CHAPTER LV.
HOW COULD HE HELP IT?
When he returned she was out in the garden with her hat on and a mallet in her hand; but she was seated on one of a cluster of garden-chairs under a great cedar tree. "I think it's almost too hot to play," she said. It was an August afternoon, and the sun was very bright in the heavens. Jack was of course quite willing to sit under the cedar-tree instead of playing croquet. He was prepared to do whatever she wished. If he could only know what subjects she would prefer, he would talk about them and nothing else. "How do you think papa is looking?" she asked.
"He always looks well."
"Ah; he was made dreadfully unhappy by that affair up in London. He never would talk about it to me; but he was quite ill while he thought the Marquis was in danger."
"I don't believe the Marquis was much the worse for it."
"They said he was, and papa for some time could not get over it. Now he is elated. I wish he would not be so glad because that poor little boy has died."
"It makes a great difference to him, Lady George; – and to you."
"Of course it makes a difference, and of course I feel it. I am as anxious for my husband as any other woman. If it should come fairly, as it were by God's doing, I am not going to turn up my nose at it."
"Is not this fairly?"
"Oh yes. Papa did not make the little boy die, of course. But I don't think that people should long for things like this. If they can't keep from wishing them, they should keep their wishes to themselves. It is so like coveting other people's goods. Don't you think we ought to keep the commandments, Captain De Baron?"
"Certainly – if we can."
"Then we oughtn't to long for other people's titles."
"If I understand it, the Dean wanted to prevent somebody else from getting a title which wasn't his own. That wouldn't be breaking the commandment."
"Of course I am not finding fault with papa. He would not for worlds try to take anything that wasn't his, – or mine. But it's so sad about the little boy."
"I don't think the Marquis cared for him."
"Oh, he must have cared! His only child! And the poor mother; – think how she must feel."
"In spite of it all, I do think it's a very good thing that he's dead," said Jack, laughing.
"Then you ought to keep it to yourself, sir. It's a very horrid thing to say so. Wouldn't you like to smoke a cigar? You may, you know. Papa always smokes out here, because he says Mr. Groschut can't see him."
"Mr. Groschut is at Rudham," said Jack, as he took a cigar out of his case and lit it.
"At Rudham? What promotion!"
"He didn't seem to me to be a first-class sort of a fellow."
"Quite a last-class sort of fellow, if there is a last class. I'll tell you a secret, Captain De Baron. Mr. Groschut is my pet abomination. If I hate anybody, I hate him. I think I do really hate Mr. Groschut. I almost wish that they would make him bishop of some unhealthy place."
"So that he might go away and die?"
"If the mosquitoes would eat him day and night, that would be enough. Who else was there at Rudham?"
"Mrs. Montacute Jones."
"Dear Mrs. Jones. I do like Mrs. Jones."
"And Adelaide Houghton with her husband." Mary turned up her nose and made a grimace as the Houghtons were named. "You used to be very fond of Adelaide."
"Very fond is a long word. We were by way of being friends; but we are friends no longer."
"Tell me what she did to offend you, Lady George? I know there was something."
"You are her cousin. Of course I am not going to abuse her to you."
"She's not half so much my cousin as you are my friend, – if I may say so. What did she do or what did she say?"
"She painted her face."
"If you're going to quarrel, Lady George, with every woman in London who does that, you'll have a great many enemies."
"And the hair at the back of her head got bigger and bigger every month. Papa always quotes something about Dr. Fell when he's asked why he does not like anybody. She's Dr. Fell to me."
"I don't think she quite knows why you've cut her."
"I'm quite sure she does, Captain De Baron. She knows all about it. And now, if you please, we won't talk of her any more. Who else was there at Rudham?"
"All the old set. Aunt Ju and Guss."
"Then you were happy."
"Quite so. I believe that no one knows all about that better than you do."
"You ought to have been happy."
"Lady George, I thought you always told the truth."
"I try to; and I think you ought to have been happy. You don't mean to tell me that Miss Mildmay is nothing to you?"
"She is a very old friend."
"Ought she not to be more? Though of course I have no right to ask."
"You have a right if any one has. I haven't a friend in the world I would trust as I would you. No; she ought not to be more."
"Have you never given her a right to think that she would be more?"
