SANS REPROCHE.
Three or four days after writing his letter to Kate O'Hara, the Earl
told his aunt that he must return to Ireland, and he named the day on
which he would leave Scroope. "I did not think that you would go back
there," she said. He could see by the look of her face and by the
anxious glance of her eye that she had in her heart the fear of Kate
O'Hara,--as he had also.
"I must return. I came away at a moment's notice."
"But you have written about leaving the regiment."
"Yes;--I have done that. In the peculiar circumstances I don't suppose
they will want me to serve again. Indeed I've had a letter, just a
private note, from one of the fellows at the Horse Guards explaining all
that."
"I don't see why you should go at all;--indeed I do not."
"What am I to do about my things? I owe some money. I've got three or
four horses there. My very clothes are all about just as I left them
when I came away."
"Any body can manage all that. Give the horses away."
"I had rather not give away my horses," he said laughing. "The fact is I
must go." She could urge nothing more to him on that occasion. She did
not then mention the existence of Kate O'Hara. But he knew well that she
was thinking of the girl, and he knew also that the activity of Lady
Mary Quin had not slackened. But his aunt, he thought, was more afraid
of him now that he was the Earl than she had been when he was only the
heir; and it might be that this feeling would save him from the mention
of Kate O'Hara's name.
To some extent the dowager was afraid of her nephew. She knew at least
that the young man was all-powerful and might act altogether as he
listed. In whatever she might say she could not now be supported by the
authority of the Lord of Scroope. He himself was lord of Scroope; and
were he to tell her simply to hold her tongue and mind her own business
she could only submit. But she was not the woman to allow any sense of
fear, or any solicitude as to the respect due to herself, to stand in
the way of the performance of a duty. It may be declared on her behalf
that had it been in her nephew's power to order her head off in
punishment for her interference, she would still have spoken had she
conceived it to be right to speak.
But within her own bosom there had been dreadful conflicts as to that
duty. Lady Mary Quin had by no means slackened her activity. Lady Mary
Quin had learned the exact condition of Kate O'Hara, and had sent the
news to her friend with greedy rapidity. And in sending it Lady Mary
Quin entertained no slightest doubt as to the duty of the present Earl
of Scroope. According to her thinking it could not be the duty of an
Earl of Scroope in any circumstances to marry a Kate O'Hara. There are
women, who in regard to such troubles as now existed at Ardkill cottage,
always think that the woman should be punished as the sinner and that
the man should be assisted to escape. The hardness of heart of such
women,--who in all other views of life are perhaps tender and
soft-natured,--is one of the marvels of our social system. It is as
though a certain line were drawn to include all women,--a line, but,
alas, little more than a line,--by overstepping which, or rather by
being known to have overstepped it, a woman ceases to be a woman in the
estimation of her own sex. That the existence of this feeling has strong
effect in saving women from passing the line, none of us can doubt. That
its general tendency may be good rather than evil, is possible. But the
hardness necessary to preserve the rule, a hardness which must be
exclusively feminine but which is seldom wanting, is a marvellous
feature in the female character. Lady Mary Quin probably thought but
little on the subject. The women in the cottage on the cliff, who were
befriended by Father Marty, were to her dangerous scheming Roman
Catholic adventurers. The proper triumph of Protestant virtue required
that they should fail in their adventures. She had always known that
there would be something disreputable heard of them sooner or later.
When the wretched Captain came into the neighbourhood,--and she soon
heard of his coming,--she was gratified by feeling that her convictions
had been correct. When the sad tidings as to poor Kate reached her ears,
she had "known that it would be so." That such a girl should be made
Countess of Scroope in reward for her wickedness would be to her an
event horrible, almost contrary to Divine Providence,--a testimony that
the Evil One was being allowed peculiar power at the moment, and would
no doubt have been used in her own circles to show the ruin that had
been brought upon the country by Catholic emancipation. She did not for
a moment doubt that the present Earl should be encouraged to break any
promises of marriage to the making of which he might have been allured.
But it was not so with Lady Scroope. She, indeed, came to the same
conclusion as her friend, but she did so with much difficulty and after
many inward struggles. She understood and valued the customs of the
magic line. In her heart of hearts she approved of a different code of
morals for men and women. That which merited instant, and as regarded
this world, perpetual condemnation in a woman, might in a man be very
easily forgiven. A sigh, a shake of the head, and some small innocent
stratagem that might lead to a happy marriage and settlement in life
with increased income, would have been her treatment of such sin for the
heirs of the great and wealthy. She knew that the world could not afford
to ostracise the men,--though happily it might condemn the women.
Nevertheless, when she came to the single separated instance, though her
heart melted with no ruth for the woman,--in such cases the woman must
be seen before the ruth is felt,--though pity for Kate O'Hara did not
influence her, she did acknowledge the sanctity of a gentleman's word.
