"NOT GO!"
The Dean had a great deal to think of as he walked home a little too
late for his daughter's usual dinner hour. What should he tell
her;--and what should he do as to communicating or not communicating
tidings of the day's work to Lord George? Of course everybody must know
what had been done sooner or later. He would have had no objection to
that,--providing the truth could be told accurately,--except as to the
mention of his daughter's name in the same sentence with that
abominable word. But the word would surely be known, and the facts
would not be told with accuracy unless he told them himself. His only,
but his fully sufficient defence was in the word. But who would know
the tone? Who would understand the look of the man's eye and the smile
on his mouth? Who could be made to conceive, as the Dean himself had
conceived, the aggravated injury of the premeditated slander? He would
certainly write and tell Lord George everything. But to his daughter he
thought that he would tell as little as possible. Might God in his
mercy save her ears, her sacred feelings, her pure heart from the wound
of that word! He felt that she was dearer to him than ever she had
been,--that he would give up deanery and everything if he could save
her by doing so. But he felt that if she were to be sacrificed in the
contest, he would give up deanery and everything in avenging her.
But something must be told to her. He at any rate must remain in town,
and it would be very desirable that she should stay with him. If she
went alone she would at once be taken to Cross Hall; and he could
understand that the recent occurrence would not add to the serenity of
her life there. The name that had been applied to her, together with
the late folly of which her husband had been guilty, would give those
Manor Cross dragons,--as the Dean was apt in his own thoughts to call
the Ladies Germain--a tremendous hold over her. And should she be once
at Cross Hall he would hardly be able to get her back to the deanery.
He hurried up to dress as soon as he reached the house, with a word of
apology as to being late, and then found her in the drawing room.
"Papa," she said, "I do like Mrs. Montacute Jones."
"So do I, my dear, because she is good-humoured."
"But she is so good-natured also! She has been here again to-day and
wants me and George to go down to Scotland in August. I should so like
it."
"What will George say?"
"Of course he won't go; and of course I shan't. But that doesn't make
it the less good-natured. She wishes all her set to think that what
happened the other night doesn't mean anything."
"I'm afraid he won't consent."
"I know he won't. He wouldn't know what to do with himself. He hates a
house full of people. And now tell me what the Marquis said." But
dinner was announced, and the Dean was not forced to answer this
question immediately.
"Now, papa," she said again, as soon as the coffee was brought and the
servant was gone, "do tell me what my most noble brother-in-law wanted
to say to you?"
That he certainly would not tell. "Your brother-in-law, my dear,
behaved about as badly as a man could behave."
"Oh, dear! I am so sorry!"
"We have to be sorry,--both of us. And your husband will be sorry." He
was so serious that she hardly knew how to speak to him. "I cannot tell
you everything; but he insulted me, and I was forced to--strike him."
"Strike him! Oh, papa!"
"Bear with me, Mary. In all things I think well of you, and do you try
to think well of me."
"Dear papa! I will. I do. I always did."
"Anything he might have said of myself I could have borne. He could
have applied no epithet to me which, I think, could even have ruffled
me. But he spoke evil of you." While he was sitting there he made up
his mind that he would tell her as much as that, though he had before
almost resolved that he would not speak to her of herself. But she must
hear something of the truth, and better that she should hear it from
his than from other lips. She turned very pale, but did not immediately
make any reply. "Then I was full of wrath," he continued. "I did not
even attempt to control myself; but I took him by the throat and flung
him violently to the ground. He fell upon the grate, and it may be that
he has been hurt. Had the fall killed him he would have deserved it. He
had courage to wound a father in his tenderest part, only because that
father was a clergyman. His belief in a black coat will, I think, be a
little weakened by what occurred to-day."
"What will be done?" she asked, whispering.
"Heaven only knows. But I can't go out of town to-morrow. I shall write
to George to-night and tell him everything that has occurred, and shall
beg that you may be allowed to stay with me for the few days that will
be necessary."
"Of course I will not leave you."
"It is not that. But I do not want you to go to Cross Hall quite at
present. If you went without me they would not let you come to the
deanery. Of course there will be a great commotion at Cross Hall. Of
course they will condemn me. Many will condemn me, as it will be
impossible to make the world believe the exact truth."
"I will never condemn you," she said. Then she came over and threw
herself on her knees at his feet, and embraced him. "But, papa, what
did the man say of me?"
