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IS HE POPENJOY?

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE, Author of "Doctor Thorne, " "The Prime Minister, " "Orley Farm, " &c. , &c. 

Third Edition. 

London:Chapman & Hall, 193, Piccadilly. 1879. [_All Rights Reserved. _]

London: Bradbury, Agnew, & Co. , Printers, Whitefriars

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER I. PAGE INTRODUCTORY. --NUMBER ONE 1

 CHAPTER II. INTRODUCTORY. --NUMBER TWO 7

 CHAPTER III. LIFE AT MANOR CROSS 13

 CHAPTER IV. AT THE DEANERY 20

 CHAPTER V. MISS TALLOWAX IS SHOWN THE HOUSE 26

 CHAPTER VI. BAD TIDINGS 34

 CHAPTER VII. CROSS HALL GATE 41

 CHAPTER VIII. PUGSBY BROOK 47

 CHAPTER IX. MRS. HOUGHTON 52

 CHAPTER X. THE DEAN AS A SPORTING MAN 61

 CHAPTER XI. LORD AND LADY GEORGE GO UP TO TOWN 66

 CHAPTER XII. MISS MILDMAY AND JACK DE BARON 72

 CHAPTER XIII. MORE NEWS FROM ITALY 79

 CHAPTER XIV. "ARE WE TO CALL HIM POPENJOY?" 85

 CHAPTER XV. "DROP IT" 93

 CHAPTER XVI. ALL IS FISH THAT COMES TO HIS NET 100

 CHAPTER XVII. THE DISABILITIES 106

 CHAPTER XVIII. LORD GEORGE UP IN LONDON 112

 CHAPTER XIX. RATHER "BOISTEROUS" 119

 CHAPTER XX. BETWEEN TWO STOOLS 126

 CHAPTER XXI. THE MARQUIS COMES HOME 132

 CHAPTER XXII. THE MARQUIS AMONG HIS FRIENDS 139

 CHAPTER XXIII. THE MARQUIS SEES HIS BROTHER 146

 CHAPTER XXIV. THE MARQUIS GOES INTO BROTHERTON 153

 CHAPTER XXV. LADY SUSANNA IN LONDON 159

 CHAPTER XXVI. THE DEAN RETURNS TO TOWN 166

 CHAPTER XXVII. THE BARONESS BANMANN AGAIN 173

 CHAPTER XXVIII. "WHAT MATTER IF SHE DOES?" 180

 CHAPTER XXIX. MR. HOUGHTON WANTS A GLASS OF SHERRY 186

 CHAPTER XXX. THE DEAN IS VERY BUSY 193

 CHAPTER XXXI. THE MARQUIS MIGRATES TO LONDON 198

 CHAPTER XXXII. LORD GEORGE IS TROUBLED 205

 CHAPTER XXXIII. CAPTAIN DE BARON 213

 CHAPTER XXXIV. A DREADFUL COMMUNICATION 220

 CHAPTER XXXV. "I DENY IT" 226

 CHAPTER XXXVI. POPENJOY IS POPENJOY 235

 CHAPTER XXXVII. PREPARATIONS FOR THE BALL 241

 CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE KAPPA-KAPPA 248

 CHAPTER XXXIX. REBELLION 254

 CHAPTER XL. AS TO BLUEBEARD 260

 CHAPTER XLI. SCUMBERG'S 268

 CHAPTER XLII. "NOT GO!" 276

 CHAPTER XLIII. REAL LOVE 284

 CHAPTER XLIV. WHAT THE BROTHERTON CLERGYMEN SAID ABOUT IT 288

 CHAPTER XLV. LADY GEORGE AT THE DEANERY 293

 CHAPTER XLVI. LADY SARAH'S MISSION 298

 CHAPTER XLVII. THAT YOUNG FELLOW IN THERE 307

 CHAPTER XLVIII. THE MARQUIS MAKES A PROPOSITION 312

 CHAPTER XLIX. "WOULDN'T YOU COME HERE;--FOR A WEEK?" 320

 CHAPTER L. RUDHAM PARK 325

 CHAPTER LI. GUSS MILDMAY'S SUCCESS 333

 CHAPTER LII. ANOTHER LOVER 341

 CHAPTER LIII. POOR POPENJOY! 346

 CHAPTER LIV. JACK DE BARON'S VIRTUE 352

 CHAPTER LV. HOW COULD HE HELP IT? 357

 CHAPTER LVI. SIR HENRY SAID IT WAS THE ONLY THING 365

 CHAPTER LVII. MR. KNOX HEARS AGAIN FROM THE MARQUIS 372

 CHAPTER LVIII. MRS. JONES' LETTER 378

 CHAPTER LIX. BACK IN LONDON 384

 CHAPTER LX. THE LAST OF THE BARONESS 391

 CHAPTER LXI. THE NEWS COMES HOME 397

 CHAPTER LXII. THE WILL 405

 CHAPTER LXIII. POPENJOY IS BORN AND CHRISTENED 410

 CHAPTER LXIV. CONCLUSION 418

IS HE POPENJOY?

CHAPTER I. 

INTRODUCTORY. --NUMBER ONE. 

I would that it were possible so to tell a story that a reader shouldbeforehand know every detail of it up to a certain point, or be socircumstanced that he might be supposed to know. In telling the littlenovelettes of our life, we commence our narrations with the presumptionthat these details are borne in mind, and though they be all forgotten, the stories come out intelligible at last. "You remember Mary Walker. Oh yes, you do;--that pretty girl, but such a queer temper! And how shewas engaged to marry Harry Jones, and said she wouldn't at thechurch-door, till her father threatened her with bread and water; andhow they have been living ever since as happy as two turtle-doves downin Devonshire, --till that scoundrel, Lieutenant Smith, went toBideford! Smith has been found dead at the bottom of a saw-pit. Nobody's sorry for him. She's in a madhouse at Exeter; and Jones hasdisappeared, and couldn't have had more than thirty shillings in hispocket. " This is quite as much as anybody ought to want to knowprevious to the unravelling of the tragedy of the Jones's. But suchstories as those I have to tell cannot be written after that fashion. We novelists are constantly twitted with being long; and to thegentlemen who condescend to review us, and who take up our volumes witha view to business rather than pleasure, we must be infinite in lengthand tedium. But the story must be made intelligible from the beginning, or the real novel readers will not like it. The plan of jumping at onceinto the middle has been often tried, and sometimes seductively enoughfor a chapter or two; but the writer still has to hark back, and tobegin again from the beginning, --not always very comfortably after theabnormal brightness of his few opening pages; and the reader who isthen involved in some ancient family history, or long localexplanation, feels himself to have been defrauded. It is as though onewere asked to eat boiled mutton after woodcocks, caviare, or maccaronicheese. I hold that it is better to have the boiled mutton first, ifboiled mutton there must be. 

The story which I have to tell is something in its nature akin to thatof poor Mrs. Jones, who was happy enough down in Devonshire till thatwicked Lieutenant Smith came and persecuted her; not quite so tragic, perhaps, as it is stained neither by murder nor madness. But before Ican hope to interest readers in the perplexed details of the life of anot unworthy lady, I must do more than remind them that they do know, or might have known, or should have known the antecedents of mypersonages. I must let them understand how it came to pass that sopretty, so pert, so gay, so good a girl as Mary Lovelace, without anygreat fault on her part, married a man so grim, so gaunt, so sombre, and so old as Lord George Germain. It will not suffice to say that shehad done so. A hundred and twenty little incidents must be dribbledinto the reader's intelligence, many of them, let me hope, in suchmanner that he shall himself be insensible to the process. But unless Imake each one of them understood and appreciated by my ingenious, open-hearted, rapid reader, --by my reader who will always have hisfingers impatiently ready to turn the page, --he will, I know, begin tomasticate the real kernel of my story with infinite prejudices againstMary Lovelace. 

Mary Lovelace was born in a country parsonage; but at the age offourteen, when her life was in truth beginning, was transferred by herfather to the deanery of Brotherton. Dean Lovelace had been a fortunateman in life. When a poor curate, a man of very humble origin, with noneof what we commonly call Church interest, with nothing to recommend himbut a handsome person, moderate education, and a quick intellect, hehad married a lady with a considerable fortune, whose family had boughtfor him a living. Here he preached himself into fame. It is not at allto be implied from this that he had not deserved the fame he acquired. He had been active and resolute in his work, holding opinions which, ifnot peculiar, were at any rate advanced, and never being afraid of theopinions which he held. His bishop had not loved him, nor had he madehimself dear to the bench of bishops generally. He had the reputationof having been in early life a sporting parson. He had written a bookwhich had been characterised as tending to infidelity, and had morethan once been invited to state dogmatically what was his own belief. He had never quite done so, and had then been made a dean. Brotherton, as all the world knows, is a most interesting little city, neither aManchester nor a Salisbury; full of architectural excellencies, givento literature, and fond of hospitality. The Bishop of Brotherton, --whodid not love the dean, --was not a general favourite, being strict, ascetic, and utterly hostile to all compromises. At first there werecertain hostile passages between him and the new dean. But the Dean, who was and is urbanity itself, won the day, and soon became certainlythe most popular man in Brotherton. His wife's fortune doubled hisclerical income, and he lived in all respects as a dean ought to live. His wife had died very shortly after his promotion, and he had beenleft with one only daughter on whom to lavish his cares and hisaffection. 

Now we must turn for a few lines to the family of Lord George Germain. Lord George was the brother of the Marquis of Brotherton, whose familyresidence was at Manor Cross, about nine miles from the city. Thewealth of the family of the Germains was not equal to their rank, andthe circumstances of the family were not made more comfortable by thepeculiarities of the present marquis. He was an idle, self-indulgent, ill-conditioned man, who found that it suited his tastes better to livein Italy, where his means were ample, than on his own property, wherehe would have been comparatively a poor man. And he had a mother andfour sisters, and a brother with whom he would hardly have known how todeal had he remained at Manor Cross. As it was, he allowed them to keepthe house, while he simply took the revenue of the estate. With themarquis I do not know that it will be necessary to trouble the readermuch at present. The old marchioness and her daughters lived always atManor Cross in possession of a fine old house in which they could haveentertained half the county, and a magnificent park, --which, however, was let for grazing up to the garden-gates, --and a modest incomeunequal to the splendour which should have been displayed by theinhabitants of Manor Cross. 

And here also lived Lord George Germain, to whom at a very early periodof his life had been entrusted the difficult task of living as the headof his family with little or no means for the purpose. When the oldMarquis died, --very suddenly, and soon after the Dean's coming toBrotherton, --the widow had her jointure, some two thousand a year, outof the property, and the younger children had each a small settled sum. That the four ladies, --Sarah, Alice, Susanna, and Amelia, --should havesixteen thousand pounds among them, did not seem to be so very muchamiss to those who knew how poor was the Germain family; but what wasLord George to do with four thousand pounds, and no means of earning ashilling? He had been at Eton, and had taken a degree at Oxford withcredit, but had gone into no profession. There was a living in thefamily, and both father and mother had hoped that he would consent totake orders; but he had declined to do so, and there had seemed to benothing for him but to come and live at Manor Cross. Then the oldMarquis had died, and the elder brother, who had long been abroad, remained abroad. Lord George, who was the youngest of the family, andat that time about five-and-twenty, remained at Manor Cross, and becamenot only ostensibly but in very truth the managing head of the family. 

He was a man whom no one could despise, and in whom few could find muchto blame. In the first place he looked his poverty in the face, andtold himself that he was a very poor man. His bread he might earn bylooking after his mother and sisters, and he knew no other way inwhich he could do so. He was a just steward, spending nothing togratify his own whims, acknowledging on all sides that he had nothingof his own, till some began to think that he was almost proud of hispoverty. Among the ladies of the family, his mother and sisters, it wasof course said that George must marry money. In such a position thereis nothing else that the younger son of a marquis can do. But LordGeorge was a person somewhat difficult of instruction in such a matter. His mother was greatly afraid of him. Among his sisters Lady Sarahalone dared to say much to him; and even to her teaching on thissubject he turned a very deaf ear. "Quite so, George, " she said; "quiteso. No man with a spark of spirit would marry a woman for hermoney, "--and she laid a great stress on the word "for, "--"but I do notsee why a lady who has money should be less fit to be loved than onewho has none. Miss Barm is a most charming young woman, of excellentmanners, admirably educated, if not absolutely handsome, quite ofdistinguished appearance, and she has forty thousand pounds. We allliked her when she was here. " But there came a very black frown uponLord George's brow, and then even Lady Sarah did not dare to speakagain in favour of Miss Barm. 

Then there came a terrible blow. Lord George Germain was in love withhis cousin, Miss De Baron! It would be long to tell, and perhapsunnecessary, how that young lady had made herself feared by the ladiesof Manor Cross. Her father, a man of birth and fortune, but not perhapswith the best reputation in the world, had married a Germain of thelast generation, and lived, when in the country, about twenty milesfrom Brotherton. He was a good deal on the turf, spent much of his timeat card-playing clubs, and was generally known as a fast man. But hepaid his way, had never put himself beyond the pale of society, andwas, of course, a gentleman. As to Adelaide de Baron, no one doubtedher dash, her wit, her grace, or her toilet. Some also gave her creditfor beauty; but there were those who said that, though she would behaveherself decently at Manor Cross and houses of that class, she could beloud elsewhere. Such was the lady whom Lord George loved, and it may beconceived that this passion was distressing to the ladies of ManorCross. In the first place, Miss De Baron's fortune was doubtful andcould not be large; and then--she certainly was not such a wife as LadyBrotherton and her daughters desired for the one male hope of thefamily. 

But Lord George was very resolute, and for a time it seemed to them allthat Miss de Baron, --of whom the reader will see much if he go throughwith our story, --was not unwilling to share the poverty of her noblelover. Of Lord George personally something must be said. He was a tall, handsome, dark-browed man, silent generally and almost gloomy, looking, as such men do, as though he were always revolving deep things in hismind, but revolving in truth things not very deep, --how far the moneywould go, and whether it would be possible to get a new pair ofcarriage-horses for his mother. Birth and culture had given to him alook of intellect greater than he possessed; but I would not have itthought that he traded on this or endeavoured to seem other than hewas. He was simple, conscientious, absolutely truthful, full ofprejudices, and weak-minded. Early in life he had been taught toentertain certain ideas as to religion by those with whom he had livedat college, and had therefore refused to become a clergyman. The bishopof the diocese had attacked him; but, though weak, he was obstinate. The Dean and he had become friends, and so he had learned to thinkhimself in advance of the world. But yet he knew himself to be abackward, slow, unappreciative man. He was one who could bear reproachfrom no one else, but who never praised himself even to himself. 

But we must return to his love, which is that which now concerns us. His mother and sisters altogether failed to persuade him. Week afterweek he went over to Baronscourt, and at last threw himself atAdelaide's feet. This was five years after his father's death, when hewas already thirty years old. Miss De Baron, though never a favouriteat Manor Cross, knew intimately the history of the family. The presentmarquis was over forty, and as yet unmarried;--but then Lord George wasabsolutely a pauper. In that way she might probably become amarchioness; but then of what use would life be to her, should she bedoomed for the next twenty years to live simply as one of the ladies ofManor Cross? She consulted her father, but he seemed to be quiteindifferent, merely reminding her that though he would be ready to doeverything handsomely for her wedding, she would have no fortune tillafter his death. She consulted her glass, and told herself that, without self-praise, she must regard herself as the most beautifulwoman of her own acquaintance. She consulted her heart, and found thatin that direction she need not trouble herself. It would be very niceto be a marchioness, but she certainly was not in love with LordGeorge. He was handsome, no doubt--very handsome; but she was not surethat she cared much for men being handsome. She liked men that "hadsome go in them, " who were perhaps a little fast, and who sympathisedwith her own desire for amusement. She could not bring herself to fallin love with Lord George. But then, the rank of a marquis is very high!She told Lord George that she must take time to consider. 

When a young lady takes time to consider she has, as a rule, given way, Lord George felt it to be so, and was triumphant. The ladies at ManorCross thought that they saw what was coming, and were despondent. Thewhole county declared that Lord George was about to marry Miss DeBaron. The county feared that they would be very poor; but therecompence would come at last, as the present marquis was known not tobe a marrying man. Lady Sarah was mute with despair. Lady Alice haddeclared that there was nothing for them but to make the best of it. Lady Susanna, who had high ideas of aristocratic duty, thought thatGeorge was forgetting himself. Lady Amelia, who had been snubbed byMiss De Baron, shut herself up and wept. The Marchioness took to herbed. Then, exactly at the same time, two things happened, both of whichwere felt to be of vital importance at Manor Cross. Miss De Baron wrotea most determined refusal to her lover, and old Mr. Tallowax died. Nowold Mr. Tallowax had been Dean Lovelace's father-in-law, and had neverhad a child but she who had been the Dean's wife. 

Lord George did in truth suffer dreadfully. There are men to whom sucha disappointment as this causes enduring physical pain, --as though theyhad become suddenly affected with some acute and yet lasting disease. And there are men, too, who suffer the more because they cannot concealthe pain. Such a man was Lord George. He shut himself up for months atManor Cross, and would see no one. At first it was his intention to tryagain, but very shortly after the letter to himself came one from MissDe Baron to Lady Alice, declaring that she was about to be marriedimmediately to one Mr. Houghton; and that closed the matter. Mr. Houghton's history was well known to the Manor Cross family. He was afriend of Mr. De Baron, very rich, almost old enough to be the girl'sfather, and a great gambler. But he had a house in Berkeley Square, kept a stud of horses in Northamptonshire, and was much thought of atNewmarket. Adelaide De Baron explained to Lady Alice that the marriagehad been made up by her father, whose advice she had thought it herduty to take. The news was told to Lord George, and then it was foundexpedient never to mention further the name of Miss De Baron within thewalls of Manor Cross. 

But the death of Mr. Tallowax was also very important. Of late the Deanof Brotherton had become very intimate at Manor Cross. For some yearsthe ladies had been a little afraid of him, as they were by no meansgiven to free opinions. But he made his way. They were decidedly high;the bishop was notoriously low; and thus, in a mild manner, withoutmalignity on either side, Manor Cross and the Palace fell out. Theirown excellent young clergyman was snubbed in reference to his churchpostures, and Lady Sarah was offended. But the Dean's manners wereperfect. He never trod on any one's toes. He was rich, and as far asbirth went, nobody, --but he knew how much was due to the rank of theGermains. In all matters he obliged them, and had lately made thedeanery very pleasant to Lady Alice, --to whom a widowed canon atBrotherton was supposed to be partial. The interest between the deaneryand Manor Cross was quite close; and now Mr. Tallowax had died leavingthe greater part of his money to the Dean's daughter. 

When a man suffers from disappointed love he requires consolation. Lady Sarah boldly declared her opinion, --in female conclave ofcourse, --that one pretty girl is as good to a man as another, and mightbe a great deal better if she were at the same time better mannered andbetter dowered than the other. Mary Lovelace, when her grandfatherdied, was only seventeen. Lord George was at that time over thirty. Buta man of thirty is still a young man, and a girl of seventeen may be ayoung woman. If the man be not more than fifteen years older than thewoman the difference of age can hardly be regarded as an obstacle. Andthen Mary was much loved at Manor Cross. She had been a most engagingchild, was clever, well-educated, very pretty, with a nice sparklingway, fond of pleasure no doubt, but not as yet instructed to be fast. And now she would have at once thirty thousand pounds, and in course oftime would be her father's heiress. 

All the ladies at Manor Cross put their heads together, --as did alsoMr. Canon Holdenough, who, while these things had been going on, hadbeen accepted by Lady Alice. They fooled Lord George to the top of hisbent, smoothing him down softly amidst the pangs of his love, notsuggesting Mary Lovelace at first, but still in all things acting inthat direction. And they so far succeeded that within twelve months ofthe marriage of Adelaide De Baron to Mr. Houghton, when Mary Lovelacewas not yet nineteen and Lord George was thirty-three, with some fewgrey hairs on his handsome head, Lord George did go over to the deaneryand offer himself as a husband to Mary Lovelace. 

CHAPTER II. 

INTRODUCTORY NUMBER TWO. 

"What ought I to do, papa?" The proposition was in the first instancemade to Mary through the Dean. Lord George had gone to the father, andthe father with many protestations of personal goodwill, had declaredthat in such a matter he would not attempt to bias his daughter. "Thatthe connection would be personally agreeable to myself, I need hardlysay, " said the Dean. "For myself, I have no objection to raise. But Imust leave it to Mary. I can only say that you have my permission toaddress her. " But the first appeal to Mary was made by her fatherhimself, and was so made in conformity with his own advice. LordGeorge, when he left the deanery, had thus arranged it, but had beenhardly conscious that the Dean had advised such an arrangement. And itmay be confessed between ourselves, --between me and my readers, who inthese introductory chapters may be supposed to be looking back togetherover past things, --that the Dean was from the first determined thatLord George should be his son-in-law. What son-in-law could he findthat would redound more to his personal credit, or better advance hispersonal comfort. As to his daughter, where could a safer husband befound! And then she might in this way become a marchioness! His ownfather had kept livery stables at Bath. Her other grandfather had beena candlemaker in the Borough. "What ought I to do, papa?" Mary asked, when the proposition was first made to her. She of course admired theGermains, and appreciated, at perhaps more than its full value thenotice she had received from them. She had thought Lord George to bethe handsomest man she had ever seen. She had heard of his love forMiss De Baron, and had felt for him. She was not as yet old enough toknow how dull was the house at Manor Cross, or how little of resourceshe might find in the companionship of such a man as Lord George. Ofher own money she knew almost nothing. Not as yet had her fortunebecome as a carcase to the birds. And now, should she decide in LordGeorge's favour, would she be saved at any rate from that danger. 

"You must consult your own feelings, my dear, " said her father. Shelooked up to him in blank dismay. She had as yet no feelings. 

"But, papa----"

"Of course, my darling, there is a great deal to be said in favour ofsuch a marriage. The man himself is excellent, --in all respectsexcellent. I do not know that there is a young man of higher principlesthan Lord George in the whole county. "

"He is hardly a young man, papa. "

"Not a young man! He is thirty. I hope you do not call that old. Idoubt whether men in his position of life should ever marry at anearlier age. He is not rich. "

"Would that matter?"

"No; I think not. But of that you must judge. Of course with yourfortune you would have a right to expect a richer match. But though hehas not money, he has much that money gives. He lives in a large housewith noble surroundings. The question is whether you can like him?"

"I don't know, papa. " Every word she spoke she uttered hesitatingly. When she had asked whether "that would matter, " she had hardly knownwhat she was saying. The thing was so important to her, and yet soentirely mysterious and as yet unconsidered, that she could not collecther thoughts sufficiently for proper answers to her father's sensiblebut not too delicate inquiries. The only ideas that had really struckher were that he was grand and handsome, but very old. 

"If you can love him I think you would be happy, " said the Dean. "Ofcourse you must look at it all round. He will probably live to be theMarquis of Brotherton. From all that I hear I do not think that hisbrother is likely to marry. In that case you would be the Marchionessof Brotherton, and the property, though not great, would then behandsome. In the meanwhile you would be Lady George Germain, and wouldlive at Manor Cross. I should stipulate on your behalf that you shouldhave a house of your own in town, for, at any rate, a portion of theyear. Manor Cross is a fine place, but you would find it dull if youwere to remain there always. A married woman too should always havesome home of her own. "

"You want me to do it, papa?"

"Certainly not. I want you to please yourself. If I find that youplease yourself by accepting this man, I myself shall be better pleasedthan if you please yourself by rejecting him; but you shall never knowthat by my manner. I shall not put you on bread and water, and lock youup in the garret either if you accept him, or if you reject him. " TheDean smiled as he said this, as all the world at Brotherton knew thathe had never in his life even scolded his daughter. 

"And you, papa?"

"I shall come and see you, and you will come and see me. I shall get onwell enough. I have always known that you would leave me soon. I amprepared for that. " There was something in this which grated on herfeelings. She had, perhaps, taught herself to believe that she wasindispensable to her father's happiness. Then after a pause hecontinued: "Of course you must be ready to see Lord George when hecomes again, and you ought to remember, my dear, that marquises do notgrow on every hedge. "

With great care and cunning workmanship one may almost make a silkpurse out of a sow's ear, but not quite. The care which Dean Lovelacehad bestowed upon the operation in regard to himself had been verygreat, and the cunning workmanship was to be seen in every plait andevery stitch. But still there was something left of the coarseness ofthe original material. Of all this poor Mary knew nothing at all; butyet she did not like being told of marquises and hedges where her heartwas concerned. She had wanted, --had unconsciously wanted, --some touchof romance from her father to satisfy the condition in which she foundherself. But there was no touch of romance there; and when she was leftto herself to work the matter out in her own heart and in her own mindshe was unsatisfied. 

Two or three days after this Mary received notice that her lover wascoming. The Dean had seen him and had absolutely fixed a time. To poorMary this seemed to be most unromantic, most unpromising. And thoughshe had thought of nothing else since she had first heard of LordGeorge's intention, though she had laid awake struggling to make up hermind, she had reached no conclusion. It had become quite clear to herthat her father was anxious for the marriage, and there was much in itwhich recommended it to herself. The old elms of the park of ManorCross were very tempting. She was not indifferent to being called MyLady. Though she had been slightly hurt when told that marquises didnot grow on hedges, still she knew that it would be much to be amarchioness. And the man himself was good, and not only good but veryhandsome. There was a nobility about him beyond that of his family. Those prone to ridicule might perhaps have called him Werter-faced, butto Mary there was a sublimity in this. But then was she in love withhim?

She was a sweet, innocent, ladylike, high-spirited, joyous creature. Those struggles of her father to get rid of the last porcine taint, though not quite successful as to himself, had succeeded thoroughly inregard to her. It comes at last with due care, and the due care hadhere been taken. She was so nice that middle-aged men wished themselvesyounger that they might make love to her, or older that they might beprivileged to kiss her. Though keenly anxious for amusement, thoughover head and ears in love with sport and frolic, no unholy thought hadever polluted her mind. That men were men, and that she was a woman, had of course been considered by her. Oh, that it might some day be herprivilege to love some man with all her heart and all her strength, some man who should be, at any rate to her, the very hero of heroes, the cynosure of her world! It was thus that she considered the matter. There could surely nothing be so glorious as being well in love. Andthe one to be thus worshipped must of course become her husband. Otherwise would her heart be broken, and perhaps his, --and all would betragedy. But with tragedy she had no sympathy. The loved one mustbecome her husband. But the pictures she had made to herself of himwere not at all like Lord George Germain. He was to be fair, withlaughing eyes, quick in repartee, always riding well to hounds. She hadlonged to hunt herself, but her father had objected. He must be sharpenough sometimes to others, though ever soft to her, with a silkenmoustache and a dimpled chin, and perhaps twenty-four years old. LordGeorge was dark, his eyes never laughed; he was silent generally, andnever went out hunting at all. He was dignified, and tall, veryhandsome, no doubt, --and a lord. The grand question was that;--couldshe love him? Could she make another picture, and paint him as herhero? There were doubtless heroic points in the side wave of thatcoal-black lock, --coal-black where the few grey hairs had not yet shownthemselves, in his great height, and solemn polished manners. 

When her lover came, she could only remember that if she accepted himshe would please everybody. The Dean had taken occasion to assure herthat the ladies at Manor Cross would receive her with open arms. But onthis occasion she did not accept him. She was very silent, hardly ableto speak a word, and almost sinking out of sight when Lord Georgeendeavoured to press his suit by taking her hand. But she contrived atlast to make him the very answer that Adelaide De Baron had made. Shemust take time to think of it. But the answer came from her in adifferent spirit. She at any rate knew as soon as it was given that itwas her destiny in life to become Lady George Germain. She did not say"Yes" at the moment, only because it is so hard for a girl to tell aman that she will marry him at the first asking! He made his secondoffer by letter, to which the Dean wrote the reply:--

 "My dear Lord George, "My daughter is gratified by your affection, and flattered by your manner of showing it. A few plain words are perhaps the best. She will be happy to receive you as her future husband, whenever it may suit you to come to the deanery. 

 "Yours affectionately, "HENRY LOVELACE. "

Immediately upon this the conduct of Lord George was unexceptionable. He hurried over to Brotherton, and as he clasped his girl in his arms, he told her that he was the happiest man in England. Poor as he was hemade her a handsome present, and besought her if she had any mercy, anycharity, any love for him, to name an early day. Then came the fourladies from Manor Cross, --for Lady Alice had already become Lady AliceHoldenough, --and caressed her, and patted her, and petted her, and toldher that she should be as welcome as flowers in May. Her father, too, congratulated her with more of enthusiasm, and more also ofdemonstrated feeling than she had ever before seen him evince. He hadbeen very unwilling, he said, to express any strong opinion of his own. It had always been his desire that his girl should please herself. Butnow that the thing was settled he could assure her of his thoroughsatisfaction. It was all that he could have desired; and now he wouldbe ready at any time to lay himself down, and be at rest. Had his girlmarried a spendthrift lord, even a duke devoted to pleasure andiniquity, it would have broken his heart. But he would now confess thatthe aristocracy of the county had charms for him; and he was notashamed to rejoice that his child should be accepted within their pale. Then he brushed a real tear from his eyes, and Mary threw herself intohis arms. The tear was real, and in all that he said there was not aninsincere word. It was to him a very glory of glories that his childshould be in the way of becoming the Marchioness of Brotherton. It waseven a great glory that she should be Lady George Germain. The Deannever forgot the livery stable, and owned day and night that God hadbeen very good to him. 

It was soon settled that Mary was to be allowed three months forpreparation, and that the marriage was to be solemnized in June. Ofcourse she had much to do in preparing her wedding garments, but shehad before her a much more difficult task than that at which she workedmost sedulously. It was now the great business of her life to fall inlove with Lord George. She must get rid of that fair young man with thesilky moustache and the darling dimple. The sallow, the sublime, andthe Werter-faced must be made to take the place of laughing eyes andpink cheeks. She did work very hard, and sometimes, as she thought, successfully. She came to a positive conclusion that he was thehandsomest man she ever saw, and that she certainly liked the few greyhairs. That his manner was thoroughly noble no one could doubt. If hewere seen merely walking down the street he would surely be taken for agreat man. He was one of whom, as her husband, she could be alwaysproud;--and that she felt to be a great thing. That he would not playlawn tennis, and that he did not care for riding were points in hischaracter to be regretted. Indeed, though she made some tenderlycautious inquiries, she could not find what were his amusements. Sheherself was passionately fond of dancing, but he certainly did notdance. He talked to her, when he did talk, chiefly of his family, ofhis own poverty, of the goodness of his mother and sisters, and of thegreat regret which they all felt that they should have been deserted bythe head of their family. 

"He has now been away, " said Lord George, "for ten years; but notimprobably he may return soon, and then we shall have to leave ManorCross. "

"Leave Manor Cross!"

"Of course we must do so should he come home. The place belongs to him, and we are only there because it has not suited him to reside inEngland. "

This he said with the utmost solemnity, and the statement had beenproduced by the answer which the Marquis had made to a letterannouncing to him his brother's marriage. The Marquis had never been agood correspondent. To the ladies of the house he never wrote at all, though Lady Sarah favoured him with a periodical quarterly letter. Tohis agent, and less frequently to his brother, he would write curt, questions on business, never covering more than one side of a sheet ofnotepaper, and always signed "Yours, B. " To these the inmates of ManorCross had now become accustomed, and little was thought of them; but onthis occasion he had written three or four complete sentences, whichhad been intended to have, and which did have, a plain meaning. Hecongratulated his brother, but begged Lord George to bear in mind thathe himself might not improbably want Manor Cross for his own purposebefore long. If Lord George thought it would be agreeable, Mr. Knox, the agent, might have instructions to buy Miss Lovelace a present. Ofthis latter offer Lord George took no notice; but the intimationconcerning the house sat gravely on his mind. 

The Dean did exactly as he had said with reference to the house intown. Of course it was necessary that there should be arrangements asto money between him and Lord George, in which he was very frank. Mary's money was all her own, --giving her an income of nearly £1500per annum. The Dean was quite of opinion that this should be left toLord George's management, but he thought it right as Mary's father tostipulate that his daughter should have a home of her own. Then hesuggested a small house in town, and expressed an opinion that hisdaughter should be allowed to live there six months in the year. Theexpense of such a sojourn might be in some degree shared by himself ifLord George would receive him for a month or so in the spring. And sothe thing was settled, Lord George pledging himself that the houseshould be taken. The arrangement was distasteful to him in many ways, but it did not seem to be unreasonable, and he could not oppose it. Then came the letter from the Marquis. Lord George did not considerhimself bound to speak of that letter to the Dean; but he communicatedthe threat to Mary. Mary thought nothing about it, except that herfuture brother-in-law must be a very strange man. 

During all those three months she strove very hard to be in love, andsometimes she thought that she had succeeded. In her little way shestudied the man's character, and did all she could to ingratiateherself with him. Walking seemed to be his chief relaxation, and shewas always ready to walk with him. She tried to make herself believethat he was profoundly wise. And then, when she failed in other things, she fell back upon his beauty. Certainly she had never seen a handsomerface, either on a man's shoulders or in a picture. And so they weremarried. 

Now I have finished my introduction, --having married my heroine to myhero, --and have, I hope, instructed my reader as to those hundred andtwenty incidents, of which I spoke--not too tediously. If he will goback and examine, he will find that they are all there. But perhaps itwill be better for us both that he should be in quiet possession ofthem without any such examination. 

CHAPTER III. 

LIFE AT MANOR CROSS. 

The married couple passed their honeymoon in Ireland, Lady Brothertonhaving a brother, an Irish peer, who lent them for a few months hishouse on the Blackwater. The marriage, of course, was celebrated in thecathedral, and equally of course, the officiating clergymen were theDean and Canon Holdenough. On the day before the marriage Lord Georgewas astonished to find how rich a man was his father-in-law. 

"Mary's fortune is her own, " he said; "but I should like to give hersomething. Perhaps I had better give it to you on her behalf. "

Then he shuffled a cheque for a thousand pounds into Lord George'shands. He moreover gave his daughter a hundred pounds in notes on themorning of the wedding, and thus acted the part of the benevolentfather and father-in-law to a miracle. It may be acknowledged here thatthe receipt of the money removed a heavy weight from Lord George'sheart. He was himself so poor, and at the same time so scrupulous, thathe had lacked funds sufficient for the usual brightness of a weddingtour. He would not take his mother's money, nor lessen his own smallpatrimony; but now it seemed that wealth was showered on him from thedeanery. 

Perhaps a sojourn in Ireland did as well as anything could towardsassisting the young wife in her object of falling in love with herhusband. He would hardly have been a sympathetic companion inSwitzerland or Italy, as he did not care for lakes or mountains. ButIreland was new to him and new to her, and he was glad to have anopportunity of seeing something of a people as to whom so little isreally known in England. And at Ballycondra, on the Blackwater, theywere justified in feeling a certain interest in the welfare of thetenants around them. There was something to be done, and something ofwhich they could talk. Lord George, who couldn't hunt, and wouldn'tdance, and didn't care for mountains, could enquire with some zeal howmuch wages a peasant might earn, and what he would do with it whenearned. It interested him to learn that whereas an English labourerwill certainly eat and drink his wages from week to week, --so that hecould not be trusted to pay any sum half-yearly, --an Irish peasant, though he be half starving, will save his money for the rent. And Mary, at his instance, also cared for these things. It was her gift, as withmany women, to be able to care for everything. It was, perhaps, hermisfortune that she was apt to care too much for many things. Thehoneymoon in Ireland answered its purpose, and Lady George, when shecame back to Manor Cross, almost thought that she had succeeded. Shewas at any rate able to assure her father that she had been as happy asthe day was long, and that he was absolutely--"perfect. "

This assurance of perfection the Dean no doubt took at its propervalue. He patted his daughter's cheek as she made it, and kissed her, and told her that he did not doubt but that with a little care shemight make herself a happy woman. The house in town had already beentaken under his auspices, but of course was not to be inhabited yet. 

It was a very small but a very pretty little house, in a quaint littlestreet called Munster Court, near Storey's Gate, with a couple ofwindows looking into St. James's Park. It was now September, and Londonfor the present was out of the question. Indeed, it had been arrangedthat Lord George and his wife should remain at Manor Cross till afterChristmas. But the house had to be furnished, and the Dean evinced hisfull understanding of the duties of a father-in-law in such anemergency. This, indeed, was so much the case that Lord George became alittle uneasy. He had the greater part of the thousand pounds left, which he insisted on expending, --and thought that that should havesufficed. But the Dean explained in his most cordial manner, --and noman's manner could be more cordial than the Dean's, --that Mary'sfortune from Mr. Tallowax had been unexpected, that having had but onechild he intended to do well by her, and that, therefore, he could nowassist in starting her well in life without doing himself a damage. Thehouse in this way was decorated and furnished, and sundry journeys upto London served to brighten the autumn which might otherwise have beendull and tedious. 

At this period of her life two things acting together, and both actingin opposition to her anticipations of life, surprised the young bridenot a little. The one was her father's manner of conversation with her, and the other was her husband's. The Dean had never been a sternparent; but he had been a clergyman, and as a clergyman he hadinculcated a certain strictness of life, --a very modified strictness, indeed, but something more rigid than might have come from him had hebeen a lawyer or a country gentleman. Mary had learned that he wishedher to attend the cathedral services, and to interest herselfrespecting them, and she had always done so. He had explained to herthat, although he kept a horse for her to ride, he, as the Dean ofBrotherton, did not wish her to be seen in the hunting field. In herdress, her ornaments, her books, her parties, there had been alwayssomething to mark slightly her clerical belongings. She had neverchafed against this because she loved her father and was naturallyobedient; but she had felt something perhaps of a soft regret. Now herfather, whom she saw very frequently, never spoke to her of any duties. How should her house be furnished? In what way would she lay herselfout for London society? What enjoyments of life could she best secure?These seemed to be the matters on which he was most intent. It occurredto her that when speaking to her of the house in London he never onceasked her what church she would attend; and that when she spoke withpleasure of being so near the Abbey, he paid little or no attention toher remark. And then, too, she felt, rather than perceived, that in hiscounsels to her he almost intimated that she must have a plan of lifedifferent from her husband's. There were no such instructions given, but it almost seemed as though this were implied. He took it forgranted that her life was to be gay and bright, though he seemed totake it also for granted that Lord George did not wish to be gay andbright. 

All this surprised her. But it did not perhaps surprise her so much asthe serious view of life which her husband from day to day impressedupon her. That hero of her early dreams, that man with the light hairand the dimpled chin, whom she had not as yet quite forgotten, hadnever scolded her, had never spoken a serious word to her, and hadalways been ready to provide her with amusements that never palled. ButLord George made out a course of reading for her, --so much for the twohours after breakfast, so much for the hour before dressing, --so muchfor the evening; and also a table of results to be acquired in threemonths, --in six months, --and so much by the close of the first year;and even laid down the sum total of achievements to be produced by adozen years of such work! Of course she determined to do as he wouldhave her do. The great object of her life was to love him; and, ofcourse, if she really loved him, she would comply with his wishes. Shebegan her daily hour of Gibbon after breakfast with great zeal. Butthere was present to her an idea that if the Gibbon had come from herfather, and the instigations to amuse herself from her husband, itwould have been better. 

These things surprised her; but there was another matter that vexedher. Before she had been six weeks at Manor Cross she found that theladies set themselves up as her tutors. It was not the Marchioness whooffended her so much as her three sisters-in-law. The one of the familywhom she had always liked best had been also liked best by Mr. Holdenough, and had gone to live next door to her father in the Close. Lady Alice, though perhaps a little tiresome, was always gentle andgood-natured. Her mother-in-law was too much in awe of her own eldestdaughter ever to scold anyone. But Lady Sarah could be very severe; andLady Susanna could be very stiff; and Lady Amelia always re-echoed whather elder sisters said. 

Lady Sarah was by far the worst. She was forty years old, and looked asthough she were fifty and wished to be thought sixty. That she was, intruth, very good, no one either at Manor Cross or in Brotherton or anyof the parishes around ever doubted. She knew every poor woman on theestate, and had a finger in the making of almost every petticoat worn. She spent next to nothing on herself, giving away almost all her ownlittle income. She went to church whatever was the weather. She wasnever idle and never wanted to be amused. The place in the carriagewhich would naturally have been hers she had always surrendered to oneof her sisters when there had been five ladies at Manor Cross, and nowshe surrendered again to her brother's wife. She spent hours daily inthe parish school. She was doctor and surgeon to the poorpeople, --never sparing herself. But she was harsh-looking, had a harshvoice, and was dictatorial. The poor people had become used to her andliked her ways. The women knew that her stitches never gave way, andthe men had a wholesome confidence in her medicines, her plasters, andher cookery. But Lady George Germain did not see by what right she wasto be made subject to her sister-in-law's jurisdiction. 

Church matters did not go quite on all fours at Manor Cross. Theladies, as has before been said, were all high, the Marchioness beingthe least exigeant in that particular, and Lady Amelia the most so. Ritual, indeed, was the one point of interest in Lady Amelia's life. Among them there was assent enough for daily comfort; but Lord Georgewas in this respect, and in this respect only, a trouble to them. Henever declared himself openly, but it seemed to them that he did notcare much about church at all. He would generally go of a Sundaymorning; but there was a conviction that he did so chiefly to obligehis mother. Nothing was ever said of this. There was probably presentto the ladies some feeling, not uncommon, that religion is not sonecessary for men as for women. But Lady George was a woman. 

And Lady George was also the daughter of a clergyman. There was now adouble connexion between Manor Cross and the Close at Brotherton. Mr. Canon Holdenough, who was an older man than the Dean, and had beenlonger known in the diocese, was a most unexceptional clergyman, ratherhigh, leaning towards the high and dry, very dignified, and quite asbig a man in Brotherton as the Dean himself. The Dean was, indeed, theDean; but Mr. Holdenough was uncle to a baronet, and the Holdenoughshad been Holdenoughs when the Conqueror came. And then he also had aprivate income of his own. Now all this gave to the ladies at ManorCross a peculiar right to be great in church matters, --so that LadySarah was able to speak with much authority to Mary when she found thatthe bride, though a Dean's daughter, would only go to two services aweek, and would shirk one of them if the weather gave the slightestcolouring of excuse. 

"You used to like the cathedral services, " Lady Sarah said to her, oneday, when Mary had declined to go to the parish church, to sing thepraises of St. Processus. 

"That was because they were cathedral services, " said Mary. 

"You mean to say that you attended the House of God because the musicwas good!" Mary had not thought the subject over sufficiently to beenabled to say that good music is supplied with the object of drawinglarge congregations, so she only shrugged her shoulders. "I, too, likegood music, dear; but I do not think the want of it should keep me fromchurch. " Mary again shrugged her shoulders, remembering, as she did so, that her sister-in-law did not know one tune from another. Lady Alicewas the only one of the family who had ever studied music. 

"Even your papa goes on Saints' days, " continued Lady Sarah, conveyinga sneer against the Dean by that word "even. "

"Papa is Dean. I suppose he has to go. "

"He would not go to church, I suppose, unless he approved of going. "

The subject then dropped. Lady George had not yet arrived at that sortof snarling home intimacy, which would have justified her in tellingLady Sarah that if she wanted a lesson at all, she would prefer to takeit from her husband. 

The poor women's petticoats was another source of trouble. Before theautumn was over, --by the end of October, --when Mary had been two monthsat Manor Cross, she had been got to acknowledge that ladies living inthe country should employ a part of their time in making clothes forthe poor people; and she very soon learned to regret theacknowledgment. She was quickly driven into a corner by an assertionfrom Lady Sarah that, such being the case, the time to be so employedshould be defined. She had intended to make something, --perhaps anentire petticoat, --at some future time. But Lady Sarah was not going toput up with conduct such as that. Mary had acknowledged her duty. Didshe mean to perform it, or to neglect it? She made one petticoat, andthen gently appealed to her husband. Did not he think that petticoatscould be bought cheaper than they could be made? He figured it out, andfound that his wife could earn three-halfpence a day by two hours'work; and even Lady Sarah did not require from her more than two hoursdaily. Was it worth while that she should be made miserable forninepence a week, --less than £2 a-year? Lady George figured it outalso, and offered the exact sum, £1 19_s. _, to Lady Sarah, in orderthat she might be let off for the first twelve months. Then Lady Sarahwas full of wrath. Was that the spirit in which offerings were to bemade to the Lord? Mary was asked, with stern indignation, whether inbestowing the work of her hands upon the people, whether in the veryfact that she was doing for the poor that which was distasteful toherself, she did not recognise the performance of a duty? Maryconsidered a while, and then said that she thought a petticoat was apetticoat, and that perhaps the one made by the regular petticoat-makerwould be the best. She did not allude to the grand doctrine of thedivision of labour, nor did she hint that she might be doing more harmthan good by interfering with regular trade, because she had notstudied those matters. But that was the line of her argument. LadySarah told her that her heart in that matter was as hard as a nethermillstone. The young wife, not liking this, withdrew; and againappealed to her husband. His mind was divided on the subject. He wasclearly of opinion that the petticoat should be obtained in thecheapest market, but he doubted much about that three-halfpence in twohours. It might be that his wife could not do better at present; butexperience would come, and in that case, she would be obtainingexperience as well as earning three-halfpence. And, moreover, petticoats made at Manor Cross would, he thought, undoubtedly be betterthan any that could be bought. He came, however, to no final decision;and Mary, finding herself every morning sitting in a great petticoatconclave, hardly had an alternative but to join it. 

It was not in any spirit of complaint that she spoke on the subject toher father as the winter came on. A certain old Miss Tallowax had cometo the deanery, and it had been thought proper that Lady George shouldspend a day or two there. Miss Tallowax, also, had money of her own, and even still owned a share in the business; and the Dean had pointedout, both to Lord George and his wife, that it would be well that theyshould be civil to her. Lord George was to come on the last day, anddine and sleep at the deanery. On this occasion, when the Dean and hisdaughter were alone together, she said something in a playful way aboutthe great petticoat contest. 

"Don't you let those old ladies sit upon you, " said the Dean. He smiledas he spoke, but his daughter well knew, from his tone, that he meanthis advice to be taken seriously. 

"Of course, papa, I should like to accommodate myself to them as muchas I can. "

"But you can't, my dear. Your manner of life can't be their manner, northeirs yours. I should have thought George would see that. "

"He didn't take their part, you know. "

"Of course he didn't. As a married woman you are entitled to have yourown way, unless he should wish it otherwise. I don't want to make thismatter serious; but if it is pressed, tell them that you do not care tospend your time in that way. They cling to old fashions. That isnatural enough; but it is absurd to suppose that they should make youas old-fashioned as themselves. "

He had taken the matter up quite seriously, and had given his daughteradvice evidently with the intention that she should profit by it. Thatwhich he had said as to her being a married woman struck her forcibly. No doubt these ladies at Manor Cross were her superiors in birth; butshe was their brother's wife, and as a married woman had rights of herown. A little spirit of rebellion already began to kindle itself withinher bosom; but in it there was nothing of mutiny against her husband. If he were to desire her to make petticoats all day, of course shewould make them; but in this contest he had been, as it were, neutral, and had certainly given her no orders. She thought a good deal about itwhile at the deanery, and made up her mind that she would sit in thepetticoat conclave no longer. It could not be her duty to pass her timein an employment in which a poor woman might with difficulty earnsixpence a day. Surely she might do better with her time than that, even though she should spend it all in reading Gibbon. 

CHAPTER IV. 

AT THE DEANERY. 

There was a dinner-party at the deanery during Miss Tallowax's sojournat Brotherton. Mr. Canon Holdenough and Lady Alice were there. Thebishop and his wife had been asked, --a ceremony which was gone throughonce a year, --but had been debarred from accepting the invitation bythe presence of clerical guests at the palace. But his lordship'schaplain, Mr. Groschut, was present. Mr. Groschut also held an honoraryprebendal stall, and was on of the chapter, --a thorn sometimes in theDean's side. But appearances were well kept up at Brotherton, and noone was more anxious that things should be done in a seemly way thanthe Dean. Therefore, Mr. Groschut, who was a very low churchman and hadonce been a Jew, but who bore a very high character for theologicalerudition, was asked to the deanery. There was also one or two otherclergymen there, with their wives, and Mr. And Mrs. Houghton. Mrs. Houghton, it will be remembered, was the beautiful woman who hadrefused to become the wife of Lord George Germain. Before taking thisstep, the Dean had been careful to learn whether his son-in-law wouldobject to meet the Houghtons. Such objection would have been foolish, as the families had all known each other. Both Mr. De Baron, Mrs. Houghton's father, and Mr. Houghton himself, had been intimate with thelate marquis, and had been friends of the present lord before he hadquitted the country. A lady when she refuses a gentleman gives no causeof quarrel. All this the Dean understood; and as he himself had knownboth Mr. Houghton and Mr. De Baron ever since he came to Brotherton, hethought it better that there should be such a meeting. Lord Georgeblushed up to the roots of his hair, and then said that he should bevery glad to meet the gentleman and his wife. 

The two young brides had known each other as girls, and now met with, at any rate, an appearance of friendship. 

"My dear, " said Mrs. Houghton, who was about four years the elder, "ofcourse I know all about it, and so do you. You are an heiress, andcould afford to please yourself. I had nothing of my own, and shouldhave had to pass all my time at Manor Cross. Are you surprised?"

"Why should I be surprised?" said Lady George, who was, however, verymuch surprised at this address. 

"Well, you know; he is the handsomest man in England. Everybody allowsthat; and, then, such a family--and such possibilities! I was very muchflattered. Of course he had not seen you then, or only seen you as achild, or I shouldn't have had a chance. It is a great deal better asit is, --isn't it?"

"I think so, certainly. "

"I am so glad to hear that you have a house in town. We go up about thefirst of April, when the hunting is over. Mr. Houghton does not ridemuch, but he hunts a great deal. We live in Berkeley Square, you know;and I do so hope we shall see ever so much of you. "

"I'm sure I hope so too, " said Lady George, who had never hitherto beenvery fond of Miss De Baron, and had entertained a vague idea that sheought to be a little afraid of Mrs. Houghton. But when her father'sguest was so civil to her she did not know how to be other than civilin return. 

"There is no reason why what has passed should make anyawkwardness;--is there?"

"No, " said Lady George, feeling that she almost blushed at the allusionto so delicate a subject. 

"Of course not. Why should there? Lord George will soon get used to me, just as if nothing had happened; and I shall always be ever so fond ofhim, --in a way, you know. There shall be nothing to make you jealous. "

"I'm not a bit afraid of that, " said Lady George, almost too earnestly. 

"You need not be, I'm sure. Not but what I do think he was at one timevery--very much attached to me. But it couldn't be. And what's the goodof thinking of such a thing when it can't be? I don't pretend to bevery virtuous, and I like money. Now Mr. Houghton, at any rate, has gota large income. If I had had your fortune at my own command, I don'tsay what I might not have done. "

Lady George almost felt that she ought to be offended by allthis, --almost felt that she was disgusted; but, at the same time, shedid not quite understand it. Her father had made a point of asking theHoughtons, and had told her that of course she would know the Houghtonsup in town. She had an idea that she was very ignorant of the ways oflife; but that now it would behove her, as a married woman, to learnthose ways. Perhaps the free and easy mode of talking was the rightthing. She did not like being told by another lady that that other ladywould have married her own husband, only that he was a pauper; and theoffence of all this seemed to be the greater because it was all sorecent. She didn't like being told that she was not to be jealous, especially when she remembered that her husband had been desperately inlove with the lady who told her so not many months ago. But she was notjealous, and was quite sure she never would be jealous; and, perhaps, it did not matter. All this had occurred in the drawing-room beforedinner. Then Mr. Houghton came up to her, telling that he had beencommissioned by the Dean to have the honour of taking her down todinner. Having made his little speech, Mr. Houghton retired, --asgentlemen generally do retire when in that position. 

"Be as nice as you can to him, " said Mrs. Houghton. "He hasn't much tosay for himself, but he isn't half a bad fellow; and a pretty womanlike you can do what she likes with him. "

Lady George, as she went down to dinner, assured herself that she hadno slightest wish to take any unfair advantage of Mr. Houghton. 

Lord George had taken down Miss Tallowax, the Dean having been verywise in this matter; and Miss Tallowax was in a seventh heaven ofhappiness. Miss Tallowax, though she had made no promises, was quiteprepared to do great things for her noble connexions, if her nobleconnexions would treat her properly. She had already made half-a-dozenwills, and was quite ready to make another, if Lord George would becivil to her. The Dean was in his heart a little ashamed of his aunt;but he was man enough to be able to bear her eccentricities withoutshowing his vexation, and sufficiently wise to know that more was to bewon than lost by the relationship. 

"The best woman in the world, " he had said to Lord George beforehand, speaking of his aunt; "but, of course, you will remember that she wasnot brought up as a lady. "

Lord George, with stately urbanity, had signified his intention oftreating Miss Tallowax with every consideration. 

"She has thirty thousand pounds at her own disposal, " continued theDean. "I have never said a word to her about money, but, upon myhonour, I think she likes Mary better than any one else. It's worthbearing in mind, you know. "

Lord George smiled again in a stately manner, --perhaps showingsomething of displeasure in his smile. But, nevertheless, he was wellaware that it was worth his while to bear Miss Tallowax and her moneyin his mind. 

"My lord, " said Miss Tallowax, "I hope you will allow me to say howmuch honoured we all feel by Mary's proud position. " Lord George bowedand smiled, and led the lady into the deanery dining-room. Words didnot come easily to him, and he hardly knew how to answer the lady. "Ofcourse, it's a great thing for people such as us, " continued MissTallowax, "to be connected with the family of a Marquis. " Again LordGeorge bowed. This was very bad, indeed, --a great deal worse than hehad anticipated from the aunt of so courtly a man as his father-in-law, the Dean. The lady looked to be about sixty; very small, very healthy, with streaky red cheeks, small grey eyes, and a brown front. Then cameupon him an idea, that it would be a very long time before the thirtythousand pounds, or any part of it, would come to him. And then therecame to him another idea, that as he had married the Dean's daughter, it was his duty to behave well to the Dean's aunt, even though themoney should never come to him. He therefore told Miss Tallowax thathis mother hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her at Manor Crossbefore she left Brotherton. Miss Tallowax almost got out of her seat, as she curtseyed with her head and shoulders to this proposition. 

The Dean was a very good man at the head of his own dinner-table, andthe party went off pleasantly in spite of sundry attempts at clericalpugnacity made by Mr. Groschut. Every man and every beast has his ownweapon. The wolf fights with his tooth, the bull with his horn, and Mr. Groschut always fought with his bishop, --so taught by inner instinct. The bishop, according to Mr. Groschut, was inclined to think that thisand that might be done. That such a change might be advantageously madein reference to certain clerical meetings, and that the hilarity of thediocese might be enhanced by certain evangelical festivities. Theseremarks were generally addressed to Mr. Canon Holdenough, who madealmost no reply to them. But the Dean was, on each occasion, preparedwith some civil answer, which, while it was an answer, would still seemto change the conversation. It was a law in the Close that BishopBarton should be never allowed to interfere with the affairs ofBrotherton Cathedral; and if not the bishop, certainly not the bishop'schaplain. Though the Canon and the Dean did not go altogether on allfours in reference to clerical affairs generally they were both agreedon this point. But the Chaplain, who knew the condition of affairs aswell as they did, thought the law a bad law, and was determined toabolish it. "It certainly would be very pleasant, Mr. Holdenough, if wecould have such a meeting within the confines of the Close. I don'tmean to-day, and I don't mean to-morrow; but we might think of it. Thebishop, who has the greatest love for the cathedral services, is verymuch of that mind. "

"I do not know that I care very much for any out-of-door gatherings, "said the Canon. 

"But why out of doors?" asked the Chaplain. 

"Whatever meeting there is to be in the Close, will, I hope, be held inthe deanery, " said the Dean; "but of all meetings, I must say that Ilike meetings such as this, the best. Germain, will you pass thebottle?" When they were alone together he always called his son-in-law, George; but in company he dropped the more familiar name. 

Mr. De Baron, Mrs. Houghton's father, liked his joke. "Sporting men, "he said, "always go to a meet, and clerical men to a meeting. What'sthe difference?"

"A good deal, if it is in the colour of the coat, " said the Dean. 

"The one is always under cover, " said the Canon. "The other, I believe, is generally held out of doors. "

"There is, I fancy, a considerable resemblance in the energy of thosewho are brought together, " said the Chaplain. 

"But clergymen ain't allowed to hunt, are they?" said Mr. Houghton, who, as usual, was a little in the dark as to the subject underconsideration. 

"What's to prevent them?" asked the Canon, who had never been outhunting in his life, and who certainly would have advised a youngclergyman to abstain from the sport. But in asking the question, he wasenabled to strike a sidelong blow at the objectionable chaplain, byseeming to question the bishop's authority. 

"Their own conscience, I should hope, " said the Chaplain, solemnly, thereby parrying the blow successfully. 

"I am very glad, then, " said Mr. Houghton, "that I didn't go into theChurch. " To be thought a real hunting man was the great object of Mr. Houghton's ambition. 

"I am afraid you would hardly have suited us, Houghton, " said the Dean. "Come, shall we go up to the ladies?"

In the drawing-room, after a little while, Lord George found himselfseated next to Mrs. Houghton--Adelaide De Baron, as she had been whenhe had sighed in vain at her feet. How it had come to pass that he wassitting there he did not know, but he was quite sure that it had cometo pass by no arrangement contrived by himself. He had looked at heronce since he had been in the room, almost blushing as he did so, andhad told himself that she was certainly very beautiful. He almostthought that she was more beautiful than his wife; but he knew, --heknew now, --that her beauty and her manners were not as well suited tohim as those of the sweet creature whom he had married. And now he wasonce more seated close to her, and it was incumbent on him to speak toher. "I hope, " she said, almost in a whisper, but still not seeming towhisper, "that we have both become very happy since we met last. "

"I hope so, indeed, " said he. 

"There cannot, at least, be any doubt as to you, Lord George. I neverknew a sweeter young girl than Mary Lovelace; so pretty, so innocent, and so enthusiastic. I am but a poor worldly creature compared to her. "

"She is all that you say, Mrs. Houghton. " Lord George also wasdispleased, --more thoroughly displeased than had been his wife. But hedid not know how to show his displeasure; and though he felt it, hestill felt, also, the old influence of the woman's beauty. 

"I am so delighted to have heard that you have got a house in MunsterCourt. I hope that Lady George and I may be fast friends. Indeed, Iwon't call her Lady George; for she was Mary to me before we either ofus thought of getting husbands for ourselves. " This was not strictlytrue, but of that Lord George could know nothing. "And I do hope, --mayI hope, --that you will call on me?"

"Certainly I will do so. "

"It will add so much to the happiness of my life, if you will allow meto feel that all that has come and gone has not broken the friendshipbetween us. "

"Certainly not, " said Lord George. 

The lady had then said all that she had got to say, and changed herposition as silently as she had occupied it. There was no abruptness ofmotion, and yet Lord George saw her talking to her husband at the otherside of the room, almost while his own words were still sounding in hisown ears. Then he watched her for the next few minutes. Certainly, shewas very beautiful. There was no room for comparison, they were sounlike; otherwise, he would have been disposed to say that Adelaide wasthe more beautiful. But Adelaide certainly would not have suited theair of Manor Cross, or have associated well with Lady Sarah. 

On the next day the Marchioness and Ladies Susannah and Amelia droveover to the deanery in great state, to call on Miss Tallowax, and totake Lady George back to Manor Cross. Miss Tallowax enjoyed the companyof the Marchioness greatly. She had never seen a lady of that rankbefore. "Only think how I must feel, " she said to her niece, thatmorning, "I, that never spoke to any one above a baronet's lady in mylife. "

"I don't think you'll find much difference, " said Mary. 

"You're used to it. You're one of them yourself. You're above abaronet's lady, --ain't you, my dear?"

"I have hardly looked into all that as yet, aunt. " There must surelyhave been a little fib in this, or the Dean's daughter must have beenvery much unlike other young ladies. 

"I suppose I ought to be afraid of you, my dear; only you are so niceand so pretty. And as for Lord George, he was quite condescending. "Lady George knew that praise was intended, and therefore made noobjection to the otherwise objectionable epithet. 

The visit of the Marchioness was passed over with the less disturbanceto Miss Tallowax because it was arranged that she was to be taken overto lunch at Manor Cross on the following day. Lord George had said aword, and Lady Sarah had consented, though, as a rule, Lady Sarah didnot like the company of vulgar people. The peasants of the parish, downto the very poorest of the poor, were her daily companions. With themshe would spend hours, feeling no inconvenience from their language orhabits. But she did not like gentlefolk who were not gentle. In daysnow long gone by, she had only assented to the Dean, because holyorders are supposed to make a gentleman; for she would acknowledge abishop to be as grand a nobleman as any, though he might have been bornthe son of a butcher. But nobility and gentry cannot travel backwards, and she had been in doubt about Miss Tallowax. But even with the LadySarah a feeling has made its way which teaches them to know that theymust submit to some changes. The thing was to be regretted, but LadySarah knew that she was not strong enough to stand quite alone. "Youknow she is very rich, " the Marchioness had said in a whisper; "and ifBrotherton marries, your poor brother will want it so badly. "

"That ought not to make any difference, mamma, " said Lady Sarah. Whether it did make any difference or not, Lady Sarah herself probablyhardly knew; but she did consent to the asking of Miss Tallowax tolunch at Manor Cross. 

CHAPTER V. 

MISS TALLOWAX IS SHOWN THE HOUSE. 

The Dean took his aunt over to Manor Cross in his brougham. The Dean'sbrougham was the neatest carriage in Brotherton, very much more so thanthe bishop's family carriage. It was, no doubt, generally to be seenwith only one horse; and neither the bishop or Mrs. Barton ever stirredwithout two; but then one horse is enough for town work, and that onehorse could lift his legs and make himself conspicuous in a manner ofwhich the bishop's rather sorry jades knew nothing. On this occasion, as the journey was long, there were two horses--hired; but, nevertheless, the brougham looked very well as it came up the longManor Cross avenue. Miss Tallowax became rather frightened as she drewnear to the scene of her coming grandeur. 

"Henry, " she said to her nephew, "they will think so little of me. "

"My dear aunt, " replied the Dean, "in these days a lady who has plentyof money of her own can hold her head up anywhere. The dear oldmarchioness will think quite as much of you as you do of her. "

What perhaps struck Miss Tallowax most at the first moment was theplainness of the ladies' dresses. She, herself, was rather gorgeous ina shot-silk gown and a fashionable bonnet crowded with flowers. She hadbeen ashamed of the splendour of the article as she put it on, and yethad been ashamed also of her ordinary daily head gear. But when she sawthe Marchioness, and especially when she saw Lady Sarah, who wasaltogether strange to her, she wished that she had come in hercustomary black gown. She had heard something about Lady Sarah from herniece, and had conceived an idea that Lady Sarah was the dragon of thefamily. But when she saw a little woman, looking almost as old asherself, --though in truth the one might have been the other'smother, --dressed in an old brown merino, with the slightest morsel ofwhite collar to be seen round her neck, she began to hope that thedragon would not be very fierce. 

"I hope you like Brotherton, Miss Tallowax, " said Lady Sarah. "I thinkI have heard that you were here once before. "

"I like Brotherton very much, my lady. " Lady Sarah smiled as graciouslyas she knew how. "I came when they first made Henry dean, a long timeago now it seems. But he had not then the honour of knowing your mammaor the family. "

"It wasn't long before we did know him, " said the Marchioness. ThenMiss Tallowax turned round and again curtseyed with her head andshoulders. 

The Dean at this moment was not in the room, having been withdrawn fromthe ladies by his son-in-law at the front door; but as luncheon wasannounced, the two men came in. Lord George gave his arm to his wife'sgreat aunt, and the Dean followed with the Marchioness. 

"I really am a'most ashamed to walk out before her ladyship, " said MissTallowax, with a slight attempt at laughing at her own ignorance. 

But Lord George rarely laughed at anything, and certainly did not knowhow to treat pleasantly such a subject as this. "It's quite customary, "he said very gravely. 

The lunch was much more tremendous to Miss Tallowax than had been thedinner at the deanery. Though she was ignorant, --ignorant at any rateof the ways of such people as those with whom she was nowconsorting, --she was by no means a stupid old woman. She was soon ableto perceive that in spite of the old merino gown, it was Lady Sarah'sspirit that quelled them all. At first there was very littleconversation. Lord George did not speak a word. The Marchioness neverexerted herself. Poor Mary was cowed and unhappy. The Dean made one ortwo little efforts, but without much success. Lady Sarah was intentupon her mutton chop, which she finished to the last shred, turning itover and over in her plate so that it should be economically disposedof, looking at it very closely because she was short-sighted. But whenthe mutton chop had finally done its duty, she looked up from her plateand gave evident signs that she intended to take upon herself theweight of the conversation. All the subsequent ceremonies of the lunchitself, the little tarts and the jelly, and the custard pudding, shedespised altogether, regarding them as wicked additions. One puddingafter dinner she would have allowed, but nothing more of that sort. Itmight be all very well for parvenu millionaires to have two granddinners a-day, but it could not be necessary that the Germains shouldlive in that way, even when the Dean of Brotherton and his aunt came tolunch with them. 

"I hope you like this part of the country, Miss Tallowax, " she said, assoon as she had deposited her knife and fork over the bone. 

"Manor Cross is quite splendid, my lady, " said Miss Tallowax. 

"It is an old house, and we shall have great pleasure in showing youwhat the people call the state rooms. We never use them. Of course youknow the house belongs to my brother, and we only live here because itsuits him to stay in Italy. "

"That's the young Marquis, my lady?"

"Yes; my elder brother is Marquis of Brotherton, but I cannot say thathe is very young. He is two years my senior, and ten years older thanGeorge. "

"But I think he's not married yet?" asked Miss Tallowax. 

The question was felt to be disagreeable by them all. Poor Mary couldnot keep herself from blushing, as she remembered how much to her mightdepend on this question of her brother-in-law's marriage. Lord Georgefelt that the old lady was enquiring what chance there might be thather grand niece should ever become a marchioness. Old Lady Brotherton, who had always been anxious that her elder son should marry, feltuncomfortable, as did also the Dean, conscious that all there must beconscious how important must be the matter to him. 

"No, " said Lady Sarah, with stately gravity; "my elder brother is notyet married. If you would like to see the rooms, Miss Tallowax, I shallhave pleasure in showing you the way. "

The Dean had seen the rooms before, and remained with the old lady. Lord George, who thought very much of everything affecting his ownfamily, joined the party, and Mary felt herself compelled to follow herhusband and her aunt. The two younger sisters also accompanied LadySarah. 

"This is the room in which Queen Elizabeth slept, " said Lady Sarah, entering a large chamber on the ground floor, in which there was afour-post bedstead, almost as high as the ceiling, and looking asthough no human body had profaned it for the last three centuries. 

"Dear me, " said Miss Tallowax, almost afraid to press such sacredboards with her feet. "Queen Elizabeth! Did she really now?"

"Some people say she never did actually come to Manor Cross at all, "said the conscientious Lady Amelia; "but there is no doubt that theroom was prepared for her. "

"Laws!" said Miss Tallowax, who began to be less afraid of distantroyalty now that a doubt was cast on its absolute presence. 

"Examining the evidence as closely as we can, " said Lady Sarah, with asavage glance at her sister, "I am inclined to think that she certainlydid come. We know that she was at Brotherton in 1582, and there existsthe letter in which Sir Humphrey Germaine, as he was then, is desiredto prepare rooms for her. I myself have no doubt on the subject. "

"After all it does not make much difference, " said Mary. 

"I think it makes all the difference in the world, " said Lady Susanna. "That piece of furniture will always be sacred to me, because Ibelieve it did once afford rest and sleep to the gracious majesty ofEngland. "

"It do make a difference, certainly, " said Miss Tallowax, looking atthe bed with all her eyes. "Does anybody ever go to bed here now?"

"Nobody, ever, " said Lady Sarah. "Now we will go through to the greatdining hall. That's the portrait of the first earl. "

"Painted by Kneller, " said Lady Amelia, proudly. 

"Oh, indeed, " said Miss Tallowax. 

"There is some doubt as to that, " said Lady Sarah. "I have found outthat Sir Godfrey Kneller was only born in 1648, and as the first earldied a year or two after the restoration, I don't know that he couldhave done it. "

"It was always said that it was painted by Kneller, " said Lady Amelia. 

"There has been a mistake, I fear, " said Lady Sarah. 

"Oh, indeed, " said Miss Tallowax, looking up with intense admiration ata very ill-drawn old gentleman in armour. Then they entered the statedining-room or hall, and Miss Tallowax was informed that the room hadnot been used for any purpose whatever for very many years. "And such abeautiful room!" said Miss Tallowax, with much regret. 

"The fact is, I believe, that the chimney smokes horribly, " said LordGeorge. 

"I never remember a fire here, " said Lady Sarah. "In very cold weatherwe have a portable stove brought in, just to preserve the furniture. This is called the old ball room. "

"Dear me!" ejaculated Miss Tallowax, looking round at the faded yellowhangings. 

"We did have a ball here once, " said Lady Amelia, "when Brotherton cameof age. I can just remember it. "

"Has it never been used since?" asked Mary. 

"Never, " said Lady Sarah. "Sometimes when it's rainy we walk up anddown for exercise. It is a fine old house, but I often wish that itwere smaller. I don't think people want rooms of this sort now as muchas they used to do. Perhaps a time may come when my brother will makeManor Cross gay again, but it is not very gay now. I think that is all, Miss Tallowax. "

"It's very fine;--very fine indeed, " said Miss Tallowax, shivering. Then they all trooped back into the morning room which they used fortheir daily life. 

The old lady when she had got back into the brougham with her nephew, the Dean, was able to express her mind freely. "I wouldn't live in thathouse, Henry, not if they was to give it me for nothing. "

"They'd have to give you something to keep it up with. "

"And not then, neither. Of course it's all very well having a bed thatQueen Elizabeth slept in. "

"Or didn't sleep in. "

"I'd teach myself to believe she did. But dear me, that isn'teverything. It nearly gave me the horrors to look at it. Room afterroom, --room after room, --and nobody living in any of them. "

"People can't live in more than a certain number of rooms at once, aunt. "

"Then what's the use of having them? And don't you think for thedaughters of a Marchioness they are a little what you'd call--dowdy?"

"They don't go in for dress much. "

"Why, my Jemima at home, when the dirty work is done, is twice smarterthan Lady Sarah. And, Henry, --don't you think they're a little hardupon Mary?"

"Hard upon her;--how?" The Dean had listened to the old woman'sprevious criticisms with a smile; but now he was interested and turnedsharply round to her. "How hard?"

"Moping her up there among themselves; and it seemed to me they snubbedher whenever she spoke. " The Dean had not wanted his aunt's observationto make him feel this. The tone of every syllable addressed to his girlhad caught his ear. He had been pleased to marry her into so good afamily. He had been delighted to think that by means of his prosperityin the world his father's grand-daughter might probably become apeeress. But he certainly had not intended that even for such a rewardas that his daughter should become submissive to the old maids at ManorCross. Foreseeing something of this he had stipulated that she shouldhave a house of her own in London; but half her time would probably bespent in the country, and with reference to that half of her time itwould be necessary that she should be made to understand that as thewife of Lord George she was in no respect inferior to his sisters, andthat in some respects she was their superior. "I don't see the good ofliving in a big house, " continued Miss Tallowax, "if all the timeeverything is to be as dull as dull. "

"They are older than she is, you know. "

"Poor little dear! I always did say that young folk should have youngfolk about 'em. Of course it's a great thing for her to have a lord forher husband. But he looks a'most too old himself for such a prettydarling as your Mary. "

"He's only thirty-three. "

"It's in the looks, I suppose, because he's so grand. But it's thatLady Sarah puzzles me. It isn't in her looks, and yet she has it allher in own way. Well;--I liked going there, and I'm glad I've been; butI don't know as I shall ever want to go again. " Then there was silencefor some time; but as the brougham was driven into Brotherton MissTallowax spoke again. "I don't suppose an old woman like me can ever beof any use, and you'll always be at hand to look after her. But if evershe should want an outing, just to raise her spirits, old as I am, Ithink I could make it brighter for her than it is there. " The Dean tookher hand and pressed it, and then there was no more said. 

When the brougham was driven away Lord George took his wife for a walkin the park. She was still struggling hard to be in love with him, never owning failure to herself, and sometimes assuring herself thatshe had succeeded altogether. Now, when he asked her to come with him, she put on her hat joyfully, and joined her hands over his arm as shewalked away with him into the shrubbery. 

"She's a wonderful old woman;--is not she, George?"

"Not very wonderful. "

"Of course you think she's vulgar. "

"I didn't say so. "

"No; you're too good to say so, because she's papa's aunt. But she'svery good. Don't you think she's very good?"

"I dare say she is. I don't know that I run into superlatives quite somuch as you do. "

"She has brought me such a handsome present. I could not show it youbefore them all just now, and it only came down from London thismorning. She did not say a word about it before. Look here. " Then sheslipped her glove off and showed him a diamond ring. 

"You should not wear that out of doors. "

"I only put it on to show you. Wasn't it good of her? 'Young people ofrank ought to wear nice things, ' she said, as she gave it me. Wasn't itan odd thing for her to say? and yet I understood her. " Lord Georgefrowned, thinking that he also understood the old woman's words, andreminding himself that the ladies of rank at Manor Cross never did wearnice things. "Don't you think it was nice?"

"Of course she is entitled to make you a present if she pleases. "

"It pleased me, George. "

"I dare say, and as it doesn't displease me all is well. You, however, have quite sense enough to understand, that in this house more isthought of--of--of--" he would have said blood, but that he did notwish to hurt her, --"more is thought of personal good conduct than ofrings and jewels. "

"Rings and jewels, and--personal conduct may go together; mayn't they?"

"Of course they may. "

"And very often do. You won't think my--personal conduct--will beinjured because I wear my aunt's ring?"

When Lord George made his allusion to personal conduct one of her twohands dropped from his arm, and now, as she repeated the words, therewas a little sting of sarcasm in her voice. 

"I was intending to answer your aunt's opinion that young people oughtto wear nice things. No doubt there is at present a great rage for richornaments and costly dress, and it was of these she was thinking whenshe spoke of nice things. When I spoke of personal conduct being morethought of here, I intended to imply that you had come into a familynot given to rich ornaments and costly dress. My sisters feel thattheir portion in this world is assured to them without such outwardbadges, and wish that you should share the feeling. "

This was a regular sermon, and to Mary's thinking was verydisagreeable, and not at all deserved. Did her husband really mean totell her that, because his sisters chose to dress themselves down inthe country like dowdy old maids whom the world had deserted, she wasto do the same up in London? The injustice of this on all sides struckhome to her at the moment. They were old and she was young. They wereplain; she was pretty. They were poor; she was rich. They didn't feelany wish to make themselves what she called "nice. " She did feel a verystrong wish in that direction. They were old maids; she was a youngbride. And then what right had they to domineer over her, and to sendword to her through her husband of their wishes as to her manner ofdressing? She said nothing at the moment; but she became red, and beganto feel that she had power within her to rebel at any rate against hersisters-in-law. There was silence for a moment or so, and then LordGeorge reverted to the subject. 

"I hope you can sympathise with my sisters, " he said. He had felt thatthe hand had been dropped, and had understood something of the reason. 

She wished to rebel against them, but by no means wished to oppose him. She was aware, as though by instinct, that her life would be very badindeed should she fail to sympathise with him. It was still theall-paramount desire of her heart to be in love with him. But she couldnot bring herself to say that she sympathised with them in this directattack that was made on her own mode of thought. 

"Of course, they are a little older than I am, " she said, hoping to getout of the difficulty. 

"And therefore, the more entitled to consideration. I think you willown that they must know what is, and what is not, becoming to a lady. "

"Do you mean, " said she, hardly able to choke a rising sob, "thatthey--have anything--to find fault with in me?"

"I have said nothing as to finding fault, Mary. "

"Do they think that I do not dress as I ought to do?"

"Why should you ask such a question as that?"

"I don't know what else I am to understand, George. Of course I willdo anything that you tell me. If you wish me to make any change, I willmake it. But I hope they won't send me messages through you. "

"I thought you would have been glad to know that they interestedthemselves about you. " In answer to this Mary pouted, but her husbanddid not see the pout. 

"Of course they are anxious that you should become one of them. We area very united family. I do not speak now of my elder brother, who is ina great measure separated from us and is of a different nature. But mymother, my sisters, and I, have very many opinions in common. We livetogether, and have the same way of thinking. Our rank is high, and ourmeans are small. But to me blood is much more than wealth. Weacknowledge, however, that rank demands many sacrifices, and my sistersendeavour to make those sacrifices most conscientiously. A woman morethoroughly devoted to good works than Sarah I have never even read of. If you will believe this, you will understand what they mean, and whatI mean, when we say that here at Manor Cross we think more of personalconduct than of rings and jewels. You wish, Mary, to be one of us; doyou not?"

She paused for a moment, and then she answered, "I wish to be alwaysone with you. "

He almost wanted to be angry at this, but it was impossible. "To be onewith me, dearest, " he said, "you must be one, also, with them. "

"I cannot love them as I do you, George. That, I am sure, is not themeaning of being married. " Then she thought of it all steadily for aminute, and after that, made a further speech. "And I don't think I canquite dress like them. I'm sure you would not like it if I did. "

As she said this she put her second hand back upon his arm. 

He said nothing further on the subject till he had brought her back tothe house, walking along by her side almost mute, not quite knowingwhether he ought to be offended with her or to take her part. It wastrue that he would not have liked her to look like Lady Sarah, but hewould have liked her to make some approach in that direction, sufficient to show submission. He was already beginning to fear theabsence of all control which would befall his young wife in that Londonlife to which, she was to be so soon introduced, and was meditatingwhether he could not induce one of his sisters to accompany them. As toSarah he was almost hopeless. Amelia would be of little or no service, though she would be more likely to ingratiate herself with his wifethan the others. Susanna was less strong than Sarah and less amiablethan Amelia. And then, how would it be if Mary were to declare that shewould rather begin the campaign without any of them?

The young wife, as soon as she found herself alone in her own bedroom, sat down and resolved that she would never allow herself to bedomineered by her husband's sisters. She would be submissive to him inall things, but his authority should not be delegated to them. 

CHAPTER VI. 

BAD TIDINGS. 

About the middle of October, there came a letter from the Marquis ofBrotherton to his brother, which startled them all at Manor Cross verymuch indeed. In answering Lord George's communication as to themarriage, the Marquis had been mysterious and disagreeable;--but thenhe was always disagreeable and would on occasions take the trouble tobe mysterious also. He had warned his brother that he might himselfwant the house at Manor Cross; but he had said the same thingfrequently during his residence in Italy, being always careful to makehis mother and sisters understand that they might have to takethemselves away any day at a very short warning. But now the shortwarning had absolutely come, and had come in such a shape as to upseteverything at Manor Cross, and to upset many things at the BrothertonDeanery. The letter was as follows:--

 "My dear George, "I am to be married to the Marchesa Luigi. Her name is Catarina Luigi, and she is a widow. As to her age, you can ask herself when you see her, if you dare. I haven't dared. I suppose her to be ten years younger than myself. I did not expect that it would be so, but she says now that she would like to live in England. Of course I've always meant to go back myself some day. I don't suppose we shall be there before May, but we must have the house got ready. My mother and the girls had better look out for a place as soon as they can. Tell my mother of course I will allow her the rent of Cross Hall, to which indeed she is entitled. I don't think she would care to live there, and neither she nor the girls would get on with my wife. 

 "Yours, B. 

 "I am waiting to know about getting the house painted and furnished. "

When Lord George received this letter, he showed it first in privacy tohis sister Sarah. As the reader will have understood, there had neverbeen any close family affection between the present Marquis and hisbrothers and sisters; nor had he been a loving son to his mother. Butthe family at Manor Cross had always endeavoured to maintain a show ofregard for the head of the family, and the old Marchioness would nodoubt have been delighted had her eldest son come home and married anEnglish wife. Lady Sarah, in performing what she had considered to be afamily duty, had written regular despatches to her elder brother, telling him everything that happened about the place, --despatches whichhe, probably, never read. Now there had come a blow indeed. Lady Sarahread the letter, and then looked into her brother's face. 

"Have you told Mary?" she asked. 

"I have told no one. "

"It concerns her as much as any of us. Of course, if he has married, itis right that he should have his house. We ought to wish that he shouldlive hero. "

"If he were different from what he is, " said Lord George. 

"If she is good it may be that he will become different. It is not thething, but the manner in which he tells it to us! Did you ever hear hername before?"

"Never. "

"What a way he has of mentioning her;--about her age, " said Lady Sarah, infinitely shocked. "Well! Mamma must be told, of course. Why shouldn'twe live at Cross Hall? I don't understand what he means about that. Cross Hall belongs to mamma for her life, as much as Manor Cross doesto him for his. "

Just outside the park gate, at the side of the park furthest away fromBrotherton, and therefore placed very much out of the world, therestood a plain substantial house built in the days of Queen Anne, whichhad now for some generations been the habitation of the dowager of theBrotherton family. When the late marquis died, this had become for herlife the property of the Marchioness; but had been ceded by her to herson, in return for the loan of the big house. The absentee Marquis hadmade with his mother the best bargain in his power, and had let thedower house, known as Cross Hall, to a sporting farmer. He now kindlyoffered to allow his mother to have the rent of her own house, signifying at the same time his wish that all his family should removethemselves out of his way. 

"He wishes that we should take ourselves off, " said Lord George, hoarsely. 

"But I do not see why we are to give way to his wishes. George, whereare we to go? Of what use can we be in a strange country? Wherever weare we shall be very poor, but our money will go further here thanelsewhere. How are we to get up new interests in life? The land is his, but the poor people belong to us as much as to him. It isunreasonable. "

"It is frightfully selfish. "

"I for one am not prepared to obey him in this, " said Lady Sarah. "Ofcourse mamma will do as she pleases, but I do not see why we should go. He will never live here all the year through. "

"He will be sick of it after a month. Will you read the letter to mymother?"

"I will tell her, George. She had better not see the letter, unless shemakes a point of it. I will read it again, and then do you keep it. Youshould tell Mary at once. It is natural that she should have builthopes on the improbability of Brotherton's marriage. "

Before noon on that day the news had been disseminated through thehouse. The old Marchioness, when she first heard of the Italian wife, went into hysterics, and then was partly comforted by reminding herselfthat all Italians were not necessarily bad. She asked after the letterrepeatedly; and at last, when it was found to be impossible to explainto her otherwise what her eldest son meant about the houses, it wasshown to her. Then she began to weep afresh. 

"Why mayn't we live at Cross Hall, Sarah?" she said. 

"Cross Hall belongs to you, mamma, and nothing can hinder you fromliving there. "

"But Augustus says that we are to go away. "

The Marchioness was the only one of the family who ever called theMarquis by his Christian name, and she did so only when she was muchdisturbed. 

"No doubt he expresses a wish that we should do so?"

"Where are we to go to, and I at my age?"

"I think you should live at Cross Hall. "

"But he says that we mayn't. We could never go on there if he wants usto go away. "

"Why not, mamma? It is your house as much as this is his. If you willlet him understand that when you leave this you mean to go there, hewill probably say nothing more about it. "

"Mr. Price is living there. I can't make Mr. Price go away directly thepainter people come in here. They'll come to-morrow, perhaps, and whatam I to do then?"

The matter was discussed throughout the whole day between Lady Sarahand her mother, the former bearing the old woman's plaintive weaknesswith the utmost patience, and almost succeeding, before the eveningcame, in inducing her mother to agree to rebel against the tyranny ofher son. There were peculiar difficulties and peculiar hardships in thecase. The Marquis could turn out all the women of his family at a day'snotice. He had only to say to them, "Go!" and they must be gone. And hecould be rid of them without even saying or writing another word. Ahost of tradesmen would come, and then of course they must go. But Mr. Price at Cross Hall must have a regular year's notice, and that noticecould not now be given till Lady-day next. 

"If the worst comes to the worst, mamma we will go and live inBrotherton for the time. Mr. Holdenough or the Dean would find someplace for us. " Then the old lady began to ask how Mary had borne thenews; but as yet Lady Sarah had not been able to interest herselfpersonally about Mary. 

Lord George was surprised to find how little his wife was affected bythe terrible thunderbolt which had fallen among them. On him the blowhad been almost as terrible as on his mother. He had taken a house intown, at the instance of the Dean, and in consequence of a promise madebefore his marriage, which was sacred to him but which he regretted. Hewould have preferred himself to live the whole year through at ManorCross. Though he had not very much to do there the place was never dullto him. He liked the association of the big house. He liked the sombregrandeur of the park. He liked the magistrates' bench, though he rarelyspoke a word when he was there. And he liked the thorough economy ofthe life. But as to that house in town, though his wife's fortune wouldenable him to live there four or five months, he knew that he could notstretch the income so as to bear the expense of the entire year. Andyet, what must he do now? If he could abandon the house in town, thenhe could join his mother as to some new country house. But he did notdare to suggest that the house in town should be abandoned. He wasafraid of the Dean, and afraid, so to say, of his own promise. Thething had been stipulated, and he did not know how to go back from thestipulation. 