If, as Lady Mary told her, and as she could so well believe, the present
Earl of Scroope had given to this girl a promise that he would marry
her, if he had bound himself by his pledged word, as a nobleman and a
gentleman, how could she bid him become a perjured knave? Sans reproche!
Was he thus to begin to live and to deserve the motto of his house by
the conduct of his life?
But then the evil that would be done was so great! She did not for a
moment doubt all that Lady Mary told her about the girl. The worst of it
had indeed been admitted. She was a Roman Catholic, ill-born,
ill-connected, damaged utterly by a parent so low that nothing lower
could possibly be raked out of the world's gutters. And now the girl
herself was--a castaway. Such a marriage as that of which Lady Mary
spoke would not only injure the house of Scroope for the present
generation, but would tend to its final downfall. Would it not be known
throughout all England that the next Earl of Scroope would be the
grandson of a convict? Might there not be questions as to the legitimacy
of the assumed heir? She herself knew of noble families which had been
scattered, confounded, and almost ruined by such imprudence. Hitherto
the family of Scroope had been continued from generation to generation
without stain,--almost without stain. It had felt it to be a fortunate
thing that the late heir had died because of the pollution of his
wretched marriage. And now must evil as bad befall it, worse evil
perhaps, through the folly of this young man? Must that proud motto be
taken down from its place in the hall from very shame? But the evil had
not been done yet, and it might be that her words could save the house
from ruin and disgrace.
She was a woman of whom it may be said that whatever difficulty she
might have in deciding a question she could recognise the necessity of a
decision and could abide by it when she had made it. It was with great
difficulty that she could bring herself to think that an Earl of Scroope
should be false to a promise by which he had seduced a woman, but she
did succeed in bringing herself to such thought. Her very heart bled
within her as she acknowledged the necessity. A lie to her was
abominable. A lie, to be told by herself, would have been hideous to
her. A lie to be told by him, was worse. As virtue, what she called
virtue, was the one thing indispensable to women, so was truth the one
thing indispensable to men. And yet she must tell him to lie, and having
resolved so to tell him, must use all her intellect to defend the
lie,--and to insist upon it.
He was determined to return to Ireland, and there was nothing that she
could do to prevent his return. She could not bid him shun a danger
simply because it was a danger. He was his own master, and were she to
do so he would only laugh at her. Of authority with him she had none. If
she spoke, he must listen. Her position would secure so much to her from
courtesy,--and were she to speak of the duty which he owed to his name
and to the family he could hardly laugh. She therefore sent to him a
message. Would he kindly go to her in her own room? Of course he
attended to her wishes and went. "You mean to leave us to-morrow, Fred,"
she said. We all know the peculiar solemnity of a widow's dress,--the
look of self-sacrifice on the part of the woman which the dress creates;
and have perhaps recognised the fact that if the woman be deterred by no
necessities of oeconomy in her toilet,--as in such material
circumstances the splendour is more perfect if splendour be the
object,--so also is the self-sacrifice more abject. And with this widow
an appearance of melancholy solemnity, almost of woe, was natural to
her. She was one whose life had ever been serious, solemn, and sad.
Wealth and the outward pomp of circumstances had conferred upon her a
certain dignity; and with that doubtless there had reached her some
feeling of satisfaction. Religion too had given her comfort, and a
routine of small duties had saved her from the wretchedness of ennui.
But life with her had had no laughter, and had seldom smiled. Now in the
first days of her widowhood she regarded her course as run, and looked
upon herself as one who, in speaking, almost spoke from the tomb. All
this had its effect upon the young lord. She did inspire him with a
certain awe; and though her weeds gave her no authority, they did give
her weight.
"Yes; I shall start to-morrow," he replied.
"And you still mean to go to Ireland?"
"Yes;--I must go to Ireland. I shan't stay there, you know."
Then she paused a moment before she proceeded. "Shall you see--that
young woman when you are there?"
"I suppose I shall see her."
"Pray do not think that I desire to interfere with your private affairs.
I know well that I have no right to assume over you any of that
affectionate authority which a mother might have,--though in truth I
love you as a son."
"I would treat you just as I would my own mother."
"No, Fred; that cannot be so. A mother would throw her arms round you
and cling to you if she saw you going into danger. A mother would follow
you, hoping that she might save you."
"But there is no danger."
"Ah, Fred, I fear there is."
"What danger?"
"You are now the head of one of the oldest and the noblest families in
this which in my heart I believe to be the least sinful among the sinful
nations of the wicked world."
"I don't quite know how that may be;--I mean about the world. Of course
I understand about the family."
"But you love your country?"
"Oh yes. I don't think there's any place like England,--to live in."
"And England is what it is because there are still some left among us
who are born to high rank and who know how to live up to the standard
that is required of them. If ever there was such a man, your uncle was
such a one."
"I'm sure he was;--just what he ought to have been."
