"No I can't," said Guss.
"I can; – two cradles, and very little of the hashed mutton; and my lady wife with no one to pin her dress for her but the maid of all work with black fingers."
"It wouldn't be like that."
"It very soon would, if I were to marry a girl without a fortune. And I know myself. I'm a very good fellow while the sun shines, but I couldn't stand hardship. I shouldn't come home to the hashed mutton. I should dine at the club, even though I had to borrow the money. I should come to hate the cradle and its occupant, and the mother of its occupant. I should take to drink, and should blow my brains out just as the second cradle came. I can see it all as plain as a pikestaff. I often lay awake the whole night and look at it. You and I, Guss, have made a mistake from the beginning. Being poor people we have lived as though we were rich."
"I have never done so."
"Oh yes, you have. Instead of dining out in Fitzroy Square and drinking tea in Tavistock Place, you have gone to balls in Grosvenor Square and been presented at Court."
"It wasn't my fault."
"It has been so, and therefore you should have made up your mind to marry a rich man."
"Who was it asked me to love him?"
"Say that I did if you please. Upon my word I forget how it began, but say that it was my fault. Of course it was my fault. Are you going to blow me up for that? I see a girl, and first I like her, and then I love her, and then I tell her so; – or else she finds it out without my telling. Was that a sin you can't forgive?"
"I never said it was a sin."
"I don't mind being a worm, but I won't be trodden upon overmuch. Was there ever a moment in which you thought that I thought of marrying you?"
"A great many, Jack."
"Did I ever say so?"
"Never. I'll do you justice there. You have been very cautious."
"Of course you can be severe, and of course I am bound to bear it. I have been cautious, – for your sake!"
"Oh, Jack!"
"For your sake. When I first saw how it was going to be, – how it might be between you and me, – I took care to say outright that I couldn't marry unless a girl had money."
"There will be something – when papa dies."
"The most healthy middle-aged gentleman in London! There might be half a dozen cradles, Guss, before that day. If it will do you good, you shall say I'm the greatest rascal walking."
"That will do me no good."
"But I don't know that I can give you any other privilege."
Then there was a long pause during which they were sauntering together under an old oak tree in the park. "Do you love me, Jack?" she then asked, standing close up to him.
"God bless my soul! That's going back to the beginning."
"You are heartless, – absolutely heartless. It has come to that with you that any real idea of love is out of the question."
"I can't afford it, my dear."
"But is there no such thing as love that you can't help? Can you drop a girl out of your heart altogether simply because she has got no money? I suppose you did love me once?" Here Jack scratched his head. "You did love me once?" she said, persevering with her question.
"Of course I did," said Jack, who had no objection to making assurances of the past.
"And you don't now?"
"Whoever said so? What's the good of talking about it?"
"Do you think you owe me nothing?"
"What's the good of owing, if a man can't pay his debts?"
"You will own nothing then?"
"Yes, I will. If anyone left me twenty thousand pounds to-morrow, then I should owe you something."
"What would you owe me?"
"Half of it."
"And how would you pay me?" He thought a while before he made his answer. He knew that in that case he would not wish to pay the debt in the only way in which it would be payable. "You mean then that you would – marry me?"
"I shouldn't be afraid of the hashed mutton and cradles."
"In that case you – would marry me?"
"A man has no right to take so much on himself as to say that."
"Psha!"
"I suppose I should. I should make a devilish bad husband even then."
"Why should you be worse than others?"
"I don't know. Perhaps I was made worse. I can't fancy myself doing any duty well. If I had a wife of my own I should be sure to fall in love with somebody else's."
"Lady George for instance."
"No; – not Lady George. It would not be with somebody whom I had learned to think the very best woman in all the world. I am very bad, but I'm just not bad enough to make love to her. Or rather I am very foolish, but just not foolish enough to think that I could win her."
"I suppose she's just the same as others, Jack."
"She's not just the same to me. But I'd rather not talk about her, Guss. I'm going to Killancodlem in a day or two, and I shall leave this to-morrow!"
"To-morrow!"
"Well; yes; to-morrow. I must be a day or two in town, and there is not much doing here. I'm tired of the old Marquis who is the most illnatured brute I ever came across in my life, and there's no more fun to be made of the Baroness. I'm not sure but that she has the best of the fun. I didn't think there was an old woman in the world could get a five pound note out of me; but she had."
"How could you be so foolish?"
"How indeed! You'll go back to London?"