He paused a moment or two before he answered. Much as he wished to trust her, anxious as he was that she should be his real friend he could hardly bring himself to tell her all that had taken place at Rudham Park during the last day or two. Up to that time he never had given Miss Mildmay any right. So, at least, he still assured himself. But now, – it certainly was different now. He desired of all things to be perfectly honest with Lady George, – to be even innocent in all that he said to her; but – just for this once – he was obliged to deviate into a lie. "Never!" he said.
"Of course it is not for me to enquire further."
"It is very hard to describe the way in which such an intimacy has come about. Guss Mildmay and I have been very much thrown together; but, even had she wished it, we never could have married. We have no means."
"And yet you live like rich people."
"We have no means because we have lived like rich people."
"You have never asked her to marry you?"
"Never."
"Nor made her think that you would ask her? That comes to the same thing, Captain De Baron."
"How am I to answer that? How am I to tell it all without seeming to boast. When it first came to pass that we knew ourselves well enough to admit of such a thing being said between us, I told her that marriage was impossible. Is not that enough?"
"I suppose so," said Lady George, who remembered well every word that Gus Mildmay had said to herself. "I don't know why I should enquire about it, only I thought – "
"I know what you thought."
"What did I think?"
"That I was a heartless scoundrel."
"No, never. If I had, I should not have, – have cared about it. Perhaps it has been unfortunate."
"Most unfortunate!" Then again there was a pause, during which he went on smoking while she played with her mallet. "I wish I could tell you everything about it; – only I can't. Did she ever speak to you?"
"Yes, once."
"And what did she say?"
"I cannot tell you that either."
"I have endeavoured to be honest; but sometimes it is so difficult. One wants sometimes to tell the whole truth, but it won't come out. I am engaged to her now."
"You are engaged to her!"
"And two days since I was as free as ever."
"Then I may congratulate you."
"No, no. It makes me miserable. I do not love her. There is one other person that I care for, and I never can care for any one else. There is one woman that I love, and I never really loved any one else."
"That is very sad, Captain De Baron."
"Is it not? I can never marry Miss Mildmay."
"And yet you have promised?"
"I have promised under certain circumstances which can never, never come about."
"Why did you promise if you do not love her?"
"Cannot you understand without my telling you? I cannot tell you that. I am sure you understand."
"I suppose I do. Poor Miss Mildmay!"
"And poor Jack De Baron!"
"Yes; poor Jack De Baron also! No man should talk to a girl of marrying her unless he loves her. It is different with a girl. She may come to love a man. She may love a man better than all the world, though she hardly knew him when she married him. If he is good to her, she will certainly do so. But if a man marries a woman without loving her, he will soon hate her."
"I shall never marry Miss Mildmay."
"And yet you have said you would?"
"I told you that I wanted to tell you everything. It is so pleasant to have some one to trust, even though I should be blamed as you are blaming me. It simply means that I can marry no one else."
"But you love some one?" She felt when she was asking the question that it was indiscreet. When the assertion was made she had not told herself that she was the woman. She had not thought it. For an instant she had tried to imagine who that other one could be. But yet, when the words were out of her mouth, she knew that they were indiscreet. Was she not indiscreet in holding any such conversation with a man who was not her brother or even her cousin? She wished that he were her cousin, so that she might become the legitimate depository of his secrets. Though she was scolding him for his misdoings, yet she hardly liked him the less for them. She thought that she did understand how it was, and she thought that the girl was more in fault than the man. It was not till the words had passed her mouth and the question had been asked that she felt the indiscretion. "But you love some one else?"
"Certainly I do; but I had not meant to speak about that."
"I will enquire into no secrets."
"Is that a secret? Can it be a secret? Do you not know that ever since I knew you I have had no pleasure but in being with you, and talking to you, and looking at you?"
"Captain De Baron!" As she spoke she rose from her seat as though she would at once leave him and go back into the house.
"You must hear me now. You must not go without hearing me. I will not say a word to offend you."
"You have offended me."
"How could I help it? What was I to do? What ought I to have said? Pray do not go, Lady George."
"I did not think you would have insulted me. I did trust you."
"You may trust me. On my honour as a gentleman, I will never say another word that you can take amiss. I wish I could tell you all my feelings. One cannot help one's love."
"A man may govern his words."
