THE MARCHIONESS.
Though the departure of the Marquis was much hurried, there were
other meetings between Hampstead and the family before the flitting
was actually made.
"No doubt I will. I am quite with you there," the son said to
the father, who had desired him to explain to the young man the
impossibility of such a marriage. "I think it would be a misfortune
to them both, which should be avoided,--if they can get over their
present feelings."
"Feelings!"
"I suppose there are such feelings, sir?"
"Of course he is looking for position--and money."
"Not in the least. That might probably be the idea with some young
nobleman who would wish to marry into his own class, and to improve
his fortune at the same time. With such a one that would be fair
enough. He would give and take. With George that would not be
honest;--nor would such accusation be true. The position, as you call
it, he would feel to be burdensome. As to money, he does not know
whether Frances has a shilling or not."
"Not a shilling,--unless I give it to her."
"He would not think of such a matter."
"Then he must be a very imprudent young man, and unfit to have a wife
at all."
"I cannot admit that,--but suppose he is?"
"And yet you think--?"
"I think, sir, that it is unfortunate. I have said so ever since I
first heard it. I shall tell him exactly what I think. You will have
Frances with you, and will of course express your own opinion."
The Marquis was far from satisfied with his son, but did not dare to
go on further with the argument. In all such discussions he was wont
to feel that his son was "talking the hind legs off a dog." His own
ideas on concrete points were clear enough to him,--as this present
idea that his daughter, Lady Frances Trafford, would outrage all
propriety, all fitness, all decency, if she were to give herself in
marriage to George Roden, the Post Office clerk. But words were not
plenty with him,--or, when plenty, not efficacious,--and he was prone
to feel, when beaten in argument, that his opponent was taking an
unfair advantage. Thus it was that he often thought, and sometimes
said, that those who oppressed him with words would "talk the hind
legs off a dog."
The Marchioness also expressed her opinion to Hampstead. She was a
lady stronger than her husband;--stronger in this, that she never
allowed herself to be worsted in any encounter. If words would not
serve her occasion at the moment, her countenance would do so,--and
if not that, her absence. She could be very eloquent with silence,
and strike an adversary dumb by the way in which she would leave a
room. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a sublime gait.--"Vera
incessu patuit Dea." She had heard, if not the words, then some
translation of the words, and had taken them to heart, and borne them
with her as her secret motto. To be every inch an aristocrat, in look
as in thought, was the object of her life. That such was her highest
duty was quite fixed in her mind. It had pleased God to make her a
Marchioness,--and should she derogate from God's wish? It had been
her one misfortune that God should not also have made her the mother
of a future Marquis. Her face, though handsome, was quite impassive,
showing nothing of her sorrows or her joys; and her voice was equally
under control. No one had ever imagined, not even her husband,
that she felt acutely that one blow of fortune. Though Hampstead's
politics had been to her abominable, treasonable, blasphemous, she
treated him with an extreme courtesy. If there were anything that
he wished about the house she would have it done for him. She would
endeavour to interest herself about his hunting. And she would pay
him a great respect,--to him most onerous,--as being second in all
things to the Marquis. Though a Republican blasphemous rebel,--so
she thought of him,--he was second to the Marquis. She would fain
have taught her little boys to respect him,--as the future head of
the family,--had he not been so accustomed to romp with them, to
pull them out of their little beds, and toss them about in their
night-shirts, that they loved him much too well for respect. It was
in vain that their mother strove to teach them to call him Hampstead.
Lady Frances had never been specially in her way, but to Lady Frances
the stepmother had been perhaps harder than to the stepson, of whose
presence as an absolute block to her ambition she was well aware.
Lady Frances had no claim to a respect higher than that which was due
to her own children. Primogeniture had done nothing for her. She was
a Marquis's daughter, but her mother had been only the offspring of a
commoner. There was perhaps something of conscience in her feelings
towards the two. As Lord Hampstead was undoubtedly in her way, it
occurred to her to think that she should not on that account be
inimical to him. Lady Frances was not in her way,--and therefore
was open to depreciation and dislike without wounds to her
conscience; and then, though Hampstead was abominable because of
his Republicanism, his implied treason, and blasphemy, yet he was
entitled to some excuse as being a man. These things were abominable
no doubt in him, but more pardonably abominable than they would be in
a woman. Lady Frances had never declared herself to be a Republican
or a disbeliever, much less a rebel,--as, indeed, had neither Lord
Hampstead. In the presence of her stepmother she was generally silent
on matters of political or religious interest. But she was supposed
to sympathise with her brother, and was known to be far from properly
alive to aristocratic interests. There was never quarrelling
between the two, but there was a lack of that friendship which may
subsist between a stepmother of thirty-eight and a stepdaughter of
twenty-one. Lady Frances was tall and slender, with quiet speaking
features, dark in colour, with blue eyes, and hair nearly black.
In appearance she was the very opposite of her stepmother, moving
quickly and achieving grace as she did so, without a thought, by the
natural beauty of her motions. The dignity was there, but without
a thought given to it. Not even did the little lords, her brothers,
chuck their books and toys about with less idea of demeanour. But
the Marchioness never arranged a scarf or buttoned a glove without
feeling that it was her duty to button her glove and arrange her
scarf as became the Marchioness of Kingsbury.