"Honourable, true, affectionate, self-denying, affable to all men, but
ever conscious of his rank, giving much because much had been given to
him, asserting his nobility for the benefit of those around him, proud
of his order for the sake of his country, bearing his sorrows with the
dignity of silence, a nobleman all over, living on to the end sans
reproche! He was a man whom you may dare to imitate, though to follow
him may be difficult." She spoke not loudly, but clearly, looking him
full in the face as she stood motionless before him.
"He was all that," said Fred, almost overpowered by the sincere
solemnity of his aunt's manner.
"Will you try to walk in his footsteps?"
"Two men can never be like one another in that way. I shall never be
what he was. But I'll endeavour to get along as well as I can."
"You will remember your order?"
"Yes, I will. I do remember it. Mind you, aunt, I am not glad that I
belong to it. I think I do understand about it all, and will do my best.
But Jack would have made a better Earl than I shall do. That's the
truth."
"The Lord God has placed you,--and you must pray to Him that He will
enable you to do your duty in that state of life to which it has pleased
Him to call you. You are here and must bear his decree; and whether it
be a privilege to enjoy, you must enjoy it, or a burden to bear, you
must endure it."
"It is so of course."
"Knowing that, you must know also how incumbent it is upon you not to
defile the stock from which you are sprung."
"I suppose it has been defiled," said Fred, who had been looking into
the history of the family. "The ninth Earl seems to have married nobody
knows whom. And his son was my uncle's grandfather."
This was a blow to Lady Scroope, but she bore it with dignity and
courage. "You would hardly wish it to be said that you had copied the
only one of your ancestors who did amiss. The world was rougher then
than it is now, and he of whom you speak was a soldier."
"I'm a soldier too," said the Earl.
"Oh, Fred, is it thus you answer me! He was a soldier in rough times,
when there were wars. I think he married when he was with the army under
Marlborough."
"I have not seen anything of that kind, certainly."
"Your country is at peace, and your place is here, among your tenantry,
at Scroope. You will promise me, Fred, that you will not marry this girl
in Ireland?"
"If I do, the fault will be all with that old maid at Castle Quin."
"Do not say that, Fred. It is impossible. Let her conduct have been what
it may, it cannot make that right in you which would have been wrong, or
that wrong which would have been right."
"She's a nasty meddlesome cat."
"I will not talk about her. What good would it do? You cannot at any
rate be surprised at my extreme anxiety. You did promise your uncle most
solemnly that you would never marry this young lady."
"If I did, that ought to be enough." He was now waxing angry and his
face was becoming red. He would bear a good deal from his uncle's widow,
but he felt his own power and was not prepared to bear much more.
"Of course I cannot bind you. I know well how impotent I am,--how
powerless to exercise control. But I think, Fred, that for your uncle's
sake you will not refuse to repeat your promise to me, if you intend to
keep it. Why is it that I am so anxious? It is for your sake, and for
the sake of a name which should be dearer to you than it is even to me."
"I have no intention of marrying at all."
"Do not say that."
"I do say it. I do not want to keep either you or Jack in the dark as to
my future life. This young lady,--of whom, by the by, neither you nor
Lady Mary Quin know anything, shall not become Countess of Scroope. To
that I have made up my mind."
"Thank God."
"But as long as she lives I will make no woman Countess of Scroope. Let
Jack marry this girl that he is in love with. They shall live here and
have the house to themselves if they like it. He will look after the
property and shall have whatever income old Mellerby thinks proper. I
will keep the promise I made to my uncle,--but the keeping of it will
make it impossible for me to live here. I would prefer now that you
should say no more on the subject." Then he left her, quitting the room
with some stateliness in his step, as though conscious that at such a
moment as this it behoved him to assume his rank.
The dowager sat alone all that morning thinking of the thing she had
done. She did now believe that he was positively resolved not to marry
Kate O'Hara, and she believed also that she herself had fixed him in
that resolution. In doing so had she or had she not committed a deadly
sin? She knew almost with accuracy what had occurred on the coast of
Clare. A young girl, innocent herself up to that moment, had been
enticed to her ruin by words of love which had been hallowed in her ears
by vows of marriage. Those vows which had possessed so deadly an
efficacy, were now to be simply broken! The cruelty to her would be
damnable, devilish,--surely worthy of hell if any sin of man can be so
called! And she, who could not divest herself of a certain pride taken
in the austere morality of her own life, she who was now a widow anxious
to devote her life solely to God, had persuaded the man to this sin, in
order that her successor as Countess of Scroope might not be, in her
opinion, unfitting for nobility! The young lord had promised her that he
would be guilty of this sin, so damnable, so devilish, telling her as he
did so, that as a consequence of his promise he must continue to live a
life of wickedness! In the agony of her spirit she threw herself upon
her knees and implored the Lord to pardon her and to guide her. But even
while kneeling before the throne of heaven she could not drive the pride
of birth out of her heart. That the young Earl might be saved from the
damning sin and also from the polluting marriage;--that was the prayer
she prayed.