"As I trust in heaven, I had determined that I would never say a syllable to you that I might not have spoken to my sister. Have I asked you to love me? I have not thought it possible that you should do so. I know you to be too good. It has never come within my dreams."
"It is wicked to think of it."
"I have not thought of it. I will never think of it. You are like an angel to me. If I could write poetry, I should write about you. If ever I build castles in the air and think what I might have been if things had gone well with me, I try to fancy then that I might have had you for a wife. That is not wicked. That is not a crime. Can you be angry with me because, having got to know you as I do, I think you better, nicer, jollier, more beautiful than any one else? Have you never really loved a friend?"
"I love my husband with all my heart, – oh, better than all the world."
Jack did not quite understand this. His angel was an angel. He was sure of that. And he wished her to be still an angel. But he could not understand how any angel could passionately love Lord George Germain, – especially this angel who had been so cruelly treated by him. Had she loved him better than all the world when he walked her out of Mrs. Jones' drawing-room, reprimanding her before all the guests for her conduct in dancing the Kappa-kappa? But this was a matter not open to argument. "I may still be your friend?" he said.
"I think you had better not come again."
"Do not say that, Lady George. If I have done wrong, forgive me. I think you must admit that I could hardly help myself."
"Not help yourself!"
"Did I not tell you that I wanted you to know the whole truth? How could I make you understand about Miss Mildmay without telling it all? Say that you will forgive me."
"Say that it is not so, and then I will forgive you."
"No. It is so, and it must be so. It will remain so always, but yet you will surely forgive me, if I never speak of it again. You will forgive me and understand me, and when hereafter you see me as a middle-aged man about town, you will partly know why it is so. Oh dear; I forgot to tell you. We had another old friend of yours at Rudham, – a very particular friend." Of course she had forgiven him and now she was thankful to him for his sudden breach of the subject; but she was not herself strong enough immediately to turn to another matter. "Who do you think was there?"
"How can I tell?"
"The Baroness."
"No?"
"As large as life."
"Baroness Banmann at Mr. De Baron's."
"Yes; – Baroness Banmann. Aunt Julia had contrived to get permission to bring her, and the joke was that she did us all out of our money. She got a five-pound note from me."
"What a goose you were."
"And ten from Lord Brotherton! I think that was the greatest triumph. She was down on him without the slightest compunction. I never saw a man so shot in my life. He sent me to look for the money, and she never left me till I had got it for her."
"I thought Aunt Ju had had enough of her."
"I should think she has now. And we had Lord Giblet. Lord Giblet is to marry Miss Patmore Green after all."
"Poor Lord Giblet!"
"And poor Miss Patmore Green. I don't know which will have the worst of it. They can practise the Kappa-kappa together for consolation. It is all Mrs. Jones' doing, and she is determined that he shan't escape. I'm to go down to Killancodlem and help."
"Why should you have anything to do with it?"
"Very good shooting, and plenty to eat and drink, – and Giblet is a friend of mine; so I'm bound to lend a hand. And now, Lady George, I think I'll go to the hotel and be back to dinner. We are friends."
"Yes; if you promise not to offend me."
"I will never offend you. I will never say a word that all the world might not hear, – except this once, – to thank you." Then he seized her hand and kissed it. "You shall always be a sister to me," he said. "When I am in trouble I will come to you. Say that you will love me as a brother."
"I will always regard you as a friend."
"Regard is a cold word, but I will make the most of it. Here is your father."
At this moment they were coming from a side path on to the lawn, and as they did so the Dean appeared upon the terrace through the deanery room window. With the Dean was Lord George, and Mary, as soon as she saw him, rushed up to him and threw her arms round his neck. "Oh George, dear, dearest George, papa said that perhaps you would come. You are going to stay?"
"He will dine here," said the Dean.
"Only dine!"
"I cannot stay longer to-day," said Lord George, with his eye upon Captain De Baron. The Dean had told him that De Baron was there; but, still, when he saw that the man had been walking with his wife, a renewed uneasiness came upon him. It could not be right that the man from whose arms he had rescued her on the night of the ball should be left alone with her a whole afternoon in the Deanery Garden! She was thoughtless as a child; – but it seemed to him that the Dean was as thoughtless as his daughter. The Dean must know what people had said. The Dean had himself seen that horrid dance, with its results. The awful accusation made by the Marquis had been uttered in the Dean's ears. Because that had been wicked and devilishly false, the Dean's folly was not the less. Lord George embraced his wife, but she knew from the touch of his arm round her waist that there was something wrong with him.