"Not what he believed;--but what he thought would give me the greatest
anguish. Never mind. Do not ask any more questions. You also had better
write to your husband, and you can tell him fully all that I have told
you. If you will write to-night I will do so also, and I will take care
that they shall have our letters to-morrow afternoon. We must send a
message to say that we shall not be at the deanery to-morrow." The two
letters to Lord George were both written that night, and were both very
long. They told the same story, though in a different tone. The Dean
was by no means apologetic, but was very full and very true. When he
came to the odious word he could not write it, but he made it very
clear without writing. Would not the husband feel as he the father had
felt in regard to his young wife, the sweet pure girl of whose love and
possession he ought to be so proud? How would any brother be forgiven
who had assailed such a treasure as this;--much less such a brother as
this Marquis? Perhaps Lord George might think it right to come up. The
Dean would of course ask at the hotel on the following day, and would
go to the police office. He believed, he said, that no permanent injury
had been done. Then came, perhaps, the pith of his letter. He trusted
that Lord George would agree with him in thinking that Mary had better
remain with him in town during the two or three days of his necessarily
prolonged sojourn. This was put in the form of a request; but was put
in a manner intended to show that the request if not granted would be
enforced. The Dean was fully determined that Mary should not at once go
down to Cross Hall.
Her letter was supplicatory, spasmodic, full of sorrow, and full of
love. She was quite sure that her dear papa would have done nothing
that he ought not to have done; but yet she was very sorry for the
Marquis, because of his mother and sisters, and because of her dear,
dear George. Could he not run up to them and hear all about it from
papa? If the Marquis had said ill-natured things of her it was very
cruel, because nobody loved her husband better than she loved her dear,
dear George,--and so on. The letters were then sent under cover to the
housekeeper at the deanery, with orders to send them on by private
messenger to Cross Hall.
On the following day the Dean went to Scumberg's, but could not learn
much there. The Marquis had been very bad, and had had one and another
doctor with him almost continually; but Mrs. Walker could not take upon
herself to say that "it was dangerous." She thought it was "in'ard."
Mrs. Walkers always do think that it is "in'ard" when there is nothing
palpable outward. At any rate his lordship had not been out of bed and
had taken nothing but tapioca and brandy. There was very little more
than this to be learned at the police court. The case might be serious,
but the superintendent hoped otherwise. The superintendent did not
think that the Dean should go down quite to-morrow. The morrow was
Friday; but he suggested Saturday as possible, Monday as almost
certain. It may be as well to say here that the Dean did not call at
the police court again, and heard nothing further from the officers of
the law respecting the occurrence at Scumberg's. On the Friday he
called again at Scumberg's, and the Marquis was still in bed. His
"in'ards" had not ceased to be matter of anxiety to Mrs. Walker; but
the surgeon, whom the Dean now saw, declared that the muscles of the
nobleman's back were more deserving of sympathy. The surgeon, with a
gravity that almost indicated offence, expressed his opinion that the
Marquis's back had received an injury which--which might be--very
injurious.
Lord George when he received the letters was thrown into a state of
mind that almost distracted him. During the last week or two the
animosity felt at Cross Hall against the Marquis had been greatly
weakened. A feeling had come upon the family that after all Popenjoy
was Popenjoy; and that, although the natal circumstances of such a
Popenjoy were doubtless unfortunate for the family generally, still, as
an injury had been done to the Marquis by the suspicion, those
circumstances ought now to be in a measure forgiven. The Marquis was
the head of the family, and a family will forgive much to its head when
that head is a Marquis. As we know the Dowager had been in his favour
from the first, Lord George had lately given way and had undergone a
certain amount of reconciliation with his brother. Lady Amelia had
seceded to her mother, as had also Mrs. Toff, the old housekeeper. Lady
Susanna was wavering, having had her mind biased by the objectionable
conduct of the Dean and his daughter. Lady Sarah was more staunch. Lady
Sarah had never yet given way; she never did give way; and, in her very
heart, she was the best friend that Mary had among the ladies of the
family. But when her brother gave up the contest she felt that further
immediate action was impossible. Things were in this state at Cross
Hall when Lord George received the two letters. He did not wish to
think well of the Dean just at present, and was horrified at the idea
of a clergyman knocking a Marquis into the fire-place. But the word
indicated was very plain, and that word had been applied to his own
wife. Or, perhaps, no such word had really been used. Perhaps the Dean
had craftily saved himself from an absolute lie, and in his attempt to
defend the violence of his conduct had brought an accusation against
the Marquis, which was in its essence, untrue. Lord George was quite
alive to the duty of defending his wife; but in doing so he was no
longer anxious to maintain affectionate terms with his wife's father.