The stepmother wished no evil to Lady Frances,--only that she should
be married properly and taken out of the way. Any stupid Earl or
mercurial Viscount would have done, so long as the blood and the
money had been there. Lady Frances had been felt to be dangerous,
and the hope was that the danger might be got rid of by a proper
marriage. But not by such a marriage as this!
When that accidental calling of the name was first heard and the
following avowal made, the Marchioness declared her immediate
feelings by a look. It was so that Arthur may have looked when he
first heard that his Queen was sinful,--so that Cæsar must have felt
when even Brutus struck him. For though Lady Frances had been known
to be blind to her own greatness, still this,--this at any rate was
not suspected. "You cannot mean it!" the Marchioness had at last
said.
"I certainly mean it, mamma." Then the Marchioness, with one hand
guarding her raiment, and with the other raised high above her
shoulder, in an agony of supplication to those deities who arrange
the fates of ducal houses, passed slowly out of the room. It was
necessary that she should bethink herself before another word was
spoken.
For some time after that very few words passed between her and the
sinner. A dead silence best befitted the occasion;--as, when a child
soils her best frock, we put her in the corner with a scolding;
but when she tells a fib we quell her little soul within her by a
terrible quiescence. To be eloquently indignant without a word is
within the compass of the thoughtfully stolid. It was thus that Lady
Frances was at first treated by her stepmother. She was, however,
at once taken up to London, subjected to the louder anger of her
father, and made to prepare for the Saxon Alps. At first, indeed, her
immediate destiny was not communicated to her. She was to be taken
abroad;--and, in so taking her, it was felt to be well to treat her
as the policeman does his prisoner, whom he thinks to be the last
person who need be informed as to the whereabouts of the prison. It
did leak out quickly, because the Marquis had a castle or château of
his own in Saxony;--but that was only an accident.
The Marchioness still said little on the matter,--unless in what
she might say to her husband in the secret recesses of marital
discussion; but before she departed she found it expedient to express
herself on one occasion to Lord Hampstead. "Hampstead," she said,
"this is a terrible blow that has fallen upon us."
"I was surprised myself. I do not know that I should call it exactly
a blow."
"Not a blow! But of course you mean that it will come to nothing."
"What I meant was, that though I regard the proposition as
inexpedient--"
"Inexpedient!"
"Yes;--I think it inexpedient certainly; but there is nothing in it
that shocks me."
"Nothing that shocks you!"
"Marriage in itself is a good thing."
"Hampstead, do not talk to me in that way."
"But I think it is. If it be good for a young man to marry it must be
good for a young woman also. The one makes the other necessary."
"But not for such as your sister,--and him--together. You are
speaking in that way simply to torment me."
"I can only speak as I think. I do agree that it would be
inexpedient. She would to a certain extent lose the countenance of
her friends--"
"Altogether!"
"Not altogether,--but to some extent. A certain class of people,--not
the best worth knowing,--might be inclined to drop her. However
foolish her own friends may be we owe something--even to their
folly."
"Her friends are not foolish,--her proper friends."
"I quite agree with that; but then so many of them are improper."
"Hampstead!"
"I am afraid that I don't make myself quite clear. But never mind. It
would be inexpedient. It would go against the grain with my father,
who ought to be consulted."
"I should think so."
"I quite agree with you. A father ought to be consulted, even though
a daughter be of age, so as to be enabled by law to do as she likes
with herself. And then there would be money discomforts."
"She would not have a shilling."
"Not but what I should think it my duty to put that right if there
were any real distress." Here spoke the heir, who was already in
possession of much, and upon whom the whole property of the family
was entailed. "Nevertheless if I can prevent it,--without quarrelling
either with one or the other, without saying a hard word,--I shall do
so."
"It will be your bounden duty."
"It is always a man's bounden duty to do what is right. The
difficulty is in seeing the way." After this the Marchioness was
silent. What she had gained by speaking was very little,--little or
nothing. The nature of the opposition he proposed was almost as bad
as a sanction, and the reasons he gave for agreeing with her were as
hurtful to her feelings as though they had been advanced on the other
side. Even the Marquis was not sufficiently struck with horror at the
idea that a daughter of his should have condescended to listen to
love from a Post Office clerk!
On the day before they started Hampstead was enabled to be alone with
his sister for a few minutes. "What an absurdity it is," she said,
laughing,--"this running away."
"It is what you must have expected."
"But not the less absurd. Of course I shall go. Just at the moment I
have no alternative; as I should have none if they threatened to lock
me up, till I got somebody to take my case in hand. But I am as free
to do what I please with myself as is papa."
"He has got money."
"But he is not, therefore, to be a tyrant."
"Yes he is;--over an unmarried daughter who has got none. We cannot
but obey those on whom we are dependent."
"What I mean is, that carrying me away can do no good. You don't
suppose, John, that I shall give him up after having once brought
myself to say the word! It was very difficult to say;--but ten times
harder to be unsaid. I am quite determined,--and quite satisfied."
"But they are not."