The two men shook hands of course, and then De Baron went out, muttering something to the Dean as to his being back to dinner. "I can't say I like that young man," said Lord George.
"I like him very much," replied the Dean. "He is always good-humoured, and I think he's honest. I own to a predilection for happy people."
Mary was of course soon upstairs with her husband. "I thought you would come," she said, hanging on him.
"I did not like not to see you after the news. It is important. You must feel that."
"Poor little boy! Don't you grieve for them."
"Yes, I do. Brotherton has treated me very badly, but I do feel for him. I shall write to him and say so. But that will not alter the fact. Popenjoy is dead."
"No; it will not alter the fact." He was so solemn with her that she hardly knew how to talk to him.
"Popenjoy is dead, – if he was Popenjoy. I suppose he was; but that does not signify now."
"Not in the least I suppose."
"And if you have a son – "
"Oh, George?"
"He won't be Popenjoy yet."
"Or perhaps ever."
"Or perhaps ever; – but a time will probably come when he will be Popenjoy. We can't help thinking about it, you know."
"Of course not."
"I'm sure I don't want my brother to die."
"I am sure I don't."
"But the family has to be kept up. I do care about the family. They all think at Manor Cross that you should go over at once."
"Are you going to stay there, George. Of course I will go if you are going to stay there."
"They think you should come, though it were only for a few days."
"And then? Of course I will go, George, if you say so. I have had my visit with papa, – as much as I had a right to expect. And, oh George, I do so long to be with you again." Then she hung upon him and kissed him. It must have been impossible that he should be really jealous, though Captain De Baron had been there the whole day. Nor was he jealous, except with that Cæsarian jealousy lest she should be unfortunate enough to cause a whisper derogatory to his marital dignity.
The matter had been fully discussed at Manor Cross; and the Manor Cross conclave, meaning of course Lady Sarah, had thought that Mary should be brought to the house, if only for a day or two, if only that people in Brothershire might know that there had been no quarrel between her and her husband. That she should have visited her father might be considered as natural. It need not be accounted as quite unnatural that she should have done so without her husband. But now, – now it was imperative that Brothershire should know that the mother of the future Lord Popenjoy was on good terms with the family. "Of course her position is very much altered," Lady Susanna had said in private to Lady Amelia. The old Marchioness felt a real longing to see "dear Mary," and to ask becoming questions as to her condition. And it was quite understood that she was not to be required to make any cloaks or petticoats. The garments respecting which she must be solicitous for the next six months would, as the Marchioness felt, be of a very august nature. Oh, that the future baby might be born at Manor Cross! The Marchioness did not see why Lord George should leave the house at all. Brotherton couldn't know anything about it in Italy, and if George must go, Mary might surely be left there for the event. The Marchioness declared that she could die happy if she might see another Popenjoy born in the purple of Manor Cross.
"When am I to go?" asked Mary. She was sitting now close to him, and the question was asked with full delight.
"I do not know whether you can be ready to-morrow."
"Of course I can be ready to-morrow. Oh George, to be back with you! Even for ten days it seems to be a great happiness. But if you go, then of course you will take me with you." There was a reality about this which conquered him, even in spite of Captain De Baron, so that he came down to dinner in good-humour with the world.
CHAPTER LVI.
SIR HENRY SAID IT WAS THE ONLY THING
The dinner at the deanery went off without much excitement. Captain De Baron would of course have preferred that Lord George should have remained at Manor Cross, but under no circumstances could he have had much more to say to the lady. They understood each other now. He was quite certain that any evil thing spoken of her had been sheer slander, and yet he had managed to tell her everything of himself without subjecting himself to her undying anger. When she left the drawing-room, the conversation turned again upon the great Popenjoy question, and from certain words which fell from the Dean, Jack was enabled to surmise that Lord George had reason to hope that an heir might be born to him. "He does not look as though he would live long himself," said the Dean, speaking of the Marquis.
"I trust he may with all my heart," said Lord George.
