LORD GEORGE IS TROUBLED.
This was a day of no little importance to Lord George; so much so, that
one or two circumstances which occurred before he saw his brother at
the hotel must be explained. On that day there had come to him from the
Dean a letter written in the Dean's best humour. When the house had
been taken in Munster Court there had been a certain understanding,
hardly quite a fixed assurance, that it was to be occupied up to the
end of June, and that then Lord George and his wife should go into
Brothershire. There had been a feeling ever since the marriage that
while Mary preferred London, Lord George was wedded to the country.
They had on the whole behaved well to each other in the matter. The
husband, though he feared that his wife was surrounded by dangers, and
was well aware that he himself was dallying on the brink of a terrible
pitfall, would not urge a retreat before the time that had been named.
And she, though she had ever before her eyes the fear of the dullness
of Cross Hall, would not ask to have the time postponed. It was now the
end of May, and a certain early day in July had been fixed for their
retreat from London. Lord George had, with a good grace, promised to
spend a few days at the deanery before he went to Cross Hall, and had
given Mary permission to remain there for some little time afterwards.
Now there had come a letter from the Dean full of smiles and
pleasantness about this visit. There were tidings in it about Mary's
horse, which was still kept at the deanery, and comfortable assurances
of sweetest welcome. Not a word had been said in this letter about the
terrible family matter. Lord George, though he was at the present
moment not disposed to think in the most kindly manner of his
father-in-law, appreciated this, and had read the letter aloud to his
wife at the breakfast table with pleasant approbation. As he left the
house to go to his brother, he told her that she had better answer her
father's letter, and had explained to her where she would find it in
his dressing room.
But on the previous afternoon he had received at his club another
letter, the nature of which was not so agreeable. This letter had not
been pleasant even to himself, and certainly was not adapted to give
pleasure to his wife. After receiving it he had kept it in the close
custody of his breast-pocket; and when, as he left the house, he sent
his wife to find that which had come from her father, he certainly
thought that this prior letter was at the moment secure from all eyes
within the sanctuary of his coat. But it was otherwise. With that
negligence to which husbands are so specially subject, he had made the
Dean's letter safe next to his bosom, but had left the other epistle
unguarded. He had not only left it unguarded, but had absolutely so
put his wife on the track of it that it was impossible that she should
not read it.
Mary found the letter and did read it before she left her husband's
dressing room,--and the letter was as follows:--
"Dearest George;--" When she read the epithet, which she and she only
was entitled to use, she paused for a moment and all the blood rushed
up into her face. She had known the handwriting instantly, and at the
first shock she put the paper down upon the table. For a second there
was a feeling prompting her to read no further. But it was only for a
second. Of course she would read it. It certainly never would have
occurred to her to search her husband's clothes for letters. Up to this
moment she had never examined a document of his except at his bidding
or in compliance with his wish. She had suspected nothing, found
nothing, had entertained not even any curiosity about her husband's
affairs. But now must she not read this letter to which he himself had
directed her? Dearest George! And that in the handwriting of her
friend,--her friend!--Adelaide Houghton;--in the handwriting of the
woman to whom her husband had been attached before he had known
herself! Of course she read the letter.
"DEAREST GEORGE,--
"I break my heart when you don't come to me; for heaven's sake be
here to-morrow. Two, three, four, five, six, seven--I shall be
here any hour till you come. I don't dare to tell the man that I
am not at home to anybody else, but you must take your chance.
Nobody ever does come till after three or after six. He never
comes home till half-past seven. Oh me! what is to become of me
when you go out of town? There is nothing to live for,
nothing;--only you. Anything that you write is quite safe. Say
that you love me. A."