She had been very foolish. All the world had admitted as much. He had
seen it with his own eyes at that wretched ball. She had suffered her
name to be joined with that of a stranger in a manner derogatory to her
husband's honour. It was hardly surprising that his brother should have
spoken of her conduct in disparaging terms;--but he did not believe
that his brother had used that special term. Personal violence;--blows
and struggling, and that on the part of a Dean of the Church of
England, and violence such as this seemed to have been,--violence that
might have killed the man attacked, seemed to him to be in any case
unpardonable. He certainly could not live on terms of friendship with
the Dean immediately after such a deed. His wife must be taken away and
secluded, and purified by a long course of Germain asceticism.
But what must he do now at once? He felt that it was his duty to hurry
up to London, but he could not bring himself to live in the same house
with the Dean. His wife must be taken away from her father. However bad
may have been the language used by the Marquis, however indefensible,
he could not allow himself even to seem to keep up affectionate
relations with the man who had half slaughtered his brother. He too
thought of what the world would say, he too felt that such an affair,
after having become known to the police, would be soon known to every
one else. But what must he do at once? He had not as yet made up his
mind as to this when he took his place at the Brotherton Railway
Station on the morning after he had received the letters.
But on reaching the station in London he had so far made up his mind as
to have his portmanteau taken to the hotel close at hand, and then to
go to Munster Court. He had hoped to find his wife alone; but on his
arrival the Dean was there also. "Oh, George," she said, "I am so glad
you have come; where are your things?" He explained that he had no
things, that he had come up only for a short time, and had left his
luggage at the station. "But you will stay here to-night?" asked Mary,
in despair.
Lord George hesitated, and the Dean at once saw how it was. "You will
not go back to Brotherton to-day," he said. Now, at this moment the
Dean had to settle in his mind the great question whether it would be
best for his girl that she should be separated from her husband or from
her father. In giving him his due it must be acknowledged that he
considered only what might in truth be best for her. If she were now
taken away from him there would be no prospect of recovery. After all
that had passed, after Lord George's submission to his brother, the
Dean was sure that he would be held in abhorrence by the whole Germain
family. Mary would be secluded and trodden on, and reduced to pale
submission by all the dragons till her life would be miserable. Lord
George himself would be prone enough to domineer in such circumstances.
And then that ill word which had been spoken, and which could only be
effectually burned out of the thoughts of people by a front to the
world at the same time innocent and bold, would stick to her for ever
if she were carried away into obscurity.
But the Dean knew as well as others know how great is the evil of a
separation, and how specially detrimental such a step would be to a
young wife. Than a permanent separation anything would be better;
better even that she should be secluded and maligned, and even, for a
while, trodden under foot. Were such separation to take place his girl
would have been altogether sacrificed, and her life's happiness brought
to shipwreck. But then a permanent separation was not probable. She had
done nothing wrong. The husband and wife did in truth love each other
dearly. The Marquis would be soon gone, and then Lord George would
return to his old habits of thought and his old allegiance. Upon the
whole the Dean thought it best that his present influence should be
used in taking his daughter to the deanery.
"I should like to return quite early to-morrow," said Lord George, very
gravely, "unless my brother's condition should make it impossible."
"I trust you won't find your brother much the worse for what has
happened," said the Dean.
"But you will sleep here to-night," repeated Mary.
"I will come for you the first thing in the morning," said Lord George
in the same funereal voice.
"But why;--why?"
"I shall probably have to be a good deal with my brother during the
afternoon. But I will be here again in the afternoon. You can be at
home at five, and you can get your things ready for going to-morrow."
"Won't you dine here?"
"I think not."
Then there was silence for a minute. Mary was completely astounded.
Lord George wished to say nothing further in the presence of his
father-in-law. The Dean was thinking how he would begin to use his
influence. "I trust you will not take Mary away to-morrow."
"Oh;--certainly."
"I trust not. I must ask you to hear me say a few words about this."
"I must insist on her coming with me to-morrow, even though I should
have to return to London myself afterwards."
"Mary," said her father, "leave us for a moment." Then Mary retired,
with a very saddened air. "Do you understand, George, what it was that
your brother said to me?"
"I suppose so," he answered, hoarsely.
"Then, no doubt, I may take it for granted that you approve of the
violence of my resentment? To me as a clergyman, and as a man past
middle life, the position was very trying. But had I been an
Archbishop, tottering on the grave with years, I must have endeavoured
to do the same." This he said with great energy. "Tell me, George, that
you think that I was right."
But George had not heard the word, had not seen the man's face. And
then, though he would have gone to a desert island with his wife, had
such exile been necessary for her protection, he did believe that she
had misconducted herself. Had he not seen her whirling round the room
with that man after she had been warned against him. "It cannot be
right to murder a man," he said at last.
"You do not thank me then for vindicating your honour and your wife's
innocence?"
"I do not think that that was the way. The way is to take her home."
