POOR POPENJOY!
On the following morning the party at Rudham Park were assembled at
breakfast between ten and eleven. It was understood that the Marquis
was gone,--or going. The Mildmays were still there with the Baroness,
and the Houghtons, and the black influx from the cathedral town. A few
other new comers had arrived on the previous day. Mr. Groschut, who was
sitting next to the Canon, had declared his opinion that, after all,
the Marquis of Brotherton was a very affable nobleman. "He's civil
enough," said the Canon, "when people do just what he wants."
"A man of his rank and position of course expects to have some
deference paid to him."
"A man of his rank and position should be very careful of the rights of
others, Mr. Groschut."
"I'm afraid his brother did make himself troublesome. You're one of the
family, Canon, and therefore, of course, know all about it."
"I know nothing at all about it, Mr. Groschut."
"But it must be acknowledged that the Dean behaved very badly.
Violence!--personal violence! And from a clergyman,--to a man of his
rank!"
"You probably don't know what took place in that room. I'm sure I
don't. But I'd rather trust the Dean than the Marquis any day. The
Dean's a man!"
"But is he a clergyman?"
"Of course he is; and a father. If he had been very much in the wrong
we should have heard more about it through the police."
"I cannot absolve a clergyman for using personal violence," said Mr.
Groschut, very grandly. "He should have borne anything sooner than
degrade his sacred calling." Mr. Groschut had hoped to extract from the
Canon some expression adverse to the Dean, and to be able to assure
himself that he had enrolled a new ally.
"Poor dear little fellow!" aunt Ju was saying to Mrs. Holdenough. Of
course she was talking of Popenjoy. "And you never saw him?"
"No; I never saw him."
"I am told he was a lovely child."
"Very dark, I fancy."
"And all those--those doubts? They're all over now?"
"I never knew much about it, Miss Mildmay. I never inquired into it.
For myself, I always took it for granted that he was Popenjoy. I think
one always does take things for granted till somebody proves that it is
not so."
"The Dean, I take it, has given it up altogether," said Mrs. Houghton
to old Lady Brabazon, who had come down especially to meet her nephew,
the Marquis, but who had hardly dared to speak a word to him on the
previous evening, and was now told that he was gone. Lady Brabazon for
a week or two had been quite sure that Popenjoy was not Popenjoy, being
at that time under the influence of a very strong letter from Lady
Sarah. But, since that, a general idea had come to prevail that the
Dean was wrong-headed, and Lady Brabazon had given in her adhesion to
Popenjoy. She had gone so far as to call at Scumberg's, and to leave a
box of bonbons.
"I hope so, Mrs. Houghton; I do hope so. Quarrels are such dreadful
things in families. Brotherton isn't, perhaps, all that he might have
been."
"Not a bad fellow, though, after all."
"By no means, Mrs. Houghton, and quite what he ought to be in
appearance. I always thought that George was very foolish."
"Lord George is foolish--sometimes."
"Very stubborn, you know, and pigheaded. And as for the Dean,--is was
great interference on his part, very great interference. I won't say
that I like foreigners myself. I should be very sorry if Brabazon were
to marry a foreigner. But if he chooses to do so I don't see why he is
to be told that his heir isn't his heir. They say she is a very worthy
woman, and devoted to him." At this moment the butler came in and
whispered a word to Mr. De Baron, who immediately got up from his
chair. "So my nephew hasn't gone," said Lady Brabazon. "That was a
message from him. I heard his name."
Her ears had been correct. The summons which Mr. De Baron obeyed had
come from the Marquis. He went upstairs at once, and found Lord
Brotherton sitting in his dressing-gown, with a cup of chocolate before
him, and a bit of paper in his hand. He did not say a word, but handed
the paper, which was a telegram, to Mr. De Baron. As the message was in
Italian, and as Mr. De Baron did not read the language, he was at a
loss. "Ah! you don't understand it," said the Marquis. "Give it me.
It's all over with little Popenjoy."
"Dead!" said Mr. De Baron.
"Yes. He has got away from all his troubles,--lucky dog! He'll never
have to think what he'll do with himself. They'd almost told me that it
must be so, before he went."
"I grieve for you greatly, Brotherton."