The letter had grieved him when he got it,--as had other letters before
that. And yet it flattered him, and the assurance of the woman's love
had in it a certain candied sweetness which prevented him from
destroying the paper instantly, as he ought to have done. Could his
wife have read all his mind in the matter her anger would have been
somewhat mollified. In spite of the candied sweetness he hated the
correspondence. It had been the woman's doing and not his. It is so
hard for a man to be a Joseph! The Potiphar's wife of the moment has
probably had some encouragement,--and after that Joseph can hardly flee
unless he be very stout indeed. This Joseph would have fled, though
after a certain fashion he liked the woman, had he been able to assure
himself that the fault had in no degree been his. But looking back, he
thought that he had encouraged her, and did not know how to fly. Of all
this Mary knew nothing. She only knew that old Mr. Houghton's wife, who
professed to be her dear friend, had written a most foul love-letter to
her husband, and that her husband had preserved it carefully, and had
then through manifest mistake delivered it over into her hands.
She read it twice, and then stood motionless for a few minutes thinking
what she would do. Her first idea was that she would tell her father.
But that she soon abandoned. She was grievously offended with her
husband; but, as she thought of it, she became aware that she did not
wish to bring on him any anger but her own. Then she thought that she
would start immediately for Berkeley Square, and say what she had to
say to Mrs. Houghton. As this idea presented itself to her, she felt
that she could say a good deal. But how would that serve her? Intense
as was her hatred at present against Adelaide, Adelaide was nothing to
her in comparison with her husband. For a moment she almost thought
that she would fly after him, knowing, as she did, that he had gone to
see his brother at Scumberg's Hotel. But at last she resolved that she
would do nothing and say nothing till he should have perceived that she
had read the letter. She would leave it open on his dressing-table so
that he might know immediately on his return what had been done. Then
it occurred to her that the servants might see the letter if she
exposed it. So she kept it in her pocket, and determined that when she
heard his knock at the door she would step into his room, and place the
letter ready for his eyes. After that she spent the whole day in
thinking of it, and read the odious words over and over again till they
were fixed in her memory. "Say that you love me!" Wretched viper;
ill-conditioned traitor! Could it be that he, her husband, loved this
woman better than her? Did not all the world know that the woman was
plain and affected, and vulgar, and odious? "Dearest George!" The woman
could not have used such language without his sanction. Oh;--what
should she do? Would it not be necessary that she should go back and
live with her father? Then she thought of Jack De Baron. They called
Jack De Baron wild; but he would not have been guilty of wickedness
such as this. She clung, however, to the resolution of putting the
letter ready for her husband, so that he should know that she had read
it before they met.
In the meantime Lord George, ignorant as yet of the storm which was
brewing at home, was shown into his brother's sitting-room. When he
entered he found there, with his brother, a lady whom he could
recognise without difficulty as his sister-in-law. She was a tall, dark
woman, as he thought very plain, but with large bright eyes and very
black hair. She was ill-dressed, in a morning wrapper, and looked to
him to be at least as old as her husband. The Marquis said something to
her in Italian which served as an introduction, but of which Lord
George could not understand a word. She curtseyed and Lord George put
out his hand. "It is perhaps as well that you should make her
acquaintance," said the Marquis. Then he again spoke in Italian, and
after a minute or two the lady withdrew. It occurred to Lord George
afterwards that the interview had certainly been arranged. Had his
brother not wished him to see the lady, the lady could have been kept
in the background here as well as at Manor Cross. "It's uncommon civil
of you to come," said the Marquis as soon as the door was closed. "What
can I do for you?"
"I did not like that you should be in London without my seeing you."
"I daresay not. I daresay not. I was very much obliged to you, you
know, for sending that lawyer down to me."
"I did not send him."
"And particularly obliged to you for introducing that other lawyer into
our family affairs."
"I would have done nothing of the kind if I could have helped it. If
you will believe me, Brotherton, my only object is to have all this so
firmly settled that there may not be need of further enquiry at a
future time."
"When I am dead?"
"When we may both be dead."
"You have ten years advantage of me. Your own chance isn't bad."
