jack De Baron's name. "You need not be afraid," she continued, "for
though she is, as you say, as good as gold, she knows nothing about
love. She took you when you came because it suited the ambition of the
Dean,--as she would have taken anything else that he provided for her."
"I believe she loves me," he said, having in his heart of hearts, at
the moment, much more solicitude in regard to his absent wife than to
the woman who was close to his feet and was flattering him to the top
of his bent.
"And her love, such as it is, is sufficient for you?"
"She is my wife."
"Yes; because I allowed it; because I thought it wrong to subject your
future life to the poverty which I should have brought with me. Do you
think there was no sacrifice then?"
"But, Adelaide;--it is so."
"Yes, it is so. But what does it all mean? The time is gone by when
men, or women either, were too qualmish and too queasy to admit the
truth even to themselves. Of course you are married, and so am I; but
marriage does not alter the heart. I did not cease to love you because
I would not marry you. You could not cease to love me merely because I
refused you. When I acknowledged to myself that Mr. Houghton's income
was necessary to me, I did not become enamoured of him. Nor I suppose
did you when you found the same as to Miss Lovelace's money."
Upon this he also jumped up from his seat, and stood before her. "I
will not have even you say that I married my wife for her money."
"How was it then, George? I am not blaming you for doing what I did as
well as you."
"I should blame myself. I should feel myself to be degraded."
"Why so? It seems to me that I am bolder than you. I can look the
cruelties of the world in the face, and declare openly how I will meet
them. I did marry Mr. Houghton for his money, and of course he knew it.
Is it to be supposed that he or any human being could have thought that
I married him for love? I make his house comfortable for him as far as
I can, and am civil to his friends, and look my best at his table. I
hope he is satisfied with his bargain; but I cannot do more. I cannot
wear him in my heart. Nor, George, do I believe that you in your heart
can ever wear Mary Lovelace!" But he did,--only that he thought that he
had space there for two, and that in giving habitation to this second
love he was adding at any rate to the excitements of his life. "Tell
me, George," said the woman, laying her hand upon his breast, "is it
she or I that have a home there?"
"I will not say that I do not love my wife," he said.
"No; you are afraid. The formalities of the world are so much more to
you than to me! Sit down, George. Oh, George!" Then she was on her
knees at his feet, hiding her face upon her hands, while his arms were
almost necessarily thrown over her and embracing her. The lady was
convulsed with sobs, and he was thinking how it would be with him and
her should the door be opened and some pair of eyes see them as they
were. But her ears were sharp in spite of her sobs. There was the fall
of a foot on the stairs which she heard long before it reached him,
and, in a moment, she was in her chair. He looked at her, and there was
no trace of a tear. "It's Houghton," she said, putting her finger up to
her mouth with almost a comic gesture. There was a smile in her eyes,
and a little mockery of fear in the trembling of her hand and the
motion of her lips. To him it seemed to be tragic enough. He had to
assume to this gentleman whom he had been injuring a cordial friendly
manner,--and thus to lie to him. He had to make pretences, and at a
moment's notice to feign himself something very different from what he
was. Had the man come a little more quickly, had the husband caught him
with the wife at his knees, nothing could have saved him and his own
wife from utter misery. So he felt it to be, and the feeling almost
overwhelmed him. His heart palpitated with emotion as the wronged
husband's hand was on the door. She, the while, was as thoroughly
composed as a stage heroine. But she had flattered him and pretended to
love him, and it did not occur to him that he ought to be angry with
her. "Who would ever think of seeing you at this time of day?" said
Mrs. Houghton.
"Well, no; I'm going back to the club in a few minutes. I had to come
up to Piccadilly to have my hair cut!"
"Your hair cut!"
"Honour bright! Nothing upsets me so much as having my hair cut. I'm
going to ring for a glass of sherry. By the bye, Lord George, a good
many of them are talking at the club about young Popenjoy."
"What are they saying?" Lord George felt that he must open his mouth,
but did not wish to talk to this man, and especially did not wish to
talk about his own affairs.
"Of course I know nothing about it; but surely the way Brotherton has
come back is very odd. I used to be very fond of your brother, you
know. There was nobody her father used to swear by so much as him. But,
by George, I don't know what to make of it now. Nobody has seen the
Marchioness!"
"I have not seen her," said Lord George; "but she is there all the same
for that."
"Nobody doubts that she's there. She's there, safe enough. And the boy
is there too. We're all quite sure of that. But you know the Marquis of
Brotherton is somebody."
"I hope so," said Lord George.
