A DREADFUL COMMUNICATION.
"A most dreadful communication!" There was something in Lord George's
voice as he uttered these words which so frightened his wife that she
became at the moment quite pale. She was sure, almost sure from his
countenance that the dreadful communication had some reference to
herself. Had any great calamity happened in regard to his own family he
would not have looked at her as he was now looking. And yet she could
not imagine what might be the nature of the communication. "Has
anything happened at Manor Cross?" she asked.
"It is not about Manor Cross."
"Or your brother?"
"It is not about my brother; it does not in any way concern my family.
It is about you."
"About me! Oh, George! do not look at me like that. What is it?"
He was very slow in the telling of the story; slow even in beginning to
tell it; indeed, he hardly knew how to begin. "You know Miss Augusta
Mildmay?" he asked.
Then she understood it all. She might have told him that he could spare
himself all further trouble in telling, only that to do so would hardly
have suited her purpose; therefore she had to listen to the story, very
slowly told. Miss Augusta Mildmay had written to him begging him to
come to her. He, very much astonished at such a request, had
nevertheless obeyed it; and Augusta Mildmay had assured him that his
wife, by wicked wiles and lures, was interfering between her and her
affianced lover Captain De Baron. Mary sat patiently till she had heard
it all,--sat almost without speaking a word; but there was a stern look
on her face which he had never seen there before. Still he went on with
his determined purpose. "These are the kind of things which are being
repeated of you," he said at last. "Susanna made the same complaint.
And it had reached Brotherton's ears. He spoke to me of it in
frightfully strong language. And now this young lady tells me that you
are destroying her happiness."
"Well!"
"You can't suppose that I can hear all this without uneasiness."
"Do you believe it?"
"I do not know what to believe. I am driven mad."
"If you believe it, George, if you believe a word of it, I will go away
from you. I will go back to papa. I will not stay with you to be
doubted."
"That is nonsense."
"It shall not be nonsense. I will not live to hear myself accused by my
husband as to another man. Wicked young woman! Oh, what women are and
what they can do! She has never been engaged to Captain De Baron."
"What is that to you or me?"
"Nothing, if you had not told me that I stood in her way."
"It is not her engagement, or her hopes, whether ill or well founded,
or his treachery to a lady, that concerns you and me, Mary; but that
she should send for me and tell me to my face that you are the cause of
her unhappiness. Why should she pitch upon you?"
"How can I say? Because she is very wicked."
"And why should Susanna feel herself obliged to caution me as to this
Captain De Baron? She had no motive. She is not wicked."
"I don't know that."
"And why should my brother tell me that all the world is speaking of
your conduct with this very man?"
"Because he is your bitterest enemy. George, do you believe it?"
"And why, when I come home with all this heavy on my heart, do I find
this very man closeted with you?"
"Closeted with me!"
"You were alone with him."
"Alone with him! Of course I am alone with anyone who calls. Would you
like me to tell the servant that Captain De Baron is to be
excluded,--so that all the world might know that you are jealous?"
"He must be excluded."
"Then you must do it. But it will be unnecessary. As you believe all
this, I will tell my father everything and will go back to him. I will
not live here, George, to be so suspected that the very servants have
to be told that I am not to be allowed to see one special man."
"No; you will go down into the country with me."
"I will not stay in the same house with you," she said, jumping up from
her seat, "unless you tell me that you suspect me of nothing--not even
of an impropriety. You may lock me up, but you cannot hinder me from
writing to my father."
"I trust you will do nothing of the kind."
"Not tell him! Who then is to be my friend if you turn against me? Am I
to be all alone among a set of people who think nothing but ill of me?"
"I am to be your friend."
"But you think ill of me."
"I have not said so, Mary."
"Then say at once that you think no ill, and do not threaten me that I
am to be taken into the country for protection. And when you tell me of
the bold-faced villany of that young woman, speak of her with the
disgust that she deserves; and say that your sister Susanna is
suspicious and given to evil thoughts; and declare your brother to be a
wicked slanderer if he has said a word against the honour of your wife.
Then I shall know that you think no ill of me; and then I shall know
that I may lean upon you as my real friend."
Her eyes flashed fire as she spoke, and he was silenced for the moment
by an impetuosity and a passion which he had not at all expected. He
was not quite disposed to yield to her, to assure her of his conviction
that those to whom she alluded were all wrong, and that she was all
right; but yet he was beginning to wish for peace. That Captain De
Baron was a pestilential young man whose very business it was to bring
unhappiness into families, he did believe; and he feared also that his
wife had allowed herself to fall into an indiscreet intimacy with this
destroyer of women's characters. Then there was that feeling of Caesar's
wife strong within his bosom, which he could, perhaps, have more fully
explained to her but for that unfortunate letter from Mrs. Houghton.
