AS TO BLUEBEARD.
When Lord George left his own house alone he was very wretched, and his
wife, whom he left behind him, was as wretched as himself. Of course
the matter had not decided itself in this way without very much
absolute quarrelling between them. Lord George had insisted, had
stamped his foot, and had even talked of force. Mary, prompted by her
father, had protested that she would not run away from the evil tongues
of people who would be much more bitter in her absence than they would
dare to be if she remained among them. He, when he found that his
threat of forcible abduction was altogether vain, had to make up his
mind whether he also would remain. But both the Dean and his wife had
begged that he would do so, and he would not even seem to act in
obedience to them. So he went, groaning much in spirit, puzzled to
think what story he should tell to his mother and sisters, terribly
anxious as to the future, and in spirit repentant for the rashness of
his conduct at the ball. Before he was twenty miles out of London he
was thinking with infinite regret of his love for his wife, already
realising the misery of living without her, almost stirred to get out
at the next station and return by the first train to Munster Court. In
this hour of his sorrow there came upon him a feeling of great hatred
for Mrs. Houghton. He almost believed that she had for her own vile
purposes excited Captain De Baron to make love to his wife. And then,
in regard to that woman, his wife had behaved so well! Surely something
was due to so much generosity. And then, when she had been angry with
him, she had been more beautiful than ever. What a change had those few
months in London made in her! She had lost her childish little
timidities, and had bloomed forth a beautiful woman. He had no doubt as
to her increased loveliness, and had been proud to think that all had
acknowledged it. But as to the childish timidity, perhaps he would have
preferred that it should not have been so quickly or so entirely
banished. Even at Brotherton he hankered to return to London; but, had
he done so, the Brotherton world would have known it. He put himself
into a carriage instead, and had himself driven through the park to
Cross Hall.
All this occurred on the day but one subsequent to the ball, and he had
by the previous post informed Lady Sarah that he was coming. But in
that letter he had said that he would bring his wife with him, and on
his immediate arrival had to answer questions as to her unexpected
absence. "Her father was very unwilling that she should come," he said.
"But I thought he was at the hotel," said Lady Sarah.
"He is in Munster Court, now. To tell the truth I am not best pleased
that it should be so; but at the last moment I did not like to
contradict her. I hate London and everything in it. She likes it, and
as there was a kind of bargain made I could not well depart from it."
"And you have left her alone with her father in London," said Lady
Susanna, with a tone of pretended dismay.
"How can she be alone if her father is with her," answered Lord George,
who did not stand in awe of Lady Susanna as he did of Lady Sarah.
Nothing further at the moment was said, but all the sisters felt that
there was something wrong.
"I don't think it at all right that Mary should be left with the Dean,"
said the old lady to her second daughter. But the old lady was
specially prejudiced against the Dean as being her eldest son's great
enemy. Before the day was over Lord George wrote a long letter to his
wife,--full of affection indeed, but still more full of covert
reproaches. He did not absolutely scold her; but he told her that there
could be no happiness between a wife and a husband unless the wife
would obey, and he implored her to come to him with as little delay as
possible. If she would only come, all should be right between them.
Mary, when her husband was really gone, was much frightened at her own
firmness. That doctrine of obedience to her husband had been accepted
by her in full. When disposed to run counter to the ladies at Manor
Cross, she always had declared to herself that they bore no authority
delegated from "George," and that she would obey "George," and no one
but George. She had told him more than once, half-playfully, that if he
wanted anything done, he must tell her himself. And this, though he
understood it to contain rebellion against the Germains generally, had
a pleasant flavour with him as acknowledging so completely his own
power. She had said to her father, and unfortunately to Mrs. Houghton
when Mrs. Houghton was her friend, that she was not going to do what
all the Germain women told her; but she had always spoken of her
husband's wishes as absolutely imperative. Now she was in open mutiny
against her husband, and, as she thought of it, it seemed to her to be
almost impossible that peace should be restored between them.
"I think I will go down very soon," she said to her father, after she
had received her husband's letter.
"What do you call very soon?"
"In a day or two."
"Do not do anything of the kind. Stay here till the appointed time
comes. It is only a fortnight now. I have made arrangements at
Brotherton, so that I can be with you till then. After that come down
to me. Of course your husband will come over to you at the deanery."