"Going to leave Manor Cross, " said Mary, when she was told. "Dear me;how odd. Where will they go to?"

It was evident to her husband from the tone of her voice that sheregarded her own house in Munster Court, for it was her own, as herfuture residence, --as hers and his. In asking where "they" would live, she spoke of the other ladies of the family. He had expected that shewould have shown some disappointment at the danger to her futureposition which this new marriage would produce. But in regard to thatshe was, he thought, either perfectly indifferent, or else a very goodactor. In truth, she was almost indifferent. The idea that she mightsome day be Lady Brotherton had been something to her, but not much. Her happiness was not nearly as much disturbed by this marriage as ithad been by the allusion made to her dress. She herself could hardlyunderstand the terrible gloom which seemed during that evening and thewhole of the next day to have fallen on the entire family. 

"George, does it make you very unhappy?" she said, whispering to him onthe morning of the second day. 

"Not that my brother should marry, " he said, "God forbid that I, as ayounger brother, should wish to debar him from any tittle of whatbelongs to him. If he would marry well it ought to be a joy to us all. "

"Is not this marrying well?"

"What, with a foreigner; with an Italian widow? And then there will, Ifear, be great trouble in finding a comfortable home for my mother. "

"Amelia says she can go to Cross Hall. "

"Amelia does not know what she is talking of. It would be very longbefore they could get into Cross Hall, even if they can go there atall. It would have to be completely furnished, and there is no money tofurnish it. "

"Wouldn't your brother----?" Lord George shook his head. "Or papa. "Lord George again shook his head--"What will they do?"

"If it were not for our house in London we might take a place in thecountry together, " said Lord George. 

All the various facts of the proposition now made to her flashed uponMary's mind at once. Had it been suggested to her, when she was firstasked to marry Lord George, that she should live permanently in acountry house with his mother and sisters, in a house of which shewould not be and could not be the mistress, she would certainly haverejected the offer. And now the tedium of such a life was plainer toher than it would have been then. But, under her father's auspices, apleasant, gay little house in town had been taken for her, and she hadbeen able to gild the dullness of Manor Cross with the brightness ofher future prospects. For four or five months she would be her ownmistress, and would be so in London. Her husband would be living on hermoney, but it would be the delight of her heart that he should be happywhile doing so. And all this must be safe and wise, because it was tobe done under the advice of her father. Now it was proposed to her thatshe should abandon all this and live in some smaller, poorer, dullercountry residence, in which she would be the least of the familyinstead of the mistress of her own house. She thought of it all for amoment, and then she answered him with a firm voice. 

"If you wish to give up the house in London we will do so. "

"It would distress you I fear. " When we call on our friends tosacrifice themselves, we generally wish them also to declare that theylike being sacrificed. 

"I should be disappointed of course, George. "

"And it would be unjust, " said he. 

"If you wish it I will not say a word against it. "

On that afternoon he rode into Brotherton to tell the tidings to theDean. Upon whatever they might among them decide, it was expedient thatthe Dean should be at once told of the marriage. Lord George, as hethought over it all on horseback, found difficulties on every side. Hehad promised that his wife should live in town, and he could not goback from that promise without injustice. He understood the nature ofher lately offered sacrifice, and felt that it would not liberate hisconscience. And then he was sure that the Dean would be loud againstany such arrangement. The money no doubt was Mary's own money and, subject to certain settlement, was at Lord George's immediate disposal;but he would be unable to endure the Dean's reproaches. He would beunable also to endure his own, unless--which was so veryimprobable--the Dean should encourage him. But how were things to bearranged? Was he to desert his mother and sisters in their difficulty?He was very fond of his wife; but it had never yet occurred to him thatthe daughter of Dean Lovelace could be as important to him as all theladies of the house of Germain. His brother purposed to bring his wifeto Manor Cross in May, when he would be up in London. Where at thatmoment, and after what fashion, would his mother and sisters be living?

The Dean showed his dismay at the marriage plainly enough. 

"That's very bad, George, " he said; "very bad indeed!"

"Of course we don't like her being a foreigner. "

"Of course you don't like his marrying at all. Why should you? You allknow enough of him to be sure that he wouldn't marry the sort of womanyou would approve. "

"I don't know why my brother should not have married any lady inEngland. "

"At any rate he hasn't. He has married some Italian widow, and it's amisfortune. Poor Mary!"

"I don't think Mary feels it at all. "

"She will some day. Girls of her age don't feel that kind of thing atfirst. So he is going to come over at once. What will your mother do?"

"She has Cross Hall. "

"That man Price is there. He will go out of course?"

"With notice he must go. "

"He won't stand about that, if you don't interfere with his land andfarm-yard. I know Price. He's not a bad fellow. "

"But Brotherton does not want them to go there, " said Lord George, almost in a whisper. 

"Does not want your mother to live in her own house! Upon my word theMarquis is considerate to you all! He has said that plainly, has he? IfI were Lady Brotherton I would not take the slightest heed of what hesays. She is not dependent on him. In order that he may be relievedfrom the bore of being civil to his own family she is to be sent outabout the world to look for a home in her old age! You must tell hernot to listen for a minute to such a proposition. "

Lord George, though he put great trust in his father-in-law, did notquite like hearing his brother spoken of so very freely by a man whowas, after all, the son of a tradesman. It seemed to him as though theDean made himself almost too intimate with the affairs at Manor Cross, and yet he was obliged to go on and tell the Dean everything. 

"Even if Price went, there must be some delay in getting the houseready. "

"The Marquis surely won't turn your mother out before the spring?"

"Tradesmen will have to come in. And then I don't quite know what weare to do as to the----expense of furnishing the new house. It willcost a couple of thousand pounds, and none of us have ready money. " TheDean assumed a very serious face. "Every spoon and fork at Manor Cross, every towel and every sheet belongs to my brother. "

"Was not the Cross House ever furnished?"

"Many years ago; in my grandmother's time. My father left money for thepurpose, but it was given up to my sister Alice when she marriedHoldenough. " He found himself explaining all the little intricacies ofhis family to the Dean, because it was necessary that he should holdcouncil with some one. "I was thinking of a furnished house for themelsewhere. "

"In London?"

"Certainly not there. My mother would not like it, nor would mysisters. I like the country very much the best myself. "

"Not for the whole year?"

"I have never cared to be in London; but, of course, as for Mary andmyself that is settled. You would not wish her to give up the house inMunster Court?"

"Certainly not. It would not be fair to her to ask her to live alwaysunder the wing of your mother and sisters. She would never learn to bea woman. She would always be in leading strings. Do you not feel thatyourself?"

"I feel that beggars cannot be choosers. My mother's fortune is £2000 ayear. As you know we have only 5000_l. _ a piece. There is hardly incomeenough among us for a house in town and a house in the country. "

The Dean paused a moment, and then replied that his daughter's welfarecould not be made subordinate to that of the family generally. He thensaid that if any immediate sum of money were required he would lend iteither to the dowager or to Lord George. 

Lord George, as he rode home, was angry both with himself and with theDean. There had been an authority in the Dean's voice which had gratedupon his feelings; of course he intended to be as good as his word;but, nevertheless, his wife was his wife and subject to his will; andher fortune had been her own and had not come from the Dean. The Deantook too much upon himself. And yet, with all that, he had consultedthe Dean about everything, and had confessed the family poverty. Thething, however, was quite certain to him; he could not get out of thehouse in town. 

During the whole of that day Lady Sarah had been at work with hermother, instigating her to insist on her own rights, and at last shehad succeeded. 

"What would our life be, mamma, " Lady Sarah had said, "if we wereremoved altogether into a new world. Here we are of some use. Peopleknow us, and give us credit for being what we are. We can live afterour own fashion, and yet live in accordance with our rank. There is nota man or a woman or a child in the parish whom I do not know. There isnot a house in which you would not see Amelia's and Susanna's work. Wecannot begin all that over again. "

"When I am gone, my dear, you must do so. "

"Who can say how much may be done before that sad day shall come to us?He may have taken his Italian wife back again to Italy. Mamma, we oughtnot to run away from our duties. "

On the following morning it was settled among them that the dowagershould insist on possession of her own house at Cross Hall, and aletter was written to the Marquis, congratulating him of course on hismarriage, but informing him at the same time that the family wouldremain in the parish. 

Some few days later Mr. Knox, the agent for the property, came downfrom London. He had received the orders of the Marquis, and would beprepared to put workmen into the house as soon as her ladyship would beready to leave it. But he quite agreed that this could not be done atonce. A beginning no doubt might be made while they were still there, but no painting should be commenced or buildings knocked down or put uptill March. It was settled at the same time that on the first of Marchthe family should leave the house. 

"I hope my son won't be angry, " the Marchioness said to Mr. Knox. 

"If he be angry, my lady, he will be angry without a cause. But I neverknew him to be very angry about anything. "

"He always did like to have his own way, Mr. Knox, " said the mindfulmother. 

CHAPTER VII. 

"CROSS HALL GATE. "

While Mr. Knox was still in the country negociations were opened withMr. Price, the sporting farmer, who, like all sporting farmers, was intruth a very good fellow. He had never been liked by the ladies atManor Cross, as having ways of his own which were not their ways. Hedid not go to church as often as they thought he ought to do; and, being a bachelor, stories were told about him which were probably veryuntrue. A bachelor may live in town without any inquiries as to any ofthe doings of his life; but if a man live forlorn and unmarried in acountry house, he will certainly become the victim of calumny shouldany woman under sixty ever be seen about his place. It was said also ofMr. Price that sometimes, after hunting, men had been seen to go out ofhis yard in an uproarious condition. But I hardly think that old SirSimon Bolt, the master of the hounds, could have liked him so well, orso often have entered his house, had there been much amiss there; andas to the fact of there always being a fox in Cross Hall Holt, which acertain little wood was called about half a mile of the house, no oneeven doubted that. But there had always been a prejudice against Priceat the great house, and in this even Lord George had coincided. Butwhen Mr. Knox went to him and explained to him what was about tohappen, --that the ladies would be forced, almost before the end ofwinter, to leave Manor Cross and make way for the Marquis, Mr. Pricedeclared that he would clear out, bag and baggage, top-boots, spurs, and brandy-bottles, at a moment's notice. The Prices of the Englishworld are not, as a rule, deficient in respect for the marquises andmarchionesses. "The workmen can come in to-morrow, " Price said, when hewas told that some preparations would be necessary. "A bachelor canshake down anywhere, Mr. Knox. " Now it happened that Cross Hall Housewas altogether distinct from the Cross Hall Farm, on which, indeed, there had been a separate farmhouse, now only used by labourers. ButMr. Price was a comfortable man, and, when the house had been vacant, had been able to afford himself the luxury of living there. 

So far the primary difficulties lessened themselves when they were welllooked in the face. And yet things did not run altogether smoothly. TheMarquis did not condescend to reply to his brother's letter; but hewrote what was for him a long letter to Mr. Knox, urging upon the agentthe duty of turning his mother and sisters altogether out of the place. "We shall be a great deal better friends apart, " he said. "If theyremain there we shall see little or nothing of each other, and it willbe very uncomfortable. If they will settle themselves elsewhere, I willfurnish a house for them; but I don't want to have them at my elbow. "Mr. Knox was of course bound to show this to Lord George, and LordGeorge was bound to consult Lady Sarah. Lady Sarah told her mothersomething of it, but not all; but she told it in such a way that theold lady consented to remain and to brave her eldest son. As for LadySarah herself, in spite of her true Christianity and real goodness, shedid not altogether dislike the fight. Her brother was her brother, andthe head of the family, and he had his privileges; but they too hadtheir rights, and she was not disposed to submit herself to tyranny. Mr. Knox was therefore obliged to inform the Marquis in what softestlanguage he could find applicable for the purpose that the ladies ofthe family had decided upon removing to the dower-house. 

About a month after this there was a meet of the Brotherton Hunt, ofwhich Sir Simon Bolt was the master, at Cross Hall Gate. Thegrandfather of the present Germains had in the early part of thecentury either established this special pack, or at any rate become themaster of it. Previous to that the hunting probably had been somewhatprecarious; but there had been, since his time, a regular BrothertonHunt associated with a collar and button of its own, --a blue collar ona red coat, with B. H. On the buttons, --and the thing had been donewell. They had four days a week, with an occasional bye, and 2500_l. _were subscribed annually. Sir Simon Bolt had been the master for thelast fifteen years, and was so well known that no sporting pen and nosporting tongue in England ever called him more than Sir Simon. CrossHall Gate, a well-loved meet, was the gate of the big park which openedout upon the road just opposite to Mr. Price's house. It was an oldstone structure, with a complicated arch stretching across the gateitself, with a lodge on each side. It lay back in a semi-circle fromthe road, and was very imposing. In old days no doubt the gate was muchused, as the direct traffic from London to Brotherton passed that way. But the railway had killed the road; and as the nearer road from theManor Cross House to the town came out on the same road much nearer toBrotherton, the two lodges and all the grandeur were very much wasted. But it was a pretty site for a meet when the hounds were seated ontheir haunches inside the gate, or moving about slowly after thehuntsman's horse, and when the horses and carriages were clusteredabout on the high road and inside the park. And it was a meet, too, much loved by the riding men. It was always presumed that Manor Crossitself was preserved for foxes, and the hounds were carefully runthrough the belt of woods. But half an hour did that, and then theywent away to Price's Little Holt. On that side there were no moregentlemen's places; there was a gorse cover or two and sundry littlespinnies; but the county was a country for foxes to run and men toride; and with this before them, the members of the Brotherton Huntwere pleased to be summoned to Cross Hall Gate. 

On such occasions Lord George was always there. He never hunted, andvery rarely went to any other meet; but on these occasions he wouldappear mounted, in black, and would say a few civil words to Sir Simon, and would tell George Scruby, the huntsman, that he had heard thatthere was a fox among the laurels. George would touch his hat and sayin his loud, deep voice, "Hope so, my lord, " having no confidencewhatever in a Manor Cross fox. Sir Simon would shake hands with him, make a suggestion about the weather, and then get away as soon aspossible; for there was no sympathy and no common subject between themen. On this occasion Lady Amelia had driven down Lady Susanna in thepony-carriage, and Lady George was there, mounted, with her father theDean, longing to be allowed to go away with the hounds but having beenstrictly forbidden by her husband to do so. Mr. Price was of coursethere, as was also Mr. Knox, the agent, who had a little shooting-boxdown in the country, and kept a horse, and did a little hunting. 

There was good opportunity for talking as the hounds were leisurelytaken through the loose belt of woods which were by courtesy called theManor Cross coverts, and Mr. Price took the occasion of drawing aletter from his pocket and showing it to Mr. Knox. 

"The Marquis has written to you!" said the agent in a tone of surprise, the wonder not being that the Marquis should write to Mr. Price, butthat he should write to any one. 

"Never did such a thing in his life before, and I wish he hadn't now. "

Mr. Knox wished it also when he had read the letter. It expressed avery strong desire on the part of the Marquis that Mr. Price shouldkeep the Cross Hall House, saying that it was proper that the houseshould go with the farm, and intimating the Marquis's wish that Mr. Price should remain as his neighbour. "If you can manage it, I'll makethe farm pleasant and profitable to you, " said the Marquis. 

"He don't say a word about her ladyship, " said Price; "but what hewants is just to get rid of 'em all, box and dice. "

"That's about it, I suppose, " said the agent. 

"Then he's come to the wrong shop, that's what he has done, Mr. Knox. I've three more year of my lease of the farm, and after that, out Imust go, I dare say. "

"There's no knowing what may happen before that, Price. "

"If I was to go, I don't know that I need quite starve, Mr. Knox. "

"I don't suppose you will. "

"I ain't no family, and I don't know as I'm just bound to go by what alord says, though he is my landlord. I don't know as I don't think moreof them ladies than I does of him. ---- him, Mr. Knox. "

And then Mr. Price used some very strong language indeed. "What righthas he to think as I'm going to do his dirty work? You may tell himfrom me as he may do his own. "

"You'll answer him, Price?"

"Not a line. I ain't got nothing to say to him. He knows I'm a-goingout of the house; and if he don't, you can tell him. "

"Where are you going to?"

"Well, I was going to fit up a room or two in the old farmhouse; and ifI had anything like a lease, I wouldn't mind spending three or fourhundred pounds there. I was thinking of talking to you about it, Mr. Knox. "

"I can't renew the lease without his approval. "

"You write and ask him, and mind you tell him that there ain't no doubtat all as to any going out of Cross Hall after Christmas. Then, ifhe'll make it fourteen years, I'll put the old house up and not ask himfor a shilling. As I'm a living sinner, they're on a fox! Who'd havethought of that in the park? That's the old vixen from the holt, assure as my name's Price. Them cubs haven't travelled here yet. "

So saying, he rode away, and Mr. Knox rode after him, and there wasconsternation throughout the hunt. It was so unaccustomed a thing tohave to gallop across Manor Cross Park! But the hounds were in fullcry, through the laurels, and into the shrubbery, and round theconservatory, close up to the house. Then she got into thekitchen-garden, and back again through the laurels. The butler and thegardener and the housemaid and the scullery-maid were all there to see. Even Lady Sarah came to the front door, looking very severe, and theold Marchioness gaped out of her own sitting-room window upstairs. Ourfriend Mary thought it excellent fun, for she was really able to rideto the hounds; and even Lady Amelia became excited as she flogged thepony along the road. Stupid old vixen, who ought to have known better!Price was quite right, for it was she, and the cubs in the holt werenow finally emancipated from all maternal thraldom. She was killedignominiously in the stokehole under the greenhouse, --she who had beenthe mother of four litters, and who had baffled the Brotherton houndshalf a dozen times over the cream of the Brotherton country!

"I knew it, " said Price in a melancholy tone, as he held up the headwhich the huntsman had just dissevered from the body. "She might 'adone better with herself than come to such a place as this for the lastmove. "

"Is it all over?" asked Lady George. 

"That one is pretty nearly all over, miss, " said George Scruby, as hethrew the fox to the hounds. "My Lady, I mean, begging your Ladyship'spardon. " Some one had prompted him at the moment. "I'm very glad to seeyour Ladyship out, and I hope we'll show you something better beforelong. "

But poor Mary's hunting was over. When George Scruby and Sir Simon andthe hounds went off to the holt, she was obliged to remain with herhusband and sisters-in-law. 

While this was going on Mr. Knox had found time to say a word to LordGeorge about that letter from the Marquis. "I am afraid, " he said, "your brother is very anxious that Price should remain at Cross Hall. "

"Has he said anything more?"

"Not to me; but to Price he has. "

"He has written to Price?"

"Yes, with his own hand, urging him to stay. I cannot but think it wasvery wrong. " A look of deep displeasure came across Lord George's face. "I have thought it right to mention it, because it may be a questionwhether her Ladyship's health and happiness may not be best consultedby her leaving the neighbourhood. "

"We have considered it all, Mr. Knox, and my mother is determined tostay. We are very much obliged to you. We feel that in doing your dutyby my brother you are anxious to be courteous to us. The hounds havegone on; don't let me keep you. "

Mr. Houghton was of course out. Unless the meets were very distant fromhis own place, he was always out. On this occasion his wife also wasthere. She had galloped across the park as quickly as anybody, and whenthe fox was being broken up in the grass before the hall-door, wassitting close to Lady George. "You are coming on?" she said in awhisper. 

"I am afraid not, " answered Mary. 

"Oh, yes; do come. Slip away with me. Nobody'll see you. Get as far asthe gate, and then you can see that covert drawn. "

"I can't very well. The truth is, they don't want me to hunt. "

"They! Who is they? 'They' don't want me to hunt. That is, Mr. Houghtondoesn't. But I mean to get out of his way by riding a little forward. Idon't see why that is not just as good as staying behind. Mr. Price isgoing to give me a lead. You know Mr. Price?"

"But he goes everywhere. "

"And I mean to go everywhere. What's the good of half-doing it? Comealong. "

But Mary had not even thought of rebellion such as this--did not in herheart approve of it, and was angry with Mrs. Houghton. Nevertheless, when she saw the horsewoman gallop off across the grass towards thegate, she could not help thinking that she would have been just as wellable to ride after Mr. Price as her old friend Adelaide de Baron. TheDean did go on, having intimated his purpose of riding on just to seePrice's farm. 

When the unwonted perturbation was over at Manor Cross Lord George wasobliged to revert again to the tidings he had received from Mr. Knox. He could not keep it to himself. He felt himself obliged to tell it allto Lady Sarah. 

"That he should write to such a man as Mr. Price, telling him of hisanxiety to banish his own mother from her own house!"

"You did not see the letter?"

"No; but Knox did. They could not very well show such a letter to me;but Knox says that Price was very indignant, and swore that he wouldnot even answer it. "

"I suppose he can afford it, George? It would be very dreadful to ruinhim. "

"Price is a rich man. And after all, if Price were to do all thatBrotherton desires him, he could only keep us out for a year or so. Butdon't you think you will all be very uncomfortable here. How will mymother feel if she isn't ever allowed to see him? And how will you feelif you find that you never want to see his wife?"

Lady Sarah sat silent for a few minutes before she answered him, andthen declared for war. "It is very bad, George; very bad. I can foreseegreat unhappiness; especially the unhappiness which must come fromconstant condemnation of one whom we ought to wish to love and approveof before all others. But nothing can be so bad as running away. Weought not to allow anything to drive mamma from her own house, and usfrom our own duties. I don't think we ought to take any notice ofBrotherton's letter to Mr. Price. " It was thus decided between themthat no further notice should be taken of the Marquis's letter to Mr. Price. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

PUGSBY BROOK. 

There was great talking about the old vixen as they all trotted away toCross Hall Holt;--how it was the same old fox that they hadn't killedin a certain run last January, and how one old farmer was quite surethat this very fox was the one which had taken them that celebrated runto Bamham Moor three years ago, and how she had been the mother ofquite a Priam's progeny of cubs. And now that she should have beenkilled in a stokehole! While this was going on a young lady rode upalong side of Mr. Price, and said a word to him with her sweetestsmile. 

"You remember your promise to me, Mr. Price?"

"Surely, Mrs. Houghton. Your nag can jump a few, no doubt. "

"Beautifully. Mr. Houghton bought him from Lord Mountfencer. LadyMountfencer couldn't ride him because he pulls a little. But he's aperfect hunter. "

"We shall find him, Mrs. Houghton, to a moral; and do you stick to me. They generally go straight away to Thrupp's larches. You see the littlewood. There's an old earth there, but that's stopped. There is only onefence between this and that, a biggish ditch, with a bit of a hedge onthis side, but it's nothing to the horses when they're fresh. "

"Mine's quite fresh. "

"Then they mostly turn to the right for Pugsby; nothing but grass thenfor four miles a-head. "

"And the jumping?"

"All fair. There's one bit of water, --Pugsby Brook, --that you ought tohave as he'll be sure to cross it ever so much above the bridge. But, lord love you, Mrs. Houghton, that horse'll think nothing of thebrook. "

"Nothing at all, Mr. Price. I like brooks. "

"I'm afraid he's not here, Price, " said Sir Simon, trotting round thecover towards the whip, who was stationed at the further end. 

"Well, Sir Simon, her as we killed came from the holt, you know, " saidthe farmer, mindful of his reputation for foxes. "You can't eat yourcake and have it too, can you, Sir Simon?"

"Ought to be able in a covert like this. "

"Well, perhaps we shall. The best lying is down in that corner. I'veseen a brace of cubs together there a score of times. " Then there wasone short low, dubious, bark, and then another a little more confirmed. "That's it, Sir Simon. There's your 'cake. '"

"Good hound, Blazer, " cried Sir Simon, recognising the voice of hisdog. And many of the pack recognised the well-known sound as plainly asthe master, for you might hear the hounds rustling through the covertas they hurried up to certify to the scent which their old leader hadfound for them. The holt though thick was small and a fox had not muchchance but by breaking. Once up the covert and once back again theanimal went, and then Dick, the watchful whip, holding his hand up tohis face, holloaed him away. "Gently, gentlemen, " shouted Sir Simon, "let them settle. Now, Mr. Bottomley, if you'll only keep yourself alittle steady, you'll find yourself the better for it at the finish. "Mr. Bottomley was a young man from London, who was often addressedafter this fashion, was always very unhappy for a few minutes, and thenagain forgot it in his excitement. 

"Now, Mr. Price, " said Mrs. Houghton in a fever of expectation. She hadbeen dodging backwards and forwards trying to avoid her husband, andyet unwilling to leave the farmer's side. 

"Wait a moment, ma'am; wait a moment. Now we're right; here to theleft. " So saying Mr. Price jumped over a low hedge, and Mrs. Houghtonfollowed him, almost too closely. Mr. Houghton saw it, and didn'tfollow. He had made his way up, resolved to stop his wife, but she gavehim the slip at the last moment. "Now through the gate, ma'am, and thenon straight as an arrow for the little wood. I'll give you a lead overthe ditch, but don't ride quite so close, ma'am. " Then the farmer wentaway feeling perhaps that his best chance of keeping clear from his tooloving friend was to make the pace so fast that she should not be ablequite to catch him. But Lady Mountfencer's nag was fast too, was fastand had a will of his own. It was not without a cause that LordMountfencer had parted with so good a horse out of his stable. "Have acare, ma'am, " said Price, as Mrs. Houghton canoned against him as theyboth landed over the big ditch; "have a care, or we shall come to grieftogether. Just see me over before you let him take his jump. " It wasvery good advice, and is very often given; but both ladies andgentlemen, whose hands are a little doubtful, sometimes find themselvesunable to follow it. But now they were at Thrupp's larches. GeorgeScruby had led the way, as becomes a huntsman, and a score or more hadfollowed him over the big fence. Price had been going a little to theleft, and when they reached the wood was as forward as any one. 

"He won't hang here, Sir Simon, " said the farmer, as the master cameup, "he never does. "

"He's only a cub, " said the master. 

"The holt cubs this time of the year are nigh as strong as old foxes. Now for Pugsby. "

Mrs. Houghton looked round, fearing every moment that her husband wouldcome up. They had just crossed a road, and wherever there was a roadthere, she thought, he would certainly be. 

"Can't we get round the other side, Mr. Price?" she said. 

"You won't be any better nor here. "

"But there's Mr. Houghton on the road, " she whispered. 

"Oh-h-h, " ejaculated the farmer, just touching the end of his nose withhis finger and moving gently on through the wood. "Never spoil sport, "was the motto of his life, and to his thinking it was certainly sportthat a young wife should ride to hounds in opposition to an oldhusband. Mrs. Houghton followed him, and as they got out on the otherside, the fox was again away. "He ain't making for Pugsby's after all, "said Price to George Scruby. 

"He don't know that country yet, " said the huntsman. "He'll be back inthem Manor Cross woods. You'll see else. "

The park of Manor Cross lay to the left of them, whereas Pugsby and thedesirable grass country away to Bamham Moor were all to the right. Somemen mindful of the big brook and knowing the whereabouts of the bridge, among whom was Mr. Houghton, kept very much to the right and were soonout of the run altogether. But the worst of it was that though theywere not heading for their good country, still there was the brook, Pugsby brook, to be taken. Had the fox done as he ought to have done, and made for Pugsby itself, the leap would have been from grass tograss; but now it must be from plough to plough, if taken at all. Itneed hardly be said that the two things are very different. Sir Simon, when he saw how the land lay, took a lane leading down to theBrotherton road. If the fox was making for the park he must be right inthat direction. It is not often that a master of hounds rides forglory, and Sir Simon had long since left all that to younger men. Butthere were still a dozen riders pressing on, and among them were thefarmer and his devoted follower, --and a gentleman in black. 

Let us give praise where praise is due, and acknowledge that youngBottomley was the first at the brook, --and the first over it. As soonas he was beyond Sir Simon's notice, he had scurried on across theplough, and being both light and indiscreet, had enjoyed the heartfeltpleasure of passing George Scruby. George, who hated Mr. Bottomley, grunted out his malediction, even though no one could hear him. "He'llsoon be at the bottom of that, " said George, meaning to imply in horseyphrase that the rider, if he rode over ploughed ground after thatfashion, would soon come to the end of his steed's power. ButBottomley, if he could only be seen to jump the big brook before anyone else, would have happiness enough for a month. To have done a thingthat he could talk about was the charm that Bottomley found in hunting. Alas, though he rode gallantly at the brook and did get over it, therewas not much to talk about; for, unfortunately, he left his horsebehind him in the water. The poor beast going with a rush off theplough, came with her neck and shoulders against the opposite bank, andshot his rider well on to the dry land. 

"That's about as good as a dead'un, " said George, as he landed a yardor two to the right. This was ill-natured, and the horse in truth wasnot hurt. But a rider, at any rate a young rider, should not take alead from a huntsman unless he is very sure of himself, of his horse, and of the run of the hounds. The next man over was the gentleman inblack, who took it in a stand, and who really seemed to know what hewas about. There were some who afterwards asserted that this was theDean, but the Dean was never heard to boast of the performance. 

Mrs. Houghton's horse was going very strong with her. More than oncethe farmer cautioned her to give him a pull over the plough. And sheattempted to obey the order. But the horse was self-willed, and she waslight; and in truth the heaviness of the ground would have been nothingto him had he been fairly well ridden. But she allowed him to rush withher through the mud. As she had never yet had an accident she knewnothing of fear, and she was beyond measure excited. She had been nearenough to see that a man fell at the brook, and then she saw also thatthe huntsman got over, and also the gentleman in black. It seemed toher to be lovely. The tumble did not scare her at all, as others comingafter the unfortunate one had succeeded. She was aware that there werethree or four other men behind her, and she was determined that theyshould not pass her. They should see that she also could jump theriver. She had not rid herself of her husband for nothing. Price, as hecame near the water, knew that he had plenty to do, and knew also howvery close to him the woman was. It was too late now to speak to heragain, but he did not fear for his own horse if she would only give himroom. He steadied the animal a yard or two from the margin as he cameto the headland that ran down the side of the brook, and then took hisleap. 

But Mrs. Houghton rode us though the whole thing was to be accomplishedby a rush, and her horse, true to the manner of horses, insisted onfollowing in the direct track of the one who had led him so far. Whenhe got to the bank he made his effort to jump high, but had got nofooting for a fair spring. On he went, however, and struck Price'shorse on the quarter so violently as to upset that animal, as well ashimself. 

Price, who was a thoroughly good horseman, was knocked off, but got onto the bank as Bottomley had done. The two animals were both in thebrook, and when the farmer was able to look round, he saw that the ladywas out of sight. He was in the water immediately himself, but beforehe made the plunge he had resolved that he never again would give alady a lead till he knew whether she could ride. 

Mr. Knox and Dick were soon on the spot, and Mrs. Houghton wasextracted. "I'm blessed if she ain't dead, " said the whip, pale asdeath himself. "H--sh!" said Mr. Knox; "she's not dead, but I'm afraidshe's hurt. " Price had come back through the water with the woman inhis arms, and the two horses were still floundering about, unattended. "It's her shoulder, Mr. Knox, " said Price. "The horse has jammed heragainst the bank under water. " During this time her head was drooping, and her eyes were closed, and she was apparently senseless. "Do youlook to the horses, Dick. There ain't no reason why they should gettheir death of cold. " By this time there were a dozen men round them, and Dick and others were able to attend to the ill-used nags. "Yes;it's her shoulder, " continued Price. "That's out, any way. What themischief will Mr. Houghton say to me when he comes up!"

There is always a doctor in the field, --sent there by some benignity ofprovidence, --who always rides forward enough to be near to accidents, but never so forward as to be in front of them. It has been hinted thatthis arrangement is professional rather than providential; but thepresent writer, having given his mind to the investigation of thematter, is inclined to think that it arises from the general fitness ofthings. All public institutions have, or ought to have, their doctor, but in no institution is the doctor so invariably at hand, just when heis wanted, as in the hunting field. A very skilful young surgeon fromBrotherton was on the spot almost as soon as the lady was out of thewater, and declared that she had dislocated her shoulder. 

What was to be done? Her hat had gone; she had been under the water;she was covered with mud; she was still senseless, and of course shecould neither ride nor walk. There were ever so many suggestions. Pricethought that she had better be taken back to Cross Hall, which wasabout a mile and a half distant. Mr. Knox, who knew the country, toldthem of a side gate in the Manor Cross wall, which made the great housenearer than Cross Hall. They could get her there in little over a mile. But how to get her there? They must find a door on which to carry her. First a hurdle was suggested, and then Dick was sent galloping up tothe house for a carriage. In the meantime she was carried to alabourer's cottage by the roadside on a hurdle, and there the party wasjoined by Sir Simon and Mr. Houghton. 

"It's all your fault, " said the husband, coming up to Price as thoughhe meant to strike him with his whip. "Part of it is no doubt, sir, "said Price, looking his assailant full in the face, but almost sobbingas he spoke, "and I'm very unhappy about it. " Then the husband went andhung over his wife, but his wife, when she saw him, found it convenientto faint again. 

At about two o'clock the cortège with the carriage reached the greathouse. Sir Simon, after expressions of deep sorrow had, of course, goneon after his hounds. Mr. Knox, as belonging to Manor Cross, and Price, and, of course, the doctor, with Mr. Houghton and Mr. Houghton's groom, accompanied the carriage. When they got to the door all the ladies werethere to receive them. "I don't think we want to see anything more ofyou, " said Mr. Houghton to the farmer. The poor man turned round andwent away home, alone, feeling himself to be thoroughly disgraced. "After all, " he said to himself, "if you come to fault it was she nighkilled me, not me her. How was I to know she didn't know nothing aboutit!"

"Now, Mary, I think you'll own that I was right, " Lord George said tohis wife, as soon as the sufferer had been put quietly to bed. 

"Ladies don't always break their arms, " said Mary. 

"It might have been you as well as Mrs. Houghton. "

"As I didn't go, you need not scold me, George. "

"But you were discontented because you were prevented, " said he, determined to have the last word. 

CHAPTER IX. 

MRS. HOUGHTON. 

Lady Sarah, who was generally regarded as the arbiter of the veryslender hospitalities exercised at Manor Cross, was not at all wellpleased at being forced to entertain Mrs. Houghton, whom she especiallydisliked; but, circumstanced as they were, there was no alternative. She had been put to bed with a dislocated arm, and had already sufferedmuch in having it reduced, before the matter could be even discussed. And then it was of course felt that she could not be turned out of thehouse. She was not only generally hurt, but she was a cousin, also. "Wemust ask him, mamma, " Lady Sarah said. The Marchioness whinedpiteously. Mr. Houghton's name had always been held in greatdispleasure by the ladies at Manor Cross. "I don't think we can helpit. Mr. Sawyer"--Mr. Sawyer was the very clever young surgeon fromBrotherton--"Mr. Sawyer says that she ought not to be removed for atany rate a week. " The Marchioness groaned. But the evil became lessthan had been anticipated, by Mr. Houghton's refusal. At first, heseemed inclined to stay, but after he had seen his wife he declaredthat, as there was no danger, he would not intrude upon LadyBrotherton, but would, if permitted, ride over and see how his wife wasprogressing on the morrow. "That is a relief, " said Lady Sarah to hermother; and yet Lady Sarah had been almost urgent in assuring Mr. Houghton that they would be delighted to have him. 

In spite of her suffering, which must have been real, and her fainting, which had partly been so, Mrs. Houghton had had force enough to tellher husband that he would himself be inexpressibly bored by remainingat Manor Cross, and that his presence would inexpressibly bore "allthose dowdy old women, " as she called the ladies of the house. "Besides, what's the use?" she said; "I've got to lay here for acertain time. You would not be any good at nursing. You'd only killyourself with ennui. I shall do well enough, and do you go on with yourhunting. " He had assented; but finding her to be well enough to expressher opinion as to the desirability of his absence strongly, thoughtthat she was well enough, also, to be rebuked for her latedisobedience. He began, therefore, to say a word. "Oh! Jeffrey, are yougoing to scold me, " she said, "while I am in such a state as this!" andthen, again, she almost fainted. He knew that he was being ill-treated, but knowing, also, that he could not avoid it, he went away without afurther word. 

But she was quite cheerful that evening when Lady George came up togive her her dinner. She had begged that it might be so. She had known"dear Mary" so long, and was so warmly attached to her. "Dear Mary" didnot dislike the occupation, which was soon found to comprise that ofbeing head nurse to the invalid. She had never especially lovedAdelaide De Baron, and had felt that there was something amiss in herconversation when they had met at the deanery; but she was brighterthan the ladies at Manor Cross, was affectionate in her manner, and wasat any rate young. There was an antiquity about every thing at ManorCross, which was already crushing the spirit of the young bride. 

"Dear me! this is nice, " said Mrs. Houghton, disregarding, apparentlyaltogether, the pain of her shoulder; "I declare, I shall begin to beglad of the accident!"

"You shouldn't say that. "

"Why not, if I feel it? Doesn't it seem like a thing in a story that Ishould be brought to Lord George's house, and that he was my lover onlyquite the other day?" The idea had never occurred to Mary, and now thatit was suggested to her, she did not like it. "I wonder when he'll comeand see me. It would not make you jealous, I hope. "

"Certainly not. "

"No, indeed. I think he's quite as much in love with you as ever he waswith me. And yet, he was very, very fond of me once. Isn't it odd thatmen should change so?"

"I suppose you are changed, too, " said Mary, --hardly knowing what tosay. 

"Well, --yes, --no. I don't know that I'm changed at all. I never toldLord George that I loved him. And what's more, I never told Mr. Houghton so. I don't pretend to be very virtuous, and of course Imarried for an income. I like him very well, and I always mean to begood to him; that is, if he lets me have my own way. I'm not going tobe scolded, and he need not think so. "

"You oughtn't to have gone on to-day, ought you?"

"Why not? If my horse hadn't gone so very quick, and Mr. Price at thatmoment hadn't gone so very slow, I shouldn't have come to grief, andnobody would have known anything about it. Wouldn't you like to ride?"

"Yes; I should like it. But are not you exerting yourself too much?"

"I should die if I were made to lie here without speaking to any one. Just put the pillow a little under me. Now I'm all right. Who do youthink was going as well as anybody yesterday? I saw him. "

"Who was it?"

"The very Reverend the Dean of Brotherton, my dear. "

"No!"

"But he was. I saw him jump the brook just before I fell into it. Whatwill Mr. Groschut say?"

"I don't think papa cares much what Mr. Groschut says. "

"And the Bishop?"

"I'm not sure that he cares very much for the Bishop either. But I amquite sure that he would not do anything that he thought to be wrong. "

"A Dean never does, I suppose. "

"My papa never does. "

"Nor Lord George, I dare say, " said Mrs. Houghton. 

"I don't say anything about Lord George. I haven't known him quite solong. "

"If you won't speak up for him, I will. I'm quite sure Lord GeorgeGermain never in his life did anything that he ought not to do. That'shis fault. Don't you like men who do what they ought not to do?"

"No, " said Mary, "I don't. Everybody always ought to do what they oughtto do. And you ought to go to sleep, and so I shall go away. " She knewthat it was not all right, --that there was something fast, and alsosomething vulgar, about this self-appointed friend of hers. But thoughMrs. Houghton was fast, and though she was vulgar, she was a relief tothe endless gloom of Manor Cross. 

On the next day Mr. Houghton came, explaining to everybody that he hadgiven up his day's hunting for the sake of his wife. But he could saybut little, and could do nothing, and he did not remain long. "Don'tstay away from the meet another day, " his wife said to him; "I shan'tget well any the sooner, and I don't like being a drag upon you. " Thenthe husband went away, and did not come for the next two days. On theSunday he came over in the afternoon and stayed for half-an-hour, andon the following Tuesday he appeared on his way to the meet in topboots and a red coat. He was, upon the whole, less troublesome to theManor Cross people than might have been expected. 

Mr. Price came every morning to enquire, and very gracious passagespassed between him and the lady. On the Saturday she was up, sitting ona sofa in a dressing gown, and he was brought in to see her. "It wasall my fault, Mr. Price, " she said immediately. "I heard what Mr. Houghton said to you; I couldn't speak then, but I was so sorry. "

"What a husband says, ma'am, at such a time, goes for nothing. "

"What husbands say, Mr. Price, very often does go for nothing. " Heturned his hat in his hand, and smiled. "If it had not been so, allthis wouldn't have happened, and I shouldn't have upset you into thewater. But all the same, I hope you'll give me a lead another day, andI'll take great care not to come so close to you again. " This pleasedMr. Price so much, that as he went home he swore to himself that ifever she asked him again, he would do just the same as he had done onthe day of the accident. 

When Price, the farmer, had seen her, of course it became Lord George'sduty to pay her his compliments in person. At first he visited her incompany with his wife and Lady Sarah, and the conversation was verystiff. Lady Sarah was potent enough to quell even Mrs. Houghton. Butlater in the afternoon Lord George came back again, his wife being inthe room, and then there was a little more ease. "You can't think howit grieves me, " she said, "to bring all this trouble upon you. " Sheemphasised the word "you, " as though to show him that she cared nothingfor his mother and sisters. 

"It is no trouble to me, " said Lord George, bowing low. "I should saythat it was a pleasure, were it not that your presence here is attendedwith so much pain to yourself. "

"The pain is nothing, " said Mrs. Houghton. "I have hardly thought ofit. It is much more than compensated by the renewal of my intimacy withLady George Germain. " This she said with her very prettiest manner, andhe told himself that she was, indeed, very pretty. 

Lady George, --or Mary, as we will still call her, for simplicity, inspite of her promotion, --had become somewhat afraid of Mrs. Houghton;but now, seeing her husband's courtesy to her guest, understanding fromhis manner that he liked her society, began to thaw, and to think thatshe might allow herself to be intimate with the woman. It did not occurto her to be in any degree jealous, --not, at least, as yet. In herinnocence she did not think it possible that her husband's heart shouldbe untrue to her, nor did it occur to her that such a one as Mrs. Houghton could be preferred to herself. She thought that she knewherself to be better than Mrs. Houghton, and she certainly thoughtherself to be the better looking of the two. 

Mrs. Houghton's beauty, such as it was, depended mainly on style; on acertain dash and manner which she had acquired, and which, to anotherwoman, were not attractive. Mary knew that she, herself, was beautiful. She could not but know it. She had been brought up by all belonging toher with that belief; and so believing, had taught herself toacknowledge that no credit was due to herself on that score. Her beautynow belonged entirely to her husband. There was nothing more to be donewith it, except to maintain her husband's love, and that, for thepresent, she did not in the least doubt. She had heard of married menfalling in love with other people's wives, but she did not in the leastbring home the fact to her own case. 

In the course of that afternoon all the ladies of the family sat for atime with their guest. First came Lady Sarah and Lady Susanna. Mrs. Houghton, who saw very well how the land lay, rather snubbed LadySarah. She had nothing to fear from the dragon of the family. LadySarah, in spite of their cousinship, had called her Mrs. Houghton, andMrs. Houghton, in return, called the other Lady Sarah. There was to beno intimacy, and she was only received there because of her dislocatedshoulder. Let it be so. Lord George and his wife were coming up totown, and the intimacy should be there. She certainly would not wish torepeat her visit to Manor Cross. 

"Some ladies do like hunting, and some don't, " she said, in answer to asevere remark from Lady Sarah. "I am one of those who do, and I don'tthink an accident like that has anything to do with it. "

"I can't say I think it an amusement fit for ladies, " said Lady Sarah. 

"I suppose ladies may do what clergymen do. The Dean jumped over thebrook just before me. " There was not much of an argument in this, butMrs. Houghton knew that it would vex Lady Sarah, because of thealliance between the Dean and the Manor Cross family. 

"She's a detestable young woman, " Lady Sarah said to her mother, "and Ican only hope that Mary won't see much of her up in town. "

"I don't see how she can, after what there has been between her andGeorge, " said the innocent old lady. In spite, however, of thisstrongly expressed opinion, the old lady made her visit, taking LadyAmelia with her. "I hope, my dear, you find yourself getting better. "

"So much better, Lady Brotherton! But I am so sorry to have given youall this trouble; but it has been very pleasant to me to be here, andto see Lord George and Mary together. I declare I think hers is thesweetest face I ever looked upon. And she is so much improved. That'swhat perfect happiness does. I do so like her. "

"We love her very dearly, " said the Marchioness. 

"I am sure you do. And he is so proud of her!" Lady Sarah had said thatthe woman was detestable, and therefore the Marchioness felt that sheought to detest her. But, had it not been for Lady Sarah, she wouldhave been rather pleased with her guest than otherwise. She did notremain very long, but promised that she would return on the next day. 

On the following morning Mr. Houghton came again, staying only a fewminutes; and while he was in his wife's sitting-room, both Lord Georgeand Mary found them. As they were all leaving her together, shecontrived to say a word to her old lover. "Don't desert me all themorning. Come and talk to me a bit. I am well now, though they won'tlet me move about. " In obedience to this summons, he returned to herwhen his wife was called upon to attend to the ordinary cloak andpetticoat conclave of the other ladies. In regard to these charitablemeetings she had partly carried her own way. She had so far thrown offauthority as to make it understood that she was not to be bound by therules which her sisters-in-law had laid down for their own guidance. But her rebellion had not been complete, and she still gave them acertain number of weekly stitches. Lord George had said nothing of hispurpose; but for a full hour before luncheon he was alone with Mrs. Houghton. If a gentleman may call on a lady in her house, surely hemay, without scandal, pay her a visit in his own. That a married manshould chat for an hour with another man's wife in a country house isnot much. Where is the man and where the woman who has not done that, quite as a matter of course? And yet when Lord George knocked at thedoor there was a feeling on him that he was doing something in which hewould not wish to be detected. "This is so good of you, " she said. "Dosit down; and don't run away. Your mother and sisters have beenhere, --so nice of them, you know; but everybody treats me as though Ioughtn't to open my mouth for above five minutes at a time. I feel asthough I should like to jump the brook again immediately. "

"Pray don't do that. "

"Well, no; not quite yet. You don't like hunting, I'm afraid?"

"The truth is, " said Lord George, "that I've never been able to affordto keep horses. "

"Ah, that's a reason. Mr. Houghton, of course, is a rich man; but Idon't know anything so little satisfactory in itself as being rich. "

"It is comfortable. "

"Oh yes, it is comfortable; but so unsatisfactory! Of course Mr. Houghton can keep any number of horses; but, what's the use, when henever rides to hounds? Better not have them at all, I think. I am veryfond of hunting myself. "

"I daresay I should have liked it had it come in my way early in life. "

"You speak of yourself as if you were a hundred years old. I know yourage exactly. You are just seventeen years younger than Mr. Houghton!"To this Lord George had no reply to make. Of course he had felt thatwhen Miss De Baron had married Mr. Houghton she had married quite anold man. "I wonder whether you were much surprised when you heard thatI was engaged to Mr. Houghton?"

"I was, rather. "

"Because he is so old?"

"Not that altogether. "

"I was surprised myself, and I knew that you would be. But what was Ito do?"

"I think you have been very wise, " said Lord George. 

"Yes, but you think I have been heartless. I can see it in your eyesand hear it in your voice. Perhaps I was heartless;--but then I wasbound to be wise. A man may have a profession before him. He may doanything. But what has a girl to think of? You say that money iscomfortable. "

"Certainly it is. "

"How is she to get it, if she has not got it of her own, like dearMary?"

"You do not think that I have blamed you. "

"But even though you have not, yet I must excuse myself to you, " shesaid with energy, bending forward from her sofa towards him. "Do youthink that I do not know the difference?"

"What difference?"

"Ah, you shouldn't ask. I may hint at it, but you shouldn't ask. But itwouldn't have done, would it?" Lord George hardly understood what itwas that wouldn't have done; but he knew that a reference was beingmade to his former love by the girl he had loved; and, upon the whole, he rather liked it. The flattery of such intrigues is generallypleasant to men, even when they cannot bring their minds about quickenough to understand all the little ins and outs of the woman'smanoeuvres. "It is my very nature to be extravagant. Papa has broughtme up like that. And yet I had nothing that I could call my own. I hadno right to marry any one but a rich man. You said just now youcouldn't afford to hunt. "

"I never could. "

"And I couldn't afford to have a heart. You said just now, too, thatmoney is very comfortable. There was a time when I should have found itvery, very comfortable to have had a fortune of my own. "

"You have plenty now. "

She wasn't angry with him, because she had already found out that it isthe nature of men to be slow. And she wasn't angry with him, again, because, though he was slow, yet also was he evidently gratified. "Yes, " she said, "I have plenty now. I have secured so much. I couldn'thave done without a large income; but a large income doesn't make mehappy. It's like eating and drinking. One has to eat and drink, but yetone doesn't care very much about it. Perhaps you don't regret huntingvery much?"

"Yes I do, because it enables a man to know his neighbours. "

"I know that I regret the thing I couldn't afford. "

Then a glimmer of what she meant did come across him, and he blushed. "Things will not always turn out as they are wanted, " he said. Then hisconscience upbraided him, and he corrected himself. "But, God knowsthat I have no reason to complain. I have been fortunate. "

"Yes, indeed. "

"I sometimes think it is better to remember the good things we havethan to regret those that are gone. "

"That is excellent philosophy, Lord George. And therefore I go outhunting, and break my bones, and fall into rivers, and ride about withsuch men as Mr. Price. One has to make the best of it, hasn't one? Butyou, I see, have no regrets. "

He paused for a moment, and then found himself driven to make someattempt at gallantry. "I didn't quite say that, " he replied. 

"You were able to re-establish yourself according to your own tastes. Aman can always do so. I was obliged to take whatever came. I think thatMary is so nice. "

"I think so too, I can assure you. "

"You have been very fortunate to find such a girl; so innocent, sopure, so pretty, and with a fortune too. I wonder how much differenceit would have made in your happiness if you had seen her before we hadever been acquainted. I suppose we should never have known each otherthen. "

"Who can say?"

"No; no one can say. For myself, I own that I like it better as it is. I have something to remember that I can be proud of. "

"And I something to be ashamed of. "

"To be ashamed of!" she said, almost rising in anger. 

"That you should have refused me!"

She had got it at last. She had made her fish rise to the fly. "Oh, no, " she said; "there can be nothing of that. If I did not tell youplainly then, I tell you plainly now. I should have done very wrong tomarry a poor man. "

"I ought not to have asked you. "

"I don't know how that may be, " she said in a very low voice, lookingdown to the ground. "Some say that if a man loves he should declare hislove, let the circumstances be what they may. I rather think that Iagree with them. You at any rate knew that I felt greatly honoured, though the honour was out of my reach. " Then there was a pause, duringwhich he could find nothing to say. He was trapped by her flattery, buthe did not wish to betray his wife by making love to the woman. Heliked her words and her manner; but he was aware that she was a thingsacred as being another man's wife. "But it is all better as it is, "she said with a laugh, "and Mary Lovelace is the happiest girl of heryear. I am so glad you are coming to London, and do so hope you'll comeand see me. "

"Certainly I will. "

"I mean to be such friends with Mary. There is no woman I like so much. And then circumstances have thrown us together, haven't they; and ifshe and I are friends, real friends, I shall feel that our friendshipmay be continued, --yours and mine. I don't mean that all this accidentshall go for nothing. I wasn't quite clever enough to contrive it; butI am very glad of it, because it has brought us once more together, sothat we may understand each other. Good-bye, Lord George. Don't let mekeep you longer now. I wouldn't have Mary jealous, you know. "

"I don't think there is the least fear of that, " he said in realdispleasure. 

"Don't take me up seriously for my little joke, " she said as she putout her left hand. He took it, and once more smiled, and then left her. 

When she was alone there came a feeling on her that she had gonethrough some hard work with only moderate success; and also a feelingthat the game was hardly worth the candle. She was not in the least inlove with the man, or capable of being in love with any man. In acertain degree she was jealous, and felt that she owed Mary Lovelace aturn for having so speedily won her own rejected lover. But herjealousy was not strong enough for absolute malice. She had formed noplot against the happiness of the husband and wife when she came intothe house; but the plot made itself, and she liked the excitement. Hewas heavy, --certainly heavy; but he was very handsome, and a lord; andthen, too, it was much in her favour that he certainly had once lovedher dearly. 

Lord George, as he went down to lunch, felt himself to be almostguilty, and hardly did more than creep into the room where his wife andsisters were seated. 

"Have you been with Mrs. Houghton?" asked Lady Sarah in a firm voice. 

"Yes, I have been sitting with her for the last half hour, " he replied;but he couldn't answer the question without hesitation in his manner. Mary, however, thought nothing about it. 

CHAPTER X. 

THE DEAN AS A SPORTING MAN. 

In Brotherton the Dean's performance in the run from Cross Hall Holtwas almost as much talked of as Mrs. Houghton's accident. There hadbeen rumours of things that he had done in the same line after takingorders, when a young man, --of runs that he had ridden, and even ofvisits which he had made to Newmarket and other wicked places. But, asfar as Brotherton knew, there had been nothing of all this since theDean had been a dean. Though he was constantly on horseback, he hadnever been known to do more than perhaps look at a meet, and it wasunderstood through Brotherton generally that he had forbidden hisdaughter to hunt. But now, no sooner was his daughter married, and thenecessity of setting an example to her at an end, than the Dean, with arosette in his hat, --for so the story was told, --was after the houndslike a sporting farmer or a mere country gentleman! On the very nextday Mr. Groschut told the whole story to the Bishop. But Mr. Groschuthad not seen the performance, and the Bishop affected to disbelieve it. "I'm afraid, my lord, " said the chaplain, "I'm afraid you'll find it'strue. " "If he rides after every pack of dogs in the county, I don'tknow that I can help it, " said the Bishop. With this Mr. Groschut wasby no means inclined to agree. A bishop is as much entitled to causeinquiries to be made into the moral conduct of a dean as of any countryclergyman in his diocese. "Suppose he were to take to gambling on theturf, " said Mr. Groschut, with much horror expressed in his tone andcountenance. "But riding after a pack of dogs isn't gambling on theturf, " said the Bishop, who, though he would have liked to possess thepower of putting down the Dean, by no means relished the idea of beingbeaten in an attempt to do so. 

And Mr. Canon Holdenough heard of it. "My dear, " he said to his wife, "Manor Cross is coming out strong in the sporting way. Not only is Mrs. Houghton laid up there with a broken limb, but your brother'sfather-in-law took the brush on the same day. "

"The Dean!" said Lady Alice. 

"So they tell me. "

"He was always so particular in not letting Mary ride over a singlefence. He would hardly let her go to a meet on horseback. "

"Many fathers do what they won't let their daughters do. The Dean hasbeen always giving signs that he would like to break out a little. "

"Can they do anything to him?"

"Oh dear no;--not if he was to hunt a pack of hounds himself, as far asI know. "

"But I suppose it's wrong, Canon, " said the clerical wife. 

"Yes; I think it's wrong because it will scandalise. Everything thatgives offence is wrong, unless it be something that is on other groundsexpedient. If it be true we shall hear about it a good deal here, andit will not contribute to brotherly love and friendship among usclergymen. "

There was another canon at Brotherton, one Dr. Pountner, a red-facedman, very fond of his dinner, a man of infinite pluck, and muchattached to the Cathedral, towards the reparation of which he hadcontributed liberally. And, having an ear for music, he had done muchto raise the character of the choir. Though Dr. Pountner's sermons weresupposed to be the worst ever heard from the pulpit of the Cathedral, he was, on account of the above good deeds, the most popular clergymanin the city. "So I'm told you've been distinguishing yourself, Mr. Dean, " said the Doctor, meeting our friend in the close. 

"Have I done so lately, more than is usual with me?" asked the Dean, who had not hitherto heard of the rumour of his performances. 

"I am told that you were so much ahead the other day in the huntingfield, that you were unable to give assistance to the poor lady whobroke her arm. "

"Oh, that's it! If I do anything at all, though I may do it but once ina dozen years, I like to do it well, Dr. Pountner. I wish I thoughtthat you could follow my example, and take a little exercise. It wouldbe very good for you. " The Doctor was a heavy man, and hardly walkedmuch beyond the confines of the Close or his own garden. Though a boldman, he was not so ready as the Dean, and had no answer at hand. "Yes, "continued our friend, "I did go a mile or two with them, and I enjoyedit amazingly. I wish with all my heart there was no prejudice againstclergymen hunting. "

"I think it would be an abominable practice, " said Dr. Pountner, passing on. 

The Dean himself would have thought nothing more about it had there notappeared a few lines on the subject in a weekly newspaper called the"Brotherton Church, " which was held to be a pestilential little rag byall the Close. Deans, canons, and minor canons were all agreed as tothis, Dr. Pountner hating the "Brotherton Church" quite as sincerely asdid the Dean. The "Brotherton Church" was edited nominally by acertain Mr. Grease, --a very pious man who had long striven, buthitherto in vain, to get orders. But it was supposed by many that thepaper was chiefly inspired by Mr. Groschut. It was always verylaudatory of the Bishop. It had distinguished itself by its elaborateopposition to ritual. Its mission was to put down popery in the dioceseof Brotherton. It always sneered at the Chapter generally, and veryoften said severe things of the Dean. On this occasion the paragraphwas as follows; "There is a rumour current that Dean Lovelace was outwith the Brotherton foxhounds last Wednesday, and that he rode with thepack all the day, leading the field. We do not believe this, but wehope that for the sake of the Cathedral and for his own sake, he willcondescend to deny the report. " On the next Saturday there was anotherparagraph, with a reply from the Dean; "We have received from the Deanof Brotherton the following startling letter, which we publish withoutcomment. What our opinion on the subject may be our readers willunderstand. 

 "Deanery, November, 187--

 "Sir, --You have been correctly informed that I was out with the Brotherton foxhounds on Wednesday week last. The other reports which you have published, and as to which after publication, you have asked for information, are unfortunately incorrect. I wish I could have done as well as my enemies accuse me of doing. 

 "I am, Sir, "Your humble servant, "HENRY LOVELACE. 

 "To the Editor of the 'Brotherton Church. '"

The Dean's friends were unanimous in blaming him for having taken anynotice of the attack. The Bishop, who was at heart an honest man and agentleman, regretted it. All the Chapter were somewhat ashamed of it. The Minor Canons were agreed that it was below the dignity of a dean. Dr. Pountner, who had not yet forgotten the allusion to his obesity, whispered in some clerical ear that nothing better could be expectedout of a stable; and Canon Holdenough, who really liked the Dean inspite of certain differences of opinion, expostulated with him aboutit. 

"I would have let it pass, " said the Canon. "Why notice it at all?"

"Because I would not have any one suppose that I was afraid to noticeit. Because I would not have it thought that I had gone out with thehounds and was ashamed of what I had done. "

"Nobody who knows you would have thought that. "

"I am proud to think that nobody who knows me would. I make as manymistakes as another, and am sorry for them afterwards. But I am neverashamed. I'll tell you what happened, not to justify my hunting, butto justify my letter. I was over at Manor Cross, and I went to themeet, because Mary went. I have not done such a thing before since Icame to Brotherton, because there is, --what I will call a feelingagainst it. When I was there I rode a field or two with them, and I cantell you I enjoyed it. "

"I daresay you did. "

"Then, very soon after the fox broke, there was that brook at whichMrs. Houghton hurt herself. I happened to jump it, and the thing becametalked about because of her accident. After that we came out on theBrotherton road, and I went back to Manor Cross. Do not suppose that Ishould have been ashamed of myself if I had gone on even half a dozenmore fields. "

"I'm sure you wouldn't. "

"The thing in itself is not bad. Nevertheless, --thinking as the worldaround us does about hunting, --a clergyman in my position would bewrong to hunt often. But a man who can feel horror at such a thing asthis is a prig in religion. If, as is more likely, a man affectshorror, he is a hypocrite. I believe that most clergymen will agreewith me in that; but there is no clergyman in the diocese of whoseagreement I feel more certain than of yours. "

"It is the letter, not the hunting, to which I object. "

"There was an apparent cowardice in refraining from answering such anattack. I am aware, Canon, of a growing feeling of hostility tomyself. "

"Not in the Chapter?"

"In the diocese. And I know whence it comes, and I think I understandits cause. Let what will come of it I am not going to knock under. Iwant to quarrel with no man, and certainly with no clergyman, --but I amnot going to be frightened out of my own manner of life or my ownmanner of thinking by fear of a quarrel. "

"Nobody doubts your courage; but what is the use of fighting when thereis nothing to win. Let that wretched newspaper alone. It is beneath youand me, Dean. "

"Very much beneath us, and so is your butler beneath you. But if heasks you a question, you answer him. To tell the truth I would ratherthey should call me indiscreet than timid. If I did not feel that itwould be really wrong and painful to my friends I would go out huntingthree days next week, to let them know that I am not to be cowed. "

There was a good deal said at Manor Cross about the newspapercorrespondence, and some condemnation of the Dean expressed by theladies, who thought that he had lowered himself by addressing a replyto the editor. In the heat of discussion a word or two was spoken byLady Susanna, --who entertained special objections to all thingslow, --which made Mary very angry. "I think papa is at any rate a betterjudge than you can be, " she said. Between sisters as sisters generallyare, or even sisters-in-laws, this would not be much; but at ManorCross it was felt to be misconduct. Mary was so much younger than theywere! And then she was the grand-daughter of a tradesman! No doubt theyall thought that they were willing to admit her among themselves onterms of equality; but then there was a feeling among them that sheought to repay this great goodness by a certain degree of humility andsubmission. From day to day the young wife strengthened herself in aresolution that she would not be humble and would not be submissive. 

Lady Susanna, when she heard the words, drew herself up with an air ofoffended dignity. "Mary, dear, " said Lady Sarah, "is not that a littleunkind?"

"I think it is unkind to say that papa is indiscreet, " said the Dean'sdaughter. "I wonder what you'd all think if I were to say a wordagainst dear mamma. " She had been specially instructed to call theMarchioness mamma. 

"The Dean is not my father-in-law, " said Lady Amelia, very proudly, asthough in making the suggestion, she begged it to be understood thatunder no circumstances could such a connection have been possible. 

"But he's my papa, and I shall stand up for him, --and I do say that hemust know more about such things than any lady. " Then Lady Susanna gotup and marched majestically out of the room. 

Lord George was told of this, and found himself obliged to speak to hiswife. "I'm afraid there has been something between you and Susanna, dear. "

"She abused papa, and I told her papa knew better than she did, andthen she walked out of the room. "

"I don't suppose she meant to--abuse the Dean. "

"She called him names. "

"She said he was indiscreet. "

"That is calling him names. "

"No, my dear, indiscreet is an epithet; and even were it a nounsubstantive, as a name must be, it could only be one name. " It wascertainly very hard to fall in love with a man who could talk aboutepithets so very soon after his marriage; but yet she would go ontrying. "Dear George, " she said, "don't you scold me. I will doanything you tell me, but I don't like them to say hard things of papa. You are not angry with me for taking papa's part, are you?"

He kissed her, and told her that he was not in the least angry withher; but, nevertheless, he went on to insinuate, that if she couldbring herself to show something of submission to his sisters, it wouldmake her own life happier and theirs and his. "I would do anything Icould to make your life happy, " she said. 

CHAPTER XI. 

LORD AND LADY GEORGE GO UP TO TOWN. 

Time went on, and the day arranged for the migration to London cameround. After much delicate fencing on one side and the other, this wasfixed for the 31st January. The fencing took place between the Dean, acting on behalf of his daughter, and the ladies of the Manor Crossfamily generally. They, though they conceived themselves to have hadmany causes of displeasure with Mary, were not the less anxious to keepher at Manor Cross. They would all, at any moment, have gladly assentedto an abandonment of the London house, and had taught themselves tolook upon the London house as an allurement of Satan, most unwiselycontrived and countenanced by the Dean. And there was no doubt that, asthe Dean acted on behalf of his daughter, so did they act on behalf oftheir brother. He could not himself oppose the London house; but hedisliked it and feared it, and now, at last, thoroughly repentedhimself of it. But it had been a stipulation made at the marriage; andthe Dean's money had been spent. The Dean had been profuse with hismoney, and had shown himself to be a more wealthy man than any one atManor Cross had suspected. Mary's fortune was no doubt her own; but thefurniture had been in a great measure supplied by the Dean, and theDean had paid the necessary premium on going into the house. LordGeorge felt it to be impossible to change his mind after all that hadbeen done; but he had been quite willing to postpone the evil day aslong as possible. 

Lady Susanna was especially full of fears, and, it must be owned, especially inimical to all Mary's wishes. She was the one who hadperhaps been most domineering to her brother's wife, and she wascertainly the one whose domination Mary resisted with the most settleddetermination. There was a self-abnegation about Lady Sarah, adownright goodness, and at the same time an easily-handled magisterialauthority, which commanded reverence. After three months of residenceat Manor Cross, Mary was willing to acknowledge that Lady Sarah wasmore than a sister-in-law, --that her nature partook of divineomnipotence, and that it compelled respect, whether given willingly orunwillingly. But to none of the others would her spirit thus humbleitself, and especially not to Lady Susanna. Therefore Lady Susanna washostile, and therefore Lady Susanna was quite sure that Mary would fallinto great trouble amidst the pleasures of the metropolis. 

"After all, " she said to her elder sister, "what is £1, 500 a year tokeep up a house in London?"

"It will only be for a few months, " said Lady Sarah. 

"Of course she must have a carriage, and then George will find himselfaltogether in the hands of the Dean. That is what I fear. The Dean hasdone very well with himself, but he is not a man whom I like to trustaltogether. "

"He is at any rate generous with his money. "

"He is bound to be that, or he could not hold up his head at all. Hehas nothing else to depend on. Did you hear what Dr. Pountner saidabout him the other day? Since that affair with the newspaper, he hasgone down very much in the Chapter. I am sure of that. "

"I think you are a little hard upon him, Susanna. "

"You must feel that he is very wrong about this house in London. Why isa man, because he's married, to be taken away from all his ownpursuits? If she could not accommodate herself to his tastes, sheshould not have accepted him. "

"Let us be just, " said Lady Sarah. 

"Certainly, let us be just, " said Lady Amelia, who in theseconversations seldom took much part, unless when called upon to supporther eldest sister. 

"Of course we should be just, " said Lady Susanna. 

"She did not accept him, " said Lady Sarah, "till he had agreed tocomply with the Dean's wish that they should spend part of their timein London. "

"He was very weak, " said Lady Susanna. 

"I wish it could have been otherwise, " continued Lady Sarah; "but wecan hardly suppose that the tastes of a young girl from Brothertonshould be the same as ours. I can understand that Mary should findManor Cross dull. "

"Dull!" exclaimed Lady Susanna. 

"Dull!" ejaculated Lady Amelia, constrained on this occasion to differeven from her eldest sister. "I can't understand that she should findManor Cross dull, particularly while she has her husband with her. "

"The bargain, at any rate, was made, " said Lady Sarah, "before theengagement was settled; and as the money is hers, I do not think wehave a right to complain. I am very sorry that it should be so. Hercharacter is very far from being formed, and his tastes are socompletely fixed that nothing will change them. "

"And then there's that Mrs. Houghton!" said Lady Susanna. Mrs. Houghtonhad of course left Manor Cross long since; but she had left a mostunsatisfactory feeling behind her in the minds of all the Manor Crossladies. This arose not only from their personal dislike, but from asuspicion, a most agonising suspicion, that their brother was more fondthan he should have been of the lady's society. It must be understoodthat Mary herself knew nothing of this, and was altogether free fromsuch suspicion. But the three sisters, and the Marchioness under theirtuition, had decided that it would be very much better that LordGeorge should see no more of Mrs. Houghton. He was not, they thought, infatuated in such a fashion that he would run to London after her;but, when in London, he would certainly be thrown into her society. "Icannot bear to think of it, " continued Lady Susanna. Lady Amelia shookher head. "I think, Sarah, you ought to speak to him seriously. No manhas higher ideas of duty than he has; and if he be made to think of it, he will avoid her. "

"I have spoken, " replied Lady Sarah, almost in a whisper. 

"Well!"

"Well!"

"Was he angry?"

"How did he bear it?"

"He was not angry, but he did not bear it very well. He told me that hecertainly found her to be attractive, but that he thought he had powerenough to keep himself free from any such fault as that. I asked him topromise me not to see her; but he declined to make a promise which hesaid he might not be able to keep. "

"She is a horrid woman, and Mary. I am afraid, likes her, " said LadySusanna. "I know that evil will come of it. "

Sundry scenes counter to this were enacted at the deanery. Mary was inthe habit of getting herself taken over to Brotherton more frequentlythan the ladies liked; but it was impossible that they should openlyoppose her visits to her father. On one occasion, early in January, shehad got her husband to ride over with her, and was closeted with theDean while he was away in the city. "Papa, " she said, "I almost thinkthat I'll give up the house in Munster Court. "

"Give it up! Look here, Mary; you'll have no happiness in life unlessyou can make up your mind not to allow those old ladies at Manor Crossto sit upon you. "

"It is not for their sake. He does not like it, and I would do anythingfor him. "

"That is all very well; and I would be the last to advise you to opposehis wishes if I did not see that the effect would be to make himsubject to his sisters' dominion as well as you. Would you like him tobe always under their thumb?"

"No, papa; I shouldn't like that. "

"It was because I foresaw all this that I stipulated so expressly as Idid that you should have a house of your own. Every woman, when shemarries, should be emancipated from other domestic control than that ofher husband. From the nature of Lord George's family this would havebeen impossible at Manor Cross, and therefore I insisted on a house intown. I could do this the more freely because the wherewithal was tocome from us, and not from them. Do not disturb what I have done. "

"I will not go against you, of course, papa. "

"And remember always that this is to be done as much for his sake asfor yours. His position has been very peculiar. He has no property ofhis own, and he has lived there with his mother and sisters till thefeminine influences of the house have almost domineered him. It is yourduty to assist in freeing him from this. " Looking at the matter in thelight now presented to her, Mary began to think that her father wasright. "With a husband there should at any rate be only one feminineinfluence, " he added, laughing. 

"I shall not over rule him, and I shall not try, " said Mary, smiling. 

"At any rate, do not let other women rule him. By degrees he will learnto enjoy London society, and so will you. You will spend half the yearat Manor Cross or the deanery, and by degrees both he and you will beemancipated. For myself, I can conceive nothing more melancholy thanwould be his slavery and yours if you were to live throughout the yearwith those old women. " Then, too, he said something to her of thesatisfaction which she herself would receive from living in London, andtold her that, for her, life itself had hardly as yet been commenced. She received her lessons with thankfulness and gratitude, but withsomething of wonder that he should so openly recommend to her a mannerof life which she had hitherto been taught to regard as worldly. 

After that no further hint was given to her that the house in Londonmight yet be abandoned. When riding back with her husband, she had beenclever enough to speak of the thing as a fixed certainty; and he hadthen known that he also must regard it as fixed. "You had better notsay anything more about it, " he said one day almost angrily to LadySusanna, and then nothing more had been said about it--to him. 

There were other causes of confusion, --of terrible confusion, --at ManorCross, of confusion so great that from day to day the Marchioness woulddeclare herself unable to go through the troubles before her. Theworkmen were already in the big house preparing for the demolition andreconstruction of everything as soon as she should be gone; and otherworkmen were already demolishing and reconstructing Cross Hall. Thesadness of all this and the weight on the old lady's mind wereincreased by the fact that no member of the family had received so mucheven as a message from the Marquis himself since it had been decidedthat his wishes should not be obeyed. Over and over again the dowagerattempted to give way, and suggested that they should all depart and beout of sight. It seemed to her that when a marquis is a marquis heought to have his own way, though it be never so unreasonable. Was henot the head of the family? But Lady Sarah was resolved, and carriedher point. Were they all to be pitched down in some strange corner, where they would be no better than other women, incapable of doing goodor exercising influence, by the wish of one man who had never done anygood anywhere, or used his own influence legitimately? Lady Sarah wasno coward, and Lady Sarah stuck to Cross Hall, though in doing so shehad very much to endure. "I won't go out, my Lady, " said Price, "nottill the day when her Ladyship is ready to come in. I can put up withthings, and I'll see as all is done as your Ladyship wishes. " Price, though he was a sporting farmer, and though men were in the habit ofdrinking cherry brandy at his house, and though naughty things had beensaid about him, had in these days become Lady Sarah's prime minister atCross Hall, and was quite prepared in that capacity to carry on waragainst the Marquis. 

When the day came for the departure of Mary and her husband, amelancholy feeling pervaded the whole household. A cook had been sentup from Brotherton who had lived at Manor Cross many years previously. Lord George took a man who had waited on himself lately at the oldhouse, and Mary had her own maid who had come with her when shemarried. They had therefore been forced to look for but one strangeservant. But this made the feeling the stronger that they would all bestrange up in London. This was so strong with Lord George that italmost amounted to fear. He knew that he did not know how to live inLondon. He belonged to the Carlton, as became a conservative nobleman;but he very rarely entered it, and never felt himself at home when hewas there. And Mary, though she had been quite resolved since theconversation with her father that she would be firm about her house, still was not without her own dread. She herself had no personalfriends in town, --not one but Mrs. Houghton, as to whom she heardnothing but evil words from the ladies around her. There had been anattempt made to get one of the sisters to go up with them for the firstmonth. Lady Sarah had positively refused, almost with indignation. Wasit to be supposed that she would desert her mother at so trying a time?Lady Amelia was then asked, and with many regrets declined theinvitation. She had not dared to use her own judgment, and Lady Sarahhad not cordially advised her to go. Lady Sarah had thought that LadySusanna would be the most useful. But Lady Susanna was not asked. Therewere a few words on the subject between Lord George and his wife. Mary, remembering her father's advice, had determined that she would not besat upon, and had whispered to her husband that Susanna was alwayssevere to her. When, therefore, the time came, they departed from ManorCross without any protecting spirit. 

There was something sad in this, even to Mary. She knew that she wastaking her husband away from the life he liked, and that she, herself, was going to a life as to which she could not even guess, whether shewould like it or not. But she had the satisfaction of feeling that shewas at last going to begin to live as a married woman. Hitherto shehad been treated as a child. If there was danger, there was, at anyrate, the excitement which danger produces. "I am almost glad that weare going alone, George, " she said. "It seems to me that we have neverbeen alone yet. "

He wished to be gracious and loving to her, and yet he was not disposedto admit anything which might seem to imply that he had become tired ofliving with his own family. "It is very nice, but----"

"But what, dear?"

"Of course I am anxious about my mother just at present. "

"She is not to move for two months yet. "

"No, --not to move; but there are so many things to be done. "

"You can run down whenever you please?"

"That's expensive; but of course it must be done. "

"Say that you'll like being with me alone. " They had the compartment ofthe railway carriage all to themselves, and she, as she spoke, leanedagainst him, inviting him to caress her. "You don't think it a trouble, do you, having to come and live with me?" Of course he was conquered, and said, after his nature, what prettiest things he could to her, assuring her that he would sooner live with her than with any one inthe world, and promising that he would always endeavour to make herhappy. She knew that he was doing his best to be a loving husband, andshe felt, therefore, that she was bound to be loyal in her endeavoursto love him; but at the same time, at the very moment in which she wasreceiving his words with outward show of satisfied love, herimagination was picturing to her something else which would have beenso immeasurably superior, if only it had been possible. 

That evening they dined together, alone; and it was the first time thatthey had ever done so, except at an inn. Never before had been imposedon her the duty of seeing that his dinner was prepared for him. Therecertainly was very little of duty to perform in the matter, for he wasa man indifferent as to what he ate, or what he drank. The plainness ofthe table at Manor Cross had surprised Mary, after the comparativeluxury of the deanery. All her lessons at Manor Cross had gone to showthat eating was not a delectation to be held in high esteem. But stillshe was careful that everything around him should be nice. Thefurniture was new, the glasses and crockery were new. Few, if any, ofthe articles used, had ever been handled before. All her bridalpresents were there; and no doubt there was present to her mind thefact that everything in the house had in truth been given to him byher. If only she could make the things pleasant! If only he would allowhimself to be taught that nice things are nice! She hovered around him, touching him every now and then with her light fingers, moving a lockof his hair, and then stooping over him and kissing his brow. It mightstill be that she would be able to galvanise him into that lover'svitality, of which she had dreamed. He never rebuffed her; he did notscorn her kisses, or fail to smile when his hair was moved; he answeredevery word she spoke to him carefully and courteously; he admired herpretty things when called upon to admire them. But through it all, shewas quite aware that she had not galvanised him as yet. 

Of course there were books. Every proper preparation had been made forrendering the little house pleasant. In the evening she took from hershelf a delicate little volume of poetry, something exquisitely bound, pretty to look at, and sweet to handle, and settled herself down to behappy in her own drawing-room. But she soon looked up from the troublesof Aurora Leigh to see what her husband was doing. He was comfortablein his chair, but was busy with the columns of the Brothershire Herald. 

"Dear me, George, have you brought that musty old paper up here?"

"Why shouldn't I read the Herald here, as well as at Manor Cross?"

"Oh! yes, if you like it. "

"Of course I want to know what is being done in the county. " But whennext she looked, the county had certainly faded from his mind, for hewas fast asleep. 

On that occasion she did not care very much for Aurora Leigh. Her mindwas hardly tuned to poetry of that sort. The things around her were tooimportant to allow her mind to indulge itself with foreign cares. Andthen she found herself looking at the watch. At Manor Cross ten o'clockevery night brought all the servants into the drawing-room. First thebutler would come and place the chairs, and then the maids, and thenthe coachman and footman would follow. Lord George read the prayers, and Mary had always thought them to be very tiring. But she now feltthat it would almost be a relief if the butler would come in and placethe chairs. 

CHAPTER XII. 

MISS MILDMAY AND JACK DE BARON. 

Lady George was not left long in her new house without visitors. Earlyon the day after her arrival, Mrs. Houghton came to her, and began atonce, with great volubility, to explain how the land lay, and tosuggest how it should be made to lie for the future. "I am so glad youhave come. As soon, you know, as they positively forbade me to get onhorseback again this winter, I made up my mind to come to town. Whatis there to keep me down there if I don't ride? I promised to obey if Iwas brought here, --and to disobey if I was left there. Mr. Houghtongoes up and down, you know. It is hard upon him, poor old fellow. Butthen the other thing would be harder on me. He and papa are togethersomewhere now, arranging about the spring meetings. They have got theirstables joined, and I know very well who will have the best of that. Aman has to get up very early to see all round papa. But Mr. Houghton isso rich, it doesn't signify. And now, my dear, what are you going todo? and what is Lord George going to do? I am dying to see Lord George. I dare say you are getting a little tired of him by this time. "

"Indeed, I'm not. "

"You haven't picked up courage enough yet to say so; that's it, mydear. I've brought cards from Mr. Houghton, which means to say thatthough he is down somewhere at Newmarket in the flesh he is to besupposed to have called upon you and Lord George. And now we want youboth to come and dine with us on Monday. I know Lord George isparticular, and so I've brought a note. You can't have anything to doyet, and of course you'll come. Houghton will be back on Sunday, andgoes down again on Tuesday morning. To hear him talk about it you'dthink he was the keenest man in England across a country. Say thatyou'll come. "

"I'll ask Lord George. "

"Fiddle de dee. Lord George will be only too delighted to come and seeme. I've got such a nice cousin to introduce to you; not one of theGermain sort, you know, who are all perhaps a little slow. This man isJack De Baron, a nephew of papa's. He's in the Coldstreams, and I dothink you'll like him. There's nothing on earth he can't do, fromwaltzing down to polo. And old Mildmay will be there, and Guss Mildmay, who is dying in love with Jack. "

"And is Jack dying in love with Guss?"

"Oh! dear no; not a bit. You needn't be afraid. Jack De Baron has just£500 a year and his commission, and must, I should say, be over headand ears in debt. Miss Mildmay may perhaps have £5, 000 for her fortune. Put this and that together, and you can hardly see anything comfortablein the way of matrimony, can you?"

"Then I fear your----Jack is mercenary. "

"Mercenary;--of course he's mercenary. That is to say, he doesn't wantto go to destruction quite at one leap. But he's awfully fond offalling in love, and when he is in love he'll do almostanything, --except marry. "

"Then if I were you, I shouldn't ask--Guss to meet him. "

"She can fight her own battles, and wouldn't thank me at all if I wereto fight them for her after that fashion. There'll be nobody elseexcept Houghton's sister, Hetta. You never met Hetta Houghton?"

"I've heard of her. "

"I should think so. 'Not to know her, '--I forget the words; but if youdon't know Hetta Houghton, you're just nowhere. She has lots of money, and lives all alone, and says whatever comes uppermost, and does whatshe pleases. She goes everywhere, and is up to everything. I alwaysmade up my mind I wouldn't be an old maid, but I declare I envy HettaHoughton. But then she'd be nothing unless she had money. There'll beeight of us, and at this time of the year we dine at half-past seven, sharp. Can I take you anywhere? The carriage can come back with you?"

"Thank you, no. I am going to pick Lord George up at the Carlton atfour. "

"How nice! I wonder how long you'll go on picking up Lord George at theCarlton. "

She could only suppose, when her friend was gone, that this was theright kind of thing. No doubt Lady Susanna had warned her against Mrs. Houghton, but then she was not disposed to take Lady Susanna's warningson any subject. Her father had known that she intended to know thewoman; and her father, though he had cautioned her very often as to theold women at Manor Cross, as he called them, had never spoken a word ofcaution to her as to Mrs. Houghton. And her husband was well aware ofthe intended intimacy. She picked up her husband, and rather likedbeing kept waiting a few minutes at the club door in her brougham. Thenthey went together to look at a new picture, which was being exhibitedby gas-light in Bond Street, and she began to feel that the pleasuresof London were delightful. "Don't you think those two old priests aremagnificent?" she said, pressing on his arm, in the obscurity of thedarkened chamber. "I don't know that I care much about old priests, "said Lord George. 

"But the heads are so fine. "

"I dare say. Sacerdotal pictures never please me. Didn't you say youwanted to go to Swann and Edgar's?" He would not sympathize with herabout pictures, but perhaps she would be able to find out his taste atlast. 

He seemed quite well satisfied to dine with the Houghtons, and did, infact, call at the house before that day came round. "I was in BerkeleySquare this morning, " he said one day, "but I didn't find any one. "

"Nobody ever is at home, I suppose, " she said. "Look here. There havebeen Lady Brabazon, and Mrs. Patmore Green, and Mrs. Montacute Jones. Who is Mrs. Montacute Jones?"

"I never heard of her. "

"Dear me; how very odd. I dare say it was kind of her to come. Andyesterday the Countess of Care called. Is not she some relative?"

"She is my mother's first cousin. "

"And then there was dear old Miss Tallowax. And I wasn't at home to seeone of them. "

"No one I suppose ever is at home in London unless they fix a day forseeing people. "

Lady George, having been specially asked to come "sharp" to herfriend's dinner party, arrived with her husband exactly at the hournamed, and found no one in the drawing-room. In a few minutes Mrs. Houghton hurried in, apologising. "It's all Mr. Houghton's faultindeed, Lord George. He was to have been in town yesterday, but wouldstay down and hunt to-day. Of course the train was late, and of coursehe was so tired that he couldn't dress without going to sleep first. "As nobody else came for a quarter of an hour Mrs. Houghton had anopportunity of explaining some things. "Has Mrs. Montacute Jonescalled? I suppose you were out of your wits to find out who she was. She's a very old friend of papa's, and I asked her to call. She givesawfully swell parties, and has no end of money. She was one of theMontacutes of Montacute, and so she sticks her own name on to herhusband's. He's alive, I believe, but he never shews. I think she keepshim somewhere down in Wales. "

"How odd!"

"It is a little queer, but when you come to know her you'll find itwill make no difference. She's the ugliest old woman in London, but I'dbe as ugly as she is to have her diamonds. "

"I wouldn't, " said Mary. 

"Your husband cares about your appearance, " said Mrs. Houghton, turningher eyes upon Lord George. He simpered and looked pleased and did notseem to be at all disgusted by their friend's slang, and yet had shetalked of "awfully swell" parties, he would, she was well aware, haverebuked her seriously. 

Miss Houghton--Hetta Houghton--was the first to arrive, and shesomewhat startled Mary by the gorgeous glories of her dress, thoughMrs. Houghton afterwards averred that she wasn't "a patch upon Mrs. Montacute Jones. " But Miss Houghton was a lady, and though over fortyyears of age, was still handsome. 