Any fault, however, of that kind on his part was, in his estimation,
nothing to a fault on the part of his wife. She, when once assured
that he was indifferent about Mrs. Houghton, would find no cause for
unhappiness in the matter. But what would all the world be to him if
his wife were talked about commonly in connection with another man?
That she should not absolutely be a castaway would not save him from a
perpetual agony which he would find to be altogether unendurable. He
was, he was sure, quite right as to that theory about Caesar's wife,
even though, from the unfortunate position of circumstances, he could
not dilate upon it at the present moment. "I think," he said, after a
pause, "that you will allow that you had better drop this gentleman's
acquaintance."
"I will allow nothing of the kind, George. I will allow nothing that
can imply the slightest stain upon my name or upon your honour. Captain
De Baron is my friend. I like him very much. A great many people know
how intimate we are. They shall never be taught to suppose that there
was anything wrong in that intimacy. They shall never, at any rate, be
taught so by anything that I will do. I will admit nothing. I will do
nothing myself to show that I am ashamed. Of course you can take me
into the country; of course you can lock me up if you like; of course
you can tell all your friends that I have misbehaved myself; you can
listen to calumny against me from everybody; but if you do I will have
one friend to protect me, and I will tell papa everything." Then she
walked away to the door as though she were leaving the room.
"Stop a moment," he said. Then she stood with her hand still on the
lock, as though intending to stay merely till he should have spoken
some last word to her. He was greatly surprised by her strength and
resolution, and now hardly knew what more to say to her. He could not
beg her pardon for his suspicion; he could not tell her that she was
right; and yet he found it impossible to assert that she was wrong. "I
do not think that passion will do any good," he said.
"I do not know what will do any good. I know what I feel."
"It will do good if you will allow me to advise you."
"What is your advice?"
"To come down to the country as soon as possible, and to avoid, as far
as possible, seeing Captain De Baron before you go."
"That would be running away from Captain De Baron. I am to meet him at
Mrs. Montacute Jones' ball."
"Send an excuse to Mrs. Montacute Jones."
"You may do so, George, if you like. I will not. If I am told by you
that I am not to meet this man, of course I shall obey you; but I shall
consider myself to have been insulted,--to have been insulted by you."
As she said this his brow became very black. "Yes, by you. You ought to
defend me from these people who tell stories about me, and not accuse
me yourself. I cannot and will not live with you if you think evil of
me." Then she opened the door, and slowly left the room. He would have
said more had he known what to say. But her words came more fluently
than his, and he was dumbfounded by her volubility; yet he was as much
convinced as ever that it was his duty to save her from the ill repute
which would fall upon her from further intimacy with this Captain. He
could, of course, take her into the country to-morrow, if he chose to
do so; but he could not hinder her from writing to the Dean; he could
not debar her from pen and ink and the use of the post-office; nor
could he very well forbid her to see her father.
Of course if she did complain to the Dean she would tell the Dean
everything. So he told himself. Now, when a man assumes the divine
superiority of an all-governing husband his own hands should be quite
clean. Lord George's hands were by no means clean. It was not, perhaps,
his own fault that they were dirty. He was able at any rate to tell
himself that the fault had not been his. But there was that undoubted
love-letter from Mrs. Houghton. If the Dean were to question him about
that he could not lie. And though he would assure himself that the
fault had all been with the lady, he could not excuse himself by that
argument in discussing the matter with the Dean. He was in such trouble
that he feared to drive his wife to retaliation; and yet he must do his
duty. His honour and her honour must be his first consideration. If she
would only promise him not willingly to see Captain De Baron there
should be an end of it, and he would allow her to stay the allotted
time in London; but if she would not do this he thought that he must
face the Dean and all his terrors.
But he hardly knew his wife--was hardly aware of the nature of her
feelings. When she spoke of appealing to her father, no idea crossed
her mind of complaining of her husband's infidelity. She would seek
protection for herself, and would be loud enough in protesting against
the slanderous tongues of those who had injured her. She would wage war
to the knife against the Marquis, and against Lady Susanna, and against
Augusta Mildmay, and would call upon her father to assist her in that
warfare; but she would not condescend to allude to a circumstance
which, if it were an offence against her, she had pardoned, but as to
which, in her heart of hearts, she believed her husband to be, if not
innocent, at least not very guilty. She despised Adelaide Houghton too
much to think that her husband had really loved such a woman, and was
too confident in herself to doubt his love for many minutes. She could
hate Adelaide Houghton for making the attempt, and yet could believe
that the attempt had been futile.