"But if he shouldn't come?"
"Then he would be behaving very wickedly. But, of course, he will come.
He is not a man to be obstinate in that fashion."
"I do not know that, papa."
"But I do. You had better take my advice in this matter. Of course I do
not want to foster a quarrel between you and your husband."
"Pray,--pray don't let there be a quarrel."
"Of course not. But the other night he lost his head, and treated you
badly. You and I are quite willing to forgive and forget all that. Any
man may do a foolish thing, and men are to be judged by general results
rather than single acts."
"He is very kind to me--generally."
"Just so; and I am not angry with him in the least. But after what
occurred it would be wrong that you should go away at once. You felt it
yourself at the moment."
"But anything would be better than quarrelling, papa."
"Almost anything would be better than a lasting quarrel with your
husband; but the best way to avoid that is to show him that you know
how to be firm in such an emergency as this." She was, of course,
compelled by her father's presence and her father's strength to remain
in town, but she did so longing every hour to pack up and be off to
Cross Hall. She had very often doubted whether she could love her
husband as a husband ought to be loved, but now, in her present
trouble, she felt sure of her own heart. She had never been really on
bad terms with him before since their marriage, and the very fact of
their separation increased her tenderness to him in a wonderful degree.
She answered his letter with Language full of love and promises and
submission, loaded with little phrases of feminine worship, merely
adding that papa thought she had better stay in town till the end of
the month. There was not a word of reproach in it. She did not allude
to his harsh conduct at the ball, nor did she write the name of Mrs.
Houghton.
Her father was very urgent with her to see all her friends, to keep any
engagements previously made, to be seen at the play, and to let all the
world know by her conduct that she was not oppressed by what had taken
place. There was some intention of having the Kappa-kappa danced again,
as far as possible by the same people. Lord Giblet was to retire in
favour of some more expert performer, but the others were supposed to
be all worthy of an encore. But of course there arose a question as to
Lady George. There could be no doubt that Lord George had disapproved
very strongly of the Kappa-kappa. The matter got to the Dean's ears,
and the Dean counselled his daughter to join the party yet again. "What
would he say, papa?" The Dean was of opinion that in such case Lord
George would say and do much less than he had said and done before.
According to his views, Lord George must be taught that his wife had
her privileges as well as he his. This fresh difficulty dissolved
itself because the second performance was fixed for a day after that on
which it had been long known that Lady George was to leave London; and
even the Dean did not propose that she should remain in town after that
date with a direct view to the Kappa-kappa.
She was astonished at the zeal with which he insisted that she should
go out into the gay world. He almost ridiculed her when she spoke of
economy in her dress, and seemed to think that it was her duty to be a
woman of fashion. He still spoke to her from time to time of the
Popenjoy question, always asserting his conviction that, whatever the
Marquis might think, even if he were himself deceived through ignorance
of the law, the child would be at last held to be illegitimate. "They
tell me, too," he said, "that his life is not worth a year's purchase."
"Poor little boy!"
"Of course, if he had been born as the son of the Marquis of Brotherton
ought to be born, nobody would wish him anything but good."
"I don't wish him anything but good," said Mary.
"But as it is," continued the Dean, apparently not observing his
daughter's remark, "everybody must feel that it would be better for the
family that he should be out of the way. Nobody can think that such a
child can live to do honour to the British peerage."
"He might be well brought up."
"He wouldn't be well brought up. He has an Italian mother and Italian
belongings, and everything around him as bad as it can be. But the
question at last is one of right. He was clearly born when his mother
was reputed to be the wife, not of his father, but of another man. That
cock-and-bull story which we have heard may be true. It is possible.
But I could not rest in my bed if I did not persevere in ascertaining
the truth." The Dean did persevere, and was very constant in his visits
to Mr. Battle's office. At this time Miss Tallowax came up to town, and
she also stayed for a day or two in Munster Court. What passed between
the Dean and his aunt on the subject Mary, of course, did not hear; but
she soon found that Miss Tallowax was as eager as her father, and she
learned that Miss Tallowax had declared that the inquiry should not
languish from want of funds. Miss Tallowax was quite alive to the glory
of the Brotherton connection.