"I suppose so; – unless I drown myself."
"Don't do that, Guss?"
"I often think it will be best. You don't know what my life is, – how wretched. And you made it so."
"Is that fair, Guss?"
"Quite fair! Quite true! You have made it miserable. You know you have. Of course you know it."
"Can I help it now?"
"Yes you can. I can be patient if you will say that it shall be some day. I could put up with anything if you would let me hope. When you have got that twenty thousand pounds – ?"
"But I shall never have it."
"If you do, – will you marry me then? Will you promise me that you will never marry anybody else?"
"I never shall."
"But will you promise me? If you will not say so much as that to me you must be false indeed. When you have the twenty thousand pounds will you marry me?"
"Oh, certainly."
"And you can laugh about such a matter when I am pouring out my very soul to you? You can make a joke of it when it is all my life to me! Jack, if you will say that it shall happen some day, – some day, – I will be happy. If you won't, – I can only die. It may be play to you, but it's death to me." He looked at her, and saw that she was quite in earnest. She was not weeping, but there was a drawn, heavy look about her face which, in truth, touched his heart. Whatever might be his faults he was not a cruel man. He had defended himself without any scruples of conscience when she had seemed to attack him, but now he did not know how to refuse her request. It amounted to so little! "I don't suppose it will ever take place, but I think I ought to allow myself to consider myself as engaged to you," she said.
"As it is you are free to marry anyone else," he replied.
"I don't care for such freedom. I don't want it. I couldn't marry a man whom I didn't love."
"Nobody knows what that they can do till they're tried."
"Do you suppose, sir, I've never been tried? But I can't bring myself to laugh now, Jack. Don't joke now. Heaven knows when we may see each other again. You will promise me that, Jack?"
"Yes; – if you wish it." And so at last she had got a promise from him! She said nothing more to fix it, fearing that in doing so she might lose it; but she threw herself into his arms and buried her face upon his bosom.
Afterwards, when she was leaving him, she was very solemn in her manner to him. "I will say good-bye now, Jack, for I shall hardly see you again to speak to. You do love me?"
"You know I do."
"I am so true to you! I have always been true to you. God bless you, Jack. Write me a line sometimes." Then he escaped, having brought her back to the garden among the flowers, and he wandered away by himself across the park. At last he had engaged himself. He knew that it was so, and he knew that she would tell all her friends. Adelaide Houghton would know, and would, of course, congratulate him. There never could be a marriage. That would, of course, be out of the question. But, instead of being the Jack De Baron of old, at any rate free as air, he would be the young man engaged to marry Augusta Mildmay. And then he could hardly now refuse to answer the letters which she would be sure to write to him, at least twice a week. There had been a previous period of letter-writing, but that had died a natural death through utter neglect on his part. But now – . It might be as well that he should take advantage of the new law and exchange into an Indian regiment.
But, even in his present condition, his mind was not wholly occupied with Augusta Mildmay. The evil words which had been spoken to him of Mary had not been altogether fruitless. His cousin Adelaide had told him over and over again that Lady George was as other women, – by which his cousin had intended to say that Lady George was the same as herself. Augusta Mildmay had spoken of his Phœnix in the same strain. The Marquis had declared her to be utterly worthless. It was not that he wished to think of her as they thought, or that he could be brought so to think; but these suggestions, coming as they did from those who knew how much he liked the woman, amounted to ridicule aimed against the purity of his worship. They told him, – almost told him, – that he was afraid to speak of love to Lady George. Indeed he was afraid, and within his own breast he was in some sort proud of his fear. But, nevertheless, he was touched by their ridicule. He and Mary had certainly been dear friends. Certainly that friendship had given great umbrage to her husband. Was he bound to keep away from her because of her husband's anger? He knew that they two were not living together. He knew that the Dean would at any rate welcome him. And he knew, too, that there was no human being he wished to see again so much as Lady George. He had no purpose as to anything that he would say to her, but he was resolved that he would see her. If then some word warmer than any he had yet spoken should fall from him, he would gather from her answer what her feelings were towards him. In going back to London on the morrow he must pass by Brotherton, and he would make his arrangements so as to remain there for an hour or two.
CHAPTER LII.