"Been hunting to-day, has he?" she said. "Well, if he likes it, Ishan't complain. But I thought he liked his ease too well to travelfifty miles up to town after riding about all day. "

"Of course he's knocked up, and at his age it's quite absurd, " said theyoung wife. "But Hetta, I want you to know my particular friend LadyGeorge Germain. Lord George, if he'll allow me to say so, is a cousin, though I'm afraid we have to go back to Noah to make it out. "

"Your great-grandmother was my great-grandmother's sister. That's notso very far off. "

"When you get to grandmothers no fellow can understand it, can they, Mary?" Then came Mr. And Miss Mildmay. He was a gray-haired oldgentleman, rather short and rather fat, and she looked to be just suchanother girl as Mrs. Houghton herself had been, though blessed withmore regular beauty. She was certainly handsome, but she carried withher that wearied air of being nearly worn out by the toil of searchingfor a husband which comes upon some young women after the fourth orfifth year of their labours. Fortune had been very hard upon AugustaMildmay. Early in her career she had fallen in love, while abroad, withan Italian nobleman, and had immediately been carried off home by heranxious parents. Then in London she had fallen in love again with anEnglish nobleman, an eldest son, with wealth of his own. Nothing couldbe more proper, and the young man had fallen also in love with her. Allher friends were beginning to hate her with virulence, so lucky had shebeen! When on a sudden, the young lord told her that the match wouldnot please his father and mother, and that therefore there must be anend of it. What was there to be done! All London had talked of it; allLondon must know the utter failure. Nothing more cruel, more barefaced, more unjust had ever been perpetrated. A few years since all theMildmays in England, one after another, would have had a shot at theyoung nobleman. But in these days there seems to be nothing for a girlto do but to bear it and try again. So Augusta Mildmay bore it and didtry again; tried very often again. And now she was in love with Jack DeBaron. The worst of Guss Mildmay was that, through it all, she had aheart and would like the young men, --would like them, or perhapsdislike them, equally to her disadvantage. Old gentlemen, such as wasMr. Houghton, had been willing to condone all her faults, and all herloves, and to take her as she was. But when the moment came, she wouldnot have her Houghton, and then she was in the market again. Now ayoung woman entering the world cannot make a greater mistake than notto know her own line, or, knowing it, not to stick to it. Those who arethus weak are sure to fall between two stools. If a girl chooses tohave a heart, let her marry the man of her heart, and take her muttonchops and bread and cheese, her stuff gown and her six children, asthey may come. But if she can decide that such horrors are horrid toher, and that they must at any cost be avoided, then let her take herHoughton when he comes, and not hark back upon feelings and fancies, upon liking and loving, upon youth and age. If a girl has money andbeauty too, of course she can pick and choose. Guss Mildmay had nomoney to speak of, but she had beauty enough to win either a workingbarrister or a rich old sinner. She was quite able to fall in love withthe one and flirt with the other at the same time; but when the momentfor decision came, she could not bring herself to put up with either. At present she was in real truth in love with Jack De Baron, and hadbrought herself to think that if Jack would ask her, she would riskeverything. But were he to do so, which was not probable, she wouldimmediately begin to calculate what could be done by Jack's moderateincome and her own small fortune. She and Mrs. Houghton kissed eachother affectionately, being at the present moment close in each other'sconfidences, and then she was introduced to Lady George. "Adelaidehasn't a chance, " was Miss Mildmay's first thought as she looked at theyoung wife. 

Then came Jack De Baron. Mary was much interested in seeing a man ofwhom she had heard so striking an account, and for the love of whom shehad been told that a girl was almost dying. Of course all that was tobe taken with many grains of salt; but still the fact of the love andthe attractive excellence of the man had been impressed upon her. Shedeclared to herself at once that his appearance was very much in hisfavour, and a fancy passed across her mind that he was somewhat likethat ideal man of whom she herself had dreamed, ever so many years agoas it seemed to her now, before she had made up her mind that she wouldchange her ideal and accept Lord George Germain. He was about themiddle height, light haired, broad shouldered, with a pleasant smilingmouth and well formed nose; but above all, he had about him thatpleasure-loving look, that appearance of taking things jauntily and ofenjoying life, which she in her young girlhood had regarded as beingabsolutely essential to a pleasant lover. There are men whose very eyesglance business, whose every word imports care, who step as thoughtheir shoulders were weighed with thoughtfulness, who breathesolicitude, and who seem to think that all the things of life are tooserious for smiles. Lord George was such a man, though he had in truthvery little business to do. And then there are men who are alwaysplayfellows with their friends, who--even should misfortune be uponthem, --still smile and make the best of it, who come across one likesunbeams, and who, even when tears are falling, produce the tints of arainbow. Such a one Mary Lovelace had perhaps seen in her childhood andhad then dreamed of him. Such a one was Jack De Baron, at any rate tothe eye. 

And such a one in truth he was. Of course the world had spoiled him. Hewas in the Guards. He was fond of pleasure. He was fairly well off inregard to all his own wants, for his cousin had simply imagined thosedebts with which ladies are apt to believe that young men of pleasuremust be overwhelmed. He had gradually taught himself to think that hisown luxuries and his own comforts should in his own estimation beparamount to everything. He was not naturally selfish, but his life hadalmost necessarily engendered selfishness. Marrying had come to belooked upon as an evil, --as had old age;--not of course an unavoidableevil, but one into which a man will probably fall sooner or later. Toput off marriage as long as possible, and when it could no longer beput off to marry money was a part of his creed. In the meantime thegreat delight of his life came from women's society. He neither gamblednor drank. He hunted and fished, and shot deer and grouse, andoccasionally drove a coach to Windsor. But little love affairs, flirtation, and intrigues, which were never intended to be guilty, butwhich now and again had brought him into some trouble, gave its charmto his life. On such occasions he would too, at times, be very badly inlove, assuring himself sometimes with absolute heroism that he wouldnever again see this married woman, or declaring to himself in momentsof self-sacrificial grandness that he would at once marry thatunmarried girl. And then, when he had escaped from some especialtrouble, he would take to his regiment for a month, swearing to himselfthat for the next year he would see no women besides his aunts and hisgrandmother. When making this resolution he might have added his cousinAdelaide. They were close friends, but between them there had neverbeen the slightest spark of a flirtation. 

In spite of all his little troubles Captain De Baron was a very popularman. There was a theory abroad about him that he always behaved like agentleman, and that his troubles were misfortunes rather than faults. Ladies always liked him, and his society was agreeable to men becausehe was neither selfish nor loud. He talked only a little, but stillenough not to be thought dull. He never bragged or bullied or bounced. He didn't want to shoot more deer or catch more salmon than anotherman. He never cut a fellow down in the hunting-field. He never borrowedmoney, but would sometimes lend it when a reason was given. He wasprobably as ignorant as an owl of anything really pertaining toliterature, but he did not display his ignorance. He was regarded byall who knew him as one of the most fortunate of men. He regardedhimself as being very far from blessed, knowing that there must come aspeedy end to the things which he only half enjoyed, and feeling partlyashamed of himself in that he had found for himself no better part. 

"Jack, " said Mrs. Houghton, "I can't blow you up for being late, because Mr. Houghton has not yet condescended to shew himself. Let meintroduce you to Lady George Germain. " Then he smiled in his peculiarway, and Mary thought his face the most beautiful she had ever seen. "Lord George Germain, --who allows me to call him my cousin, though heisn't as near as you are. My sister-in-law, you know. " Jack shook handswith the old lady in his most cordial manner. "I think you have seenMr. Mildmay before, and Miss Mildmay. " Mary could not but look at thegreeting between the two, and she saw that Miss Mildmay almost turnedup her nose at him. She was quite sure that Mrs. Houghton had beenwrong about the love. There had surely only been a pretence of love. But Mrs. Houghton had been right, and Mary had not yet learned to readcorrectly the signs which men and women hang out. 

At last Mr. Houghton came down. "Upon my word, " said his wife, "Iwonder you ain't ashamed to shew yourself. "

"Who says I'm not ashamed? I'm very much ashamed. But how can I helpit if the trains won't keep their time? We were hunting all dayto-day, --nothing very good, Lord George, but on the trot from eleven tofour. That tires a fellow, you know. And the worst of it is I've got todo it again on Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday. "

"Is there a necessity?" asked Lord George. 

"When a man begins that kind of thing he must go through with it. Hunting is like women. It's a jealous sport. Lady George, may I takeyou down to dinner? I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

MORE NEWS FROM ITALY. 

Mr. Houghton took Lady George down to dinner; but Jack De Baron sat onhis left hand. Next to him was Augusta Mildmay, who had been consignedto his care. Then came Lord George sitting opposite to his host at around table, with Mrs. Houghton at his right hand. Mrs. Mildmay andMiss Hetta Houghton filled up the vacant places. To all this a greatdeal of attention had been given by the hostess. She had not wished tothrow her cousin Jack and Miss Mildmay together. She would probablyhave said to a confidential friend that "there had been enough of allthat. " In her way she liked Guss Mildmay; but Guss was not good enoughto marry her cousin. Guss herself must know that such a marriage wasimpossible. She had on an occasion said a word or two to Guss upon thesubject. She had thought that a little flirtation between Jack and herother friend Lady George might put things right; and she had thought, too, --or perhaps felt rather than thought, --that Lord George hademancipated himself from the thraldom of his late love rather tooquickly. Mary was a dear girl. She was quite prepared to make Mary herfriend, being in truth somewhat sick of the ill-humours anddisappointments of Guss Mildmay; but it might be as well that Maryshould be a little checked in her triumph. She herself had been obligedto put up with old Mr. Houghton. She never for a moment told herselfthat she had done wrong; but of course she required compensation. Whenshe was manoeuvring she never lost sight of her manoeuvres. She had hadall this in her mind when she made up her little dinner-party. She hadhad it all in her mind when she arranged the seats. She didn't want tosit next to Jack herself, because Jack would have talked to her to theexclusion of Lord George, so she placed herself between Lord George andMr. Mildmay. It had been necessary that Mr. Mildmay should take MissHoughton down to dinner, and therefore she could not separate Gussfrom Jack De Baron. Anybody who understands dinner-parties will see itall at a glance. But she was convinced that Jack would devote himselfto Lady George at his left hand; and so he did. 

"Just come up to town, haven't you?" said Jack. 

"Only last week. "

"This is the nicest time in the year for London, unless you do a dealof hunting; then it's a grind. "

"I never hunt at all; Lord George won't let me. "

"I wish some one wouldn't let me. It would save me a deal of money, anda great deal of misery. It's all a delusion and a snare. You never geta run nowadays. "

"Do you think so? I'd rather hunt than do anything. "

"That's because you are not let to do it; the perversity of humannature, you know! The only thing I'm not allowed to do is to marry, andit's the only thing I care for. "

"Who prevents it, Captain de Baron?"

"There's a new order come out from the Horse Guards yesterday. No oneunder a field officer is to marry unless he has got £2, 000 a year. "

"Marrying is cheaper than hunting. "

"Of course, Lady George, you may buy your horses cheap or dear, and youmay do the same with your wives. You may have a cheap wife who doesn'tcare for dress, and likes to sit at home and read good books. "

"That's just what I do. "

"But then they're apt to go wrong and get out of order. "

"How do you mean? I shan't get out of order, I hope. "

"The wheels become rusty, don't you think? and then they won't go asthey ought. They scold and turn up their noses. What I want to find isperfect beauty, devoted affection, and £50, 000. "

"How modest you are. "

In all this badinage there was not much to make a rival angry; but MissMildmay, who heard a word or two now and then, was angry. He wastalking to a pretty woman about marriage and money, and of course thatamounted to flirtation. Lord George, on her other hand, now and thensaid a word to her; but he was never given to saying many words, andhis attention was nearly monopolised by his hostess. She had heard thelast sentence, and determined to join the conversation. 

"If you had the £50, 000, Captain De Baron, " she said, "I think youwould manage to do without the beauty and the devoted affection. "

"That's ill-natured, Miss Mildmay, though it may be true. Beggars can'tbe choosers. But you've known me a long time, and I think it's unkindthat you should run me down with a new acquaintance. Suppose I was tosay something bad of you. "

"You can say whatever you please, Captain De Baron. "

"There is nothing bad to say, of course, except that you are alwaysdown on a poor fellow in distress. Don't you think it's a grand thingto be good-natured, Lady George?"

"Indeed I do. It's almost better than being virtuous. "

"Ten to one. I don't see the good of virtue myself. It always makespeople stingy and cross and ill-mannered. I think one should alwayspromise to do everything that is asked. Nobody would be fool enough toexpect you to keep your word afterwards, and you'd give a lot ofpleasure. "

"I think promises ought to be kept, Captain De Baron. "

"I can't agree to that. That's bondage, and it puts an embargo on thepleasant way of living that I like. I hate all kind of strictness, andduty, and self-denying, and that kind of thing. It's rubbish. Don't youthink so?"

"I suppose one has to do one's duty. "

"I don't see it. I never do mine. "

"Suppose there were a battle to fight. "

"I should get invalided at once. I made up my mind to that long ago. Fancy the trouble of it. And when they shoot you they don't shoot youdead, but knock half your face away, or something of that sort. Luckilywe live in an island, and haven't much fighting to do. If we hadn'tlived in an island I should never have gone into the army. "

This was not flirting certainly. It was all sheer nonsense, --wordswithout any meaning in them. But Mary liked it. She decidedly would nothave liked it had it ever occurred to her that the man was flirtingwith her. It was the very childishness of the thing that pleasedher, --the contrast to conversation at Manor Cross, where no childishword was ever spoken. And though she was by no means prepared to flirtwith Captain De Baron, still she found in him something of therealisation of her dreams. There was the combination of manliness, playfulness, good looks, and good humour which she had pictured toherself. To sit well-dressed in a well-lighted room and have nonsensetalked to her suited her better than a petticoat conclave. And she knewof no harm in it. Her father encouraged her to be gay, and altogetherdiscouraged petticoat conclaves. So she smiled her sweetest on CaptainDe Baron, and replied to his nonsense with other nonsense, and wassatisfied. 

But Guss Mildmay was very much dissatisfied, both as to the amusementof the present moment and as to the conduct of Captain De Barongenerally. She knew London life well, whereas Lady George did not knowit at all; and she considered that this was flirtation. She may havebeen right in any accusation which she made in her heart against theman, but she was quite wrong in considering Lady George to be a flirt. She had, however, grievances of her own--great grievances. It was notonly that the man was attentive to some one else, but that he was notattentive to her. He and she had had many passages in life together, and he owed it to her at any rate not to appear to neglect her. Andthen what a stick was that other man on the other side of her, --thatyoung woman's husband! During the greater part of dinner she wassitting speechless, --not only loverless, but manless. It is not whatone suffers that kills one, but what one knows that other people seethat one suffers. 

There was not very much conversation between Lord George and Mrs. Houghton at dinner. Perhaps she spoke as much to Mr. Mildmay as to him;for she was a good hostess, understanding and performing her duty. Butwhat she did say to him she said very graciously, making allusions tofurther intimacy between herself and Mary, flattering his vanity bylittle speeches as to Manor Cross, always seeming to imply that shefelt hourly the misfortune of having been forced to decline the honourof such an alliance as had been offered to her. He was, in truth, asinnocent as his wife, except in this, that he would not have wished herto hear all that Mrs. Houghton said to him, whereas Mary would have hadnot the slightest objection to his hearing all the nonsense between herand Captain De Baron. 

The ladies sat a long time after dinner, and when they went Mrs. Houghton asked her husband to come up in ten minutes. They did notremain much longer, but during those ten minutes Guss Mildmay saidsomething of her wrongs to her friend, and Lady George heard some newsfrom Miss Houghton. Miss Houghton had got Lady George on to a sofa, andwas talking to her about Brotherton and Manor Cross. "So the Marquis iscoming, " she said. "I knew the Marquis years ago, when we used to bestaying with the De Barons, --Adelaide's father and mother. She wasalive then, and the Marquis used to come over there. So he hasmarried?"

"Yes; an Italian. "

"I did not think he would ever marry. It makes a difference toyou;--does it not?"

"I don't think of such things. "

"You will not like him, for he is the very opposite to Lord George. "

"I don't know that I shall ever even see him. I don't think he wants tosee any of us. "

"I dare say not. He used to be very handsome, and very fond of ladies'society, --but, I think, the most selfish human being I ever knew in mylife. That is a complaint that years do not cure. He and I were greatfriends once. "

"Did you quarrel?"

"Oh, dear no. I had rather a large fortune of my own, and there was atime in which he was, perhaps, a little in want of money. But they hadto build a town on his property in Staffordshire, and you see that didinstead. "

"Did instead!" said Lady George, altogether in the dark. 

"There was suddenly a great increase to his income, and, of course, that altered his view. I am bound to say that he was very explicit. Hecould be so without suffering himself, or understanding that any oneelse would suffer. I tell you because you are one of the family, andwould, no doubt, hear it all some day through Adelaide. I had a greatescape. "

"And he a great misfortune, " said Mary civilly. 

"I think he had, to tell you the truth. I am good-tempered, long-suffering, and have a certain grain of sagacity that might havebeen useful to him. Have you heard about this Italian lady?"

"Only that she is an Italian lady. "

"He is about my age. If I remember rightly there is hardly a month ortwo between us. She is three or four years older. "

"You knew her then?"

"I knew of her. I have been curious enough to enquire, which is, I daresay, more than any body has done at Manor Cross. "

"And is she so old?"

"And a widow. They have been married, you know, over twelve months;nearly two years, I believe. "

"Surely not; we heard of it only since our own marriage. "

"Exactly; but the Marquis was always fond of a little mystery. It wasthe news of your marriage that made him hint at the possibility of sucha thing; and he did not tell the fact till he had made up his mind tocome home. I do not know that he has told all now. "

"What else is there?"

"She has a baby, --a boy. " Mary felt that the colour flew to her cheeks;but she knew that it did so, not from any disappointment of her own, not because these tidings were in truth a blow to her, but becauseothers, --this lady, for instance, --would think that she suffered. "I amafraid it is so, " said Miss Houghton. 

"She may have twenty, for what I care, " said Mary, recovering herself. 

"I think Lord George ought to know. "

"Of course I shall tell him what you told me. I am sorry that he is notnice, that's all. I should have liked a brother-in-law that I couldhave loved. And I wish he had married an English woman. I think Englishwomen are best for English men. "

"I think so too. I am afraid you will none of you like the lady. Shecannot speak a word of English. Of course you will use my name intelling Lord George. I heard it all from a friend of mine who ismarried to one of the Secretaries at the Embassy. " Then the gentlemencame in, and Mary began to be in a hurry to get away that she mighttell this news to her husband. 

In the meantime Guss Mildmay made her complaints, deep but not loud. She and Mrs. Houghton had been very intimate as girls, knew eachother's secrets, and understood each other's characters. "Why did youhave him to such a party as this?" said Guss. 

"I told you he was coming. "

"But you didn't tell me about that young woman. You put him next to heron purpose to annoy me. "

"That's nonsense. You know as well as I do that nothing can come of it. You must drop it, and you'd better do it at once. You don't want to beknown as the girl who is dying for the love of a man she can't marry. That's not your métier. "

"That's my own affair. If I choose to stick to him you, at least, oughtnot to cross me. "

"But he won't stick to you. Of course he's my cousin, and I don't seewhy he's to be supposed never to say a word to anyone else, when it'squite understood that you're not going to have one another. What's thegood of being a dog in the manger?"

"Adelaide, you never had any heart!"

"Of course not;--or, if I had, I knew how to get the better of sotroublesome an appendage. I hate hearing about hearts. If he'd take youto-morrow you wouldn't marry him?"

"Yes, I would. "

"I don't believe it. I don't think you'd be so wicked. Where would youlive, and how? How long would it be before you hated each other?Hearts! As if hearts weren't just like anything else which either youcan or you cannot afford yourself. Do you think I couldn't go and fallin love to-morrow, and think it the best fun in the world? Of courseit's nice to have a fellow like Jack always ready to spoon, and sendingone things, and riding with one, and all that. I don't know any youngwoman in London would like it better than I should. But I can't affordit, my dear, and so I don't do it. "

"It seems to me you are going to do it with your old lover?"

"Dear Lord George! I swear it's only to bring Mary down a peg, becauseshe is so proud of her nobleman. And then he is handsome! But, my dear, I've pleased myself. I have got a house over my head, and a carriage tosit in, and servants to wait on me, and I've settled myself. Do you dolikewise, and you shall have your Lord George, or Jack De Baron, if hepleases;--only don't go too far with him. "

"Adelaide, " said the other, "I'm not good, but you're downright bad. "Mrs. Houghton only laughed, as she got up from her seat to welcome thegentlemen as they entered the room. 

Mary, as soon as the door of the brougham had been closed upon her, andher husband, began to tell her story. "What do you think Miss Houghtonhas told me?" Lord George, of course, could have no thoughts about it, and did not at first very much care what the story might have been. "She says that your brother was married ever so long ago!"

"I don't believe it, " said Lord George, suddenly and angrily. 

"A year before we were married, I mean. "

"I don't believe it. "

"And she says that they have a son. "

"What!"

"That there is a baby, --a boy. She has heard it all from some friend ofhers at Rome. "

"It can't be true. "

"She said that I had better tell you. Does it make you unhappy, George?" To this he made no immediate answer. "What can it matterwhether he was married two months ago or two years? It does not make meunhappy;" as she said this, she locked herself close into his arm. 

"Why should he deceive us? That would make me unhappy. If he hadmarried in a proper way and had a family, here in England, of course Ishould have been glad. I should have been loyal to him as I am to theothers. But if this be true, of course, it will make me unhappy. I donot believe it. It is some gossip. "

"I could not but tell you. "

"It is some jealousy. There was a time when they said that Brothertonmeant to marry her. "

"What difference could it make to her? Of course we all know that he ismarried. I hope it won't make you unhappy, George. " But Lord George wasunhappy, or at any rate, was moody, and would talk no more then on thatsubject, or any other. But in truth the matter rested on his mind allthe night. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

"ARE WE TO CALL HIM POPENJOY?"

The news which he had heard did afflict Lord George very much. A day ortwo after the dinner-party in Berkeley Square he found Mr. Knox, hisbrother's agent, and learned from him that Miss Houghton's story wassubstantially true. The Marquis had informed his man of business thatan heir had been born to him, but had not communicated the fact to anyone of the family! This omission, in such a family, was, to LordGeorge's thinking, so great a crime on the part of his brother, as tomake him doubt whether he could ever again have fraternal relationswith a man who so little knew his duty. When Mr. Knox showed him theletter his brow became very black. He did not often forgethimself, --was not often so carried away by any feeling as to be indanger of doing so. But on this occasion even he was so moved as to beunable to control his words. "An Italian brat? Who is to say how it wasborn?"

"The Marquis, my Lord, would not do anything like that, " said Mr. Knox, very seriously. 

Then Lord George was ashamed of himself, and blushed up to the roots ofhis hair. He had hardly himself known what he had meant. But hemistrusted an Italian widow, because she was an Italian, and becauseshe was a widow, and he mistrusted the whole connexion, because therehad been in it none of that honourable openness which should, hethought, characterise all family doings in such a family as that of theGermains. "I don't know of what kind you mean, " he said, shuffling, andknowing that he shuffled. "I don't suppose my brother would do anythingreally wrong. But it's a blot to the family--a terrible blot. "

"She is a lady of good family, --a Marchese, " said Mr. Knox. 

"An Italian Marchese!" said Lord George, with that infinite contemptwhich an English nobleman has for foreign nobility not of the highestorder. 

He had learnt that Miss Houghton's story was true, and was certainlyvery unhappy. It was not at all that he had pictured to himself theglory of being himself the Marquis of Brotherton after his brother'sdeath; nor was it only the disappointment which he felt as to anypossible son of his own, though on that side he did feel the blow. Thereflection which perplexed him most was the consciousness that he mustquarrel with his brother, and that after such a quarrel he would becomenobody in the world. And then, added to this, was the sense of familydisgrace. He would have been quite content with his position had hebeen left master of the house at Manor Cross, even without any of hisbrother's income wherewith to maintain the house. But now he would onlybe his wife's husband, the Dean's son-in-law, living on their money, and compelled by circumstances to adapt himself to them. He almostthought that had he known that he would be turned out of Manor Cross, he would not have married. And then, in spite of his disclaimer to Mr. Knox, he was already suspicious of some foul practice. An heir to thetitle and property, to all the family honours of the Germains, hadsuddenly burst upon him, twelve months, --for aught that he knew, two orthree years, --after the child's birth! Nobody had been informed whenthe child was born, or in what circumstances, --except that the motherwas an Italian widow! What evidence on which an Englishman might relycould possibly be forthcoming from such a country as Italy! Poor LordGeorge, who was himself as honest as the sun, was prepared to believeall evil things of people of whom he knew nothing! Should his brotherdie, --and his brother's health was bad, --what steps should he take?Would it be for him to accept this Italian brat as the heir toeverything, or must he ruin himself by a pernicious lawsuit? Lookingforward he saw nothing but family misery and disgrace, and he saw, also, inevitable difficulties with which he knew himself to beincapable to cope. "It is true, " he said to his wife very gloomily, when he first met her after his interview with Mr. Knox. 

"What Miss Houghton said? I felt sure it was true, directly she toldme. "

"I don't know why you should have felt sure, merely on her word, as toa thing so monstrous as this is. You don't seem to see that it concernsyourself. "

"No; I don't. It doesn't concern me at all, except as it makes youunhappy. " Then there was a pause for a moment, during which she creptclose up to him, in a manner that had now become usual with her. "Whydo you think I married you?" she said. He was too unhappy to answer herpleasantly, --too much touched by her sweetness to answer herunpleasantly; and so he said nothing. "Certainly not with any hope thatI might become Marchioness of Brotherton. Whatever may have made me dosuch a thing, I can assure you that that had nothing to do with it. "

"Can't you look forward? Don't you suppose that you may have a son?"Then she buried her face upon his shoulder. "And if so, would it not bebetter that a child so born should be the heir, than some Italian baby, of whom no one knows anything?"

"If you are unhappy, George, I shall be unhappy. But for myself I willnot affect to care anything. I don't want to be a Marchioness. I onlywant to see you without a frown on your brow. To tell the truth, if youdidn't mind it, I should care nothing about your brother and hisdoings. I would make a joke of this Marchese, who, Miss Houghton says, is a puckered-faced old woman. Miss Houghton seems to care a great dealmore about it than I do. "

"It cannot be a subject for a joke. " He was almost angry at the idea ofthe wife of the head of the family being made a matter of laughter. That she should be reprobated, hated, --cursed, if necessary, --waswithin the limits of family dignity; but not that she should become ajoke to those with whom she had unfortunately connected herself. Whenhe had finished speaking to her she could not but feel that he wasdispleased, and could not but feel also the injustice of suchdispleasure. Of course she had her own little share in the generaldisappointments. But she had striven before him to make nothing of it, in order that he might be quite sure that she had married him--not withany idea of rank or wealth, but for himself alone. She had made lightof the family misfortune, in order that he might be relieved. And yethe was angry with her! This was unreasonable. How much had she done forhim! Was she not striving every hour of her life to love him, and, atany rate, to comfort him with the conviction that he was loved? Was shenot constant in her assurance to herself that her whole life should bedevoted to him? And yet he was surly to her simply because his brotherhad disgraced himself! When she was left alone she sat down and cried, and then consoled herself by remembering that her father was coming toher. 

It had been arranged that the last days of February should be spent byLord George with his mother and sisters at Cross Hall, and that theDean should run up to town for a week. Lord George went down toBrotherton by a morning train, and the Dean came up on the sameafternoon. But the going and coming were so fixed that the two men metat the deanery. Lord George had determined that he would speak fully tothe Dean respecting his brother. He was always conscious of the Dean'slow birth, remembering, with some slight discomfort, the stable-keeperand the tallow-chandler; and he was a little inclined to resent what hethought to be a disposition on the part of the Dean to domineer. Butstill the Dean was a practical, sagacious man, in whom he could trust;and the assistance of such a friend was necessary to him. Circumstanceshad bound him to the Dean, and he was a man not prone to bind himselfto many men. He wanted and yet feared the confidence of friendship. Helunched with the Dean, and then told his story. "You know, " he said, "that my brother is married?"

"Of course, we all heard that. "

"He was married more than twelve months before he informed us that hewas going to be married. "

"No!"

"It was so. "

"Do you mean, then, that he told you a falsehood?"

"His letter to me was very strange, though I did not think much of itat the time. He said, 'I am to be married'--naming no day. "

"That certainly was--a falsehood, as, at that time, he was married. "

"I do not know that harsh words will do any good. "

"Nor I. But it is best, George, that you and I should be quite plain inour words to each other. Placed as he was, and as you were, he wasbound to tell you of his marriage as soon as he knew it himself. Youhad waited till he was between forty and fifty, and, of course, he mustfeel that what you would do would depend materially upon what he did. "

"It didn't at all. "

"And then, having omitted to do his duty, he screens his fault bya----positive misstatement, when his intended return home makes furtherconcealment impossible. "

"All that, however, is of little moment, " said Lord George, who couldnot but see that the Dean was already complaining that he had been leftwithout information which he ought to have possessed when he was givinghis daughter to a probable heir to the title. "There is more thanthat. "

"What more?"

"He had a son born more than twelve months since. "

"Who says so?" exclaimed the Dean, jumping up from his chair. 

"I heard it first, --or rather Mary did, --in common conversation, froman old friend. I then learned the truth from Knox. Though he had toldnone of us, he had told Knox. "

"And Knox has known it all through?"

"No, only lately. But he knows it now. Knox supposes that they arecoming home so that the people about may be reconciled to the idea ofhis having an heir. There will be less trouble, he thinks, if the boycomes now, than if he were never heard of till he was ten or fifteenyears old, --or perhaps till after my brother's death. "

"There may be trouble enough still, " said the Dean, almost with a gasp. 

The Dean, it was clear, did not believe in the boy. Lord Georgeremembered that he himself had expressed disbelief, and that Mr. Knoxhad almost rebuked him. "I have now told you all the facts, " said LordGeorge, "and have told them as soon as I knew them. "

"You are as true as the sun, " said the Dean, putting his hand on hisson-in-law's shoulder. "You will be honest. But you must not trust inthe honesty of others. Poor Mary!"

"She does not feel it in the least;--will not even interest herselfabout it. "

"She will feel it some day. She is no more than a child now. I feel it, George;--I feel it; and you ought to feel it. "

"I feel his ill-treatment of myself. "

"What--in not telling you? That is probably no more than a small partof a wide scheme. We must find out the truth of all this. "

"I don't know what there is to find out, " said Lord George, hoarsely. 

"Nor do I; but I do feel that there must be something. Think of yourbrother's position and standing, --of his past life and his presentcharacter! This is no time now for being mealy-mouthed. When such a manas he appears suddenly with a foreign woman and a foreign child, andannounces one as his wife and the other as his heir, having neverreported the existence of one or of the other, it is time that someenquiry should be made. I, at any rate, shall make enquiry. I shallthink myself bound to do so on behalf of Mary. " Then they parted asconfidential friends do part, but each with some feeling antagonisticto the other. The Dean, though he had from his heart acknowledged thatLord George was as honest as the sun, still felt himself to beaggrieved by the Germain family, and doubted whether his son-in-lawwould be urgent enough and constant in hostility to his own brother. Hefeared that Lord George would be weak, feeling; as regarded himself, that he would fight till he had spent his last penny, as long as therewas a chance that, by fighting, a grandson of his own might be madeMarquis of Brotherton. He, at any rate, understood his own heart in thematter, and knew what it was that he wanted. But Lord George, though hehad found himself compelled to tell everything to the Dean, stilldreaded the Dean. It was not in accordance with his principles that heshould be leagued against his brother with such a man as Dean Lovelace, and he could see that the Dean was thinking of his own possiblegrandchildren, whereas he himself was thinking only of the family ofGermain. 

He found his mother and sister at the small house, --the house at whichFarmer Price was living only a month or two since. No doubt it was therecognised dower house, but nevertheless there was still about it aflavour of Farmer Price. A considerable sum of money had been spentupon it, which had come from a sacrifice of a small part of the capitalbelonging to the three sisters, with an understanding that it should berepaid out of the old lady's income. But no one, except the old ladyherself, anticipated such repayment. All this had created trouble andgrief, and the family, which was never gay, was now more sombre thanever. When the further news was told to Lady Sarah it almost crushedher. "A child!" she said in a horror-stricken whisper, turning quitepale, and looking as though the crack of doom were coming at once. "Doyou believe it?" Then her brother explained the grounds he had forbelieving it. "And that it was born in wedlock twelve months before thefact was announced to us. "

"It has never been announced to us, " said Lord George. 

"What are we to do? is my mother to be told? She ought to know at once;and yet how can we tell her? What shall you do about the Dean?"

"He knows. "

"You told him?"

"Yes; I thought it best. "

"Well, --perhaps. And yet it is terrible that any man so distant from usshould have our secrets in his keeping. "

"As Mary's father, I thought it right that he should know. "

"I have always liked the Dean personally, " said Lady Sarah. "There is amanliness about him which has recommended him, and having a full handhe knows how to open it. But he isn't----; he isn't quite----"

"No; he isn't quite----, " said Lord George, also hesitating topronounce the word which was understood by both of them. 

"You must tell my mother, or I must. It will be wrong to withhold it. If you like, I will tell Susanna and Amelia. "

"I think you had better tell my mother, " said Lord George; "she willtake it more easily from you. And then, if she breaks down, you cancontrol her better. " That Lady Sarah should have the doing of anydifficult piece of work was almost a matter of course. She did tell thetale to her mother, and her mother did break down. The Marchioness, when she found that an Italian baby had been born twelve months beforethe time which she had been made to believe was the date of themarriage, took at once to her bed. What a mass of horrors was coming onthem! Was she to go and see a woman who had had a baby under suchcircumstances? Or was her own eldest son, the very, very Marquis ofBrotherton, to be there with his wife, and was she not to go and seethem? Through it all her indignation against her son had not been hotas had been theirs against their brother. He was her eldest son, --thevery Marquis, --and ought to be allowed to do almost anything hepleased. Had it not been impossible for her to rebel against Lady Sarahshe would have obeyed her son in that matter of the house. And, evennow, it was not against her son that her heart was bitter, but againstthe woman, who, being an Italian, and having been married, if married, without the knowledge of the family, presumed to say that her child waslegitimate. Had her eldest son brought over with him to the halls ofhis ancestors an Italian mistress that would, of course, have been verybad, but it would not have been so bad as this. Nothing could be so badas this. "Are we to call him Popenjoy?" she asked with a gurgling voicefrom amidst the bed clothes. Now the eldest son of the Marquis ofBrotherton would, as a matter of course, be Lord Popenjoy, iflegitimate. "Certainly we must, " said Lady Sarah, authoritatively, "unless the marriage should be disproved. "

"Poor dear little thing, " said the Marchioness, beginning to feel somepity for the odious stranger as soon as she was told that he really wasto be called Popenjoy. Then the Ladies Susanna and Amelia wereinformed, and the feeling became general throughout the household thatthe world must be near its end. What were they all to do when he shouldcome? That was the great question. He had begun by declaring that hedid not want to see any of them. He had endeavoured to drive them awayfrom the neighbourhood, and had declared that neither his mother norhis sisters would "get on" with his wife. All the ladies at Cross Hallhad a very strong opinion that this would turn out to be true, butstill they could not bear to think that they should be living as itwere next door to the head of the family, and never see him. A feelingbegan to creep over all of them, except Lady Sarah, that it would havebeen better for them to have obeyed the head of the family and goneelsewhere. But it was too late now. The decision had been made, andthey must remain. 

Lady Sarah, however, never gave way for a minute. "George, " she saidvery solemnly, "I have thought a great deal about this, and I do notmean to let him trample upon us. "

"It is all very sad, " said Lord George. 

"Yes, indeed. If I know myself, I think I should be the last person toattribute evil motives to my elder brother, or to stand in his way inaught that he might wish to do in regard to the family. I know all thatis due to him. But there is a point beyond which even that feelingcannot carry me. He has disgraced himself. " Lord George shook his head. "And he is doing all he can to bring disgrace upon us. It has alwaysbeen my wish that he should marry. "

"Of course, of course. "

"It is always desirable that the eldest son should marry. The heir tothe property then knows that he is the heir, and is brought up tounderstand his duties. Though he had married a foreigner, much as Ishould regret it, I should be prepared to receive her as a sister; itis for him to please himself; but in marrying a foreigner he is morespecially bound to let it be known to all the world, and to haveeverything substantiated, than if he had married an English girl in herown parish church. As it is, we must call on her, because he says thatshe is his wife. But I shall tell him that he is acting very wrongly byus all, especially by you, and most especially by his own child, if hedoes not take care that such evidence of his marriage is forthcoming asshall satisfy all the world. "

"He won't listen to you. "

"I think I can make him, as far as that goes; at any rate I do not meanto be afraid of him. Nor must you. "

"I hardly know whether I will even see him. "

"Yes; you must see him. If we are to be expelled from the family house, let it be his doing, and not ours. We have to take care, George, thatwe do not make a single false step. We must be courteous to him, butabove all we must not be afraid of him. "

In the meantime the Dean went up to London, meaning to spend a weekwith his daughter in her new house. They had both intended that thisshould be a period of great joy to them. Plans had been made as to thetheatres and one or two parties, which were almost as exciting to theDean as to his daughter. It was quite understood by both of them thatthe Dean up in London was to be a man of pleasure, rather than aclergyman. He had no purpose of preaching either at St. Paul's or theAbbey. He was going to attend no Curates' Aid Society or Sons of theClergy. He intended to forget Mr. Groschut, to ignore Dr. Pountney, andhave a good time. That had been his intention, at least till he sawLord George at the deanery. But now there were serious thoughts in hismind. When he arrived Mary had for the time got nearly rid of theincubus of the Italian Marchioness with her baby. She was all smiles asshe kissed him. But he could not keep himself from the great subject. 

"This is terrible news, my darling, " he said at once. 

"Do you think so, papa?"

"Certainly I do. "

"I don't see why Lord Brotherton should not have a son and heir as wellas anybody else. "

"He is quite entitled to have a son and heir, --one may almost say moreentitled than anyone else, seeing that he has got so much to leave tohim, --but on that very account he is more bound than anyone else to letall the world feel sure that his declared son and heir is absolutelyhis son and heir. "

"He couldn't be so vile as that, papa!"

"God forbid that I should say that he could. It may be that heconsiders himself married, though the marriage would not be valid here. Maybe he is married, and that yet the child is not legitimate. " Marycould not but blush as her father spoke to her thus plainly. "All we doknow is that he wrote to his own brother declaring that he was about tobe married twelve months after the birth of the child whom he nowexpects us to recognise as the heir to the title. I for one am notprepared to accept his word without evidence, and I shall have noscruple in letting him know that such evidence will be wanted. "

CHAPTER XV. 

"DROP IT. "

For ten or twelve days after the little dinner in Berkeley Square GussMildmay bore her misfortunes without further spoken complaint. Duringall that time, though they were both in London, she never saw Jack DeBaron, and she knew that in not seeing her he was neglecting her. Butfor so long she bore it. It is generally supposed that young ladieshave to bear such sorrow without loud complaint; but Guss was morethoroughly emancipated than are some young ladies, and when moved waswont to speak her mind. At last, when she herself was only on foot withher father, she saw Jack De Baron riding with Lady George. It is quitetrue that she also saw, riding behind them, her perfidious friend, Mrs. Houghton, and a gentleman whom at that time she did not know to be LadyGeorge's father. This was early in March, when equestrians in the parkare not numerous. Guss stood for a moment looking at them, and Jack DeBaron took off his hat. But Jack did not stop, and went on talking withthat pleasant vivacity which she, poor girl, knew so well and valued sohighly. Lady George liked it too, though she could hardly have givenany reason for liking it, for, to tell the truth, there was not oftenmuch pith in Jack's conversation. 

On the following morning Captain De Baron, who had lodgings in CharlesStreet close to the Guards' Club, had a letter brought to him beforehe was out of bed. The letter was from Guss Mildmay, and he knew thehandwriting well. He had received many notes from her, though none sointeresting on the whole as was this letter. Miss Mildmay's letter toJack was as follows. It was written, certainly, with a swift pen, and, but that he knew her writing well, would in parts have been hardlylegible. 

 "I think you are treating me very badly. I tell you openly and fairly. It is neither gentlemanlike or high spirited, as you know that I have no one to take my part but myself. If you mean to cut me, say so, and let me understand it at once. You have taken up now with that young married woman just because you know it will make me angry. I don't believe for a moment that you really care for such a baby-faced chit as that. I have met her too, and I know that she hasn't a word to say for herself. Do you mean to come and see me? I expect to hear from you, letting me know when you will come. I do not intend to be thrown over for her or anyone. I believe it is mostly Adelaide's doing, who doesn't like to think that you should really care for anyone. You know very well what my feelings are, and what sacrifice I am ready to make. And you know what you have told me of yourself. I shall be at home all this afternoon. Papa, of course, will go to his club at three. Aunt Julia has an afternoon meeting at the Institute for the distribution of prizes among the Rights-of-Women young men, and I have told her positively that I won't go. Nobody else will be admitted. Do come and at any rate let us have it out. This state of things will kill me, --though, of course, you don't mind that. 

 "G. 

 "I shall think you a coward if you don't come. Oh, Jack, do come. "

She had begun like a lion, but had ended like a lamb; and such was thenature of every thought she had respecting him. She was full ofindignation. She assured herself hourly that such treachery as hisdeserved death. She longed for a return of the old times, --thirty yearssince, --and for some old-fashioned brother, so that Jack might be shotat and have a pistol bullet in his heart. And yet she told herself asoften that she could not live without him. Where should she findanother Jack after her recklessness in letting all the world know thatthis man was her Jack? She hardly wanted to marry him, knowing fullwell the nature of the life which would then be before her. Jack hadtold her often that if forced to do that he must give up the army andgo and live in ----, he had named Dantzic as having the least alluringsound of any place he knew. To her it would be best that things shouldgo on just as they were now till something should turn up. But that sheshould be enthralled and Jack free was not to be borne! She begrudgedhim no other pleasure. She was willing that he should hunt, gamble, eat, drink, smoke, and be ever so wicked, if that were his taste; butnot that he should be seen making himself agreeable to another youngwoman. It might be that their position was unfortunate, but of thatmisfortune she had by far the heavier share. She could not eat, drink, smoke, gamble, hunt, and be generally wicked. Surely he might bear itif she could. 

Jack, when he had read the letter, tossed it on to the counterpane, androlled himself again in bed. It was not as yet much after nine, and heneed not decide for an hour or two whether he would accept theinvitation or not. But the letter bothered him and he could not sleep. She told him that if he did not come he would be a coward, and he feltthat she had told him the truth. He did not want to see her, --notbecause he was tired of her, for in her softer humours she was alwayspleasant to him, --but because he had a clear insight into the misery ofthe whole connection. When the idea of marrying her suggested itself, he always regarded it as being tantamount to suicide. Were he to bepersuaded to such a step he would simply be blowing his own brains outbecause someone else asked him to do so. He had explained all this toher at various times when suggesting Dantzic, and she had agreed withhim. Then, at that point, his common sense had been better than hers, and his feeling really higher. "That being so, " he had said, "it iscertainly for your advantage that we should part. " But this to her hadbeen as though he were striving to break his own chains and wasindifferent as to her misery. "I can take care of myself, " she hadanswered him. But he knew that she could not take care of herself. Hadshe not been most unwise, most imprudent, she would have seen thewisdom of letting the intimacy of their acquaintance drop without anyfurther explanation. But she was most unwise. Nevertheless, when sheaccused him of cowardice, must he not go?

He breakfasted uncomfortably, trying to put off the consideration, andthen uncomfortably sauntered down to the Guard House, at St. James's. He had no intention of writing, and was therefore not compelled to makeup his mind till the hour named for the appointment should actuallyhave come. He thought for a while that he would write her a longletter, full of good sense; explaining to her that it was impossiblethat they should be useful to each other, and that he found himselfcompelled, by his regard for her, to recommend that their peculiarintimacy should be brought to an end. But he knew that such a letterwould go for nothing with her, --that she would regard it simply as anexcuse on his part. They two had tacitly agreed not to be bound bycommon sense, --not to be wise. Such tacit agreements are common enoughbetween men, between women, and between men and women. What! a sermonfrom you! No indeed; not that. Jack felt all this, --felt that he couldnot preach without laying himself open to ridicule. When the time camehe made up his mind that he must go. Of course it was very bad for her. The servants would all know it. Everybody would know it. She wasthrowing away every chance she had of doing well for herself. But whatwas he to do? She told him that he would be a coward, and he at anyrate could not bear that. 

Mr. Mildmay lived in a small house in Green Street, very near the Park, but still a modest, unassuming, cheap little house. Jack De Baron knewthe way to it well, and was there not above a quarter-of-an-hour afterthe appointed time. "So aunt Ju has gone to the Rights of Women, hasshe?" he said, after his first greeting. He might have kissed her if hewould, but he didn't. He had made up his mind about that. And so hadshe. She was ready for him, whether he should kiss her or not, --readyto accept either greeting, as though it was just that which she hadexpected. 

"Oh, yes; she is going to make a speech herself. "

"But why do they give prizes to young men?"

"Because the young men have stood up for the old women. Why don't yougo and get a prize?"

"I had to be here instead. "

"Had to be here, sir!"

"Yes, Guss; had to be here! Isn't that about it? When you tell me tocome, and tell me that I am a coward if I don't come, of course I amhere. "

"And now you are here, what have you got to say for yourself?" This sheattempted to say easily and jauntily. 

"Not a word. "

"Then I don't see what is the use of coming?"

"Nor I, either. What would you have me say?"

"I would have you, --I would have you----" And then there was somethinglike a sob. It was quite real. "I would have you tell me--thatyou--love me. "

"Have I not told you so a score of times; and what has come of it?"

"But is it true?"

"Come, Guss, this is simple folly. You know it is true; and you know, also, that there is no good whatever to be got from such truth. "

"If you loved me, you would like--to--see me. "

"No, I shouldn't;--no, I don't;--unless it could lead to something. There was a little fun to be had when we could spoon together, --when Ihardly knew how to ask for it, and you hardly knew how to grant it;when it was a little shooting bud, and had to be nursed by smiles andpretty speeches. But there are only three things it can come to now. Two are impossible, and therefore there is the other. "

"What are the three?"

"We might get married. "

"Well?"

"One of the three I shall not tell you. And we might--make up ourminds to forget it all. Do what the people call, part. That is what Isuggest. "

"So that you may spend your time in riding about with Lady GeorgeGermain. "

"That is nonsense, Guss. Lady George Germain I have seen three times, and she talks only about her husband; a pretty little woman moreabsolutely in love I never came across. "

"Pretty little fool!"

"Very likely. I have nothing to say against that. Only, when you haveno heavier stone to throw against me than Lady George Germain, reallyyou are badly off for weapons. "

"I have stones enough, if I chose to throw them. Oh, Jack!"

"What more is there to be said?"

"Have you had enough of me already, Jack?"

"I should not have had half enough of you if either you or I had fiftythousand pounds. "

"If I had them I would give them all to you. "

"And I to you. That goes without telling. But as neither of us have gotthe money, what are we to do? I know what we had better not do. We hadbetter not make each other unhappy by what people call recriminations. "

"I don't suppose that anything I say can affect your happiness. "

"Yes, it does; very much. It makes me think of deep rivers, and highcolumns; of express trains and prussic acid. Well as we have known eachother, you have never found out how unfortunately soft I am. "

"Very soft!"

"I am. This troubles me so that I ride over awfully big places, thinking that I might perhaps be lucky enough to break my neck. "

"What must I feel, who have no way of amusing myself at all?"

"Drop it. I know it is a hard thing for me to say. I know it will soundheartless. But I am bound to say so. It is for your sake. I can't hurtmyself. It does me no harm that everybody knows that I am philanderingafter you; but it is the very deuce for you. " She was silent for amoment. Then he said again emphatically, "Drop it. "

"I can't drop it, " she said, through her tears. 

"Then what are we to do?" As he asked this question, he approached herand put his arm round her waist. This he did in momentary vacillatingmercy, --not because of the charm of the thing to himself, but throughhis own inability not to give her some token of affection. 

"Marry, " she said, in a whisper. 

"And go and live at Dantzic for the rest of our lives!" He did notspeak these words, but such was the exclamation which he at once madeinternally to himself. If he had resolved on anything, he had resolvedthat he would not marry her. One might sacrifice one's self, he hadsaid to himself, if one could do her any good; but what's the use ofsacrificing both. He withdrew his arm from her, and stood a yard apartfrom her, looking into her face. 

"That would be so horrible to you!" she said. 

"It would be horrible to have nothing to eat. "

"We should have seven hundred and fifty pounds a year, " said Guss, whohad made her calculations very narrowly. 

"Well, yes; and no doubt we could get enough to eat at such a place asDantzic. "

"Dantzic! you always laugh at me when I speak seriously. "

"Or Lubeck, if you like it better; or Leipsig. I shouldn't care theleast in the world where we went. I know a chap who lives in Minorcabecause he has not got any money. We might go to Minorca, only themosquitoes would eat you up. "

"Will you do it? I will if you will. " They were standing now threeyards apart, and Guss was looking terrible things. She did notendeavour to be soft, but had made up her mind as to the one step thatmust be taken. She would not lose him. They need not be marriedimmediately. Something might turn up before any date was fixed fortheir marriage. If she could only bind him by an absolute promise thathe would marry her some day! "I will, if you will, " she said again, after waiting a second or two for his answer. Then he shook his head. "You will not, after all that you have said to me?" He shook his headagain. "Then, Jack De Baron, you are perjured, and no gentleman. "

"Dear Guss, I can bear that. It is not true, you know, as I have nevermade you any promise which I am not ready to keep; but still I can bearit. "

"No promise! Have you not sworn that you loved me?"

"A thousand times. "

"And what does that mean from a gentleman to a lady?"

"It ought to mean matrimony and all that kind of thing, but it neverdid mean it with us. You know how it all began. "

"I know what it has come to, and that you owe it to me as a gentlemanto let me decide whether I am able to encounter such a life or not. Though it were absolute destruction, you ought to face it if I bidyou. "

"If it were destruction for myself only--perhaps, yes. But though youhave so little regard for my happiness, I still have some for yours. Itis not to be done. You and I have had our little game, as I saidbefore, and now we had better put the rackets down and go and restourselves. "

"What rest? Oh, Jack, --what rest is there?"

"Try somebody else. "

"Can you tell me to do that!"

"Certainly I can. Look at my cousin Adelaide. "

"Your cousin Adelaide never cared for any human being in her lifeexcept herself. She had no punishment to suffer as I have. Oh, Jack! Ido so love you. " Then she rushed at him, and fell upon his bosom, andwept. 

He knew that this would come, and he felt that, upon the whole, thiswas the worst part of the performance. He could bear her anger or hersullenness with fortitude, but her lachrymose caresses wereinsupportable. He held her, however, in his arms, and gazed at himselfin the pier glass most uncomfortably over her shoulder. "Oh, Jack, " shesaid, "oh, Jack, --what is to come next?" His face became somewhat morelugubrious than before, but he said not a word. "I cannot lose youaltogether. There is no one else in the wide world that I care for. Papa thinks of nothing but his whist. Aunt Ju, with her 'Rights ofWomen, ' is an old fool. "

"Just so, " said Jack, still holding her, and still looking verywretched. 

"What shall I do if you leave me?"

"Pick up some one that has a little money. I know it sounds bad andmercenary, and all that, but in our way of life there is nothing elseto be done. We can't marry like the ploughboy and milkmaid?"

"I could. "

"And would be the first to find out your mistake afterwards. It's allvery well saying that Adelaide hasn't got a heart. I dare say she hasas much heart as you or me. "

"As you;--as you. "

"Very well. Of course you have a sort of pleasure in abusing me. Butshe has known what she could do, and what she could not. Every year asshe grows older she will become more comfortable. Houghton is very goodto her, and she has lots of money to spend. If that's heartlessnessthere's a good deal to be said for it. " Then he gently disembarrassedhimself of her arms, and placed her on a sofa. 

"And this is to be the end?"

"Well, --I think so really. " She thumped her hand upon the head of thesofa as a sign of her anger. "Of course we shall always be friends?"

"Never, " she almost screamed. 

"We'd better. People will talk less about it, you know. "

"I don't care what people talk. If they knew the truth, no one wouldever speak to you again. "

"Good bye, Guss. " She shook her head, as he had shaken his before. "Saya word to a fellow. " Again she shook her head. He attempted to take herhand, but she withdrew it. Then he stood for perhaps a minute lookingat her, but she did not move. "Good bye, Guss, " he said again, and thenhe left the room. 

When he got into the street he congratulated himself. He had undergonemany such scenes before, but none which seemed so likely to bring thematter to an end. He was rather proud of his own conduct, thinking thathe had been at the same time both tender and wise. He had not given wayin the least, and had yet been explicit in assuring her of hisaffection. He felt now that he would go and hunt on the morrow withoutany desire to break his neck over the baron's fences. Surely the thingwas done now for ever and ever! Then he thought how it would have beenwith him at this moment had he in any transient weakness told her thathe would marry her. But he had been firm, and could now walk along witha light heart. 

She, as soon as he had left her, got up, and taking the cushion off thesofa, threw it to the further end of the room. Having so relievedherself, she walked up to her own chamber. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

ALL IS FISH THAT COMES TO HIS NET. 

The Dean's week up in London during the absence of Lord George was gayenough; but through it all and over it all there was that cloud ofseriousness which had been produced by the last news from Italy. Herode with his daughter, dined out in great state at Mrs. MontacuteJones's, talked to Mr. Houghton about Newmarket and the next Derby, hada little flirtation of his own with Hetta Houghton, --into which hecontrived to introduce a few serious words about the Marquis, --and wasmerry enough; but, to his daughter's surprise, he never for a momentceased to be impressed with the importance of the Italian woman and herbaby. "What does it signify, papa?" she said. 

"Not signify!"

"Of course it was to be expected that the Marquis should marry. Whyshould he not marry as well as his younger brother?"

"In the first place, he is very much older. "

"As to that, men marry at any age. Look at Mr. Houghton. " The Dean onlysmiled. "Do you know, papa, I don't think one ought to trouble aboutsuch things. "

"That's nonsense, my dear. Men, and women too, ought to look aftertheir own interests. It is the only way in which progress can be madein the world. Of course you are not to covet what belongs to others. You will make yourself very unhappy if you do. If Lord Brotherton'smarriage were all fair and above board, nobody would say a word; but, as it has not been so, it will be our duty to find out the truth. Ifyou should have a son, do not you think that you would turn every stonebefore you would have him defrauded of his rights?"

"I shouldn't think any one would defraud him. "

"But if this child be--anything else than what he pretends to be, therewill be fraud. The Germains, though they think as I do, are frightenedand superstitious. They are afraid of this imbecile who is coming over;but they shall find that if they do not move in the matter, I will. Iwant nothing that belongs to another; but while I have a hand andtongue with which to protect myself, or a purse, --which is better thaneither, --no one shall take from me what belongs to me. " All this seemedto Mary to be pagan teaching, and it surprised her much as coming fromher father. But she was beginning to find out that she, as a marriedwoman, was supposed to be now fit for other teaching than had beenadministered to her as a child. She had been cautioned in her father'shouse against the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, and couldremember the paternal, almost divine expression of the Dean's face asthe lesson was taught. But now it seemed to her that the pomps andvanities were spoken of in a very different way. The divine expressionwas altogether gone, and that which remained, though in looking at herit was always pleasant, was hardly paternal. 

Miss Mildmay, --Aunt Ju as she was called, --and Guss Mildmay came andcalled, and as it happened the Dean was in the drawing-room when theycame. They were known to be friends of Mrs. Houghton's who had been inBrothershire, and were therefore in some degree connected even with theDean. Guss began at once about the new Marchioness and the baby; andthe Dean, though he did not of course speak to Guss Mildmay as he haddone to his own daughter, still sneered at the mother and her child. Inthe meantime Aunt Ju was enlisting poor Mary. "I should be so proud ifyou would come with me to the Institute, Lady George. "

"I am sure I should be delighted. But what Institute?"

"Don't you know?--in the Marylebone Road, --for relieving females fromtheir disabilities. "

"Do you mean Rights of Women? I don't think papa likes that, " saidMary, looking round at her father. 

"You haven't got to mind what papa likes and dislikes any more, " saidthe Dean, laughing. "Whether you go in for the rights or the wrongs ofwomen is past my caring for now. Lord George must look after that. "

"I am sure Lord George could not object to your going to the MaryleboneInstitute, " said Aunt Ju. "Lady Selina Protest is there every week, andBaroness Banmann, the delegate from Bavaria, is coming next Friday. "

"You'd find the Disabilities awfully dull, Lady George, " said Guss. 

"Everybody is not so flighty as you are, my dear. Some people dosometimes think of serious things. And the Institute is not called theDisabilities. "

"What is it all about?" said Mary. 

"Only to empower women to take their own equal places in theworld, --places equal to those occupied by men, " said Aunt Jueloquently. "Why should one-half of the world be ruled by the _ipsedixit_ of the other?"

"Or fed by their labours?" said the Dean. 

"That is just what we are not. There are 1, 133, 500 females inEngland----"

"You had better go and hear it all at the Disabilities, Lady George, "said Guss. Lady George said that she would like to go for once, and sothat matter was settled. 

While Aunt Ju was pouring out the violence of her doctrine upon theDean, whom she contrived to catch in a corner just before she left thehouse, Guss Mildmay had a little conversation on her own part with LadyGeorge. "Captain De Baron, " she said, "is an old friend of yours, Isuppose. " She, however, had known very well that Jack had never seenLady George till within the last month. 

"No, indeed; I never saw him till the other day. "

"I thought you seemed to be intimate. And then the Houghtons and the DeBarons and the Germains are all Brothershire people. "

"I knew Mrs. Houghton's father, of course, a little; but I never sawCaptain De Baron. " This she said rather seriously, remembering whatMrs. Houghton had said to her of the love affair between this younglady and the Captain in question. 

"I thought you seemed to know him the other night, and I saw you ridingwith him. "

"He was with his cousin Adelaide, --not with us. "

"I don't think he cares much for Adelaide. Do you like him?"

"Yes, I do; very much. He seems to be so gay. "

"Yes, he is gay. He's a horrid flirt, you know. "

"I didn't know; and what is more, I don't care. "

"So many girls have said that about Captain De Baron; but they havecared afterwards. "

"But I am not a girl, Miss Mildmay, " said Mary, colouring, offended andresolved at once that she would have no intimacy and as littleacquaintance as possible with Guss Mildmay. 

"You are so much younger than so many of us that are girls, " said Guss, thinking to get out of the little difficulty in that way. "And thenit's all fish that comes to his net. " She hardly knew what she wassaying, but was anxious to raise some feeling that should prevent anyincreased intimacy between her own lover and Lady George. It wasnothing to her whether or no she offended Lady George Germain. If shecould do her work without sinning against good taste, well; but if not, then good taste must go to the wall. Good taste certainly had gone tothe wall. 

"Upon my word, I can hardly understand you!" Then Lady George turnedaway to her father. "Well, papa, has Miss Mildmay persuaded you to cometo the Institute with me?"

"I am afraid I should hardly be admitted, after what I have just said. "

"Indeed you shall be admitted, Mr. Dean, " said the old woman. "We arequite of the Church's way of thinking, that no sinner is too hardenedfor repentance. "

"I am afraid the day of grace has not come yet, " said the Dean. 

"Papa, " said Lady George, as soon as her visitors were gone, "do youknow I particularly dislike that younger Miss Mildmay. "

"Is she worth being particularly disliked so rapidly?"

"She says nasty, impudent things. I can't quite explain what she said. "And again Lady George blushed. 

"People in society now do give themselves strange liberty;--women, Ithink, more than men. You shouldn't mind it. "

"Not mind it?"

"Not mind it so as to worry yourself. If a pert young woman like thatsays anything to annoy you, put her down at the time, and then think nomore about it. Of course you need not make a friend of her. "

"That I certainly shall not do. "

On the Sunday after this Lady George dined again with her father at Mr. Houghton's house, the dinner having been made up especially for theDean. On this occasion the Mildmays were not there; but Captain DeBaron was one of the guests. But then he was Mrs. Houghton's cousin, and had the run of the house on all occasions. Again, there was nogreat party; Mrs. Montacute Jones was there, and Hetta, --Miss Houghton, that is, whom all the world called Hetta, --and Mrs. Houghton's father, who happened to be up in town. Again Lady George found herself sittingbetween her host and Jack De Baron, and again she thought that Jack wasa very agreeable companion. The idea of being in any way afraid of himdid not enter into her mind. Those horrid words which Guss Mildmay hadsaid to her, --as to all being fish for his net, --had no effect of thatnature. She assured herself that she knew herself too well to allowanything of that kind to influence her. That she, Lady George Germain, the daughter of the Dean of Brotherton, a married woman, should beafraid of any man, afraid of any too close intimacy! The idea washorrible and disgusting to her. So that when Jack proposed to join herand her father in the park on the next afternoon, she said that shewould be delighted; and when he told her absurd stories of hisregimental duties, and described his brother officers who probably didnot exist as described by him, and then went on to hunting legends inBuckinghamshire, she laughed at everything he said and was very merry. "Don't you like Jack?" Mrs. Houghton said to her in the drawing-room. 

"Yes, I do; very much. He's just what Jack ought to be. "

"I don't know about that. I suppose Jack ought to go to church twice onSundays, and give half what he has to the poor, just as well as John. "

"Perhaps he does. But Jack is bound to be amusing, while John need nothave a word to say for himself. "

"You know he's my pet friend. We are almost like brother and sister, and therefore I need not be afraid of him. "

"Afraid of him! Why should anybody be afraid of him?"

"I am sure you needn't. But Jack has done mischief in his time. Perhapshe's not the sort of man that would ever touch your fancy. " Again LadyGeorge blushed, but on this occasion she had nothing to say. She didnot want to quarrel with Mrs. Houghton, and the suggestion that shecould possibly love any other man than her husband had not now beenmade in so undisguised a manner as before. 

"I thought he was engaged to Miss Mildmay, " said Lady George. 

"Oh, dear no; nothing of the kind. It is impossible, as neither of themhas anything to speak of. When does Lord George come back?"

"To-morrow. "

"Mind that he comes to see me soon. I do so long to hear what he'll sayabout his new sister-in-law. I had made up my mind that I should haveto koto to you before long as a real live marchioness. "

"You'll never have to do that. "

"Not if this child is a real Lord Popenjoy. But I have my hopes still, my dear. "

Soon after that Hetta Houghton reverted to the all important subject. 

"You have found out that what I told you was true, Lady George. "

"Oh yes, --all true. "

"I wonder what the Dowager thinks about it. "

"My husband is with his mother. She thinks, I suppose, just what we allthink, that it would have been better if he had told everybody of hismarriage sooner. "

"A great deal better. "

"I don't know whether, after all, it will make a great deal ofdifference. Lady Brotherton, --the Dowager I mean, --is so thoroughlyEnglish in all her ways that she never could have got on very well withan Italian daughter-in-law. "

"The question is whether when a man springs a wife and family on hisrelations in that way, everything can be taken for granted. Suppose aman had been ever so many years in Kamptschatka, and had then come backwith a Kamptschatkean female, calling her his wife, would everybodytake it as all gospel?"

"I suppose so. "

"Do you? I think not. In the first place it might be difficult for anEnglishman to get himself married in that country according to Englishlaws, and in the next, when there, he would hardly wish to do so. "

"Italy is not Kamptschatka, Miss Houghton. "

"Certainly not; and it isn't England. People are talking about it agreat deal, and seem to think that the Italian lady oughtn't to have awalk over. "

Miss Houghton had heard a good deal about races from her brother, andthe phrase she had used was quite an everyday word to her. Lady Georgedid not understand it, but felt that Miss Houghton was talking veryfreely about a very delicate matter. And she remembered at the sametime what had been the aspirations of the lady's earlier life, and putdown a good deal of what was said to personal jealousy. "Papa, " shesaid, as she went home, "it seems to me that people here talk a greatdeal about one's private concerns. "

"You mean about Lord Brotherton's marriage. "

"That among other things. "

"Of course they will talk about that. It is hardly to be consideredprivate. And I don't know but what the more it is talked about thebetter for us. It is felt to be a public scandal, and that feeling mayhelp us. "

"Oh, papa, I wish you wouldn't think that we wanted any help. "

"We want the truth, my dear, and we must have it. "

On the next day they met Jack De Baron in the park. They had not beenlong together before the Dean saw an old friend on the footpath andstopped to speak to him. Mary would have stayed too, had not her horsedisplayed an inclination to go on, and that she had felt herselfunwilling to make an effort in the matter. As she rode on with CaptainDe Baron she remembered all that had been said by Guss Mildmay and Mrs. Houghton, and remembered also her own decision that nothing of thatkind could matter to her. It was an understood thing that ladies andgentlemen when riding should fall into this kind of intercourse. Herfather was with her, and it would be absurd that she should be afraidto be a minute or two out of his sight. "I ought to have been hunting, "said Jack; "but there was frost last night, and I do hate going downand being told that the ground is as hard as brickbats at the kennels, while men are ploughing all over the country. And now it's a deliciousspring day. "

"You didn't like getting up, Captain De Baron, " she said. 

"Perhaps there's something in that. Don't you think getting up is amistake? My idea of a perfect world is one where nobody would ever haveto get up. "

"I shouldn't at all like always to lie in bed. "

"But there might be some sort of arrangement to do away with thenuisance. See what a good time the dogs have. "

"Now, Captain De Baron, would you like to be a dog?" This she saidturning round and looking him full in the face. 

"Your dog I would. " At that moment, just over his horse's withers, shesaw the face of Guss Mildmay who was leaning on her father's arm. Gussbowed to her, and she was obliged to return the salute. Jack De Baronturned his face to the path and seeing the lady raised his hat. "Areyou two friends?" he asked. 

"Not particularly. "

"I wish you were. But, of course, I have no right to wish in such amatter as that. " Lady George felt that she wished that Guss Mildmay hadnot seen her riding in the park on that day with Jack De Baron. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

THE DISABILITIES. 

It had been arranged that on Friday evening Lady George should call forAunt Ju in Green Street, and that they should go together to theInstitute in the Marylebone Road. The real and full name of thecollege, as some ladies delighted to call it, was, though somewhatlengthy, placarded in big letters on a long black board on the front ofthe building, and was as follows, "Rights of Women Institute;Established for the Relief of the Disabilities of Females. " By friendlytongues to friendly ears "The College" or "the Institute" was thepleasant name used; but the irreverent public was apt to speak of thebuilding generally as the "Female Disabilities. " And the title was madeeven shorter. Omnibuses were desired to stop at the "Disabilities;" andit had become notorious that it was just a mile from King's Cross tothe "Disabilities. " There had been serious thoughts among those whowere dominant in the Institute of taking down the big board anddropping the word. But then a change of a name implies such aconfession of failure! It had on the whole been thought better tomaintain the courage of the opinion which had first made the mistake. "So you're going to the Disabilities, are you?" Mrs. Houghton had saidto Lady George. 

"I'm to be taken by old Miss Mildmay. "

"Oh, yes; Aunt Ju is a sort of first-class priestess among them. Don'tlet them bind you over to belong to them. Don't go in for it. " LadyGeorge had declared it to be very improbable that she should go in forit, but had adhered to her determination of visiting the Institute. 

She called in Green Street fearing that she should see Guss Mildmaywhom she had determined to keep at arm's distance as well as herfriendship with Mrs. Houghton would permit; but Aunt Ju was ready forher in the passage. "I forgot to tell you that we ought to be a littleearly, as I have to take the chair. I daresay we shall do very well, "she added, "if the man drives fast. But the thing is so important! Onedoesn't like to be flurried when one gets up to make the preliminaryaddress. " The only public meetings at which Mary had ever been presenthad appertained to certain lectures at Brotherton, at which her fatheror some other clerical dignity had presided, and she could not as yetunderstand that such a duty should be performed by a woman. Shemuttered something expressing a hope that all would go right. "I've gotto introduce the Baroness, you know. "

"Introduce the Baroness?"

"The Baroness Banmann. Haven't you seen the bill of the evening? TheBaroness is going to address the meeting on the propriety ofpatronising female artists, --especially in regard to architecture. Acombined college of female architects is to be established in Posen andChicago, and why should we not have a branch in London, which is thecentre of the world?"

"Would a woman have to build a house?" asked Lady George. 

"She would draw the plans, and devise the proportions, and--and--do theæsthetic part of it. An architect doesn't carry bricks on his back, mydear. "

"But he walks over planks, I suppose. "

"And so could I walk over a plank; why not as well as a man? But youwill hear what the Baroness says. The worst is that I am a littleafraid of her English. "

"She's a foreigner, of course. How will she manage?"

"Her English is perfect, but I am afraid of her pronunciation. However, we shall see. " They had now arrived at the building, and Lady Georgefollowed the old lady in with the crowd. But when once inside the doorthey turned to a small passage on the left, which conducted those inauthority to the august room preparatory to the platform. It is herethat bashful speakers try to remember their first sentences, and thatlecturers, proud of their prominence, receive the homage of theofficers of the Institute. Aunt Ju, who on this occasion was second inglory, made her way in among the crowd and welcomed the Baroness, whohad just arrived. The Baroness, was a very stout woman, about fifty, with a double chin, a considerable moustache, a low broad forehead, andbright, round, black eyes, very far apart. When introduced to LadyGeorge, she declared that she had great honour in accepting there-cog-nition. She had a stout roll of paper in her hand, and wasdressed in a black stuff gown, with a cloth jacket buttoned up to neck, which hardly gave to her copious bust that appearance of manly firmnesswhich the occasion almost required. But the virile collars budding outover it perhaps supplied what was wanting. Lady George looked at her tosee if she was trembling. How, thought Lady George, would it have beenwith herself if she had been called upon to address a French audiencein French! But as far as she could judge from experience, the Baronesswas quite at her ease. Then she was introduced by Aunt Ju to LadySelina Protest, who was a very little woman with spectacles, --of amost severe aspect. "I hope, Lady George, that you mean to put yourshoulder to the wheel, " said Lady Selina. "I am only here as astranger, " said Lady George. Lady Selina did not believe in strangersand passed on very severely. There was no time for further ceremonies, as a bald-headed old gentleman, who seemed to act as chief usher, informed Aunt Ju that it was time for her to take the Baroness on tothe platform. Aunt Ju led the way, puffing a little, for she had beensomewhat hurried on the stairs, and was not as yet quite used to thething, --but still with a proudly prominent step. The Baroness waddledafter her, apparently quite indifferent to the occasion. Then followedLady Selina, --and Lady George, the bald-headed gentleman telling herwhere to place herself. She had never been on a platform before, and itseemed as though the crowd of people below was looking specially ather. As she sat down, at the right hand of the Baroness, who was ofcourse at the right hand of the Chairwoman, the bald-headed gentlemanintroduced her to her other neighbour, Miss Doctor Olivia Q. Fleabody, from Vermont. There was so much of the name and it all sounded sostrange to the ears of Lady George that she could remember very littleof it, but she was conscious that her new acquaintance was a miss and adoctor. She looked timidly round, and saw what would have been a prettyface, had it not been marred by a pinched look of studious severity anda pair of glass spectacles of which the glasses shone in a disagreeablemanner. There are spectacles which are so much more spectacles thanother spectacles that they make the beholder feel that there is beforehim a pair of spectacles carrying a face, rather than a face carrying apair of spectacles. So it was with the spectacles of Olivia Q. Fleabody. She was very thin, and the jacket and collars were quitesuccessful. Sitting in the front row she displayed her feet, --and itmay also be said her trousers, for the tunic which she wore came downhardly below the knees. Lady George's enquiring mind instantly began toask itself what the lady had done with her petticoats. "This is a greatoccasion, " said Dr. Fleabody, speaking almost out loud, and with a verystrong nasal twang. 

Lady George looked at the chair before she answered, feeling that shewould not dare to speak a word if Aunt Ju were already on her legs; butAunt Ju was taking advantage of the commotion which was still going onamong those who were looking for seats to get her breath, and thereforeshe could whisper a reply. "I suppose it is, " she said. 

"If it were not that I have wedded myself in a peculiar manner to theprophylactick and therapeutick sciences, I would certainly now put myfoot down firmly in the cause of architecture. I hope to have anopportunity of saying a few words on the subject myself before thisinteresting session shall have closed. " Lady George looked at her againand thought that this enthusiastic hybrid who was addressing her couldnot be more than twenty-four years old. 

But Aunt Ju was soon on her legs. It did not seem to Lady George thatAunt Ju enjoyed the moment now that it was come. She looked hot, andpuffed once or twice before she spoke. But she had studied her fewwords so long, and had made so sure of them, that she could not go veryfar wrong. She assured her audience that the Baroness Banmann, whosename had only to be mentioned to be honoured both throughout Europe andAmerica, had, at great personal inconvenience, come all the way fromBavaria to give them the advantage of her vast experience on thepresent occasion. Like a good chairwoman, she took none of the breadout of the Baroness's mouth--as we have occasionally known it to bedone on such occasions--but confined herself to ecstatic praises of theGerman lady. All these the Baroness bore without a quiver, and whenAunt Ju sat down she stepped on to the rostrum of the evening amidstthe plaudits of the room, with a confidence which to Lady George wasmiraculous. Then Aunt Ju took her seat, and was able for the next hourand a half to occupy her arm-chair with gratifying fainéant dignity. 

The Baroness, to tell the truth, waddled rather than stepped to therostrum. She swung herself heavily about as she went sideways; but itwas manifest to all eyes that she was not in the least ashamed of herwaddling. She undid her manuscript on the desk, and flattened it downall over with her great fat hand, rolling her head about as she lookedaround, and then gave a grunt before she began. During this time theaudience was applauding her loudly, and it was evident that she did notintend to lose a breath of their incense by any hurry on her own part. At last the voices and the hands and the feet were silent. Then shegave a last roll to her head and a last pat to the papers, and began. "De manifest infairiority of de tyrant saix----. "

Those first words, spoken in a very loud voice, came clearly home toLady George's ear, though they were uttered with a most un-Englishaccent. The Baroness paused before she completed her first sentence, and then there was renewed applause. Lady George could remark that thebald-headed old gentleman behind and a cadaverous youth who was near tohim were particularly energetic in stamping on the ground. Indeed, itseemed that the men were specially charmed with this commencement ofthe Baroness's oration. It was so good that she repeated it with, perhaps, even a louder shout. "De manifest infairiority of de tyrantsaix----. " Lady George, with considerable trouble, was able to followthe first sentence or two, which went to assert that the inferiority ofman to woman in all work was quite as conspicuous as his rapacity andtyranny in taking to himself all the wages. The Baroness, thoughaddressing a mixed audience, seemed to have no hesitation in speakingof man generally as a foul worm who ought to be put down and keptunder, and merely allowed to be the father of children. But after aminute or two Lady George found that she could not understand two wordsconsecutively, although she was close to the lecturer. The Baroness, as she became heated, threw out her words quicker and more quickly, till it became almost impossible to know in what language they werespoken. By degrees our friend became aware that the subject ofarchitecture had been reached, and then she caught a word or two as theBaroness declared that the science was "adaapted only to de æstetic andcomprehensive intelligence of de famale mind. " But the audienceapplauded throughout as though every word reached them; and when fromtime to time the Baroness wiped her brows with a very largehandkerchief, they shook the building with their appreciation of herenergy. Then came a loud rolling sentence, with the old words as anaudible termination--"de manifest infairiority of de tyrant saix!" Asshe said this she waved her handkerchief in the air and almost threwherself over the desk. "She is very great to-night, --very greatindeed, " whispered Miss Doctor Olivia Q. Fleabody to Lady George. LadyGeorge was afraid to ask her neighbour whether she understood one wordout of ten that were being spoken. 

Great as the Baroness was, Lady George became very tired of it all. Thechair was hard and the room was full of dust, and she could not get up. It was worse than the longest and the worst sermon she had ever heard. It seemed to her at last that there was no reason why the Baronessshould not go on for ever. The woman liked it, and the people applaudedher. The poor victim had made up her mind that there was no hope ofcessation, and in doing so was very nearly asleep, when, on a sudden, the Baroness had finished and had thrown herself violently back intoher chair. "Baroness, believe me, " said Dr. Fleabody, stretching acrossLady George, "it is the greatest treat I ever had in my life. " TheBaroness hardly condescended to answer the compliment. She was at thismoment so great a woman, at this moment so immeasurably the greatesthuman being at any rate in London, that it did not become her toacknowledge single compliments. She had worked hard and was very hot, but still she had sufficient presence of mind to remember herdemeanour. 

When the tumult was a little subsided, Lady Selina Protest got up tomove a vote of thanks. She was sitting on the left-hand side of theChair, and rose so silently that Lady George had at first thought thatthe affair was all over, and that they might go away. Alas, alas! therewas more to be borne yet! Lady Selina spoke with a clear but low voice, and though she was quite audible, and an earl's sister, did not evokeany enthusiasm. She declared that the thanks of every woman in Englandwere due to the Baroness for her exertions, and of every man who wishedto be regarded as the friend of women. But Lady Selina was very quiet, making no gestures, and was indeed somewhat flat. When she sat down nonotice whatever was taken of her. Then very quickly, before Lady Georgehad time to look about her, the Doctor was on her feet. It was her taskto second the vote of thanks, but she was far too experienced anoccupant of platforms to waste her precious occasion simply on so poora task. She began by declaring that never in her life had a duty beenassigned to her more consonant to her taste than that of seconding avote of thanks to a woman so eminent, so humanitarian, and at the sametime so essentially a female as the Baroness Banmann. Lady George, whoknew nothing about speaking, felt at once that here was a speaker whocould at any rate make herself audible and intelligible. Then theDoctor broke away into the general subject, with special allusions tothe special matter of female architecture, and went on for twentyminutes without dropping a word. There was a moment in which she hadalmost made Lady George think that women ought to build houses. Herdislike to the American twang had vanished, and she was almost sorrywhen Miss Doctor Fleabody resumed her seat. 

But it was after that, --after the Baroness had occupied another tenminutes in thanking the British public for the thanks that had beengiven to herself, --that the supreme emotion of the evening came to LadyGeorge. Again she had thought, when the Baroness a second time rolledback to her chair, that the time for departure had come. Many in thehall, indeed, were already going, and she could not quite understandwhy no one on the platform had as yet moved. Then came that bald-headedold gentleman to her, to her very self, and suggested to her thatshe, --she, Lady George Germain, who the other day was Mary Lovelace, the Brotherton girl, --should stand up and make a speech! "There is tobe a vote of thanks to Miss Mildmay as Chairwoman, " said thebald-headed old man, "and we hope, Lady George, that you will favour uswith a few words. "

Her heart utterly gave way and the blood flew into her cheeks, and shethoroughly repented of having come to this dreadful place. She knewthat she could not do it, though the world were to depend upon it; butshe did not know whether the bald-headed old gentleman might not havethe right of insisting on it. And then all the people were looking ather as the horrible old man was pressing his request over her shoulder. "Oh, " she said; "no, I can't. Pray don't. Indeed I can't, --and Iwon't. " The idea had come upon her that it was necessary that sheshould be very absolute. The old man retired meekly, and himself madethe speech in honour of Aunt Ju. 

As they were going away Lady George found that she was to have thehonour of conveying the Baroness to her lodgings in Conduit Street. This was all very well, as there was room for three in the brougham, and she was not ill-pleased to hear the ecstasies of Aunt Ju about thelecture. Aunt Ju declared that she had agreed with every word that hadbeen uttered. Aunt Ju thought that the cause was flourishing. Aunt Juwas of opinion that women in England would before long be able to sitin Parliament and practice in the Law Courts. Aunt Ju was thoroughly inearnest; but the Baroness had expended her energy in the lecture, andwas more inclined to talk about persons. Lady George was surprised tohear her say that this young man was a very handsome young man, andthat old man a very nice old man. She was almost in love with Mr. Spuffin, the bald-headed gentleman usher; and when she was particularin asking whether Mr. Spuffin was married, Lady George could hardlythink that this was the woman who had been so eloquent on the"infairiority of de tyrant saix. "

But it was not till Aunt Ju had been dropped in Green Street, and theconversation fell upon Lady George herself, that the difficulty began. "You no speak?" asked the Baroness. 

"What, in public! Not for the world!"

"You wrong dere. Noting so easy. Say just as you please, only say itvera loud. And alvays abuse somebody or someting. You s'ould try. "

"I would sooner die, " said Lady George. "Indeed, I should be deadbefore I could utter a word. Isn't it odd how that lady Doctor couldspeak like that. "

"De American young woman! Dey have de impudence of--of--of everythingyou please; but it come to noting. "

"But she spoke well. "

"Dear me, no; noting at all. Dere was noting but vords, vords, vords. Tank you; here I am. Mind you come again, and you shall learn tospeak. "

Lady George, as she was driven home, was lost in her inability tounderstand it all. She had thought that the Doctor spoke the best ofall, and now she was told that it was nothing. She did not yetunderstand that even people so great as female orators, so noblyhumanitarian as the Baroness Banmann, can be jealous of the greatnessof others. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

LORD GEORGE UP IN LONDON. 

Lord George returned to town the day after the lecture, and was notaltogether pleased that his wife should have gone to the Disabilities. She thought, indeed, that he did not seem to be in a humour to bepleased with anything. His mind was thoroughly disturbed by the comingof his brother, and perplexed with the idea that something must be donethough he knew not what. And he was pervaded by a feeling that in thepresent emergency it behoved him to watch his own steps, and moreespecially those of his wife. An anonymous letter had reached LadySarah, signed, "A Friend of the Family, " in which it was stated thatthe Marquis of Brotherton had allied himself to the highest blood thatItaly knew, marrying into a family that had been noble before Englishnobility had existed, whereas his brother had married the granddaughterof a stable-keeper and a tallow chandler. This letter had, of course, been shown to Lord George; and, though he and his sisters agreed inlooking upon it as an emanation from their enemy, the new Marchioness, it still gave them to understand that she, if attacked, would beprepared to attack again. And Lord George was open to attack on theside indicated. He was, on the whole, satisfied with his wife. She wasladylike, soft, pretty, well-mannered, and good to him. But hergrandfathers had been stable-keepers and tallow-chandlers. Therefore itwas specially imperative that she should be kept from injuriousinfluences. Lady Selina Protest and Aunt Ju, who were both well-born, might take liberties; but not so his wife. "I don't think that was avery nice place to go to, Mary. "

"It wasn't nice at all, but it was very funny. I never saw such avulgar creature as the Baroness, throwing herself about and wiping herface. "

"Why should you go and see a vulgar creature throw herself about andwipe her face?"

"Why should anybody do it? One likes to see what is going on, Isuppose. The woman's vulgarity could not hurt me, George. "

"It could do you no good. "

"Lady Selina Protest was there, and I went with Miss Mildmay. "

"Two old maids who have gone crazy about Woman's Rights because nobodyhas married them. The whole thing is distasteful to me, and I hope youwill not go there again. "

"That I certainly shall not, because it is very dull, " said Mary. 

"I hope, also, that, independently of that, my request would beenough. "

"Certainly it would, George; but I don't know why you should be socross to me. "

"I don't think that I have been cross; but I am anxious, speciallyanxious. There are reasons why I have to be very anxious in regard toyou, and why you have to be yourself more particular than others. "

"What reasons?" She asked this with a look of bewildered astonishment. He was not prepared to answer the question, and shuffled out of it, muttering some further words as to the peculiar difficulty of theirposition. Then he kissed her and left her, telling her that all wouldbe well if she would be careful. 

If she would be careful! All would be well if she would be careful! Whyshould there be need of more care on her part than on that of others?She knew that all this had reference in some way to that troublesomelady and troublesome baby who were about to be brought home; but shecould not conceive how her conduct could be specially concerned. It wasa sorrow to her that her husband should allow himself to be ruffledabout the matter at all. It was a sorrow also that her father should doso. As to herself, she had an idea that if Providence chose to make hera Marchioness, Providence ought to be allowed to do it without anyinterference on her part. But it would be a double sorrow if she weretold that she mustn't do this and mustn't do that because there wasbefore her a dim prospect of being seated in a certain high place whichwas claimed and occupied by another person. And she was aware, too, that her husband had in very truth scolded her. The ladies at ManorCross had scolded her before, but he had never done so. She had gotaway from Manor Cross, and had borne the scolding because the prospectof escape had been before her. But it would be very bad indeed if herhusband should take to scold her. Then she thought that if Jack DeBaron were married he would never scold his wife. 

The Dean had not yet gone home, and in her discomfort she had recourseto him. She did not intend to complain of her husband to her father. Had any such idea occurred to her, she would have stamped it out atonce, knowing that such a course would be both unloyal and unwise. Buther father was so pleasant with her, so easy to be talked to, so easyto be understood, whereas her husband was almost mysterious, --at anyrate, gloomy and dark. "Papa, " she said, "what does George mean bysaying that I ought to be more particular than other people?"

"Does he say so?"

"Yes; and he didn't like my going with that old woman to hear the otherwomen. He says that I ought not to do it though anybody else might. "

"I think you misunderstood him. "

"No; I didn't, papa. "

"Then you had better imagine that he was tired with his journey, orthat his stomach was a little out of order. Don't fret about suchthings, and whatever you do, make the best of your husband. "

"But how am I to know where I may go and where I mayn't? Am I to askhim everything first?"