"If you will believe me----"
"But suppose I don't believe you! Suppose I think that in saying all
that you are lying like the very devil!" Lord George jumped in his
chair, almost as though he had been shot. "My dear fellow, what's the
good of this humbug? You think you've got a chance. I don't believe you
were quick enough to see it yourself, but your father-in-law has put
you up to it. He is not quite such an ass as you are; but even he is
ass enough to fancy that because I, an Englishman, have married an
Italian lady, therefore the marriage may, very likely, be good for
nothing."
"We only want proof."
"Does anybody ever come to you and ask you for proofs of your marriage
with that very nice young woman, the Dean's daughter?"
"Anybody may find them at Brotherton."
"No doubt. And I can put my hand on the proofs of my marriage when I
want to do so. In the meantime I doubt whether you can learn anything
to your own advantage by coming here."
"I didn't want to learn anything."
"If you would look after your own wife a little closer, I fancy it
would be a better employment for you. She is at present probably
amusing herself with Captain De Baron."
"That is calumny," said Lord George, rising from his chair.
"No doubt. Any imputation coming from me is calumny. But you can make
imputations as heavy and as hard as you please--and all in the way of
honour. I've no doubt you'll find her with Captain De Baron if you'll
go and look."
"I should find her doing nothing that she ought not to do," said the
husband, turning round for his hat and gloves.
"Or perhaps making a speech at the Rights of Women Institute on behalf
of that German baroness who, I'm told, is in gaol. But, George, don't
you take it too much to heart. You've got the money. When a man goes
into a stable for his wife, he can't expect much in the way of conduct
or manners. If he gets the money he ought to be contented." He had to
hear it all to the last bitter word before he could escape from the
room and make his way out into the street.
It was at this time about four o'clock, and in his agony of mind he had
turned down towards Piccadilly before he could think what he would do
with himself for the moment. Then he remembered that Berkeley Square
was close to him on the other side, and that he had been summoned there
about this hour. To give him his due, it should be owned that he had no
great desire to visit Berkeley Square in his present condition of
feeling. Since the receipt of that letter,--which was now awaiting him
at home,--he had told himself half a dozen times that he must and would
play the part of Joseph. He had so resolved when she had first spoken
to him of her passion, now some months ago; and then his resolution had
broken down merely because he had not at the moment thought any great
step to be necessary. But now it was clear that some great step was
necessary. He must make her know that it did not suit him to be called
"dearest George" by her, or to be told to declare that he loved her.
And this accusation against his wife, made in such coarse and brutal
language by his brother, softened his heart to her. Why, oh why, had he
allowed himself to be brought up to a place he hated as he had always
hated London! Of course Jack De Baron made him unhappy, though he was
at the present moment prepared to swear that his wife was as innocent
as any woman in London.
But now, as he was so near, and as his decision must be declared in
person, he might as well go to Berkeley Square. As he descended Hay
Hill he put his hand into his pocket for the lady's letter, and pulled
out that from the Dean which he had intended to leave with his wife. In
an instant he knew what he had done. He remembered it all, even to the
way in which he had made the mistake with the two letters. There could
be no doubt but that he had given Adelaide Houghton's letter into his
wife's hands, and that she had read it. At the bottom of Hill Street,
near the stables, he stopped suddenly and put his hand up to his head.
What should he do now? He certainly could not pay his visit in Berkeley
Square. He could not go and tell Mrs. Houghton that he loved her, and
certainly would not have strength to tell her that he did not love her
while suffering such agony as this. Of course he must see his wife. Of
course he must,--if I may use the slang phrase,--of course he must
"have it out with her," after some fashion, and the sooner the better.
So he turned his stops homewards across the Green Park. But, in going
homewards, he did not walk very fast.
What would she do? How would she take it? Of course women daily forgive
such offences; and he might probably, after the burst of the storm was
over, succeed in making her believe that he did in truth love her and
did not love the other woman. In his present mood he was able to assure
himself most confidently that such was the truth. He could tell himself
now that he never wished to see Adelaide Houghton again. But, before
anything of this could be achieved, he would have to own himself a
sinner before her. He would have, as it were, to grovel at her feet.