"Yes;--to her old home,--to the deanery for a while; so that the world,
which will no doubt hear the malignant epithet applied to her by your
wicked brother, may know that both her husband and her father support
her. You had promised to come to the deanery."
"We cannot do that now."
"Do you mean that after what has passed you will take your brother's
part?"
"I will take my wife to Cross Hall," he said, leaving the room and
following Mary up to her chamber.
"What am I to do, papa?" she said when she came down about half-an-hour
afterwards. Lord George had then started to Scumberg's, saying that he
would come to Munster Court again before dinner, but telling her
plainly that he would not sit down to dine with her father, "He has
determined to quarrel with you."
"It will only be for a time, dearest."
"But what shall I do?"
Now came the peril of the answer. He was sure, almost sure, that she
would in this emergency rely rather upon him than on her husband, if he
were firm; but should he be firm as against the husband, how great
would be his responsibility! "I think, my dear," he said, at last,
"that you should go with me to Brotherton."
"But he will not let me."
"I think that you should insist on his promise."
"Don't make us quarrel, papa."
"Certainly not. Anything would be better than a permanent quarrel. But,
after what has been said, after the foul lies that have been told, I
think that you should assert your purpose of staying for awhile with
your father. Were you now to go to Cross Hall there would be no limit
to their tyranny." He left her without a word more, and calling at
Scumberg's Hotel was told that the Marquis could not move.
At that moment Lord George was with his brother, and the Marquis could
talk though he could not move. "A precious family you've married into,
George," he said, almost as soon as his brother was in the room. Then
he gave his own version of the affair, leaving his brother in doubt as
to the exact language that had been used. "He ought to have been a
coal-heaver instead of a clergyman," said the Marquis.
"Of course he would be angry," said Lord George.
"Nothing astonishes me so much," said the Marquis, "as the way in which
you fellows here think you may say whatever comes into your head about
my wife, because she is an Italian, and you seem to be quite surprised
if I object; yet you rage like wild beasts if the compliment is
returned. Why am I to think better of your wife than you of mine?"
"I have said nothing against your wife, Brotherton."
"By ----, I think you have said a great deal,--and with much less
reason than I have. What did you do yourself when you found her
struggling in that fellow's arms at the old woman's party?" Some
good-natured friend had told the Marquis the whole story of the
Kappa-kappa. "You can't be deaf to what all the world is saying of
her." This was wormwood to the wretched husband, and yet he could not
answer with angry, self-reliant indignation, while his brother was
lying almost motionless before him.
Lord George found that he could do nothing at Scumberg's Hotel. He was
assured that his brother was not in danger, and that the chief injury
done was to the muscles of his back, which bruised and lacerated as
they were, would gradually recover such elasticity as they had ever
possessed. But other words were said and other hints expressed, all of
which tended to increase his animosity against the Dean, and almost to
engender anger against his wife. To himself, personally, except in
regard to his wife, his brother had not been ungracious. The Marquis
intended to return to Italy as soon as he could. He hated England and
everything in it. Manor Cross would very soon be at Lord George's
disposal, "though I do hope," said the Marquis, "that the lady who has
condescended to make me her brother-in-law, will never reign paramount
there." By degrees there crept on Lord George's mind a feeling that his
brother looked to a permanent separation,--something like a
repudiation. Over and over again he spoke of Mary as though she had
disgraced herself utterly; and when Lord George defended his wife, the
lord only smiled and sneered.
The effect upon Lord George was to make him very imperious as he walked
back to Munster Court. He could not repudiate his wife, but he would
take her away with a very high hand. Crossing the Green Park, at the
back of Arlington Street, whom should he meet but Mrs. Houghton with
her cousin Jack. He raised his hat, but could not stop a moment. Mrs.
Houghton made an attempt to arrest him,--but he escaped without a word
and went on very quickly. His wife had behaved generously about Mrs.
Houghton. The sight of the woman brought that truth to his mind. He was
aware of that. But no generosity on the part of the wife, no love, no
temper, no virtue, no piety can be accepted by Caesar as weighing a
grain in counterpoise against even suspicion.
He found his wife and asked her whether her things were being packed.
"I cannot go to-morrow," she said.
"Not go?"
"No, George;--not to Cross Hall. I will go to the deanery. You promised
to go to the deanery."
"I will not go to the deanery. I will go to Cross Hall." There was an
hour of it, but during the entire hour, the young wife persisted
obstinately that she would not be taken to Cross Hall. "She had," she
said, "been very badly treated by her husband's family." "Not by me,"
shouted the husband. She went on to say that nothing could now really
put her right but the joint love of her father and her husband. Were
she at Cross Hall her father could do nothing for her. She would not go
to Cross Hall. Nothing short of policemen should take her to Cross Hall
to-morrow.