"Don't be a child, whatever you do. You will soon find out what pleaseshim and what doesn't, and, if you manage well, what you do will pleasehim. Whatever his manner may be, he is soft-hearted and affectionate. "

"I know that, papa. "

"If he says a cross word now and again just let it go by. You shouldnot suppose that words always mean what they seem to mean. I knew a manwho used to tell his wife ever so often that he wished she were dead. "

"Good heavens, papa!"

"Whenever he said so she always put a little magnesia into his beer, and things went on as comfortably as possible. Never magnify things, even to yourself. I don't suppose Lord George wants magnesia as yet, but you will understand what I mean. " She said that she did; but shehad not, in truth, quite comprehended the lesson as yet, nor could herfather as yet teach it to her in plainer language. 

On that same afternoon Lord George called in Berkeley Square and sawMrs. Houghton. At this time the whole circle of people who were in anyway connected with the Germain family, or who, by the circumstances oftheir lives were brought within the pale of the Germain influence, wereagog with the marriage of the Marquis. The newspapers had alreadyannounced the probable return of the Marquis and the coming of a newMarchioness and a new Lord Popenjoy. Occasion had been taken to givesome details of the Germain family, and public allusion had even beenmade to the marriage of Lord George. These are days in which, shouldyour wife's grandfather have ever been insolvent, some newspaper, inits catering for the public, will think it proper to recall the fact. The Dean's parentage had been alluded to, and the late Tallowax will, and the Tallowax property generally. It had also been declared that theMarchesa Luigi, --now the present Marchioness, --had been born an Orsini;and also, in another paper, the other fact (?) that she had beendivorced from her late husband. This had already been denied by Mr. Knox, who had received a telegram from Florence ordering such denial tobe made. It may, therefore, be conceived that the Germains were at thismoment the subject of much conversation, and it may be understood thatMrs. Houghton, who considered herself to be on very confidential termswith Lord George, should, as they were alone, ask a few questions andexpress a little sympathy. "How does the dear Marchioness like the newhouse?" she asked. 

"It is tolerably comfortable. "

"That Price is a darling, Lord George; I've known him ever so long. And, of course, it is the dower house. "

"It was the suddenness that disturbed my mother. "

"Of course; and then the whole of it must have gone against the grainwith her. You bear it like an angel. "

"For myself, I don't know that I have anything to bear. "

"The whole thing is so dreadful. There are you and your dearwife, --everything just as it ought to be, --idolized by your mother, looked up to by the whole country, the very man whom we wish to see thehead of such a family. "

"Don't talk in that way, Mrs. Houghton. "

"I know it is very distant; but still, I do feel near enough related toyou all to be justified in being proud, and also to be justified inbeing ashamed. What will they do about calling upon her?"

"My brother will, of course, come to my mother first. Then Lady Sarahand one of her sisters will go over. After that he will bring his wifeto Cross Hall if he pleases. "

"I am so glad it is all settled; it is so much better. But you know, Lord George, --I must say it to you as I would to my own brother, because my regard for you is the same, --I shall never think that thatwoman is really his wife. " Lord George frowned heavily, but did notspeak. "And I shall never think that that child is really LordPopenjoy. "

Neither did Lord George in his heart of hearts believe that the Italianwoman was a true Marchioness or the little child a true Lord Popenjoy;but he had confessed to himself that he had no adequate reason for suchdisbelief, and had perceived that it would become him to keep hisopinion to himself. The Dean had been explicit with him, and that veryexplicitness had seemed to impose silence on himself. To his mother hehad not whispered an idea of a suspicion. With his sisters he had beenreticent, though he knew that Lady Sarah, at any rate, had hersuspicions. But now an open expression of the accusation from so dear afriend as Mrs. Houghton, --from the Adelaide De Baron whom he had sodearly loved, --gratified him and almost tempted him into confidence. Hehad frowned at first, because his own family was to him so august thathe could not but frown when anyone ventured to speak of it. Evencrowned princes are driven to relax themselves on occasions, and LordGeorge Germain felt that he would almost like, just for once, to talkabout his brothers and sisters as though they were Smiths and Joneses. "It is very hard to know what to think, " he said. 

Mrs. Houghton at once saw that the field was open to her. She hadventured a good deal, and, knowing the man, had felt the danger ofdoing so; but she was satisfied now that she might say almost anything. "But one is bound to think, isn't one? Don't you feel that? It is forthe whole family that you have to act. "

"What is to be done? I can't go and look up evidence. "

"But a paid agent can. Think of Mary. Think of Mary's child, --if sheshould have one. " As she said this she looked rather anxiously into hisface, being desirous of receiving an answer to a question which she didnot quite dare to ask. 

"Of course there's all that, " he said, not answering the question. 

"I can only just remember him though papa knew him so well. But Isuppose he has lived abroad till he has ceased to think and feel likean Englishman. Could anyone believe that a Marquis of Brotherton wouldhave married a wife long enough ago to have a son over twelve monthsold, and never to have said a word about it to his brother or mother? Idon't believe it. "

"I don't know what to believe, " said Lord George. 

"And then to write in such a way about the house! Of course I hear ittalked of by people who won't speak before you; but you ought to know. "

"What do people say?"

"Everybody thinks that there is some fraud. There is old Mrs. MontacuteJones, --I don't know anybody who knows everything better than shedoes, --and she was saying that you would be driven by your duty toinvestigate the matter. 'I daresay he'd prefer to do nothing, ' shesaid, 'but he must. ' I felt that to be so true! Then Mr. Mildmay, whois so very quiet, said that there would be a lawsuit. Papa absolutelylaughed at the idea of the boy being Lord Popenjoy, though he wasalways on good terms with your brother. Mr. Houghton says that nobodyin society will give the child the name. Of course he's not verybright, but on matters like that he does know what he's talking about. When I hear all this I feel it a great deal, Lord George. "

"I know what a friend you are. "

"Indeed I am. I think very often what I might have been, but could notbe; and though I am not jealous of the happiness and honours ofanother, I am anxious for your happiness and your honours. " He wassitting near her, on a chair facing the fire, while she was leaningback on the sofa. He went on staring at the hot coals, flattered, insome sort elate, but very disturbed. The old feeling was coming backupon him. She was not as pretty as his wife, --but she was, he thought, more attractive, had more to say for herself, was more of a woman. Shecould pour herself into his heart and understand his feelings, whereasMary did not sympathize with him at all in this great family trouble. But then Mary was, of course, his wife, and this woman was the wife ofanother man. He would be the last man in the world, --so he would havetold himself could he have spoken to himself on the subject, --to bringdisgrace on himself and misery on other people by declaring his love toanother man's wife. He was the last man to do an injury to the girlwhom he had made his own wife! But he liked being with his old love, and felt anxious to say a word to her that should have in it somethingjust a little beyond the ordinary tenderness of friendship. The properword, however, did not come to him at that moment. In such moments theproper word very often will not come. "You are not angry with me forsaying so?" she asked. 

"How can I be angry?"

"I don't think that there can have been such friendship, as there wasbetween you and me, and that it should fade and die away, unless therebe some quarrel. You have not quarrelled with me?"

"Quarrelled with you? Never!"

"And you did love me once?" She at any rate knew how to find the tenderwords that were required for her purpose. 

"Indeed I did. "

"It did not last very long; did it, Lord George?"

"It was you that--that--. It was you that stopped it. "

"Yes, it was I that stopped it. Perhaps I found it easier to--stop thanI had expected. But it was all for the best. It must have beenstopped. What could our life have been? I was telling a friend to minethe other day, a lady, that there are people who cannot afford to wearhearts inside them. If I had jumped at your offer, --and there was amoment when I would have done so----"

"Was there?"

"Indeed there was, George. " The "George" didn't mean quite as much asit might have meant between others, because they were cousins. "But, ifI had, the joint home of us all must have been in Mr. Price'sfarm-house. "

"It isn't a farm-house. "

"You know what I mean. But I want you to believe that I thought of youquite as much as of myself, --more than of myself. I should at any ratehave had brilliant hopes before me. I could understand what it would beto be the Marchioness of Brotherton. I could have borne much for yearsto think that at some future day I might hang on your arm in Londonsalons as your wife. I had an ambition which now can never begratified. I, too, can look on this picture and on that. But I had todecide for you as well as for myself, and I did decide that it was notfor your welfare nor for your honour, nor for your happiness to marry awoman who could not help you in the world. " She was now leaning forwardand almost touching his arm. "I think sometimes that those most nearlyconcerned hardly know what a woman may have to endure because she isnot selfish. "

How could any man stand this? There are words which a man cannot resistfrom a woman even though he knows them to be false. Lord George, thoughhe did not quite believe that all these words were sincere, did thinkthat there was a touch of sincerity about them--an opinion which thereader probably will not share with Lord George. "Have you suffered?"he said, putting out his hand to her and taking hers. 

"Suffered!" she exclaimed, drawing away her hand, and sitting boltupright and shaking her head. "Do you think that I am a fool, not toknow! Do you suppose that I am blind and deaf? When I said that I wasone of those who could not afford to wear a heart, did you imagine thatI had been able to get rid of the article? No, it is here still, " andshe put her hand upon her side. "It is here still, and very troublesomeI find it. I suppose the time will come when it will die away. They saythat every plant will fade if it be shut in from the light, and neveropened to the rains of heaven. "

"Alas! alas!" he said. "I did not know that you would feel like that. "

"Of course I feel. I have had something to do with my life, and I havedone this with it! Two men have honoured me with their choice, and outof the two I have chosen--Mr. Houghton. I comfort myself by tellingmyself that I did right;--and I did do right. But the comfort is notvery comforting. " Still he sat looking at the fire. He knew that it wasopen to him to get up and swear to her that she still had his heart. She could not be angry with him as she had said as much to himself. Andhe almost believed at the moment that it was so. He was quite alive tothe attraction of the wickedness, though, having a conscience, he wasaware that the wickedness should, if possible, be eschewed. There is noromance in loving one's own wife. The knowledge that it is a dutydeadens the pleasure. "I did not mean to say all this, " she exclaimedat last, sobbing. 

"Adelaide!" he said. 

"Do you love me? You may love me without anything wrong. "

"Indeed I do. " Then there was an embrace, and after that he hurriedaway, almost without another word. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

RATHER "BOISTEROUS. "

"After all, he's very dreary!" It was this that Adelaide Houghton spoketo herself as soon as Lord George had left her. No doubt the whole workof the interview had fallen on to her shoulders. He had at last beentalked into saying that he loved her, and had then run away frightenedby the unusual importance and tragic signification of his own words. "After all, he's very dreary. "

Mrs. Houghton wanted excitement. She probably did like Lord George aswell as she liked any one. Undoubtedly she would have married him hadhe been able to maintain her as she liked to be maintained. But, as hehad been unable, she had taken Mr. Houghton without a notion on herpart of making even an attempt to love him. When she said that shecould not afford to wear a heart, --and she had said so to variousfriends and acquaintances, --she did entertain an idea thatcircumstances had used her cruelly, that she had absolutely been forcedto marry a stupid old man, and that therefore some little freedom wasdue to her as a compensation. Lord George was Lord George, and might, possibly, some day be a marquis. He was at any rate a handsome man, andhe had owned allegiance to her before he had transferred his homage tothat rich little chit Mary Lovelace. She was incapable of much passion, but she did feel that she owed it to herself to have some revenge onMary Lovelace. The game as it stood had charms sufficient to induce herto go on with it; and yet, --after all, he was dreary. 

Such was the lady's feeling when she was left alone; but Lord Georgewent away from the meeting almost overcome by the excitement of theoccasion. To him the matter was of such stirring moment that he couldnot go home, could not even go to his club. He was so moved by hisvarious feelings, that he could only walk by himself and considerthings. To her that final embrace had meant very little. What did itsignify? He had taken her in his arms and kissed her forehead. It mighthave been her lips had he so pleased. But to him it had seemed to meanvery much indeed. There was a luxury in it which almost intoxicatedhim, and a horror in it which almost quelled him. That she should solove him as to be actually subdued by her love could not but charm him. He had none of that strength which arms a man against flatterers;--noneof that experience which strengthens a man against female cajolery. Itwas to him very serious and very solemn. There might, perhaps, havebeen exaggeration in her mode of describing her feelings, but therecould be no doubt in this, --that he had held her in his arms and thatshe was another man's wife. 

The wickedness of the thing was more wicked to him than the charm of itwas charming. It was dreadful to him to think that he had done a thingof which he would have to be ashamed if the knowledge of it werebrought to his wife's ears. That he should have to own himself to havebeen wrong to her would tear him to pieces! That he should lord it overher as a real husband, was necessary to his happiness, and how can aman be a real lord over a woman when he has had to confess his fault toher, and to beg her to forgive him? A wife's position with her husbandmay be almost improved by such asking for pardon. It will enhance histenderness. But the man is so lowered that neither of them can everforget the degradation. And, though it might never come to that, thoughthis terrible passion might be concealed from her, still it was agrievance to him and a disgrace that he should have anything toconceal. It was a stain in his own eyes on his own nobility, a slurupon his escutcheon, a taint in his hitherto unslobbered honesty, andthen the sin of it;--the sin of it! To him it already sat heavy on hisconscience. In his ear, even now, sounded that commandment which heweekly prayed that he might be permitted to keep. While with her therewas hardly left a remembrance of the kiss which he had imprinted on herbrow, his lips were still burning with the fever. Should he make up hismind, now at once, that he would never, never see her again? Should heresolve that he would write to her a moving tragic letter, --not a loveletter, --in which he would set forth the horrors of unhallowed love, and tell her that there must be a gulf between them, over which neithermust pass till age should have tamed their passions! As he walkedacross the park he meditated what would be the fitting words for such aletter, and almost determined that it should be written. Did he not owehis first duty to his wife, and was he not bound for her sake to takesuch a step? Then, as he wandered alone in Kensington Gardens, --for ithad taken him many steps, and occupied much time to think of itall, --there came upon him an idea that perhaps the lady would notreceive the letter in the proper spirit. Some idea occurred to him ofthe ridicule which would befall him should the lady at last tell himthat he had really exaggerated matters. And then the letter might beshown to others. He did love the lady. With grief and shame and astricken conscience he owned to himself that he loved her. But he couldnot quite trust her. And so, as he walked down towards the AlbertMemorial, he made up his mind that he would not write the letter. Buthe also made up his mind, --he thought that he made up his mind, --thathe would go no more alone to Berkeley Square. 

As he walked on he suddenly came upon his wife walking with Captain DeBaron, and he was immediately struck by the idea that his wife oughtnot to be walking in Kensington Gardens with Captain De Baron. The ideawas so strong as altogether to expel from his mind for the moment allremembrance of Mrs. Houghton. He had been unhappy before because he wasconscious that he was illtreating his wife, but now he was almost moredisturbed because it seemed to him to be possible that his wife wasilltreating him. He had left her but a few minutes ago, --he thought ofit now as being but a few minutes since, --telling her with almost hislast word that she was specially bound, more bound than other women, tomind her own conduct, --and here she was walking in Kensington Gardenswith a man whom all the world called Jack De Baron? As he approachedthem his brow became clouded, and she could see that it was so. Shecould not but fear that her companion would see it also. Lord Georgewas thinking how to address them, and had already determined on tuckinghis wife under his own arm and carrying her off, before he saw that avery little way behind them the Dean was walking with--AdelaideHoughton herself. Though he had been more than an hour wandering aboutthe park he could not understand that the lady whom he had left in herown house so recently, in apparently so great a state of agitation, should be there also, in her best bonnet and quite calm. He had nowords immediately at command, but she was as voluble as ever. "Doesn'tthis seem odd?" she said. "Why, it is not ten minutes since you left mein Berkeley Square. I wonder what made you come here. "

"What made you come?"

"Jack brought me here. If it were not for Jack I should never walk orride or do anything, except sit in a stupid carriage. And just at thegate of the gardens we met the Dean and Lady George. "

This was very simple and straightforward. There could be no doubt ofthe truth of it all. Lady George had come out with her father andnothing could be more as it ought to be. As to "Jack" and the lady hedid not, at any rate as yet, feel himself justified in being angry atthat arrangement. But nevertheless he was disturbed. His wife had beenlaughing when he first saw her, and Jack had been talking, and they hadseemed to be very happy together. The Dean no doubt was there; butstill the fact remained that Jack had been laughing and talking withhis wife. He almost doubted whether his wife ought under anycircumstances to laugh in Kensington Gardens. And then the Dean was soindiscreet! He, Lord George, could not of course forbid his wife towalk with her father;--but the Dean had no idea that any real lookingafter was necessary for anybody. He at once gave his arm to his wife, but in two minutes she had dropped it. They were on the steps of theAlbert Memorial, and it was perhaps natural that she should do so. Buthe hovered close to her as they were looking at the figures, and wasuneasy. "I think it's the prettiest thing in London, " said the Dean, "one of the prettiest things in the world. "

"Don't you find it very cold?" said Lord George, who did not at thepresent moment care very much for the fine arts. 

"We have been walking quick, " said Mrs. Houghton, "and have enjoyedit. " The Dean with the two others had now passed round one of thecorners. "I wonder, " she went on, "I do wonder how it has come to passthat we should be brought together again so soon!"

"We both happened to come the same way, " said Lord George, who wasstill thinking of his wife. 

"Yes;--that must have been it. Though is it not a strange coincidence?My mind had been so flurried that I was glad to get out into the freshair. When shall I see you again?" He couldn't bring himself tosay--never. There would have been a mock-tragic element about thesingle word which even he felt. And yet, here on the steps of themonument, there was hardly an opportunity for him to explain at lengththe propriety of their both agreeing to be severed. "You wish to seeme;--don't you?" she asked. 

"I hardly know what to say. "

"But you love me!" She was now close to him, and there was no one elsenear enough to interfere. She was pressing close up to him, and he wassadly ashamed of himself. And yet he did love her. He thought that shehad never looked so well as at the present moment. "Say that you loveme, " she said, stamping her foot almost imperiously. 

"You know I do, but--"

"But what. "

"I had better come to you again and tell you all. " The words were nosooner out of his mouth than he remembered that he had resolved that hewould never go to her again. But yet, after what had passed, somethingmust be done. He had also made up his mind that he wouldn't write. Hehad quite made up his mind about that. The words that are writtenremain. It would perhaps be better that he should go to her and tellher everything. 

"Of course you will come again, " she said. "What is it ails you? Youare unhappy because she is here with my cousin Jack?" It wasintolerable to him that any one should suspect him of jealousy. "Jackhas a way of getting intimate with people, but it means nothing. " Itwas dreadful to him that an allusion should be made to the possibilityof anybody "meaning anything" with his wife. 

Just at this moment Jack's voice was heard coming back round thecorner, and also the laughter of the Dean. Captain De Baron had beendescribing the persons represented on the base of the monument, and haddone so after some fashion of his own that had infinitely amused notonly Lady George but her father also. "You ought to be appointed Guideto the Memorial, " said the Dean. 

"If Lady George will give me a testimonial no doubt I might get it, Dean, " said Jack. 

"I don't think you know anything about any of them, " said Lady George. "I'm sure you've told me wrong about two. You're the last man in theworld that ought to be a guide to anything. "

"Will you come and be guide, and I'll just sweep the steps!"

Lord George heard the last words, and allowed himself to be annoyed atthem, though he felt them to be innocent. He knew that his wife washaving a game of pleasant play, like a child with a pleasantplay-fellow. But then he was not satisfied that his wife should playlike a child, --and certainly not with such a playfellow. He doubtedwhether his wife ought to allow playful intimacy from any man. Marriagewas to him a very serious thing. Was he not prepared to give up a realpassion because he had made this other woman his wife? In thinking overall this his mind was not very logical, but he did feel that he wasjustified in exacting particularly strict conduct from her because hewas going to make Mrs. Houghton understand that they two, though theyloved each other, must part. If he could sacrifice so much for hiswife, surely she might sacrifice something for him. 

They returned altogether to Hyde Park Corner and then they separated. Jack went away towards Berkeley Square with his cousin; the Dean gothimself taken in a cab to his club; and Lord George walked his wifedown Constitution Hill towards their own home. He felt it to benecessary that he should say something to his wife; but, at the sametime, was specially anxious that he should give her no cause to suspecthim of jealousy. Nor was he jealous, in the ordinary sense of the word. He did not suppose for a moment that his wife was in love with Jack DeBaron, or Jack with his wife. But he did think that whereas she hadvery little to say to her own husband she had a great deal to say toJack. And he was sensible, also, of a certain unbecomingness in suchamusement on her part. She had to struggle upwards, so as to be able tosustain properly the position and dignity of Lady George Germain, andthe possible dignity of the Marchioness of Brotherton. She ought not towant playfellows. If she would really have learned the names of allthose artists on the base of the Memorial, as she might so easily havedone, there would have been something in it. A lady ought to know, atany rate, the names of such men. But she had allowed this Jack to makea joke of it all, and had rather liked the joke. And the Dean hadlaughed loud, --more like the son of a stable-keeper than a Dean. LordGeorge was almost more angry with the Dean than with his wife. TheDean, when at Brotherton, did maintain a certain amount of dignity; buthere, up in London, he seemed to be intent only on "having a goodtime, " like some schoolboy out on a holiday. 

"Were you not a little loud when you were on the steps of theMemorial?" he said. 

"I hope not, George; not too loud. "

"A lady should never be in the least loud, nor for the matter of thatwould a gentleman either if he knew what he was about. "

She walked on a little way, leaning on his arm in silence, consideringwhether he meant anything by what he was saying, and how much he meant. She felt almost sure that he did mean something disagreeable, and thathe was scolding her. "I don't quite know what you mean by loud, George?We were talking, and of course wanted to make each other hear. Ibelieve with some people loud means--vulgar. I hope you didn't meanthat. "

He certainly would not tell his wife that she was vulgar. "There is, "he said, "a manner of talking which leads people on to--to--beingboisterous. "

"Boisterous, George? Was I boisterous?"

"I think your father was a little. "

She felt herself blush beneath her veil as she answered. "Of course ifyou tell me anything about myself, I will endeavour to do as you tellme; but, as for papa, I am sure he knows how to behave himself. I don'tthink he ought to be found fault with because he likes to amusehimself. "

"And that Captain De Baron was very loud, " said Lord George, consciousthat though his ground might be weak in reference to the Dean, he couldsay what he pleased about Jack De Baron. 

"Young men do laugh and talk, don't they, George?"

"What they do in their barracks, or when they are together, is nothingto you or me. What such a one may do when he is in company with my wifeis very much to me, and ought to be very much to you. "

"George, " she said, again pausing for a moment, "do you mean to tell methat I have misbehaved myself? Because, if so, speak it out at once. "

"My dear, that is a foolish question for you to ask. I have saidnothing about misbehaviour, and you ought, at any rate, to wait till Ihave done so. I should be very sorry to use such a word, and do notthink that I shall ever have occasion. But surely you will admit thatthere may be practices, and manners, and customs on which I am atliberty to speak to you. I am older than you. "

"Husbands, of course, are older than their wives, but wives generallyknow what they are about quite as well as their husbands. "

"Mary, that isn't the proper way to take what I say. You have a verypeculiar place to fill in the world, --a place for which your early lifecould not give you the very fittest training. "

"Then why did you put me there?"

"Because of my love, and also because I had no doubt whatever as toyour becoming fit. There is a levity which is often pretty and becomingin a girl, in which a married woman in some ranks of life may, perhaps, innocently indulge, but which is not appropriate to higher positions. "

"This is all because I laughed when Captain De Baron mispronounced themen's names. I don't know anything peculiar in my position. One wouldsuppose that I was going to be made a sort of female bishop, or to sitall my life as a chairwoman, like that Miss Mildmay. Of course I laughwhen things are said that make me laugh. And as for Captain De Baron, Ithink he is very nice. Papa likes him, and he is always at theHoughtons, and I cannot agree that he was loud and vulgar, orboisterous, because he made a few innocent jokes in KensingtonGardens. "

He perceived now, for the first time since he had known her, that shehad a temper of her own, which he might find some difficulty incontrolling. She had endured gently enough his first allusions toherself, but had risen up in wrath against him from the moment in whichhe had spoken disparagingly of her father. At the moment he had nothingfurther to say. He had used what eloquence there was in him, what wordshe had collected together, and then walked home in silence. But hismind was full of the matter; and though he made no further allusion onthat day, or for some subsequent days either to this conversation or tohis wife's conduct in the park, he had it always in his mind. He mustbe the master, and in order that he might be master the Dean must be aslittle as possible in the house. And that intimacy with Jack De Baronmust be crushed, --if only that she might be taught that he intended tobe master. 

Two or three days passed by, and during those two or three days he didnot go to Berkeley Square. 

CHAPTER XX. 

BETWEEN TWO STOOLS. 

In the middle of the next week the Dean went back to Brotherton. Beforestarting he had an interview with Lord George which was not altogetherpleasant; but otherwise he had thoroughly enjoyed his visit. On the dayon which he started he asked his host what inquiries he intended to seton foot in reference to the validity of the Italian marriage and thelegitimacy of the Italian baby. Now Lord George had himself in thefirst instance consulted the Dean on this very delicate subject, andwas therefore not entitled to be angry at having it again mentioned;but nevertheless he resented the question as an interference. "Ithink, " he replied, "that at present nothing had better be said uponthe subject. "

"I cannot agree with you there, George. "

"Then I am afraid I must ask you to be silent without agreeing withme. "

The Dean felt this to be intentionally uncivil. They two were in a boattogether. The injury to be done, if there were an injury, would affectthe wife as much as the husband. The baby which might some day be born, and which might be robbed of his inheritance, would be as much thegrandchild of the Dean of Brotherton as of the old Marquis. And thenperhaps there was present to the Dean some unacknowledged feeling thathe was paying and would have to pay for the boat. Much as he reveredrank, he was not disposed to be snubbed by his son-in-law, because hisson-in-law was a nobleman. "You mean to tell me that I am to hold mytongue, " he said angrily. 

"For the present I think we had both better do so. "

"That may be, as regards any discussion of the matter with outsiders. Iam not at all disposed to act apart from you on a subject of suchimportance to us both. If you tell me that you are advised this way orthat, I should not, without very strong ground, put myself inopposition to that advice; but I do expect that you will let me knowwhat is being done. "

"Nothing is being done. "

"And also that you will not finally determine on doing nothing withoutconsulting me. " Lord George drew himself up and bowed, but made nofurther reply; and then the two parted, the Dean resolving that hewould be in town again before long, and Lord George reselving that theDean should spend as little time as possible in his house. Now, therehad been an undertaking, after a sort, made by the Dean, --a compactwith his daughter contracted in a jocose fashion, --which in theexisting circumstances was like to prove troublesome. There had been aquestion of expenditure when the house was furnished, --whether thereshould or should not be a carriage kept. Lord George had expressed anopinion that their joint means would not suffice to keep a carriage. Then the Dean had told his daughter that he would allow her £300 a-yearfor her own expenses, to include the brougham, --for it was to be nomore than a brougham, --during the six months they would be in London, and that he would regard this as his subscription towards thehousehold. Such a mode of being generous to his own child was prettyenough. Of course the Dean would be a welcome visitor. Equally, ofcourse, a son-in-law may take any amount of money from a father-in-lawas a portion of his wife's fortune. Lord George, though he had sufferedsome inward qualms, had found nothing in the arrangement to which hecould object while his friendship with the deanery was close andpleasant. But now, as the Dean took his departure, and as Mary, whileembracing her father, said something of his being soon back, LordGeorge remembered the compact with inward grief, and wished that therehad been no brougham. 

In the mean time he had not been to Berkeley Square; nor was he at allsure that he would go there. A distant day had been named, before thatexciting interview in the square, on which the Houghtons were to dinein Munster Court. The Mildmays were also to be there, and Mrs. Montacute Jones, and old Lord Parachute, Lord George's uncle. Thatwould be a party, and there would be no danger of a scene then. He hadalmost determined that, in spite of his promise, he would not go toBerkeley Square before the dinner. But Mrs. Houghton was not of thesame mind. A promise on such a subject was a sacred thing, andtherefore she wrote the following note to Lord George at his club. Thesecrecy which some correspondence requires certainly tends to make aclub a convenient arrangement. "Why don't you come as you said youwould? A. " In olden times, fifteen or twenty years ago, when telegraphwires were still young, and messages were confined to diplomaticsecrets, horse-racing, and the rise and fall of stocks, lovers used toindulge in rapturous expressions which would run over pages; but thepith and strength of laconic diction has now been taught to us by theself-sacrificing patriotism of the Post Office. We have all felt thevigour of telegrammatic expression, and, even when we do not trust thewire, we employ the force of wiry language. "Wilt thou be mine?--M. N. , " is now the ordinary form of an offer of marriage by post; and theanswer seldom goes beyond "Ever thine--P. Q. " Adelaide Houghton'slove-letter was very short, but it was short from judgment and with asettled purpose. She believed that a long epistle declaratory of hereverlasting but unfortunate attachment would frighten him. These fewwords would say all that she had to say, and would say it safely. Hecertainly had promised that he would go to her, and, as a gentleman, hewas bound to keep his word. He had mentioned no exact time, but it hadbeen understood that the visit was to be made at once. He would notwrite to her. Heaven and earth! How would it be with him if Mr. Houghton were to find the smallest scrap from him indicating improperaffection for Mrs. Houghton? He could not answer the note, andtherefore he must go at once. 

He went into a deserted corner of a drawing-room at his club, and thereSeated himself for half an hour's meditation. How should he extricatehimself from this dilemma? In what language should he address a youngand beautiful woman devoted to him, but whose devotion he was bound torepudiate? He was not voluble in conversation, and he was himself awareof his own slowness. It was essential to him that he should preparebeforehand almost the very words for an occasion of suchimportance, --the very words and gestures and action. Would she not flyinto his arms, or at least expect that he should open his own? Thatmust be avoided. There must be no embracing. And then he must at onceproceed to explain all the evils of this calamitous passion;--how hewas the husband of another wife; how she was the wife of anotherhusband; how they were bound by honour, by religion, and equally byprudence to remember the obligations they had incurred. He must beg herto be silent while he said all this, and then he would conclude byassuring her that she should always possess his steadiest friendship. The excogitation of this took long, partly because his mind was greatlyexercised in the matter, and partly through a nervous desire topostpone the difficult moment. At last, however, he seized his hat andwent away straight to Berkeley Square. Yes, Mrs. Houghton was at home. He had feared that there was but little chance that she should be outon the very day on which she knew that he would get her note. "Oh, soyou have come at last, " she said as soon as the drawing-room door wasclosed. She did not get up from her chair, and there was therefore nodanger of that immediate embrace which he had felt that it would bealmost equally dangerous to refuse or to accept. 

"Yes, " he said, "I have come. "

"And now sit down and make yourself comfortable. It's very bad out ofdoors, isn't it?"

"Cold, but dry. "

"With a wretched east wind. I know it, and I don't mean to stir out thewhole day. So you may put your hat down, and not think of going for thenext hour and a half. " It was true that he had his hat still in hishand, and he deposited it forthwith on the floor, feeling that had hebeen master of the occasion, he would have got rid of it lessawkwardly. "I shouldn't wonder if Mary were to be here by and by. Therewas a sort of engagement that she and Jack De Baron were to come andplay bagatelle in the back drawing-room; but Jack never comes if hesays he will, and I daresay she has forgotten all about it. "

He found that his purpose was altogether upset. In the first place, hecould hardly begin about her unfortunate passion when she received himjust as though he were an ordinary acquaintance; and then the wholetenour of his mind was altered by this allusion to Jack De Baron. Hadit come to this, that he could not get through a day without havingJack De Baron thrown at his head? He had from the first been averse toliving in London; but this was much worse than he had expected. Was itto be endured that his wife should make appointments to play bagatellewith Jack De Baron by way of passing her time? "I had heard nothingabout it, " he said with gloomy, truthful significance. It wasimpossible for him to lie even by a glance of his eye or a tone of hisvoice. He told it all at once; how unwilling he was that his wifeshould come out on purpose to meet this man, and how little able hefelt himself to prevent it. 

"Of course dear Mary has to amuse herself, " said the lady, answeringthe man's look rather than his words. "And why should she not?"

"I don't know that bagatelle is a very improving occupation. "

"Or Jack a very improving companion, perhaps. But I can tell you, George, that there are more dangerous companions than poor Jack. Andthen, Mary, who is the sweetest, dearest young woman I know, is notimpulsive in that way. She is such a very child. I don't suppose sheunderstands what passion means. She has the gaiety of a lark, and theinnocence. She is always soaring upwards, which is so beautiful. "

"I don't know that there is much soaring upwards in bagatelle. "

"Nor in Jack De Baron, perhaps. But we must take all that as we findit. Of course Mary will have to amuse herself. She will never live sucha life as your sisters live at Manor Cross. The word that bestdescribes her disposition is--gay. But she is not mischievous. "

"I hope not. "

"Nor is she--passionate. You know what I mean. " He did know what shemeant, and was lost in amazement at finding that one woman, in talkingof another, never contemplated the idea that passion could exist in awife for her husband. He was to regard himself as safe, not because hiswife loved himself, but because it was not necessary to her nature tobe in love with any one! "You need not be afraid, " she went on to say. "I know Jack au fond. He tells me everything; and should there beanything to fear, I will let you know at once. "

But what had all this to do with the momentous occasion which hadbrought him to Berkeley Square? He was almost beginning to be sore atheart because she had not thrown herself into his arms. There was norepetition of that "But you do love me?" which had been so veryalarming but at the same time so very exciting on the steps of theAlbert Memorial. And then there seemed to be a probability that thewords which he had composed with so much care at his club would bealtogether wasted. He owed it to himself to do or to say something, toallude in some way to his love and hers. He could not allow himself tobe brought there in a flurry of excitement, and there to sit till itwas time for him to go, just as though it were an ordinary morningvisit. "You bade me come, " he said, "and so I came. "

"Yes, I did bid you come. I would always have you come. "

"That can hardly be; can it?"

"My idea of a friend, --of a man friend, I mean, and a real friend--issome one to whom I can say everything, who will do everything for me, who will come if I bid him and will like to stay and talk to me just aslong as I will let him; who will tell me everything, and as to whom Imay be sure that he likes me better than anybody else in the world, though he perhaps doesn't tell me so above once a month. And then inreturn----"

"Well, what in return?"

"I should think a good deal about him, you know; but I shouldn't wantalways to be telling him that I was thinking about him. He ought to becontented with knowing how much he was to me. I suppose that would notsuffice for you?"

Lord George was disposed to think that it would suffice, and that thewhole matter was now being represented to him in a very different lightthan that in which he had hitherto regarded it. The word "friend"softened down so many asperities! With such a word in his mind he neednot continually scare himself with the decalogue. All the pleasuremight be there, and the horrors altogether omitted. There would, indeed, be no occasion for his eloquence; but he had already becomeconscious that at this interview his eloquence could not be used. Shehad given everything so different a turn! "Why not suffice for me?" hesaid. "Only this, --that all I did for my friend I should expect her todo for me. "

"But that is unreasonable. Who doesn't see that in the world at largemen have the best of it almost in everything. The husband is not onlyjustified in being a tyrant, but becomes contemptible if he is not so. A man has his pocket full of money; a woman is supposed to take what hegives her. A man has all manner of amusements. "

"What amusements have I?"

"You can come to me. "

"Yes, I can do that. "

"I cannot go to you. But when you come to me, --if I am to believe thatI am really your friend, --then I am to be the tyrant of the moment. Isit not so? Do you think you would find me a hard tyrant? I own to youfreely that there is nothing in the world I like so much as yoursociety. Do I not earn by that a right to some obedience from you, tosome special observance?"

All this was so different from what he had expected, and so much morepleasant! As far as he could look into it and think of it at thepressure of the moment he did not see any reason why it should not beas she proposed. There was clearly no need for those prepared words. There had been one embrace, --an embrace that was objectionable because, had either his wife seen it or Mr. Houghton, he would have been forcedto own himself wrong; but that had come from sudden impulse, and neednot be repeated. This that was now proposed to him was friendship, andnot love. "You shall have all observance, " he said with his sweetestsmile. 

"And as to obedience? But you are a man, and therefore must not bepressed too hard. And now I may tell you what is the only thing thatcan make me happy, and the absence of which would make me miserable. "

"What thing?"

"Your society. " He blushed up to his eyes as he heard this. "Now that, I think, is a very pretty speech, and I expect something equally prettyfrom you. " He was much embarrassed, but was at the moment deliveredfrom his embarrassment by the entrance of his wife. "Here she is, " saidMrs. Houghton, getting up from her chair. "We have been just talkingabout you, my dear. If you have come for bagatelle, you must play withLord George, for Jack De Baron isn't here. "

"But I haven't come for bagatelle. "

"So much the better, for I doubt whether Lord George would be very goodat it. I have been made to play so much that I hate the very sound ofthe balls. "

"I didn't expect to find you here, " said Mary, turning to her husband. 

"Nor I you, till Mrs. Houghton said that you were coming. "

After that there was nothing of interest in their conversation. Jackdid not come, and after a few minutes Lord George proposed to his wifethat they should return home together. Of course she assented, and assoon as they were in the brougham made a little playful attack uponhim. "You are becoming fond of Berkeley Square, I think. "

"Mrs. Houghton is a friend of mine, and I am fond of my friends, " hesaid, gravely. 

"Oh, of course. "

"You went there to play that game with Captain De Baron. "

"No, I didn't. I did nothing of the kind. "

"Were you not there by appointment?"

"I told her that I should probably call. We were to have gone to someshop together, only it seems she has changed her mind. Why do you tellme that I had gone there to play some game with Captain De Baron?"

"Bagatelle. "

"Bagatelle, or anything else! It isn't true. I have played bagatellewith Captain de Baron, and I daresay I may again. Why shouldn't I?"

"And if so, would probably make some appointment to play with him. "

"Why not?"

"That was all I said. What I suggested you had done is what you declareyou will do. "

"But I had done nothing of the kind. I know very well, from the tone ofyour voice, that you meant to scold me. You implied that I had donesomething wrong. If I had done it, it wouldn't be wrong, as far as Iknow. But your scolding me about it when I hadn't done it at all isvery hard to bear. "

"I didn't scold you. "

"Yes you did, George. I understand your voice and your look. If youmean to forbid me to play bagatelle with Captain De Baron, or Captainanybody else, or to talk with Mr. This, or to laugh with Major That, tell me so at once. If I know what you want, I will do it. But I mustsay that I shall feel it very, very hard if I cannot take care ofmyself in such matters as that. If you are going to be jealous, I shallwish that I were dead. "

Then she burst out crying; and he, though he would not quite own thathe had been wrong, was forced to do so practically by little acts ofimmediate tenderness. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE MARQUIS COMES HOME. 

Some little time after the middle of April, when the hunting was allover, and Mr. Price had sunk down into his summer insignificance, therecame half a dozen telegrams to Manor Cross, from Italy, from Mr. Knox, and from a certain managing tradesman in London, to say that theMarquis was coming a fortnight sooner than he had expected. Everythingwas at sixes and sevens. Everything was in a ferment. Everybody aboutManor Cross seemed to think that the world was coming to an end. Butnone of these telegrams were addressed to any of the Germain family, and the last people in the county who heard of this homeward rush ofthe Marquis were the ladies at Cross Hall, and they heard it from LordGeorge, upon whom Mr. Knox called in London; supposing, however, whenhe did call that Lord George had already received full information onthe subject. Lord George's letter to Lady Sarah was full of dismay, full of horror. "As he has not taken the trouble to communicate hisintentions to me, I shall not go down to receive him. " "You will knowhow to deal with the matter, and will, I am sure, support our motherin this terrible trial. " "I think that the child should, at any rate, at first be acknowledged by you all as Lord Popenjoy. " "We have toregard, in the first place, the honour of the family. No remissness onhis part should induce us to forget for a moment what is due to thetitle, the property, and the name. " The letter was very long, and wasfull of sententious instructions, such as the above. But the purport ofit was to tell the ladies at Cross Hall that they must go through thefirst burden of receiving the Marquis without any assistance fromhimself. 

The Dean heard of the reported arrival some days before the family didso. It was rumoured in Brotherton, and the rumour reached the deanery. But he thought that there was nothing that he could do on the spur ofthe moment. He perfectly understood the condition of Lord George'smind, and perceived that it would not be expedient for him to interferequite on the first moment. As soon as the Marquis should have settledhimself in the house, of course he would call; and when the Marquis hadsettled himself, and when the world had begun to recognise the factthat the Marquis, with his Italian Marchioness, and his little Italian, so-called Popenjoy, were living at Manor Cross, then, --if he saw hisway, --the Dean would bestir himself. 

And so the Marquis arrived. He reached the Brotherton station with hiswife, a baby, a lady's maid, a nurse, a valet, a cook, and a courier, about three o'clock in the afternoon; and the whole crowd of them werecarried off in their carriages to Manor Cross. A great many of theinhabitants of Brotherton were there to see, for this coming of theMarquis had been talked of far and wide. He himself took no notice ofthe gathering people, --was perhaps unaware that there was anygathering. He and his wife got into one carriage; the nurse, the lady'smaid, and the baby into a second; the valet and courier, and cook intoa third. The world of Brotherton saw them, and the world of Brothertonobserved that the lady was very old and very ugly. Why on earth couldhe have married such a woman as that, and then have brought her home!That was the exclamation which was made by Brotherton in general. 

It was soon ascertained by every one about Manor Cross that theMarchioness could not speak a word of English, nor could any of thenewly imported servants do so with the exception of the courier, whowas supposed to understand all languages. There was, therefore, anabsolutely divided household. It had been thought better that the oldfamily housekeeper, Mrs. Toff, should remain in possession. Through along life she had been devoted to the old Marchioness and to the ladiesof the family generally; but she would have been useless at their newhome, and there was an idea that Manor Cross could not be maintainedwithout her. It might also be expedient to have a friend in the enemy'scamp. Other English servants had been provided, --a butler, twofootmen, a coachman, and the necessary housemaids and kitchen maids. Ithad been stated that the Marquis would bring his own cook. There were, therefore, at once two parties, at the head of one of which was Mrs. Toff, and at the head of the other the courier, --who remained, none ofthe English people knew why. 

For the first three days the Marchioness showed herself to no one. Itwas understood that the fatigues of the journey had oppressed her, andthat she chose to confine herself to two or three rooms upstairs, whichhad been prepared for her. Mrs. Toff, strictly obeying orders which hadcome from Cross Hall, sent up her duty and begged to know whether sheshould wait upon my lady. My lady sent down word that she didn't wantto see Mrs. Toff. These messages had to be filtered through thecourier, who was specially odious to Mrs. Toff. His Lordship was almostas closely secluded as her Ladyship. He did, indeed, go out to thestables, wrapped up in furs, and found fault with everything he sawthere. And he had himself driven round the park. But he did not get upon any of these days till noon, and took all his meals by himself. TheEnglish servants averred that during the whole of this time he neveronce saw the Marchioness or the baby; but then the English servantscould not very well have known what he saw or what he did not see. 

But this was very certain, that during those three days he did not goto Cross Hall, or see any one of his own family. Mrs. Toff in thegloaming of the evening, on the third day, hurried across the park tosee--the young ladies as she still called them. Mrs. Toff thought thatit was all very dreadful. She didn't know what was being done in thoseapartments. She had never set her eyes upon the baby. She didn't feelsure that there was any baby at all, though John, --John was one of theEnglish servants, --had seen a bundle come into the house. Wouldn't itbe natural and right that any real child should be carried out to takethe air? "And then all manner of messes were, " said Mrs. Toff, "prepared up in the closed room. " Mrs. Toff didn't believe in anything, except that everything was going to perdition. The Marchioness wasintent on asking after the health and appearance of her son, but Mrs. Toff declared that she hadn't been allowed to catch a sight of "mylord. " Mrs. Toff's account was altogether very lachrymose. She spoke ofthe Marquis, of course, with the utmost respect. But she wassufficiently intimate with the ladies to treat the baby and its motherwith all the scorn of an upturned nose. Nor was the name of Popenjoyonce heard from her lips. 

But what were the ladies to do? On the evening of the third day LadySarah wrote to her brother George, begging him to come down to them. "The matter was so serious, that he was, " said Lady Sarah, "bound tolend the strength of his presence to his mother and sisters. " But onthe fourth morning Lady Sarah sent over a note to her brother, theMarquis. 

 "DEAR BROTHERTON, --We hope that you and your wife and little boy have arrived well, and have found things comfortable. Mamma is most anxious to see you, --as of course we all are. Will you not come over to us to-day. I dare say my sister-in-law may be too fatigued to come out as yet. I need not tell you that we are very anxious to see your little Popenjoy. 

 "Your affectionate Sister, "SARAH GERMAIN. "

It may be seen from this that the ladies contemplated peace, if peacewere possible. But in truth the nature of the letter, though not thewords, had been dictated by the Marchioness. She was intent upon seeingher son, and anxious to acknowledge her grandchild. Lady Sarah had felther position to be very difficult, but had perceived that no temporaryacceptance by them of the child would at all injure her brotherGeorge's claim, should Lord George set up a claim, and so, in deferenceto the old lady, the peaceful letter was sent off, with directions tothe messenger to wait for an answer. The messenger came back withtidings that his Lordship was in bed. Then there was anotherconsultation. The Marquis, though in bed, had of course read theletter. Had he felt at all as a son and a brother ought to feel, hewould have sent some reply to such a message. It must be, they felt, that he intended to live there and utterly ignore his mother andsisters. What should they do then? How should they be able to live? TheMarchioness surrendered herself to a paroxysm of weeping, bitterlyblaming those who had not allowed her to go away and hide herself insome distant obscurity. Her son, her eldest son, had cast her offbecause she had disobeyed his orders! "His orders!" said Lady Sarah, inscorn, almost in wrath against her mother. "What right has he to giveorders either to you or us? He has forgotten himself, and is onlyworthy to be forgotten. " Just as she spoke the Manor Cross phaeton, with the Manor Cross ponies, was driven up to the door, and LadyAmelia, who went to the window, declared that Brotherton himself was inthe carriage. "Oh, my son; my darling son, " said the Marchioness, throwing up her arms. 

It really was the Marquis. It seemed to the ladies to be a very longtime indeed before he got into the room, so leisurely was he indivesting himself of his furs and comforters. During this time theMarchioness would have rushed into the hall had not Lady Sarahprevented her. The old lady was quite overcome with emotion, andprepared to lay at the feet of her eldest son, if he would only extendto her the slightest sign of affection. "So, here you all are, " he saidas he entered the room. "It isn't much of a house for you, but youwould have it so. " He was of course forced to kiss his mother, but thekiss was not very fervent in its nature. To each of his sisters hemerely extended his hand. This Amelia received with empressement; for, after all, severe though he was, nevertheless he was the head of thefamily. Susanna measured the pressure which he gave, and returned backto him the exact weight. Lady Sarah made a little speech. "We are veryglad to see you; Brotherton. You have been away a long time. "

"A deuced long time. "

"I hope your wife is well;--and the little boy. When will she wish thatwe should go and see her?" The Marchioness during this time had gotpossession of his left hand, and from her seat was gazing up into hisface. He was a very handsome man, but pale, worn, thin, and apparentlyunhealthy. He was very like Lord George, but smaller in feature, andwanting full four inches of his brother's height. Lord George's hairwas already becoming grey at the sides. That of the Marquis, who wasten years older, was perfectly black;--but his Lordship's valet hadprobably more to do with that than nature. He wore an exquisitemoustache, but in other respects was close shaven. He was dressed withgreat care, and had fur even on the collar of his frock coat, so muchdid he fear the inclemency of his native climate. 

"She doesn't speak a word of English, you know, " he said, answering hissister's question. 

"We might manage to get on in French, " said Lady Sarah. 

"She doesn't speak a word of French either. She never was out of Italytill now. You had better not trouble yourselves about her. "

This was dreadful to them all. It was monstrous to them that thereshould be a Marchioness of Brotherton, a sister-in-law, living close tothem, whom they were to acknowledge to be the reigning Marchioness, andthat they should not be allowed to see her. It was not that theyanticipated pleasure from her acquaintance. It was not that they wereanxious to welcome such a new relation. This marriage, if it were amarriage, was a terrible blow to them. It would have been infinitelybetter for them all that, having such a wife, he should have kept herin Italy. But, as she was here in England, as she was to beacknowledged, --as far as they knew at present, --it was a fearful thingthat she should be living close to them and not be seen by them. Forsome moments after his last announcement they were stricken dumb. Hewas standing with his back to the fire, looking at his boots. TheMarchioness was the first to speak. "We may see Popenjoy!" sheexclaimed through her sobs. 

"I suppose he can be brought down, --if you care about it. "

"Of course we care about it, " said Lady Amelia. 

"They tell me he is not strong, and I don't suppose they'll let himcome out such weather as this. You'll have to wait. I don't think anybody ought to stir out in this weather. It doesn't suit me, I know. Such an abominable place as it is I never saw in my life. There is nota room in the house that is not enough to make a man blow his brainsout. "

Lady Sarah could not stand this, nor did she think it right to put upwith the insolence of his manner generally. "If so, " she said, "it is apity that you came away from Italy. "

He turned sharply round and looked at her for an instant before heanswered. And as he did so she remembered the peculiar tyranny of hiseyes, --the tyranny to which, when a boy, he had ever endeavoured tomake her subject, and all others around him. Others had become subjectbecause he was the Lord Popenjoy of the day, and would be the futureMarquis; but she, though recognising his right to be first in everything, had ever rebelled against his usurpation of unauthorized power. He, too, remembered all this, and almost snarled at her with his eyes. "I suppose I might stay if I liked, or come back if I liked, withoutasking you, " he said. 

"Certainly. "

"But you are the same as ever you were. "

"Oh, Brotherton, " said the Marchioness, "do not quarrel with usdirectly you have come back. "

"You may be quite sure, mother, that I shall not take the trouble toquarrel with any one. It takes two for that work. If I wanted toquarrel with her or you, I have cause enough. "

"I know of none, " said Lady Sarah. 

"I explained to you my wishes about this house, and you disregardedthem altogether. " The old lady looked up at her eldest daughter asthough to say, "There, --that was your sin. " "I knew what was better foryou and better for me. It is impossible that there should be pleasantintercourse between you and my wife, and I recommended you to goelsewhere. If you had done so I would have taken care that you werecomfortable. " Again the Marchioness looked at Lady Sarah with bitterreproaches in her eyes. 

"What interest in life would we have had in a distant home?" said LadySarah. 

"Why not you as well as other people?"

"Because, unlike other people, we have become devoted to one spot. Theproperty belongs to you. "

"I hope so. "

"But the obligations of the property have been, at any rate, as near tous as to you. Society, I suppose, may be found in a new place, but wedo not care much for society. "

"Then it would have been so much the easier. "

"But it would have been impossible for us to find new duties. "

"Nonsense, " said the Marquis, "humbug; d----d trash. "

"If you cannot speak otherwise than like that before your mother, Brotherton, I think you had better leave her, " said Lady Sarah, bravely. 

"Don't, Sarah, --don't!" said the Marchioness. 

"It is trash and nonsense, and humbug. I told you that you were betteraway, and you determined to stay. I knew what was best for you, but youchose to be obstinate. I have not the slightest doubt as to who didit. "

"We were all of the same mind, " said Lady Susanna. "Alice said it wouldbe quite cruel that mamma should be moved. " Alice was now the wife ofCanon Holdenough. 

"It would have been very bad for us all to go away, " said Lady Amelia. 

"George was altogether against it, " said Lady Susanna. 

"And the Dean, " said Lady Amelia, indiscreetly. 

"The Dean!" exclaimed the Marquis. "Do you mean to say that that stableboy has been consulted about my affairs? I should have thought that notone of you would have spoken to George after he had disgraced himselfby such a marriage. "

"There was no need to consult any one, " said Lady Sarah. "And we do notthink George's marriage at all disgraceful. "

"Mary is a very nice young person, " said the Marchioness. 

"I dare say. Whether she is nice or not is very little to me. She hasgot some fortune, and I suppose that was what he wanted. As you are allof you fixed here now, and seem to have spent a lot of money, I supposeyou will have to remain. You have turned my tenant out----"

"Mr. Price was quite willing to go, " said Lady Susanna. 

"I dare say. I trust he may be as willing to give up the land when hislease is out. I have been told that he is a sporting friend of theDean's. It seems to me that you have, all of you, got into a nice messhere by yourselves. All I want you to understand is that I cannot nowtrouble myself about you. "

"You don't mean to give us up, " said the afflicted mother. "You'll comeand see me sometimes, won't you?"

"Certainly not, if I am to be insulted by my sister. "

"I have insulted no one, " said Lady Sarah, haughtily. 

"It was no insult to tell me that I ought to have stayed in Italy, andnot have come to my own house!"

"Sarah, you ought not to have said that, " exclaimed the Marchioness. 

"He complained that everything here was uncomfortable, and therefore Isaid it. He knows that I did not speak of his return in any othersense. Since he settled himself abroad there has not been a day onwhich I have not wished that he would come back to his own house andhis own duties. If he will treat us properly, no one will treat himwith higher consideration than I. But we have our own rights as well ashe, and are as well able to guard them. "

"Sarah can preach as well as ever, " he said. 

"Oh! my children, --oh! my children!" sobbed the old lady. 

"I have had about enough of this. I knew what it would be when youwrote to me to come to you. " Then he took up his hat, as though he weregoing. 

"And am I to see nothing more of you?" asked his mother. 

"I will come to you, mother, --once a-week if you wish it. Every Sundayafternoon will be as good a time as any other. But I will not comeunless I am assured of the absence of Lady Sarah. I will not subjectmyself to her insolence, nor put myself in the way of being annoyed bya ballyragging quarrel. "

"I and my sisters are always at Church on Sunday afternoons, " said LadySarah. 

In this way the matter was arranged, and then the Marquis took himselfoff. For some time after he left the room the Marchioness sat insilence, sobbing now and again, and then burying her face in herhandkerchief. "I wish we had gone away when he told us, " she said, atlast. 

"No, mamma, " said her eldest daughter. "No, --certainly no. Even thoughall this is very miserable, it is not so bad as running away in orderthat we might be out of his way. No good can ever be got by yielding inwhat is wrong to any one. This is your house; and as yours it is ours. "

"Oh, yes. "

"And here we can do something to justify our lives. We have a workappointed to us which we are able to perform. What will his wife do forthe people here? Why are we not to say our prayers in the Church whichwe all know and love? Why are we to leave Alice--and Mary? Why shouldhe, because he is the eldest of us, --he, who for so many years hasdeserted the place, --why is he to tell us where to live, and where notto live. He is rich, and we are poor, but we have never been pensionerson his bounty. The park, I suppose, is now closed to us; but I amprepared to live here in defiance of him. " This she said walking up anddown the room as she spoke, and she said it with so much energy thatshe absolutely carried her sisters with her and again partly convincedher mother. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE MARQUIS AMONG HIS FRIENDS. 

There was, of course, much perturbation of mind at Brotherton as towhat should be done on this occasion of the Marquis's return. Mr. Knoxhad been consulted by persons in the town, and had given it as hisopinion that nothing should be done. Some of the tradesmen and a few ofthe tenants living nearest to the town had suggested a triumphalentry, --green boughs, a bonfire, and fire works. This idea, however, did not prevail long. The Marquis of Brotherton was clearly not a manto be received with green boughs and bonfires. All that soon died away. But there remained what may be called the private difficulty. Many inBrotherton and around Brotherton had of course known the man when hewas young, and could hardly bring themselves to take no notice of hisreturn. One or two drove over and simply left their cards. The bishopasked to see him, and was told that he was out. Dr. Pountner did seehim, catching him at his own hall door, but the interview was veryshort, and not particularly pleasant. "Dr. Pountner. Well; I doremember you, certainly. But we have all grown older, you know. "

"I came, " said the doctor, with a face redder than ever, "to pay myrespects to your Lordship, and to leave my card on your wife. "

"We are much obliged to you, --very much obliged. Unfortunately we areboth invalids. " Then the doctor, who had not got out of his carriage, was driven home again. The doctor had been a great many years atBrotherton, and had known the old Marquis well. "I don't know what youand Holdenough will make of him, " the doctor said to the Dean. "Isuppose you will both be driven into some communion with him. I shan'ttry it again. "

The Dean and Canon Holdenough had been in consultation on the subject, and had agreed that they would each of them act as though the Marquishad been like any other gentleman, and his wife like any other newlymarried lady. They were both now connected with the family, and evenbound to act on the presumption that there would be family friendship. The Dean went on his errand first, and the Dean was admitted into hissitting-room. This happened a day or two after the scene at Cross Hall. "I don't know that I should have troubled you so soon, " said the Dean, "had not your brother married my daughter. " The Dean had thought overthe matter carefully, making up his mind how far he would be courteousto the man, and where he would make a stand if it were necessary thathe should make a stand at all. And he had determined that he would askafter the new Lady Brotherton, and speak of the child as Lord Popenjoy, the presumption being that a man is married when he says so himself, and that his child is legitimate when declared to be so. His presentacknowledgment would not bar any future proceedings. 

"There has been a good deal of marrying and giving in marriage since Ihave been away, " replied the Marquis. 

"Yes, indeed. There has been your brother, your sister, and last, notleast, yourself. "

"I was not thinking of myself. I meant among you here. The church seemsto carry everything before it. "

It seemed to the Dean, who was sufficiently mindful of his daughter'sfortune, and who knew to a penny what was the very liberal income ofCanon Holdenough, that in these marriages the church had at least givenas much as it had got. "The church holds its own, " said the Dean, "andI hope that it always will. May I venture to express a hope that theMarchioness is well. "

"Not very well. "

"I am sorry for that. Shall I not have the pleasure of seeing herto-day?"

The Marquis looked as though he were almost astounded at the impudenceof the proposition; but he replied to it by the excuse that he had madebefore. "Unless you speak Italian I'm afraid you would not get on verywell with her. "

"She will not find that I have the Tuscan tongue or the Roman mouth, but I have enough of the language to make myself perhaps intelligibleto her ladyship. "

"We will postpone it for the present, if you please, Mr. Dean. "

There was an insolence declared in the man's manner and almost declaredin his words, which made the Dean at once determine that he would neveragain ask after the new Marchioness, and that he would make no allusionwhatever to the son. A man may say that his wife is too unwell toreceive strangers without implying that the wish to see her should nothave been expressed. The visitor bowed, and then the two men both satsilent for some moments. "You have not seen your brother since you havebeen back?" the Dean said at last. 

"I have not seen him. I don't know where he is, or anything about him. "

"They live in London, --in Munster Court. "

"Very likely. He didn't consult me about his marriage, and I don't knowanything about his concerns. "

"He told you of it, --before it took place. "

"Very likely, --though I do not exactly see how that concerns you andme. "

"You must be aware that he is married to--my daughter. "

"Quite so. "

"That would, generally, be supposed to give a common interest. "

"Ah! I dare say. You feel it so, no doubt. I am glad that you aresatisfied by an alliance with my family. You are anxious for me toprofess that it is reciprocal. "

"I am anxious for nothing of the kind, " said the Dean, jumping up fromhis chair. "I have nothing to get and nothing to lose by the alliance. The usual courtesies of life are pleasant to me. "

"I wish that you would use them then on the present occasion by being alittle quieter. "

"Your brother has married a lady, and my daughter has married agentleman. "

"Yes; George is a great ass; in some respects the greatest ass I know;but he is a gentleman. Perhaps if you have anything else that you wishto say you will do me the honour of sitting down. "

The Dean was so angry that he did not know how to contain himself. TheMarquis had snubbed him for coming. He had then justified his visit byan allusion to the connection between them, and the Marquis had repliedto this by hinting that though a Dean might think it a very fine thingto have his daughter married into the family of a Marquis, the Marquisprobably would not look at it in the same light. And yet what was thetruth? Whence had come the money which had made the marriage possible?In the bargain between them which party had had the best of it? He wasconscious that it would not become him to allude to the money, but hisfeeling on the subject was very strong. "My lord, " he said, "I do notknow that there is anything to be gained by my sitting down again. "

"Perhaps not. I dare say you know best. "

"I came here intent on what I considered to be a courtesy due to yourlordship. I am sorry that my visit has been mistaken. "

"I don't see that there is anything to make a fuss about. "

"It shall not be repeated, my lord. " And so he left the room. 

Why on earth had the man come back to England, bringing a foreign womanand an Italian brat home with him, if he intended to make the place toohot to hold him by insulting everybody around him? This was the firstquestion the Dean asked himself, when he found himself outside thehouse. And what could the man hope to gain by such insolence? Insteadof taking the road through the park back to Brotherton, he went on toCross Hall. He was desirous of learning what were the impressions, andwhat the intentions, of the ladies there. Did this madman mean toquarrel with his mother and sisters as well as with his otherneighbours? He did not as yet know what intercourse there had beenbetween the two houses, since the Marquis had been at Manor Cross. Andin going to Cross Hall in the midst of all these troubles, he was nodoubt actuated in part by a determination to show himself to be one ofthe family. If they would accept his aid, no one would be more loyalthan he to these ladies. But he would not be laid aside. If anythingunjust were intended, if any fraud was to be executed, the person mostto be injured would be that hitherto unborn grandson of his for whoseadvent he was so anxious. He had been very free with his money, but hemeant to have his money's worth. 

At Cross Hall he found Canon Holdenough's wife and the Canon. At themoment of his entrance old Lady Brotherton was talking to theclergyman, and Lady Alice was closeted in a corner with her sisterSarah. "I would advise you to go just as though you had heard nothingfrom us, " Lady Sarah had said. "Of course he would be readier toquarrel with me than with any one. For mamma's sake I would go away fora time if I had anywhere to go to. "

"Come to us, " Lady Alice had said. But Lady Sarah had declared that shewould be as much in the way at Brotherton as at Cross Hall, and hadthen gone on to explain that it was Lady Alice's duty to call on hersister-in-law, and that she must do so, --facing the consequenceswhatever they might be. "Of course mamma could not go till he had beenhere, " Lady Sarah added; "and now he has told mamma not to go at all. But that is nothing to you. "

"I have just come from the house, " said the Dean. 

"Did you see him?" asked the old woman with awe. 

"Yes; I saw him. "

"Well!"

"I must say that he was not very civil to me, and that I suppose I haveseen all of him that I shall see. "

"It is only his manner, " said her ladyship. 

"An unfortunate manner, surely. "

"Poor Brotherton!"

Then the Canon said a word. "Of course no one wants to trouble him. Ican speak at least for myself. I do not, --certainly. I have requestedher ladyship to ask him whether he would wish me to call or not. If hesays that he does, I shall expect him to receive me cordially. If hedoes not--there's an end of it. "

"I hope you won't all of you turn against him, " said the Marchioness. 

"Turn against him!" repeated the Dean. "I do not suppose that there isany one who would not be both kind and courteous to him, if he wouldaccept kindness and courtesy. It grieves me to make you unhappy, Marchioness, but I am bound to let you know that he treated me verybadly. " From that moment the Marchioness made up her mind that the Deanwas no friend of the family, and that he was, after all, vulgar anddisagreeable. She undertook, however, to enquire from her son on nextSunday whether he would wish to be called upon by his brother-in-law, the Canon. 

On the following day Lady Alice went alone to Manor Cross, --being thefirst lady who had gone to the door since the new arrivals, --and askedfor Lady Brotherton. The courier came to the door and said "not athome, " in a foreign accent, just as the words might have been said toany chance caller in London. Then Lady Alice asked the man to tell herbrother that she was there. "Not at home, miladi, " said the man, in thesame tone. At that moment Mrs. Toff came running through the long hallto the carriage door. The house was built round a quadrangle, and allthe ground floor of the front and of one of the sides consisted ofhalls, passages, and a billiard-room. Mrs. Toff must have been watchingvery closely or she could hardly have known that Lady Alice was there. She came out and stood beside the carriage, and leaning in, whisperedher fears and unhappinesses. "Oh! my lady, I'm afraid it's very bad. Ihaven't set eyes on the--the--his wife, my lady, yet; nor the littleboy. "

"Are they in now, Mrs. Toff?"

"Of course they're in. They never go out. He goes about all theafternoon in a dressing-gown, smoking bits of paper, and she lies inbed or gets up and doesn't do, --nothing at all, as far as I can see, Lady Alice. But as for being in, of course they're in; they're alwaysin. " Lady Alice, however, feeling that she had done her duty, and notwishing to take the place by storm, had herself driven back toBrotherton. 

On the following Sunday afternoon the Marquis came, according to hispromise, and found his mother alone. "The fact is, mother, " he said, "you have got a regular church set around you during the last year ortwo, and I will have nothing to do with them. I never cared much forBrotherton Close, and now I like it less than ever. " The Marchionessmoaned and looked up into his face imploringly. She was anxious to saysomething in defence, at any rate, of her daughter's marriage, butspecially anxious to say nothing that should not anger him. Of coursehe was unreasonable, but, according to her lights, he, being theMarquis, had a right to be unreasonable. "The Dean came to me the otherday, " continued he, "and I could see at a glance that he meant to bequite at home in the house, if I didn't put him down. "

"You'll see Mr. Holdenough, won't you? Mr. Holdenough is a verygentlemanlike man, and the Holdenoughs were always quite county people. You used to like Alice. "

"If you ask me, I think she has been a fool at her age to go and marryan old parson. As for receiving him, I shan't receive anybody, --in theway of entertaining them. I haven't come home for that purpose. Mychild will have to live here when he is a man. "

"God bless him!" said the Marchioness. 

"Or at any rate his property will be here. They tell me that it will bewell that he should be used to this damnable climate early in life. Hewill have to go to school here, and all that. So I have brought him, though I hate the place. "

"It is so nice to have you back, Brotherton. "

"I don't know about its being nice. I don't find much niceness in it. Had I not got myself married I should never have come back. But it's aswell that you all should know that there is an heir. "

"God bless him!" said the Marchioness, again. "But don't you think thatwe ought to see him?"

"See him! Why?" He asked the question sharply, and looked at her withthat savageness in his eyes which all the family remembered so well, and which she specially feared. 

That question of the legitimacy of the boy had never been distinctlydiscussed at Cross Hall, and the suspicious hints on the subject whichhad passed between the sisters, the allusions to this and the otherpossibility which had escaped them, had been kept as far as possiblefrom their mother. They had remarked among themselves that it was veryodd that the marriage should have been concealed, and almost more thanodd that an heir to the title should have been born without anyannouncement of such a birth. A dread of some evil mystery had filledtheir thoughts, and shown itself in their words and looks to eachother. And, though they had been very anxious to keep this from theirmother, something had crept through which had revealed a suspicion ofthe suspicion even to her. She, dear old lady, had resolved upon noline of conduct in the matter. She had conceived no project ofrebelling against her eldest daughter, or of being untrue to heryoungest son. But now that she was alone with her eldest son, with thereal undoubted Marquis, with him who would certainly be to her morethan all the world beside if he would only allow it, there did comeinto her head an idea that she would put him on his guard. 

"Because, --because----"

"Because what? Speak out, mother. "

"Because, perhaps they'll say that--that----"

"What will they say?"

"If they don't see him, they may think he isn't Popenjoy at all. "

"Oh! they'll think that, will they? How will seeing help them?"

"It would be so nice to have him here, if it's only for a little, " saidthe Marchioness. 

"So that's it, " he said, after a long pause. "That's George's game, andthe Dean's; I can understand. "

"No, no, no; not George, " said the unhappy mother. 

"And Sarah, I dare say, is in a boat with them. I don't wonder thatthey should choose to remain here and watch me. "

"I am sure George has never thought of such a thing. "

"George will think as his father-in-law bids him. George was never verygood at thinking for himself. So you fancy they'll be more likely toaccept the boy if they see him. "

"Seeing is believing, Brotherton. "

"There's something in that, to be sure. Perhaps they don't think I'vegot a wife at all, because they haven't seen her. "

"Oh, yes; they believe that. "

"How kind of them. Well, mother, you've let the cat out of the bag. "

"Don't tell them that I said so. "

"No; I won't tell. Nor am I very much surprised. I thought how it wouldbe when I didn't announce it all in the old-fashioned way. It's luckythat I have the certificated proof of the date of my marriage, isn'tit?"

"It's all right, of course. I never doubted it, Brotherton. "

"But all the others did. I knew there was something up when Georgewasn't at home to meet me. "

"He is coming. "

"He may stay away if he likes it. I don't want him. He won't have thecourage to tell me up to my face that he doesn't intend to acknowledgemy boy. He's too great a coward for that. "

"I'm sure it's not George, Brotherton. "

"Who is it, then?"

"Perhaps it's the Dean. "

"D---- his impudence. How on earth among you could you let George marrythe daughter of a low-bred ruffian like that, --a man that never oughtto have been allowed to put his foot inside the house?"

"She had such a very nice fortune! And then he wanted to marry thatscheming girl, Adelaide De Baron, --without a penny. "

"The De Barons, at any rate, are gentlefolk. If the Dean meddles withme, he shall find that he has got the wrong sow by the ear. If he putshis foot in the park again I'll have him warned off as a trespasser. "

"But you'll see Mr. Holdenough?"

"I don't want to see anybody. I mean to hold my own, and do as I pleasewith my own, and live as I like, and toady no one. What can I have incommon with an old parson like that?"

"You'll let me see Popenjoy, Brotherton?"

"Yes, " he said, pausing a moment before he answered her. "He shall bebrought here, and you shall see him. But mind, mother, I shall expectyou to tell me all that you hear. "

"Indeed, I will. "

"You will not rebel against me, I suppose. "

"Oh, no;--my son, my son!" Then she fell upon his neck, and he sufferedit for a minute, thinking it wise to make sure of one ally in thathouse. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE MARQUIS SEES HIS BROTHER. 

When Lord George was summoned down to Manor Cross, --or rather, to CrossHall, he did not dare not to go. Lady Sarah had told him that it washis duty, and he could not deny the assertion. But he was very angrywith his brother, and did not in the least wish to see him. Nor did hethink that by seeing him he could in any degree render easier thathorrible task which would, sooner or later, be imposed upon him, oftesting the legitimacy of his brother's child. And there were otherreasons which made him unwilling to leave London. He did not like to beaway from his young wife. She was, of course, a matron now, andentitled to be left alone, according to the laws of the world; but thenshe was so childish, and so fond of playing bagatelle with Jack DeBaron! He had never had occasion to find fault with her; not to saywords to her which he himself would regard as fault-finding wordsthough she had complained more than once of his scolding her. He wouldcaution her, beg her to be grave, ask her to read heavy books, and tryto impress her with the solemnity of married life. In this way he wouldquell her spirits for a few hours. Then she would burst out again, andthere would be Jack De Baron and the bagatelle. In all these sorrows hesolaced himself by asking advice from Mrs. Houghton. By degrees he toldMrs. Houghton almost everything. The reader may remember that there hadbeen a moment in which he had resolved that he would not again go toBerkeley Square. But all that was very much altered now. He was therealmost every day, and consulted the lady about every thing. She hadinduced him even to talk quite openly about this Italian boy, toexpress his suspicions, and to allude to most distressing duties whichmight be incumbent on him. She strenuously advised him to take nothingfor granted. If the Marquisate was to be had by careful scrutiny shewas quite of opinion that it should not be lost by careless confidence. This sort of friendship was very pleasant to him, and especially so, because he could tell himself that there was nothing wicked in it. Nodoubt her hand would be in his sometimes for a moment, and once ortwice his arm had almost found its way round her waist. But these hadbeen small deviations, which he had taken care to check. No doubt ithad occurred to him, once or twice, that she had not been careful tocheck them. But this, when he thought of it maturely, he attributed toinnocence. 

It was at last, by her advice, that he begged that one of his sistersmight come up to town, as a companion to Mary during his absence atCross Hall. This counsel she had given to him after assuring himhalf-a-dozen times that there was nothing to fear. He had named Amelia, Mary having at once agreed to the arrangement, on condition that theyounger of the three sisters should be invited. The letter was ofcourse written to Lady Sarah. All such letters always were written toLady Sarah. Lady Sarah had answered, saying, that Susanna would takethe place destined for Amelia. Now Susanna, of all the Germain family, was the one whom Mary disliked the most. But there was no help for it. She thought it hard, but she was not strong enough in her own positionto say that she would not have Susanna, because Susanna had not beenasked. "I think Lady Susanna will be the best, " said Lord George, "because she has so much strength of character. "

"Strength of character! You speak as if you were going away for threeyears, and were leaving me in the midst of danger. You'll be back infive days, I suppose. I really think I could have got on withoutSusanna's--strength of character!" This was her revenge; but, all thesame, Lady Susanna came. 

"She is as good as gold, " said Lord George, who was himself as weak aswater. "She is as good as gold; but there is a young man comes herewhom I don't care for her to see too often. " This was what he said toLady Susanna. 

"Oh, indeed! Who is he?"

"Captain De Baron. You are not to suppose that she cares a straw abouthim. "

"Oh, no; I am sure there can be nothing of that, " said Lady Susanna, feeling herself to be as energetic as Cerberus, and as many-eyed asArgus. 

"You must take care of yourself now, master Jack, " Mrs. Houghton saidto her cousin. "A duenna has been sent for. "

"Duennas always go to sleep, don't they; and take tips; and aregenerally open to reason?"

"Oh, heavens! Fancy tipping Lady Susanna! I should think that she neverslept in her life with both eyes at the same time, and that she thinksin her heart that every man who says a civil word ought to have histongue cut out. "

"I wonder how she'd take it if I were to say a civil word to herself?"

"You can try; but as far as Madame is concerned, you had better waittill Monsieur is back again. "

Lord George, having left his wife in the hands of Lady Susanna, wentdown to Brotherton and on to Cross Hall. He arrived on the Saturdayafter that first Sunday visit paid by the Marquis to his mother. Theearly part of the past week had been very blank down in those parts. Nofurther personal attempts had been made to intrude upon the Manor Crossmysteries. The Dean had not been seen again, even at Cross Hall. Mr. Holdenough had made no attempt after the reception, --or rathernon-reception, --awarded to his wife. Old Mr. De Baron had driven over, and had seen the Marquis, but nothing more than that fact was known atCross Hall. He had been there for about an hour, and as far as Mrs. Toff knew, the Marquis had been very civil to him. But Mr. De Baron, though a cousin, was not by any means one of the Germain party. Then, on Saturday there had been an affair. Mrs. Toff had come to the Hall, boiling over with the importance of her communication, and stating thatshe had been--turned out of the house. She, who had presided overeverything material at Manor Cross for more than thirty years, from thefamily pictures down to the kitchen utensils, had been absolutelydesired to--walk herself off. The message had been given to her by thataccursed Courier, and she had then insisted on seeing the Marquis. "MyLord, " she said, only laughed at her. "'Mrs. Toff, ' he had said, 'youare my mother's servant, and my sisters'. You had better go and livewith them. '" She had then hinted at the shortness of the notice givenher, upon which he had offered her anything she chose to ask in the wayof wages and board wages. "But I wouldn't take a penny, my Lady; onlyjust what was due up to the very day. " As Mrs. Toff was a great dealtoo old a servant to be really turned away, and as she merely migratedfrom Manor Cross to Cross Hall, she did not injure herself much byrefusing the offers made to her. 

It must be held that the Marquis was justified in getting rid of Mrs. Toff. Mrs. Toff was, in truth, a spy in his camp, and, of course, hisown people were soon aware of that fact. Her almost daily journeys toCross Hall were known, and it was remembered, both by the Marquis andhis wife, that this old woman, who had never been allowed to see thechild, but who had known all the preceding generation as children, could not but be an enemy. Of course it was patent to all the servants, and to every one connected with the two houses, that there was war. Ofcourse, the Marquis, having an old woman acting spy in his stronghold, got rid of her. But justice would shortly have required that the otherold woman, who was acting spy in the other stronghold, should be turnedout, also. But the Marchioness, who had promised to tell everything toher son, could not very well be offered wages and be made to go. 

In the midst of the ferment occasioned by this last piece of work LordGeorge reached Cross Hall. He had driven through the park, that waybeing nearly as short as the high road, and had left word at the housethat he would call on the following morning, immediately after morningchurch. This he did, in consequence of a resolution which he hadmade, --to act on his own judgment. A terrible crisis was coming, inwhich it would not be becoming that he should submit himself either tohis eldest sister, or to the Dean. He had talked the matter over fullywith Mrs. Houghton, and Mrs. Houghton had suggested that he should callon his way out to the Hall. 

The ladies had at first to justify their request that he should come tothem, and there was a difficulty in doing this, as he was received inpresence of their mother. Lady Sarah had not probably told herself thatthe Marchioness was a spy, but she had perceived that it would not bewise to discuss everything openly in her mother's presence. "It isquite right that you should see him, " said Lady Sarah. 

"Quite right, " said the old lady. 

"Had he sent me even a message I should have been here, of course, "said the brother. "He passed through London, and I would have met himthere had he not kept everything concealed. "

"He isn't like anybody else, you know. You mustn't quarrel with him. Heis the head of the family. If we quarrel with him, what will become ofus?"

"What will become of him if everybody falls off from him. That's what Iam thinking of, " said Lady Sarah. 

Soon after this all the horrors that had taken place, --horrors whichcould not be entrusted to a letter, --were narrated him. The Marquis hadinsulted Dr. Pountner, he had not returned the Bishop's visit, he hadtreated the Dean with violent insolence, and he had refused to receivehis brother-in-law, Mr. Holdenough, though the Holdenoughs had alwaysmoved in county society! He had declared that none of his relativeswere to be introduced to his wife. He had not as yet allowed theso-called Popenjoy to be seen. He had said none of them were to troublehim at Manor Cross, and had explained his purpose, of only coming tothe Hall when he knew that his sister Sarah was away. "I think he mustbe mad, " said the younger brother. 

"It is what comes of living in a godless country like Italy, " said LadyAmelia. 

"It is what comes of utterly disregarding duty, " said Lady Sarah. 

But what was to be done? The Marquis had declared his purpose of doingwhat he liked with his own, and certainly none of them could hinderhim. If he chose to shut himself and his wife up at the big house, hemust do so. It was very bad, but it was clear that they could notinterfere with his eccentricities. How was anybody to interfere? Ofcourse, there was present in the mind of each of them a feeling thatthis woman might not be his wife, or that the child might not belegitimate. But they did not like with open words among themselves toaccuse their brother of so great a crime. "I don't see what there is tobe done, " said Lord George. 

The Church was in the park, not very far from the house, but nearer tothe gate leading to Brotherton. On that Sunday morning the Marchionessand her youngest daughter went there in the carriage, and in doing so, had to pass the front doors. The previous Sunday had been cold, andthis was the first time that the Marchioness had seen Manor Cross sinceher son had been there. "Oh, dear! if I could only go in and see thedear child, " she said. 

"You know you can't, mamma, " said Amelia. 

"It is all Sarah's fault, because she would quarrel with him. "

After Church the ladies returned in the carriage, and Lord George wentto the house according to his appointment. He was shown into a smallparlour, and in about half an hour's time luncheon was brought to him. He then asked whether his brother was coming. The servant went away, promising to enquire, but did not return. He was cross and would eat nolunch, --but after awhile rang the bell, loudly, and again asked thesame question. The servant again went away and did not return. He hadjust made up his mind to leave the house and never to return to it, when the Courier, of whom he had heard, came to usher him into hisbrother's room. "You seem to be in a deuce of a hurry, George, " saidthe Marquis, without getting out of his chair. "You forget that peopledon't get up at the same hour all the world over. "

"It's half-past two now. "

"Very likely; but I don't know that there is any law to make a mandress himself before that hour. "

"The servant might have given me a message. "

"Don't make a row now you are here, old fellow. When I found you werein the house I got down as fast as I could. I suppose your time isn'tso very precious. "

Lord George had come there determined not to quarrel if he could helpit. He had very nearly quarrelled already. Every word that his brothersaid was in truth an insult, --being, as they were, the first wordsspoken after so long an interval. They were intended to be insolent, probably intended to drive him away. But if anything was to be gainedby the interview he must not allow himself to be driven away. He had aduty to perform, --a great duty. He was the last man in England tosuspect a fictitious heir, --would at any rate be the last to hint atsuch an iniquity without the strongest ground. Who is to be true to abrother if not a brother? Who is to support the honour of a greatfamily if not its own scions? Who is to abstain from wasting the wealthand honour of another, if not he who has the nearest chance ofpossessing them? And yet who could be so manifestly bound as he to takecare that no surreptitious head was imposed upon the family. Thislittle child was either the real Popenjoy, a boy to be held by him asof all boys the most sacred, to the promotion of whose welfare all hisown energies would be due, --or else a brat so abnormously distastefuland abominable as to demand from him an undying enmity, till thechild's wicked pretensions should be laid at rest. There was somethingvery serious in it, very tragic, --something which demanded that heshould lay aside all common anger, and put up with many insults onbehalf of the cause which he had in hand. "Of course I could wait, "said he; "only I thought that perhaps the man would have told me. "

"The fact is, George, we are rather a divided house here. Some of ustalk Italian and some English. I am the only common interpreter in thehouse, and I find it a bore. "

"I dare say it is troublesome. "

"And what can I do for you now you are here?"

Do for him! Lord George didn't want his brother to do anything for him. "Live decently, like an English nobleman, and do not outrage yourfamily. " That would have been the only true answer he could have madeto such a question. "I thought you would wish to see me after yourreturn, " he said. 

"It's rather lately thought of; but, however, let that pass. So you'vegot a wife for yourself. "

"As you have done also. "

"Just so. I have got a wife too. Mine has come from one of the oldestand noblest families in Christendom. "

"Mine is the granddaughter of a livery-stable keeper, " said LordGeorge, with a touch of real grandeur; "and, thank God, I can be proudof her in any society in England. "

"I dare say;--particularly as she had some money. "

"Yes; she had money. I could hardly have married without. But when yousee her I think you will not be ashamed of her as your sister-in-law. "

"Ah! She lives in London and I am just at present down here. "

"She is the daughter of the Dean of Brotherton. "

"So I have heard. They used to make gentlemen Deans. " After this therewas a pause, Lord George finding it difficult to go on with theconversation without a quarrel. "To tell you the truth, George, I willnot willingly see anything more of your Dean. He came here and insultedme. He got up and blustered about the room because I wouldn't thank himfor the honour he had done our family by his alliance. If you please, George, we'll understand that the less said about the Dean the better. You see I haven't any of the money out of the stable-yard. "

"My wife's money didn't come out of a stable-yard. It came from awax-chandler's shop, " said Lord George, jumping up, just as the Deanhad done. There was something in the man's manner worse even than hiswords which he found it almost impossible to bear. But he seatedhimself again as his brother sat looking at him with a bitter smileupon his face. "I don't suppose, " he said, "you can wish to annoy me. "

"Certainly not. But I wish that the truth should be understood betweenus. "

"Am I to be allowed to pay my respects to your wife?" said Lord Georgeboldly. 

"I think, you know, that we have gone so far apart in our marriagesthat there is nothing to be gained by it. Besides, you couldn't speakto her, --nor she to you. "

"May I be permitted to see--Popenjoy?"

The Marquis paused a moment, and then rang the bell. "I don't know whatgood it will do you, but if he can be made fit he shall be broughtdown. " The Courier entered the room and received certain orders inItalian. After that there was considerable delay, during which anItalian servant brought the Marquis a cup of chocolate and a cake. Hepushed a newspaper over to his brother, and as he was drinking hischocolate, lighted a cigarette. In this way there was a delay of overan hour, and then there entered the room an Italian nurse with a littleboy who seemed to Lord George to be nearly two years old. The child wascarried in by the woman, but Lord George thought that he was big enoughto have walked. He was dressed up with many ribbons, and was altogetheras gay as apparel could make him. But he was an ugly, swarthy littleboy, with great black eyes, small cheeks, and a high forehead, --veryunlike such a Popenjoy as Lord George would have liked to have seen. Lord George got up and stood over him, and leaning down kissed the highforehead. "My poor little darling, " he said. 

"As for being poor, " said the Marquis, "I hope not. As to being adarling, I should think it doubtful. If you've done with him, she cantake him away, you know. " Lord George had done with him, and so he wastaken away. "Seeing is believing, you know, " said the Marquis; "that'sthe only good of it. " Lord George said to himself that in this caseseeing was not believing. 

At this moment the open carriage came round to the door. "If you liketo get up behind, " said the Marquis, "I can take you back to CrossHall, as I am going to see my mother. Perhaps you'll remember that Iwish to be alone with her. " Lord George then expressed his preferencefor walking. "Just as you please. I want to say a word. Of course Itook it very ill of you all when you insisted on keeping Cross Hall inopposition to my wishes. No doubt they acted on your advice. "

"Partly so. "

"Exactly; your's and Sarah's. You can't expect me to forget it, George;--that's all. " Then he walked out of the room among theservants, giving his brother no opportunity for further reply. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE MARQUIS GOES INTO BROTHERTON. 