Hitherto, in all his intercourse with her, he had been masterful and
marital. He had managed up to this point so to live as to have kept in
all respects the upper hand. He had never yet been found out even in a
mistake or an indiscretion. He had never given her an opening for the
mildest finding of fault. She, no doubt, was young, and practise had
not come to her. But, as a natural consequence of this, Lord George had
hitherto felt that an almost divine superiority was demanded from him.
That sense of divine superiority must now pass away.
I do not know whether a husband's comfort is ever perfect till some
family peccadilloes have been conclusively proved against him. I am
sure that a wife's temper to him is sweetened by such evidence of human
imperfection. A woman will often take delight in being angry; will
sometimes wrap herself warm in prolonged sullenness; will frequently
revel in complaint;--but she enjoys forgiving better than aught else.
She never feels that all the due privileges of her life have been
accorded to her, till her husband shall have laid himself open to the
caresses of a pardon. Then, and not till then, he is her equal; and
equality is necessary for comfortable love. But the man, till he be
well used to it, does not like to be pardoned. He has assumed divine
superiority, and is bound to maintain it. Then, at last, he comes home
some night with a little too much wine, or he cannot pay the weekly
bills because he has lost too much money at cards, or he has got into
trouble at his office and is in doubt for a fortnight about his place,
or perhaps a letter from a lady falls into wrong hands. Then he has to
tell himself that he has been "found out." The feeling is at first very
uncomfortable; but it is, I think, a step almost necessary in reaching
true matrimonial comfort. Hunting men say that hard rain settles the
ground. A good scold with a "kiss and be friends" after it, perhaps,
does the same.
Now Lord George had been found out. He was quite sure of that. And he
had to undergo all that was unpleasant without sufficient experience to
tell him that those clouds too would pass away quickly. He still walked
homewards across St. James's Park, never stopping, but dragging himself
along slowly, and when he came to his own door he let himself in very
silently. She did not expect him so soon, and when he entered the
drawing-room was startled to see him. She had not as yet put the
letter, as she had intended, on his dressing-table, but still had it in
her pocket; nor had it occurred to her that he would as yet have known
the truth. She looked at him when he entered, but did not at first
utter a word. "Mary," he said.
"Well; is anything the matter?"
It was possible that she had not found the letter,--possible, though
very improbable. But he had brought his mind so firmly to the point of
owning what was to be owned and defending what might be defended, that
he hardly wished for escape in that direction. At any rate, he was not
prepared to avail himself of it. "Did you find the letter?" he asked.
"I found a letter."
"Well!"
"Of course I am sorry to have intruded upon so private a
correspondence. There it is." And she threw the letter to him. "Oh,
George!"
He picked up the letter, which had fallen to the ground, and, tearing
it into bits, threw the fragments into the grate. "What do you believe
about it, Mary?"
"Believe!"
"Do you think that I love any one as I love you?"
"You cannot love me at all,--unless that wicked, wretched creature is a
liar."
"Have I ever lied to you? You will believe me?"
"I do not know."
"I love no one in the world but you."
Even that almost sufficed for her. She already longed to have her arms
round his neck and to tell him that it was all forgiven;--that he at
least was forgiven. During the whole morning she had been thinking of
the angry words she would say to him, and of the still more angry words
which she would speak of that wicked, wicked viper. The former were
already forgotten; but she was not as yet inclined to refrain as to
Mrs. Houghton. "Oh, George, how could you bear such a woman as
that;--that you should let her write to you in such language? Have you
been to her?"
"What, to-day?"
"Yes, to-day."
"Certainly not. I have just come from my brother."
"You will never go into the house again! You will promise that!"