"That's another question," replied the Dean. "I only say that he doesn't look like it." Lord George went away early, and Jack De Baron thought it prudent to retire at the same time. "So you're going to-morrow, dear," said the Dean.
"Yes, papa. Is it not best?"
"Oh yes. Nothing could be worse than a prolonged separation. He means to be honest and good."
"He is honest and good, papa."
"You have had your triumph."
"I did not want to triumph; – not at least over him."
"After what had occurred it was necessary that you should have your own way in coming here. Otherwise he would have triumphed. He would have taken you away, and you and I would have been separated. Of course you are bound to obey him; – but there must be limits. He would have taken you away as though in disgrace, and that I could not stand. There will be an end of that now. God knows when I shall see you again, Mary."
"Why not, papa?"
"Because he hasn't got over his feeling against me. I don't think he ever gets over any feeling. Having no home of his own why does he not bring you here?"
"I don't think he likes the idea of being a burden to you."
"Exactly. He has not cordiality enough to feel that when two men are in a boat together, as he and I are because of you, all that feeling should go to the wind. He ought not to be more ashamed to sit at my table and drink of my cup than you are. If it were all well between us and he had the property, should I scruple to go and stay at Manor Cross."
"You would still have your own house to go back to."
"So will he, – after a while. But it can't be altered, dear, and God forbid that I should set you against him. He is not a rake nor a spendthrift, nor will he run after other women." Mary thought of Mrs. Houghton, but she held her tongue. "He is not a bad man and I think he loves you."
"I am sure he does."
"But I can't help feeling sad at parting with you. I suppose I shall at any rate be able to see you up in town next season." The Dean as he said this was almost weeping.
Mary, when she was alone in her room, of course thought much of Captain De Baron and his story. It was a pity, – a thousand pities, – that it should be so. It was to be regretted, – much regretted, – that he had been induced to tell his story. She was angry with herself because she had been indiscreet, and she was still angry, – a little angry with him, – because he had yielded to the temptation. But there had been something sweet in it. She was sorry, grieved in her heart of hearts that he should love her. She had never striven to gain his love. She had never even thought of it. It ought not to have been so. She should have thought of it; she should not have shown herself to be so pleased with his society. But yet, – yet it was sweet. Then there came upon her some memory of her old dreams, before she had been engaged to Lord George. She knew how vain had been those dreams, because she now loved Lord George with her whole heart; but yet she remembered them, and felt as though they had come true with a dreamy half truth. And she brought to mind all those flattering words with which he had spoken her praises, – how he had told her that she was an angel, too good and pure to be supposed capable of evil; how he had said that in his castles in the air he would still think of her as his wife. Surely a man may build what castles in the air he pleases, if he will only hold his tongue! She was quite sure that she did not love him, but she was sure also that his was the proper way of making love. And then she thought of Guss Mildmay. Could she not in pure charity do a good turn to that poor girl? Might she not tell Captain De Baron that it was his duty to marry her? And if he felt it to be his duty would he not do so? It may be doubted whether in these moments she did not think much better of Captain De Baron than that gentleman deserved.
On the next day the Manor Cross carriage came over for her. The Dean had offered to send her, but Lord George had explained that his mother was anxious that the carriage should come. There would be a cart for the luggage. As to Lady George herself there was a general feeling at Manor Cross that in the present circumstances the family carriage should bring her home. But it came empty. "God bless you, dearest," said the Dean as he put her into the vehicle.
"Good-bye, papa. I suppose you can come over and see me."
"I don't know that I can. I saw none of the ladies when I was there yesterday."
"I don't care a bit for the ladies. Where I go, papa, you can come. Of course George will see you, and you could ask for me." The Dean smiled, and kissed her again, and then she was gone.
She hardly knew what grand things were in store for her. She was still rebelling in her heart against skirts and petticoats, and resolving that she would not go to church twice on Sundays unless she liked it, when the carriage drove up to the door. They were all in the hall, all except the Marchioness. "We wouldn't go in," said Lady Amelia, "because we didn't like to fill the carriage."