The poor dear old Marchioness must have had some feeling that she wasregarded as a spy. She had promised to tell everything to her eldestson, and though she had really nothing to tell, though the Marquis didin truth know all that there was as yet to know, still there grew up atCross Hall a sort of severance between the unhappy old lady and herchildren. This showed itself in no diminution of affectionateattention; in no intentional change of manner; but there was areticence about the Marquis and Popenjoy which even she perceived, andthere crept into her mind a feeling that Mrs. Toff was on her guardagainst her, --so that on two occasions she almost snubbed Mrs. Toff. "Inever see'd him, my Lady; what more can I say?" said Mrs. Toff. "Toff, I don't believe you wanted to see your master's son and heir!" said theMarchioness. Then Mrs. Toff pursed up her lips, and compressed hernose, and half-closed her eyes, and the Marchioness was sure that Mrs. Toff did not believe in Popenjoy. 

No one but Lord George had seen Popenjoy. To no eyes but his had theaugust baby been displayed. Of course many questions had been asked, especially by the old lady, but the answers to them had not beensatisfactory. "Dark, is he?" asked the Marchioness. Lord George repliedthat the child was very swarthy. "Dear me! That isn't like theGermains. The Germains were never light, but they're not swarthy. Didhe talk at all?" "Not a word. " "Did he play about?" "Never was out ofthe nurse's arms. " "Dear me! Was he like Brotherton?" "I don't think Iam a judge of likenesses. " "He's a healthy child?" "I can't say. Heseemed to be a good deal done up with finery. " Then the Marchionessdeclared that her younger son showed an unnatural indifference to theheir of the family. It was manifest that she intended to accept the newPopenjoy, and to ally herself with no party base enough to entertainany suspicion. 

These examinations respecting the baby went on for the three first daysof the week. It was Lord George's intention to return to town on theSaturday, and it seemed to them all to be necessary that somethingshould be arranged before that. Lady Sarah thought that directapplication should be made to her brother for proof of his marriage andfor a copy of the register of the birth of his child. She quiteadmitted that he would resent such application with the bitterestenmity. But that she thought must be endured. She argued that nothingcould be done more friendly to the child than this. If all was rightthe enquiry which circumstances certainly demanded would be made whilehe could not feel it. If no such proof were adduced now there wouldcertainly be trouble, misery, and perhaps ruin in coming years. If thenecessary evidence were forthcoming, then no one would wish tointerfere further. There might be ill blood on their brother's part, but there would be none on theirs. Neither Lord George nor theiryounger sister gainsayed this altogether. Neither of them denied thenecessity of enquiry. But they desired to temporise;--and then how wasthe enquiry to be made? Who was to bell the cat? And how should they goon when the Marquis refused to take any heed of them, --as, of course, he would do? Lady Sarah saw at once that they must employ alawyer;--but what lawyer? Old Mr. Stokes, the family attorney, was theonly lawyer they knew. But Mr. Stokes was Lord Brotherton's lawyer, andwould hardly consent to be employed against his own client. Lady Sarahsuggested that Mr. Stokes might be induced to explain to the Marquisthat these enquiries should be made for his, the Marquis's, ownbenefit. But Lord George felt that this was impossible. It was evidentthat Lord George would be afraid to ask Mr. Stokes to undertake thework. 

At last it came to be understood among them that they must have somefriend to act with them. There could be no doubt who that friend shouldbe. "As to interfering, " said Lady Sarah, speaking of the Dean, "hewill interfere, whether we ask him to or not. His daughter is as muchaffected as anybody, and if I understand him he is not the man to seeany interest of his own injured by want of care. " Lord George shook hishead but yielded. He greatly disliked the idea of putting himself intothe Dean's hands; of becoming a creature of the Dean's. He felt theDean to be stronger than himself, endowed with higher spirit and moreconfident hopes. But he also felt that the Dean was--the son of astable-keeper. Though he had professed to his brother that he could ownthe fact without shame, still he was ashamed. It was not the Dean'sparentage that troubled him so much as a consciousness of some defect, perhaps only of the absence of some quality, which had been caused bythat parentage. The man looked like a gentleman, but still there was asmell of the stable. Feeling this rather than knowing it Lord Georgeresisted for awhile the idea of joining forces with the Dean; but whenit was suggested to him as an alternative that he himself must go toMr. Stokes and explain his suspicions in the lawyer's room, then heagreed that, as a first step, he would consult the Dean. The Dean, nodoubt, would have his own lawyer, who would not care a fig for theMarquis. 

It was thought by them at Cross Hall that the Dean would come over tothem, knowing that his son-in-law was in the country; but the Dean didnot come, probably waiting for the same compliment from Lord George. Onthe Friday Lord George rode into Brotherton early, and was at theDeanery by eleven o'clock. "I thought I should see you, " said the Dean, in his pleasantest manner. "Of course, I heard from Mary that you weredown here. Well;--what do you think of it all?"

"It is not pleasant. "

"If you mean your brother, I am bound to say, that he is veryunpleasant. Of course you have seen him?"

"Yes; I have seen him. "

"And her ladyship?"

"No. He said that as I do not speak Italian it would be no good. "

"And he seemed to think, " said the Dean, "that as I do speak Italian itwould be dangerous. Nobody has seen her then?"

"Nobody. "

"That promises well! And the little lord?"

"He was brought down to me. "

"That was gracious! Well; what of him. Did he look like a Popenjoy?"

"He is a nasty little black thing. "

"I shouldn't wonder. "

"And looks----. Well, I don't want to abuse the poor child, and Godknows, if he is what he pretends to be, I would do anything to servehim. "

"That's just it, George, " said the Dean, very seriously, --seriously, and with his kindest manner, being quite disposed to make himselfagreeable to Lord George, if Lord George would be agreeable to him. "That's just it. If we were certified as to that, what would we not dofor the child in spite of the father's brutality? There is nodishonesty on our side, George. You know of me, and I know of you, that if every tittle of the evidence of that child's birth were in thekeeping of either of us, so that it could be destroyed on the moment, it should be made as public as the winds of heaven to-morrow, so thatit was true evidence. If he be what he pretends to be, who wouldinterfere with him? But if he be not?"

"Any suspicion of that kind is unworthy of us;--except on very strongground. "

"True. But if there be very strong ground, it is equally true that suchsuspicion is our duty. Look at the case. When was it that he told youthat he was going to be married? About six months since, as far as mymemory goes. "

"He said, 'I am to be married. '"

"That is speaking in the future tense; and now he claims to have beenmarried two or three years ago. Has he ever attempted to explain this?"

"He has not said a word about it. He is quite unwilling to talk abouthimself. "

"I dare say. But a man in such circumstances must be made to talk abouthimself. You and I are so placed that if we did not make him talk abouthimself, we ought to be made to make him do so. He may be deceitful ifhe pleases. He may tell you and me fibs without end. And he may give usmuch trouble by doing so. Such trouble is the evil consequence ofhaving liars in the world. " Lord George winced at the rough word asapplied by inference to his own brother. "But liars themselves arealways troubled by their own lies. If he chooses to tell you that on acertain day he is about to be married, and afterwards springs atwo-year old child upon you as legitimate, you are bound to think thatthere is some deceit. You cannot keep yourself from knowing that thereis falsehood; and if falsehood, then probably fraud. Is it likely thata man with such privileges, and such property insured to a legitimateson, would allow the birth of such a child to be slurred over withoutdue notice of it? You say that suspicion on our part without strongground would be unworthy of us. I agree with you. But I ask you whetherthe grounds are not so strong as to force us to suspect. Come, " hecontinued, as Lord George did not answer at once; "let us be open toeach other, knowing as each does that the other means to do what isright. Do not you suspect?"

"I do, " said Lord George. 

"And so do I. And I mean to learn the truth. "

"But how?"

"That is for us to consider; but of one thing I am quite sure. I amquite certain that we must not allow ourselves to be afraid of yourbrother. To speak the truth, as it must be spoken, he is a bully, George. "

"I would rather you would not abuse him, sir. "

"Speak ill of him I must. His character is bad, and I have to speak ofit. He is a bully. He set himself to work to put me down when I didmyself the honour to call on him, because he felt that my connexionwith you would probably make me an enemy to him. I intend that he shallknow that he cannot put me down. He is undoubtedly Lord Brotherton. Heis the owner of a wide property. He has many privileges and much power, with which I cannot interfere. But there is a limit to them. If he havea legitimate son, those privileges will be that son's property, but hehas to show to the world that that son is legitimate. When a manmarries before all the world, in his own house, and a child is born tohim as I may say openly, the proofs are there of themselves. Nobringing up of evidence is necessary. The thing is simple, and there isno suspicion and no enquiry. But he has done the reverse of this, andnow flatters himself that he can cow those who are concerned by adomineering manner. He must be made to feel that this will notprevail. "

"Sarah thinks that he should be invited to produce the necessarycertificates. " Lord George, when he dropped his sister's title inspeaking of her to the Dean, must have determined that very familiarintercourse with the Dean was a necessity. 

"Lady Sarah is always right. That should be the first step. But willyou invite him to do so? How shall the matter be broken to him?"

"She thinks a lawyer should do it. "

"It must be done either by you or by a lawyer. " Lord George looked veryblank. "Of course, if the matter were left in my hands;--if I had to doit, --I should not do it personally. The question is, whether you mightnot in the first instance write to him?"

"He would not notice it. "

"Very likely not. Then we must employ a lawyer. "

The matter was altogether so distasteful to Lord George, that more thanonce during the interview he almost made up his mind that he wouldwithdraw altogether from the work, and at any rate appear to take itfor granted that the child was a real heir, an undoubted Popenjoy. Butthen, as often, the Dean showed him that he could not so withdrawhimself. "You will be driven, " said the Dean, "to express your belief, whatever it may be; and if you think that there has been foul play, youcannot deny that you think so. " It was at last decided that Lord Georgeshould write a letter to his brother, giving all the grounds, not ofhis own suspicion, but which the world at large would have forsuspecting; and earnestly imploring that proper evidence as to hisbrother's marriage and as to the child's birth, might be produced. Then, if this letter should not be attended to, a lawyer should beemployed. The Dean named his own lawyer, Mr. Battle, of Lincoln's InnFields. Lord George having once yielded, found it convenient to yieldthroughout. Towards the end of the interview the Dean suggested that hewould "throw a few words together, " or, in other language, write theletter which his son-in-law would have to sign. This suggestion wasalso accepted by Lord George. 

The two men were together for a couple of hours, and then, after lunch, went out together into the town. Each felt that he was now more closelybound to the other than ever. The Dean was thoroughly pleased that itshould be so. He intended his son-in-law to be the Marquis, and beingsanguine as well as pugnacious looked forward to seeing that timehimself. Such a man as the Marquis would probably die early, whereas hehimself was full of health. There was nothing he would not do to makeLord George's life pleasant, if only Lord George would be pleasant tohim, and submissive. But Lord George himself was laden with manyregrets. He had formed a conspiracy against the head of his own family, and his brother conspirator was the son of a stable-keeper. It might bealso that he was conspiring against his own legitimate nephew; and ifso, the conspiracy would of course fail, and he would be stigmatisedfor ever among the Germains as the most sordid and vile of the name. 

The Dean's house was in the Close, joined on to the Cathedral, acovered stone pathway running between the two. The nearest way from theDeanery to the High Street was through the Cathedral, the transept ofwhich could be entered by crossing the passage. The Dean and hisson-in-law on this occasion went through the building to the westentrance, and there stood for a few minutes in the street while theDean spoke to men who were engaged on certain repairs of the fabric. Indoing this they all went out into the middle of the wide street inorder that they might look up at the work which was being done. Whilethey were there, suddenly an open carriage, with a postilion, came uponthem unawares, and they had to retreat out of the way. As they did sothey perceived that Lord Brotherton was in the carriage, enveloped infurs, and that a lady, more closely enveloped even than himself, was byhis side. It was evident to them that he had recognised them. Indeed hehad been in the act of raising his hand to greet his brother when hesaw the Dean. They both bowed to him, while the Dean, who had thereadier mind, raised his hat to the lady. But the Marquis steadilyignored them. "That's your sister-in-law, " said the Dean. 

"Perhaps so. "

"There is no other lady here with whom he could be driving. I am prettysure that it is the first time that either of them have been inBrotherton. "

"I wonder whether he saw us. "

"Of course he saw us. He cut me from fixed purpose, and you because Iwas with you. I shall not disturb him by any further recognition. " Thenthey went on about their business, and in the afternoon, when the Deanhad thrown his few words together, Lord George rode back to Cross Hall. "Let the letter be sent at once, --but date it from London. " These werethe last words the Dean said to him. 

It was the Marquis and his wife. All Brotherton heard the news. She hadabsolutely called at a certain shop and the Marquis had condescended tobe her interpreter. All Brotherton was now sure that there was a newMarchioness, a fact as to which a great part of Brotherton had hithertoentertained doubts. And it seemed that this act of condescension instopping at a Brotherton shop was so much appreciated that all theformer faults of the Marquis were to be condoned on that account. Ifonly Popenjoy could be taken to a Brotherton pastrycook, and be got toeat a Brotherton bun, the Marquis would become the most popular man inthe neighbourhood, and the undoubted progenitor of a long line ofMarquises to come. A little kindness after continued cruelty willalways win a dog's heart;--some say, also a woman's. It certainlyseemed to be the way to win Brotherton. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

LADY SUSANNA IN LONDON. 

In spite of the caution which he had received from his friend andcousin Mrs. Houghton, Jack De Baron did go to Munster Court during theabsence of Lord George, and there did encounter Lady Susanna. And Mrs. Houghton herself, though she had given such excellent advice, accompanied him. She was of course anxious to see Lady Susanna, who hadalways especially disliked her; and Jack himself was desirous of makingthe acquaintance of a lady who had been, he was assured, sent up totown on purpose to protect the young wife from his wiles. Both Mrs. Houghton and Jack had become very intimate in Munster Court, and therewas nothing strange in their dropping in together even before lunch. Jack was of course introduced to Lady Susanna. The two ladies grimacedat each other, each knowing the other's feeling towards herself. Maryhaving suspected that Lady Susanna had been sent for in reference tothis special friend, determined on being specially gracious to Jack. She had already, since Lady Susanna's arrival, told that lady that shewas able to manage her own little affairs. Lady Susanna had said anunfortunate word as to the unnecessary expense of four wax candleswhen they two were sitting alone in the drawing-room. Lady George hadsaid that it was pretty. Lady Susanna had expostulated gravely, andthen Lady George had spoken out. "Dear Susanna, do let me manage my ownlittle affairs. " Of course the words had rankled, and of course thelove which the ladies bore to each other had not been increased. LadyGeorge was now quite resolved to show dear Susanna that she was notafraid of her duenna. 

"We thought we'd venture to see if you'd give us lunch, " said Mrs. Houghton. 

"Delightful!" exclaimed Lady George. "There's nothing to eat; but youwon't mind that. "

"Not in the least, " said Jack. "I always think the best lunch in theworld is a bit of the servants' dinner. It's always the best meat, andthe best cooked and the hottest served. "

There was plenty of lunch from whatsoever source it came, and the threeyoung people were very merry. Perhaps they were a little noisy. Perhapsthere was a little innocent slang in their conversation. Ladies dosometimes talk slang, and perhaps the slang was encouraged for thespecial edification of Lady Susanna. But slang was never talked atManor Cross or Cross Hall, and was odious to Lady Susanna. When LadyGeorge declared that some offending old lady ought to be "jumped upon, "Lady Susanna winced visibly. When Jack told Lady George that "she wasthe woman to do it, " Lady Susanna shivered almost audibly. "Is anythingthe matter?" asked Lady George, perhaps not quite innocently. 

It seemed to Lady Susanna that these visitors were never going away, and yet this was the very man as to whom her brother had cautioned her!And what an odious man he was--in Lady Susanna's estimation! Apuppy, --an absolute puppy! Good-looking, impudent, familiar, with alight visage, and continually smiling! All those little gifts whichmade him so pleasant to Lady George were stains and blemishes in theeyes of Lady Susanna. To her thinking, a man, --at any rate agentleman, --should be tall, dark, grave, and given to silence ratherthan to much talk. This Jack chattered about everything, and hardlyopened his mouth without speaking slang. About half-past three, whenthey had been chattering in the drawing-room for an hour, after havingchattered over their lunch for a previous hour, Mrs. Houghton made amost alarming proposition. "Let us all go to Berkeley Square and playbagatelle. "

"By all means, " said Jack. "Lady George, you owe me two new hatsalready. "

Playing bagatelle for new hats! Lady Susanna felt that if ever therecould come a time in which interference would be necessary that timehad come now. She had resolved that she would be patient; that sheshould not come down as an offended deity upon Lady George, unlesssome sufficient crisis should justify such action. But now surely, ifever, she must interpose. Playing at bagatelle with Jack De Baron fornew hats, and she with the prospect before her of being Marchioness ofBrotherton! "It's only one, " said Lady George gaily, "and I daresayI'll win that back to-day. Will you come, Susanna?"

"Certainly not, " said Lady Susanna, very grimly. They all looked ather, and Jack De Baron raised his eyebrows, and sat for a momentmotionless. Lady Susanna knew that Jack De Baron was intending toridicule her. Then she remembered that should this perverse young womaninsist upon going to Mrs. Houghton's house with so objectionable acompanion, her duty to her brother demanded that she also should go. "Imean, " said Lady Susanna, "that I had rather not go. "

"Why not?" asked Mary. 

"I do not think that playing bagatelle for new hats is--is--the bestemployment in the world either for a lady or for a gentleman. " Thewords were hardly out of her mouth before she herself felt that theywere overstrained and more than even this occasion demanded. 

"Then we will only play for gloves, " said Mary. Mary was not a woman tobear with impunity such an assault as had been made on her. 

"Perhaps you will not mind giving it up till George comes back, " saidLord George's sister. 

"I shall mind very much. I will go up and get ready. You can do as youplease. " So Mary left the room, and Lady Susanna followed her. 

"She means to have her own way, " said Jack, when he was alone with hiscousin. 

"She is not at all what I took her to be, " said Mrs. Houghton. "Thefact is, one cannot know what a girl is as long as a girl is a girl. Itis only when she's married that she begins to speak out. " Jack hardlyagreed with this, thinking that some girls he had known had learned tospeak out before they were married. 

They all went out together to walk across the parks to Berkeley Square, orders being left that the brougham should follow them later in theafternoon. Lady Susanna had at last resolved that she also would go. The very fact of her entering Mrs. Houghton's house was disagreeable toher; but she felt that duty called her. And, after all, when they gotto Berkeley Square no bagatelle was played at all. But the bagatellewould almost have been better than what occurred. A small parcel waslying on the table which was found to contain a pack of pictured cardsmade for the telling of fortunes, and which some acquaintance had sentto Mrs. Houghton. With these they began telling each other's fortunes, and it seemed to Lady Susanna that they were all as free with loversand sweethearts as though the two ladies had been housemaids insteadof being the wives of steady, well-born husbands. "That's a dark man, with evil designs, a wicked tongue, and no money, " said Mrs. Houghton, as a combination of cards lay in Lady George's lap. "Jack, the ladywith light hair is only flirting with you. She doesn't care for you onebit. "

"I daresay not, " said Jack. 

"And yet she'll trouble you awfully. Lady Susanna, will you have yourfortune told?"

"No, " said Lady Susanna, very shortly. 

This went on for an hour before the brougham came, during the latterhalf of which Lady Susanna sat without once opening her lips. If anyplay could have been childish, it was this play; but to her it washorrible. And then they all sat so near together, and that man wasallowed to put cards into her brother's wife's hand and to take themout just as though they had been brother and sister, or playfellows alltheir days. And then, as they were going down to the brougham, theodious man got Lady George aside and whispered to her for two minutes. Lady Susanna did not hear a word of their whispers, but knew that theywere devilish. And so she would have thought if she had heard them. "You're going to catch it, Lady George, " Jack had said. "There'ssomebody else will catch something if she makes herself disagreeable, "Lady George had answered. "I wish I could be invisible and hear it, "had been Jack's last words. 

"My dear Mary, " said Lady Susanna, as soon as they were seated, "youare very young. "

"That's a fault that will mend of itself. "

"Too quickly, as you will soon find; but in the meantime, as you are amarried woman, should you not be careful to guard against theindiscretions of youth?"

"Well, yes; I suppose I ought, " said Mary, after a moment of mockconsideration. "But then if I were unmarried I ought to do just thesame. It's a kind of thing that is a matter of course without talkingabout it. " She had firmly made up her mind that she would submit in nodegree to Lady Susanna, and take from her no scolding. Indeed, she hadcome to a firm resolve long since that she would be scolded by no onebut her husband--and by him as little as possible. Now she was angrywith him because he had sent this woman to watch her, and wasdetermined that he should know that, though she would submit to him, she would not submit to his sister. The moment for asserting herselfhad now come. 

"A young married woman, " said the duenna, "owes it to her husband to bepeculiarly careful. She has his happiness and his honour in her hands. "

"And he has hers. It seems to me that all these things are matters ofcourse. "

"They should be, certainly, " said Lady Susanna, hardly knowing how togo on with her work; a little afraid of her companion, but still veryintent. "But it will sometimes happen that a young person does notquite know what is right and what is wrong. "

"And sometimes it happens that old people don't know. There was MajorJones had his wife taken away from him the other day by the Courtbecause he was always beating her, and he was fifty. I read all aboutit in the papers. I think the old people are just as bad as the young. "

Lady Susanna felt that her approaches were being cut off from her, andthat she must rush at once against the citadel if she meant to take it. "Do you think that playing bagatelle is--nice?"

"Yes, I do;--very nice. "

"Do you think George would like your playing with Captain De Baron?"

"Why not with Captain de Baron?" said Mary, turning round upon herassailant with absolute ferocity. 

"I don't think he would like it. And then that fortune-telling! If youwill believe me, Mary, it was very improper. "

"I will not believe anything of the kind. Improper!--a joke about a lotof picture-cards!"

"It was all about love and lovers, " said Lady Susanna, not quiteknowing how to express herself, but still sure that she was right. 

"Oh, what a mind you must have, Susanna, to pick wrong out of that! Allabout love and lovers! So are books and songs and plays at the theatre. I suppose you didn't understand that it was intended as a burlesque onfortune-telling?"

"And I am quite sure George wouldn't like the kind of slang you weretalking with Captain De Baron at lunch. "

"If George does not like anything he had better tell me so, and notdepute you to do it for him. If he tells me to do anything I shall doit. If you tell me I shall pay no attention to it whatever. You arehere as my guest, and not as my governess; and I think yourinterference very impertinent. " This was strong language, --so strongthat Lady Susanna found it impossible to continue the conversation atthat moment. Nothing, indeed, was said between them during the wholeafternoon, or at dinner, or in the evening, --till Lady Susanna hadtaken up her candlestick. 

There had been that most clearly declared of all war which is shown byabsolute silence. But Lady Susanna, as she was retiring to rest, thought it might be wise to make a little effort after peace. She didnot at all mean to go back from what charges she had made. She had noidea of owning herself to be wrong. But perhaps she could throw alittle oil upon the waters. "Of course, " she said, "I should not havespoken as I have done but for my great love for George and my regardfor you. "

"As far as I am concerned, I think it a mistaken regard, " said Mary. "Of course I shall tell George; but even to him I shall say that I willnot endure any authority but his own. "

"Will you hear me?"

"No, not on this subject. You have accused me of behavingimproperly--with that man. "

"I do think, " began Lady Susanna, not knowing how to pick her words inthis emergency, fearing to be too strong, and at the same timeconscious that weakness would be folly----; "I do think that anythinglike--like--like flirting is so very bad!"

"Susanna, " said Lady George, with a start as she heard the odiouswords, "as far as I can help it, I will never speak to you again. "There certainly had been no oil thrown upon the waters as yet. 

The next day was passed almost in absolute silence. It was the Friday, and each of them knew that Lord George would be home on the morrow. Theinterval was so short that nothing could be gained by writing to him. Each had her own story to tell, and each must wait till he should bethere to hear it. Mary with a most distant civility went through herwork of hostess. Lady Susanna made one or two little efforts to subdueher; but, failing, soon gave up the endeavour. In the afternoon Aunt Jucalled with her niece, but their conversation did not lessen thebreach. Then Lady Susanna went out alone in the brougham; but that hadbeen arranged beforehand. They ate their dinner in silence, in silenceread their books, and met in silence at the breakfast-table. At threeo'clock Lord George came home, and then Mary, running downstairs, tookhim with her into the drawing-room. There was one embrace, and then shebegan. "George, " she said, "you must never have Susanna here again. "

"Why?" said he. 

"She has insulted me. She has said things so nasty that I cannot repeatthem, even to you. She has accused me to my face--of flirting. I won'tbear it from her. If you said it, it would kill me; but of course youcan say what you please. But she shall not scold me, and tell me that Iam this and that because I am not as solemn as she is, George. Do youbelieve that I have ever--flirted?" She was so impetuous that he hadbeen quite unable to stop her. "Did you mean that she should behave tome like that?"

"This is very bad, " he said. 

"What is very bad. Is it not bad that she should say such things to meas that? Are you going to take her part against me?"

"Dearest Mary, you seem to be excited. "

"Of course I am excited. Would you wish me to have such things as thatsaid to me, and not to be excited? You are not going to take partagainst me?"

"I have not heard her yet. "

"Will you believe her against me? Will she be able to make you believethat I have--flirted? If so, then it is all over. "

"What is all over?"

"Oh, George, why did you marry me, if you cannot trust me?"

"Who says that I do not trust you? I suppose the truth is you have beena little--flighty. "

"Been what? I suppose you mean the same thing. I have talked andlaughed, and been amused, if that means being flighty. She thinks itwicked to laugh, and calls it slang if every word doesn't come out ofthe grammar. You had better go and hear her, since you will say nothingmore to me. "

Lord George thought so too; but he stayed for a few moments in thedining-room, during which he stooped over his wife, who had thrownherself into an arm-chair, and kissed her. As he did so, she merelyshook her head, but made no response to his caress. Then he slowlystrode away, and went up stairs into the drawing-room. 

What took place there need not be recorded at length. Lady Susanna didnot try to be mischievous. She spoke much of Mary's youth, andexpressed a strong opinion that Captain De Baron was not a fitcompanion for her. She was very urgent against the use of slang, andsaid almost harder things of Mrs. Houghton than she did of Jack. Shenever had meant to imply that Mary had allowed improper attentions fromthe gentleman, but that Mary, being young, had not known whatattentions were proper and what improper. To Lady Susanna the wholematter was so serious that she altogether dropped the personal quarrel. "Of course, George, " she said, "young people do not like to be told;but it has to be done. And I must say that Mary likes it as little asany person that I have ever known. "

This multiplicity of troubles falling together on to the poor man'sback almost crushed him. He had returned to town full of that terribleletter which he had pledged himself to write; but the letter wasalready driven out of his head for the time. It was essentiallynecessary that he should compose this domestic trouble, and of coursehe returned to his wife. Equally of course after a little time sheprevailed. He had to tell her that he was sure that she never flirted. He had to say that she did not talk slang. He had to protest that thefortune-telling cards were absolutely innocent. Then she condescendedto say that she would for the present be civil to Susanna, but evenwhile saying that she protested that she would never again have hersister-in-law as a guest in the house. "You don't know, George, evenyet, all that she said to me, or in what sort of way she behaved. "

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE DEAN RETURNS TO TOWN. 

"Do you mean to say that you have any objection to my being acquaintedwith Captain De Baron?" This question Mary asked her husband on theMonday after his return. On that day Lady Susanna went back toBrothershire, having somewhat hurried her return in consequence of theuncomfortable state of things in Minister Court. They had all gone tochurch together on the intermediate Sunday, and Lady Susanna had doneher best to conciliate her sister-in-law. But she was ignorant of theworld, and did not know how bitter to a young married woman is suchinterference as that of which she had been guilty. She could notunderstand the amount of offence which was rankling in Mary's bosom. Ithad not consisted only in the words spoken, but her looks in the man'spresence had conveyed the same accusation, so that it could be seen andunderstood by the man himself. Mary, with an effort, had gone on withher play, determined that no one should suppose her to be cowed by hergrand sister-in-law; but through it all she had resolved always to lookupon Lady Susanna as an enemy. She had already abandoned her threat ofnot speaking to her own guest; but nothing that Lady Susanna could say, nothing that Lord George could say, softened her heart in the least. The woman had told her that she was a flirt, had declared that what shedid and said was improper. The woman had come there as a spy, and thewoman should never be her friend. In these circumstances Lord Georgefound it impossible not to refer to the unfortunate subject again, andin doing so caused the above question to be asked. "Do you mean to saythat you have any objection to my being acquainted with Captain DeBaron?" She looked at him with so much eagerness in her eyes as shespoke that he knew that much at any rate of his present comfort mightdepend on the answer which he made. 

He certainly did object to her being acquainted with Jack De Baron. Hedid not at all like Jack De Baron. In spite of what he had foundhimself obliged to say, in order that she might be comforted on hisfirst arrival, he did not like slang, and he did not likefortune-telling cards or bagatelle. His sympathies in these matterswere all with his sister. He did like spending his own time with Mrs. Houghton, but it was dreadful to him to think that his wife should bespending hers with Jack De Baron. Nevertheless he could not tell herso. "No, " he said, "I have no particular objection. "

"Of course if you had, I would never see him again. But it would bevery dreadful. He would have to be told that you were--jealous. "

"I am not in the least jealous, " said he, angrily. "You should not usesuch a word. "

"Certainly I should not have used it, but for the disturbance whichyour sister has caused. But after all that she has said, there must besome understanding. I like Captain De Baron very much, as I dare sayyou like other ladies. Why not?"

"I have never suspected anything. "

"But Susanna did. Of course you don't like all this, George. I don'tlike it. I have been so miserable that I have almost cried my eyes out. But if people will make mischief, what is one to do? The only thing isnot to have the mischief maker any more. "

The worst of this was, to him, that she was so manifestly getting thebetter of him! When he had married her, not yet nine months since, shehad been a little girl, altogether in his hands, not pretending to anyself-action, and anxious to be guided in everything by him. His onlyfear had been that she might be too slow in learning thatself-assertion which is necessary from a married woman to the world atlarge. But now she had made very great progress in the lesson, not onlyas regarded the world at large, but as regarded himself also. As forhis family, --the grandeur of his family, --she clearly had no reverencefor that. Lady Susanna, though generally held to be very awful, hadbeen no more to her than any other Susan. He almost wished that he hadtold her that he did object to Jack De Baron. There would have been ascene, of course; and she, not improbably, might have told her father. That at present would have been doubly disagreeable, as it wasincumbent upon him to stand well with the Dean, just at this time. There was this battle to be fought with his brother, and he felt thathe could not fight it without the Dean!

Having given his sanction to Jack De Baron, he went away to his club towrite his letter. This writing really amounted to no more than copyingthe Dean's words, which he had carried in his pocket ever since he hadleft the deanery, and the Dean's words were as follows:--

 "Munster Court, _26th April, 187--_. 

 "MY DEAR BROTHERTON, --I am compelled to write to you under very disagreeable circumstances, and to do so on a subject which I would willingly avoid if a sense of duty would permit me to be silent. 

 "You will remember that you wrote to me in October last, telling me that you were about to be married. 'I am to be married to the Marchesa Luigi, ' were your words. Up to that moment we had heard nothing of the lady or of any arrangement as to a marriage. When I told you of my own intended marriage a few months before that, you merely said in answer that you might probably soon want the house at Manor Cross yourself. It now seems that when you told us of your intended marriage you had already been married over two years, and that when I told you of mine you had a son over twelve months old, --a fact which I might certainly expect that you would communicate to me at such a time. 

 "I beg to assure you that I am now urged to write by no suspicions of my own; but I know that if things are left to go on as they are now, suspicions will arise at a future time. I write altogether in the interests of your son and heir; and for his sake I beseech you to put at once into the hands of your own lawyer absolute evidence of the date of your marriage, of its legality, and of the birth of your son. It will also be expedient that my lawyer shall see the evidence in your lawyer's hands. If you were to die as matters are now it would be imperative on me to take steps which would seem to be hostile to Popenjoy's interest. I think you must yourself feel that this would be so. And yet nothing would be further from my wish. If we were both to die, the difficulty would be still greater, as in that case proceedings would have to be taken by more distant members of the family. 

 "I trust you will believe me when I say that my only object is to have the matter satisfactorily settled. 

 "Your affectionate brother, "GEORGE GERMAIN. "

When the Marquis received this letter he was not in the leastastonished by it. Lord George had told his sister Sarah that it was tobe written, and had even discussed with her the Dean's words. LadySarah had thought that as the Dean was a sagacious man, his exact wordshad better be used. And then Lady Amelia had been told, Lady Ameliahaving asked various questions on the subject. Lady Amelia had ofcourse known that her brother would discuss the matter with the Dean, and had begged that she might not be treated as a stranger. Everythinghad not been told to Lady Amelia, nor had Lady Amelia told all that shehad heard to her mother. But the Marchioness had known enough, and hadcommunicated enough to her son to save him from any great astonishmentwhen he got his brother's letter. Of course he had known that somesteps would be taken. 

He answered the letter at once. 

 "MY DEAR BROTHER, " he said, --"I don't think it necessary to let you know the reasons which induced me to keep my marriage private awhile. You rush at conclusions very fast in thinking that because a marriage is private, therefore it is illegal. I am glad that you have no suspicions of your own, and beg to assure you I don't care whether you have or not. Whenever you or anybody else may want to try the case, you or he or they will find that I have taken care that there is plenty of evidence. I didn't know that you had a lawyer. I only hope he won't run you into much expense in finding a mare's nest. 

 "Yours truly, "B. "

This was not in itself satisfactory; but such as it was, it did for atime make Lord George believe that Popenjoy was Popenjoy. It wascertainly true of him that he wished Popenjoy to be Popenjoy. Nopersonal longing for the title or property made him in his heartdisloyal to his brother or his family. And then the trouble and expenseand anxieties of such a contest were so terrible to his imagination, that he rejoiced when he thought that they might be avoided. But therewas the Dean. The Dean must be satisfied as well as he, and he feltthat the Dean would not be satisfied. According to agreement he sent acopy of his brother's letter down to the Dean, and added the assuranceof his own belief that the marriage had been a marriage, that the heirwas an heir, and that further steps would be useless. It need hardly besaid that the Dean was not satisfied. Before dinner on the followingday the Dean was in Minister Court. "Oh, papa, " exclaimed Mary, "I amso glad to see you. " Could it be anything about Captain De Baron thathad brought him up? If so, of course she would tell him everything. "What brought you up so suddenly? Why didn't you write? George is atthe club, I suppose. " George was really in Berkeley Square at thatmoment. "Oh, yes; he will be home to dinner. Is there anything wrong atManor Cross, papa?" Her father was so pleasant in his manner to her, that she perceived at once that he had not come up in reference toCaptain De Baron. No complaint of her behaviour on that score had asyet reached him. "Where's your portmanteau, papa?"

"I've got a bed at the hotel in Suffolk Street. I shall only be hereone night, or at the most two; and as I had to come suddenly I wouldn'ttrouble you. "

"Oh, papa, that's very bad of you. "

This she said with that genuine tone which begets confidence. The Deanwas very anxious that his daughter should in truth be fond of hiscompany. In the game which he intended to play her co-operation and herinfluence over her husband would be very necessary to him. She must bea Lovelace rather than a Germain till she should blaze forth as thepresiding genius of the Germain family. That Lord George should becometired of him and a little afraid of him he knew could not be avoided;but to her he must, if possible, be a pleasant genius, neveraccompanied in her mind by ideas of parental severity or clericalheaviness. "I should weary you out if I came too often and came sosuddenly, " he said, laughing. 

"But what has brought you, papa?"

"The Marquis, my dear, who, it seems to me, will, for some time tocome, have a considerable influence on my doings. "

"The Marquis!"

He had made up his mind that she should know everything. If her husbanddid not tell her, he would. "Yes, the Marquis. Perhaps I ought to saythe Marchioness, only that I am unwilling to give that title to a ladywho I think very probably has no right to it. "

"Is all that coming up already?"

"The longer it is postponed the greater will be the trouble to allparties. It cannot be endured that a man in his position should tell usthat his son is legitimate when that son was born more than a yearbefore he had declared himself about to marry, and that he should thenrefuse to furnish us with any evidence. "

"Have you asked him?" Mary, as she made the suggestion, was herselfhorror-stricken at the awfulness of the occasion. 

"George has asked him. "

"And what has the Marquis done?"

"Sent him back a jeering reply. He has a way of jeering which he thinkswill carry everything before it. When I called upon him he jeered atme. But he'll have to learn that he cannot jeer you out of yourrights. "

"I wish you would not think about my rights, papa. "

"Your rights will probably be the rights of some one else. "

"I know, papa; but still----"

"It has to be done, and George quite agrees with me. The letter whichhe did write to his brother was arranged between us. Lady Sarah isquite of the same accord, and Lady Susanna----"

"Oh, papa, I do so hate Susanna. " This she said with all her eloquence. 

"I daresay she can make herself unpleasant. "

"I have told George that she shall not come here again as a guest. "

"What did she do?"

"I cannot bring myself to tell you what it was that she said. I toldGeorge, of course. She is a nasty evil-minded creature--suspectingeverything. "

"I hope there has been nothing disagreeable. "

"It was very disagreeable, indeed, while George was away. Of course Idid not care so much when he came back. " The Dean, who had been almostfrightened, was reassured when he learned that there had been noquarrel between the husband and wife. Soon afterwards Lord George camein and was astonished to find that his letter had brought up the Deanso quickly. No discussion took place till after dinner, but then theDean was very perspicuous, and at the same time very authoritative. Itwas in vain that Lord George asked what they could do, and declaredthat the evil troubles which must probably arise would all rest on hisbrother's head. "But we must prevent such troubles, let them rest wherethey will, " said the Dean. 

"I don't see what we can do. "

"Nor do I, because we are not lawyers. A lawyer will tell us at once. It will probably be our duty to send a commissioner out to Italy tomake enquiry. "

"I shouldn't like to do that about my brother. "

"Of course your brother should be told; or rather everything should betold to your brother's lawyer, so that he might be advised what stepshe ought to take. We would do nothing secretly--nothing of which anyone could say that we ought to be ashamed. " The Dean proposed that theyshould both go to his attorney, Mr. Battle, on the following day; butthis step seemed to Lord George to be such an absolute declaration ofwar that he begged for another day's delay; and it was at last arrangedthat he himself should on that intervening day call on Mr. Stokes, theGermain family lawyer. The Marquis, with one of his jeers, had told hisbrother that, being a younger brother, he was not entitled to have alawyer. But in truth Lord George had had very much more to do with Mr. Stokes than the Marquis. All the concerns of the family had beenmanaged by Mr. Stokes. The Marquis probably meant to insinuate that thefamily bill, which was made out perhaps once every three years, wascharged against his account. Lord George did call on Mr. Stokes, andfound Mr. Stokes very little disposed to give him any opinion. Mr. Stokes was an honest man who disliked trouble of this kind. He freelyadmitted that there was ground for enquiry, but did not think that hehimself was the man who ought to make it. He would certainlycommunicate with the Marquis, should Lord George think it expedient toemploy any other lawyer, and should that lawyer apply to him. In themeantime he thought that immediate enquiry would be a littleprecipitate. The Marquis might probably himself take steps to put thematter on a proper footing. He was civil, gracious, almost subservient;but he had no comfort to give and no advice to offer, and, like allattorneys, he was in favour of delay. "Of course, Lord George, you mustremember that I am your brother's lawyer, and may in this matter becalled upon to act as his confidential adviser. " All this Lord Georgerepeated that evening to the Dean, and the Dean merely said that it hadbeen a matter of course. 

Early on the next morning the Dean and Lord George went together to Mr. Battle's chambers. Lord George felt that he was being driven by hisfather-in-law; but he felt also that he could not help himself. Mr. Battle, who had chambers in Lincoln's Inn, was a very different manfrom Mr. Stokes, who carried on his business in a private house at theWest End, who prepared wills and marriage settlements for gentlefolk, and who had, in fact, very little to do with law. Mr. Battle was anenterprising man with whom the Dean's first acquaintance had arisenthrough the Tallowaxes and the stable interests, --a very clever man, and perhaps a little sharp. But an attorney ought to be sharp, and itis not to be understood that Mr. Battle descended to sharp practice. But he was a solicitor with whom the old-fashioned Mr. Stokes's wouldnot find themselves in accord. He was a handsome burly man, nearlysixty years of age, with grey hair and clean shorn face, with brightgreen eyes, and a well-formed nose and mouth, --a prepossessing man, till something restless about the eyes would at last catch theattention and a little change the judgment. 

The Dean told him the whole story, and during the telling he satlooking very pleasant, with a smile on his face, rubbing his two handstogether. All the points were made. The letter of the Marquis, in whichhe told his brother that he was to be married, was shown to him. Theconcealment of the birth of the boy till the father had made up hismind to come home was urged. The absurdity of his behaviour since hehad been at home was described. The singularity of his conduct inallowing none of his family to become acquainted with his wife waspointed out. This was done by the Dean rather than by Lord George, andLord George, as he heard it all, almost regarded the Dean as his enemy. At last he burst out in his own defence. "Of course you willunderstand, Mr. Battle, that our only object is to have the thingproved, so that hereafter there may be no trouble. "

"Just so, my Lord. "

"We do not want to oppose my brother, or to injure his child. "

"We want to get at the truth, " said the Dean. 

"Just so. "

"Where there is concealment there must be suspicion, " urged the Dean. 

"No doubt. "

"But everything must be done quite openly, " said Lord George. "I wouldnot have a step taken without the knowledge of Mr. Stokes. If Mr. Stokes would do it himself on my brother's behalf it would be so muchthe better. "

"That is hardly probable, " said the Dean. 

"Not at all probable, " said Mr. Battle. 

"I couldn't be a party to an adverse suit, " said Lord George. 

"There is no ground for any suit at all, " said the lawyer. "We cannotbring an action against the Marquis because he chooses to call the ladyhe lives with a Marchioness, or because he calls an infant LordPopenjoy. Your brother's conduct may be ill-judged. From what you tellme, I think it is. But it is not criminal. "

"Then nothing need be done, " said Lord George. 

"A great deal may be done. Enquiry may be made now which mighthereafter be impossible. " Then he begged that he might have a week toconsider the matter, and requested that the two gentlemen would callupon him again. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE BARONESS BANMANN AGAIN. 

A day or two after the meeting at Mr. Battle's office there came toLord George a letter from that gentleman suggesting that, as the Deanhad undertaken to come up to London again, and as he, Mr. Battle, mightnot be ready with his advice at the end of a week, that day fortnightmight be fixed. To Lord George this delay was agreeable rather thanotherwise, as he was not specially anxious for the return of hisfather-in-law, nor was he longing for action in this question as to hisbrother's heir. But the Dean, when the lawyer's letter reached him, wascertain that Mr. Battle did not mean to lose the time simply inthinking over the matter. Some preliminary enquiry would now be made, even though no positive instructions had been given. He did not at allregret this, but was sure that Lord George would be very angry if heknew it. He wrote back to say that he would be in Munster Court on theevening before the day appointed. 

It was now May, and London was bright with all the exotic gaiety of theseason. The park was crowded with riders at one, and was almostimpassable at six. Dress was outvying dress, and equipage equipage. Menand women, but principally women, seemed to be intent on finding outnew ways of scattering money. Tradesmen no doubt knew much ofdefaulters, and heads of families might find themselves pressed formeans; but to the outside west-end eye looking at the outside west-endworld it seemed as though wealth was unlimited and money a drug. Tothose who had known the thing for years, to young ladies who were nowentering on their seventh or eighth campaign, there was a feeling ofbusiness about it all which, though it buoyed them up by itsexcitement, robbed amusement of most of its pleasure. A ball cannot bevery agreeable in which you may not dance with the man you like and arenot asked by the man you want; at which you are forced to make a notethat that full-blown hope is futile, and that this little bud willsurely never come to flower. And then the toil of smiles, the pretenceat flirtation, the long-continued assumption of fictitious character, the making of oneself bright to the bright, solemn to the solemn, andromantic to the romantic, is work too hard for enjoyment. But ourheroine had no such work to do. She was very much admired and couldthoroughly enjoy the admiration. She had no task to perform. She wasnot carrying out her profession by midnight labours. Who shall saywhether now and again a soft impalpable regret, --a regret notrecognised as such, --may not have stolen across her mind, telling herthat if she had seen all this before she was married instead ofafterwards, she might have found a brighter lot for herself? If it wereso, the only enduring effect of such a feeling was a renewal of thatoft-made resolution that she would be in love with her husband. Theladies whom she knew had generally their carriages and riding horses. She had only a brougham, and had that kept for her by the generosity ofher father. The Dean, when coming to town, had brought with him thehorse which she used to ride, and wished that it should remain. ButLord George, with a husband's solicitude, and perhaps with something ofa poor man's proper dislike to expensive habits, had refused hispermission. She soon, too, learned to know the true sheen of diamonds, the luxury of pearls, and the richness of rubies; whereas she herselfwore only the little ornaments which had come from the deanery. And asshe danced in spacious rooms and dined in noble halls, and was fêted ongrand staircases, she remembered what a little place was the littlehouse in Munster Court, and that she was to stay there only for a fewweeks more before she was taken to the heavy dulness of Cross Hall. Butstill she always came back to that old resolution. She was soflattered, so courted, so petted and made much of, that she could notbut feel that had all this world been opened to her sooner her destinywould probably have been different;--but then it might have beendifferent, and very much less happy. She still told herself that shewas sure that Lord George was all that he ought to be. 

Two or three things did tease her certainly. She was very fond ofballs, but she soon found that Lord George disliked them as much, andwhen present was always anxious to get home. She was a married woman, and it was open to her to go alone; but that she did not like, norwould he allow it. Sometimes she joined herself to other parties. Mrs. Houghton was always ready to be her companion, and old Mrs. MontacuteJones, who went everywhere, had taken a great liking to her. But therewere two antagonistic forces, her husband and herself, and of courseshe had to yield to the stronger force. The thing might be managedoccasionally, --and the occasion was no doubt much the pleasanterbecause it had to be so managed, --but there was always the feeling thatthese bright glimpses of Paradise, these entrances into Elysium, werenot free to her as to other ladies. And then one day, or rather onenight, there came a great sorrow, --a sorrow which robbed theseterrestrial Paradises of half their brightness and more than half theirjoy. One evening he told her that he did not like her to waltz. "Why?"she innocently asked. They were in the brougham, going home, and shehad been supremely happy at Mrs. Montacute Jones's house. Lord Georgesaid that he could hardly explain the reason. He made rather a longspeech, in which he asked her whether she was not aware that manymarried women did not waltz. "No, " said she. "That is, of course, whenthey get old they don't. " "I am sure, " said he, "that when I say I donot like it, that will be enough. " "Quite enough, " she answered, "toprevent my doing it, though not enough to satisfy me why it should notbe done. " He said no more to her on the occasion, and so the matter wasconsidered to be settled. Then she remembered that her very last waltzhad been with Jack De Baron. Could it be that he was jealous? She waswell aware that she took great delight in waltzing with Captain DeBaron because he waltzed so well. But now that pleasure was over, andfor ever! Was it that her husband disliked waltzing, or that hedisliked Jack De Baron?

A few days after this Lady George was surprised by a visit from theBaroness Banmann, the lady whom she had been taken to hear at theDisabilities. Since that memorable evening she had seen Aunt Ju morethan once, and had asked how the cause of the female architects wasprogressing; but she had never again met the Baroness. Aunt Ju hadapparently been disturbed by these questions. She had made no furthereffort to make Lady George a proselyte by renewed attendances at theRights of Women Institute, and had seemed almost anxious to avoid thesubject. As Lady George's acquaintance with the Baroness had been owingaltogether to Aunt Ju she was now surprised that the German lady shouldcall upon her. 

The German lady began a story with great impetuosity, --with so muchimpetuosity that poor Mary could not understand half that was said toher. But she did learn that the Baroness had in her own estimation beenvery ill-treated, and that the ill-treatment had come mainly from thehands of Aunt Ju and Lady Selina Protest. And it appeared at lengththat the Baroness claimed to have been brought over from Bavaria with apromise that she should have the exclusive privilege of using the hallof the Disabilities on certain evenings, but that this privilege wasnow denied to her. The Disabilities seemed to prefer her younger rival, Miss Doctor Olivia Q. Fleabody, whom Mary now learned to be a person ofno good repute whatever, and by no means fit to address the masses ofMarylebone. But what did the Baroness want of her? What with the femalelecturer's lack of English pronunciation, what with her impetuosity, and with Mary's own innocence on the matter, it was some time beforethe younger lady did understand what the elder lady required. At lasteight tickets were brought out of her pocket, on looking at which Marybegan to understand that the Baroness had established a rivalDisabilities, very near the other, in Lisson Grove; and then at last, but very gradually, she further understood that these were front-rowtickets, and were supposed to be worth 2_s. _ 6_d. _ each. But it was nottill after that, till further explanation had been made which must, shefeared, have been very painful to the Baroness, that she began toperceive that she was expected to pay for the eight tickets on themoment. She had a sovereign in her pocket, and was quite willing tosacrifice it; but she hardly knew how to hand the coin bodily to aBaroness. When she did do so, the Baroness very well knew how to put itinto her pocket. "You vill like to keep the entire eight?" asked theBaroness. Mary thought that four might perhaps suffice for her ownwants;--whereupon the Baroness re-pocketed four, but of course did notreturn the change. 

But even then the Baroness had not completed her task. Aunt Ju hadevidently been false and treacherous, but might still be won back toloyal honesty. So much Mary gradually perceived to be the drift of thelady's mind. Lady Selina was hopeless. Lady Selina, whom the Baronessintended to drag before all the judges in England, would do nothingfair or honest; but Aunt Ju might yet be won. Would Lady George go withthe Baroness to Aunt Ju? The servant had unfortunately just announcedthe brougham as being at the door. "Ah, " said the Baroness, "it vouldbe ten minutes, and vould be my salvation. " Lady George did not at allwant to go to the house in Green Street. She had no great desire topush her acquaintance with Aunt Ju, she particularly disliked theyounger Miss Mildmay, and she felt that she had no business tointerfere in this matter. But there is nothing which requires so muchexperience to attain as the power of refusing. Almost before she hadmade up her mind whether she would refuse or not the Baroness was inthe brougham with her, and the coachman had been desired to take themto Green Street. Throughout the whole distance the Baroness was volubleand unintelligible; but Lady George could hear the names of SelinaProtest and Olivia Q. Fleabody through the thunder of the lady's loudcomplaints. 

Yes, Miss Mildmay was at home. Lady George gave her name to theservant, and also especially requested that the Baroness Banmann mightbe first announced. She had thought it over in the brougham, and haddetermined that if possible it should appear that the Baroness hadbrought her. Twice she repeated the name to the servant. When theyreached the drawing-room only the younger Miss Mildmay was present. Shesent the servant to her aunt, and received her two visitors verydemurely. With the Baroness, of whom probably she had heard quiteenough, she had no sympathies; and with Lady George she had her ownspecial ground of quarrel. Five or six very long minutes passed duringwhich little or nothing was said. The Baroness did not wish to expendher eloquence on an unprofitable young lady, and Lady George could findno subject for small talk. At last the door was opened and the servantinvited the Baroness to go downstairs. The Baroness had perhaps beenunfortunate, for at this very time Lady Selina Protest was down in thedining-room discussing the affairs of the Institute with Aunt Ju. Therewas a little difficulty in making the lady understand what was requiredof her, but after a while she did follow the servant down to thedining-room. 

Lady George, as soon as the door was closed, felt that the bloodrushed to her face. She was conscious at the moment that Captain DeBaron had been this girl's lover, and that there were some who saidthat it was because of her that he had deserted the girl. The girl hadalready said words to her on the subject which had been very hard tobear. She had constantly told herself that in this matter she was quiteinnocent, --that her friendship with Jack was simple, pure friendship, that she liked him because he laughed and talked and treated the worldlightly; that she rarely saw him except in the presence of his cousin, and that everything was as it ought to be. And yet, when she foundherself alone with this Miss Mildmay, she was suffused with blushes anduneasy. She felt that she ought to make some excuse for her visit. "Ihope, " she said, "that your aunt will understand that I brought thelady here only because she insisted on being brought. " Miss Mildmaybowed. "She came to me, and I really couldn't quite understand what shehad to say. But the brougham was there, and she would get into it. I amafraid there has been some quarrel. "

"I don't think that matters at all, " said Miss Mildmay. 

"Only your aunt might think it so impertinent of me! She took me tothat Institute once, you know. "

"I don't know anything about the Institute. As for the German woman, she is an impostor; but it doesn't matter. There are three of themthere now, and they can have it out together. " Lady George didn'tunderstand whether her companion meant to blame her for coming, but wasquite sure, from the tone of the girl's voice and the look of her eyes, that she meant to be uncivil. "I am surprised, " continued Miss Mildmay, "that you should come to this house at all. "

"I hope your aunt will not think----"

"Never mind my aunt. The house is more my house than my aunt's. Afterwhat you have done to me----"

"What have I done to you?" She could not help asking the question, andyet she well knew the nature of the accusation. And she could not stopthe rushing of the tell-tale blood. 

Augusta Mildmay was blushing too, but the blush on her face consistedin two red spots beneath the eyes. The determination to say what shewas going to say had come upon her suddenly. She had not thought thatshe was about to meet her rival. She had planned nothing; but now shewas determined. "What have you done?" she said. "You know very wellwhat you have done. Do you mean to tell me that you had never heard ofanything between me and Captain De Baron? Will you dare to tell methat? Why don't you answer me, Lady George Germain?"

This was a question which she did not wish to answer, and one that didnot at all appertain to herself--which did not require any answer forthe clearing of herself; but yet it was now asked in such a mannerthat she could not save herself from answering it. "I think I did hearthat you and he--knew each other. "

"Knew each other! Don't be so mealy-mouthed. I don't mean to bemealy-mouthed, I can tell you. You knew all about it. Adelaide had toldyou. You knew that we were engaged. "

"No, " exclaimed Lady George; "she never told me that. "

"She did. I know she did. She confessed to me that she had told youso. "

"But what if she had?"

"Of course he is nothing to you, " said the young lady with a sneer. 

"Nothing at all;--nothing on earth. How dare you ask such a question?If Captain De Baron is engaged, I can't make him keep his engagements. "

"You can make him break them. "

"That is not true. I can make him do nothing of the kind. You have noright to talk to me in this way, Miss Mildmay. "

"Then I shall do it without a right. You have come between me and allmy happiness. "

"You cannot know that I am a married woman, " said Lady George, speakinghalf in innocence and half in anger, almost out of breath withconfusion, "or you wouldn't speak like that. "

"Psha!" exclaimed Miss Mildmay. "It is nothing to me whether you aremarried or single. I care nothing though you have twenty lovers if youdo not interfere with me. "

"It is a falsehood, " said Lady George, who was now standing. "I have nolover. It is a wicked falsehood. "

"I care nothing for wickedness or falseness either. Will you promise meif I hold my tongue that you will have nothing further to say toCaptain De Baron?"

"No; I will promise nothing. I should be ashamed of myself to make sucha promise. "

"Then I shall go to Lord George. I do not want to make mischief, but Iam not going to be treated in this way. How would you like it? When Itell you that the man is engaged to me why cannot you leave him alone?"

"I do leave him alone, " said Mary, stamping her foot. 

"You do everything you can to cheat me of him. I shall tell LordGeorge. "

"You may tell whom you like, " said Mary, rushing to the bell-handle andpulling it with all her might. "You have insulted me, and I will neverspeak to you again. " Then she burst out crying, and hurried to thedoor. "Will you--get me--my--carriage?" she said to the man through hersobs. As she descended the stairs she remembered that she had broughtthe German baroness with her, and that the German baroness wouldprobably expect to be taken away again. But when she reached the hallthe door of the dining-room burst open, and the German baronessappeared. It was evident that two scenes had been going on in the samehouse at the same moment. Through the door the Baroness came first, waving her hands above her head. Behind her was Aunt Ju, advancing withimploring gesture. And behind Aunt Ju might be seen Lady Selina Proteststanding in mute dignity. "It is all a got up cheating and a fraud, "said the Baroness: "and I vill have justice, --English justice. " Theservant was standing with the front door open, and the Baroness wentstraight into Lady George's brougham, as though it had been her own. "Oh, Lady George, " said Aunt Ju, "what are you to do with her?" ButLady George was so taken up with her own trouble that she could hardlythink of the other matter. She had to say something. "Perhaps I hadbetter go with her. Good-bye. " And then she followed the Baroness. "Idid not tink dere was such robbery with ladies, " said the Baroness. Butthe footman was asking for directions for the coachman. Whither was heto go? "I do not care, " said the Baroness. Lady George asked her in awhisper whether she would be taken home. "Anywhere, " said the Baroness. In the meantime the footman was still standing, and Aunt Ju could beseen in the hall through the open door of the house. During the wholetime our poor Mary's heart was crushed by the accusations which hadbeen made against her upstairs. "Home, " said Mary in despair. To havethe Baroness in Munster Court would be dreadful; but anything wasbetter than standing in Green Street with the servant at the carriagewindow. 

Then the Baroness began her story. Lady Selina Protest had utterlyrefused to do her justice, and Aunt Ju was weak enough to be domineeredby Lady Selina. That, as far as Mary understood anything about it, wasthe gist of the story. But she did not try to understand anything aboutit. During the drive her mind was intent on forming some plan by whichshe might be able to get rid of her companion without asking her intoher house. She had paid her sovereign, and surely the Baroness had noright to demand more of her. When she reached Munster Court her planwas in some sort framed. "And now, madam, " she said, "where shall Itell my servant to take you?" The Baroness looked very suppliant. "Ifyou vas not busy I should so like just one half-hour of conversation. "Mary nearly yielded. For a moment she hesitated as though she weregoing to put up her hand and help the lady out. But then the memory ofher own unhappiness steeled her heart, and the feeling grew strongwithin her that this nasty woman was imposing on her, --and she refused. "I am afraid, madam, " she said, "that my time is altogether occupied. ""Then let him take me to 10, Alexandrina Row, Maida Vale, " said theBaroness, throwing herself sulkily back into the carriage. Lady Georgegave the direction to the astounded coachman, --for Maida Vale was along way off, --and succeeded in reaching her own drawing-room alone. 

What was she to do? The only course in which there seemed to be safetywas in telling all to her husband. If she did not, it would probably betold by the cruel lips of that odious woman. But yet, how was she totell it? It was not as though everything in this matter was quitepleasant between her and him. Lady Susanna had accused her of flirtingwith the man, and that she had told to him. And in her heart of heartsshe believed that the waltzing had been stopped because she had waltzedwith Jack De Baron. Nothing could be more unjust, nothing more cruel;but still there were the facts. And then the sympathy between her andher husband was so imperfect. She was ever trying to be in love withhim, but had never yet succeeded in telling even herself that she hadsucceeded. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

"WHAT MATTER IF SHE DOES?"

About noon on the day after the occurrences related in the last chapterLady George owned to herself that she was a most unfortunate youngwoman. Her husband had gone out, and she had not as yet told himanything of what that odious Augusta Mildmay had said to her. She hadmade various little attempts but had not known how to go on with them. She had begun by giving him her history of the Baroness, and he hadscolded her for giving the woman a sovereign and for taking the womanabout London in her carriage. It is very difficult to ask in a fittingway for the sympathies and co-operation of one who is scolding you. AndMary in this matter wanted almost more than sympathy and co-operation. Nothing short of the fullest manifestation of affectionate confidencewould suffice to comfort her; and, desiring this, she had been afraidto mention Captain De Baron's name. She thought of the waltzing, thought of Susanna, and was cowardly. So the time slipped away fromher, and when he left her on the following morning her story had notbeen told. He was no sooner gone than she felt that if it were to betold at all it should have been told at once. 

Was it possible that that venomous girl should really go to her husbandwith such a complaint? She knew well enough, or at any rate thoughtthat she knew, that there had never been an engagement between the girland Jack De Baron. She had heard it all over and over again fromAdelaide Houghton, and had even herself been present at some joke onthe subject between Adelaide and Jack. There was an idea that Jack wasbeing pursued, and Mrs. Houghton had not scrupled to speak of it beforehim. Mary had not admired her friend's taste, and had on suchoccasions thought well of Jack because he had simply disowned anyconsciousness of such a state of things. But all this had made Marysure that there was not and that there never had been any engagement;and yet the wretched woman, in her futile and frantic endeavours toforce the man to marry her, was not ashamed to make so gross an attackas this!

If it hadn't been for Lady Susanna and those wretched fortune-tellingcards, and that one last waltz, there would be nothing in it; but as itwas, there might be so much! She had begun to fear that her husband'smind was suspicious, --that he was prone to believe that things weregoing badly. Before her marriage, when she had in truth known him notat all, her father had given her some counsels in his light airy way, which, however, had sunk deep into her mind and which she hadendeavoured to follow to the letter. He had said not a word to her asto her conduct to other men. It would not be natural that a fathershould do so. But he had told her how to behave to her husband. Men, hehad assured her, were to be won by such comforts as he described. Awife should provide that a man's dinner was such as he liked to eat, his bed such as he liked to lie on, his clothes arranged as he liked towear them, and the household hours fixed to suit his convenience. Sheshould learn and indulge his habits, should suit herself to him inexternal things of life, and could thus win from him a liking and areverence which would wear better than the feeling generally calledlove, and would at last give the woman her proper influence. The Deanhad meant to teach his child how she was to rule her husband, but ofcourse had been too wise to speak of dominion. Mary, declaring toherself that the feeling generally called love should exist as well asthe liking and the reverence, had laboured hard to win it all from herhusband in accordance with her father's teaching; but it had seemed toher that her labour was wasted. Lord George did not in the least carewhat he ate. He evidently had no opinion at all about the bed; and asto his clothes, seemed to receive no accession of comfort by having onewife and her maid, instead of three sisters and their maid and old Mrs. Toff to look after them. He had no habits which she could indulge. Shehad looked about for the weak point in his armour, but had not foundit. It seemed to her that she had no influence over him whatever. Shewas of course aware that they lived upon her fortune; but she was awarealso that he knew that it was so, and that the consciousness made himunhappy. She could not, therefore, even endeavour to minister to hiscomfort by surrounding him with pretty things. All expenditure wasgrievous to him. The only matter in which she had failed to give way toany expressed wish had been in that important matter of their townresidence; and, as to that, she had in fact had no power of yielding. It had been of such moment as to have been settled for her by previouscontract. But, she had often thought, whether in her endeavour to forceherself to be in love with him, she would not persistently demand thatMunster Court should be abandoned, and that all the pleasures of herown life should be sacrificed. 

Now, for a day or two, she heartily wished that she had done so. Sheliked her house; she liked her brougham; she liked the gaieties of herlife; and in a certain way she liked Jack De Baron; but they were allto her as nothing when compared to her duty and her sense of theobligations which she owed to her husband. Playful and childish as shewas, all this was very serious to her;--perhaps the more seriousbecause she was playful and childish. She had not experience enough toknow how small some things are, and how few are the evils which cannotbe surmounted. It seemed to her that if Miss Mildmay were at thismoment to bring the horrid charge against her, it might too probablylead to the crash of ruin and the horrors of despair. And yet, throughit all, she had a proud feeling of her own innocence and aconsciousness that she would speak out very loudly should her husbandhint to her that he believed the accusation. 

Her father would now be in London in a day or two, and on this occasionwould again be staying in Munster Court. At last she made up her mindthat she would tell everything to him. It was not, perhaps, the wisestresolution to which she could have come. A married woman should notusually teach herself to lean on her parents instead of her husband, and certainly not on her father. It is in this way that dividedhouseholds are made. But she had no other real friend of whom she couldask a question. She liked Mrs. Houghton, but, as to such a matter asthis, distrusted her altogether. She liked Miss Houghton, her friend'saunt, but did not know her well enough for such service as this. Shehad neither brother nor sister of her own, and her husband's brothersand sisters were certainly out of the question. Old Mrs. MontacuteJones had taken a great fancy to her, and she almost thought that shecould have asked Mrs. Jones for advice; but she had no connection withMrs. Jones, and did not dare to do it. Therefore she resolved to telleverything to her father. 

On the evening before her father came to town there was another ball atMrs. Montacute Jones's. This old lady, who had no one belonging to herbut an invisible old husband, was the gayest of the gay among the gaypeople of London. On this occasion Mary was to have gone with LadyBrabazon, who was related to the Germains, and Lord George had arrangedan escape for himself. They were to drive out together, and when shewent to her ball he would go to bed. But in the course of the afternoonshe told him that she was writing to Lady Brabazon to decline. "Whywon't you go?" said he. 

"I don't care about it. "

"If you mean that you won't go without me, of course I will go. "

"It isn't that exactly. Of course it is nicer if you go; though Iwouldn't take you if you don't like it. But----"

"But what, dear?"

"I think I'd rather not to-night. I don't know that I am quite strongenough. " Then he didn't say another word to press her, --only beggingthat she would not go to the dinner either if she were not well. Butshe was quite well, and she did go to the dinner. 

Again she had meant to tell him why she would not go to Mrs. Jones'sball, but had been unable. Jack De Baron would be there, and would wantto know why she would not waltz. And Adelaide Houghton would tease herabout it, very likely before him. She had always waltzed with him, andcould not now refuse without some reason. So she gave up her ball, sending word to say that she was not very well. "I shouldn't at allwonder if he has kept her at home because he's afraid of you, " saidMrs. Houghton to her cousin. 

Late in the following afternoon, before her husband had come home fromhis club, she told her father the whole story of her interview withMiss Mildmay. "What a tiger, " he said, when he had heard it. "I haveheard of women like that before, but I have never believed in them. "

"You don't think she will tell him?"

"What matter if she does? What astonishes me most is that a womanshould be so unwomanly as to fight for a man in such a way as that. Itis the sort of thing that men used to do. 'You must give up your claimto that lady, or else you must fight me. ' Now she comes forward andsays that she will fight you. "

"But, papa, I have no claim. "

"Nor probably has she?"

"No; I'm sure she has not. But what does that matter? The horrid thingis that she should say all this to me. I told her that she couldn'tknow that I was married. "

"She merely wanted to make herself disagreeable. If one comes acrossdisagreeable people one has to bear with it. I suppose she was jealous. She had seen you dancing or perhaps talking with the man. "

"Oh, yes. "

"And in her anger she wanted to fly at some one. "

"It is not her I care about, papa. "

"What then?"

"If she were to tell George. "

"What if she did? You do not mean to say that he would believe her? Youdo not think that he is jealous?"

She began to perceive that she could not get any available counsel fromher father unless she could tell him everything. She must explain tohim what evil Lady Susanna had already done; how her sister-in-law hadacted as duenna, and had dared to express a suspicion about this veryman. And she must tell him that Lord George had desired her not towaltz, and had done so, as she believed, because he had seen herwaltzing with Jack De Baron. But all this seemed to her to beimpossible. There was nothing which she would not be glad that heknew, if only he could be made to know it all truly. But she did notthink that she could tell him what had really happened; and were she todo so, there would be horrid doubts on his mind. "You do not mean tosay that he is given to that sort of thing?" asked the Dean, again witha look of anger. 

"Oh no, --at least I hope not. Susanna did try to make mischief. "

"The d---- she did, " said the Dean. Mary almost jumped in her chair, she was so much startled by such a word from her father's mouth. "Ifhe's fool enough to listen to that old cat, he'll make himself amiserable and a contemptible man. Did she say anything to him aboutthis very man?"

"She said something very unpleasant to me, and of course I toldGeorge. "

"Well?"

"He was all that was kind. He declared that he had no objection to maketo Captain De Baron at all. I am sure there was no reason why heshould. "

"Tush!" exclaimed the Dean, as though any assurance or even any noticeof the matter in that direction were quite unnecessary. "And there wasan end of that?"

"I think he is a little inclined to be--to be----"

"To be what? You had better tell it all out, Mary. "

"Perhaps what you would call strict. He told me not to waltz any morethe other day. "

"He's a fool, " said the Dean angrily. 

"Oh no, papa; don't say that. Of course he has a right to think as helikes, and of course I am bound to do as he says. "

"He has no experience, no knowledge of the world. Perhaps one of thelast things which a man learns is to understand innocence when he seesit. " The word innocence was so pleasant to her that she put out herhand and touched his knee. "Take no notice of what that angry womansaid to you. Above all, do not drop your acquaintance with thisgentleman. You should be too proud to be influenced in any way by suchscandal. "

"But if she were to speak to George?"

"She will hardly dare. But if she does, that is no affair of yours. Youcan have nothing to do with it till he shall speak to you. "

"You would not tell him?"

"No; I should not even think about it. She is below your notice. If itshould be the case that she dares to speak to him, and that he shouldbe weak enough to be moved by what such a creature can say to him, youwill, I am sure, have dignity enough to hold your own with him. Tellhim that you think too much of his honour as well of your own to makeit necessary for him to trouble himself. But he will know that himself, and if he does speak to you, he will speak only in pity for her. " Allthis he said slowly and seriously, looking as she had sometimes seenhim look when preaching in the cathedral. And she believed him now asshe always believed him then, and was in a great measure comforted. 

But she could not but be surprised that her father should so absolutelyrefuse to entertain the idea that any intimacy between herself andCaptain De Baron should be injurious. It gratified her that it shouldbe so, but nevertheless she was surprised. She had endeavoured toexamine the question by her own lights, but had failed in answering it. She knew well enough that she liked the man. She had discovered in himthe realization of those early dreams. His society was in every respectpleasant to her. He was full of playfulness, and yet always gentle. Hewas not very clever, but clever enough. She had made the mistake inlife, --or rather others had made it for her, --of taking herself toosoon from her playthings and devoting herself to the stern reality of ahusband. She understood something of this, and liked to think that shemight amuse herself innocently with such a one as Jack De Baron. Shewas sure that she did not love him, --that there was no danger of herloving him; and she was quite confident also that he did not love her. But yet, --yet there had been a doubt on her mind. Innocent as it allwas, there might be cause of offence to her husband. It was thisthought that had made her sometimes long to be taken away from Londonand be immured amidst the dulness of Cross Hall. But of such dangersand of such fears her father saw nothing. Her father simply bade her tomaintain her own dignity and have her own way. Perhaps her father wasright. 

On the next day the Dean and his son-in-law went, according toappointment, to Mr. Battle. Mr. Battle received them with his usualbland courtesy, and listened attentively to whatever the two gentlemenhad to say. Lawyers who know their business always allow their clientsto run out their stories even when knowing that the words so spoken arewasted words. It is the quickest way of arriving at their desiredresult. Lord George had a good deal to say, because his mind was fullof the conviction that he would not for worlds put an obstacle in theway of his brother's heir, if he could be made sure that the child wasthe heir. He wished for such certainty, and cursed the heavy chancethat had laid so grievous a duty on his shoulders. 

When he had done, Mr. Battle began. "I think, Lord George, that I havelearned most of the particulars. "

Lord George started back in his chair. "What particulars?" said theDean. 

"The Marchioness's late husband, --for she doubtless is his Lordship'swife, --was a lunatic. "

"A lunatic!" said Lord George. 

"We do not quite know when he died, but we believe it was about a monthor two before the date at which his Lordship wrote home to say that hewas about to be married. "

"Then that child cannot be Lord Popenjoy, " said the Dean withexultation. 

"That's going a little too fast, Mr. Dean. There may have been adivorce. "

"There is no such thing in Roman Catholic countries, " said the Dean. "Certainly not in Italy. "

"I do not quite know, " said the lawyer. "Of course we are as yet verymuch in the dark. I should not wonder if we found that there had beentwo marriages. All this is what we have got to find out. The ladycertainly lived in great intimacy with your brother before her firsthusband died. "

"How do you know anything about it?" asked Lord George. 

"I happened to have heard the name of the Marchese Luigi, and I knewwhere to apply for information. "

"We did not mean that any inquiry should be made so suddenly, " saidLord George angrily. 

"It was for the best, " said the Dean. 

"Certainly for the best, " said the unruffled lawyer. "I would nowrecommend that I may be commissioned to send out my own confidentialclerk to learn all the circumstances of the case; and that I shouldinform Mr. Stokes that I am going to do so, on your instructions, LordGeorge. " Lord George shivered. "I think we should even offer to givehis Lordship time to send an agent with my clerk if he pleases to doso, or to send one separately at the same time, or to take any otherstep that he may please. It is clearly your duty, my Lord, to have theinquiry made. "

"Your manifest duty, " said the Dean, unable to restrain his triumph. 

Lord George pleaded for delay, and before he left the lawyer's chambersalmost quarrelled with his father-in-law; but before he did leave themhe had given the necessary instructions. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

MR. HOUGHTON WANTS A GLASS OF SHERRY. 

Lord George, when he got out of the lawyer's office with hisfather-in-law, expressed himself as being very angry at what had beendone. While discussing the matter within, in the presence of Mr. Battle, he had been unable to withstand the united energies of the Deanand the lawyer, but, nevertheless, even while he had yielded, he hadfelt that he was being driven. 

"I don't think he was at all justified in making any inquiry, " he said, as soon as he found himself in the Square. 

"My dear George, " replied the Dean, "the quicker this can be done thebetter. "

"An agent should only act in accordance with his instructions. "

"Without disputing that, my dear fellow, I cannot but say that I amglad to have learned so much. "

"And I am very sorry. "

"We both mean the same thing, George. "

"I don't think we do, " said Lord George, who was determined to beangry. 

"You are sorry that it should be so, --and so am I. " The triumph whichhad sat in the Dean's eye when he heard the news in the lawyer'schambers almost belied this latter assertion. "But I certainly am gladto be on the track as soon as possible, if there is a track which it isour duty to follow. "

"I didn't like that man at all, " said Lord George. 

"I neither like him nor dislike him; but I believe him to be honest, and I know him to be clever. He will find out the truth for us. "

"And when it turns out that Brotherton was legally married to thewoman, what will the world think of me then?"

"The world will think that you have done your duty. There can be noquestion about it, George. Whether it be agreeable or disagreeable, itmust be done. Could you have brought yourself to have thrown the burdenof doing this upon your own child, perhaps some five-and-twenty yearshence, when it may be done so much easier now by yourself. "

"I have no child, " said Lord George. 

"But you will have. " The Dean, as he said this, could not keep himselffrom looking too closely into his son-in-law's face. He was mostanxious for the birth of that grandson who was to be made a Marquis byhis own energies. 

"God knows. Who can say?"

"At any rate there is that child at Manor Cross. If he be not thelegitimate heir, is it not better for him that the matter should besettled now than when he may have lived twenty years in expectation ofthe title and property?" The Dean said much more than this, urging thepropriety of what had been done, but he did not succeed in quietingLord George's mind. 

That same day the Dean told the whole story to his daughter, perhaps inhis eagerness adding something to what he had heard from the lawyer. "Divorces in Roman Catholic countries, " he said, "are quite impossible. I believe they are never granted, except for State purposes. There maybe some new civil law, but I don't think it; and then, if the man wasan acknowledged lunatic, it must have been impossible. "

"But how could the Marquis be so foolish, papa?"

"Ah, that is what we do not understand. But it will come out. You maybe sure it will all come out. Why did he come home to England and bringthem with him? And why just at this time? Why did he not communicatehis first marriage; and if not that, why the second? He probably didnot intend at first to put his child forward as Lord Popenjoy, but hasbecome subsequently bold. The woman, perhaps, has gradually learned thefacts and insisted on making the claim for her child. She may graduallyhave become stronger than he. He may have thought that by coming hereand declaring the boy to be his heir, he would put down suspicion bythe very boldness of his assertion. Who can say? But these are thefacts, and they are sufficient to justify us in demanding thateverything shall be brought to light. " Then for the first time, heasked her what immediate hope there was that Lord George might have anheir. She tried to laugh, then blushed; then wept a tear or two, andmuttered something which he failed to hear. "There is time enough forall that, Mary, " he said, with his pleasantest smile, and then lefther. 

Lord George did not return home till late in the afternoon. He wentfirst to Mrs. Houghton's house, and told her nearly everything. But hetold it in such a way as to make her understand that his strongestfeeling at the present moment was one of anger against the Dean. 

"Of course, George, " she said, for she always called him Georgenow, --"The Dean will try to have it all his own way. "

"I am almost sorry that I ever mentioned my brother's name to him. "

"She, I suppose, is ambitious, " said Mrs. Houghton. 'She, ' was intendedto signify Mary. 

"No. To do Mary justice, it is not her fault. I don't think she caresfor it. "

"I dare say she would like to be a Marchioness as well as any one else. I know I should. "

"You might have been, " he said, looking tenderly into her face. 

"I wonder how I should have borne all this. You say that she isindifferent. I should have been so anxious on your behalf, --to see youinstalled in your rights!"

"I have no rights. There is my brother. "

"Yes; but as the heir. She has none of the feeling about you that Ihave, George. " Then she put out her hand to him, which he took andheld. "I begin to think that I was wrong. I begin to know that I waswrong. We could have lived at any rate. "

"It is too late, " he said, still holding her hand. 

"Yes, --it is too late. I wonder whether you will ever understand thesort of struggle which I had to go through, and the feeling of dutywhich overcame me at last. Where should we have lived?"

"At Cross Hall, I suppose. "

"And if there had been children, how should we have brought them up?"She did not blush as she asked the question, but he did. "And yet Iwish that I had been braver. I think I should have suited you betterthan she. "

"She is as good as gold, " he said, moved by a certain loyalty which, though it was not sufficient absolutely to protect her from wrong, wastoo strong to endure to hear her reproached. 

"Do not tell me of her goodness, " said Mrs. Houghton, jumping up fromher seat. "I do not want to hear of her goodness. Tell me of mygoodness. Does she love you as I do? Does she make you the hero of herthoughts? She has no idea of any hero. She would think more of Jack DeBaron whirling round the room with her than of your position in theworld, or of his, or even of her own. " He winced visibly when he heardJack De Baron's name. "You need not be afraid, " she continued, "forthough she is, as you say, as good as gold, she knows nothing aboutlove. She took you when you came because it suited the ambition of theDean, --as she would have taken anything else that he provided for her. "

"I believe she loves me, " he said, having in his heart of hearts, atthe moment, much more solicitude in regard to his absent wife than tothe woman who was close to his feet and was flattering him to the topof his bent. 

"And her love, such as it is, is sufficient for you?"

"She is my wife. "

"Yes; because I allowed it; because I thought it wrong to subject yourfuture life to the poverty which I should have brought with me. Do youthink there was no sacrifice then?"

"But, Adelaide;--it is so. "

"Yes, it is so. But what does it all mean? The time is gone by whenmen, or women either, were too qualmish and too queasy to admit thetruth even to themselves. Of course you are married, and so am I; butmarriage does not alter the heart. I did not cease to love you becauseI would not marry you. You could not cease to love me merely because Irefused you. When I acknowledged to myself that Mr. Houghton's incomewas necessary to me, I did not become enamoured of him. Nor I supposedid you when you found the same as to Miss Lovelace's money. "

Upon this he also jumped up from his seat, and stood before her. "Iwill not have even you say that I married my wife for her money. "

"How was it then, George? I am not blaming you for doing what I did aswell as you. "

"I should blame myself. I should feel myself to be degraded. "

"Why so? It seems to me that I am bolder than you. I can look thecruelties of the world in the face, and declare openly how I will meetthem. I did marry Mr. Houghton for his money, and of course he knew it. Is it to be supposed that he or any human being could have thought thatI married him for love? I make his house comfortable for him as far asI can, and am civil to his friends, and look my best at his table. Ihope he is satisfied with his bargain; but I cannot do more. I cannotwear him in my heart. Nor, George, do I believe that you in your heartcan ever wear Mary Lovelace!" But he did, --only that he thought that hehad space there for two, and that in giving habitation to this secondlove he was adding at any rate to the excitements of his life. "Tellme, George, " said the woman, laying her hand upon his breast, "is itshe or I that have a home there?"

"I will not say that I do not love my wife, " he said. 

"No; you are afraid. The formalities of the world are so much more toyou than to me! Sit down, George. Oh, George!" Then she was on herknees at his feet, hiding her face upon her hands, while his arms werealmost necessarily thrown over her and embracing her. The lady wasconvulsed with sobs, and he was thinking how it would be with him andher should the door be opened and some pair of eyes see them as theywere. But her ears were sharp in spite of her sobs. There was the fallof a foot on the stairs which she heard long before it reached him, and, in a moment, she was in her chair. He looked at her, and there wasno trace of a tear. "It's Houghton, " she said, putting her finger up toher mouth with almost a comic gesture. There was a smile in her eyes, and a little mockery of fear in the trembling of her hand and themotion of her lips. To him it seemed to be tragic enough. He had toassume to this gentleman whom he had been injuring a cordial friendlymanner, --and thus to lie to him. He had to make pretences, and at amoment's notice to feign himself something very different from what hewas. Had the man come a little more quickly, had the husband caught himwith the wife at his knees, nothing could have saved him and his ownwife from utter misery. So he felt it to be, and the feeling almostoverwhelmed him. His heart palpitated with emotion as the wrongedhusband's hand was on the door. She, the while, was as thoroughlycomposed as a stage heroine. But she had flattered him and pretended tolove him, and it did not occur to him that he ought to be angry withher. "Who would ever think of seeing you at this time of day?" saidMrs. Houghton. 

"Well, no; I'm going back to the club in a few minutes. I had to comeup to Piccadilly to have my hair cut!"

"Your hair cut!"

"Honour bright! Nothing upsets me so much as having my hair cut. I'mgoing to ring for a glass of sherry. By the bye, Lord George, a goodmany of them are talking at the club about young Popenjoy. "

"What are they saying?" Lord George felt that he must open his mouth, but did not wish to talk to this man, and especially did not wish totalk about his own affairs. 

"Of course I know nothing about it; but surely the way Brotherton hascome back is very odd. I used to be very fond of your brother, youknow. There was nobody her father used to swear by so much as him. But, by George, I don't know what to make of it now. Nobody has seen theMarchioness!"

"I have not seen her, " said Lord George; "but she is there all the samefor that. "

"Nobody doubts that she's there. She's there, safe enough. And the boyis there too. We're all quite sure of that. But you know the Marquis ofBrotherton is somebody. "

"I hope so, " said Lord George. 

"And when he brings his wife home people will expect, --will expect toknow something about it;--eh?" All this was said with an intention oftaking Lord George's part in a question which was already becoming oneof interest to the public. It was hinted here and there that there was"a screw loose" about this young Popenjoy, who had just been broughtfrom Italy, and that Lord George would have to look to it. Of coursethey who were connected with Brothershire were more prone to talk of itthan others, and Mr. Houghton, who had heard and said a good deal aboutit, thought that he was only being civil to Lord George in seeming totake part against the Marquis. 

But Lord George felt it to be matter of offence that any outsidershould venture to talk about his family. "If people would only confinethemselves to subjects with which they are acquainted, it would be verymuch better, " he said;--and then almost immediately took his leave. 

"That's all regular nonsense, you know, " Mr. Houghton said as soon ashe was alone with his wife. "Of course people are talking about it. Your father says that Brotherton must be mad. "

"That's no reason why you should come and tell Lord George what peoplesay. You never have any tact. "

"Of course I'm wrong; I always am, " said the husband, swallowing hisglass of sherry and then taking his departure. 

Lord George was now in a very uneasy state of mind. He intended to becautious, --had intended even to be virtuous and self-denying; and yet, in spite of his intentions, he had fallen into such a condition ofthings with Mr. Houghton's wife, that were the truth to be known, hewould be open to most injurious proceedings. To him the love affairwith another man's wife was more embarrassing even than pleasant. Itscharm did not suffice to lighten for him the burden of the wickedness. He had certain inklings of complaint in his own mind against his ownwife, but he felt that his own hands should be perfectly clean beforehe could deal with those inklings magisterially and maritally. Howwould he look were she to turn upon him and ask him as to his ownconduct with Adelaide Houghton? And then into what a sea of troublehad he not already fallen in this matter of his brother's marriage? Hisfirst immediate duty was that of writing to his elder sister, and heexpressed himself to her in strong language. After telling her all thathe had heard from the lawyer, he spoke of himself and of the Dean. "Itwill make me very unhappy, " he wrote. "Do you remember what Hamletsays:

 'O, cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right!'

"I feel like that altogether. I want to get nothing by it. No man everless begrudged to his elder brother than I do all that belongs to him. Though he has himself treated me badly, I would support him in anythingfor the sake of the family. At this moment I most heartily wish thatthe child may be Lord Popenjoy. The matter will destroy all myhappiness perhaps for the next ten years;--perhaps for ever. And Icannot but think that the Dean has interfered in a most unjustifiablemanner. He drives me on, so that I almost feel that I shall be forcedto quarrel with him. With him it is manifestly personal ambition, andnot duty. " There was much more of it in the same strain, but at thesame time an acknowledgment that he had now instructed the Dean'slawyer to make the inquiry. 

Lady Sarah's answer was perhaps more judicious; and as it was shorterit shall be given entire. 

 "Cross Hall, May 10, 187--. 