"As regards my father, I am very sorry. As to mamma, she and I are so
different in all our thinking that I know beforehand that whatever I
might do would displease her. It cannot be helped. Whether it be good
or bad I cannot be made such as she is. She came too late. You will
not turn against me, John?"
"I rather think I shall."
"John!"
"I may rather say that I have. I do not think your engagement to be
wise."
"But it has been made," said she.
"And may be unmade."
"No;--unless by him."
"I shall tell him that it ought to be unmade,--for the happiness of
both of you."
"He will not believe you."
Then Lord Hampstead shrugged his shoulders, and thus the conversation
was finished.
It was now about the end of June, and the Marquis felt it to be a
grievance that he should be carried away from the charm of political
life in London. In the horror of the first revelation he had
yielded, but had since begun to feel that too much was being done in
withdrawing him from Parliament. The Conservatives were now in; but
during the last Liberal Government he had consented so far to trammel
himself with the bonds of office as to become Privy Seal for the
concluding six months of its existence, and therefore felt his own
importance in a party point of view. But having acceded to his wife
he could not now go back, and was sulky. On the evening before their
departure he was going to dine out with some of the party. His wife's
heart was too deep in the great family question for any gaiety,
and she intended to remain at home,--and to look after the final
packings-up for the little lords.
"I really do not see why you should not have gone without me," the
Marquis said, poking his head out of his dressing-room.
"Impossible," said the Marchioness.
"I don't see it at all."
"If he should appear on the scene ready to carry her off, what should
I have done?"
Then the Marquis drew his head in again, and went on with his
dressing. What, indeed, could he do himself if the man were to appear
on the scene, and if his daughter should declare herself willing to
go off with him?
When the Marquis went to his dinner party the Marchioness dined with
Lady Frances. There was no one else present but the two servants who
waited on them, and hardly a word was spoken. The Marchioness felt
that an awful silence was becoming in the situation. Lady Frances
merely determined more strongly than ever that the situation should
not last very long. She would go abroad now, but would let her father
understand that the kind of life planned out for her was one that she
could not endure. If she was supposed to have disgraced her position,
let her be sent away.
As soon as the melancholy meal was over the two ladies separated, the
Marchioness going up-stairs among her own children. A more careful,
more affectionate, perhaps, I may say, a more idolatrous mother never
lived. Every little want belonging to them,--for even little lords
have wants,--was a care to her. To see them washed and put in and out
of their duds was perhaps the greatest pleasure of her life. To her
eyes they were pearls of aristocratic loveliness; and, indeed, they
were fine healthy bairns, clean-limbed, bright-eyed, with grand
appetites, and never cross as long as they were allowed either to
romp and make a noise, or else to sleep. Lord Frederic, the eldest,
was already in words of two syllables, and sometimes had a bad time
with them. Lord Augustus was the owner of great ivory letters of
which he contrived to make playthings. Lord Gregory had not as yet
been introduced to any of the torments of education. There was an old
English clergyman attached to the family who was supposed to be their
tutor, but whose chief duty consisted in finding conversation for the
Marquis when there was no one else to talk to him. There was also a
French governess and a Swiss maid. But as they both learned English
quicker than the children learned French, they were not serviceable
for the purpose at first intended. The Marchioness had resolved that
her children should talk three or four languages as fluently as their
own, and that they should learn them without any of the agonies
generally incident to tuition. In that she had not as yet succeeded.
She seated herself for a few minutes among the boxes and portmanteaus
in the midst of which the children were disporting themselves prior
to their final withdrawal to bed. No mother was ever so blessed,--if
only, if only! "Mamma," said Lord Frederic, "where's Jack?" "Jack"
absolutely was intended to signify Lord Hampstead.
"Fred, did not I say that you should not call him Jack?"
"He say he is Jack," declared Lord Augustus, rolling up in between
his mother's knees with an impetus which would have upset her had she
not been a strong woman and accustomed to these attacks.
"That is only because he is good-natured, and likes to play with you.
You should call him Hampstead."
"Mamma, wasn't he christianed?" asked the eldest.
"Yes, of course he was christened, my dear," said the mother,
sadly,--thinking how very much of the ceremony had been thrown away
upon the unbelieving, godless young man. Then she superintended the
putting to bed, thinking what a terrible bar to her happiness had
been created by that first unfortunate marriage of her husband's.
Oh, that she should be stepmother to a daughter who desired to fling
herself into the arms of a clerk in the Post Office! And then that an
"unchristianed," that an infidel, republican, un-English, heir should
stand in the way of her darling boy! She had told herself a thousand
times that the Devil was speaking to her when she had dared to wish
that,--that Lord Hampstead was not there! She had put down the wish
in her heart very often, telling herself that it came from the Devil.
She had made a faint struggle to love the young man,--which had
resulted in constrained civility. It would have been unnatural to her
to love any but her own. Now she thought how glorious her Frederic
would have been as Lord Hampstead,--and how infinitely better it
would have been, how infinitely better it would be, for all the
Traffords, for all the nobles of England, and for the country at
large! But in thinking this she knew that she was a sinner, and she
endeavoured to crush the sin. Was it not tantamount to wishing that
her husband's son was--dead?