As the month drew to an end Mary, of course, called on all her London
friends. Her father was always eager to know whom she saw, and whether
any allusion was made by any of them to the scene at the ball. But
there was one person, who had been a friend, on whom she did not call,
and this omission was observed by the Dean. "Don't you ever see Mrs.
Houghton now?" he asked.
"No, papa," said Mary, with prompt decision.
"Why not?"
"I don't like her."
"Why don't you like her? You used to be friends. Have you quarrelled?"
"Yes; I have quarrelled with her."
"What did she do?" Mary was silent. "Is it a secret?"
"Yes, papa; it is a secret. I would rather you would not ask. But she
is a nasty vile creature, and I will never speak to her again."
"That is strong language, Mary."
"It is. And now that I have said that, pray don't talk about her any
more."
The Dean was discreet, and did not talk about Mrs. Houghton any more;
but he set his mind to work to guess, and guessed something near the
truth. Of course he knew that his son-in-law had professed at one time
to love this lady when she had been Miss De Baron, and he had been able
to see that subsequently to that they had been intimate friends. "I
don't think, my dear," he said, laughing, "that you can be jealous of
her attractions."
"I am not in the least jealous of her, papa. I don't know anyone that I
think so ugly. She is a nasty made-up thing. But pray don't talk about
her anymore." Then the Dean almost knew that Mary had discovered
something, and was too noble to tell a story against her husband.
The day but one before she was to leave town Mrs. Montacute Jones came
to her. She had seen her kind old friend once or twice since the
catastrophe at the ball, but always in the presence of other persons.
Now they were alone together. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jones, "I hope
you have enjoyed your short season. We have all been very fond of you."
"You have been very kind to me, Mrs. Jones."
"I do my best to make young people pleasant, my dear. You ought to have
liked it all, for I don't know anybody who has been so much admired.
His Royal Highness said the other night that you were the handsomest
woman in London."
"His Royal Highness is an old fool," said Mary, laughing.
"He is generally thought to be a very good judge in that matter. You
are going to keep the house, are you not?"
"Oh, yes; I think there is a lease."
"I am glad of that. It is a nice little house, and I should be sorry to
think that you are not coming back."
"We are always to live here half the year, I believe," said Mary. "That
was agreed when we married, and that's why I go away now."
"Lord George, I suppose, likes the country best?"
"I think he does. I don't, Mrs. Jones."
"They are both very well in their way, my dear. I am a wicked old
woman, who like to have everything gay. I never go out of town till
everything is over, and I never come up till everything begins. We have
a nice place down in Scotland, and you must come and see me there some
autumn. And then we go to Rome. It's a pleasant way of living, though
we have to move about so much."
"It must cost a great deal of money?"
"Well, yes. One can't drive four-in-hand so cheap as a pair. Mr. Jones
has a large income." This was the first direct intimation Mary had ever
received that there was a Mr. Jones. "But we weren't always rich. When
I was your age I hadn't nearly so nice a house as you. Indeed, I hadn't
a house at all, for I wasn't married, and was thinking whether I would
take or reject a young barrister of the name of Smith, who had nothing
a year to support me on. You see I never got among the aristocratic
names, as you have done."
"I don't care a bit about that."
"But I do. I like Germains, and Talbots, and Howards, and so does
everybody else, only so many people tell lies about it. I like having
lords in my drawing-room. They look handsomer and talk better than
other men. That's my experience. And you are pretty nearly sure with
them that you won't find you have got somebody quite wrong."
"I know a lord," said Mary, "who isn't very right. That is, I don't
know him, for I never saw him."
"You mean your wicked brother-in-law. I should like to know him of all
things. He'd be quite an attraction. I suppose he knows how to behave
like a gentleman?"
"I'm not so sure of that. He was very rough to papa."
"Ah;--yes. I think we can understand that, my dear. Your father hasn't
made himself exactly pleasant to the Marquis. Not that I say he's
wrong. I think it was a pity, because everybody says that the little
Lord Popenjoy will die. You were talking of me and my glories, but long
before you are my age you will be much more glorious. You will make a
charming Marchioness."
"I never think about it, Mrs. Jones; and I wish papa didn't. Why
shouldn't the little boy live? I could be quite happy enough as I am if
people would only be good to me and let me alone."
"Have I distressed you?" asked the old woman.
"Oh, dear no;--not you."