 "MY DEAR GEORGE, --Of course it is a sad thing to us all that this terrible inquiry should be forced upon us;--and more grievous to you than to us, as you must take the active part in it. But this is a manifest duty, and duties are seldom altogether pleasant. All that you say as to yourself, --which I know to be absolutely true, --must at any rate make your conscience clear in the matter. It is not for your sake nor for our sake that this is to be done, but for the sake of the family at large, and to prevent the necessity of future lawsuits which would be ruinous to the property. If the child be legitimate, let that, in God's name, be proclaimed so loud that no one shall hereafter be able to cast a doubt upon the fact. To us it must be matter of deepest sorrow that our brother's child and the future head of our family should have been born under circumstances which, at the best, must still be disgraceful. But, although that is so, it will be equally our duty to acknowledge his rights to the full, if they be his rights. Though the son of the widow of a lunatic foreigner, still if the law says that he is Brotherton's heir, it is for us to render the difficulties in his way as light as possible. But that we may do so, we must know what he is. 

 "Of course you find the Dean to be pushing and perhaps a little vulgar. No doubt with him the chief feeling is one of personal ambition. But in his way he is wise, and I do not know that in this matter he has done anything which had better have been left undone. He believes that the child is not legitimate;--and so in my heart do I. 

 "You must remember that my dear mother is altogether on Brotherton's side. The feeling that there should be an heir is so much to her, and the certainty that the boy is at any rate her grandson, that she cannot endure that a doubt should be expressed. Of course this does not tend to make our life pleasant down here. Poor dear mamma! Of course we do all we can to comfort her. 

 "Your affectionate sister, "SARAH GERMAIN. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

THE DEAN IS VERY BUSY. 

A week had passed away and nothing had as yet been heard from theMarquis, nor had Mr. Battle's confidential clerk as yet taken hisdeparture for Italy, when Mrs. Montacute Jones called one day inMunster Court. Lady George had not seen her new old friend since thenight of the ball to which she had not gone, but had received more thanone note respecting her absence on that occasion, and various otherlittle matters. Why did not Lady George come and lunch; and why did notLady George come and drive? Lady George was a little afraid that therewas a conspiracy about her in reference to Captain De Baron, and thatMrs. Montacute Jones was one of the conspirators. If so AdelaideHoughton was certainly another. It had been very pleasant. When sheexamined herself about this man, as she endeavoured to do, she declaredthat it had been as innocent as pleasant. She did not really believethat either Adelaide Houghton or Mrs. Montacute Jones had intended todo mischief. Mischief, such as the alienation of her own affectionsfrom her husband, she regarded as quite out of the question. She wouldnot even admit to herself that it was possible that she should fallinto such a pit as that. But there were other dangers; and thosefriends of hers would indeed be dangerous if they brought her into anysociety that made her husband jealous. Therefore, though she liked Mrs. Montacute Jones very much, she had avoided the old lady lately, knowingthat something would be said about Jack De Baron, and not quiteconfident as to her own answers. 

And now Mrs. Montacute Jones had come to her. "My dear Lady George, "she said, "where on earth have you been? Are you going to cut me? Ifso, tell me at once. "

"Oh, Mrs. Jones, " said Lady George, kissing her, "how can you ask sucha question?"

"Because you know it requires two to play at that game, and I'm notgoing to be cut. " Mrs. Montacute Jones was a stout built but very shortold lady, with grey hair curled in precise rolls down her face, withstreaky cheeks, giving her a look of extreme good health, and verybright grey eyes. She was always admirably dressed, so well dressedthat her enemies accused her of spending enormous sums on her toilet. She was very old, --some people said eighty, adding probably not morethan ten years to her age, --very enthusiastic, particularly inreference to her friends; very fond of gaiety, and very charitable. "Why didn't you come to my ball?"

"Lord George doesn't care about balls, " said Mary, laughing. 

"Come, come! Don't try and humbug me. It had been all arranged that youshould come when he went to bed. Hadn't it now?"

"Something had been said about it. "

"A good deal had been said about it, and he had agreed. Are you goingto tell me that he won't go out with you, and yet dislikes your goingout without him? Is he such a Bluebeard as that?"

"He's not a Bluebeard at all, Mrs. Jones. "

"I hope not. There has been something about that GermanBaroness;--hasn't there?"

"Oh dear no. "

"I heard that there was. She came and took you and the brougham allabout London. And there was a row with Lady Selina. I heard of it. "

"But that had nothing to do with my going to your party. "

"Well, no; why should it? She's a nasty woman, that Baroness Banmann. If we can't get on here in England without German Baronesses andAmerican she doctors, we are in a bad way. You shouldn't have let themdrag you into that lot. Women's rights! Women are quite able to holdtheir own without such trash as that. I'm told she's in debteverywhere, and can't pay a shilling. I hope they'll lock her up. "

"She is nothing to me, Mrs. Jones. "

"I hope not. What was it then? I know there was something. He doesn'tobject to Captain De Baron; does he?"

"Object to him! Why should he object to Captain De Baron?"

"I don't know why. Men do take such fancies into their heads. You arenot going to give up dancing;--are you?"

"Not altogether. I'm not sure that I care for it very much. "

"Oh, Lady George; where do you expect to go to?" Mary could not keepherself from laughing, though she was at the same time almost inclinedto be angry with the old lady's interference. "I should have said thatI didn't know a young person in the world fonder of dancing than youare. Perhaps he objects to it. "

"He doesn't like my waltzing, " said Mary, with a blush. On formeroccasions she had almost made up her mind to confide her troubles tothis old woman, and now the occasion seemed so suitable that she couldnot keep herself from telling so much as that. 

"Oh!" said Mrs. Montacute Jones. "That's it! I knew there wassomething. My dear, he's a goose, and you ought to tell him so. "

"Couldn't you tell him, " said Mary, laughing. 

"Would do it in half a minute, and think nothing of it!"

"Pray, don't. He wouldn't like it at all. "

"My dear, you shouldn't be afraid of him. I'm not going to preach uprebellion against husbands. I'm the last woman in London to do that. Iknow the comfort of a quiet house as well as any one, and that twopeople can't get along easy together unless there is a good deal ofgive and take. But it doesn't do to give up everything. What does hesay about it?"

"He says he doesn't like it. "

"What would he say if you told him you didn't like his going to hisclub. "

"He wouldn't go. "

"Nonsense! It's being a dog in the manger, because he doesn't care forit himself. I should have it out with him, --nicely and pleasantly. Justtell him that you're fond of it, and ask him to change his mind. Ican't bear anybody interfering to put down the innocent pleasures ofyoung people. A man like that just opens his mouth and speaks a word, and takes away the whole pleasure of a young woman's season! You've gotmy card for the 10th of June?"

"Oh yes, --I've got it. "

"And I shall expect you to come. It's only going to be a small affair. Get him to bring you if you can, and you do as I bid you. Just have itout with him, --nicely and quietly. Nobody hates a row so much as I do, but people oughtn't to be trampled on. "

All this had considerable effect upon Lady George. She quite agreedwith Mrs. Jones that people ought not to be trampled on. Her father hadnever trampled on her. From him there had been very little positiveordering as to what she might and what she might not do. And yet shehad been only a child when living with her father. Now she was amarried woman, and the mistress of her own house. She was quite surethat were she to ask her father, the Dean would say that such aprohibition as this was absurd. Of course she could not ask her father. She would not appeal from her husband to him. But it was a hardship, and she almost made up her mind that she would request him to revokethe order. 

Then she was very much troubled by a long letter from the BaronessBanmann. The Baroness was going to bring an action jointly against LadySelina Protest and Miss Mildmay, whom the reader will know as Aunt Ju;and informed Lady George that she was to be summoned as a witness. This was for a while a grievous affliction to her. "I know nothingabout it, " she said to her husband, "I only just went there oncebecause Miss Mildmay asked me. "

"It was a very foolish thing for her to do. "

"And I was foolish, perhaps; but what can I say about it? I don't knowanything. "

"You shouldn't have bought those other tickets. "

"How could I refuse when the woman asked for such a trifle?"

"Then you took her to Miss Mildmay's. "

"She would get into the brougham, and I couldn't get rid of her. Hadn'tI better write and tell her that I know nothing about it?" But to thisLord George objected, requesting her altogether to hold her peace onthe subject, and never even to speak about it to anyone. He was notgood humoured with her, and this was clearly no occasion for asking himabout the waltzing. Indeed, just at present he rarely was in a goodhumour, being much troubled in his mind on the great Popenjoy question. 

At this time the Dean was constantly up in town, running backwards andforwards between London and Brotherton, prosecuting his enquiry andspending a good deal of his time at Mr. Battle's offices. In doing allthis he by no means acted in perfect concert with Lord George, nor didhe often stay or even dine at the house in Munster Court. There hadbeen no quarrel, but he found that Lord George was not cordial withhim, and therefore placed himself at the hotel in Suffolk Street. "Whydoesn't papa come here as he is in town?" Mary said to her husband. 

"I don't know why he comes to town at all, " replied her husband. 

"I suppose he comes because he has business, or because he likes it. Ishouldn't think of asking why he comes; but as he is here, I wish hewouldn't stay at a nasty dull hotel after all that was arranged. "

"You may be sure he knows what he likes best, " said Lord Georgesulkily. That allusion to "an arrangement" had not served to put him ina good humour. 

Mary had known well why her father was so much in London, and had intruth known also why he did not come to Munster Court. She couldperceive that her father and husband were drifting into unfriendlyrelations, and greatly regretted it. In her heart she took her father'spart. She was not keen as he was in this matter of the little Popenjoy, being restrained by a feeling that it would not become her to be overanxious for her own elevation or for the fall of others; but she hadalways sympathised with her father in everything, and therefore shesympathised with him in this. And then there was gradually growing uponher a conviction that her father was the stronger man of the two, themore reasonable, and certainly the kinder. She had thoroughlyunderstood when the house was furnished, very much at the Dean'sexpense, that he was to be a joint occupant in it when it might suithim to be in London. He himself had thought less about this, havingrather submitted to the suggestion as an excuse for his own liberalitythan contemplated any such final arrangement. But Lord Georgeremembered it. The house would certainly be open to him should hechoose to come;--but Lord George would not press it. 

Mr. Stokes had thought it proper to go in person to Manor Cross, inorder that he might receive instructions from the Marquis. "Upon myword, Mr. Stokes, " said the Marquis, "only that I would not seem to beuncourteous to you I should feel disposed to say that this interviewcan do no good. "

"It is a very serious matter, my Lord. "

"It is a very serious annoyance, certainly, that my own brother andsisters should turn against me, and give me all this trouble because Ihave chosen to marry a foreigner. It is simply an instance of thatpigheaded English blindness which makes us think that everythingoutside our own country is or ought to be given up to the devil. Mysisters are very religious, and, I daresay, very good women. But theyare quite willing to think that I and my wife ought to be damnedbecause we talk Italian, and that my son ought to be disinheritedbecause he was not baptised in an English church. They have got thisstupid story into their heads, and they must do as they please aboutit. I will have no hand in it. I will take care that there shall be nodifficulty in my son's way when I die. "

"That will be right, of course, my Lord. "

"I know where all this comes from. My brother, who is an idiot, hasmarried the daughter of a vulgar clergyman, who thinks in his ignorancethat he can make his grandson, if he has one, an English nobleman. He'll spend his money and he'll burn his fingers, and I don't care howmuch money he spends or how much he burns his hands. I don't supposehis purse is so very long but that he may come to the bottom of it. "This was nearly all that passed between Mr. Stokes and the Marquis. Mr. Stokes then went back to town and gave Mr. Battle to understand thatnothing was to be done on their side. 

The Dean was very anxious that the confidential clerk should bedispatched, and at one time almost thought that he would go himself. "Better not, Mr. Dean. Everybody would know, " said Mr. Battle. 

"And I should intend everybody to know, " said the Dean. "Do you supposethat I am doing anything that I'm ashamed of. "

"But being a dignitary----" began Mr. Battle. 

"What has that to do with it? A dignitary, as you call it, is not tosee his child robbed of her rights. I only want to find the truth, andI should never take shame to myself in looking for that by honestmeans. " But Mr. Battle prevailed, persuading the Dean that theconfidential clerk, even though he confined himself to honest means, would reach his point more certainly than a Dean of the Church ofEngland. 

But still there was delay. Mr. Stokes did not take his journey down toBrotherton quite as quickly as he perhaps might have done, and thenthere was a prolonged correspondence carried on through an Englishlawyer settled at Leghorn. But at last the man was sent. "I think weknow this, " said Mr. Battle to the Dean on the day before the manstarted, "there were certainly two marriages. One of them took place asmuch as five years ago, and the other after his lordship had written tohis brother. "

"Then the first marriage must have been nothing, " said the Dean. 

"It does not follow. It may have been a legal marriage, although theparties chose to confirm it by a second ceremony. "

"But when did the man Luigi die?"

"And where and how? That is what we have got to find out. I shouldn'twonder if we found that he had been for years a lunatic. "

Almost all this the Dean communicated to Lord George, being determinedthat his son-in-law should be seen to act in co-operation with him. They met occasionally in Mr. Battle's chambers, and sometimes byappointment in Munster Court. "It is essentially necessary that youshould know what is being done, " said the Dean to his son-in-law. LordGeorge fretted and fumed, and expressed an opinion that as the matterhad been put into a lawyer's hands it had better be left there. But theDean had very much his own way. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE MARQUIS MIGRATES TO LONDON. 

Soon after Mr. Stokes' visit there was a great disturbance at ManorCross, whether caused or not by that event no one was able to say. TheMarquis and all the family were about to proceed to London. The newsfirst reached Cross Hall through Mrs. Toff, who still kept up friendlyrelations with a portion of the English establishment at the greathouse. There probably was no idea of maintaining a secret on thesubject. The Marquis and his wife, with Lord Popenjoy and the servants, could not have had themselves carried up to town without the knowledgeof all Brotherton, nor was there any adequate reason for supposing thatsecrecy was desired. Nevertheless Mrs. Toff made a great deal of thematter, and the ladies at Cross Hall were not without a certainperturbed interest as though in a mystery. It was first told to LadySarah, for Mrs. Toff was quite aware of the position of things, andknew that the old Marchioness herself was not to be regarded as beingon their side. "Yes, my Lady, it's quite true, " said Mrs. Toff. "Thehorses is ordered for next Friday. " This was said on the previousSaturday, so that considerable time was allowed for the elucidation ofthe mystery. "And the things is already being packed, and herLadyship, --that is, if she is her Ladyship, --is taking every dress andevery rag as she brought with her. "

"Where are they going to, Toff?--Not to the Square?" Now the Marquis ofBrotherton had an old family house in Cavendish Square, which, however, had been shut up for the last ten or fifteen years, but was still knownas the family house by all the adherents of the family. 

"No, my Lady. I did hear from one of the servants that they are goingto Scumberg's Hotel, in Albemarle Street. "

Then Lady Sarah told the news to her mother. The poor old lady feltthat she was ill-used. She had been at any rate true to her eldest son, had always taken his part during his absence by scolding her daughterswhenever an allusion was made to the family at Manor Cross, and hadalmost worshipped him when he would come to her on Sunday. And now hewas going off to London without saying a word to her of the journey. "Idon't believe that Toff knows anything about it, " she said. "Toff is anasty, meddling creature, and I wish she had not come here at all. " Themanagement of the Marchioness under these circumstances was verydifficult, but Lady Sarah was a woman who allowed no difficulty tocrush her. She did not expect the world to be very easy. She went onwith her constant needle, trying to comfort her mother as she worked. At this time the Marchioness had almost brought herself to quarrel withher younger son, and would say very hard things about him and about theDean. She had more than once said that Mary was a "nasty sly thing, "and had expressed herself as greatly aggrieved by that marriage. Allthis came of course from the Marquis, and was known by her daughters tocome from the Marquis; and yet the Marchioness had never as yet beenallowed to see either her daughter-in-law or Popenjoy. 

On the following day her son came to her when the three sisters were atchurch in the afternoon. On these occasions he would stay for a quarterof an hour, and would occupy the greater part of the time in abusingthe Dean and Lord George. But on this day she could not refrain fromasking him a question. "Are you going up to London, Brotherton?"

"What makes you ask?"

"Because they tell me so. Sarah says that the servants are talkingabout it. "

"I wish Sarah had something to do better than listening to theservants?"

"But you are going?"

"If you want to know, I believe we shall go up to town for a few days. Popenjoy ought to see a dentist, and I want to do a few things. Why thedeuce shouldn't I go up to London as well as any one else?"

"Of course, if you wish it. "

"To tell you the truth, I don't much wish anything, except to get outof this cursed country again. "

"Don't say that, Brotherton. You are an Englishman. "

"I am ashamed to say I am. I wish with all my heart that I had beenborn a Chinese or a Red Indian. " This he said, not in furtherance ofany peculiar cosmopolitan proclivities, but because the saying of itwould vex his mother. "What am I to think of the country, when themoment I get here I am hounded by all my own family because I choose tolive after my own fashion and not after theirs?"

"I haven't hounded you. "

"No. You might possibly get more by being on good terms with me thanbad. And so might they if they knew it. I'll be even with Master Georgebefore I've done with him; and I'll be even with that parson, too, whostill smells of the stables. I'll lead him a dance that will about ruinhim. And as for his daughter----"

"It wasn't I got up the marriage, Brotherton. "

"I don't care who got it up. But I can have enquiries made as well asanother person. I am not very fond of spies; but if other people usespies, so can I too. That young woman is no better than she ought tobe. The Dean, I daresay, knows it; but he shall know that I know it. And Master George shall know what I think about it. As there is to bewar, he shall know what it is to have war. She has got a lover of herown already, and everybody who knows them is talking about it. "

"Oh, Brotherton!"

"And she is going in for women's rights! George has made a nice thingof it for himself. He has to live on the Dean's money, so that hedoesn't dare to call his soul his own. And yet he's fool enough to senda lawyer to me to tell me that my wife is a ----, and my son a ----!"He made use of very plain language, so that the poor old woman washorrified and aghast and dumbfounded. And as he spoke the words therewas a rage in his eyes worse than anything she had seen before. He wasstanding with his back to the fire, which was burning though theweather was warm, and the tails of his coat were hanging over his armsas he kept his hands in his pockets. He was generally quiescent in hismoods, and apt to express his anger in sarcasm rather than in outspokenlanguage; but now he was so much moved that he was unable not to givevent to his feelings. As the Marchioness looked at him, shaking withfear, there came into her distracted mind some vague idea of Cain andAbel, though had she collected her thoughts she would have been farfrom telling herself that her eldest son was Cain. "He thinks, "continued the Marquis, "that because I have lived abroad I shan't mindthat sort of thing. I wonder how he'll feel when I tell him the truthabout his wife. I mean to do it;--and what the Dean will think when Iuse a little plain language about his daughter. I mean to do that too. I shan't mince matters. I suppose you have heard of Captain De Baron, mother?"

Now the Marchioness unfortunately had heard of Captain De Baron. LadySusanna had brought the tidings down to Cross Hall. Had Lady Susannareally believed that her sister-in-law was wickedly entertaining alover, there would have been some reticence in her mode of alluding toso dreadful a subject. The secret would have been confided to LadySarah in awful conclave, and some solemn warning would have beenconveyed to Lord George, with a prayer that he would lose no time inwithdrawing the unfortunate young woman from evil influences. But LadySusanna had entertained no such fear. Mary was young, and foolish, andfond of pleasure. Hard as was this woman in her manner, anddisagreeable as she made herself, yet she could, after a fashion, sympathise with the young wife. She had spoken of Captain De Baron withdisapprobation certainly, but had not spoken of him as a fatal danger. And she had spoken also of the Baroness Banmann and Mary's folly ingoing to the Institute. The old Marchioness had heard of these things, and now, when she heard further of them from her son, she almostbelieved all that he told her. "Don't be hard upon poor George, " shesaid. 

"I give as I get, mother. I'm not one of those who return good forevil. Had he left me alone, I should have left him alone. As it is, Irather think I shall be hard upon poor George. Do you suppose that allBrotherton hasn't heard already what they are doing;--that there is aman or a woman in the county who doesn't know that my own brother isquestioning the legitimacy of my own son? And then you ask me not to behard. "

"It isn't my doing, Brotherton. "

"But those three girls have their hand in it. That's what they callcharity! That's what they go to church for!"

All this made the poor old Marchioness very ill. Before her son lefther she was almost prostrate; and yet, to the end, he did not spareher. But as he left he said one word which apparently was intended tocomfort her. "Perhaps Popenjoy had better be brought here for you tosee before he is taken up to town. " There had been a promise madebefore that the child should be brought to the hall to bless hisgrandmother. On this occasion she had been too much horrified andovercome by what had been said to urge her request; but when theproposition was renewed by him of course she assented. 

Popenjoy's visit to Cross Hall was arranged with a good deal of state, and was made on the following Tuesday. On the Monday there came amessage to say that the child should be brought up at twelve on thefollowing day. The Marquis was not coming himself, and the child wouldof course be inspected by all the ladies. At noon they were assembledin the drawing-room; but they were kept there waiting for half an hour, during which the Marchioness repeatedly expressed her conviction thatnow, at the last moment, she was to be robbed of the one great desireof her heart. "He won't let him come because he's so angry withGeorge, " she said, sobbing. 

"He wouldn't have sent a message yesterday, mother, " said Lady Amelia, "if he hadn't meant to send him. "

"You are all so very unkind to him, " ejaculated the Marchioness. 

But at half-past twelve the cortège appeared. The child was brought upin a perambulator which had at first been pushed by the under-nurse, anItalian, and accompanied by the upper-nurse, who was of course anItalian also. With them had been sent one of the Englishmen to show theway. Perhaps the two women had been somewhat ill-treated, as no trueidea of the distance had been conveyed to them; and though they had nowbeen some weeks at Manor Cross, they had never been half so far fromthe house. Of course the labour of the perambulator had soon fallen tothe man; but the two nurses, who had been forced to walk a mile, hadthought that they would never come to the end of their journey. Whenthey did arrive they were full of plaints, which, however, no one couldunderstand. But Popenjoy was at last brought into the hall. 

"My darling, " said the Marchioness, putting out both her arms. ButPopenjoy, though a darling, screamed frightfully beneath his heap ofclothes. 

"You had better let him come into the room, mamma, " said Lady Susanna. Then the nurse carried him in, and one or two of his outer garmentswere taken from him. 

"Dear me, how black he is!" said Lady Susanna. 

The Marchioness turned upon her daughter in great anger. "The Germainswere always dark, " she said. "You're dark yourself, --quite as black ashe is. My darling!"

She made another attempt to take the boy; but the nurse with volubleeloquence explained something which of course none of them understood. The purport of her speech was an assurance that "Tavo, " as she mostunceremoniously called the child whom no Germain thought of namingotherwise than as Popenjoy, never would go to any "foreigner. " Thenurse therefore held him up to be looked at for two minutes while hestill screamed, and then put him back into his covering raiments. "Heis very black, " said Lady Sarah severely. 

"So are some people's hearts, " said the Marchioness with a vigour forwhich her daughters had hardly given her credit. This, however, wasborne without a murmur by the three sisters. 

On the Friday the whole family, including all the Italian servants, migrated to London, and it certainly was the case that the lady tookwith her all her clothes and everything that she had brought with her. Toff had been quite right, there. And when it came to be known by theyounger ladies at Cross Hall that Toff had been right, they argued fromthe fact that their brother had concealed something of the truth whensaying that he intended to go up to London only for a few days. Therehad been three separate carriages, and Toff was almost sure that theItalian lady had carried off more than she had brought with her, soexuberant had been the luggage. It was not long before Toff effected anentrance into the house, and brought away a report that very manythings were missing. "The two little gilt cream-jugs is gone, " she saidto Lady Sarah, "and the minitshur with the pearl settings out of theyellow drawing-room!" Lady Sarah explained that as these things werethe property of her brother, he or his wife might of course take themaway if so pleased. "She's got 'em unbeknownst to my Lord, my Lady, "said Toff, shaking her head. "I could only just scurry through withhalf an eye; but when I comes to look there will be more, I warrantyou, my Lady. "

The Marquis had expressed so much vehement dislike of everything abouthis English home, and it had become so generally understood that hisItalian wife hated the place, that everybody agreed that they would notcome back. Why should they? What did they get by living there? The ladyhad not been outside the house a dozen times, and only twice beyond thepark gate. The Marquis took no share in any county or any countrypursuit. He went to no man's house and received no visitors. He wouldnot see the tenants when they came to him, and had not even returned avisit except Mr. De Baron's. Why had he come there at all? That was thequestion which all the Brothershire people asked of each other, andwhich no one could answer. Mr. Price suggested that it was justdevilry, --to make everybody unhappy. Mrs. Toff thought that it was thewoman's doing, --because she wanted to steal silver mugs, miniatures, and such like treasures. Mr. Waddy, the vicar of the parish, said thatit was "a trial, " having probably some idea in his own mind that theMarquis had been sent home by Providence as a sort of precious blisterwhich would purify all concerned in him by counter irritation. The oldMarchioness still conceived that it had been brought about that agrandmother might take delight in the presence of her grandchild. Dr. Pountner said that it was impudence. But the Dean was of opinion thatit had been deliberately planned with the view of passing off asupposititious child upon the property and title. The Dean, however, kept his opinion very much to himself. 

Of course tidings of the migration were sent to Munster Court. LadySarah wrote to her brother, and the Dean wrote to his daughter. "Whatshall you do, George? Shall you go and see him?"

"I don't know what I shall do?"

"Ought I to go?"

"Certainly not. You could only call on her, and she has not even seenmy mother and sisters. When I was there he would not introduce me toher, though he sent for the child. I suppose I had better go. I do notwant to quarrel with him if I can help it. "

"You have offered to do everything together with him, if only he wouldlet you. "

"I must say that your father has driven me on in a manner whichBrotherton would be sure to resent. "

"Papa has done everything from a sense of duty, George. "

"Perhaps so. I don't know how that is. It is very hard sometimes todivide a sense of duty from one's own interest. But it has made me verymiserable, --very wretched, indeed. "

"Oh George; is it my fault?"

"No; not your fault. If there is one thing worse to me than another, itis the feeling of being divided from my own family. Brotherton hasbehaved badly to me. "

"Very badly. "

"And yet I would give anything to be on good terms with him. I think Ishall go and call. He is at an hotel in Albemarle Street. I have donenothing to deserve ill of him, if he knew all. "

It should, of course, be understood that Lord George did not at allknow the state of his brother's mind towards him, except as it had beenexhibited at that one interview which had taken place between them atManor Cross. He was aware that in every conversation which he had hadwith the lawyers, --both with Mr. Battle and Mr. Stokes, --he hadinvariably expressed himself as desirous of establishing the legitimacyof the boy's birth. If Mr. Stokes had repeated to his brother what hehad said, and had done him the justice of explaining that in all thathe did he was simply desirous of performing his duty to the family, surely his brother would not be angry with him! At any rate it wouldnot suit him to be afraid of his brother, and he went to the hotel. After being kept waiting in the hall for about ten minutes, the Italiancourier came down to him. The Marquis at the present moment was notdressed, and Lord George did not like being kept waiting. Would LordGeorge call at three o'clock on the following day. Lord George saidthat he would, and was again at Scumberg's Hotel at three o'clock onthe next afternoon. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

LORD GEORGE IS TROUBLED. 

This was a day of no little importance to Lord George; so much so, thatone or two circumstances which occurred before he saw his brother atthe hotel must be explained. On that day there had come to him from theDean a letter written in the Dean's best humour. When the house hadbeen taken in Munster Court there had been a certain understanding, hardly quite a fixed assurance, that it was to be occupied up to theend of June, and that then Lord George and his wife should go intoBrothershire. There had been a feeling ever since the marriage thatwhile Mary preferred London, Lord George was wedded to the country. They had on the whole behaved well to each other in the matter. Thehusband, though he feared that his wife was surrounded by dangers, andwas well aware that he himself was dallying on the brink of a terriblepitfall, would not urge a retreat before the time that had been named. And she, though she had ever before her eyes the fear of the dullnessof Cross Hall, would not ask to have the time postponed. It was now theend of May, and a certain early day in July had been fixed for theirretreat from London. Lord George had, with a good grace, promised tospend a few days at the deanery before he went to Cross Hall, and hadgiven Mary permission to remain there for some little time afterwards. Now there had come a letter from the Dean full of smiles andpleasantness about this visit. There were tidings in it about Mary'shorse, which was still kept at the deanery, and comfortable assurancesof sweetest welcome. Not a word had been said in this letter about theterrible family matter. Lord George, though he was at the presentmoment not disposed to think in the most kindly manner of hisfather-in-law, appreciated this, and had read the letter aloud to hiswife at the breakfast table with pleasant approbation. As he left thehouse to go to his brother, he told her that she had better answer herfather's letter, and had explained to her where she would find it inhis dressing room. 

But on the previous afternoon he had received at his club anotherletter, the nature of which was not so agreeable. This letter had notbeen pleasant even to himself, and certainly was not adapted to givepleasure to his wife. After receiving it he had kept it in the closecustody of his breast-pocket; and when, as he left the house, he senthis wife to find that which had come from her father, he certainlythought that this prior letter was at the moment secure from all eyeswithin the sanctuary of his coat. But it was otherwise. With thatnegligence to which husbands are so specially subject, he had made theDean's letter safe next to his bosom, but had left the other epistleunguarded. He had not only left it unguarded, but had absolutely soput his wife on the track of it that it was impossible that she shouldnot read it. 

Mary found the letter and did read it before she left her husband'sdressing room, --and the letter was as follows:--

"Dearest George;--" When she read the epithet, which she and she onlywas entitled to use, she paused for a moment and all the blood rushedup into her face. She had known the handwriting instantly, and at thefirst shock she put the paper down upon the table. For a second therewas a feeling prompting her to read no further. But it was only for asecond. Of course she would read it. It certainly never would haveoccurred to her to search her husband's clothes for letters. Up to thismoment she had never examined a document of his except at his biddingor in compliance with his wish. She had suspected nothing, foundnothing, had entertained not even any curiosity about her husband'saffairs. But now must she not read this letter to which he himself haddirected her? Dearest George! And that in the handwriting of herfriend, --her friend!--Adelaide Houghton;--in the handwriting of thewoman to whom her husband had been attached before he had knownherself! Of course she read the letter. 

 "DEAREST GEORGE, --

 "I break my heart when you don't come to me; for heaven's sake be here to-morrow. Two, three, four, five, six, seven--I shall be here any hour till you come. I don't dare to tell the man that I am not at home to anybody else, but you must take your chance. Nobody ever does come till after three or after six. He never comes home till half-past seven. Oh me! what is to become of me when you go out of town? There is nothing to live for, nothing;--only you. Anything that you write is quite safe. Say that you love me. A. "

The letter had grieved him when he got it, --as had other letters beforethat. And yet it flattered him, and the assurance of the woman's lovehad in it a certain candied sweetness which prevented him fromdestroying the paper instantly, as he ought to have done. Could hiswife have read all his mind in the matter her anger would have beensomewhat mollified. In spite of the candied sweetness he hated thecorrespondence. It had been the woman's doing and not his. It is sohard for a man to be a Joseph! The Potiphar's wife of the moment hasprobably had some encouragement, --and after that Joseph can hardly fleeunless he be very stout indeed. This Joseph would have fled, thoughafter a certain fashion he liked the woman, had he been able to assurehimself that the fault had in no degree been his. But looking back, hethought that he had encouraged her, and did not know how to fly. Of allthis Mary knew nothing. She only knew that old Mr. Houghton's wife, whoprofessed to be her dear friend, had written a most foul love-letter toher husband, and that her husband had preserved it carefully, and hadthen through manifest mistake delivered it over into her hands. 

She read it twice, and then stood motionless for a few minutes thinkingwhat she would do. Her first idea was that she would tell her father. But that she soon abandoned. She was grievously offended with herhusband; but, as she thought of it, she became aware that she did notwish to bring on him any anger but her own. Then she thought that shewould start immediately for Berkeley Square, and say what she had tosay to Mrs. Houghton. As this idea presented itself to her, she feltthat she could say a good deal. But how would that serve her? Intenseas was her hatred at present against Adelaide, Adelaide was nothing toher in comparison with her husband. For a moment she almost thoughtthat she would fly after him, knowing, as she did, that he had gone tosee his brother at Scumberg's Hotel. But at last she resolved that shewould do nothing and say nothing till he should have perceived that shehad read the letter. She would leave it open on his dressing-table sothat he might know immediately on his return what had been done. Thenit occurred to her that the servants might see the letter if sheexposed it. So she kept it in her pocket, and determined that when sheheard his knock at the door she would step into his room, and place theletter ready for his eyes. After that she spent the whole day inthinking of it, and read the odious words over and over again till theywere fixed in her memory. "Say that you love me!" Wretched viper;ill-conditioned traitor! Could it be that he, her husband, loved thiswoman better than her? Did not all the world know that the woman wasplain and affected, and vulgar, and odious? "Dearest George!" The womancould not have used such language without his sanction. Oh;--whatshould she do? Would it not be necessary that she should go back andlive with her father? Then she thought of Jack De Baron. They calledJack De Baron wild; but he would not have been guilty of wickednesssuch as this. She clung, however, to the resolution of putting theletter ready for her husband, so that he should know that she had readit before they met. 

In the meantime Lord George, ignorant as yet of the storm which wasbrewing at home, was shown into his brother's sitting-room. When heentered he found there, with his brother, a lady whom he couldrecognise without difficulty as his sister-in-law. She was a tall, darkwoman, as he thought very plain, but with large bright eyes and veryblack hair. She was ill-dressed, in a morning wrapper, and looked tohim to be at least as old as her husband. The Marquis said something toher in Italian which served as an introduction, but of which LordGeorge could not understand a word. She curtseyed and Lord George putout his hand. "It is perhaps as well that you should make heracquaintance, " said the Marquis. Then he again spoke in Italian, andafter a minute or two the lady withdrew. It occurred to Lord Georgeafterwards that the interview had certainly been arranged. Had hisbrother not wished him to see the lady, the lady could have been keptin the background here as well as at Manor Cross. "It's uncommon civilof you to come, " said the Marquis as soon as the door was closed. "Whatcan I do for you?"

"I did not like that you should be in London without my seeing you. "

"I daresay not. I daresay not. I was very much obliged to you, youknow, for sending that lawyer down to me. "

"I did not send him. "

"And particularly obliged to you for introducing that other lawyer intoour family affairs. "

"I would have done nothing of the kind if I could have helped it. Ifyou will believe me, Brotherton, my only object is to have all this sofirmly settled that there may not be need of further enquiry at afuture time. "

"When I am dead?"

"When we may both be dead. "

"You have ten years advantage of me. Your own chance isn't bad. "

"If you will believe me----"

"But suppose I don't believe you! Suppose I think that in saying allthat you are lying like the very devil!" Lord George jumped in hischair, almost as though he had been shot. "My dear fellow, what's thegood of this humbug? You think you've got a chance. I don't believe youwere quick enough to see it yourself, but your father-in-law has putyou up to it. He is not quite such an ass as you are; but even he isass enough to fancy that because I, an Englishman, have married anItalian lady, therefore the marriage may, very likely, be good fornothing. "

"We only want proof. "

"Does anybody ever come to you and ask you for proofs of your marriagewith that very nice young woman, the Dean's daughter?"

"Anybody may find them at Brotherton. "

"No doubt. And I can put my hand on the proofs of my marriage when Iwant to do so. In the meantime I doubt whether you can learn anythingto your own advantage by coming here. "

"I didn't want to learn anything. "

"If you would look after your own wife a little closer, I fancy itwould be a better employment for you. She is at present probablyamusing herself with Captain De Baron. "

"That is calumny, " said Lord George, rising from his chair. 

"No doubt. Any imputation coming from me is calumny. But you can makeimputations as heavy and as hard as you please--and all in the way ofhonour. I've no doubt you'll find her with Captain De Baron if you'llgo and look. "

"I should find her doing nothing that she ought not to do, " said thehusband, turning round for his hat and gloves. 

"Or perhaps making a speech at the Rights of Women Institute on behalfof that German baroness who, I'm told, is in gaol. But, George, don'tyou take it too much to heart. You've got the money. When a man goesinto a stable for his wife, he can't expect much in the way of conductor manners. If he gets the money he ought to be contented. " He had tohear it all to the last bitter word before he could escape from theroom and make his way out into the street. 

It was at this time about four o'clock, and in his agony of mind he hadturned down towards Piccadilly before he could think what he would dowith himself for the moment. Then he remembered that Berkeley Squarewas close to him on the other side, and that he had been summoned thereabout this hour. To give him his due, it should be owned that he had nogreat desire to visit Berkeley Square in his present condition offeeling. Since the receipt of that letter, --which was now awaiting himat home, --he had told himself half a dozen times that he must and wouldplay the part of Joseph. He had so resolved when she had first spokento him of her passion, now some months ago; and then his resolution hadbroken down merely because he had not at the moment thought any greatstep to be necessary. But now it was clear that some great step wasnecessary. He must make her know that it did not suit him to be called"dearest George" by her, or to be told to declare that he loved her. And this accusation against his wife, made in such coarse and brutallanguage by his brother, softened his heart to her. Why, oh why, had heallowed himself to be brought up to a place he hated as he had alwayshated London! Of course Jack De Baron made him unhappy, though he wasat the present moment prepared to swear that his wife was as innocentas any woman in London. 

But now, as he was so near, and as his decision must be declared inperson, he might as well go to Berkeley Square. As he descended HayHill he put his hand into his pocket for the lady's letter, and pulledout that from the Dean which he had intended to leave with his wife. Inan instant he knew what he had done. He remembered it all, even to theway in which he had made the mistake with the two letters. There couldbe no doubt but that he had given Adelaide Houghton's letter into hiswife's hands, and that she had read it. At the bottom of Hill Street, near the stables, he stopped suddenly and put his hand up to his head. What should he do now? He certainly could not pay his visit in BerkeleySquare. He could not go and tell Mrs. Houghton that he loved her, andcertainly would not have strength to tell her that he did not love herwhile suffering such agony as this. Of course he must see his wife. Ofcourse he must, --if I may use the slang phrase, --of course he must"have it out with her, " after some fashion, and the sooner the better. So he turned his stops homewards across the Green Park. But, in goinghomewards, he did not walk very fast. 

What would she do? How would she take it? Of course women daily forgivesuch offences; and he might probably, after the burst of the storm wasover, succeed in making her believe that he did in truth love her anddid not love the other woman. In his present mood he was able to assurehimself most confidently that such was the truth. He could tell himselfnow that he never wished to see Adelaide Houghton again. But, beforeanything of this could be achieved, he would have to own himself asinner before her. He would have, as it were, to grovel at her feet. Hitherto, in all his intercourse with her, he had been masterful andmarital. He had managed up to this point so to live as to have kept inall respects the upper hand. He had never yet been found out even in amistake or an indiscretion. He had never given her an opening for themildest finding of fault. She, no doubt, was young, and practice hadnot come to her. But, as a natural consequence of this, Lord George hadhitherto felt that an almost divine superiority was demanded from him. That sense of divine superiority must now pass away. 

I do not know whether a husband's comfort is ever perfect till somefamily peccadilloes have been conclusively proved against him. I amsure that a wife's temper to him is sweetened by such evidence of humanimperfection. A woman will often take delight in being angry; willsometimes wrap herself warm in prolonged sullenness; will frequentlyrevel in complaint;--but she enjoys forgiving better than aught else. She never feels that all the due privileges of her life have beenaccorded to her, till her husband shall have laid himself open to thecaresses of a pardon. Then, and not till then, he is her equal; andequality is necessary for comfortable love. But the man, till he bewell used to it, does not like to be pardoned. He has assumed divinesuperiority, and is bound to maintain it. Then, at last, he comes homesome night with a little too much wine, or he cannot pay the weeklybills because he has lost too much money at cards, or he has got intotrouble at his office and is in doubt for a fortnight about his place, or perhaps a letter from a lady falls into wrong hands. Then he has totell himself that he has been "found out. " The feeling is at first veryuncomfortable; but it is, I think, a step almost necessary in reachingtrue matrimonial comfort. Hunting men say that hard rain settles theground. A good scold with a "kiss and be friends" after it, perhaps, does the same. 

Now Lord George had been found out. He was quite sure of that. And hehad to undergo all that was unpleasant without sufficient experience totell him that those clouds too would pass away quickly. He still walkedhomewards across St. James's Park, never stopping, but dragging himselfalong slowly, and when he came to his own door he let himself in verysilently. She did not expect him so soon, and when he entered thedrawing-room was startled to see him. She had not as yet put theletter, as she had intended, on his dressing-table, but still had it inher pocket; nor had it occurred to her that he would as yet have knownthe truth. She looked at him when he entered, but did not at firstutter a word. "Mary, " he said. 

"Well; is anything the matter?"

It was possible that she had not found the letter, --possible, thoughvery improbable. But he had brought his mind so firmly to the point ofowning what was to be owned and defending what might be defended, thathe hardly wished for escape in that direction. At any rate, he was notprepared to avail himself of it. "Did you find the letter?" he asked. 

"I found a letter. "

"Well!"

"Of course I am sorry to have intruded upon so private acorrespondence. There it is. " And she threw the letter to him. "Oh, George!"

He picked up the letter, which had fallen to the ground, and, tearingit into bits, threw the fragments into the grate. "What do you believeabout it, Mary?"

"Believe!"

"Do you think that I love any one as I love you?"

"You cannot love me at all, --unless that wicked, wretched creature is aliar. "

"Have I ever lied to you? You will believe me?"

"I do not know. "

"I love no one in the world but you. "

Even that almost sufficed for her. She already longed to have her armsround his neck and to tell him that it was all forgiven;--that he atleast was forgiven. During the whole morning she had been thinking ofthe angry words she would say to him, and of the still more angry wordswhich she would speak of that wicked, wicked viper. The former werealready forgotten; but she was not as yet inclined to refrain as toMrs. Houghton. "Oh, George, how could you bear such a woman asthat;--that you should let her write to you in such language? Have youbeen to her?"

"What, to-day?"

"Yes, to-day. "

"Certainly not. I have just come from my brother. "

"You will never go into the house again! You will promise that!"

Here was made the first direct attack upon his divine superiority! Washe, at his wife's instance, to give a pledge that he would not go intoa certain house under any circumstances? This was the process ofbringing his nose down to the ground which he had feared. Here was thefirst attempt made by his wife to put her foot on his neck. "I thinkthat I had better tell you all that I can tell, " he said. 

"I only want to know that you hate her, " said Mary. 

"I neither hate her nor love her. I did--love her--once. You knewthat. "

"I never could understand it. I never did believe that you really couldhave loved her. " Then she began to sob. "I shouldn't--ever--have takenyou--if--I had. "

"But from the moment when I first knew you it was all changed with me. "As he said this he put out his arms to her, and she came to him. "Therehas never been a moment since in which you have not had all my heart. "

"But why--why--why--, " she sobbed, meaning to ask how it could havecome to pass that the wicked viper could, in those circumstances, havewritten such a letter as that which had fallen into her hands. 

The question certainly was not unnatural. But it was a question verydifficult to answer. No man likes to say that a woman has pestered himwith unwelcome love, and certainly Lord George was not the man to makesuch a boast. "Dearest Mary, " he said, "on my honour as a gentleman Iam true to you. "

Then she was satisfied and turned her face to him and covered him withkisses. I think that morning did more than any day had done since theirmarriage to bring about the completion of her desire to be in love withher husband. Her heart was so softened towards him that she would noteven press a question that would pain him. She had intended sternly toexact from him a pledge that he would not again enter the house inBerkeley Square, but she let even that pass by because she would notannoy him. She gathered herself up close to him on the sofa, anddrawing his arm over her shoulder, sobbed and laughed, stroking himwith her hands as she crouched against his shoulder. But yet, every nowand then, there came forth from, her some violent ebullition againstMrs. Houghton. "Nasty creature! wicked, wicked beast! Oh, George, sheis so ugly!" And yet before this little affair, she had been quitecontent that Adelaide Houghton should be her intimate friend. 

It had been nearly five when Lord George reached the house, and he hadto sit enduring his wife's caresses, and listening to devotion tohimself and her abuses of Mrs. Houghton till past six. Then it struckhim that a walk by himself would be good for him. They were to dineout, but not till eight, and there would still be time. When heproposed it, she acceded at once. Of course she must go and dress, andequally of course he would not, could not go to Berkeley Square now. She thoroughly believed that he was true to her, but yet she feared thewiles of that nasty woman. They would go to the country soon, and thenthe wicked viper would not be near them. 

Lord George walked across to Pall Mall, looked at an evening paper athis club, and then walked back again. Of course it had been his objectto have a cool half hour in which to think it all over, --all that hadpassed between him and his wife, and also what had passed between himand his brother. That his wife was the dearest, sweetest woman in theworld he was quite sure. He was more than satisfied with her conduct tohim. She had exacted from him very little penitence:--had not requiredto put her foot in any disagreeable way upon his neck. No doubt shefelt that his divine superiority had been vanquished, but she haduttered no word of triumph. With all that he was content. But what washe to do with Mrs. Houghton, as to whom he had sworn a dozen timeswithin the last hour that she was quite indifferent to him. He nowrepeated the assertion to himself, and felt himself to be sure of thefact. But still he was her lover. He had allowed her so to regard him, and something must be done. She would write to him letters daily if hedid not stop it; and every such letter not shown to his wife would be anew treason against her. This was a great trouble. And then, through itall, those terrible words which his brother had spoken to him aboutCaptain De Baron rung in his ears. This afternoon had certainlyafforded no occasion to him to say a word about Captain De Baron to hiswife. When detected in his own sin he could not allude to possibledelinquencies on the other side. Nor did he think that there was anydelinquency. But Cæsar said that Cæsar's wife should be abovesuspicion, and in that matter every man is a Cæsar to himself. LadySusanna had spoken about this Captain, and Adelaide Houghton had saidan ill-natured word or two, and he himself had seen them walkingtogether. Now his brother had told him that Captain De Baron was hiswife's lover. He did not at all like Captain De Baron. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

CAPTAIN DE BARON. 

Of course as the next day or two passed by, the condition of Mrs. Houghton was discussed between Lord George and his wife. The affaircould not be passed over without further speech. "I am quite contentedwith you, " he said; "more than contented. But I suppose she does notfeel herself contented with Mr. Houghton. "

"Then why did she marry him?"

"Ah;--why indeed. "

"A woman ought to be contented with her husband. But at any rate whatright can she have to disturb other people? I suppose you never wroteher a love-letter. "

"Never, certainly;--since her marriage. " This indeed was true. The ladyhad frequently written to him, but he had warily kept his hands frompen and ink and had answered her letters by going to her. 

"And yet she could persevere! Women can do such mean things! I wouldsooner have broken my heart and died than have asked a man to say thathe loved me. I don't suppose you have much to be proud of. I daresayshe has half a dozen others. You won't see her again?"

"I think I may be driven to do so. I do not wish to have to write toher, and yet I must make her understand that all this is to be over. "

"She'll understand that fast enough when she does not see you. It wouldhave served her right to have sent that letter to her husband. "

"That would have been cruel, Mary. "

"I didn't do it. I thought of doing it, and wouldn't do it. But itwould have served her right. I suppose she was always writing. "

"She had written, but not quite like that, " said Lord George. He wasnot altogether comfortable during this conversation. 

"She writes lots of such letters no doubt. You do then mean to go thereagain?"

"I think so. Of course I do not look upon her as being so utterly acastaway as you do. "

"I believe her to be a heartless, vile, intriguing woman, who marriedan old man without caring a straw for him, and who doesn't care howmiserable she makes other people. And I think she is very--very ugly. She paints frightfully. Anybody can see it. And as for falsehair, --why, it's nearly all false. " Lady George certainly did notpaint, and had not a shred of false hair about her. "Oh, George, if youdo go, do be firm! You will be firm;--will you not?"

"I shall go simply that this annoyance may be at an end. "

"Of course you will tell her that I will never speak to her again. Howcould I? You would not wish it;--would you?" In answer to this therewas nothing for him to say. He would have wished that a certain amountof half friendly intercourse should be carried on; but he could not askher to do this. After a time he might perhaps be able to press on herthe advantage of avoiding a scandal, but as yet he could not do eventhat. He had achieved more than he had a right to expect in obtainingher permission to call once more in Berkeley Square himself. After thatthey would soon be going down to Brotherton, and when they were therethings might be allowed to settle themselves. Then she asked himanother question. "You don't object to my going to Mrs. Jones' party onThursday?"

The question was very sudden, so that he was almost startled. "It is adance, I suppose. "

"Oh yes, a dance of course. "

"No;--I have no objection. "

She had meant to ask him to reconsider his verdict against rounddances, but she could hardly do so at this moment. She could not takeadvantage of her present strength to extract from him a privilege whichunder other circumstances he had denied to her. Were she to do so itwould be as much as to declare that she meant to waltz because he hadamused himself with Mrs. Houghton. Her mind was not at all that waygiven. But she did entertain an idea that something more of freedomshould be awarded to her because her husband had given her cause ofoffence and had been forgiven. While he was still strong with thatdivine superiority which she had attributed to him, she had almostacknowledged to herself that he had a right to demand that she shouldbe dull and decorous. But now that she had found him to be in thereceipt of clandestine love-letters, it did seem that she might allowherself a little liberty. She had forgiven him freely. She had reallybelieved that in spite of the letter she herself was the woman heloved. She had said something to herself about men amusing themselves, and had told herself that though no woman could have written such aletter as that without disgracing herself altogether, a man mightreceive it and even keep it in his pocket without meaning very muchharm. But the accident must, she thought, be held to absolve her fromsome part of the strictness of her obedience. She almost thought thatshe would waltz at Mrs. Jones's ball; perhaps not with Captain DeBaron; perhaps not with much energy or with full enjoyment; but stillsufficiently to disenthral herself. If possible she would say a word toher husband first. They were both going to a rather crowded affair atLady Brabazon's before the night of Mrs. Jones's party. They had agreedthat they would do little more than shew themselves there. He wasobliged to go to this special place and he hated staying. But even atLady Brabazon's she might find an opportunity of saying what she wishedto say. 

On that day she took him out in her brougham, and on her return homewas alone all the afternoon till about five; and then who should cometo her but Captain De Baron. No doubt they two had become veryintimate. She could not at all have defined her reasons for liking him. She was quite sure of one thing, --she was not in the least in love withhim. But he was always gay, always good humoured, always had plenty tosay. He was the source of all the fun that ever came in her way; andfun was very dear to her. He was nice-looking and manly, and gentlewithal. Why should she not have her friend? He would not writeabominable letters and ask her to say that she loved him! And yet shewas aware that there was a danger. She knew that her husband was alittle jealous. She knew that Augusta Mildmay was frightfully jealous. That odious creature Mrs. Houghton had made ever so many nasty littleallusions to her and Jack. When his name was announced she almostwished that he had not come; but yet she received him very pleasantly. He immediately began about the Baroness Banmann. The Baroness had onthe previous evening made her way on to the platform at theDisabilities when Dr. Fleabody was lecturing, and Lady Selina waspresiding and had, to use Jack's own words, "Kicked up the mostdelightful bobbery that had ever been witnessed! She bundled poor oldLady Selina out of the chair. "

"Nonsense!"

"So I am told;--took the chair by the back and hoisted her out. "

"Didn't they send for the police?"

"I suppose they did at last; but the American doctor was too many forher. The Baroness strove to address the meeting; but Olivia Q. Fleabodyhas become a favourite, and carried the day. I am told that at last thebald-headed old gentleman took the Baroness home in a cab. I'd havegiven a five-pound note to be there. I think I must go some night andhear the Doctor. "

"I wouldn't go again for anything. "

"You women are all so jealous of each other. Poor Lady Selina! I'm toldshe was very much shaken. "

"How did you hear it all?"

"From Aunt Ju, " said the Captain. "Aunt Ju was there, of course. TheBaroness tried to fly into Aunt Ju's arms, but Aunt Ju seems to haveretired. "

Then the quarrel must have been made up between Captain De Baron andMiss Mildmay. That was the idea which at once came into Mary's head. Hecould hardly have seen Aunt Ju without seeing her niece at the sametime. Perhaps it was all settled. Perhaps, after all, they would bemarried. It would be a pity, because she was not half nice enough forhim. And then Mary doubted whether Captain De Baron as a married manwould be nearly so pleasant as in his present condition. "I hope MissMildmay is none the worse, " she said. 

"A little shaken in her nerves. "

"Was--Augusta Mildmay there?"

"Oh dear no. It is quite out of her line. She is not at all disposed tolay aside the feeblenesses of her sex and go into one of the learnedprofessions. By the bye, I am afraid you and she are not very goodfriends. "

"What makes you say that, Captain De Baron?"

"But are you?"

"I don't know why you should enquire. "

"It is natural to wish that one's own friends should be friends. "

"Has Miss Mildmay said--anything about--me?"

"Not a word;--nor you about her. And, therefore, I know that somethingis wrong. "

"The last time I saw her I did not think that Miss Mildmay was veryhappy, " said Mary, in a low voice. 

"Did she complain to you?" Mary had no answer ready for this question. She could not tell a lie easily, nor could she acknowledge thecomplaint which the lady had made, and had made so loudly. "I supposeshe did complain, " he said, "and I suppose I know the nature of hercomplaint. "

"I cannot tell;--though, of course, it was nothing to me. "

"It is very much to me, though. I wish, Lady George, you could bringyourself to tell me the truth. " He paused, but she did not speak. "Ifit were as I fear, you must know how much I am implicated. I would notfor the world that you should think I am behaving badly. "

"You should not permit her to think so, Captain De Baron. "

"She doesn't think so. She can't think so. I am not going to say a wordagainst her. She and I have been dear friends, and there is noone, --hardly any one, --for whom I have a greater regard. But I doprotest to you, Lady George, that I have never spoken an untrue word toAugusta Mildmay in my life. "

"I have not accused you. "

"But has she? Of course it is a kind of thing that a man cannot talkabout without great difficulty. "

"Is it not a thing that a man should not talk about at all?"

"That is severe, Lady George;--much more severe than I should haveexpected from your usual good nature. Had you told me that nothing hadbeen said to you, there would have been an end of it. But I cannot bearto think that you should have been told that I had behaved badly, andthat I should be unable to vindicate myself. "

"Have you not been engaged to marry Miss Mildmay?"

"Never. "

"Then why did you allow yourself to become so--so much to her?"

"Because I liked her. Because we were thrown together. Because thechances of things would have it so. Don't you know that that kind ofthing is occurring every day? Of course, if a man were made up ofwisdom and prudence and virtue and self-denial, this kind of thingwouldn't occur. But I don't think the world would be pleasanter if menwere like that. Adelaide Houghton is Miss Mildmay's most intimatefriend, and Adelaide has always known that I couldn't marry. " As soonas Mrs. Houghton's name was mentioned a dark frown came across LadyGeorge's brow. Captain De Baron saw it, but did not as yet knowanything of its true cause. 

"Of course I am not going to judge between you, " said Lady George, verygravely. 

"But I want you to judge me. I want you of all the world to feel that Ihave not been a liar and a blackguard. "

"Captain De Baron! how can you use such language?"

"Because I feel this very acutely. I do believe that Miss Mildmay hasaccused me to you. I do not wish to say a word against her. I would doanything in the world to protect her from the ill words of others. ButI cannot bear that your mind should be poisoned against me. Will youbelieve me when I tell you that I have never said a word to MissMildmay which could possibly be taken as an offer of marriage?"

"I had rather give no opinion. "

"Will you ask Adelaide?"

"No; certainly not. " This she said with so much vehemence that he wasthoroughly startled. "Mrs. Houghton is not among the number of myacquaintances. "

"Why not? What is the matter?"

"I can give no explanation, and I had rather that no questions shouldbe asked. But so it is. "

"Has she offended Lord George?"

"Oh dear no; that is to say I cannot tell you anything more about it. You will never see me in Berkeley Square again. And now, pray say nomore about it. "

"Poor Adelaide. Well; it does seem terrible that there should be suchmisunderstandings. She knows nothing about it. I was with her thismorning, and she was speaking of you with the greatest affection. " Marystruggled hard to appear indifferent to all this, but struggled invain. She could not restrain herself from displaying her feeling. "MayI not ask any further questions?"

"No, Captain De Baron. "

"Nor hope that I may be a peacemaker between you?"

"Certainly not. I wish you wouldn't talk about it any more. "

"I certainly will not if it offends you. I would not offend you for allthe world. When you came up to town, Lady George, a few months ago, there were three or four of us that soon became such excellent friends!And now it seems that everything has gone wrong. I hope we need notquarrel--you and I?"

"I know no reason why we should. "

"I have liked you so much. I am sure you have known that. Sometimes onedoes come across a person that one really likes; but it is so seldom. "

"I try to like everybody, " she said. 

"I don't do that. I fear that at first starting I try to dislikeeverybody. I think it is natural to hate people the first time you seethem. "

"Did you hate me?" she asked, laughing. 

"Oh, horribly, --for two minutes. Then you laughed, or cried, orsneezed, or did something in a manner that I liked, and I saw at oncethat you were the most charming human being in the world. "

When a young man tells a young woman that she is the most charminghuman being in the world, he is certainly using peculiar language. Inmost cases the young man would be supposed to be making love to theyoung woman. Mary, however, knew very well that Captain De Baron wasnot making love to her. There seemed to be an understanding that allmanner of things should be said between them, and that yet they shouldmean nothing. But, nevertheless, she felt that the language which thisman had used to her would be offensive to her husband if he knew thatit had been used when they two were alone together. Had it been saidbefore a room-full of people it would not have mattered. And yet shecould not rebuke him. She could not even look displeased. She hadbelieved all that he had said to her about Augusta Mildmay, and wasglad to believe it. She liked him so much, that she would have spokento him as to a brother of the nature of her quarrel with Mrs. Houghton, only that, even to a brother, she would not have mentioned herhusband's folly. When he spoke of her crying, or laughing, or sneezing, she liked the little attempt at drollery. She liked to know that he hadfound her charming. Where is the woman who does not wish to charm, andis not proud to think that she has succeeded with those whom she mostlikes? She could not rebuke him. She could not even avoid letting himsee that she was pleased. "You have a dozen human beings in the worldwho are the most delightful, " she said, "and another dozen who are themost odious. "

"Quite a dozen who are the most odious, but only one, Lady George, whois the most delightful. " He had hardly said this when the door openedand Lord George entered the room. Lord George was not a cleverhypocrite. If he disliked a person he soon showed his dislike in hismanner. It was very clear to both of them on the present occasion thathe did not like the presence of Captain De Baron. He looked verygloomy, --almost angry, and after speaking hardly more than a singleword to his wife's guest, he stood silent and awkward, leaning againstthe mantel-piece. "What do you think Captain De Baron tells me?" Marysaid, trying, but not very successfully, to speak with natural ease. 

"I don't in the least know. "

"There has been such a scene at the Women's Institute! That Baronessmade a dreadful attack on poor Lady Selina Protest. "

"She and the American female doctor were talking against each otherfrom the same platform, at the same time, " said De Baron. 

"Very disgraceful!" said Lord George. "But then the whole thing isdisgraceful, and always was. I should think Lord Plausible must bethoroughly ashamed of his sister. " Lady Selina was sister to the Earlof Plausible, but, as all the world knew, was not on speaking termswith her brother. 

"I suppose that unfortunate German lady will be put in prison, " saidLady George. 

"I only trust she may never be able to put her foot into your houseagain. "

Then there was a pause. He was apparently so cross that conversationseemed to be impossible. The Captain would have gone away at once hadhe been able to escape suddenly. But there are times when it is veryhard to get out of a room, at which a sudden retreat would imply aconviction that something was wrong. It seemed to him that for her sakehe was bound to remain a few minutes longer. "When do you go down toBrothershire?" he asked. 

"About the 7th of July, " said Mary. 

"Or probably earlier, " said Lord George;--at which his wife looked upat him, but without making any remark. 

"I shall be down at my cousin's place some day in August, " De Baronsaid. Lord George frowned more heavily than ever. "Mr. De Baron isgoing to have a large gathering of people about the end of the month. "

"Oh, indeed, " said Mary. 

"The Houghtons will be there. " Then Mary also frowned. "And I have anidea that your brother, Lord George, has half promised to be one of theparty. "

"I know nothing at all about it. "

"My cousin was up in town yesterday with the Houghtons. Good-bye, LadyGeorge; I shan't be at Lady Brabazon's, because she has forgotten toinvite me, but I suppose I shall see you at Mrs. Montacute Jones'?"

"I shall certainly be at Mrs. Montacute Jones', " said Mary, trying tospeak cheerfully. 

The bell was rang and the door was closed, and then the husband andwife were together. "A dreadful communication has just been made tome, " said Lord George in his most solemn and funereal voice;--"a mostdreadful communication!"

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A DREADFUL COMMUNICATION. 

"A most dreadful communication!" There was something in Lord George'svoice as he uttered these words which so frightened his wife that shebecame at the moment quite pale. She was sure, almost sure from hiscountenance that the dreadful communication had some reference toherself. Had any great calamity happened in regard to his own family hewould not have looked at her as he was now looking. And yet she couldnot imagine what might be the nature of the communication. "Hasanything happened at Manor Cross?" she asked. 

"It is not about Manor Cross. "

"Or your brother?"

"It is not about my brother; it does not in any way concern my family. It is about you. "

"About me! Oh, George! do not look at me like that. What is it?"

He was very slow in the telling of the story; slow even in beginning totell it; indeed, he hardly knew how to begin. "You know Miss AugustaMildmay?" he asked. 

Then she understood it all. She might have told him that he could sparehimself all further trouble in telling, only that to do so would hardlyhave suited her purpose; therefore she had to listen to the story, veryslowly told. Miss Augusta Mildmay had written to him begging him tocome to her. He, very much astonished at such a request, hadnevertheless obeyed it; and Augusta Mildmay had assured him that hiswife, by wicked wiles and lures, was interfering between her and heraffianced lover Captain De Baron. Mary sat patiently till she had heardit all, --sat almost without speaking a word; but there was a stern lookon her face which he had never seen there before. Still he went on withhis determined purpose. "These are the kind of things which are beingrepeated of you, " he said at last. "Susanna made the same complaint. And it had reached Brotherton's ears. He spoke to me of it infrightfully strong language. And now this young lady tells me that youare destroying her happiness. "

"Well!"

"You can't suppose that I can hear all this without uneasiness. "

"Do you believe it?"

"I do not know what to believe. I am driven mad. "

"If you believe it, George, if you believe a word of it, I will go awayfrom you. I will go back to papa. I will not stay with you to bedoubted. "

"That is nonsense. "

"It shall not be nonsense. I will not live to hear myself accused by myhusband as to another man. Wicked young woman! Oh, what women are andwhat they can do! She has never been engaged to Captain De Baron. "

"What is that to you or me?"

"Nothing, if you had not told me that I stood in her way. "

"It is not her engagement, or her hopes, whether ill or well founded, or his treachery to a lady, that concerns you and me, Mary; but thatshe should send for me and tell me to my face that you are the cause ofher unhappiness. Why should she pitch upon you?"

"How can I say? Because she is very wicked. "

"And why should Susanna feel herself obliged to caution me as to thisCaptain De Baron? She had no motive. She is not wicked. "

"I don't know that. "

"And why should my brother tell me that all the world is speaking ofyour conduct with this very man?"

"Because he is your bitterest enemy. George, do you believe it?"

"And why, when I come home with all this heavy on my heart, do I findthis very man closeted with you?"

"Closeted with me!"

"You were alone with him. "

"Alone with him! Of course I am alone with anyone who calls. Would youlike me to tell the servant that Captain De Baron is to beexcluded, --so that all the world might know that you are jealous?"

"He must be excluded. "

"Then you must do it. But it will be unnecessary. As you believe allthis, I will tell my father everything and will go back to him. I willnot live here, George, to be so suspected that the very servants haveto be told that I am not to be allowed to see one special man. "

"No; you will go down into the country with me. "

"I will not stay in the same house with you, " she said, jumping up fromher seat, "unless you tell me that you suspect me of nothing--not evenof an impropriety. You may lock me up, but you cannot hinder me fromwriting to my father. "

"I trust you will do nothing of the kind. "

"Not tell him! Who then is to be my friend if you turn against me? Am Ito be all alone among a set of people who think nothing but ill of me?"

"I am to be your friend. "

"But you think ill of me. "

"I have not said so, Mary. "

"Then say at once that you think no ill, and do not threaten me that Iam to be taken into the country for protection. And when you tell me ofthe bold-faced villany of that young woman, speak of her with thedisgust that she deserves; and say that your sister Susanna issuspicious and given to evil thoughts; and declare your brother to be awicked slanderer if he has said a word against the honour of your wife. Then I shall know that you think no ill of me; and then I shall knowthat I may lean upon you as my real friend. "

Her eyes flashed fire as she spoke, and he was silenced for the momentby an impetuosity and a passion which he had not at all expected. Hewas not quite disposed to yield to her, to assure her of his convictionthat those to whom she alluded were all wrong, and that she was allright; but yet he was beginning to wish for peace. That Captain DeBaron was a pestilential young man whose very business it was to bringunhappiness into families, he did believe; and he feared also that hiswife had allowed herself to fall into an indiscreet intimacy with thisdestroyer of women's characters. Then there was that feeling of Cæsar'swife strong within his bosom, which he could, perhaps, have more fullyexplained to her but for that unfortunate letter from Mrs. Houghton. Any fault, however, of that kind on his part was, in his estimation, nothing to a fault on the part of his wife. She, when once assuredthat he was indifferent about Mrs. Houghton, would find no cause forunhappiness in the matter. But what would all the world be to him ifhis wife were talked about commonly in connection with another man?That she should not absolutely be a castaway would not save him from aperpetual agony which he would find to be altogether unendurable. Hewas, he was sure, quite right as to that theory about Cæsar's wife, even though, from the unfortunate position of circumstances, he couldnot dilate upon it at the present moment. "I think, " he said, after apause, "that you will allow that you had better drop this gentleman'sacquaintance. "

"I will allow nothing of the kind, George. I will allow nothing thatcan imply the slightest stain upon my name or upon your honour. CaptainDe Baron is my friend. I like him very much. A great many people knowhow intimate we are. They shall never be taught to suppose that therewas anything wrong in that intimacy. They shall never, at any rate, betaught so by anything that I will do. I will admit nothing. I will donothing myself to show that I am ashamed. Of course you can take meinto the country; of course you can lock me up if you like; of courseyou can tell all your friends that I have misbehaved myself; you canlisten to calumny against me from everybody; but if you do I will haveone friend to protect me, and I will tell papa everything. " Then shewalked away to the door as though she were leaving the room. 

"Stop a moment, " he said. Then she stood with her hand still on thelock, as though intending to stay merely till he should have spokensome last word to her. He was greatly surprised by her strength andresolution, and now hardly knew what more to say to her. He could notbeg her pardon for his suspicion; he could not tell her that she wasright; and yet he found it impossible to assert that she was wrong. "Ido not think that passion will do any good, " he said. 

"I do not know what will do any good. I know what I feel. "

"It will do good if you will allow me to advise you. "

"What is your advice?"

"To come down to the country as soon as possible, and to avoid, as faras possible, seeing Captain De Baron before you go. "

"That would be running away from Captain De Baron. I am to meet him atMrs. Montacute Jones' ball. "

"Send an excuse to Mrs. Montacute Jones. "

"You may do so, George, if you like. I will not. If I am told by youthat I am not to meet this man, of course I shall obey you; but I shallconsider myself to have been insulted, --to have been insulted by you. "As she said this his brow became very black. "Yes, by you. You ought todefend me from these people who tell stories about me, and not accuseme yourself. I cannot and will not live with you if you think evil ofme. " Then she opened the door, and slowly left the room. He would havesaid more had he known what to say. But her words came more fluentlythan his, and he was dumbfounded by her volubility; yet he was as muchconvinced as ever that it was his duty to save her from the ill reputewhich would fall upon her from further intimacy with this Captain. Hecould, of course, take her into the country to-morrow, if he chose todo so; but he could not hinder her from writing to the Dean; he couldnot debar her from pen and ink and the use of the post-office; norcould he very well forbid her to see her father. 

Of course if she did complain to the Dean she would tell the Deaneverything. So he told himself. Now, when a man assumes the divinesuperiority of an all-governing husband his own hands should be quiteclean. Lord George's hands were by no means clean. It was not, perhaps, his own fault that they were dirty. He was able at any rate to tellhimself that the fault had not been his. But there was that undoubtedlove-letter from Mrs. Houghton. If the Dean were to question him aboutthat he could not lie. And though he would assure himself that thefault had all been with the lady, he could not excuse himself by thatargument in discussing the matter with the Dean. He was in such troublethat he feared to drive his wife to retaliation; and yet he must do hisduty. His honour and her honour must be his first consideration. If shewould only promise him not willingly to see Captain De Baron thereshould be an end of it, and he would allow her to stay the allottedtime in London; but if she would not do this he thought that he mustface the Dean and all his terrors. 

But he hardly knew his wife--was hardly aware of the nature of herfeelings. When she spoke of appealing to her father, no idea crossedher mind of complaining of her husband's infidelity. She would seekprotection for herself, and would be loud enough in protesting againstthe slanderous tongues of those who had injured her. She would wage warto the knife against the Marquis, and against Lady Susanna, and againstAugusta Mildmay, and would call upon her father to assist her in thatwarfare; but she would not condescend to allude to a circumstancewhich, if it were an offence against her, she had pardoned, but as towhich, in her heart of hearts, she believed her husband to be, if notinnocent, at least not very guilty. She despised Adelaide Houghton toomuch to think that her husband had really loved such a woman, and wastoo confident in herself to doubt his love for many minutes. She couldhate Adelaide Houghton for making the attempt, and yet could believethat the attempt had been futile. 

Nevertheless when she was alone she thought much of Mrs. Houghton'sletter. Throughout her interview with her husband she had thought ofit, but had determined from the very first that she would not cast itin his teeth. She would do nothing ungenerous. But was it not singularthat he should be able to upbraid her for her conduct, for conduct inwhich there had been no trespass, knowing as he must have known, feeling as he must have felt, that every word of that letter wasdwelling in her memory! He had, at any rate, intended that theabominable correspondence should be clandestine. He must have beensadly weak, to make the least of it, to have admitted such acorrespondence. "Pray tell me that you love me!" That had been thelanguage addressed to him only a few days since by a married lady towhom he had once made an offer of marriage; and yet he could now comeand trample on her as though his marital superiority had all thedivinity of snow-white purity. This was absolute tyranny. But yet incomplaining to her father of his tyranny she would say nothing ofAdelaide Houghton. Of the accusations made against herself she wouldcertainly tell her father, unless they were withdrawn as far as her ownhusband could withdraw them. For an hour after leaving him her passionstill sustained her. Was this to be her reward for all her endeavoursto become a loving wife?

They were engaged to dine that evening with a certain Mrs. PatmoreGreen, who had herself been a Germain, and who had been first cousin tothe late marquis. Mary came down dressed into the drawing room at theproper time, not having spoken another word to her husband, and thereshe found him also dressed. She had schooled herself to show no signeither of anger or regret, and as she entered the room said someindifferent words about the brougham. He still looked as dark as athunder-cloud, but he rang the bell and asked the servant a question. The brougham was there, and away they went to Mrs. Patmore Green's. Shespoke half-a-dozen words on the way, but he hardly answered her. Sheknew that he would not do so, being aware that it was not within hispower to rise above the feelings of the moment. But she exerted herselfso that he might know that she did not mean to display her ill-humourat Mrs. Patmore Green's house. 

Lady Brabazon, whose sister had married a Germain, was there, and aColonel Ansley, who was a nephew of Lady Brotherton's; so that theparty was very much a Germain party. All these people had been a gooddeal exercised of late on the great Popenjoy question. So immense isthe power of possession that the Marquis, on his arrival in town, hadbeen asked to all the Germain houses in spite of his sins, and had beenvisited with considerable family affection and regard; for was he notthe head of them all? But he had not received these offers graciously, and now the current of Germain opinion was running against him. Of thegeneral propriety of Lord George's conduct ever since his birth therehad never been a doubt, and the Greens and Brabazons and Ansleys weregradually coming round to the opinion that he was right to makeenquiries as to the little Popenjoy's antecedents. They had all takenkindly to Mary, though they were, perhaps, beginning to think that shewas a little too frivolous, too fond of pleasure for Lord George. Mrs. Patmore Green, who was the wife of a very rich man, and the mother of avery large family, and altogether a very worthy woman, almost at oncebegan to whisper to Mary--"Well, my dear, what news from Italy?"

"I never hear anything about it, Mrs. Green, " said Mary, with a laugh. 

"And yet the Dean is so eager, Lady George!"

"I won't let papa talk to me about it. Lord Brotherton is quite welcometo his wife and his son, and everything else for me--only I do wish hewould have remained away. "

"I think we all wish that, my dear. "

Mr. Patmore Green, and Colonel Ansley, and Lady Brabazon all spoke aword or two in the course of the evening to Lord George on the samesubject, but he would only shake his head and say nothing. At that timethis affair of his wife's was nearer to him and more burdensome to himthan even the Popenjoy question. He could not rid himself of this newtrouble even for a moment. He was still thinking of it when all theenquiries about Popenjoy were being made. What did it matter to him howthat matter should be settled, if all the happiness of his life were tobe dispelled by this terrible domestic affliction. "I am afraid thisquarrel with his brother will be too much for Lord George, " said Mr. Patmore Green to his wife, when the company were gone. "He was not ableto say a word the whole evening. "

"And I never knew her to be more pleasant, " said Mrs. Patmore Green. "She doesn't seem to care about it the least in the world. " The husbandand wife did not speak a word to each other as they went home in thebrougham. Mary had done her duty by sustaining herself in public, butwas not willing to let him think that she had as yet forgiven thecruelty of his suspicions. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

"I DENY IT. "

During the whole of that night Lord George lay suffering from histroubles, and his wife lay thinking about them. Though the matteraffected her future life almost more materially than his, she had thebetter courage to maintain her, and a more sustained conviction. Itmight be that she would have to leave her home and go back to thedeanery, and in that there would be utter ruin to her happiness. Letthe result, however, be as it would, she could never own herself tohave been one tittle astray, and she was quite sure that her fatherwould support her in that position. The old 'ruat coelum' feeling wasstrong within her. She would do anything she could for her husbandshort of admitting, by any faintest concession, that she had been wrongin reference to Captain De Baron. She would talk to him, coax him, implore him, reason with him, forgive him, love him, and caress him. She would try to be gentle with him this coming morning. But if he wereobdurate in blaming her, she would stand on her own innocence and fightto the last gasp. He was supported by no such spirit of pugnacity. Hefelt it to be his duty to withdraw his wife from the evil influence ofthis man's attractions, but felt, at the same time, that he mightpossibly lack the strength to do so. And then, what is the good ofwithdrawing a wife, if the wife thinks that she ought not to bewithdrawn? There are sins as to which there is no satisfaction invisiting the results with penalties. The sin is in the mind, or in theheart, and is complete in its enormity, even though there be no result. He was miserable because she had not at once acknowledged that shenever ought to see this man again, as soon as she had heard the horrorswhich her husband had told her. "George, " she said to him at breakfast, the next morning, "do not let us go on in this way together. "

"In what way?"

"Not speaking to each other, --condemning each other. "

"I have not condemned you, and I don't know why you should condemn me. "

"Because I think that you suspect me without a cause. "

"I only tell you what people say!"

"If people told me bad things of you, George, --that you were this orthat, or the other, should I believe them?"

"A woman's name is everything. "

"Then do you protect my name. But I deny it. Her name should be asnothing when compared with her conduct. I don't like to be evil spokenof, but I can bear that, or anything else, if you do not think evil ofme, --you and papa. " This reference to her father brought back the blackcloud which her previous words had tended to dispel. "Tell me that youdo not suspect me. "

"I never said that I suspected you of anything. "

"Say that you are sure that in regard to this man I never said, or did, or thought anything that was wrong. Come, George, have I not a right toexpect that from you?" She had come round the table and was standingover him, touching his shoulder. 

"Even then it would be better that you should go away from him. "

"No!"

"I say that it would be better, Mary. "

"And I say that it would be worse, --much worse. What? Will you bid yourwife make so much of any man as to run away from him? Will you let theworld say that you think that I cannot be safe in his company? I willnot consent to that, George. The running away shall not be mine. Ofcourse you can take me away, if you please, but I shall feel----"

"Well!"

"You know what I shall feel. I told you last night. "

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, after a pause. 

"Nothing. "

"I am to hear these stories and not even to tell you that I have heardthem?"

"I did not say that, George. I suppose it is better that you shouldtell me. But I think you should say at the same time that you know themto be false. " Even though they were false, there was that doctrine ofCæsar's wife which she would not understand! "I think I should be told, and then left to regulate my own ways accordingly. " This was mutinouslyimperious, and yet he did not quite know how to convince her of hermutiny. Through it all he was cowed by the remembrance of thatlove-letter, which, of course, was in her mind, but which she waseither too generous or too wise to mention. He almost began to thinkthat it was wisdom rather than generosity, feeling himself to be morecowed by her reticence than he would have been by her speech. 

"You imagine, then, that a husband should never interfere. "

"Not to protect a wife from that from which she is bound to protectherself. If he has to do so, she is not the worth the trouble, and hehad better get rid of her. It is like preventing a man from drinking bylocking up the wine. "

"That has to be done sometimes. "

"It sha'n't be done to me, George. You must either trust me, or we mustpart. "

"I do trust you, " he said, at last. 

"Then let there be an end of all this trouble. Tell Susanna that youtrust me. For your brother and that disappointed young woman I carenothing. But if I am to spend my time at Cross Hall, whatever they maythink, I should not wish them to believe that you thought evil of me. And, George, don't suppose that because I say that I will not run awayfrom Captain De Baron, all this will go for nothing with me. I will notavoid Captain De Baron, but I will be careful to give no cause forill-natured words. " Then she put her arm round his neck, and kissedhim, and had conquered him. 

When he went away from the house he had another great trouble beforehim. He had not seen Mrs. Houghton as yet, since his wife had foundthat love-letter; but she had written to him often. She had sent notesto his club almost wild with love and anger, --with that affectation oflove and anger which some women know how to assume, and which so fewmen know how to withstand. It was not taken to be quite real, even byLord George; and yet he could not withstand it. Mrs. Houghton, whounderstood the world thoroughly, had become quite convinced that LadyGeorge had quarrelled with her. The two women had been very intimateever since Lady George had been in town, and now for the last few daysthey had not seen each other. Mrs. Houghton had called twice, and hadbeen refused. Then she had written, and had received no answer. Sheknew then that Mary had discovered something, and, of course, attributed her lover's absence to the wife's influence. But it did notoccur to her that she should, on this account, give up her intercoursewith Lord George. Scenes, quarrels, reconciliations, troubles, recriminations, jealousies, resolves, petty triumphs, and the generalupsetting of the happiness of other people, --these were to her thesweets of what she called a passion. To give it all up because herlover's wife had found her out, and because her lover was in trouble, would be to abandon her love just when it was producing the desiredfruit. She wrote short letters and long letters, angry letters, andmost affectionate letters to Lord George at his club, entreating him tocome to her, and almost driving him out of his wits. He had, from thefirst, determined that he would go to her. He had even received hiswife's sanction for doing so; but, knowing how difficult it would be toconduct such an interview, had, hitherto, put off the evil hour. Butnow a day and an hour had been fixed, and the day and the hour hadcome. The hour had very nearly come. When he left his house there wasstill time for him to sit for awhile at his club, and think what hewould say to this woman. 

He wished to do what was right. There was not a man in England lesslikely to have intended to amuse himself with a second love withintwelve months of his marriage than Lord George Germain. He had neverbeen a Lothario, --had never thought himself to be gifted in that way. In the first years of his manhood, when he had been shut up at ManorCross, looking after his mother's limited means, with a full convictionthat it was his duty to sacrifice himself to her convenience, he hadbeen apt to tell himself that he was one of those men who have to gothrough life without marrying--or loving. Though strikingly handsome, he had never known himself to be handsome. He had never thought himselfto be clever, or bright, or agreeable. High birth had been given tohim, and a sense of honour. Of those gifts he had been well aware andproud enough, but had taken credit to himself for nothing else. Thenhad come that startling episode of his life in which he had fallen inlove with Adelaide De Baron, and then the fact of his marriage withMary Lovelace. Looking back at it now, he could hardly understand howit had happened that he had either fallen in love or married. Hecertainly was not now the least in love with Mrs. Houghton. And, thoughhe did love his wife dearly, though the more he saw of her the more headmired her, yet his marriage had not made him happy. He had to live onher money, which galled him, and to be assisted by the Dean's money, which was wormwood to him. And he found himself to be driven whitherhe did not wish to go, and to be brought into perils from which hisexperience did not suffice to extricate him. He already repented thestep he had taken in regard to his brother, knowing that it was theDean who had done it, and not he himself. Had he not married, he mightwell have left the battle to be fought in after years, --when hisbrother should be dead, and very probably he himself also. 

He was aware that he must be very firm with Mrs. Houghton. Come whatmight he must give her to understand quite clearly that all love-makingmust be over between them. The horrors of such a condition of thingshad been made much clearer to him than before by his own anxiety inreference to Captain De Baron. But he knew himself to be toosoft-hearted for such firmness. If he could send some one else, howmuch better it would be! But, alas! this was a piece of work which nodeputy could do for him. Nor could a letter serve as a deputy. Let himwrite as carefully as he might, he must say things which would condemnhim utterly were they to find their way into Mr. Houghton's hands. Oneterrible letter had gone astray, and why not another?

She had told him to be in Berkeley Square at two, and he was there verypunctually. He would at the moment have given much to find the housefull of people; but she was quite alone. He had thought that she wouldreceive him with a storm of tears, but when he entered she was radiantwith smiles. Then he remembered how on a former occasion she haddeceived him, making him believe that all her lures to him meant littleor nothing just when he had determined to repudiate them because he hadfeared that they meant so much. He must not allow himself to be won inthat way again. He must be firm, even though she smiled. "What is allthis about?" she said in an affected whisper as soon as the door wasclosed. He looked very grave and shook his head. "'Thou canst not say Idid it. Never shake thy gory locks at me. ' That wife of yours has foundout something, and has found it out from you, my Lord. "

"Yes, indeed. "

"What has she found out?"

"She read a letter to me which you sent to the club. "

"Then I think it very indecent behaviour on her part. Does she searchher husband's correspondence? I don't condescend to do that sort ofthing. "

"It was my fault. I put it into her hand by mistake. But that does notmatter. "

"Not matter! It matters very much to me, I think. Not that I care. Shecannot hurt me. But, George, was not that careless--very careless; socareless as to be--unkind?"

"Of course it was careless. "

"And ought you not to think more of me than that? Have you not done mean injury, sir, when you owed me all solicitude and every possibleprecaution?" This was not to be denied. If he chose to receive suchletters, he was bound at any rate to keep them secret. "But men are sofoolish--so little thoughtful! What did she say, George?"

"She behaved like an angel. "

"Of course. Wives in such circumstances always do. Just a few drops ofanger, and then a deluge of forgiveness. That was it, was it not?"

"Something like it. "

"Of course. It happens every day, --because men are so stupid, but atthe same time so necessary. But what did she say of me I Was she angelon my side of the house as well as yours?"

"Of course she was angry. "

"It did not occur to her that she had been the interloper, and hadtaken you away from me?"

"That was not so. You had married. "

"Psha! Married! Of course I had married. Everybody marries. You hadmarried; but I did not suppose that for that reason you would forget mealtogether. People must marry as circumstances suit. It is no goodgoing back to that old story. Why did you not come to me sooner, andtell me of this tragedy I Why did you leave me to run after her andwrite to her?"

"I have been very unhappy. "

"So you ought to be. But things are never so bad in the wearing as inthe anticipation. I don't suppose she'll go about destroying my nameand doing me a mischief?"

"Never. "

"Because if she did, you know, I could retaliate. "

"What do you mean by that, Mrs. Houghton?"

"Nothing that need disturb you, Lord George. Do not look such daggersat me. But women have to be forbearing to each other. She is your wife, and you may be sure I shall never say a nasty word about her, --unlessshe makes herself very objectionable to me. "

"Nobody can say nasty things about her. "

"That is all right, then. And now what have you to say to me aboutmyself? I am not going to be gloomy because a little misfortune hashappened. It is not my philosophy to cry after spilt milk. "

"I will sit down a minute, " he said; for hitherto he had been standing. 

"Certainly; and I will sit opposite to you, --for ten minutes if youwish it. I see that there is something to be said. What is it?"

"All that has passed between you and me for the last month or two mustbe forgotten. "

"Oh, that is it!"

"I will not make her miserable, nor will I bear a burden upon my ownconscience. "

"Your conscience! What a speech for a man to make to a woman! And howabout my conscience? And then one thing further. You say that it mustbe all forgotten?"

"Yes, indeed. "

"Can you forget it?"