"There's no use in that, old fellow. I'm sorry to be a bother to you,
but I thought it best to tell you. I don't understand much about what
people call grief. I can't say that I was particularly fond of him, or
that I shall personally miss him. They hardly ever brought him to me,
and when they did, it bothered me. And yet, somehow it pinches me;--it
pinches me."
"Of course it does."
"It will be such a triumph to the Dean, and George. That's about the
worst of it. But they haven't got it yet. Though I should be the most
miserable dog on earth I'll go on living as long as I can keep my body
and soul together. I'll have another son yet, if one is to be had for
love or money. They shall have trouble enough before they find
themselves at Manor Cross."
"The Dean'll be dead before that time;--and so shall I," said Mr. De
Baron.
"Poor little boy! You never saw him. They didn't bring him in when you
were over at Manor Cross?"
"No;--I didn't see him."
"They weren't very proud of showing him. He wasn't much to look at.
Upon my soul I don't know whether he was legitimate or not, according
to English fashions." Mr. De Baron stared. "They had something to stand
upon, but,--damn it,--they went about it in such a dirty way! It don't
matter now, you know, but you needn't repeat all this."
"Not a word," said Mr. De Baron, wondering why such a communication
should have been made to him.
"And there was plenty of ground for a good fight. I hardly know whether
she had been married or not. I never could quite find out." Again Mr.
De Baron stared. "It's all over now."
"But if you were to have another son?"
"Oh! we're married now! There were two ceremonies. I believe the Dean
knows quite as much about it as I do;--very likely more. What a rumpus
there has been about a rickety brat who was bound to die."
"Am I to tell them downstairs?"
"Yes;--you might as well tell them. Wait till I'm gone. They'd say I'd
concealed it if I didn't let them know, and I certainly shan't write.
There's no Popenjoy now. If that young woman has a son he can't be
Popenjoy as long as I live. I'll take care of myself. By George I will.
Fancy, if the Dean had killed me. He'd have made his own daughter a
Marchioness."
"But he'd have been hung."
"Then I wish he'd done it. I wonder how it would have gone. There was
nobody there to see, nor to hear. Well;--I believe I'll think of going.
There's a train at two. You'll let me have a carriage; won't you?"
"Certainly."
"Let me get out some back way, and don't say a word about this till I'm
off. I wouldn't have them condoling with me, and rejoicing in their
sleeves, for a thousand pounds. Tell Holdenough, or my sister;--that'll
be enough. Good-bye. If you want ever to see me again, you must come to
Como." Then Mr. De Baron took his leave, and the Marquis prepared for
his departure.
As he was stepping into the carriage at a side door he was greeted by
Mr. Groschut. "So your Lordship is leaving us," said the Chaplain. The
Marquis looked at him, muttered something, and snarled as he hurried up
the step of the carriage. "I'm sorry that we are to lose your Lordship
so soon." Then there was another snarl. "I had one word I wanted to
say."
"To me! What can you have to say to me?"
"If at any time I can do anything for your Lordship at Brotherton----"
"You can't do anything. Go on." The last direction was given to the
coachman, and the carriage was driven off, leaving Mr. Groschut on the
path.
Before lunch everybody in the house knew that poor little Popenjoy was
dead, and that the Dean had, in fact, won the battle,--though not in
the way that he had sought to win it. Lord Brotherton had, after a
fashion, been popular at Rudham, but, nevertheless, it was felt by them
all that Lady George was a much greater woman to-day than she had been
yesterday. It was felt also that the Dean was in the ascendant. The
Marquis had been quite agreeable, making love to the ladies, and fairly
civil to the gentlemen,--excepting Mr. Groschut; but he certainly was
not a man likely to live to eighty. He was married, and, as was
generally understood, separated from his wife. They might all live to
see Lady George Marchioness of Brotherton and a son of hers Lord
Popenjoy.
"Dead!" said Lady Brabazon, when Lady Alice, with sad face, whispered
to her the fatal news.
"He got a telegram this morning from Italy. Poor little boy."
"And what'll he do now;--the Marquis I mean?"
"I suppose he'll follow his wife," said Lady Alice.
"Was he much cut up?"
"I didn't see him. He merely sent me word by Mr. De Baron." Mr. De
Baron afterwards assured Lady Brabazon that the poor father had been
very much cut up. Great pity was expressed throughout the party, but
there was not one there who would not now have been civil to poor Mary.