"You mean what happened at my house the other night?"
"I didn't mean anything particular, Mrs. Jones. But I do think that
people sometimes are very ill-natured."
"I think, you know, that was Lord George's doing. He shouldn't have
taken you off so suddenly. It wasn't your fault that the stupid man
tripped. I suppose he doesn't like Captain De Baron?"
"Don't talk about it, Mrs. Jones."
"Only that I know the world so well that what I say might, perhaps, be
of use. Of course I know that he has gone out of town."
"Yes, he has gone."
"I was so glad that you didn't go with him. People will talk, you know,
and it did look as though he were a sort of Bluebeard. Bluebeards, my
dear, must be put down. There may be most well-intentioned Bluebeards,
who have no chambers of horrors, no secrets,"--Mary thought of the
letter from Mrs. Houghton, of which nobody knew but herself,--"who
never cut off anybody's heads, but still interfere dreadfully with the
comfort of a household. Lord George is very nearly all that a man ought
to be."
"He is the best man in the world," said Mary.
"I am sure you think so. But he shouldn't be jealous, and above all he
shouldn't show that he's jealous. You were bound, I think, to stay
behind and show the world that you had nothing to fear. I suppose the
Dean counselled it?"
"Yes;--he did."
"Fathers of married daughters shouldn't often interfere, but there I
think he was right. It is much better for Lord George himself that it
should be so. There is nothing so damaging to a young woman as to have
it supposed she has had to be withdrawn from the influence of a young
man."
"It would be wicked of anybody to think so," said Mary, sobbing.
"But they must have thought so if you hadn't remained. You may be sure,
my dear, that your father was quite right. I am sorry that you cannot
make one in the dance again, because we shall have changed Lord Giblet
for Lord Augustus Grandison, and I am sure it will be done very well.
But of course I couldn't ask you to stay for it. As your departure was
fixed beforehand you ought not to stay for it. But that is very
different from being taken away in a jiffey, like some young man who is
spending more than he ought to spend, and is hurried off suddenly
nobody knows where."
Mary, when Mrs. Jones had left the house, found that upon the whole she
was thankful to her friend for what had been said. It pained her to
hear her husband described as a jealous Bluebeard; but the fact of his
jealousy had been so apparent, that in any conversation on the matter
intended to be useful so much had to be acknowledged. She, however, had
taken the strong course of trusting to her father rather than to her
husband, and she was glad to find that her conduct and her father's
conduct were approved by so competent a judge as Mrs. Montacute Jones.
And throughout the whole interview there had been an air of kindness
which Mary had well understood. The old lady had intended to be useful,
and her intentions were accepted.
On the next morning, soon after breakfast, the Dean received a note
which puzzled him much, and for an hour or two left him in doubt as to
what he would do respecting it,--whether he would comply with, or
refuse to comply with, the request made in it. At first he said nothing
of the letter to his daughter. He had, as she was aware, intended to go
to Lincoln's Inn early in the day, but he sat thinking over something,
instead of leaving the house, till at last he went to Mary and put the
letter into her hands. "That," said he, "is one of the most unexpected
communications I ever had in my life, and one which it is most
difficult to answer. Just read it." The letter, which was very short,
was as follows:--
"The Marquis of Brotherton presents his compliments to the Dean of
Brotherton, and begs to say that he thinks that some good might
now be done by a personal interview. Perhaps the Dean will not
object to call on the Marquis here at some hour after two o'clock
to-morrow.
"Scumberg's Hotel,
"Albemarle Street.
"_29th June, 187--_."
"But we go to-morrow," said Mary.
"Ah;--he means to-day. The note was written last night. I have been
thinking about it, and I think I shall go."
"Have you written to him?"
"There is no need. A man who sends to me a summons to come to him so
immediately as that has no right to expect an answer. He does not mean
anything honest."
"Then why do you go?"
"I don't choose to appear to be afraid to meet him. Everything that I
do is done above board. I rather imagine that he doesn't expect me to
come; but I will not let him have to say that he had asked me and that
I had refused. I shall go."
"Oh, papa, what will he say to you?"
"I don't think he can eat me, my dear; nor will he dare even to murder
me. I daresay he would if he could."
And so it was decided; and at the hour appointed the Dean sallied forth
to keep the appointment.