Here was made the first direct attack upon his divine superiority! Was
he, at his wife's instance, to give a pledge that he would not go into
a certain house under any circumstances? This was the process of
bringing his nose down to the ground which he had feared. Here was the
first attempt made by his wife to put her foot on his neck. "I think
that I had better tell you all that I can tell," he said.
"I only want to know that you hate her," said Mary.
"I neither hate her nor love her. I did--love her--once. You knew
that."
"I never could understand it. I never did believe that you really could
have loved her." Then she began to sob. "I shouldn't--ever--have taken
you--if--I had."
"But from the moment when I first knew you it was all changed with me."
As he said this he put out his arms to her, and she came to him. "There
has never been a moment since in which you have not had all my heart."
"But why--why--why--," she sobbed, meaning to ask how it could have
come to pass that the wicked viper could, in those circumstances, have
written such a letter as that which had fallen into her hands.
The question certainly was not unnatural. But it was a question very
difficult to answer. No man likes to say that a woman has pestered him
with unwelcome love, and certainly Lord George was not the man to make
such a boast. "Dearest Mary," he said, "on my honour as a gentleman I
am true to you."
Then she was satisfied and turned her face to him and covered him with
kisses. I think that morning did more than any day had done since their
marriage to bring about the completion of her desire to be in love with
her husband. Her heart was so softened towards him that she would not
even press a question that would pain him. She had intended sternly to
exact from him a pledge that he would not again enter the house in
Berkeley Square, but she let even that pass by because she would not
annoy him. She gathered herself up close to him on the sofa, and
drawing his arm over her shoulder, sobbed and laughed, stroking him
with her hands as she crouched against his shoulder. But yet, every now
and then, there came forth from her some violent ebullition against
Mrs. Houghton. "Nasty creature! Wicked, wicked beast! Oh, George, she
is so ugly!" And yet before this little affair, she had been quite
content that Adelaide Houghton should be her intimate friend.
It had been nearly five when Lord George reached the house, and he had
to sit enduring his wife's caresses, and listening to devotion to
himself and her abuses of Mrs. Houghton till past six. Then it struck
him that a walk by himself would be good for him. They were to dine
out, but not till eight, and there would still be time. When he
proposed it, she acceded at once. Of course she must go and dress, and
equally of course he would not, could not go to Berkeley Square now.
She thoroughly believed that he was true to her, but yet she feared the
wiles of that nasty woman. They would go to the country soon, and then
the wicked viper would not be near them.
Lord George walked across to Pall Mall, looked at an evening paper at
his club, and then walked back again. Of course it had been his object
to have a cool half hour in which to think it all over,--all that had
passed between him and his wife, and also what had passed between him
and his brother. That his wife was the dearest, sweetest woman in the
world he was quite sure. He was more than satisfied with her conduct to
him. She had exacted from him very little penitence:--had not required
to put her foot in any disagreeable way upon his neck. No doubt she
felt that his divine superiority had been vanquished, but she had
uttered no word of triumph. With all that he was content. But what was
he to do with Mrs. Houghton, as to whom he had sworn a dozen times
within the last hour that she was quite indifferent to him. He now
repeated the assertion to himself, and felt himself to be sure of the
fact. But still he was her lover. He had allowed her so to regard him,
and something must be done. She would write to him letters daily if he
did not stop it; and every such letter not shown to his wife would be a
new treason against her. This was a great trouble. And then, through it
all, those terrible words which his brother had spoken to him about
Captain De Baron rung in his ears. This afternoon had certainly
afforded no occasion to him to say a word about Captain De Baron to his
wife. When detected in his own sin he could not allude to possible
delinquencies on the other side. Nor did he think that there was any
delinquency. But Caesar said that Caesar's wife should be above
suspicion, and in that matter every man is a Caesar to himself. Lady
Susanna had spoken about this Captain, and Adelaide Houghton had said
an ill-natured word or two, and he himself had seen them walking
together. Now his brother had told him that Captain De Baron was his
wife's lover. He did not at all like Captain De Baron.