"I can strive to do so. By forgetting, one means laying it aside. Weremember chiefly those things which we try to remember. "

"And you will not try to remember me--in the least? You will lay measide--like an old garment? Because this--angel--has come across ascrawl which you were too careless either to burn or to lock up! Youwill tell yourself to forget me, as you would a servant that you haddismissed, --much more easily than you would a dog? Is that so?"

"I did not say that I could do it easily. "

"You shall not do it at all. I will not be forgotten. Did you ever loveme, sir?"

"Certainly I did. You know that I did. "

"When? How long since? Have you ever sworn that you loved me sincethis--angel--has been your wife?" Looking back as well as he could, herather thought that he never had sworn that he loved her in theselatter days. She had often bidden him to do so; but as far as he couldrecollect at the moment, he had escaped the absolute utterance of theoath by some subterfuge. But doubtless he had done that which had beentantamount to swearing; and, at any rate, he could not now say that hehad never sworn. "Now you come to tell me that it must all beforgotten! Was it she taught you that word?"

"If you upbraid me I will go away. "

"Go, sir, --if you dare. You first betray me to your wife by youregregious folly, and then tell me that you will leave me because I havea word to say for myself. Oh, George, I expected more tenderness thanthat from you. "

"There is no use in being tender. It can only produce misery anddestruction. "

"Well; of all the cold-blooded speeches I ever heard, that is theworst. After all that has passed between us, you do not scruple to tellme that you cannot even express tenderness for me, lest it should bringyou into trouble! Men have felt that before, I do not doubt; but Ihardly think any man was ever hard enough to make such a speech. Iwonder whether Captain De Baron is so considerate. "

"What do you mean by that?"

"You come here and talk to me about your angel, and then tell me thatyou cannot show me even the slightest tenderness, lest it should makeyou miserable, --and you expect me to hold my tongue. "

"I don't know why you should mention Captain De Baron. "

"I'll tell you why, Lord George. There are five or six of us playingthis little comedy. Mr. Houghton and I are married, but we have notvery much to say to each other. It is the same with you and Mary. "

"I deny it. "

"I daresay; but at the same time you know it to be true. She consolesherself with Captain De Baron. With whom Mr. Houghton consoles himselfI have never taken the trouble to enquire. I hope someone isgood-natured to him, poor old soul. Then, as to you and me, --you used, I think, to get consolation here. But such comforts cost trouble, andyou hate trouble. " As she said this, she wound her arm inside his; andhe, angry as he was with her for speaking as she had done of his wife, could not push her from him roughly. "Is not that how it is, George?"

"No?"

"Then I don't think you understand the play as well as I do. "

"No! I deny it all. "

"All?"

"Everything about Mary. It's a slander to mention that man's name inconnection with her, --a calumny which I will not endure. "

"How is it, then, if they mention mine in connection with you?"

"I am saying nothing about that. "

"But I suppose you think of it. I am hardly of less importance tomyself than Lady George is to herself. I did think I was not of lessimportance to you. "

"Nobody ever was or ever can be of so much importance to me as my wife, and I will be on good terms with no one who speaks evil of her. "

"They may say what they like of me?"

"Mr. Houghton must look to that. "

"It is no business of yours, George?"

He paused a moment, and then found the courage to answer her. "No--none, " he said. Had she confined herself to her own assumedwrongs, her own pretended affection, --had she contented herself withquarrelling with him for his carelessness, and had then called upon himfor some renewed expression of love, --he would hardly have been strongenough to withstand her. But she could not keep her tongue fromspeaking evil of his wife. From the moment in which he had called Maryan angel, it was necessary to her comfort to malign the angel. She didnot quite know the man, or the nature of men generally. A man, if hismind be given that way, may perhaps with safety whisper into a woman'sear that her husband is untrue to her. Such an accusation may serve hispurpose. But the woman, on her side, should hold her peace about theman's wife. A man must be very degraded indeed if his wife be not holyto him. Lord George had been driving his wife almost mad during thelast twenty-four hours by implied accusations, and yet she was to himthe very holy of holies. All the Popenjoy question was as nothing tohim in comparison with the sanctity of her name. And now, weak as hewas, incapable as he would have been, under any other condition ofmind, of extricating himself from the meshes which this woman wasspinning for him, he was enabled to make an immediate and most salutaryplunge by the genuine anger she had produced. "No, none, " he said. 

"Oh, very well. The angel is everything to you, and I am nothing?"

"Yes; my wife is everything to me. "

"How dared you, then, come here and talk to me of love? Do you think Iwill stand this, --that I will endure to be treated in this way? Angel, indeed! I tell you that she cares more for Jack De Baron's littlefinger than for your whole body. She is never happy unless he is withher. I don't think very much of my cousin Jack, but to her he is agod. "

"It is false. "

"Very well. It is nothing to me; but you can hardly expect, my Lord, that I should hear from you such pleasant truths as you have just toldme, and not give you back what I believe to be truth in return. "

"Have I spoken evil of any one? But I will not stay here, Mrs. Houghton, to make recriminations. You have spoken most cruelly of awoman who never injured you, who has always been your firm friend. Itis my duty to protect her, and I shall always do so in allcircumstances. Good morning. " Then he went before she could say anotherword to him. 

He would perhaps have been justified had he been a little proud of themanner in which he had carried himself through this interview; but heentertained no such feeling. To the lady he had just left he fearedthat he had been rough and almost cruel. She was not to him the mass ofwhipped cream turned sour which she may perhaps be to the reader. Though he had been stirred to anger, he had been indignant withcircumstances rather than with Mrs. Houghton. But in truth the renewedaccusation against his wife made him so wretched that there was no roomin his breast for pride. He had been told that she liked Jack DeBaron's little finger better than his whole body, and had been so toldby one who knew both his wife and Jack De Baron. Of course there hadbeen spite and malice and every possible evil passion at work. But theneverybody was saying the same thing. Even though there were not a wordof truth in it, such a rumour alone would suffice to break his heart. How was he to stop cruel tongues, especially the tongue of this woman, who would now be his bitterest enemy? If such things were repeated byall connected with him, how would he be able to reconcile his ownfamily to his wife? There was nothing which he valued now but therespect which he held in his own family and that which his wife mighthold. And in his own mind he could not quite acquit her. She would notbe made to understand that she might injure his honour and destroy hishappiness even though she committed no great fault. To take her awaywith a strong hand seemed to be his duty. But then there was the Dean, who would most certainly take her part, --and he was afraid of the Dean. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

POPENJOY IS POPENJOY. 

Then came Lady Brabazon's party. Lord George said nothing further tohis wife about Jack De Baron for some days after that storm in BerkeleySquare, --nor did she to him. She was quite contented that mattersshould remain as they now were. She had vindicated herself, and if hemade no further accusation, she was willing to be appeased. He was byno means contented;--but as a day had been fixed for them to leaveLondon, and that day was now but a month absent, he hardly knew how toinsist upon an alteration of their plans. If he did so he must declarewar against the Dean, and, for a time, against his wife also. Hepostponed, therefore, any decision, and allowed matters to go on asthey were. Mary was no doubt triumphant in her spirit. She hadconquered him for a time, and felt that it was so. But she was, on thataccount, more tender and observant to him than ever. She even offeredto give up Lady Brabazon's party, altogether. She did not much care forLady Brabazon's party, and was willing to make a sacrifice that wasperhaps no sacrifice. But to this he did not assent. He declaredhimself to be quite ready for Lady Brabazon's party, and to LadyBrabazon's party they went. As she was on the staircase she asked him aquestion. "Do you mind my having a waltz to-night?" He could not bringhimself for the moment to be stern enough to refuse. He knew that thepernicious man would not be there. He was quite sure that the questionwas not asked in reference to the pernicious man. He did notunderstand, as he should have done, that a claim was being made forgeneral emancipation, and he muttered something which was intended toimply assent. Soon afterwards she took two or three turns with a stoutmiddle-aged gentleman, a Count somebody, who was connected with theGerman embassy. Nothing on earth could have been more harmless orapparently uninteresting. Then she signified to him that she had doneher duty to Lady Brabazon and was quite ready to go home. "I'm notparticularly bored, " he said; "don't mind me. " "But I am, " shewhispered, laughing, "and as I know you don't care about it, you mightas well take me away. " So he took her home. They were not there abovehalf-an-hour, but she had carried her point about the waltzing. 

On the next day the Dean came to town to attend a meeting at Mr. Battle's chambers by appointment. Lord George met him there, of course, as they were at any rate supposed to act in strict concert; but onthese days the Dean did not stay in Munster Court when in London. 

He would always visit his daughter, but would endeavour to do so in herhusband's absence, and was unwilling even to dine there. "We shall bebetter friends down at Brotherton, " he said to her. "He is always angrywith me after discussing this affair of his brother's; and I am notquite sure that he likes seeing me here. " This he had said on aprevious occasion, and now the two men met in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, nothaving even gone there together. 

At this meeting the lawyer told them a strange story, and one which tothe Dean was most unsatisfactory, --one which he resolutely determinedto disbelieve. "The Marquis, " said Mr. Battle, "had certainly gonethrough two marriage ceremonies with the Italian lady, one before thedeath and one after the death of her first reputed husband. And ascertainly the so-called Popenjoy had been born before the secondceremony. " So much the Dean believed very easily, and the informationtallied altogether with his own views. If this was so, the so-calledPopenjoy could not be a real Popenjoy, and his daughter would beMarchioness of Brotherton when this wicked ape of a marquis should die;and her son, should she have one, would be the future marquis. But thenthere came the remainder of the lawyer's story. Mr. Battle wasinclined, from all that he had learned, to believe that the Marchionesshad never really been married at all to the man whose name she hadfirst borne, and that the second marriage had been celebrated merely tosave appearances. 

"What appearances!" exclaimed the Dean. Mr. Battle shrugged hisshoulders. Lord George sat in gloomy silence. "I don't believe a wordof it, " said the Dean. 

Then the lawyer went on with his story. This lady had been betrothedearly in life to the Marchese Luigi; but the man had becomeinsane--partially insane and by fits and starts. For some reason, notas yet understood, which might probably never be understood, the lady'sfamily had thought it expedient that the lady should bear the name ofthe man to whom she was to be married. She had done so for some yearsand had been in possession of some income belonging to him. But Mr. Battle was of opinion that she had never been Luigi's wife. Furtherenquiries might possibly be made, and might add to further results. Butthey would be very expensive. A good deal of money had already beenspent. "What did Lord George wish?"

"I think we have done enough, " said Lord George, slowly, --thinking alsothat he had been already constrained to do much too much. 

"It must be followed out to the end, " said the Dean. "What! Here is awoman who professed for years to be a man's wife, who bore his name, who was believed by everybody to have been his wife----"

"I did not say that, Mr. Dean, " interrupted the lawyer. 

"Who lived on the man's revenues as his wife, and even bore his title, and now in such an emergency as this we are to take a cock and bullstory as gospel. Remember, Mr. Battle, what is at stake. "

"Very much is at stake, Mr. Dean, and therefore these enquiries havebeen made, --at a very great expense. But our own evidence as far as itgoes is all against us. The Luigi family say that there was nomarriage. Her family say that there was, but cannot prove it. The childmay die, you know. "

"Why should he die?" asked Lord George. 

"I am trying the matter all round, you know. I am told the poor childis in ill health. One has got to look at probabilities. Of course youdo not abandon a right by not prosecuting it now. "

"It would be a cruelty to the boy to let him be brought up as LordPopenjoy and afterwards dispossessed, " said the Dean. 

"You, gentlemen, must decide, " said the lawyer. "I only say that I donot recommend further steps. "

"I will do nothing further, " said Lord George. "In the first place Icannot afford it. "

"We will manage that between us, " said the Dean. "We need not troubleMr. Battle with that. Mr. Battle will not fear but that all expenseswill be paid. "

"Not in the least, " said Mr. Battle, smiling. 

"I do not at all believe the story, " said the Dean. "It does not soundlike truth. If I spent my last shilling in sifting the matter to thebottom, I would go on with it. Though I were obliged to leave Englandfor twelve months myself, I would do it. A man is bound to ascertainhis own rights. "

"I will have nothing more to do with it, " said Lord George, rising fromhis chair. "As much has been done as duty required; perhaps more. Mr. Battle, good morning. If we could know as soon as possible what thisunfortunate affair has cost, I shall be obliged. " He asked hisfather-in-law to accompany him, but the Dean said that he would speak aword or two further to Mr. Battle and remained. 

At his club Lord George was much surprised to find a note from hisbrother. The note was as follows:--

 "Would you mind coming to me here to-morrow or the next day at 3. 

 "B. Scumberg's Hotel, Tuesday. "

This to Lord George was very strange indeed. He could not but rememberall the circumstances of his former visit to his brother, --how he hadbeen insulted, how his wife had been vilified, how his brother hadheaped scorn on him. At first he thought that he was bound to refuse todo as he was asked. But why should his brother ask him? And his brotherwas his brother, --the head of his family. He decided at last that hewould go, and left a note himself at Scumberg's Hotel that evening, saying that he would be there on the morrow. 

He was very much perplexed in spirit as he thought of the cominginterview. He went to the Dean's club and to the Dean's hotel, hopingto find the Dean, and thinking that as he had consented to act with theDean against his brother, he was bound in honour to let the Dean knowof the new phase in the affair. But he did not find his father-in-law. The Dean returned to Brotherton on the following morning, and thereforeknew nothing of this meeting till some days after it had taken place. The language which the Marquis had used to his brother they were lasttogether had been such as to render any friendly intercourse almostimpossible. And then the mingled bitterness, frivolity, and wickednessof his brother, made every tone of the man's voice and every glance ofhis eye distasteful to Lord George. Lord George was always honest, wasgenerally serious, and never malicious. There could be no greatercontrast than that which had been produced between the brothers, eitherby difference of disposition from their birth, or by the variedcircumstances of a residence on an Italian lake and one at Manor Cross. The Marquis thought his brother to be a fool, and did not scruple tosay so on all occasions. Lord George felt that his brother was a knave, but would not have so called him on any consideration. The Marquis insending for his brother hoped that even after all that had passed, hemight make use of Lord George. Lord George in going to his brother, hoped that even after all that had passed he might be of use to theMarquis. 

When he was shown into the sitting-room at the hotel, the Marchionesswas again there. She, no doubt, had been tutored. She got up at onceand shook hands with her brother-in-law, smiling graciously. It musthave been a comfort to both of them that they spoke no common language, as they could hardly have had many thoughts to interchange with eachother. 

"I wonder why the deuce you never learned Italian, " said the Marquis. 

"We never were taught, " said Lord George. 

"No;--nobody in England ever is taught anything but Latin andGreek, --with this singular result, that after ten or a dozen years oflearning not one in twenty knows a word of either language. That is ourEnglish idea of education. In after life a little French may be pickedup, from necessity; but it is French of the very worst kind. My wonderis that Englishman can hold their own in the world at all. "

"They do, " said Lord George, --to whom all this was ear-piercingblasphemy. The national conviction that an Englishman could thrashthree foreigners, and if necessary eat them, was strong with him. 

"Yes; there is a ludicrous strength even in their pig-headedness. ButI always think that Frenchmen, Italians, and Prussians must in dealingwith us, be filled with infinite disgust. They must ever be saying, 'pig, pig, pig, ' beneath their breath, at every turn. "

"They don't dare to say it out loud, " said Lord George. 

"They are too courteous, my dear fellow. " Then he said a few words tohis wife in Italian, upon which she left the room, again shaking handswith her brother-in-law, and again smiling. 

Then the Marquis rushed at once into the middle of his affairs. 

"Don't you think George that you are an infernal fool to quarrel withme. "

"You have quarrelled with me. I haven't quarrelled with you. "

"Oh no;--not at all! When you send lawyer's clerks all over Italy totry to prove my boy to be a bastard, and that is not quarrelling withme! When you accuse my wife of bigamy that is not quarrelling with me!When you conspire to make my house in the country too hot to hold me, that is not quarrelling with me!"

"How have I conspired? with whom have I conspired?"

"When I explained my wishes about the house at Cross Hall, why did youencourage those foolish old maids to run counter to me. You must haveunderstood pretty well that it would not suit either of us to be nearthe other, and yet you chose to stick up for legal rights. "

"We thought it better for my mother. "

"My mother would have consented to anything that I proposed. Do youthink I don't know how the land lies? Well; what have you learned inItaly?" Lord George was silent. "Of course, I know. I'm not such a foolas not to keep my ears and eyes open. As far as your enquiries havegone yet, are you justified in calling Popenjoy a bastard?"

"I have never called him so;--never. I have always declared my beliefand my wishes to be in his favour. "

"Then why the d---- have you made all this rumpus?"

"Because it was necessary to be sure. When a man marries the same wifetwice over----"

"Have you never heard of that being done before? Are you so ignorant asnot to know that there are a hundred little reasons which may make thatexpedient? You have made your enquiries now and what is the result?"

Lord George paused a moment before he replied, and then answered withabsolute honesty. "It is all very odd to me. That may be my Englishprejudice. But I do think that your boy is legitimate. "

"You are satisfied as to that?"

He paused again, meditating his reply. He did not wish to be untrue tothe Dean, but then he was very anxious to be true to his brother. Heremembered that in the Dean's presence he had told the lawyer that hewould have nothing to do with further enquiries. He had asked for thelawyer's bill, thereby withdrawing from the investigation. "Yes, " hesaid slowly; "I am satisfied. "

"And you mean to do nothing further?"

Again he was very slow, remembering how necessary it would be that heshould tell all this to the Dean, and how full of wrath the Dean wouldbe. "No; I do not mean to do anything further. "

"I may take that as your settled purpose?"

There was another pause, and then he spoke, "Yes; you may. "

"Then, George, let us try and forget what has passed. It cannot pay foryou and me to quarrel. I shall not stay in England very long. I don'tlike it. It was necessary that the people about should know that I hada wife and son, and so I brought him and her to this comfortlesscountry. I shall return before the winter, and for anything that I careyou may all go back to Manor Cross. "

"I don't think my mother would like that. "

"Why shouldn't she like it? I suppose I was to be allowed to have myown house when I wanted it? I hope there was no offence in that, evento that dragon Sarah? At any rate, you may as well look after theproperty; and if they won't live there, you can. But there's onequestion I want to ask you. "

"Well?"

"What do you think of your precious father-in-law; and what do youthink that I must think of him? Will you not admit that for a vulgar, impudent brute, he is about as bad as even England can supply?" Ofcourse Lord George had nothing to say in answer to this. "He is goingon with this tom-foolery, I believe?"

"You mean the enquiry?"

"Yes; I mean the enquiry whether my son and your nephew is a bastard. Iknow he put you up to it. Am I right in saying that he has notabandoned it?"

"I think you are right. "

"Then by heaven I'll ruin him. He may have a little money, but I don'tthink his purse is quite so long as mine. I'll lead him such a dancethat he shall wish he had never heard the name of Germain. I'll makehis deanery too hot to hold him. Now, George, as between you and methis shall be all passed over. That poor child is not strong, and afterall you may probably be my heir. I shall never live in England, and youare welcome to the house. I can be very bitter, but I can forgive; andas far as you are concerned I do forgive. But I expect you to drop yourprecious father-in-law. " Lord George was again silent. He could not saythat he would drop the Dean; but at this moment he was not sufficientlyfond of the Dean to rise up in his stirrups and fight a battle for him. "You understand me, " continued the Marquis, "I don't want any assurancefrom you. He is determined to prosecute an enquiry adverse to thehonour of your family, and in opposition to your settled convictions. Idon't think that after that you can doubt about your duty. Come andsee me again before long; won't you?" Lord George said that he wouldcome again before long, and then departed. 

As he walked home his mind was sorely perplexed and divided. He hadmade up his mind to take no further share in the Popenjoyinvestigation, and must have been right to declare as much to hisbrother. His conscience was clear as to that. And then there were manyreasons which induced him to feel coldly about the Dean. His own wifehad threatened him with her father. And the Dean was always drivinghim. And he hated the Dean's money. He felt that the Dean was not quiteall that a gentleman should be. But, nevertheless, it behoved him aboveall things to be honest and straightforward with the Dean. 

There had been something in his interview with his brother to pleasehim, but it had not been all delightful. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

PREPARATIONS FOR THE BALL. 

How was he to keep faith with the Dean? This was Lord George's firsttrouble after his reconciliation with his brother. The Dean was back atthe deanery, and Lord George mistrusted his own power of writing such aletter as would be satisfactory on so abstruse a matter. He knew thathe should fail in making a good story, even face to face, and that hisletter would be worse than spoken words. In intellect he was muchinferior to the Dean, and was only too conscious of his owninferiority. In this condition of mind he told his story to his wife. She had never even seen the Marquis, and had never quite believed inthose ogre qualities which had caused so many groans to Lady Sarah andLady Susanna. When, therefore, her husband told her that he had madehis peace with his brother she was inclined to rejoice. "And Popenjoyis Popenjoy, " she said smiling. 

"I believe he is, with all my heart. "

"And that is to be an end of it, George? You know that I have neverbeen eager for any grandeur. "

"I know it. You have behaved beautifully all along. "

"Oh; I won't boast. Perhaps I ought to have been more ambitious foryou. But I hate quarrels, and I shouldn't like to have claimed anythingwhich did not really belong to us. It is all over now. "

"I can't answer for your father. "

"But you and papa are all one. "

"Your father is very steadfast. He does not know yet that I have seenmy brother. I think you might write to him. He ought to know what hastaken place. Perhaps he would come up again if he heard that I had beenwith my brother. "

"Shall I ask him to come here?"

"Certainly. Why should he not come here? There is his room. He canalways come if he pleases. " So the matter was left, and Mary wrote herletter. It was not very lucid;--but it could hardly have been lucid, the writer knowing so few of the details. "George has become friendswith his brother, " she said, "and wishes me to tell you. He says thatPopenjoy is Popenjoy, and I am very glad. It was such a trouble. Georgethinks you will come up to town when you hear, and begs you will comehere. Do come, papa! It makes me quite wretched when you go to thathorrid hotel. There is such a lot of quarrelling, and it almost seemsas if you were going to quarrel with us when you don't come here. Pray, papa, never, never do that. If I thought you and George weren't friendsit would break my heart. Your room is always ready for you, and ifyou'll say what day you'll be here I will get a few people to meetyou. " The letter was much more occupied with her desire to see herfather than with that momentous question on which her father was sozealously intent. Popenjoy is Popenjoy! It was very easy to assert somuch. Lord George would no doubt give way readily, because he dislikedthe trouble of the contest. But it was not so with the Dean. "He is nomore Popenjoy than I am Popenjoy, " said the Dean to himself when heread the letter. Yes; he must go up to town again. He must know whathad really taken place between the two brothers. That was essential, and he did not doubt but that he should get the exact truth from LordGeorge. But he would not go to Munster Court. There was already adifference of opinion between him and his son-in-law sufficient to makesuch a sojourn disagreeable. If not disagreeable to himself, he knewthat it would be so to Lord George. He was sorry to vex Mary, butMary's interests were more at his heart than her happiness. It was nowthe business of his life to make her a Marchioness, and that businesshe would follow whether he made himself, her, and others happy orunhappy. He wrote to her, bidding her tell her husband that he wouldagain be in London on a day which he named, but adding that for thepresent he would prefer going to the hotel. "I cannot help it, " saidLord George moodily. "I have done all I could to make him welcome here. If he chooses to stand off and be stiff he must do so. "

At this time Lord George had many things to vex him. Every day hereceived at his club a letter from Mrs. Houghton, and each letter was alittle dagger. He was abused by every epithet, every innuendo, andevery accusation familiar to the tongues and pens of the irritatedfemale mind. A stranger reading them would have imagined that he hadused all the arts of a Lothario to entrap the unguarded affections ofthe writer, and then, when successful, had first neglected the lady andafterwards betrayed her. And with every stab so given there was acommand expressed that he should come instantly to Berkeley Square inorder that he might receive other and worse gashes at the betterconvenience of the assailant. But as Mrs. Bond's ducks would certainlynot have come out of the pond had they fully understood the nature ofthat lady's invitation, so neither did Lord George go to BerkeleySquare in obedience to these commands. Then there came a letter whichto him was no longer a little dagger, but a great sword, --a swordmaking a wound so wide that his life-blood seemed to flow. There was noaccusation of betrayal in this letter. It was simply the broken-heartedwailings of a woman whose love was too strong for her. Had he nottaught her to regard him as the only man in the world whose presencewas worth having? Had he not so wound himself into every recess of herheart as to make life without seeing him insupportable? Could it bepossible that, after having done all this, he had no regard for her?Was he so hard, so cruel, such adamant as to deny her at least afarewell? As for herself, she was now beyond all fear of consequences. She was ready to die if it were necessary, --ready to lose all theluxuries of her husband's position rather than never see him again. Shehad a heart! She was inclined to doubt whether any one among heracquaintances was so burdened. Why, oh why, had she thought sosteadfastly of his material interests when he used to kneel at her feetand ask her to be his bride, before he had ever seen Mary Lovelace?Then this long epistle was brought to an end. "Come to me to-morrow, A. H. Destroy this the moment you have read it. " The last behest he didobey. He would put no second letter from this woman in his wife's way. He tore the paper into minute fragments, and deposited the portions indifferent places. That was easily done; but what should be done as tothe other behest? If he went to Berkeley Square again, would he be ableto leave it triumphantly as he had done on his last visit? That he didnot wish to see her for his own sake he was quite certain. But hethought it incumbent on him to go yet once again. He did not altogetherbelieve all that story as to her tortured heart. Looking back at whathad passed between them since he had first thought himself to be inlove with her, he could not remember such a depth of love-making on hispart as that which she described. In the ordinary way he had proposedto her, and had, in the ordinary way, been rejected. Since that, andsince his marriage, surely the protestations of affection had comealmost exclusively from the lady! He thought that it was so, and yetwas hardly sure. If he had got such a hold on her affections as shedescribed, certainly, then, he owed to her some reparation. But as heremembered her great head of false hair and her paint, and called tomind his wife's description of her, he almost protested to himself thatshe was deceiving him;--he almost read her rightly. Nevertheless, hewould go once more. He would go and tell her sternly that the thingmust come to an end, and that no more letters were to be written. 

He did go and found Jack De Baron there, and heard Jack discourseenthusiastically about Mrs. Montacute Jones's ball, which was to becelebrated in two or three days from the present time. Then Mrs. Houghton was very careful to ask some question in Lord George'spresence as to some special figure-dance which was being got up for theoccasion. It was a dance newly introduced from Moldavia, and was themost ravishing thing in the way of dancing that had ever yet found itsway into this country. Nobody had yet seen it, and it was being kept aprofound secret, --to be displayed only at Mrs. Montacute Jones's party. It was practised in secret in her back drawing room by the eightperformers, with the assistance of a couple of most trustworthy hiredmusicians, whom that liberal old lady, Mrs. Montacute Jones, supplied, --so that the rehearsals might make the performers perfect forthe grand night. This was the story as told with great interest by Mrs. Houghton, who seemed for the occasion almost to have recovered from herheart complaint. That, however, was necessarily kept in abeyance duringJack's presence. Jack, though he had been enthusiastic about Mrs. Jonesand her ball before Lord George's arrival, and though he had continuedto talk freely up to a certain point, suddenly became reticent as tothe great Moldavian dance. But Mrs. Houghton would not be reticent. Shedeclared the four couple who had been selected as performers to be thehappy, fortunate ones of the season. Mrs. Montacute Jones was a nastyold woman for not having asked her. Of course there was a difficulty, but there might have been two sets. "And Jack is such a false loon, "she said to Lord George, "that he won't show me one of the figures. "

"Are you going to dance it?" asked Lord George. 

"I fancy I'm to be one of the team. "

"He is to dance with Mary, " said Mrs. Houghton. Then Lord Georgethought that he understood the young man's reticence, and he was onceagain very wretched. There came that cloud upon his brow which neversat there without being visible to all who were in the company. No mantold the tale of his own feelings so plainly as he did. And Mrs. Houghton, though declaring herself to be ignorant of the figure, haddescribed the dance as a farrago of polkas, waltzes, and galops, sothat the thing might be supposed to be a fast rapturous whirl from thebeginning to the end. And his wife was going through this indecentexhibition at Mrs. Montacute Jones' ball with Captain de Baron afterall that he had said!

"You are quite wrong in your ideas about the dance, " said Jack to hiscousin. "It is the quietest thing out, --almost as grave as a minuet. It's very pretty, but people here will find it too slow. " It may bedoubted whether he did much good by this explanation. Lord Georgethought that he was lying, though he had almost thought before thatMrs. Houghton was lying on the other side. But it was true at any ratethat after all that had passed a special arrangement had been made forhis wife to dance with Jack De Baron. And then his wife had been calledby implication, "One of the team. "

Jack got up to go, but before he left the room Aunt Ju was there, andthen that sinful old woman Mrs. Montacute Jones herself. "My dear, " shesaid in answer to a question from Mrs. Houghton about the dance, "I amnot going to tell anybody anything about it. I don't know why it shouldhave been talked of. Four couple of good looking young people are goingto amuse themselves, and I have no doubt that those who look on will bevery much gratified. " Oh, that his wife, that Lady Mary Germain, shouldbe talked of as one of "four couple of good looking young people, " andthat she should be about to dance with Jack De Baron, in order thatstrangers might be gratified by looking at her!

It was manifest that nothing special could be said to Mrs. Houghton onthat occasion, as one person came after another. She looked all thewhile perfectly disembarrassed. Nobody could have imagined that she wasin the presence of the man whose love was all the world to her. When hegot up to take his leave she parted from him as though he were no moreto her than he ought to have been. And indeed he too had for the timebeen freed from the flurry of his affair with Mrs. Houghton by theother flurry occasioned by the Moldavian dance. The new dance wascalled, he had been told, the Kappa-kappa. There was something in thename suggestive of another dance of which he had heard, --and he wasvery unhappy. 

He found the Dean in Munster Court when he reached his own house. Thefirst word that his wife spoke to him was about the ball. "George, papais going with me on Friday to Mrs. Montacute Jones'. "

"I hope he will like it, " said Lord George. 

"I wish you would come. "

"Why should I go? I have already said that I would not. "

"As for the invitation that does not signify in the least. Do come justabout twelve o'clock. We've got up such a dance, and I should like youto come and see it. "

"Who is we?"

"Well;--the parties are not quite arranged yet. I think I'm to dancewith Count Costi. Something depends on colours of dress and othermatters. The gentlemen are all to be in some kind of uniform. We haverehearsed it, and in rehearsing we have done it all round, one with theother. "

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"We weren't to tell till it was settled. "

"I mean to go and see it, " said the Dean. "I delight in anything ofthat kind. "

Mary was so perfectly easy in the matter, so free from doubt, sodisembarrassed, that he was for the moment tranquillised. She had saidthat she was to dance, not with that pernicious Captain, but with aforeign Count. He did not like foreign Counts, but at the presentmoment he preferred any one to Jack De Baron. He did not for a momentdoubt her truth. And she had been true, --though Jack De Baron and Mrs. Houghton had been true also. When Mary had been last at Mrs. Jones'house the matter had not been quite settled, and in her absence Jackhad foolishly, if not wrongly, carried his point with the old lady. Ithad been decided that the performers were to go through their work inthe fashion that might best achieve the desired effect;--that they werenot to dance exactly with whom they pleased, but were to have theirparts assigned them as actors on a stage. Jack no doubt had been led byhis own private wishes in securing Mary as his partner, but of thatcontrivance on his part she had been ignorant when she gave herprogramme of the affair to her husband. "Won't you come in and see it?"she said again. 

"I am not very fond of those things. Perhaps I may come in for a fewminutes. "

"I am fond of them, " said the Dean. "I think any innocent thing thatmakes life joyous and pretty is good. "

"That is rather begging the question, " said Lord George, as he left theroom. 

Mary had not known what her husband meant by begging the question, butthe Dean had of course understood him. "I hope he is not going tobecome ascetic, " he said. "I hope at least that he will not insist thatyou should be so. "

"It is not his nature to be very gay, " she answered. 

On the next day, in the morning, was the last rehearsal, and then Marylearned what was her destiny. She regretted it, but could notremonstrate. Jack's uniform was red. The Count's dress was blue andgold. Her dress was white, and she was told that the white and red mustgo together. There was nothing more to be said. She could not pleadthat her husband was afraid of Jack De Baron. Nor certainly would sheadmit to herself that she was in the least afraid of him herself. Butfor her husband's foolish jealousy she would infinitely have preferredthe arrangement as now made, --just as a little girl prefers as aplaymate a handsome boy whom she has long known, to some ill-visagedstranger with whom she has never quarrelled and never again madefriends. But when she saw her husband she found herself unable to tellhim of the change which had been made. She was not actor enough to beable to mention Jack De Baron's name to him with tranquillity. 

On the next morning, --the morning of the important day, --she heardcasually from Mrs. Jones that Lord George had been at Mrs. Houghton'shouse. She had quite understood from her husband that he intended tosee that evil woman again after the discovery and reading of theletter. He had himself told her that he intended it; and she, if shehad not actually assented, had made no protest against his doing so. But that visit, represented as being one final necessary visit, had, she was well aware, been made some time since. She had not asked himwhat had taken place. She had been unwilling to show any doubt by sucha question. The evil woman's name had never been on her tongue sincethe day on which the letter had been read. But now, when she heard thathe was there again, so soon, as a friend joining in generalconversation in the evil woman's house, the matter did touch her. Couldit be that he was deceiving her after all, and that he loved the woman?Did he really like that helmet, that paint and that affected laugh? Andhad he lied to her, --deceived her with a premeditated story which musthave been full of lies? She could hardly bring herself to believe this;and yet, why, why, why should he be there? The visit of which he hadspoken had been one intended to put an end to all closefriendship, --one in which he was to tell the woman that though thescandal of an outward quarrel might be avoided, he and she were to meetno more. And yet he was there. For aught she knew, he might be thereevery day! She did know that Mrs. Montacute Jones had found him there. Then he could come home to her and talk of the impropriety of dancing!He could do such thinks as this, and yet be angry with her because sheliked the society of Captain De Baron!

Certainly she would dance with Captain De Baron. Let him come and seeher dancing with him; and then, if he dared to upbraid her, she wouldask him why he continued his intimacy in Berkeley Square. In her angershe almost began to think that a quarrel was necessary. Was it notmanifest that he was deceiving her about that woman? The more shethought of it the more wretched she became; but on that day she saidnothing of it to him. They dined together, the Dean dining with them. He was perturbed and gloomy, the Dean having assured them that he didnot mean to allow the Popenjoy question to rest. "I stand in no awe ofyour brother, " the Dean had said to him. This had angered Lord George, and he had refused to discuss the matter any further. 

At nine Lady George went up to dress, and at half-past ten she startedwith her father. At that time her husband had left the house and hadsaid not a word further as to his intention of going to Mrs. Jones'house. "Do you think he will come?" she said to the Dean. 

"Upon my word I don't know. He seems to me to be in an ill-humour withall the world. "

"Don't quarrel with him, papa. "

"I do not mean to do so. I never mean to quarrel with anyone, and leastof all with him. But I must do what I conceive to be my duty whether helikes it or not. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE KAPPA-KAPPA. 

Mrs. Montacute Jones' house in Grosvenor Place was very large and verygorgeous. On this occasion it was very gorgeous indeed. The party hadgrown in dimensions. The new Moldavian dance had become the topic ofgeneral discourse. Everybody wanted to see the Kappa-kappa. CountCosti, Lord Giblet, young Sir Harry Tripletoe, and, no doubt, Jack DeBaron also, had talked a good deal about it at the clubs. It had beenintended to be a secret, and the ladies, probably, had been morereticent. Lady Florence Fitzflorence had just mentioned it to hernineteen specially intimate friends. Madame Gigi, the young wife of theold Bohemian minister, had spoken of it only to the diplomatic set;Miss Patmore Green had been as silent as death, except in her ownrather large family, and Lady George had hardly told anybody, excepther father. But, nevertheless, the secret had escaped, and greatefforts had been made to secure invitations. "I can get you to theDuchess of Albury's in July if you can manage it for me, " one younglady said to Jack De Baron. 

"Utterly impossible!" said Jack, to whom the offered bribe was notespecially attractive. "There won't be standing room in the cellars. Iwent down on my knees to Mrs. Montacute Jones for a very old friend, and she simply asked me whether I was mad. " This was, of course, romance; but, nevertheless, the crowd was great, and the anxiety to seethe Kappa-kappa universal. 

By eleven the dancing had commenced. Everything had been arranged inthe strictest manner. Whatever dance might be going on was to bebrought to a summary close at twelve o'clock, and then the Kappa-kappawas to be commenced. It had been found that the dance occupied exactlyforty minutes. When it was over the doors of the banquetting hall wouldbe opened. The Kappa-kappaites would then march into supper, and theworld at large would follow them. 

Lady George, when she first entered the room, found a seat near thehostess, and sat herself down, meaning to wait for the importantmoment. She was a little flurried as she thought of various things. There was the evil woman before her, already dancing. The evil womanhad nodded at her, and had then quickly turned away, determined not tosee that her greeting was rejected; and there was Augusta Mildmayabsolutely dancing with Jack De Baron, and looking as though sheenjoyed the fun. But to Mary there was something terrible in it all. She had been so desirous to be happy, --to be gay, --to amuse herself, and yet to be innocent. Her father's somewhat epicurean doctrines hadfilled her mind completely. And what had hitherto come of it? Herhusband mistrusted her; and she at this moment certainly mistrusted himmost grievously. Could she fail to mistrust him? And she, absolutelyconscious of purity, had been so grievously suspected! As she lookedround on the dresses and diamonds, and heard the thick hum of voices, and saw on all sides the pretence of cordiality, as she watched thealtogether unhidden flirtations of one girl, and the despondent frownof another, she began to ask herself whether her father had not beenwrong when he insisted that she should be taken to London. Would shenot have been more safe and therefore more happy even down at CrossHall, with her two virtuous sisters-in-law? What would become of hershould she quarrel with her husband, and how should she not quarrelwith him if he would suspect her, and would frequent the house of thatevil woman?

Then Jack De Baron came up to her, talking to her father. The Deanliked the young man, who had always something to say for himself, whosemanners were lively, and who, to tell the truth, was more thanordinarily civil to Lady George's father. Whether Jack would have puthimself out of the way to describe the Kappa-kappa to any otherdignitary of the Church may be doubted, but he had explained it allvery graciously to the Dean. "So it seems that, after all, you are todance with Captain De Baron, " said the Dean. 

"Yes; isn't it hard upon me? I was to have stood up with a real FrenchCount, who has real diamond buttons, and now I am to be put off with amere British Captain, because my white frock is supposed to suit hisred coat!"

"And who has the Count?"

"That odiously fortunate Lady Florence;--and she has diamonds of herown! I think they should have divided the diamonds. Madame Gigi has theLord. Between ourselves, papa, "--and as she said this she whispered, and both her father and Jack bent over to hear her--"we are ratherafraid of our Lord; ain't we, Captain De Baron? There has been ever somuch to manage, as we none of us quite wanted the Lord. Madame Gigitalks very little English, so we were able to put him off upon her. "

"And does the Lord talk French?"

"That doesn't signify as Giblet never talks at all, " said Jack. 

"Why did you have him?"

"To tell you the truth, among us all there is rather a hope that hewill propose to Miss Patmore Green. Dear Mrs. Montacute Jones is veryclever at these things, and saw at a glance that nothing would be solikely to make him do it as seeing Madeline Green dancing withTripletoe. No fellow ever did dance so well as Tripletoe, or lookedhalf so languishing. You see, Dean, there are a good many in's andout's in these matters, and they have to be approached carefully. " TheDean was amused, and his daughter would have been happy, but for thedouble care which sat heavy at her heart. Then Jack suggested to herthat she might as well stand up for a square dance. All the otherKappa-kappaites had danced or were dancing. The one thing on which shewas firmly determined was that she would not be afraid of Captain DeBaron. Whatever she did now she did immediately under her father's eye. She made no reply, but got up and put her hand on the Captain's armwithout spoken assent, as a woman will do when she is intimate with aman. 

"Upon my word, for a very young creature I never saw such impudence asthat woman's, " said a certain Miss Punter to Augusta Mildmay. MissPunter was a great friend of Augusta Mildmay, and was watching herfriend's broken heart with intense interest. 

"It is disgusting, " said Augusta. 

"She doesn't seem to mind the least who sees it. She must mean to leaveLord George altogether, or she would never go on like that. De Baronwouldn't be such a fool as to go off with her?"

"Men are fools enough for anything, " said the broken-hearted one. Whilethis was going on Mary danced her square dance complaisantly; and herproud father, looking on, thought that she was by far the prettiestwoman in the room. 

Before the quadrille was over a gong was struck, and the music stoppedsuddenly. It was twelve o'clock, and the Kappa-kappa was to be danced. It is hard in most amusements to compel men and women into disagreeablepunctuality; but the stopping of music will bring a dance to a suddenend. There were some who grumbled, and one or two declared that theywould not even stay to look at the Kappa-kappa. But Mrs. MontacuteJones was a great autocrat; and in five minutes' time the four coupleswere arranged, with ample space, in spite of the pressing crowd. 

It must be acknowledged that Jack De Baron had given no correct idea ofthe dance when he said that it was like a minuet; but it must beremembered also that Lady George had not been a party to that deceit. The figure was certainly a lively figure. There was much waltzing toquick time, the glory of which seemed to consist in going backwards, and in the interweaving of the couples without striking each other, asis done in skating. They were all very perfect, except poor LordGiblet, who once or twice nearly fell into trouble. During theperformance they all changed partners more than once, but each ladycame back to her own after very short intervals. All those who were notenvious declared it to be very pretty and prophesied great futuresuccess for the Kappa-kappa. Those who were very wise and very discreethinted that it might become a romp when danced without all thepreparation which had been given to it on the present occasion. Itcertainly became faster as it progressed, and it was evident thatconsiderable skill and considerable physical power were necessary forits completion. "It would be a deal too stagey for my girls, " said Mrs. Conway Smith, whose "girls" had, during the last ten years, gonethrough every phase of flirtation invented in these latter times. Perhaps it did savour a little too much of ballet practice; perhaps itwas true that with less care there might have been inconveniences. Faster it grew and faster; but still they had all done it before, anddone it with absolute accuracy. It was now near the end. Each lady hadwaltzed a turn with each gentleman. Lady George had been passed on fromthe Count to Sir Harry, and from Sir Harry to Lord Giblet. After herturn it was his lordship's duty to deliver her up to her partner, withwhom she would make a final turn round the dancing space; and then theKappa-kappa would have been danced. But alas! as Lord Giblet was doingthis he lost his head and came against the Count and Madame Gigi. LadyGeorge was almost thrown to the ground, but was caught by the Captain, who had just parted with Lady Florence to Sir Harry. But poor Mary hadbeen almost on the floor, and could hardly have been saved withoutsomething approaching to the violence of an embrace. 

Lord George had come into the room very shortly after the Kappa-kappahad been commenced, but had not at once been able to get near thedancers. Gradually he worked his way through the throng, and when hefirst saw the performers could not tell who was his wife's partner. Shewas then waltzing backwards with Count Costi; and he, though he hatedwaltzing, and considered the sin to be greatly aggravated by thebackward movement, and though he hated Counts, was still somewhatpacified. He had heard since he was in the room how the partners werearranged, and had thought that his wife had deceived him. The firstglance was reassuring. But Mary soon returned to her real partner; andhe slowly ascertained that she was in very truth waltzing with CaptainDe Baron. He stood there, a little behind the first row of spectators, never for a moment seen by his wife, but able himself to seeeverything, with a brow becoming every moment blacker and blacker. Tohim the exhibition was in every respect objectionable. The brightnessof the apparel of the dancers was in itself offensive to him. Theapproach that had been made to the garishness of a theatricalperformance made the whole thing, in his eyes, unfit for modestsociety. But that his wife should be one of the performers, that sheshould be gazed at by a crowd as she tripped about, and that, after allthat had been said, she should be tripping in the arms of Captain DeBaron, was almost more than he could endure. Close to him, but a littlebehind, stood the Dean, thoroughly enjoying all that he saw. It was tohim a delight that there should be such a dance to be seen in a lady'sdrawing-room, and that he should be there to see it. It was to him anadditional delight that his daughter should have been selected as oneof the dancers. These people were all persons of rank and fashion, andhis girl was among them quite as their equal, --his girl, who some dayshould be Marchioness of Brotherton. And it gratified him thoroughly tothink that she enjoyed it, --that she did it well, --that she could danceso that standers-by took pleasure in seeing her dancing. His mind inthe matter was altogether antagonistic to that of his son-in-law. 

Then came the little accident. The Dean, with a momentary impulse, putup his hand, and then smiled well pleased when he saw how well thematter had been rectified by the Captain's activity. But it was not sowith Lord George. He pressed forward into the circle with so determineda movement that nothing could arrest him till he had his wife by thearm. Everybody, of course, was staring at him. The dancers wereastounded. Mary apparently thought less of it than the others, for shespoke to him with a smile. "It is all right, George; I was not in theleast hurt. "

"It is disgraceful!" said he, in a loud voice; "come away. "

"Oh, yes, " she said; "I think we had finished. It was nobody's fault. "

"Come away; I will have no more of this. "

"Is there anything wrong?" asked the Dean, with an air of innocentsurprise. 

The offended husband was almost beside himself with passion. Though heknew that he was surrounded by those who would mock him he could notrestrain himself. Though he was conscious at the moment that it was hisspecial duty to shield his wife, he could not restrain his feelings. The outrage was too much for him. "There is very much the matter, " hesaid, aloud; "let her come away with me. " Then he took her under hisarm, and attempted to lead her away to the door. 

Mrs. Montacute Jones had, of course, seen it all, and was soon withhim. "Pray, do not take her away, Lord George, " she said. 

"Madam, I must be allowed to do so, " he replied, still pressing on. "Iwould prefer to do so. "

"Wait till her carriage is here. "

"We will wait below. Good-night, good-night. " And so he went out of theroom with his wife on his arm, followed by the Dean. Since she hadperceived that he was angry with her, and that he had displayed hisanger in public Mary had not spoken a word. She had pressed him to comeand see the dance, not without a purpose in her mind. She meant to getrid of the thraldom to which he had subjected her when desiring her notto waltz, and had done so in part when she obtained his direct sanctionat Lady Brabazon's. No doubt she had felt that as he took liberties asto his own life, as he received love-letters from an odious woman, hewas less entitled to unqualified obedience than he might have been hadhis hands been perfectly clean. There had been a little spirit ofrebellion engendered in her by his misconduct; but she had determinedto do nothing in secret. She had asked his leave to waltz at LadyBrabazon's, and had herself persuaded him to come to Mrs. MontacuteJones'. Perhaps she would hardly have dared to do so had she known thatCaptain De Baron was to be her partner. While dancing she had beenunaware of her husband's presence, and had not thought of him. When hehad first come to her she had in truth imagined that he had beenfrightened by her narrow escape from falling. But when he bade her comeaway with that frown on his face, and with that awful voice, then sheknew it all. She had no alternative but to take his arm, and to "comeaway. " She had not courage enough, --I had better perhaps say impudenceenough, --to pretend to speak to him or to anyone near him with ease. All eyes were upon her, and she felt them; all tongues would be talkingof her, and she already heard the ill-natured words. Her own husbandhad brought all this upon her, --her own husband, whose love-letter fromanother woman she had so lately seen, and so readily forgiven! It washer own husband who had so cruelly, so causelessly subjected her toshame in public, which could never be washed out or forgotten! And whowould sympathise with her? There was no one now but her father. Hewould stand by her; he would be good to her; but her husband by his owndoing had wilfully disgraced her. 

Not a word was spoken till they were in the cloak-room, and then LordGeorge stalked out to find the brougham, or any cab that might takethem away from the house. Then for the first time the Dean whispered aword to her. "Say as little as you can to him to-night, but keep upyour courage. "

"Oh, papa!"

"I understand it all. I will be with you immediately after breakfast. "

"You will not leave me here alone?"

"Certainly not, --nor till you are in your carriage. But listen to whatI am telling you. Say as little as you can till I am with you. Tell himthat you are unwell to-night, and that you must sleep before you talkto him. "

"Ah! you don't know, papa. "

"I know that I will have the thing put on a right footing. " Then LordGeorge came back, having found a cab. He gave his arm to his wife andtook her away, without saying a word to the Dean. At the door of thecab the Dean bade them both good-night. "God bless you, my child, " hesaid. 

"Good-night; you'll come to-morrow?"

"Certainly. " Then the door was shut, and the husband and wife weredriven away. 

Of course this little episode contributed much to the amusement of Mrs. Montacute Jones's guests. The Kappa-kappa had been a very prettyexhibition, but it had not been nearly so exciting as that of thejealous husband. Captain De Baron, who remained, was, of course, ahero. As he could not take his partner into supper, he was honoured bythe hand of Mrs. Montacute Jones herself. "I wouldn't have had thathappen for a thousand pounds, " said the old lady. 

"Nor I for ten, " said Jack. 

"Has there been any reason for it?"

"None in the least. I can't explain of what nature is my intimacy withLady George, but it has been more like that of children than grownpeople. "

"I know. When grown people play at being children, it is apt to bedangerous. "

"But we had no idea of the kind. I may be wicked enough. I say nothingabout that. But she is as pure as snow. Mrs. Jones, I could no moredare to press her hand than I would to fly at the sun. Of course I likeher. "

"And she likes you. "

"I hope so, --in that sort of way. But it is shocking that such a sceneshould come from such a cause. "

"Some men, Captain De Baron, don't like having their handsome youngwives liked by handsome young officers. It's very absurd, I grant. "

Mrs. Jones and Captain De Baron did really grieve at what had beendone, but to others, the tragedy coming after the comedy had not beenpainful. "What will be the end of it?" said Miss Patmore Green to SirHarry. 

"I am afraid they won't let her dance it any more, " said Sir Harry, whowas intent solely on the glories of the Kappa-kappa. "We shall hardlyget any one to do it so well. "

"There'll be something worse than that, I'm afraid, " said Miss Green. 

Count Costi suggested to Lady Florence that there would certainly be aduel. "We never fight here in England, Count. "

"Ah! dat is bad. A gentleman come and make himself vera disagreeable. If he most fight perhaps he would hold his tong. I tink we do thingsbetter in Paris and Vienna. " Lord Giblet volunteered his opinion toMadame Gigi that it was very disgraceful. Madame Gigi simply shruggedher shoulders, and opened her eyes. She was able to congratulateherself on being able to manage her own husband better than that. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

REBELLION. 

Lady George never forgot that slow journey home in the cab, --for intruth it was very slow. It seemed to her that she would never reach herown house. "Mary, " he said, as soon as they were seated, "you have mademe a miserable man. " The cab rumbled and growled frightfully, and hefelt himself unable to attack her with dignity while they wereprogressing. "But I will postpone what I have to say till we havereached home. "

"I have done nothing wrong, " said Mary, very stoutly. 

"You had better say nothing more till we are at home. " After that not aword more was said, but the journey was very long. 

At the door of the house Lord George gave his hand to help her out ofthe cab, and then marched before her through the passage into thedining-room. It was evident that he was determined to make his harangueon that night. But she was the first to speak. "George, " she said, "Ihave suffered very much, and am very tired. If you please, I will go tobed. "

"You have disgraced me, " he said. 

"No; it is you that have disgraced me and put me to shame beforeeverybody, --for nothing, for nothing. I have done nothing of which I amashamed. " She looked up into his face, and he could see that she wasfull of passion, and by no means in a mood to submit to his reproaches. She, too, could frown, and was frowning now. Her nostrils were dilated, and her eyes were bright with anger. He could see how it was with her;and though he was determined to be master, he hardly knew how he was tomake good his masterdom. 

"You had better listen to me, " he said. 

"Not to-night. I am too ill, too thoroughly wretched. Anything you havegot to say of course I will listen to, --but not now. " Then she walkedto the door. 

"Mary!" She paused with her hand on the lock. "I trust that you do notwish to contest the authority which I have over you?"

"I do not know; I cannot say. If your authority calls upon me to ownthat I have done anything wrong, I shall certainly contest it. And if Ihave not, I think--I think you will express your sorrow for the injuryyou have done me to-night. " Then she left the room before he had madeup his mind how he would continue his address. He was quite sure thathe was right. Had he not desired her not to waltz? At that moment hequite forgot the casual permission he had barely given at LadyBrabazon's, and which had been intended to apply to that night only. Had he not specially warned her against this Captain De Baron, and toldher that his name and hers were suffering from her intimacy with theman? And then, had she not deceived him directly by naming anotherperson as her partner in that odious dance? The very fact that she hadso deceived him was proof to him that she had known that she ought notto dance with Captain De Baron, and that she had a vicious pleasure indoing so which she had been determined to gratify even in opposition tohis express orders. As he stalked up and down the room in his wrath, heforgot as much as he remembered. It had been represented to him thatthis odious romp had been no more than a minuet; but he did not bearin mind that his wife had been no party to that misrepresentation. Andhe forgot, too, that he himself had been present as a spectator at herexpress request. And when his wrath was at the fullest he almost forgotthose letters from Adelaide Houghton! But he did not forget that allMrs. Montacute Jones' world had seen him as in his offended maritalmajesty he took his wife out from amidst the crowd, declaring hisindignation and his jealousy to all who were there assembled. He mighthave been wrong there. As he thought of it all he confessed to himselfas much as that. But the injury done had been done to himself ratherthan to her. Of course they must leave London now, and leave it forever. She must go with him whither he might choose to take her. PerhapsManor Cross might serve for their lives' seclusion, as the Marquiswould not live there. But Manor Cross was near the deanery, and he mustsever his wife from her father. He was now very hostile to the Dean, who had looked on and seen his abasement, and had smiled. But, throughit all, there never came to him for a moment any idea of a permanentquarrel with his wife. It might, he thought, be long before there waspermanent comfort between them. Obedience, absolute obedience, mustcome before that could be reached. But of the bond which bound themtogether he was far too sensible to dream of separation. Nor, in hisheart, did he think her guilty of anything but foolish, headstrongindiscretion, --of that and latterly of dissimulation. It was not thatCæsar had been wronged, but that his wife had enabled idle tongues tosuggest a wrong to Cæsar. 

He did not see her again that night, betaking himself at a very latehour to his own dressing-room. On the next morning at an early hour hewas awake thinking. He must not allow her to suppose for a moment thathe was afraid of her. He went into her room a few minutes before theirusual breakfast hour, and found her, nearly dressed, with her maid. "Ishall be down directly, George, " she said in her usual voice. As hecould not bid the woman go away, he descended and waited for her in theparlour. When she entered the room she instantly rang the bell andcontrived to keep the man in the room while she was making the tea. Buthe would not sit down. How is a man to scold his wife properly withtoast and butter on a plate before him? "Will you not have your tea?"she asked--oh, so gently. 

"Put it down, " he said. According to her custom, she got up and broughtit round to his place. When they were alone she would kiss his foreheadas she did so; but now the servant was just closing the door, and therewas no kiss. 

"Do come to your breakfast, George, " she said. 

"I cannot eat my breakfast while all this is on my mind. I must speakof it. We must leave London at once. "

"In a week or two. "

"At once. After last night, there must be no more going to parties. "She lifted her cup to her lips and sat quite silent. She would hear alittle more before she answered him. "You must feel yourself that forsome time to come, perhaps for some years, privacy will be the best forus. "

"I feel nothing of the kind, George. "

"Could you go and face those people after what happened last night?"

"Certainly I could, and should think it my duty to do so to-night, ifit were possible. No doubt you have made it difficult, but I would doit. "

"I was forced to make it difficult. There was nothing for me to do butto take you away. "

"Because you were angry, you were satisfied to disgrace me before allthe people there. What has been done cannot be helped. I must bear it. I cannot stop people from talking and thinking evil. But I will neversay that I think evil of myself by hiding myself. I don't know what youmean by privacy. I want no privacy. "

"Why did you dance with that man?"

"Because it was so arranged. "

"You had told me it was some one else?"

"Do you mean to accuse me of a falsehood, George? First one arrangementhad been made, and then another. "

"I had been told before how it was to be. "

"Who told you? I can only answer for myself. "

"And why did you waltz?"

"Because you had withdrawn your foolish objection. Why should I notdance like other people? Papa does not think it wrong?"

"Your father has nothing to do with it. "

"If you ill-treat me, George, papa must have something to do with it. Do you think he will see me disgraced before a room full of people, asyou did yesterday, and hold his tongue? Of course you are my husband, but he is still my father; and if I want protection he will protectme. "

"I will protect you, " said Lord George, stamping his foot upon thefloor. 

"Yes; by burying me somewhere. That is what you say you mean to do. Andwhy? Because you get some silly nonsense into your head, and then makeyourself and me ridiculous in public. If you think I am what you seemto suspect, you had better let papa have me back again, --though that isso horrible that I can hardly bring myself to think of it. If you donot think so, surely you should beg my pardon for the affront you puton me last night. "

This was a way in which he had certainly not looked at the matter. Begher pardon! He, as a husband, beg a wife's pardon under anycircumstances! And beg her pardon for having carried her away from ahouse in which she had manifestly disobeyed him. No, indeed. But thenhe was quite as strongly opposed to that other idea of sending her backto her father, as a man might send a wife who had disgraced herself. Anything would be better than that. If she would only acknowledge thatshe had been indiscreet, they would go down together into Brothershire, and all might be comfortable. Though she was angry with him, obstinateand rebellious, yet his heart was softened to her because she did notthrow the woman's love-letter in his teeth. He had felt that here wouldbe his great difficulty, but his difficulty now arose rather from thegenerosity which kept her silent on the subject. "What I did, " he said, "I did to protect you. "

"Such protection was an insult. " Then she left the room before he hadtasted his tea or his toast. She had heard her father's knock, and knewthat she would find him in the drawing-room. She had made up her mindhow she would tell the story to him; but when she was with him he wouldhave no story told at all. He declared that he knew everything, andspoke as though there could be no doubt as to the heinousness, orrather, absurdity, of Lord George's conduct. "It is very sad, --verysad, indeed, " he said; "one hardly knows what one ought to do. "

"He wants to go down--to Cross Hall. "

"That is out of the question. You must stay out your time here and thencome to me, as you arranged. He must get out of it by saying that hewas frightened by thinking that you had fallen. "

"It was not that, papa. "

"Of course it was not; but how else is he to escape from his ownfolly?"

"You do not think that I have been--wrong--with Captain De Baron?"

"I! God bless you, my child. I think that you have been wrong! Hecannot think so either. Has he accused you?"

Then she told him, as nearly as she could, all that had passed betweenthem, including the expression of his desire that she should not waltz, and his subsequent permission given at Lady Brabazon's. "Pish!" heejaculated. "I hate these attempted restrictions. It is like a womantelling her husband not to smoke. What a fool a man must be not to seethat he is preparing misery for himself by laying embargoes on therecreations of his nearest companion!" Then he spoke of what he himselfwould do. "I must see him, and if he will not hear reason you must gowith me to the Deanery without him. "

"Don't separate us, papa. "

"God forbid that there should be any permanent separation. If he beobstinate, it may be well that you should be away from him for a weekor two. Why can't a man wash his dirty linen at home, if he has any towash. His, at any rate, did not come to him with you. "

Then there was a very stormy scene in the dining-room between the twomen. The Dean, whose words were infinitely more ready and availablethan those of his opponent, said very much the most, and by the fierceindignation of his disclaimers, almost prevented the husband fromdwelling on the wife's indiscretion. "I did not think it possible thatsuch a man as you could have behaved so cruelly to such a girl. "

"I was not cruel; I acted for the best. "

"You degraded yourself, and her too. "

"I degraded no one, " said Lord George. 

"It is hard to think what may now best be done to cure the wound whichshe has been made to suffer. I must insist on this, --that she must notbe taken from town before the day fixed for her departure. "

"I think of going to-morrow, " said Lord George, gloomily. 

"Then you must go alone, and I must remain with her. "

"Certainly not;--certainly not. "

"She will not go. She shall not be made to run away. Though everythinghave to be told in the public prints, I will not submit to that. Isuppose you do not dare to tell me that you suspect her of any evil?"

"She has been indiscreet. "

"Suppose I granted that, --which I don't, --is she to be ground into dustin this way for indiscretion? Have not you been indiscreet?" LordGeorge made no direct answer to this question, fearing that the Deanhad heard the story of the love-letter; but of that matter the Dean hadheard nothing. "In all your dealings with her, can you tax yourselfwith no deviation from wisdom?"

"What a man does is different. No conduct of mine can blemish hername. "

"But it may destroy her happiness, --and if you go on in this way itwill do so. "

During the whole of that day the matter was discussed. Lord Georgeobstinately insisted on taking his wife down to Cross Hall, if not onthe next day, then on the day after. But the Dean, and with the Deanthe young wife, positively refused to accede to this arrangement. TheDean had his things brought from the inn to the house in Munster Court, and though he did not absolutely declare that he had come there for hisdaughter's protection, it was clear that this was intended. In such anemergency Lord George knew not what to do. Though the quarrel wasalready very bitter, he could not quite tell his father-in-law to leavethe house; and then there was always present to his mind a feeling thatthe Dean had a right to be there in accordance with the pecuniaryarrangement made. The Dean would have been welcome to the use of thehouse and all that was in it, if only Mary would have consented to betaken at once down to Cross Hall. But being under her father's wing, she would not consent. She pleaded that by going at once, or runningaway as she called it, she would own that she had done something wrong, and she was earnest in declaring that nothing should wring such aconfession from her. Everybody, she said, knew that she was to stay inLondon to the end of June. Everybody knew that she was then to go tothe Deanery. It was not to be borne that people should say that herplans had been altered because she had danced the Kappa-kappa withCaptain De Baron. She must see her friends before she went, or else herfriends would know that she had been carried into banishment. In answerto this, Lord George declared that he, as husband, was paramount. ThisMary did not deny, but, paramount as the authority was, she would not, in this instance, be governed by it. 

It was a miserable day to them all. Many callers came, asking afterLady George, presuming that her speedy departure from the ball had beencaused by her accident. No one was admitted, and all were told that shehad not been much hurt. There were two or three stormy scenes betweenthe Dean and his son-in-law, in one of which Lord George asked the Deanwhether he conceived it to be compatible with his duty as a clergymanof the Church of England to induce a wife to disobey her husband. Inanswer to this, the Dean said that in such a matter the duty of aChurch dignitary was the same as that of any other gentleman, and thathe, as a gentleman, and also as a dignitary, meant to stand by hisdaughter. She refused to pack up, or to have her things packed. When hecame to look into himself, he found that he had not power to bid theservants do it in opposition to their mistress. That the power of ahusband was paramount he was well aware, but he did not exactly see hisway to the exercise of it. At last he decided that he, at any rate, would go down to Cross Hall. If the Dean chose to create a separationbetween his daughter and her husband, he must bear the responsibility. 

On the following day he did go down to Cross Hall, leaving his wife andher father in Munster Court without any definite plans. 

CHAPTER XL. 

AS TO BLUEBEARD. 

When Lord George left his own house alone he was very wretched, and hiswife, whom he left behind him, was as wretched as himself. Of coursethe matter had not decided itself in this way without very muchabsolute quarrelling between them. Lord George had insisted, hadstamped his foot, and had even talked of force. Mary, prompted by herfather, had protested that she would not run away from the evil tonguesof people who would be much more bitter in her absence than they woulddare to be if she remained among them. He, when he found that histhreat of forcible abduction was altogether vain, had to make up hismind whether he also would remain. But both the Dean and his wife hadbegged that he would do so, and he would not even seem to act inobedience to them. So he went, groaning much in spirit, puzzled tothink what story he should tell to his mother and sisters, terriblyanxious as to the future, and in spirit repentant for the rashness ofhis conduct at the ball. Before he was twenty miles out of London hewas thinking with infinite regret of his love for his wife, alreadyrealising the misery of living without her, almost stirred to get outat the next station and return by the first train to Munster Court. Inthis hour of his sorrow there came upon him a feeling of great hatredfor Mrs. Houghton. He almost believed that she had for her own vilepurposes excited Captain De Baron to make love to his wife. And then, in regard to that woman, his wife had behaved so well! Surely somethingwas due to so much generosity. And then, when she had been angry withhim, she had been more beautiful than ever. What a change had those fewmonths in London made in her! She had lost her childish littletimidities, and had bloomed forth a beautiful woman. He had no doubt asto her increased loveliness, and had been proud to think that all hadacknowledged it. But as to the childish timidity, perhaps he would havepreferred that it should not have been so quickly or so entirelybanished. Even at Brotherton he hankered to return to London; but, hadhe done so, the Brotherton world would have known it. He put himselfinto a carriage instead, and had himself driven through the park toCross Hall. 

All this occurred on the day but one subsequent to the ball, and he hadby the previous post informed Lady Sarah that he was coming. But inthat letter he had said that he would bring his wife with him, and onhis immediate arrival had to answer questions as to her unexpectedabsence. "Her father was very unwilling that she should come, " he said. 

"But I thought he was at the hotel, " said Lady Sarah. 

"He is in Munster Court, now. To tell the truth I am not best pleasedthat it should be so; but at the last moment I did not like tocontradict her. I hate London and everything in it. She likes it, andas there was a kind of bargain made I could not well depart from it. "

"And you have left her alone with her father in London, " said LadySusanna, with a tone of pretended dismay. 

"How can she be alone if her father is with her, " answered Lord George, who did not stand in awe of Lady Susanna as he did of Lady Sarah. Nothing further at the moment was said, but all the sisters felt thatthere was something wrong. 

"I don't think it at all right that Mary should be left with the Dean, "said the old lady to her second daughter. But the old lady wasspecially prejudiced against the Dean as being her eldest son's greatenemy. Before the day was over Lord George wrote a long letter to hiswife, --full of affection indeed, but still more full of covertreproaches. He did not absolutely scold her; but he told her that therecould be no happiness between a wife and a husband unless the wifewould obey, and he implored her to come to him with as little delay aspossible. If she would only come, all should be right between them. 

Mary, when her husband was really gone, was much frightened at her ownfirmness. That doctrine of obedience to her husband had been acceptedby her in full. When disposed to run counter to the ladies at ManorCross, she always had declared to herself that they bore no authoritydelegated from "George, " and that she would obey "George, " and no onebut George. She had told him more than once, half-playfully, that if hewanted anything done, he must tell her himself. And this, though heunderstood it to contain rebellion against the Germains generally, hada pleasant flavour with him as acknowledging so completely his ownpower. She had said to her father, and unfortunately to Mrs. Houghtonwhen Mrs. Houghton was her friend, that she was not going to do whatall the Germain women told her; but she had always spoken of herhusband's wishes as absolutely imperative. Now she was in open mutinyagainst her husband, and, as she thought of it, it seemed to her to bealmost impossible that peace should be restored between them. 

"I think I will go down very soon, " she said to her father, after shehad received her husband's letter. 

"What do you call very soon?"

"In a day or two. "

"Do not do anything of the kind. Stay here till the appointed timecomes. It is only a fortnight now. I have made arrangements atBrotherton, so that I can be with you till then. After that come downto me. Of course your husband will come over to you at the deanery. "

"But if he shouldn't come?"

"Then he would be behaving very wickedly. But, of course, he will come. He is not a man to be obstinate in that fashion. "

"I do not know that, papa. "

"But I do. You had better take my advice in this matter. Of course I donot want to foster a quarrel between you and your husband. "

"Pray, --pray don't let there be a quarrel. "

"Of course not. But the other night he lost his head, and treated youbadly. You and I are quite willing to forgive and forget all that. Anyman may do a foolish thing, and men are to be judged by general resultsrather than single acts. "

"He is very kind to me--generally. "

"Just so; and I am not angry with him in the least. But after whatoccurred it would be wrong that you should go away at once. You felt ityourself at the moment. "

"But anything would be better than quarrelling, papa. "

"Almost anything would be better than a lasting quarrel with yourhusband; but the best way to avoid that is to show him that you knowhow to be firm in such an emergency as this. " She was, of course, compelled by her father's presence and her father's strength to remainin town, but she did so longing every hour to pack up and be off toCross Hall. She had very often doubted whether she could love herhusband as a husband ought to be loved, but now, in her presenttrouble, she felt sure of her own heart. She had never been really onbad terms with him before since their marriage, and the very fact oftheir separation increased her tenderness to him in a wonderful degree. She answered his letter with Language full of love and promises andsubmission, loaded with little phrases of feminine worship, merelyadding that papa thought she had better stay in town till the end ofthe month. There was not a word of reproach in it. She did not alludeto his harsh conduct at the ball, nor did she write the name of Mrs. Houghton. 

Her father was very urgent with her to see all her friends, to keep anyengagements previously made, to be seen at the play, and to let all theworld know by her conduct that she was not oppressed by what had takenplace. There was some intention of having the Kappa-kappa danced again, as far as possible by the same people. Lord Giblet was to retire infavour of some more expert performer, but the others were supposed tobe all worthy of an encore. But of course there arose a question as toLady George. There could be no doubt that Lord George had disapprovedvery strongly of the Kappa-kappa. The matter got to the Dean's ears, and the Dean counselled his daughter to join the party yet again. "Whatwould he say, papa?" The Dean was of opinion that in such case LordGeorge would say and do much less than he had said and done before. According to his views, Lord George must be taught that his wife hadher privileges as well as he his. This fresh difficulty dissolveditself because the second performance was fixed for a day after that onwhich it had been long known that Lady George was to leave London; andeven the Dean did not propose that she should remain in town after thatdate with a direct view to the Kappa-kappa. 

She was astonished at the zeal with which he insisted that she shouldgo out into the gay world. He almost ridiculed her when she spoke ofeconomy in her dress, and seemed to think that it was her duty to be awoman of fashion. He still spoke to her from time to time of thePopenjoy question, always asserting his conviction that, whatever theMarquis might think, even if he were himself deceived through ignoranceof the law, the child would be at last held to be illegitimate. "Theytell me, too, " he said, "that his life is not worth a year's purchase. "

"Poor little boy!"

"Of course, if he had been born as the son of the Marquis of Brothertonought to be born, nobody would wish him anything but good. "

"I don't wish him anything but good, " said Mary. 

"But as it is, " continued the Dean, apparently not observing hisdaughter's remark, "everybody must feel that it would be better for thefamily that he should be out of the way. Nobody can think that such achild can live to do honour to the British peerage. "

"He might be well brought up. "

"He wouldn't be well brought up. He has an Italian mother and Italianbelongings, and everything around him as bad as it can be. But thequestion at last is one of right. He was clearly born when his motherwas reputed to be the wife, not of his father, but of another man. Thatcock-and-bull story which we have heard may be true. It is possible. But I could not rest in my bed if I did not persevere in ascertainingthe truth. " The Dean did persevere, and was very constant in his visitsto Mr. Battle's office. At this time Miss Tallowax came up to town, andshe also stayed for a day or two in Munster Court. What passed betweenthe Dean and his aunt on the subject Mary, of course, did not hear; butshe soon found that Miss Tallowax was as eager as her father, and shelearned that Miss Tallowax had declared that the inquiry should notlanguish from want of funds. Miss Tallowax was quite alive to the gloryof the Brotherton connection. 

As the month drew to an end Mary, of course, called on all her Londonfriends. Her father was always eager to know whom she saw, and whetherany allusion was made by any of them to the scene at the ball. Butthere was one person, who had been a friend, on whom she did not call, and this omission was observed by the Dean. "Don't you ever see Mrs. Houghton now?" he asked. 

"No, papa, " said Mary, with prompt decision. 

"Why not?"

"I don't like her. "

"Why don't you like her? You used to be friends. Have you quarrelled?"

"Yes; I have quarrelled with her. "

"What did she do?" Mary was silent. "Is it a secret?"

"Yes, papa; it is a secret. I would rather you would not ask. But sheis a nasty vile creature, and I will never speak to her again. "

"That is strong language, Mary. "

"It is. And now that I have said that, pray don't talk about her anymore. "

The Dean was discreet, and did not talk about Mrs. Houghton any more;but he set his mind to work to guess, and guessed something near thetruth. Of course he knew that his son-in-law had professed at one timeto love this lady when she had been Miss De Baron, and he had been ableto see that subsequently to that they had been intimate friends. "Idon't think, my dear, " he said, laughing, "that you can be jealous ofher attractions. "

"I am not in the least jealous of her, papa. I don't know anyone that Ithink so ugly. She is a nasty made-up thing. But pray don't talk abouther anymore. " Then the Dean almost knew that Mary had discoveredsomething, and was too noble to tell a story against her husband. 

The day but one before she was to leave town Mrs. Montacute Jones cameto her. She had seen her kind old friend once or twice since thecatastrophe at the ball, but always in the presence of other persons. Now they were alone together. "Well, my dear, " said Mrs. Jones, "I hopeyou have enjoyed your short season. We have all been very fond of you. "

"You have been very kind to me, Mrs. Jones. "

"I do my best to make young people pleasant, my dear. You ought to haveliked it all, for I don't know anybody who has been so much admired. His Royal Highness said the other night that you were the handsomestwoman in London. "

"His Royal Highness is an old fool, " said Mary, laughing. 

"He is generally thought to be a very good judge in that matter. Youare going to keep the house, are you not?"

"Oh, yes; I think there is a lease. "

"I am glad of that. It is a nice little house, and I should be sorry tothink that you are not coming back. "

"We are always to live here half the year, I believe, " said Mary. "Thatwas agreed when we married, and that's why I go away now. "

"Lord George, I suppose, likes the country best?"

"I think he does. I don't, Mrs. Jones. "

"They are both very well in their way, my dear. I am a wicked oldwoman, who like to have everything gay. I never go out of town tilleverything is over, and I never come up till everything begins. We havea nice place down in Scotland, and you must come and see me there someautumn. And then we go to Rome. It's a pleasant way of living, thoughwe have to move about so much. "

"It must cost a great deal of money?"

"Well, yes. One can't drive four-in-hand so cheap as a pair. Mr. Joneshas a large income. " This was the first direct intimation Mary had everreceived that there was a Mr. Jones. "But we weren't always rich. WhenI was your age I hadn't nearly so nice a house as you. Indeed, I hadn'ta house at all, for I wasn't married, and was thinking whether I wouldtake or reject a young barrister of the name of Smith, who had nothinga year to support me on. You see I never got among the aristocraticnames, as you have done. "

"I don't care a bit about that. "

"But I do. I like Germains, and Talbots, and Howards, and so doeseverybody else, only so many people tell lies about it. I like havinglords in my drawing-room. They look handsomer and talk better thanother men. That's my experience. And you are pretty nearly sure withthem that you won't find you have got somebody quite wrong. "

"I know a lord, " said Mary, "who isn't very right. That is, I don'tknow him, for I never saw him. "

"You mean your wicked brother-in-law. I should like to know him of allthings. He'd be quite an attraction. I suppose he knows how to behavelike a gentleman?"

"I'm not so sure of that. He was very rough to papa. "

"Ah;--yes. I think we can understand that, my dear. Your father hasn'tmade himself exactly pleasant to the Marquis. Not that I say he'swrong. I think it was a pity, because everybody says that the littleLord Popenjoy will die. You were talking of me and my glories, but longbefore you are my age you will be much more glorious. You will make acharming Marchioness. "

"I never think about it, Mrs. Jones; and I wish papa didn't. Whyshouldn't the little boy live? I could be quite happy enough as I am ifpeople would only be good to me and let me alone. "

"Have I distressed you?" asked the old woman. 

"Oh, dear no;--not you. "

"You mean what happened at my house the other night?"

"I didn't mean anything particular, Mrs. Jones. But I do think thatpeople sometimes are very ill-natured. "

"I think, you know, that was Lord George's doing. He shouldn't havetaken you off so suddenly. It wasn't your fault that the stupid mantripped. I suppose he doesn't like Captain De Baron?"

"Don't talk about it, Mrs. Jones. "

"Only that I know the world so well that what I say might, perhaps, beof use. Of course I know that he has gone out of town. "

"Yes, he has gone. "

"I was so glad that you didn't go with him. People will talk, you know, and it did look as though he were a sort of Bluebeard. Bluebeards, mydear, must be put down. There may be most well-intentioned Bluebeards, who have no chambers of horrors, no secrets, "--Mary thought of theletter from Mrs. Houghton, of which nobody knew but herself, --"whonever cut off anybody's heads, but still interfere dreadfully with thecomfort of a household. Lord George is very nearly all that a man oughtto be. "

"He is the best man in the world, " said Mary. 

"I am sure you think so. But he shouldn't be jealous, and above all heshouldn't show that he's jealous. You were bound, I think, to staybehind and show the world that you had nothing to fear. I suppose theDean counselled it?"

"Yes;--he did. "

"Fathers of married daughters shouldn't often interfere, but there Ithink he was right. It is much better for Lord George himself that itshould be so. There is nothing so damaging to a young woman as to haveit supposed she has had to be withdrawn from the influence of a youngman. "

"It would be wicked of anybody to think so, " said Mary, sobbing. 

"But they must have thought so if you hadn't remained. You may be sure, my dear, that your father was quite right. I am sorry that you cannotmake one in the dance again, because we shall have changed Lord Gibletfor Lord Augustus Grandison, and I am sure it will be done very well. But of course I couldn't ask you to stay for it. As your departure wasfixed beforehand you ought not to stay for it. But that is verydifferent from being taken away in a jiffey, like some young man who isspending more than he ought to spend, and is hurried off suddenlynobody knows where. "

Mary, when Mrs. Jones had left the house, found that upon the whole shewas thankful to her friend for what had been said. It pained her tohear her husband described as a jealous Bluebeard; but the fact of hisjealousy had been so apparent, that in any conversation on the matterintended to be useful so much had to be acknowledged. She, however, hadtaken the strong course of trusting to her father rather than to herhusband, and she was glad to find that her conduct and her father'sconduct were approved by so competent a judge as Mrs. Montacute Jones. And throughout the whole interview there had been an air of kindnesswhich Mary had well understood. The old lady had intended to be useful, and her intentions were accepted. 

On the next morning, soon after breakfast, the Dean received a notewhich puzzled him much, and for an hour or two left him in doubt as towhat he would do respecting it, --whether he would comply with, orrefuse to comply with, the request made in it. At first he said nothingof the letter to his daughter. He had, as she was aware, intended to goto Lincoln's Inn early in the day, but he sat thinking over something, instead of leaving the house, till at last he went to Mary and put theletter into her hands. "That, " said he, "is one of the most unexpectedcommunications I ever had in my life, and one which it is mostdifficult to answer. Just read it. " The letter, which was very short, was as follows:--

 "The Marquis of Brotherton presents his compliments to the Dean of Brotherton, and begs to say that he thinks that some good might now be done by a personal interview. Perhaps the Dean will not object to call on the Marquis here at some hour after two o'clock to-morrow. 

 "Scumberg's Hotel, "Albemarle Street. 

 "_29th June, 187--_. "

"But we go to-morrow, " said Mary. 

"Ah;--he means to-day. The note was written last night. I have beenthinking about it, and I think I shall go. "

"Have you written to him?"

"There is no need. A man who sends to me a summons to come to him soimmediately as that has no right to expect an answer. He does not meananything honest. "

"Then why do you go?"

"I don't choose to appear to be afraid to meet him. Everything that Ido is done above board. I rather imagine that he doesn't expect me tocome; but I will not let him have to say that he had asked me and thatI had refused. I shall go. "

"Oh, papa, what will he say to you?"

"I don't think he can eat me, my dear; nor will he dare even to murderme. I daresay he would if he could. "

And so it was decided; and at the hour appointed the Dean sallied forthto keep the appointment. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

SCUMBERG'S. 

The Dean as he walked across the park towards Albemarle Street had manymisgivings. He did not at all believe that the Marquis entertainedfriendly relations in regard to him, or even such neutral relations aswould admit of the ordinary courtesies of civilized life. He made uphis mind that he would be insulted, --unless indeed he should be socowed as to give way to the Marquis. But, that he himself thought to beimpossible. The more he reflected about it, the more assured he becamethat the Marquis had not expected him to obey the summons. It waspossible that something might be gained on the other side by hisrefusal to see the elder brother of his son-in-law. He might, byrefusing, leave it open to his enemies to say that he had rejected anoverture to peace, and he now regarded as his enemies almost the entireGermain family. His own son-in-law would in future, he thought, be asmuch opposed to him as the head of the family. The old Marchioness, heknew, sincerely believed in Popenjoy. And the daughters, though theyhad at first been very strong in their aversion to the foreign motherand the foreign boy, were now averse to him also, on other grounds. Ofcourse Lord George would complain of his wife at Cross Hall. Of coursethe story of the Kappa-kappa would be told in a manner that wouldhorrify those three ladies. The husband would of course be indignant athis wife's disobedience in not having left London when ordered by himto do so. He had promised not to foster a quarrel between Mary and LordGeorge, but he thought it by no means improbable that circumstanceswould for a time render it expedient that his daughter should live atthe deanery, while Lord George remained at Cross Hall. As to nothingwas he more fully resolved than this, --that he would not allow theslightest blame to be attributed to his daughter, without repudiatingand resenting the imputation. Any word against her conduct, should suchword reach his ears even through herself, he would resent, and it wouldgo hard with him, but he would exceed such accusations byrecriminations. He would let them know, that if they intended to fight, he also could fight. He had never uttered a word as to his ownliberality in regard to money, but he had thought of it much. Theirswas the rank, and the rank was a great thing in his eyes; but his wasat present the wealth; and wealth, he thought was as powerful as rank. He was determined that his daughter should be a Marchioness, and inpursuit of that object he was willing to spend his money;--but heintended to let those among whom he spent it know that he was not to beset on one side, as a mere parson out of the country, who happened tohave a good income of his own. 

It was in this spirit, --a spirit of absolute pugnacity, --that he askedfor the Marquis at Scumberg's hotel. Yes;--the Marquis was at home, andthe servant would see if his master could be seen. "I fancy that I havean appointment with him, " said the Dean, as he gave his card. "I amrather hurried, and if he can't see me perhaps you'll let me know atonce. " The man soon returned, and with much condescension told the Deanthat his lordship would see him. "That is kind, as his lordship told meto come, " said the Dean to himself, but still loud enough for theservant to hear him. "His Lordship will be with you in a few minutes, "said the man, as he shut the door of the sitting room. 

"I shall be gone if he's not here in a very few minutes, " said theDean, unable to restrain himself. 

And he very nearly did go before the Marquis came to him. He hadalready walked to the rug with the object of ringing the bell, and hadthen decided on giving the lord two minutes more, resolving also thathe would speak his mind to the lord about this delay, should the lordmake his appearance before the two minutes were over. The time had justexpired when his lordship did make his appearance. He came shufflinginto the room after a servant, who walked before him with the pretenceof carrying books and a box of papers. It had all been arranged, theMarquis knowing that he would secure the first word by having his ownservant in the room. "I am very much obliged to you for coming, Mr. Dean, " he said. "Pray sit down. I should have been here to receive youif you had sent me a line. "

"I only got your note this morning, " said the Dean angrily. 

"I thought that perhaps you might have sent a message. It doesn'tsignify in the least. I never go out till after this, but had you nameda time I should have been here to receive you. That will do, John, --shut the door. Very cold, --don't you think it. "

"I have walked, my lord, and am warm. "

"I never walk, --never could walk. I don't know why it is, but my legswon't walk. "

"Perhaps you never tried. "

"Yes, I have. They wanted to make me walk in Switzerland twenty yearsago, but I broke down after the first mile. George used to walk likethe very d----. You see more of him now than I do. Does he go onwalking?"

"He is an active man. "

"Just that. He ought to have been a country letter-carrier. He wouldhave been as punctual as the sun, and has quite all the necessaryintellect. "

"You sent for me, Lord Brotherton----"

"Yes; yes. I had something that I thought I might as well say to you, though, upon my word, I almost forget what it was. "

"Then I may as well take my leave. "

"Don't do that. You see, Mr. Dean, belonging to the church militant asyou do, you are so heroically pugnacious! You must like fighting verymuch. "

"When I have anything which I conceive it to be my duty to fight for, Ithink I do. "

"Things are generally best got without fighting. You want to make yourgrandson Marquis of Brotherton. "

"I want to ensure to my grandson anything that may be honestly andtruly his own. "

"You must first catch a grandson. "

It was on his lips to say that certainly no heir should be caught onhis side of the family after the fashion that had been practised by hislordship in catching the present pseudo-Popenjoy; but he was restrainedby a feeling of delicacy in regard to his own daughter. "My lord, " hesaid, "I am not here to discuss any such contingency. "

"But you don't scruple to discuss my contingency, and that in the mostpublic manner. It has suited me, or at any rate it has been my chance, to marry a foreigner. Because you don't understand Italian fashions youdon't scruple to say that she is not my wife. "

"I have never said so. "

"And to declare that my son is not my son. "

"I have never said that. "

"And to set a dozen attorneys to work to prove that my heir is abastard. "

"We heard of your marriage, my lord, as having been fixed for a certaindate, --a date long subsequent to that of the birth of your son. Whatwere we to think?"