"And when he brings his wife home people will expect,--will expect to
know something about it;--eh?" All this was said with an intention of
taking Lord George's part in a question which was already becoming one
of interest to the public. It was hinted here and there that there was
"a screw loose" about this young Popenjoy, who had just been brought
from Italy, and that Lord George would have to look to it. Of course
they who were connected with Brothershire were more prone to talk of it
than others, and Mr. Houghton, who had heard and said a good deal about
it, thought that he was only being civil to Lord George in seeming to
take part against the Marquis.
But Lord George felt it to be matter of offence that any outsider
should venture to talk about his family. "If people would only confine
themselves to subjects with which they are acquainted, it would be very
much better," he said;--and then almost immediately took his leave.
"That's all regular nonsense, you know," Mr. Houghton said as soon as
he was alone with his wife. "Of course people are talking about it.
Your father says that Brotherton must be mad."
"That's no reason why you should come and tell Lord George what people
say. You never have any tact."
"Of course I'm wrong; I always am," said the husband, swallowing his
glass of sherry and then taking his departure.
Lord George was now in a very uneasy state of mind. He intended to be
cautious,--had intended even to be virtuous and self-denying; and yet,
in spite of his intentions, he had fallen into such a condition of
things with Mr. Houghton's wife, that were the truth to be known, he
would be open to most injurious proceedings. To him the love affair
with another man's wife was more embarrassing even than pleasant. Its
charm did not suffice to lighten for him the burden of the wickedness.
He had certain inklings of complaint in his own mind against his own
wife, but he felt that his own hands should be perfectly clean before
he could deal with those inklings magisterially and maritally. How
would he look were she to turn upon him and ask him as to his own
conduct with Adelaide Houghton? And then into what a sea of trouble
had he not already fallen in this matter of his brother's marriage? His
first immediate duty was that of writing to his elder sister, and he
expressed himself to her in strong language. After telling her all that
he had heard from the lawyer, he spoke of himself and of the Dean. "It
will make me very unhappy," he wrote. "Do you remember what Hamlet
says:
'O, cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!'
"I feel like that altogether. I want to get nothing by it. No man ever
less begrudged to his elder brother than I do all that belongs to him.
Though he has himself treated me badly, I would support him in anything
for the sake of the family. At this moment I most heartily wish that
the child may be Lord Popenjoy. The matter will destroy all my
happiness perhaps for the next ten years;--perhaps for ever. And I
cannot but think that the Dean has interfered in a most unjustifiable
manner. He drives me on, so that I almost feel that I shall be forced
to quarrel with him. With him it is manifestly personal ambition, and
not duty." There was much more of it in the same strain, but at the
same time an acknowledgment that he had now instructed the Dean's
lawyer to make the inquiry.
Lady Sarah's answer was perhaps more judicious; and as it was shorter
it shall be given entire.
"Cross Hall, May 10, 187--.
"MY DEAR GEORGE,--Of course it is a sad thing to us all that this
terrible inquiry should be forced upon us;--and more grievous to
you than to us, as you must take the active part in it. But this
is a manifest duty, and duties are seldom altogether pleasant. All
that you say as to yourself,--which I know to be absolutely
true,--must at any rate make your conscience clear in the matter.
It is not for your sake nor for our sake that this is to be done,
but for the sake of the family at large, and to prevent the
necessity of future lawsuits which would be ruinous to the
property. If the child be legitimate, let that, in God's name, be
proclaimed so loud that no one shall hereafter be able to cast a
doubt upon the fact. To us it must be matter of deepest sorrow
that our brother's child and the future head of our family should
have been born under circumstances which, at the best, must still
be disgraceful. But, although that is so, it will be equally our
duty to acknowledge his rights to the full, if they be his rights.
Though the son of the widow of a lunatic foreigner, still if the
law says that he is Brotherton's heir, it is for us to render the
difficulties in his way as light as possible. But that we may do
so, we must know what he is.
"Of course you find the Dean to be pushing and perhaps a little
vulgar. No doubt with him the chief feeling is one of personal
ambition. But in his way he is wise, and I do not know that in
this matter he has done anything which had better have been left
undone. He believes that the child is not legitimate;--and so in
my heart do I.
"You must remember that my dear mother is altogether on
Brotherton's side. The feeling that there should be an heir is so
much to her, and the certainty that the boy is at any rate her
grandson, that she cannot endure that a doubt should be expressed.
Of course this does not tend to make our life pleasant down here.
Poor dear mamma! Of course we do all we can to comfort her.
"Your affectionate sister,
"SARAH GERMAIN."