"And George wanted us to send it early," said Lady Sarah, "before we had done our work." They all kissed her affectionately, and then she was again in her husband's arms. Mrs. Toff curtseyed to her most respectfully. Mary observed the curtsey and reminded herself at the moment that Mrs. Toff had never curtseyed to her before. Even the tall footman in knee-breeches stood back with a demeanour which had hitherto been vouchsafed only to the real ladies of the family. Who could tell how soon that wicked Marquis would die; and then, – then how great would not be the glory of the Dean's daughter! "Perhaps you won't mind coming up to mamma as soon as you have got your hat off," said Lady Susanna. "Mamma is so anxious to see you." Mary's hat was immediately off, and she declared herself ready to go to the Marchioness. "Mamma has had a great deal to trouble her since you were here," said Lady Susanna, as she led the way upstairs. "She has aged very much. You'll be kind to her, I know."
"Of course I'll be kind," said Mary; "I hope I never was unkind."
"She thinks so much of things now, and then she cries so often. We do all we can to prevent her from crying, because it does make her so weak. Beef-tea is best, we think; and then we try to get her to sleep a good deal. Mary has come, mamma. Here she is. The carriage has only just arrived." Mary followed Lady Susanna into the room, and the Marchioness was immediately immersed in a flood of tears.
"My darling!" she exclaimed; "my dearest, if anything can ever make me happy again it is that you should have come back to me." Mary kissed her mother-in-law and submitted to be kissed with a pretty grace, as though she and the old lady had always been the warmest, most affectionate friends. "Sit down, my love. I have had the easy chair brought there on purpose for you. Susanna, get her that footstool." Susanna, without moving a muscle of her face, brought the footstool. "Now sit down, and let me look at you. I don't think she's much changed." This was very distressing to poor Mary, who, with all her desire to oblige the Marchioness could not bring herself to sit down in the easy chair. "So that poor little boy has gone, my dear?"
"I was so sorry to hear it."
"Yes, of course. That was quite proper. When anybody dies we ought to be sorry for them. I'm sure I did all I could to make things comfortable for him. Didn't I, Susanna?"
"You were quite anxious about him, mamma."
"So I was, – quite anxious. I have no doubt his mother neglected him. I always thought that. But now there will be another, won't there?" This was a question which the mother expectant could not answer, and in order to get over the difficulty Susanna suggested that Mary should be allowed to go down to lunch.
"Certainly, my dear. In her condition she ought not to be kept waiting a minute. And mind, Susanna, she has bottled porter. I spoke about it before. She should have a pint at lunch and a pint at dinner."
"I can't drink porter," said Mary, in despair.
"My dear, you ought to; you ought indeed; you must. I remember as well as if it were yesterday Sir Henry telling me it was the only sure thing. That was before Popenjoy was born, – I mean Brotherton. I do so hope it will be a Popenjoy, my dear." This was the last word said to her as Mary was escaping from the room.
She was not expected to make cloaks and skirts, but she was obliged to fight against a worse servitude even than that. She almost longed for the cloaks and skirts when day after day she was entreated to take her place in the easy chair by the couch of the Marchioness. There was a cruelty in refusing, but in yielding there was a crushing misery. The Marchioness evidently thought that the future stability of the family depended on Mary's quiescence and capability for drinking beer. Very many lies were necessarily told her by all the family. She was made to believe that Mary never got up before eleven; and the doctor who came to see herself and to whose special care Mary was of course recommended, was induced to say that it was essential that Lady George should be in the open air three hours every day. "You know I'm not the least ill, mother," Mary said to her one day. Since these new hopes and the necessity for such hopes had come up the Marchioness had requested that she might be called mother by her daughter-in-law.
"No, my dear, not ill; but I remember as though it were yesterday what Sir Henry said to me when Popenjoy was going to be born. Of course he was Popenjoy when he was born. I don't think they've any physicians like Sir Henry now. I do hope it'll be a Popenjoy."
"But that can't be, mother. You are forgetting."
The old woman thought for a while, and then remembered the difficulty. "No, not quite at once." Then her mind wandered again. "But if this isn't a Popenjoy, my dear, – and it's all in the hands of God, – then the next may be. My three first were all girls; and it was a great trouble; but Sir Henry said the next would be a Popenjoy; and so it was. I hope this will be a Popenjoy, because I might die before the next." When a week of all this had been endured Mary in her heart was glad that the sentence of expulsion from Manor Cross still stood against her husband, feeling that six months of reiterated longings for a Popenjoy would kill her and the possible Popenjoy also.