Nevertheless when she was alone she thought much of Mrs. Houghton's
letter. Throughout her interview with her husband she had thought of
it, but had determined from the very first that she would not cast it
in his teeth. She would do nothing ungenerous. But was it not singular
that he should be able to upbraid her for her conduct, for conduct in
which there had been no trespass, knowing as he must have known,
feeling as he must have felt, that every word of that letter was
dwelling in her memory! He had, at any rate, intended that the
abominable correspondence should be clandestine. He must have been
sadly weak, to make the least of it, to have admitted such a
correspondence. "Pray tell me that you love me!" That had been the
language addressed to him only a few days since by a married lady to
whom he had once made an offer of marriage; and yet he could now come
and trample on her as though his marital superiority had all the
divinity of snow-white purity. This was absolute tyranny. But yet in
complaining to her father of his tyranny she would say nothing of
Adelaide Houghton. Of the accusations made against herself she would
certainly tell her father, unless they were withdrawn as far as her own
husband could withdraw them. For an hour after leaving him her passion
still sustained her. Was this to be her reward for all her endeavours
to become a loving wife?
They were engaged to dine that evening with a certain Mrs. Patmore
Green, who had herself been a Germain, and who had been first cousin to
the late marquis. Mary came down dressed into the drawing room at the
proper time, not having spoken another word to her husband, and there
she found him also dressed. She had schooled herself to show no sign
either of anger or regret, and as she entered the room said some
indifferent words about the brougham. He still looked as dark as a
thunder-cloud, but he rang the bell and asked the servant a question.
The brougham was there, and away they went to Mrs. Patmore Green's. She
spoke half-a-dozen words on the way, but he hardly answered her. She
knew that he would not do so, being aware that it was not within his
power to rise above the feelings of the moment. But she exerted herself
so that he might know that she did not mean to display her ill-humour
at Mrs. Patmore Green's house.
Lady Brabazon, whose sister had married a Germain, was there, and a
Colonel Ansley, who was a nephew of Lady Brotherton's; so that the
party was very much a Germain party. All these people had been a good
deal exercised of late on the great Popenjoy question. So immense is
the power of possession that the Marquis, on his arrival in town, had
been asked to all the Germain houses in spite of his sins, and had been
visited with considerable family affection and regard; for was he not
the head of them all? But he had not received these offers graciously,
and now the current of Germain opinion was running against him. Of the
general propriety of Lord George's conduct ever since his birth there
had never been a doubt, and the Greens and Brabazons and Ansleys were
gradually coming round to the opinion that he was right to make
enquiries as to the little Popenjoy's antecedents. They had all taken
kindly to Mary, though they were, perhaps, beginning to think that she
was a little too frivolous, too fond of pleasure for Lord George. Mrs.
Patmore Green, who was the wife of a very rich man, and the mother of a
very large family, and altogether a very worthy woman, almost at once
began to whisper to Mary--"Well, my dear, what news from Italy?"
"I never hear anything about it, Mrs. Green," said Mary, with a laugh.
"And yet the Dean is so eager, Lady George!"
"I won't let papa talk to me about it. Lord Brotherton is quite welcome
to his wife and his son, and everything else for me--only I do wish he
would have remained away."
"I think we all wish that, my dear."
Mr. Patmore Green, and Colonel Ansley, and Lady Brabazon all spoke a
word or two in the course of the evening to Lord George on the same
subject, but he would only shake his head and say nothing. At that time
this affair of his wife's was nearer to him and more burdensome to him
than even the Popenjoy question. He could not rid himself of this new
trouble even for a moment. He was still thinking of it when all the
enquiries about Popenjoy were being made. What did it matter to him how
that matter should be settled, if all the happiness of his life were to
be dispelled by this terrible domestic affliction. "I am afraid this
quarrel with his brother will be too much for Lord George," said Mr.
Patmore Green to his wife, when the company were gone. "He was not able
to say a word the whole evening."
"And I never knew her to be more pleasant," said Mrs. Patmore Green.
"She doesn't seem to care about it the least in the world." The husband
and wife did not speak a word to each other as they went home in the
brougham. Mary had done her duty by sustaining herself in public, but
was not willing to let him think that she had as yet forgiven the
cruelty of his suspicions.