ANOTHER LOVER
The party at Rudham Park had hardly been a success, – nor was it much improved in wit or gaiety when Mrs. Montacute Jones, Lord Giblet, and Jack de Baron had gone away, and Canon Holdenough and his wife, with Mr. Groschut, had come in their places. This black influx, as Lord Brotherton called it, had all been due to consideration for his Lordship. Mr. De Baron thought that his guest would like to see, at any rate, one of his own family, and Lady Alice Holdenough was the only one whom he could meet. As to Mr. Groschut, he was the Dean's bitterest enemy, and would, therefore, it was thought, be welcome. The Bishop had been asked, as Mr. De Baron was one who found it expedient to make sacrifices to respectability; but, as was well known, the Bishop never went anywhere except to clerical houses. Mr. Groschut, who was a younger man, knew that it behoved him to be all things to all men, and that he could not be efficacious among sinners unless he would allow himself to be seen in their paths. Care was, of course, taken that Lady Alice should find herself alone with her brother. It was probably expected that the Marquis would be regarded as less of an ogre in the country if it were known that he had had communication with one of the family without quarrelling with her. "So you're come here," he said.
"I didn't know that people so pious would enter De Baron's doors."
"Mr. De Baron is a very old friend of the Canon's. I hope he isn't very wicked, and I'm afraid we are not very pious."
"If you don't object, of course I don't. So they've all gone back to the old house?"
"Mamma is there."
"And George?" he asked in a sharp tone.
"And George, – at present."
"George is, I think, the biggest fool I ever came across in my life. He is so cowed by that man whose daughter he has married that he doesn't know how to call his soul his own."
"I don't think that, Brotherton. He never goes to the deanery to stay there."
"Then what makes him quarrel with me? He ought to know which side his bread is buttered."
"He had a great deal of money with her, you know."
"If he thinks his bread is buttered on that side, let him stick to that side and say so. I will regard none of my family as on friendly terms with me who associate with the Dean of Brotherton or his daughter after what took place up in London." Lady Alice felt this to be a distinct threat to herself, but she allowed it to pass by without notice. She was quite sure that the Canon would not quarrel with the Dean out of deference to his brother-in-law. "The fact is they should all have gone away as I told them, and especially when George had married the girl and got her money. It don't make much difference to me, but it will make a deal to him."
"How is Popenjoy, Brotherton?" asked Lady Alice, anxious to change the conversation.
"I don't know anything about him."
"What!"
"He has gone back to Italy with his mother. How can I tell? Ask the Dean. I don't doubt that he knows all about him. He has people following them about, and watching every mouthful they eat."
"I think he has given all that up."
"Not he. He'll have to, unless he means to spend more money than I think he has got."
"George is quite satisfied about Popenjoy now," said Lady Alice.
"I fancy George didn't like the expense. But he began it, and I'll never forgive him. I fancy it was he and Sarah between them. They'll find that they will have had the worst of it. The poor little beggar hadn't much life in him. Why couldn't they wait?"
"Is it so bad as that, Brotherton?"
"They tell me he is not a young Hercules. Oh yes; – you can give my love to my mother. Tell her that if I don't see her it is all George's fault. I am not going to the house while he's there." To the Canon he hardly spoke a word, nor was the Canon very anxious to talk to him. But it became known throughout the country that the Marquis had met his sister at Rudham Park, and the general effect was supposed to be good.
"I shall go back to-morrow, De Baron," he said to his host that same afternoon. This was the day on which Jack had gone to Brotherton.
"We shall be sorry to lose you. I'm afraid it has been rather dull."
"Not more dull than usual. Everything is dull after a certain time of life unless a man has made some fixed line for himself. Some men can eat and drink a great deal, but I haven't got stomach for that. Some men play cards; but I didn't begin early enough to win money, and I don't like losing it. The sort of things that a man does care for die away from him, and of course it becomes dull."
"I wonder you don't have a few horses in training."
"I hate horses, and I hate being cheated."
"They don't cheat me," said Mr. De Baron.
"Ah; – very likely. They would me. I think I made a mistake, De Baron, in not staying at home and looking after the property."
"It's not too late, now."
"Yes, it is. I could not do it. I could not remember the tenants' names, and I don't care about game. I can't throw myself into a litter of young foxes, or get into a fury of passion about pheasants' eggs. It's all beastly nonsense, but if a fellow could only bring himself to care about it that wouldn't matter. I don't care about anything."
"You read."
"No, I don't. I pretend to read – a little. If they had left me alone I think I should have had myself bled to death in a warm bath. But I won't now. That man's daughter shan't be Lady Brotherton if I can help it. I have rather liked being here on the whole, though why the d – you should have a Germain impostor in your house, and a poor clergyman, I can't make out."