The Marquis had his flowers, and his fruit, and his French novels on
his way up to town, and kept his sorrow, if he felt it, very much to
himself. Soon after his arrival at Scumberg's, at which place they were
obliged to take him in as he was still paying for his rooms, he made it
known that he should start for Italy in a day or two. On that night and
on the next he did not go out in his brougham, nor did he give any
offence to Mrs. Walker. London was as empty as London ever is, and
nobody came to see him. For two days he did not leave his room, the
same room in which the Dean had nearly killed him, and received nobody
but his tailor and his hair-dresser. I think that, in his way, he did
grieve for the child who was gone, and who, had he lived, would have
been the intended heir of his title and property. They must now all go
from him to his enemies! And the things themselves were to himself of
so very little value! Living alone at Scumberg's was not a pleasant
life. Even going out in his brougham at nights was not very pleasant to
him. He could do as he liked at Como, and people wouldn't grumble;--but
what was there even at Como that he really liked to do? He had a half
worn out taste for scenery which he had no longer energy to gratify by
variation. It had been the resolution of his life to live without
control, and now, at four and forty, he found that the life he had
chosen was utterly without attraction. He had been quite in earnest in
those regrets as to shooting, hunting, and the duties of an English
country life. Though he was free from remorse, not believing in
anything good, still he was open to a conviction that had he done what
other people call good, he would have done better for himself.
Something of envy stirred him as he read the records of a nobleman
whose political life had left him no moment of leisure for his private
affairs;--something of envy when he heard of another whose cattle were
the fattest in the land. He was connected with Lord Grassangrains, and
had always despised that well-known breeder of bullocks;--but he could
understand now that Lord Grassangrains should wish to live, whereas
life to him was almost unbearable. Lord Grassangrains probably had a
good appetite.
On the last morning of his sojourn at Scumberg's he received two or
three letters which he would willingly have avoided by running away had
it been possible. The first he opened was from his old mother, who had
not herself troubled him much with letters for some years past. It was
as follows:--
"DEAREST BROTHERTON,--I have heard about poor Popenjoy, and I am
so unhappy. Darling little fellow. We are all very wretched here,
and I have nearly cried my eyes out. I hope you won't go away
without seeing me. If you'll let me, I'll go up to London, though
I haven't been there for I don't know how long. But perhaps you
will come here to your own house. I do so wish you would.
"Your most affectionate mother,
"H. BROTHERTON.
"P.S.--Pray don't turn George out at the end of the month."
This he accepted without anger as being natural, but threw aside as
being useless. Of course he would not answer it. They all knew that he
never answered their letters. As to the final petition he had nothing
to say to it.
The next was from Lord George, and shall also be given:--
"MY DEAR BROTHERTON,--I cannot let the tidings which I have just
heard pass by without expressing my sympathy. I am very sorry
indeed that you should have lost your son. I trust you will credit
me for saying so much with absolute truth.
"Yours always,
"GEORGE GERMAIN."
"I don't believe a word of it," he said almost out loud. To his
thinking it was almost impossible that what his brother said should be
true. Why should he be sorry,--he that had done his utmost to prove
that Popenjoy was not Popenjoy? He crunched the letter up and cast it
on one side. Of course he would not answer that.
The third was from a new correspondent; and that also the reader shall
see;--
"MY DEAR LORD MARQUIS,--Pray believe that had I known under what
great affliction you were labouring when you left Rudham Park I
should have been the last man in the world to intrude myself upon
you. Pray believe me also when I say that I have heard of your
great bereavement with sincere sympathy, and that I condole with
you from the bottom of my heart. Pray remember, my dear Lord, that
if you will turn aright for consolation you certainly will not
turn in vain.
"Let me add, though this is hardly the proper moment for such
allusion, that both his lordship the Bishop and myself were most
indignant when we heard of the outrage committed upon you at your
hotel. I make no secret of my opinion that the present Dean of
Brotherton ought to be called upon by the great Council of the
Nation to vacate his promotion. I wish that the bench of bishops
had the power to take from him his frock.
"I have the honour to be,
"My Lord Marquis,
"With sentiments of most unfeigned respect,
"Your Lordship's most humble servant,
"JOSEPH GROSCHUT."
The Marquis smiled as he also threw this letter into the waste-paper
basket, telling himself that birds of that feather very often did fall
out with one another.