"He's the Deputy Bishop of the diocese."
"But why have the Bishop himself unless he happen to be a friend? Does your daughter like her marriage?"
"I hope so. She does not complain."
"He's an awful ass, – and always was. I remember when you used always to finish up your books by making him bet as you pleased."
"He always won."
"And now you've made him marry your daughter. Perhaps he has won there. I like her. If my wife would die and he would die, we might get up another match and cut out Lord George after all." This speculation was too deep even for Mr. De Baron, who laughed and shuffled himself about, and got out of the room.
"Wouldn't you have liked to be a marchioness," he said, some hours afterwards, to Mrs. Houghton. She was in the habit of sitting by him and talking to him late in the evening, while he was sipping his curaçoa and soda water, and had become accustomed to hear odd things from him. He liked her because he could say what he pleased to her, and she would laugh and listen, and show no offence. But this last question was very odd. Of course she thought that it referred to the old overtures made to her by Lord George; but in that case, had she married Lord George, she could only have been made a marchioness by his own death, – by that and by the death of the little Popenjoy of whom she had heard so much.
"If it had come in my way fairly," she said with an arch smile.
"I don't mean that you should have murdered anybody. Suppose you had married me?"
"You never asked me, my lord."
"You were only eight or nine years old when I saw you last."
"Isn't it a pity you didn't get yourself engaged to me then? Such things have been done."
"If the coast were clear I wonder whether you'd take me now."
"The coast isn't clear, Lord Brotherton."
"No, by George. I wish it were, and so do you too, if you'd dare to say so."
"You think I should be sure to take you."
"I think you would. I should ask you at any rate. I'm not so old by ten years as Houghton."
"Your age would not be the stumbling block."
"What then?"
"I didn't say there would be any. I don't say that there would not. It's a kind of thing that a woman doesn't think of."
"It's just the kind of thing that women do think of."
"Then they don't talk about it, Lord Brotherton. Your brother you know did want me to marry him."
"What, George? Before Houghton?"
"Certainly; – before I had thought of Mr. Houghton."
"Why the deuce did you refuse him? Why did you let him take that little – " He did not fill up the blank, but Mrs. Houghton quite understood that she was to suppose everything that was bad. "I never heard of this before."
"It wasn't for me to tell you."
"What an ass you were."
"Perhaps so. What should we have lived upon? Papa would not have given us an income."
"I could."
"But you wouldn't. You didn't know me then."
"Perhaps you'd have been just as keen as she is to rob my boy of his name. And so George wanted to marry you! Was he very much in love?"
"I was bound to suppose so, my lord."
"And you didn't care for him!"
"I didn't say that. But I certainly did not care to set up housekeeping without a house or without the money to get one. Was I wrong?"
"I suppose a fellow ought to have money when he wants to marry. Well, my dear, there is no knowing what may come yet. Won't it be odd, if after all, you should be Marchioness of Brotherton some day? After that won't you give me a kiss before you say good-night."
"I would have done if you had been my brother-in-law, – or, perhaps, if the people were not all moving about in the next room. Good-night, Marquis."
"Good-night. Perhaps you'll regret some day that you haven't done what I asked."
"I might regret it more if I did." Then she took herself off, enquiring in her own mind whether it might still be possible that she should ever preside in the drawing-room at Manor Cross. Had he not been very much in love with her, surely he would not have talked to her like that.
"I think I'll say good-bye to you, De Baron," the Marquis said to his host, that night.
"You won't be going early."
"No; – I never do anything early. But I don't like a fuss just as I am going. I'll get down and drive away to catch some train. My man will manage it all."
"You go to London?"
"I shall be in Italy within a week. I hate Italy, but I think I hate England worse. If I believed in heaven and thought I were going there, what a hurry I should be in to die."
"Let us know how Popenjoy is."
"You'll be sure to know whether he is dead or alive. There's nothing else to tell. I never write letters except to Knox, and very few to him. Good-night."
When the Marquis was in his room, his courier, or the man so called, came to undress him. "Have you heard anything to-day?" he asked in Italian. The man said that he had heard. A letter had reached him that afternoon from London. The letter had declared that little Popenjoy was sinking. "That will do Bonni," he said. "I will get into bed by myself." Then he sat down and thought of himself, and his life, and his prospects, – and of the prospects of his enemies.