"As if that hadn't been explained to you, and to all the world, a dozentimes over. Did you never hear of a second marriage being solemnized inEngland to satisfy certain scruples? You have sent out and made yourinquiries, and what have they come to? I know all about it. "

"As far as I am concerned you are quite welcome to know everything. "

"I dare say;--even though I should be stung to death by the knowledge. Of course I understand. You think that I have no feeling at all. "

"Not much as to duty to your family, certainly, " said the Dean, stoutly. 

"Exactly. Because I stand a little in the way of your new ambition, Iam the Devil himself. And yet you and those who have abetted you thinkit odd that I haven't received you with open arms. My boy is as much tome as ever was your daughter to you. "

"Perhaps so, my lord. The question is not whether he is beloved, butwhether he is Lord Popenjoy. "

"He is Lord Popenjoy. He is a poor weakling, and I doubt whether he mayenjoy the triumph long, but he is Lord Popenjoy. You must know ityourself, Dean. "

"I know nothing of the kind, " said the Dean, furiously. 

"Then you must be a very self-willed man. When this began George wasjoined with you in the unnatural inquiry. He at any rate has beenconvinced. "

"It may be he has submitted himself to his brother's influence. "

"Not in the least. George is not very clever, but he has at any ratehad wit enough to submit to the influence of his own legal adviser, --orrather to the influence of your legal adviser. Your own man, Mr. Battle, is convinced. You are going on with this in opposition even tohim. What the devil is it you want? I am not dead, and may outlive atany rate you. Your girl hasn't got a child, and doesn't seem likely tohave one. You happen to have married her into a noble family, and now, upon my word, it seems to me that you are a little off your head withdownright pride. "

"Was it for this you sent for me?"

"Well;--yes it was. I thought it might be as well to argue it out. Itisn't likely that there should be much love between us, but we needn'tcut each other's throats. It is costing us both a d----d lot of money;but I should think that my purse must be longer than yours. "

"We will try it, my lord. "

"You intend to go on with this persecution then?"

"The Countess Luigi was presumably a married woman when she bore thatname, and I look upon it as a sacred duty to ascertain whether she wasso or not. "

"Sacred!" said the Marquis, with a sneer. 

"Yes;--sacred. There can be no more sacred duty than that which afather owes to his child. "

"Ah!" Then the Marquis paused and looked at the Dean before he went onspeaking. He looked so long that the Dean was preparing to take his hatin his hand ready for a start. He showed that he was going to move, andthen the Marquis went on speaking. "Sacred! Ah!--and such a child!"

"She is one of whom I am proud as a father, and you should be proud asa sister-in-law. "

"Oh, of course. So I am. The Germains were never so honoured before. Asfor her birth I care nothing about that. Had she behaved herself, Ishould have thought nothing of the stable. "

"What do you dare to say?" said the Dean, jumping from his seat. 

The Marquis sat leaning back in his arm-chair, perfectly motionless. There was a smile, --almost a pleasant smile on his face. But there wasa very devil in his eye, and the Dean, who stood some six feet removedfrom him, saw the devil plainly. "I live a solitary life here, Mr. Dean, " said the Marquis, "but even I have heard of her. "

"What have you heard?"

"All London have heard of her, --this future Marchioness, whose ambitionis to drive my son from his title and estates. A sacred duty, Mr. Dean, to put a coronet on the head of that young ----!" The word which wehave not dared to print was distinctly spoken, --more distinctly, moreloudly, more incisively, than any word which had yet fallen from theman's lips. It was evident that the lord had prepared the word, and hadsent for the father that the father might hear the word applied to hisown daughter, --unless indeed he should first acknowledge himself tohave lost his case. So far the interview had been carried out very muchin accordance with the preparations as arranged by the Marquis; but, asto what followed, the Marquis had hardly made his calculationscorrectly. 

A clergyman's coat used to save him from fighting in fighting days; andeven in these days, in which broils and personal encounters are held tobe generally disreputable, it saves the wearer from certain remotedangers to which other men are liable. And the reverse of this is alsotrue. It would probably be hard to extract a first blow from the wholebench of bishops. And deans as a rule are more sedentary, morequiescent, more given to sufferance even than bishops. The normal Deanis a goodly, sleek, bookish man, who would hardly strike a blow underany provocation. The Marquis, perhaps, had been aware of this. He had, perhaps, fancied that he was as good a man as the Dean who was at leastten years his senior. He had not at any rate anticipated such speedyviolence as followed the utterance of the abominable word. 

The Dean, as I have said, had been standing about six feet from theeasy chair in which the Marquis was lolling when the word was spoken. He had already taken his hat in his hand and had thought of some meansof showing his indignation as he left the room. Now his first impulsewas to rid himself of his hat, which he did by pitching it along thefloor. And then in an instant he was at the lord's throat. The lord hadexpected it so little that up to the last he made no preparation fordefence. The Dean had got him by his cravat and shirt-collar before hehad begun to expect such usage as this. Then he simply gurgled out someejaculated oath, uttered half in surprise and half in prayer. Prayercertainly was now of no use. Had five hundred feet of rock been therethe Marquis would have gone down it, though the Dean had gone with him. Fire flashed from the clergyman's eyes, and his teeth were set fast andhis very nostrils were almost ablaze. His daughter! The holy spot ofhis life! The one being in whom he believed with all his heart and withall his strength!

The Dean was fifty years of age, but no one had ever taken him for anold man. They who at home at Brotherton would watch his motions, how hewalked and how he rode on horseback, how he would vault his gates whenin the fields, and scamper across the country like a schoolboy, werewont to say that he was unclerical. Perhaps Canons Pountner andHoldenough, with Mr. Groschut, the bishop's chaplain, envied himsomething of his juvenile elasticity. But I think that none of them hadgiven him credit for such strength as he now displayed. The Marquis, inspite of what feeble efforts he made, was dragged up out of his chairand made to stand, or rather to totter, on his legs. He made a clutchat the bell-rope, which to aid his luxurious ease had been broughtclose to his hand as he sat, but failed, as the Dean shook him hitherand thither. Then he was dragged on to the middle of the rug, feelingby this time that he was going to be throttled. He attempted to throwhimself down, and would have done so but that the Dean with his lefthand prevented him from falling. He made one vigorous struggle to freehimself, striving as he did so to call for assistance. But the Deanhaving got his victim's back to the fireplace, and having the poorwretch now fully at his command, threw the man with all his strengthinto the empty grate. The Marquis fell like a heap within the fender, with his back against the top bar and his head driven further backagainst the bricks and iron. There for a second or two he lay like adead mass. 

Less than a minute had done it all, and for so long a time the Dean'sungoverned fury had held its fire. What were consequences to him withthat word as applied to his child ringing in his ears? How should hemoderate his wrath under such outrage as that? Was it not as thoughbeast had met beast in the forest between whom nothing but internecinefight to the end was possible? But when that minute was over, and hesaw what he had done, --when the man, tumbled, dishevelled, all alumpand already bloody, was lying before him, --then he remembered who hewas himself and what it was that he had done. He was Dean Lovelace, whohad already made for himself more than enough of clerical enmity; andthis other man was the Marquis of Brotherton, whom he had perhapskilled in his wrath, with no witness by to say a word as to theprovocation he had received. 

The Marquis groaned and impotently moved an arm as though to raisehimself. At any rate, he was not dead as yet. With a desire to do whatwas right now, the Dean rang the bell violently, and then stooped downto extricate his foe. He had succeeded in raising the man and inseating him on the floor with his head against the arm-chair before theservant came. Had he wished to conceal anything, he could without muchincreased effort have dragged the Marquis up into his chair; but he wasanxious now simply that all the truth should be known. It seemed to himstill that no one knowing the real truth would think that he had donewrong. His child! His daughter! His sweetly innocent daughter! The mansoon rushed into the room, for the ringing of the bell had been veryviolent. "Send for a doctor, " said the Dean, "and send the landlordup. "

"Has my lord had a fit?" said the man, advancing into the room. He wasthe servant, not of the hotel, but of the Marquis himself. 

"Do as I bid you;--get a doctor and send up the landlord immediately. It is not a fit, but his lordship has been much hurt. I knocked himdown. " The Dean made the last statement slowly and firmly, under afeeling at the moment that it became him to leave nothing concealed, even with a servant. 

"He has murdered me, " groaned the Marquis. The injured one could speakat least, and there was comfort in that. The servant rushed back to theregions below, and the tidings were soon spread through the house. Resident landlord there was none. There never are resident landlords inLondon hotels. Scumberg was a young family of joint heirs andheiresses, named Tomkins, who lived at Hastings, and the house wasmanaged by Mrs. Walker. Mrs. Walker was soon in the room, with a Germandeputy manager kept to maintain the foreign Scumberg connection, andwith them sundry waiters and the head chambermaid. Mrs. Walker made adirect attack upon the Dean, which was considerably weakened byaccusations from the lips of the Marquis himself. Had he remainedspeechless for a while the horrors of the Dean's conduct would havebeen greatly aggravated. "My good woman, " said the Dean, "wait tillsome official is here. You cannot understand. And get a little warmwater and wash his lordship's head. "

"He has broken my back, " said his lordship. "Oh, oh, oh. "

"I am glad to hear you speak, Lord Brotherton, " said the Dean. "I thinkyou will repent having used such a word as that to my daughter. " Itwould be necessary now that everybody should understand everything; buthow terrible would it be for the father even to say that such a namehad been applied to his child!

First there came two policemen, then a surgeon, and then a sergeant. "Iwill do anything that you suggest, Mr. Constable, " said the Dean, "though I hope it may not be necessary that I should remain in custody. I am the Dean of Brotherton. " The sergeant made a sign of putting hisfinger up to his cap. "This, man, as you know, is the Marquis ofBrotherton. " The sergeant bowed to the groaning nobleman. "My daughteris married to his brother. There have been family quarrels, and he justnow applied a name to his own sister-in-law, to my child, --which I willnot utter because there are women here. Fouler slander never came froma man's mouth. I took him from his chair and threw him beneath thegrate. Now you know it all. Were it to do again, I would do it again. "

"She is a ----, " said the imprudent prostrate Marquis. The sergeant, the doctor who was now present, and Mrs. Walker suddenly became theDean's friends. The Marquis was declared to be much shaken, to have acut head, and to be very badly bruised about the muscles of the back. But a man who could so speak of his sister-in-law deserved to have hishead cut and his muscles bruised. Nevertheless the matter was tooserious to be passed over without notice. The doctor could not say thatthe unfortunate nobleman had received no permanent injury;--and thesergeant had not an opportunity of dealing with deans and marquisesevery day of his life. The doctor remained with his august patient andhad him put to bed, while the Dean and the sergeant together went offin a cab to the police-office which lies in the little crowded streetsbetween the crooked part of Regent Street and Piccadilly. Heredepositions were taken and forms filled, and the Dean was allowed todepart with an understanding that he was to be forthcoming immediatelywhen wanted. He suggested that it had been his intention to go down toBrotherton on the following day, but the Superintendent of Policerecommended him to abandon that idea. The superintendent thought thatthe Dean had better make arrangements to stay in London till the end ofthe week. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

"NOT GO!"

The Dean had a great deal to think of as he walked home a little toolate for his daughter's usual dinner hour. What should he tellher;--and what should he do as to communicating or not communicatingtidings of the day's work to Lord George? Of course everybody must knowwhat had been done sooner or later. He would have had no objection tothat, --providing the truth could be told accurately, --except as to themention of his daughter's name in the same sentence with thatabominable word. But the word would surely be known, and the factswould not be told with accuracy unless he told them himself. His only, but his fully sufficient defence was in the word. But who would knowthe tone? Who would understand the look of the man's eye and the smileon his mouth? Who could be made to conceive, as the Dean himself hadconceived, the aggravated injury of the premeditated slander? He wouldcertainly write and tell Lord George everything. But to his daughter hethought that he would tell as little as possible. Might God in hismercy save her ears, her sacred feelings, her pure heart from the woundof that word! He felt that she was dearer to him than ever she hadbeen, --that he would give up deanery and everything if he could saveher by doing so. But he felt that if she were to be sacrificed in thecontest, he would give up deanery and everything in avenging her. 

But something must be told to her. He at any rate must remain in town, and it would be very desirable that she should stay with him. If shewent alone she would at once be taken to Cross Hall; and he couldunderstand that the recent occurrence would not add to the serenity ofher life there. The name that had been applied to her, together withthe late folly of which her husband had been guilty, would give thoseManor Cross dragons, --as the Dean was apt in his own thoughts to callthe Ladies Germain--a tremendous hold over her. And should she be onceat Cross Hall he would hardly be able to get her back to the deanery. 

He hurried up to dress as soon as he reached the house, with a word ofapology as to being late, and then found her in the drawing room. 

"Papa, " she said, "I do like Mrs. Montacute Jones. "

"So do I, my dear, because she is good-humoured. "

"But she is so good-natured also! She has been here again to-day andwants me and George to go down to Scotland in August. I should so likeit. "

"What will George say?"

"Of course he won't go; and of course I shan't. But that doesn't makeit the less good-natured. She wishes all her set to think that whathappened the other night doesn't mean anything. "

"I'm afraid he won't consent. "

"I know he won't. He wouldn't know what to do with himself. He hates ahouse full of people. And now tell me what the Marquis said. " Butdinner was announced, and the Dean was not forced to answer thisquestion immediately. 

"Now, papa, " she said again, as soon as the coffee was brought and theservant was gone, "do tell me what my most noble brother-in-law wantedto say to you?"

That he certainly would not tell. "Your brother-in-law, my dear, behaved about as badly as a man could behave. "

"Oh, dear! I am so sorry!"

"We have to be sorry, --both of us. And your husband will be sorry. " Hewas so serious that she hardly knew how to speak to him. "I cannot tellyou everything; but he insulted me, and I was forced to--strike him. "

"Strike him! Oh, papa!"

"Bear with me, Mary. In all things I think well of you, and do you tryto think well of me. "

"Dear papa! I will. I do. I always did. "

"Anything he might have said of myself I could have borne. He couldhave applied no epithet to me which, I think, could even have ruffledme. But he spoke evil of you. " While he was sitting there he made uphis mind that he would tell her as much as that, though he had beforealmost resolved that he would not speak to her of herself. But she musthear something of the truth, and better that she should hear it fromhis than from other lips. She turned very pale, but did not immediatelymake any reply. "Then I was full of wrath, " he continued. "I did noteven attempt to control myself; but I took him by the throat and flunghim violently to the ground. He fell upon the grate, and it may be thathe has been hurt. Had the fall killed him he would have deserved it. Hehad courage to wound a father in his tenderest part, only because thatfather was a clergyman. His belief in a black coat will, I think, be alittle weakened by what occurred to-day. "

"What will be done?" she asked, whispering. 

"Heaven only knows. But I can't go out of town to-morrow. I shall writeto George to-night and tell him everything that has occurred, and shallbeg that you may be allowed to stay with me for the few days that willbe necessary. "

"Of course I will not leave you. "

"It is not that. But I do not want you to go to Cross Hall quite atpresent. If you went without me they would not let you come to thedeanery. Of course there will be a great commotion at Cross Hall. Ofcourse they will condemn me. Many will condemn me, as it will beimpossible to make the world believe the exact truth. "

"I will never condemn you, " she said. Then she came over and threwherself on her knees at his feet, and embraced him. "But, papa, whatdid the man say of me?"

"Not what he believed;--but what he thought would give me the greatestanguish. Never mind. Do not ask any more questions. You also had betterwrite to your husband, and you can tell him fully all that I have toldyou. If you will write to-night I will do so also, and I will take carethat they shall have our letters to-morrow afternoon. We must send amessage to say that we shall not be at the deanery to-morrow. " The twoletters to Lord George were both written that night, and were both verylong. They told the same story, though in a different tone. The Deanwas by no means apologetic, but was very full and very true. When hecame to the odious word he could not write it, but he made it veryclear without writing. Would not the husband feel as he the father hadfelt in regard to his young wife, the sweet pure girl of whose love andpossession he ought to be so proud? How would any brother be forgivenwho had assailed such a treasure as this;--much less such a brother asthis Marquis? Perhaps Lord George might think it right to come up. TheDean would of course ask at the hotel on the following day, and wouldgo to the police office. He believed, he said, that no permanent injuryhad been done. Then came, perhaps, the pith of his letter. He trustedthat Lord George would agree with him in thinking that Mary had betterremain with him in town during the two or three days of his necessarilyprolonged sojourn. This was put in the form of a request; but was putin a manner intended to show that the request if not granted would beenforced. The Dean was fully determined that Mary should not at once godown to Cross Hall. 

Her letter was supplicatory, spasmodic, full of sorrow, and full oflove. She was quite sure that her dear papa would have done nothingthat he ought not to have done; but yet she was very sorry for theMarquis, because of his mother and sisters, and because of her dear, dear George. Could he not run up to them and hear all about it frompapa? If the Marquis had said ill-natured things of her it was verycruel, because nobody loved her husband better than she loved her dear, dear George, --and so on. The letters were then sent under cover to thehousekeeper at the deanery, with orders to send them on by privatemessenger to Cross Hall. 

On the following day the Dean went to Scumberg's, but could not learnmuch there. The Marquis had been very bad, and had had one and anotherdoctor with him almost continually; but Mrs. Walker could not take uponherself to say that "it was dangerous. " She thought it was "in'ard. "Mrs. Walkers always do think that it is "in'ard" when there is nothingpalpable outward. At any rate his lordship had not been out of bed andhad taken nothing but tapioca and brandy. There was very little morethan this to be learned at the police court. The case might be serious, but the superintendent hoped otherwise. The superintendent did notthink that the Dean should go down quite to-morrow. The morrow wasFriday; but he suggested Saturday as possible, Monday as almostcertain. It may be as well to say here that the Dean did not call atthe police court again, and heard nothing further from the officers ofthe law respecting the occurrence at Scumberg's. On the Friday hecalled again at Scumberg's, and the Marquis was still in bed. His"in'ards" had not ceased to be matter of anxiety to Mrs. Walker; butthe surgeon, whom the Dean now saw, declared that the muscles of thenobleman's back were more deserving of sympathy. The surgeon, with agravity that almost indicated offence, expressed his opinion that theMarquis's back had received an injury which--which might be--veryinjurious. 

Lord George when he received the letters was thrown into a state ofmind that almost distracted him. During the last week or two theanimosity felt at Cross Hall against the Marquis had been greatlyweakened. A feeling had come upon the family that after all Popenjoywas Popenjoy; and that, although the natal circumstances of such aPopenjoy were doubtless unfortunate for the family generally, still, asan injury had been done to the Marquis by the suspicion, thosecircumstances ought now to be in a measure forgiven. The Marquis wasthe head of the family, and a family will forgive much to its head whenthat head is a Marquis. As we know the Dowager had been in his favourfrom the first, Lord George had lately given way and had undergone acertain amount of reconciliation with his brother. Lady Amelia hadseceded to her mother, as had also Mrs. Toff, the old housekeeper. LadySusanna was wavering, having had her mind biased by the objectionableconduct of the Dean and his daughter. Lady Sarah was more stanch. LadySarah had never yet given way; she never did give way; and, in her veryheart, she was the best friend that Mary had among the ladies of thefamily. But when her brother gave up the contest she felt that furtherimmediate action was impossible. Things were in this state at CrossHall when Lord George received the two letters. He did not wish tothink well of the Dean just at present, and was horrified at the ideaof a clergyman knocking a Marquis into the fire-place. But the wordindicated was very plain, and that word had been applied to his ownwife. Or, perhaps, no such word had really been used. Perhaps the Deanhad craftily saved himself from an absolute lie, and in his attempt todefend the violence of his conduct had brought an accusation againstthe Marquis, which was in its essence, untrue. Lord George was quitealive to the duty of defending his wife; but in doing so he was nolonger anxious to maintain affectionate terms with his wife's father. She had been very foolish. All the world had admitted as much. He hadseen it with his own eyes at that wretched ball. She had suffered hername to be joined with that of a stranger in a manner derogatory to herhusband's honour. It was hardly surprising that his brother should havespoken of her conduct in disparaging terms;--but he did not believethat his brother had used that special term. Personal violence;--blowsand struggling, and that on the part of a Dean of the Church ofEngland, and violence such as this seemed to have been, --violence thatmight have killed the man attacked, seemed to him to be in any caseunpardonable. He certainly could not live on terms of friendship withthe Dean immediately after such a deed. His wife must be taken away andsecluded, and purified by a long course of Germain asceticism. 

But what must he do now at once? He felt that it was his duty to hurryup to London, but he could not bring himself to live in the same housewith the Dean. His wife must be taken away from her father. However badmay have been the language used by the Marquis, however indefensible, he could not allow himself even to seem to keep up affectionaterelations with the man who had half slaughtered his brother. He toothought of what the world would say, he too felt that such an affair, after having become known to the police, would be soon known to everyone else. But what must he do at once? He had not as yet made up hismind as to this when he took his place at the Brotherton RailwayStation on the morning after he had received the letters. 

But on reaching the station in London he had so far made up his mind asto have his portmanteau taken to the hotel close at hand, and then togo to Munster Court. He had hoped to find his wife alone; but on hisarrival the Dean was there also. "Oh, George, " she said, "I am so gladyou have come; where are your things?" He explained that he had nothings, that he had come up only for a short time, and had left hisluggage at the station. "But you will stay here to-night?" asked Mary, in despair. 

Lord George hesitated, and the Dean at once saw how it was. "You willnot go back to Brotherton to-day, " he said. Now, at this moment theDean had to settle in his mind the great question whether it would bebest for his girl that she should be separated from her husband or fromher father. In giving him his due it must be acknowledged that heconsidered only what might in truth be best for her. If she were nowtaken away from him there would be no prospect of recovery. After allthat had passed, after Lord George's submission to his brother, theDean was sure that he would be held in abhorrence by the whole Germainfamily. Mary would be secluded and trodden on, and reduced to palesubmission by all the dragons till her life would be miserable. LordGeorge himself would be prone enough to domineer in such circumstances. And then that ill word which had been spoken, and which could only beeffectually burned out of the thoughts of people by a front to theworld at the same time innocent and bold, would stick to her for everif she were carried away into obscurity. 

But the Dean knew as well as others know how great is the evil of aseparation, and how specially detrimental such a step would be to ayoung wife. Than a permanent separation anything would be better;better even that she should be secluded and maligned, and even, for awhile, trodden under foot. Were such separation to take place his girlwould have been altogether sacrificed, and her life's happiness broughtto shipwreck. But then a permanent separation was not probable. She haddone nothing wrong. The husband and wife did in truth love each otherdearly. The Marquis would be soon gone, and then Lord George wouldreturn to his old habits of thought and his old allegiance. Upon thewhole the Dean thought it best that his present influence should beused in taking his daughter to the deanery. 

"I should like to return quite early to-morrow, " said Lord George, verygravely, "unless my brother's condition should make it impossible. "

"I trust you won't find your brother much the worse for what hashappened, " said the Dean. 

"But you will sleep here to-night, " repeated Mary. 

"I will come for you the first thing in the morning, " said Lord Georgein the same funereal voice. 

"But why;--why?"

"I shall probably have to be a good deal with my brother during theafternoon. But I will be here again in the afternoon. You can be athome at five, and you can get your things ready for going to-morrow. "

"Won't you dine here?"

"I think not. "

Then there was silence for a minute. Mary was completely astounded. Lord George wished to say nothing further in the presence of hisfather-in-law. The Dean was thinking how he would begin to use hisinfluence. "I trust you will not take Mary away to-morrow. "

"Oh;--certainly. "

"I trust not. I must ask you to hear me say a few words about this. "

"I must insist on her coming with me to-morrow, even though I shouldhave to return to London myself afterwards. "

"Mary, " said her father, "leave us for a moment. " Then Mary retired, with a very saddened air. "Do you understand, George, what it was thatyour brother said to me?"

"I suppose so, " he answered, hoarsely. 

"Then, no doubt, I may take it for granted that you approve of theviolence of my resentment? To me as a clergyman, and as a man pastmiddle life, the position was very trying. But had I been anArchbishop, tottering on the grave with years, I must have endeavouredto do the same. " This he said with great energy. "Tell me, George, thatyou think that I was right. "

But George had not heard the word, had not seen the man's face. Andthen, though he would have gone to a desert island with his wife, hadsuch exile been necessary for her protection, he did believe that shehad misconducted herself. Had he not seen her whirling round the roomwith that man after she had been warned against him. "It cannot beright to murder a man, " he said at last. 

"You do not thank me then for vindicating your honour and your wife'sinnocence?"

"I do not think that that was the way. The way is to take her home. "

"Yes;--to her old home, --to the deanery for a while; so that the world, which will no doubt hear the malignant epithet applied to her by yourwicked brother, may know that both her husband and her father supporther. You had promised to come to the deanery. "

"We cannot do that now. "

"Do you mean that after what has passed you will take your brother'spart?"

"I will take my wife to Cross Hall, " he said, leaving the room andfollowing Mary up to her chamber. 

"What am I to do, papa?" she said when she came down about half-an-hourafterwards. Lord George had then started to Scumberg's, saying that hewould come to Munster Court again before dinner, but telling herplainly that he would not sit down to dine with her father, "He hasdetermined to quarrel with you. "

"It will only be for a time, dearest. "

"But what shall I do?"

Now came the peril of the answer. He was sure, almost sure, that shewould in this emergency rely rather upon him than on her husband, if hewere firm; but should he be firm as against the husband, how greatwould be his responsibility! "I think, my dear, " he said, at last, "that you should go with me to Brotherton. "

"But he will not let me. "

"I think that you should insist on his promise. "

"Don't make us quarrel, papa. "

"Certainly not. Anything would be better than a permanent quarrel. But, after what has been said, after the foul lies that have been told, Ithink that you should assert your purpose of staying for awhile withyour father. Were you now to go to Cross Hall there would be no limitto their tyranny. " He left her without a word more, and calling atScumberg's Hotel was told that the Marquis could not move. 

At that moment Lord George was with his brother, and the Marquis couldtalk though he could not move. "A precious family you've married into, George, " he said, almost as soon as his brother was in the room. Thenhe gave his own version of the affair, leaving his brother in doubt asto the exact language that had been used. "He ought to have been acoal-heaver instead of a clergyman, " said the Marquis. 

"Of course he would be angry, " said Lord George. 

"Nothing astonishes me so much, " said the Marquis, "as the way in whichyou fellows here think you may say whatever comes into your head aboutmy wife, because she is an Italian, and you seem to be quite surprisedif I object; yet you rage like wild beasts if the compliment isreturned. Why am I to think better of your wife than you of mine?"

"I have said nothing against your wife, Brotherton. "

"By ----, I think you have said a great deal, --and with much lessreason than I have. What did you do yourself when you found herstruggling in that fellow's arms at the old woman's party?" Somegood-natured friend had told the Marquis the whole story of theKappa-kappa. "You can't be deaf to what all the world is saying ofher. " This was wormwood to the wretched husband, and yet he could notanswer with angry, self-reliant indignation, while his brother waslying almost motionless before him. 

Lord George found that he could do nothing at Scumberg's Hotel. He wasassured that his brother was not in danger, and that the chief injurydone was to the muscles of his back, which bruised and lacerated asthey were, would gradually recover such elasticity as they had everpossessed. But other words were said and other hints expressed, all ofwhich tended to increase his animosity against the Dean, and almost toengender anger against his wife. To himself, personally, except inregard to his wife, his brother had not been ungracious. The Marquisintended to return to Italy as soon as he could. He hated England andeverything in it. Manor Cross would very soon be at Lord George'sdisposal, "though I do hope, " said the Marquis, "that the lady who hascondescended to make me her brother-in-law, will never reign paramountthere. " By degrees there crept on Lord George's mind a feeling that hisbrother looked to a permanent separation, --something like arepudiation. Over and over again he spoke of Mary as though she haddisgraced herself utterly; and when Lord George defended his wife, thelord only smiled and sneered. 

The effect upon Lord George was to make him very imperious as he walkedback to Munster Court. He could not repudiate his wife, but he wouldtake her away with a very high hand. Crossing the Green Park, at theback of Arlington Street, whom should he meet but Mrs. Houghton withher cousin Jack. He raised his hat, but could not stop a moment. Mrs. Houghton made an attempt to arrest him, --but he escaped without a wordand went on very quickly. His wife had behaved generously about Mrs. Houghton. The sight of the woman brought that truth to his mind. He wasaware of that. But no generosity on the part of the wife, no love, notemper, no virtue, no piety can be accepted by Cæsar as weighing agrain in counterpoise against even suspicion. 

He found his wife and asked her whether her things were being packed. "I cannot go to-morrow, " she said. 

"Not go?"

"No, George;--not to Cross Hall. I will go to the deanery. You promisedto go to the deanery. "

"I will not go to the deanery. I will go to Cross Hall. " There was anhour of it, but during the entire hour, the young wife persistedobstinately that she would not be taken to Cross Hall. "She had, " shesaid, "been very badly treated by her husband's family. " "Not by me, "shouted the husband. She went on to say that nothing could now reallyput her right but the joint love of her father and her husband. Wereshe at Cross Hall her father could do nothing for her. She would not goto Cross Hall. Nothing short of policemen should take her to Cross Hallto-morrow. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

REAL LOVE. 

"He is looking awfully cut up, " Mrs. Houghton said to her cousin. 

"He is one of the most infernal fools that ever I came across in mylife, " said Jack. 

"I don't see that he is a fool at all, --any more than all men arefools. There isn't one among you is ever able to keep his littletroubles to himself. You are not a bit wiser than the rest of themyourself. "

"I haven't got any troubles, --of that sort. "

"You haven't a wife, --but you'll be forced into having one before long. And when you like another man's wife you can't keep all the world fromknowing it. "

"All the world may know everything that has taken place between me andLady George, " said Jack. "Of course I like her. "

"I should say, rather. "

"And so do you. "

"No, I don't, sir. I don't like her at all. She is a foolish, meaningless little creature, with nothing to recommend her but a prettycolour. And she has cut me because her husband will come and pour outhis sorrow into my ears. For his sake I used to be good to her. "

"I think she is the sweetest human being I ever came across in mylife, " said Jack, enthusiastically. 

"Everybody in London knows that you think so, --and that you have toldher your thoughts. "

"Nobody in London knows anything of the kind. I never said a word toher that her husband mightn't have heard. "

"Jack!"

"I never did. "

"I wonder you are not ashamed to confess such simplicity, even to me. "

"I am not a bit ashamed of that, though I am ashamed of having in somesort contributed to do her an injury. Of course I love her. "

"Rather, --as I said before. "

"Of course you intended that I should. "

"I intended that you should amuse yourself. As long as you are good tome, I shall be good to you. "

"My dear Adelaide, nobody can be so grateful as I am. But in thismatter the thing hasn't gone quite as you intended. You say that she ismeaningless. "

"Vapid, flabby, childish, and innocent as a baby. "

"Innocent I am sure she is. Vapid and flabby she certainly is not. Sheis full of fun, and is quite as witty as a woman should be. "

"You always liked fools, Jack. "

"Then how did I come to be so very fond of you. " In answer to this shemerely made a grimace at him. "I hadn't known her three days, "continued he, "before I began to feel how impossible it would be to sayanything to her that ought not to be said. "

"That is just like the world all over, " said Mrs. Houghton. "When a manreally falls in love with a woman he always makes her such a goddessthat he doesn't dare to speak to her. The effect is that women areobliged to put up with men who ain't in love with them, --either that, or vouchsafe to tell their own little story, --when, lo, they aregoddesses no longer. "

"I dare say it's very ridiculous, " said Jack, in a mooning despondentway. "I dare say I'm not the man I ought to be after the advantages Ihave had in such friends as you and others. "

"If you try to be severe to me, I'll quarrel with you. "

"Not severe at all. I'm quite in earnest. A man, and a woman too, haveto choose which kind of role shall be played. There is innocence andpurity, combined with going to church and seeing that the children'sfaces are washed. The game is rather slow, but it lasts a long time, and leads to great capacity for digesting your dinner in old age. Youand I haven't gone in for that. "

"Do you mean to say that I am not innocent?"

"Then there is the Devil with all his works, --which I own are, for themost part, pleasant works to me. I have always had a liking for theDevil. "

"Jack!"

"Of all the saints going he is certainly the most popular. It ispleasant to ignore the Commandments and enjoy the full liberty of adebauched conscience. But there are attendant evils. It costs money andwears out the constitution. "

"I should have thought that you had never felt the latter evil. "

"The money goes first, no doubt. This, however, must surely be clear. Aman should make up his mind and not shilly-shally between the two. "

"I should have thought you had made up your mind very absolutely. "

"I thought so, too, Adelaide, till I knew Lady George Germain. I'lltell you what I feel about her now. If I could have any hope that hewould die I would put myself into some reformatory to fit myself to beher second husband. "

"Good heavens!"

"That is one idea that I have. Another is to cut his throat, and takemy chance with the widow. She is simply the only woman I ever saw thatI have liked all round. "

"You come and tell me this, knowing what I think of her. "

"Why shouldn't I tell you? You don't want me to make love to you?"

"But a woman never cares to hear all these praises of another. "

"It was you began it, and if I do speak of her I shall tell the truth. There is a freshness as of uncut flowers about her. "

"Psha! Worms and grubs!"

"And when she laughs one dreams of a chaste Venus. "

"My heavens, Jack! You should publish all that!"

"The dimples on her cheeks are so alluring that I would give mycommission to touch them once with my finger. When I first knew her Ithought that the time would come when I might touch them. Now I feelthat I would not commit such an outrage to save myself from beingcashiered. "

"Shall I tell you what you ought to do?"

"Hang myself. "

"Just say to her all that you have said to me. You would soon find thather dimples are not more holy than another's. "

"You think so. "

"Of course I think so. The only thing that puzzles me is that you, JackDe Baron, should be led away to such idolatry. Why should she bedifferent from others? Her father is a money-loving, selfish oldreprobate, who was born in a stable. She married the first man that wasbrought to her, and has never cared for him because he does not laugh, and dance, and enjoy himself after her fashion. I don't suppose she iscapable of caring very much for anybody, but she likes you better thanany one else. Have you seen her since the row at Mrs. Jones's?"

"No. "

"You have not been, then?"

"No. "

"Why not?"

"Because I don't think she would wish to see me, " said Jack. "All thataffair must have troubled her. "

"I don't know how that is. She has been in town ever since, and hecertainly went down to Brotherton. He has come up, I suppose, inconsequence of this row between the Dean and his brother. I wonder whatreally did happen?"

"They say that there was a scuffle and that the parson had very muchthe best of it. The police were sent for, and all that kind of thing. Isuppose the Marquis said something very rough to him. "

"Or he to the Marquis, which is rather more likely. Well, --good-day, Jack. " They were now at the house-door in Berkeley Square. "Don't comein, because Houghton will be here. " Then the door was opened. "But takemy advice, and go and call in Munster Court at once. And, believe me, when you have found out what one woman is, you have found out what mostwomen are. There are no such great differences. "

It was then six o'clock, and he knew that in Munster Court they did notdine till near eight. There was still time with a friend so intimate ashe was for what is styled a morning call. The words which his cousinhad spoken had not turned him, --had not convinced him. Were he againtempted to speak his real mind about this woman, --as he had spoken invery truth his real mind, --he would still express the same opinion. Shewas to him like a running stream to a man who had long bathed instagnant waters. But the hideous doctrines which his cousin hadpreached to him were not without their effect. If she were as otherwomen, --meaning such women as Adelaide Houghton, --or if she were not, why should he not find out the truth? He was well aware that she likedhim. She had not scrupled to show him that by many signs. Why should hescruple to say a word that might show him how the wind blew? Then heremembered a few words which he had spoken, but which had been taken soinnocently, that they, though they had been meant to be mischievous, had become innocent themselves. Even things impure became pure bycontact with her. He was sure, quite sure, that that well-known pupilof Satan, his cousin, was altogether wrong in her judgment. He knewthat Adelaide Houghton could not recognise, and could not appreciate, apure woman. But still, --still it is so poor a thing to miss your plumbecause you do not dare to shake the tree! It is especially so, if youare known as a professional stealer of plums!

When he got into Piccadilly, he put himself into a cab, and had himselfdriven to the corner of Munster Court. It was a little street, gloomyto look at, with dingy doors and small houses, but with windowslooking into St. James's Park. There was no way through it, so that hewho entered it must either make his way into some house, or come back. He walked up to the door, and then taking out his watch, saw that itwas half-past six. It was almost too late for calling. And then thisthing that he intended to do required more thought than he had givenit. Would it not be well for him that there should be something holy, even to him, in spite of that Devil's advocate who had been so powerfulwith him. So he turned, and walking slowly back towards ParliamentStreet, got into another cab, and was taken to his club. "It has comeout, " said Major M'Mickmack to him, immediately on his entrance, "thatwhen the Dean went to see Brotherton at the hotel, Brotherton calledLady George all the bad names he could put his tongue to. "

"I dare say. He is blackguard enough for anything, " said De Baron. 

"Then the old Dean took his lordship in his arms, and pitched him banginto the fireplace. I had it all from the police myself. "

"I always liked the Dean. "

"They say he is as strong as Hercules, " continued M'Mickmack. "But heis to lose his deanery. "

"Gammon!"

"You just ask any of the fellows that know. Fancy a clergyman pitchinga Marquis into the fire!"

"Fancy a father not doing so if the Marquis spoke ill of his daughter, "said Jack De Baron. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

WHAT THE BROTHERTON CLERGYMEN SAID ABOUT IT. 

Had Jack knocked at the door and asked for Lady George he certainlywould not have seen her. She was enduring at that moment, with almostsilent obstinacy, the fierce anger of her indignant husband. "She wassure that it would be bad for her to go to Cross Hall at present, oranywhere among the Germains, while such things were said of her as theMarquis had said. " Could Lord George have declared that the Marquis wasat war with the family as he had been at war some weeks since, thisargument would have fallen to the ground. But he could not do so, andit seemed to be admitted that by going to Cross Hall she was to takepart against her father, and so far to take part with the Marquis, whohad maligned her. This became her strong point, and as Lord George wasnot strong in argument, he allowed her to make the most of it. "Surelyyou wouldn't let me go anywhere, " she said, "where such names as thatare believed against me?" She had not heard the name, nor had he, andthey were in the dark;--but she pleaded her cause well, and appealedagain and again to her husband's promise to take her to the deanery. His stronghold was that of marital authority, --authority unbounded, legitimate, and not to be questioned. "But if you commanded me toquarrel with papa?" she asked. 

"I have commanded nothing of the kind. "

"But if you did?"

"Then you must quarrel with him. "

"I couldn't, --and I wouldn't, " said she, burying her face upon the armof the sofa. 

At any rate on the next morning she didn't go, nor, indeed, did he cometo fetch her, so convinced had he been of the persistency of herobstinacy. But he told her as he left her that if she separated herselffrom him now, then the separation must be lasting. Her father, however, foreseeing this threat, had told her just the reverse. "He is anobstinate man, " the Dean had said, "but he is good and conscientious, and he loves you. "

"I hope he loves me. "

"I am sure he does. He is not a fickle man. At present he has puthimself into his brother's hands, and we must wait till the tide turns. He will learn by degrees to know how unjust he has been. "

So it came to pass that Lord George went down to Cross Hall in themorning and that Mary accompanied her father to the deanery the sameafternoon. The Dean had already learned that it would be well that heshould face his clerical enemies as soon as possible. He had alreadyreceived a letter worded in friendly terms from the Bishop, asking himwhether he would not wish to make some statement as to the occurrenceat Scumberg's Hotel which might be made known to the clergymen of theCathedral. He had replied by saying that he wished to make no suchstatement, but that on his return to Brotherton he would be verywilling to tell the Bishop the whole story if the Bishop wished to hearit. He had been conscious of Mr. Groschut's hand even among the civilphrases which had come from the Bishop himself. "In such a matter, " hesaid in his reply, "I am amenable to the laws of the land, and am not, as I take it, amenable to any other authority. " Then he went on to saythat for his own satisfaction he should be very glad to tell the storyto the Bishop. 

The story as it reached Brotherton had, no doubt, given rise to a greatdeal of scandal and a great deal of amusement. Pountner and Holdenoughwere to some extent ashamed of their bellicose Dean. There is somethingill-mannered, ungentlemanlike, what we now call rowdy, in personalencounters, even among laymen, --and this is of course aggravated whenthe assailant is a clergyman. And these canons, though they kept uppleasant, social relations with the Dean, were not ill-disposed tomake use of so excellent a weapon against a man, who, though comingfrom a lower order than themselves, was never disposed in any way toyield to them. But the two canons were gentlemen, and as gentlemen weregracious. Though they liked to have the Dean on the hip, they did notwant to hurt him sorely when they had gotten him there. They would becontented with certain sly allusions, and only half-expressed triumphs. But Mr. Groschut was confirmed in his opinion that the Dean wasaltogether unfit for his position, --which, for the interests of theChurch, should be filled by some such man as Mr. Groschut himself, bysome God-fearing clergyman, not known as a hard rider across countryand as a bruiser with his fists. There had been an article in the"Brotherton Church Gazette, " in which an anxious hope was expressedthat some explanation would be given of the very incredible tidingswhich had unfortunately reached Brotherton. Then Mr. Groschut hadspoken a word in season to the Bishop. Of course he said it could notbe true; but would it not be well that the Dean should be invited tomake his own statement? It was Mr. Groschut who had himself used theword "incredible" in the article. Mr. Groschut, in speaking to theBishop, said that the tidings must be untrue. And yet he believed andrejoiced in believing every word of them. He was a pious man, and didnot know that he was lying. He was an anxious Christian, and did notknow that he was doing his best to injure an enemy behind his back. Hehated the Dean;--but he thought that he loved him. He was sure that theDean would go to some unpleasant place, and gloried in the certainty;but he thought that he was most anxious for the salvation of the Dean'ssoul. "I think your Lordship owes it to him to offer him theopportunity, " said Mr. Groschut. 

The Bishop, too, was what we call a severe man;--but his severity wasused chiefly against himself. He was severe in his principles; but, knowing the world better than his chaplain, was aware how much latitudeit was necessary that he should allow in dealing with men. And in hisheart of hearts he had a liking for the Dean. Whenever there were anytiffs the Dean could take a blow and give a blow, and then think nomore about it. This, which was a virtue in the eyes of the Bishop, wasno virtue at all to Mr. Groschut, who hated to be hit himself andwished to think that his own blows were fatal. In urging the matterwith the bishop, Mr. Groschut expressed an opinion that, if this storywere unfortunately true, the Dean should cease to be Dean. He thoughtthat the Dean must see this himself. "I am given to understand that hewas absolutely in custody of the police, " said Mr. Groschut. The Bishopwas annoyed by his chaplain; but still he wrote the letter. 

On the very morning of his arrival in Brotherton the Dean went to thepalace. "Well, my lord, " said the Dean, "you have heard this cock andbull story. "

"I have heard a story, " said the Bishop. He was an old man, very talland very thin, looking as though he had crushed out of himself alltaste for the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, but singularlyurbane in his manner, with an old-fashioned politeness. He smiled as heinvited the Dean to a seat, and then expressed a hope that nobody hadbeen much hurt. "Very serious injuries have been spoken of here, but Iknow well how rumour magnifies these things. "

"Had I killed him, my lord, I should have been neither more nor less toblame than I am now, for I certainly endeavoured to do my worst tohim. " The Bishop's face assumed a look of pain and wonder. "When I hadthe miscreant in my hands I did not pause to measure the weight of myindignation. He told me, me a father, that my child was ----. " He hadrisen from his chair, and as he pronounced the word, stood looking intothe Bishop's eyes. "If there be purity on earth, sweet femininemodesty, playfulness devoid of guile, absolute freedom from any stainof leprosy, they are to be found with my girl. "

"Yes! yes; I am sure of that. "

"She is my worldly treasure. I have none other. I desire none other. Ihad wounded this man by certain steps which I have taken in referenceto his family;--and then, that he might wound me in return, he did notscruple, to use that word to his own sister-in-law, to my daughter. Wasthat a time to consider whether a clergyman may be justified in puttingout his strength? No; my lord. Old as you are you would have attemptedit yourself. I took him up and smote him, and it is not my fault if heis not a cripple for life. " The Bishop gazed at him speechlessly, butfelt quite sure that it was not in his power to rebuke his fellowclergyman. "Now, my lord, " continued the Dean, "you have heard thestory. I tell it to you, and I shall tell it to no one else. I tell ityou, not because you are the bishop of this diocese, and I, the Dean ofthis Cathedral, --and as such I am in such a matter by no means subjectto your lordship's authority;--but, because of all my neighbours youare the most respected, and I would wish that the truth should be knownto some one. " Then he ceased, neither enjoining secrecy, or expressingany wish that the story should be correctly told to others. 

"He must be a cruel man, " said the Bishop. 

"No, my lord;--he is no man at all. He is a degraded animalunfortunately placed almost above penalties by his wealth and rank. Iam glad to think that he has at last encountered some littlepunishment, though I could wish that the use of the scourge had falleninto other hands than mine. " Then he took his leave, and as he went theBishop was very gracious to him. 

"I am almost inclined to think he was justified, " said the Bishop toMr. Groschut. 

"Justified, my lord! The Dean;--in striking the Marquis of Brotherton, and then falling into the hands of the police!"

"I know nothing about the police. "

"May I ask your lordship what was his account of the transaction. "

"I cannot give it you. I simply say that I think that he wasjustified. " Then Mr. Groschut expressed his opinion to Mrs. Groschutthat the Bishop was getting old, --very old indeed. Mr. Groschut wasalmost afraid that no good could be done in the diocese till a firmerand a younger man sat in the seat. 

The main facts of the story came to the knowledge of the canons, thoughI doubt whether the Bishop ever told all that was told to him. Some fewhard words were said. Canon Pountner made a remark in the Dean'shearing about the Church militant, which drew forth from the Dean anallusion to the rites of Bacchus, which the canon only half understood. And Dr. Holdenough asked the Dean whether there had not been somelittle trouble between him and the Marquis. "I am afraid you have beena little hard upon my noble brother-in-law, " said the Doctor. To whichthe Dean replied that the Doctor should teach his noble brother-in-lawbetter manners. But, upon the whole, the Dean held his own well, andwas as carefully waited upon to his seat by the vergers as though therehad been no scene at Scumberg's Hotel. 

For a time no doubt there was a hope on the part of Mr. Groschutand his adherents that there would be some further policeinterference;--that the Marquis would bring an action, or that themagistrates would demand some inquiry. But nothing was done. TheMarquis endured his bruised back at any rate in silence. But there cametidings to Brotherton that his lordship would not again be seen atManor Cross that year. The house had been kept up as though for him, and he had certainly declared his purpose of returning when he left theplace. He had indeed spoken of living there almost to the end ofautumn. But early in July it became known that when he left Scumberg'sHotel, he would go abroad;--and before the middle of July it wasintimated to Lady Alice, and through her to all Brotherton, that theDowager with her daughters and Lord George were going back to the oldhouse. 

In the meantime Lady George was still at the deanery, and Lord Georgeat Cross Hall, and to the eyes of the world the husband had beenseparated from his wife. His anger was certainly very deep, especiallyagainst his wife's father. The fact that his commands had beentwice, --nay as he said thrice, --disobeyed rankled in his mind. He hadordered her not to waltz, and she had waltzed with, as Lord Georgethought, the most objectionable man in all London. He had ordered herto leave town with him immediately after Mrs. Jones's ball, and she hadremained in town. He had ordered her now to leave her father and tocleave to him; but she had cleft to her father and had deserted him. What husband can do other than repudiate his wife under suchcircumstances as these! He was moody, gloomy, silent, never speaking ofher, never going into Brotherton lest by chance he should see her; butalways thinking of her, --and always, always longing for her company. 

She talked of him daily to her father, and was constant in her prayerthat they should not be made to quarrel. Having so long doubted whethershe could ever love him, she now could not understand the strength ofher own feeling. "Papa, mightn't I write to him, " she said. But herfather thought that she should not herself take the first step at anyrate till the Marquis was gone. It was she who had in fact beeninjured, and the overture should come from the other side. Then atlast, in a low whisper, hiding her face, she told her father a greatsecret, --adding with a voice a little raised, "Now, papa, I must writeto him. "

"My darling, my dearest, " said the Dean, leaning over and kissing herwith more than his usual demonstration of love. 

"I may write now. "

"Yes, dear, you should certainly tell him that. " Then the Dean went outand walked round the deanery garden, and the cathedral cloisters, andthe close, assuring himself that after a very little while the realLord Popenjoy would be his own grandson. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

LADY GEORGE AT THE DEANERY. 

It took Mary a long long morning, --not altogether an unhappymorning, --to write her letter to her husband. She was forced to makemany attempts before she could tell the great news in a fitting way, and even when the telling was done she was very far from beingsatisfied with the manner of it. There should have been no necessitythat such tidings should be told by letter. It was cruel, very cruel, that such a moment should not have been made happy to her by his joy. The whisper made to her father should have been made to him, --but thatthings had gone so untowardly with her. And then, in her presentcircumstances, she could not devote her letter to the one event. Shemust refer to the said subject of their separation. "Dear, dearestGeorge, pray do not think of quarrelling with me, " she said twice overin her letter. The letter did get itself finished at last, and thegroom was sent over with it on horseback. 

What answer would he make to her? Would he be very happy? would he behappy enough to forgive her at once and come and stay with her at thedeanery? or would the importance of the moment make him more imperiousthan ever in commanding that she should go with him to Cross Hall. Ifhe did command her now she thought that she must go. Then she satmeditating what would be the circumstances of her life there, --howabsolutely she would be trodden upon; how powerless she would be toresist those Dorcas conclaves after her mutiny and subsequentsubmission! Though she could not quite guess, she could nearly guesswhat bad things had been said of her; and the ladies at Cross Hallwere, as she understood, now in amity with him who had said them. Theyhad believed evil of her, and of course, therefore, in going to CrossHall, she would go to it as to a reformatory. But the deanery would beto her a paradise if only her husband would but come to her there. Itwas not only that she was mistress of everything, including her owntime, but that her father's infinite tenderness made all things softand sweet to her. She hated to be scolded, and the slightest roughnessof word or tone seemed to her to convey a rebuke. But he was neverrough. She loved to be caressed by those who were dear and near andclose to her, and his manner was always caressing. She often loved, ifthe truth is to be spoken, to be idle, and to spend hours with anunread book in her hand under the shade of the deanery trees, and amongthe flowers of the deanery garden. The Dean never questioned her as tothose idle hours. But at Cross Hall not a half-hour would be allowed topass without enquiry as to its purpose. At Cross Hall there would be nonovels, --except those of Miss Edgeworth, which were sickening to her. She might have all Mudie down to the deanery if she chose to ask forit. At Cross Hall she would be driven out with the Dowager, LadySusanna, and Lady Amelia, for two hours daily, and would have to getout of the carriage at every cottage she came to. At the deanery therewas a pair of ponies, and it was her great delight to drive her fatherabout the roads outside the city. She sometimes thought that a longsojourn at Cross Hall would kill her. Would he not be kind to her now, and loving, and would he not come and stay with her for one or twohappy weeks in her father's house? If so, how dearly she would lovehim; how good she would be to him; how she would strive to gratify himin all his whims! Then she thought of Adelaide Houghton and the letter;and she thought also of those subsequent visits to Berkeley Square. Butstill she did not in the least believe that he cared for AdelaideHoughton. It was impossible that he should like a painted, unreal, helmeted creature, who smelt of oils, and was never unaffected for amoment. At any rate she would never, never throw Adelaide Houghton inhis teeth. If she had been imprudent, so had he; and she would teachhim how small errors ought to be forgiven. But would he come to her, orwould he only write? Surely he would come to her now when there wasmatter of such vital moment to be discussed between them! Surely therewould be little directions to her given, which should be obeyed, --oh, with such care, if he would be good to her. 

That pernicious groom must have ridden home along the road nearly asquick as the Dean's cob would carry him for the express purpose ofsaying that there was no message. When he had been about ten minutes inthe Cross Hall kitchen, he was told that there was no message, and hadtrotted off with most unnecessary speed. Mary was with her father whenword was brought to him, saying that there was no message. "Oh, papa, he doesn't care!" she said. 

"He will be sure to write, " said the Dean, "and he would not allowhimself to write in a hurry. "

"But why doesn't he come?"

"He ought to come. "

"Oh, papa;--if he doesn't care, I shall die. "

"Men always care very much. "

"But if he has made up his mind to quarrel with me for ever, then hewon't care. Why didn't he send his love?"

"He wouldn't do that by the groom. "

"I'd send him mine by a chimney-sweep if there were nobody else. " Thenthe door was opened, and in half a second she was in her husband'sarms. "Oh, George, my darling, my own, I am so happy. I thought youwould come. Oh, my dear!" Then the Dean crept out without a word, andthe husband and the wife were together for hours. 

"Do you think she is well, " said Lord George to the Dean in the courseof the afternoon. 

"Well? why shouldn't she be well!"

"In this condition I take it one never quite knows. "

"I should say there isn't a young woman in England in better generalhealth. I never knew her to be ill in my life since she had themeasles. "

"I thought she seemed flushed. "

"No doubt, --at seeing you. "

"I suppose she ought to see the doctor. "

"See a fiddlestick. If she's not fretted she won't want a doctor tillthe time comes when the doctor will be with her whether she wants himor not. There's nothing so bad as coddling. Everybody knows that now. The great thing is to make her happy. "

There came a cloud across Lord George's brow as this was said, --a cloudwhich he could not control, though, as he had hurried across the parkon horseback, he had made up his mind to be happy and good-humoured. Hecertainly had cared very much. He had spoken no word on the subject toanyone, but he had been very much disappointed when he had been marriedtwelve months and no hope of an heir had as yet been vouchsafed to him. When his brother had alluded to the matter, he had rebuked even hisbrother. He had never ventured to ask a question even of his wife. Buthe had been himself aware of his own bitter disappointment. The readingof his wife's letter had given him a feeling of joy keener than any hehad before felt. For a moment he had been almost triumphant. Of coursehe would go to her. That distasteful Popenjoy up in London was sick andailing; and after all this might be the true Popenjoy who, in comingdays, would re-establish the glory of the family. But, at any rate, shewas his wife, and the bairn would be his bairn. He had been made ahappy man, and had determined to enjoy to the full the first blush ofhis happiness. But when he was told that she was not to be fretted, that she was to be made especially happy, and was so told by herfather, he did not quite clearly see his way for the future. Did thismean that he was to give up everything, that he was to confess tacitlythat he had been wrong in even asking his wife to go with him to CrossHall, and that he was to be reconciled in all things to the Dean? Hewas quite ready to take his wife back, to abstain from accusationsagainst her, to let her be one of the family, but he was as eager asever to repudiate the Dean. To the eyes of his mother the Dean was nowthe most horrible of human beings, and her eldest born the dearest ofsons. After all that he had endured he was again going to let her liveat the old family house, and all those doubts about Popenjoy had, shethought, been fully satisfied. The Marquis to her thinking was nowalmost a model Marquis, and this dear son, this excellent head of thefamily, had been nearly murdered by the truculent Dean. Of course theDean was spoken of at Cross Hall in very bitter terms, and of coursethose terms made impression on Lord George. In the first moments of hispaternal anxiety he had been willing to encounter the Dean in orderthat he might see his wife; but he did not like to be told by the Deanthat his wife ought to be made happy. "I don't know what there is tomake her unhappy, " he said, "if she will do her duty. "

"That she has always done, " said the Dean, "both before her marriageand since. "

"I suppose she will come home now, " said Lord George. 

"I hardly know what home means. Your own home I take it is in MunsterCourt. "

"My own home is at Manor Cross, " said Lord George, proudly. 

"While that is the residence of Lord Brotherton it is absolutelyimpossible that she should go there. Would you take her to the house ofa man who has scurrilously maligned her as he has done?"

"He is not there or likely to be there. Of course she would come toCross Hall first. "

"Do you think that would be wise? You were speaking just now withanxiety as to her condition. "

"Of course I am anxious. "

"You ought to be at any rate. Do you think, that as she is now sheshould be subjected to the cold kindnesses of the ladies of yourfamily?"

"What right have you to call their kindness cold?"

"Ask yourself. You hear what they say. I do not. You must know exactlywhat has been the effect in your mother's house of the scene between meand your brother at that hotel. I spurned him from me with violencebecause he had maligned your wife. I may expect you to forgive me. "

"It was very unfortunate. "

"I may feel sure that you as a man must exonerate me from blame in thatmatter, but I cannot expect your mother to see it in the same light. Iask you whether they do not regard her as wayward and unmanageable?"

He paused for a reply; and Lord George found himself obliged to saysomething. "She should come and show that she is not wayward orunmanageable. "

"But she would be so to them. Without meaning it they would tormenther, and she would be miserable. Do you not know that it would be so?"He almost seemed to yield. "If you wish her to be happy, come here fora while. If you will stay here with us for a month, so that this stupididea of a quarrel shall be wiped out of people's minds, I willundertake that she shall then go to Cross Hall. To Manor Cross shecannot go while the Marquis is its ostensible master. "

Lord George was very far from being prepared to yield in this way. Hehad thought that his wife in her present condition would have been sureto obey him, and had even ventured to hope that the Dean would make nofurther objection. "I don't think that this is the place for her, " hesaid. "Wherever I am she should be with me. "

"Then come here, and it will be all right, " said the Dean. 

"I don't think that I can do that. "

"If you are anxious for her health you will. " A few minutes ago theDean had been very stout in his assurances that everything was wellwith his daughter, but he was by no means unwilling to take advantageof her interesting situation to forward his own views. "I certainlycannot say that she ought to go to Cross Hall at present. She would bewretched there. Ask yourself. "

"Why should she be wretched?"

"Ask yourself. You had promised her that you would come here. Does notthe very fact of your declining to keep that promise declare that youare dissatisfied with her conduct, and with mine?" Lord George wasdissatisfied with his wife's conduct and with the Dean's, but at thepresent moment did not wish to say so. "I maintain that her conduct isaltogether irreproachable; and as for my own, I feel that I am entitledto your warmest thanks for what I have done. I must desire you tounderstand that we will neither of us submit to blame. "

Nothing had been arranged when Lord George left the deanery. Thehusband could not bring himself to say a harsh word to his wife. Whenshe begged him to promise that he would come over to the deanery, heshook his head. Then she shed a tear, but as she did it she kissed him, and he could not answer her love by any rough word. So he rode back toCross Hall, feeling that the difficulties of his position were almostinsuperable. 

On the next morning Mr. Price came to him. Mr. Price was the farmer whohad formerly lived at Cross Hall, who had given his house up to theDowager, and who had in consequence been told that he must quit theland at the expiration of his present term. "So, my lord, his lordshipain't going to stay very long after all, " said Mr. Price. 

"I don't quite know as yet, " said Lord George. 

"I have had Mr. Knox with me this morning, saying that I may go back tothe Hall whenever I please. He took me so much by surprise, I didn'tknow what I was doing. "

"My mother is still there, Mr. Price. "

"In course she is, my lord. But Mr. Knox was saying that she is goingto move back at once to the old house. It's very kind of his lordship, I'm sure, to let bygones be bygones. " Lord George could only say thatnothing was as yet settled, but that Mr. Price would be, of course, welcome to Cross Hall, should the family go back to Manor Cross. 

This took place about the 10th of June, and for a fortnight after thatno change took place in any of their circumstances. Lady AliceHoldenough called upon Lady George, and, with her husband, dined at thedeanery; but Mary saw nothing else of any of the ladies of the family. No letter came from either of her sisters-in-law congratulating her asto her new hopes, and the Manor Cross carriage never stopped at theDean's door. The sisters came to see Lady Alice, who lived also in theClose, but they never even asked for Lady George. All this made theDean very angry, so that he declared that his daughter should under nocircumstances be the first to give way. As she had not offended, sheshould never be driven to ask for pardon. During this time Lord Georgemore than once saw his wife, but he had no further interview with theDean. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

LADY SARAH'S MISSION. 

Towards the end of June the family at Cross Hall were in greatperturbation. In the first place it had been now settled that they wereto go back to the great house early in July. This might have been asource of unalloyed gratification. The old Marchioness had been madevery unhappy by the change to Cross Hall, and had persisted in callingher new home a wretched farmhouse. Both Lady Susanna and Lady Ameliawere quite alive to the advantages of the great mansion. Lord Georgehad felt that his position in the county had been very much injured byrecent events. This might partly have come from his residence inLondon; but had, no doubt, been chiefly owing to the loss of influencearising from the late migration. He was glad enough to go back again. But Lady Sarah was strongly opposed to the new movement. "I don't thinkthat mamma should be made liable to be turned out again, " she had saidto her brother and sisters. 

"But mamma is particularly anxious to go, " Amelia had replied. 

"You can't expect mamma to think correctly about Brotherton, " said LadySarah. "He is vicious and fickle, and I do not like to feel that any ofus should be in his power. " But Lady Sarah, who had never been on goodterms with her elder brother, was overruled, and everybody knew that inJuly the family was to return to Manor Cross. 

Then there came tidings from London, --unauthorised tidings, and, onemay say, undignified tidings, --but still tidings which were receivedwith interest. Mrs. Toff had connections with Scumberg's, and heardthrough these connections that things at Scumberg's were not going onin a happy way. Mrs. Toff's correspondent declared that the Marquis hadhardly been out of his bed since he had been knocked into thefireplace. Mrs. Toff, who had never loved the Dean and had neverapproved of that alliance, perhaps made the most of this. But thereport, which was first made to the Dowager herself, caused very greatuneasiness. The old lady said that she must go up to London herself tonurse her son. Then a letter was written by Lady Amelia to her brother, asking for true information. This was the answer which Lady Ameliareceived;--

 "DEAR A. , --I'm pretty well, thank you. Don't trouble yourselves. Yours, B. "

"I'm sure he's dying, " said the Marchioness, "and he's toonoble-hearted to speak of his sufferings. " Nevertheless she felt thatshe did not dare to go up to Scumberg's just at present. 

Then there came further tidings. Mrs. Toff was told that the ItalianMarchioness had gone away, and had taken Popenjoy with her. There wasnot anything necessarily singular in this. When a gentleman is goingabroad with his family, he and his family need not as a matter ofcourse travel together. Lord Brotherton had declared his purpose ofreturning to Italy, and there could be no reason why his wife, with thenurses and the august Popenjoy, should not go before him. It was justsuch an arrangement as such a man as Lord Brotherton would certainlymake. But Mrs. Toff was sure that there was more in it than this. TheItalian Marchioness had gone off very suddenly. There had been no grandpacking up;--but there had been some very angry words. And Popenjoy, when he was taken away, was supposed to be in a very poor condition ofhealth. All this created renewed doubts in the mind of Lord George, orrather, perhaps, renewed hopes. Perhaps, after all, Popenjoy was notPopenjoy. And even if he were, it seemed that everyone concurred inthinking that the poor boy would die. Surely the Marquis would not haveallowed a sick child to be carried away by an indiscreet Italian motherif he cared much for the sick child. But then Lord George had no realknowledge of these transactions. All this had come through Mrs. Toff, and he was hardly able to rely upon Mrs. Toff. Could he havecommunicated with the Dean, the Dean would soon have found out thetruth. The Dean would have flown up to London and have known all aboutit in a couple of hours; but Lord George was not active and clever asthe Dean. 

Then he wrote a letter to his brother;--as follows;--

 "MY DEAR BROTHERTON, --We have heard through Mr. Knox that you wish us to move to Manor Cross at once, and we are preparing to do so. It is very kind of you to let us have the house, as Cross Hall is not all that my mother likes, and as there would hardly be room for us should my wife have children. I ought perhaps to have told you sooner that she is in the family way. We hear too that you are thinking of starting for Italy very soon, and that the Marchioness and Popenjoy have already gone. Would it suit you to tell us something of your future plans? It is not that I want to be inquisitive, but that I should like to know with reference to your comfort and our own whether you think that you will be back at Manor Cross next year. Of course we should be very sorry to be in your way, but we should not like to give up Cross Hall till we know that it will not be wanted again. 

 "I hope you are getting better. I could of course come up to town at a moment's notice, if you wished to see me. 

 "Yours affectionately, "GEORGE GERMAIN. "

There was nothing in this letter which ought to have made any brotherangry, but the answer which came to it certainly implied that theMarquis had received it with dudgeon. 

 "MY DEAR GEORGE, " the Marquis said, "I can give you no guarantee that I shall not want Manor Cross again, and you ought not to expect it. If you and the family go there of course I must have rent for Cross Hall. I don't suppose I shall ever recover altogether from the injury that cursed brute did me. 

 "Yours, 'B. '

 "As to your coming family of course I can say nothing. You won't expect me to be very full of joy. Nevertheless, for the honour of the family, I hope it is all right. "

There was a brutality about this which for a time made the expectantfather almost mad. He tore the letter at once into fragments, so thathe might be ready with an answer if asked to show it to his sisters. Lady Sarah had known of his writing, and did ask as to her brother'sanswer. "Of course he told me nothing, " said Lord George. "He is notlike any other brother that ever lived. "

"May I see his letter?"

"I have destroyed it. It was not fit to be seen. He will not saywhether he means to come back next year or not. "

"I would not stir, if it were for me to determine, " said Lady Sarah. "Nobody ever ought to live in another person's house as long as he hasone of his own;--and of all men certainly not in Brotherton's. "Nevertheless, the migration went on, and early in July the Marchionesswas once more in possession of her own room at Manor Cross, and Mrs. Toff was once again in the ascendant. 

But what was to be done about Mary? Had Popenjoy been reported to enjoyrobust health, and had Mary been as Mary was a month or two since, theMarchioness and Lady Susanna would have been contented that the presentseparation should have been permanent. They would at any rate havetaken no steps to put an end to it which would not have implied abjectsubmission on Mary's part. But now things were so altered! If thisPopenjoy should die, and if Mary should have a son, Mary's positionwould be one which they could not afford to overlook. Though Maryshould be living in absolute rebellion with that horrid Dean, still herPopenjoy would in course of time be the Popenjoy, and nothing that anyGermain could do would stand in her way. Her Popenjoy would be Popenjoyas soon as the present Marquis should die, and the family estates wouldall in due time be his! Her position had been becoming daily morehonourable as these rumours were received. Everyone at Manor Cross, down to the boy in the kitchen, felt that her dignity had beenimmeasurably increased. Her child should now certainly be born at ManorCross, --though the deanery would have been quite good enough had thepresent Popenjoy been robust. Something must be done. The Marchionesswas clear that Mary should be taken into favour and made much of, --evenhinted that she should not be asked to make shirts and petticoats, --ifonly she could be separated from the pestilential Dean. She spoke inprivate to her son, who declared that nothing would separate Mary fromher father. "I don't think I could entertain him after what he did toBrotherton, " said the Marchioness, bursting into tears. 

There were great consultations at Manor Cross, in which the wisdom ofLady Sarah and Lady Susanna, and sometimes the good offices of LadyAlice Holdenough were taxed to the utmost. Lady Sarah had since thebeginning of these latter troubles been Mary's best friend, thoughneither Mary nor the Dean had known of her good services. She hadpretty nearly understood the full horror of the accusation brought bythe Marquis, and had in her heart acquitted the Dean. Though she washard she was very just. She believed no worse evil of Mary than thatshe had waltzed when her husband had wished her not to do so. To LadySarah all waltzing was an abomination, and disobedience to legitimateauthority was abominable also. But then Mary had been taken to London, and had been thrown into temptation, and was very young. Lady Sarahknew that her own life was colourless, and was contented. But she couldunderstand that women differently situated should not like a colourlessexistence. She had seen Adelaide Houghton and her sister-in-lawtogether, and had known that her brother's lot had fallen in much thebetter place, and, to her, any separation between those whom God hadbound together was shocking and wicked. Lady Susanna was louder andless just. She did not believe that Mary had done anything to meritexpulsion from the family; but she did think that her return to itshould be accompanied by sackcloth and ashes. Mary had been pert toher, and she was not prone to forgive. Lady Alice had noopinion, --could say nothing about it; but would be happy if, by herservices, she could assuage matters. 

"Does she ever talk of him, " Lady Susanna asked. 

"Not to me; I don't think she dares. But whenever he goes there she isdelighted to see him. "

"He has not been for the last ten days, " said Lady Sarah. 

"I don't think he will ever go again, --unless it be to fetch her, " saidLady Susanna. "I don't see how he can keep on going there, when shewon't do as he bids her. I never heard of such a thing! Why should shechoose to live with her father when she is his wife? I can't understandit at all. "

"There has been some provocation, " said Lady Sarah. 

"What provocation? I don't know of any. Just to please her fancy, George had to take a house in London, and live there against his ownwishes. "

"It was natural that she should go to the deanery for a few days; butwhen she was there no one went to see her. "

"Why did she not come here first?" said Lady Susanna. "Why did she takeupon herself to say where she would go, instead of leaving it to herhusband. Of course it was the Dean. How can any man be expected toendure that his wife should be governed by her father instead of byhimself? I think George has been very forbearing. "

"You have hardly told the whole story, " said Lady Sarah. "Nor do I wishto tell it. Things were said which never should have been spoken. Ifyou will have me, Alice, I will go to Brotherton for a day or two, andI will then go and see her. "

And so it was arranged. No one in the house was told of the new plan, Lady Susanna having with difficulty been brought to promise silence. Lady Sarah's visit was of course announced, and that alone createdgreat surprise, as Lady Sarah very rarely left home. The Marchionesshad two or three floods of tears over it, and suggested that thecarriage would be wanted for the entire day. This evil, however, wasaltogether escaped, as Lady Alice had a carriage of her own. "I'm sureI don't know who is to look after Mrs. Green, " said the Marchioness. Mrs. Green was an old woman of ninety who was supported by Germaincharity and was visited almost daily by Lady Sarah. But Lady Ameliapromised that she would undertake Mrs. Green. "Of course I'm nobody, "said the Marchioness. Mrs. Toff and all who knew the family were surethat the Marchioness would, in truth, enjoy her temporary freedom fromher elder daughter's control. 

Whatever might have been Lord George's suspicion, he said nothing aboutit. It had not been by agreement with him that the ladies of the familyhad abstained from calling on his wife. He had expressed himself invery angry terms as to the Dean's misconduct in keeping her inBrotherton, and in his wrath had said more than once that he wouldnever speak to the Dean again. He had not asked any one to go there;but neither had he asked them not to do so. In certain of his moods hewas indignant with his sisters for their treatment of his wife; andthen again he would say to himself that it was impossible that theyshould go into the Dean's house after what the Dean had done. Now, whenhe heard that his eldest sister was going to the Close, he said not aword. 

On the day of her arrival Lady Sarah knocked at the deanery door alone. Up to this moment she had never put her foot in the house. Before themarriage she had known the Dean but slightly, and the visiting to bedone by the family very rarely fell to her share. The streets ofBrotherton were almost strange to her, so little was she given to leavethe sphere of her own duties. In the hall, at the door of his study, she met the Dean. He was so surprised that he hardly knew how to greether. "I am come to call upon Mary, " said Lady Sarah, very brusquely. 

"Better late than never, " said the Dean, with a smile. 

"I hope so, " said Lady Sarah, very solemnly. "I hope that I am notdoing that which ought not to be done. May I see her?"

"Of course you can see her. I dare say she will be delighted. Is yourcarriage here?"

"I am staying with my sister. Shall I go upstairs?"

Mary was in the garden, and Lady Sarah was alone for a few minutes inthe drawing-room. Of course she thought that this time was spent inconference by the father and daughter; but the Dean did not even seehis child. He was anxious enough himself that the quarrel should bebrought to an end, if only that end could be reached by some steps tobe taken first by the other side. Mary, as she entered the room, wasalmost frightened, for Lady Sarah had certainly been the greatest ofthe bugbears when she was living at Manor Cross, "I am come tocongratulate you, " said Lady Sarah, putting her hand out straightbefore her. 

Better late than never. Mary did not say so, as her father had done, but only thought it. "Thank you, " she said, in a very low voice. "Hasany one else come?"

"No, --no one else. I am with Alice, and as I have very very much tosay, I have come alone. Oh! Mary, --dear Mary, is not this sad?" Marywas not at all disposed to yield, or to acknowledge that the sadnesswas, in any degree, her fault, but she remembered, at the moment, thatLady Sarah had never called her "dear Mary" before. "Don't you wishthat you were back with George?"

"Of course I do. How can I wish anything else?"

"Why don't you go back to him?"

"Let him come here and fetch me, and be friends with papa. He promisedthat he would come and stay here. Is he well, Sarah?"

"Yes; he is well. "

"Quite well? Give him my love, --my best love. Tell him that in spite ofeverything I love him better than all the world. "

"I am sure you do. "

"Yes;--of course I do. I could be so happy now if he would come to me. "

"You can go to him. I will take you if you wish it. "

"You don't understand, " said Mary. 

"What don't I understand?"

"About papa. "

"Will he not let you go to your husband?"

"I suppose he would let me go;--but if I were gone what would become ofhim?"

Lady Sarah did not, in truth, understand this. "When he gave you to bemarried, " she said, "of course he knew that you must go away from himand live with your husband. A father does not expect a married daughterto stay in his own house. "

"But he expects to be able to go to hers. He does not expect to bequarrelled with by everybody. If I were to go to Manor Cross, papacouldn't even come and see me. "

"I think he could. "

"You don't know papa if you fancy he would go into any house in whichhe was not welcome. Of course I know that you have all quarrelled withhim. You think because he beat the Marquis up in London that heoughtn't ever to be spoken to again. But I love him for what he didmore dearly than ever. He did it for my sake. He was defending me, anddefending George. I have done nothing wrong. If it is only for George'ssake, I will never admit that I have deserved to be treated in thisway. None of you have come to see me before, since I came back fromLondon, and now George doesn't come. "

"We should all have been kind to you if you had come to us first. "

"Yes; and then I should never have been allowed to be here at all. LetGeorge come and stay here, if it is only for two days, and be kind topapa, and then I will go with him to Manor Cross. "

Lady Sarah was much surprised by the courage and persistence of theyoung wife's plea. The girl had become a woman, and was altered even inappearance. She certainly looked older, but then she was certainly muchmore beautiful than before. She was dressed, not richly, but with care, and looked like a woman of high family. Lady Sarah, who never changedeither the colour or the material of her brown morning gown, liked tolook at her, telling herself that should it ever be this woman's fateto be Marchioness of Brotherton, she would not in appearance disgracethe position. "I hope you can understand that we are very anxious aboutyou, " she said. 

"I don't know. "

"You might know, then. Your baby will be a Germain. "

"Ah, --yes, --for that! You can't think I am happy without George. I amlonging all day long, from morning to night, that he will come back tome. But after all that has happened, I must do what papa advises. If Iwere just to go to Manor Cross now, and allow myself to be carriedthere alone, you would all feel that I had been--forgiven. Isn't thattrue?"

"You would be very welcome. "

"Susanna would forgive me, and your mother. And I should be like a girlwho has been punished, and who is expected to remember ever so longthat she has been naughty. I won't be forgiven, except by George, --andhe has nothing to forgive. You would all think me wicked if I werethere, because I would not live in your ways. "

"We should not think you wicked, Mary. "

"Yes, you would. You thought me wicked before. "

"Don't you believe we love you, Mary?"

She considered a moment before she made a reply, but then made it veryclearly: "No, " she said, "I don't think you do. George loves me. Oh, Ihope he loves me. "

"You may be quite sure of that. And I love you. "

"Yes;--just as you love all people, because the Bible tells you. Thatis not enough. "

"I will love you like a sister, Mary, if you will come back to us. "

She liked being asked. She was longing to be once more with herhusband. She desired of all things to be able to talk to him of hercoming hopes. There was something in the tone of Lady Sarah's voice, different from the tones of old, which had its effect. She wouldpromise to go if only some slightest concession could be made, whichshould imply that neither she nor her father had given just cause ofoffence. And she did feel, --she was always feeling, --that her husbandought to remember that she had never brought counter-charges againsthim. She had told no one of Mrs. Houghton's letter. She was far tooproud to give the slightest hint that she too had her grievance. Butsurely he should remember it. "I should like to go, " she said. 

"Then come back with me to-morrow. " Lady Sarah had come only on thisbusiness, and if the business were completed there would be nolegitimate reason for her prolonged sojourn at Brotherton. 

"Would George come here for one night. "

"Surely, Mary, you would not drive a bargain with your husband. "

"But papa!"

"Your father can only be anxious for your happiness. "

"Therefore I must be anxious for his. I can't say that I'll go withoutasking him. "

"Then ask him and come in and see me at Alice's house this afternoon. And tell your father that I say you shall be received with allaffection. "

Mary made no promise that she would do even this as Lady Sarah took herleave; but she did at once consult her father. "Of course you can go ifyou like it, dearest. "

"But you!"

"Never mind me. I am thinking only of you. They will be different toyou now that they think you will be the mother of the heir. "

"Would you take me, and stay there, for one night?"

"I don't think I could do that, dear. I do not consider that I havebeen exactly asked. "

"But if they will ask you?"

"I cannot ask to be asked. To tell the truth I am not at all anxious tobe entertained at Manor Cross. They would always be thinking of thatfireplace into which the Marquis fell. "

The difficulty was very great and Mary could not see her way throughit. She did not go to Dr. Holdenough's house that afternoon, but wrotea very short note to Lady Sarah begging that George might come over andtalk to her. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

"THAT YOUNG FELLOW IN THERE. "

A day or two after this Lord George did call at the deanery, but stayedthere only for a minute or two, and on that occasion did not even speakof Mary's return to Manor Cross. He was considerably flurried, andshowed his wife the letter which had caused his excitement. It was fromhis brother, and like most of the Marquis's letters was very short. 

"I think you had better come up and see me. I'm not very well. B. " Thatwas the entire letter, and he was now on his way to London. 

"Do you think it is much, George?"

"He would not write like that unless he were really ill. He has neverrecovered from the results of that--accident. "

Then it occurred to Mary that if the Marquis were to die, and Popenjoywere to die, she would at once be the Marchioness of Brotherton, andthat people would say that her father had raised her to the titleby--killing the late lord. And it would be so. There was something sohorrible in this that she trembled as she thought of it. "Oh, George!"

"It is very--very sad. "

"It was his fault; wasn't it? I would give all the world that he werewell; but it was his fault. " Lord George was silent. "Oh, George, dearGeorge, acknowledge that. Was it not so? Do you not think so? Couldpapa stand by and hear him call me such names as that? Could you havedone so?"

"A man should not be killed for an angry word. "

"Papa did not mean to kill him!"

"I can never be reconciled to the man who has taken the life of mybrother. "

"Do you love your brother better than me?"

"You and your father are not one. "

"If this is to be said of him I will always be one with papa. He did itfor my sake and for yours. If they send him to prison I will go withhim. George, tell the truth about it. "

"I always tell the truth, " he said angrily. 

"Did he not do right to protect his girl's name? I will never leave himnow; never. If everybody is against him, I will never leave him. "

No good was to be got from the interview. Whatever progress Lady Sarahmay have made was altogether undone by the husband's sympathy for hisinjured brother. Mary declared to herself that if there must be twosides, if there must be a real quarrel, she could never be happy again, but that she certainly would not now desert her father. Then she wasleft alone. Ah, what would happen if the man were to die. Would anywoman ever have risen to high rank in so miserable a manner! In hertumult of feelings she told her father everything, and was astonishedby his equanimity. "It may be so, " he said, "and if so, there will beconsiderable inconvenience. "

"Inconvenience, papa!"

"There will be a coroner's inquest, and perhaps some kind of trial. Butwhen the truth comes out no English jury will condemn me. "

"Who will tell the truth, papa?"

The Dean knew it all, and was well aware that there would be no one totell the truth on his behalf, --no one to tell it in such guise that ajury would be entitled to accept the telling as evidence. A verdict ofmanslaughter with punishment, at the discretion of the judge, would bethe probable result. But the Dean did not choose to add to hisdaughter's discomfort by explaining this. "The chances are that thiswretched man is dying. No doubt his health is bad. How should thehealth of such a man be good? But had he been so hurt as to die fromit, the doctor would have found something out long since. He may bedying, but he is not dying from what I did to him. " The Dean wasdisturbed, but in his perturbation he remembered that if the man wereto die there would be nothing but that little alien Popenjoy betweenhis daughter and the title. 

Lord George hurried up to town, and took a room for himself at an hotelin Jermyn Street. He would not go to Scumberg's, as he did not wish tomix his private life with that of his brother. That afternoon he wentacross, and was told that his brother would see him at three o'clockthe next day. Then he interrogated Mrs. Walker as to his brother'scondition. Mrs. Walker knew nothing about it, except that the Marquislay in bed during the most of his time, and that Dr. Pullbody was thereevery day. Now Dr. Pullbody was an eminent physician, and had theMarquis been dying from an injury in his back an eminent surgeon wouldhave been required. Lord George dined at his club on a mutton chop anda half a pint of sherry, and then found himself terribly dull. Whatcould he do with himself? Whither could he betake himself? So he walkedacross Piccadilly and went to the old house in Berkeley Square. 

He had certainly become very sick of the woman there. He had discussedthe matter with himself and had found out that he did not care onestraw for the woman. He had acknowledged to himself that she was aflirt, a mass of affectation, and a liar. And yet he went to her house. She would be soft to him and would flatter him, and the woman wouldtrouble herself to do so. She would make him welcome, and in spite ofhis manifest neglect would try, for the hour, to make him comfortable. 

He was shown up into the drawing-room and there he found Jack De Baron, Guss Mildmay;--and Mr. Houghton, fast asleep. The host was wakened upto bid him welcome, but was soon slumbering again. De Baron and GussMildmay had been playing bagatelle, --or flirting in the backdrawing-room, and after a word or two returned to their game. "Ill ishe?" said Mrs. Houghton, speaking of the Marquis, "I suppose he hasnever recovered from that terrible blow. "

"I have not seen him yet, but I am told that Dr. Pullbody is with him. "

"What a tragedy, --if anything should happen! She has gone away; has shenot. "

"I do not know. I did not ask. "

"I think she has gone, and that she has taken the child with her; apoor puny thing. I made Houghton go there to enquire, and he saw thechild. I hear from my father that we are to congratulate you. "

"Things are too sad for congratulation. "

"It is horrible; is it not? And Mary is with her father. "

"Yes, she's at the deanery. "

"Is that right?--when all this is going on?"

"I don't think anything is right, " he said, gloomily. 

"Has she--quarrelled with you, George?" At the sound of his Christianname from the wife's lips he looked round at the sleeping husband. Hewas quite sure that Mr. Houghton would not like to hear his wife callhim George. "He sleeps like a church, " said Mrs. Houghton, in a lowvoice. The two were sitting close together and Mr. Houghton's arm-chairwas at a considerable distance. The occasional knocking of the balls, and the continued sound of voices was to be heard from the other room. "If you have separated from her I think you ought to tell me. "

"I saw her to-day as I came through. "

"But she does not go to Manor Cross?"

"She has been at the deanery since she went down. "

Of course this woman knew of the quarrel which had taken place inLondon. Of course she had been aware that Lady George had stayed behindin opposition to her husband's wishes. Of course she had learned everydetail as to the Kappa-kappa. She took it for granted that Mary was inlove with Jack De Baron, and thought it quite natural that she shouldbe so. "She never understood you as I should have done, George, "whispered the lady. Lord George again looked at the sleeping man, whogrunted and moved, "He would hardly hear a pistol go off. "

"Shouldn't I?" said the sleeping man, rubbing away the flies from hisnose. Lord George wished himself back at his club. 

"Come out into the balcony, " said Mrs. Houghton. She led the way and hewas obliged to follow her. There was a balcony to this house surroundedwith full-grown shrubs, so that they who stood there could hardly beseen from the road below. "He never knows what any one is saying. " Asshe spoke she came close up to her visitor. "At any rate he has themerit of never troubling me or himself by any jealousies. "

"I should be very sorry to give him cause, " said Lord George. 

"What's that you say?" Poor Lord George had simply been awkward, havingintended no severity. "Have you given him no cause?"

"I meant that I should be sorry to trouble him. "

"Ah--h! That is a different thing. If husbands would only becomplaisant, how much nicer it would be for everybody. " Then there wasa pause. "You do love me, George?" There was a beautiful moon that wasbright through the green foliage, and there was a smell of sweetexotics, and the garden of the Square was mysteriously pretty as it laybelow them in the moonlight. He stood silent, making no immediateanswer to this appeal. He was in truth plucking up his courage for agreat effort. "Say that you love me. After all that is passed you mustlove me. " Still he was silent. "George, will you not speak?"

"Yes; I will speak. "

"Well, sir!"

"I do not love you. "

"What! But you are laughing at me. You have some scheme or some plotgoing on. "

"I have nothing going on. It is better to say it. I love my wife. "

"Psha! love her;--yes, as you would a doll or any pretty plaything. Iloved her too till she took it into her stupid head to quarrel with me. I don't grudge her such love as that. She is a child. "

It occurred to Lord George at the moment that his wife had certainlymore than an infantine will of her own. "You don't know her, " he said. 

"And now, after all, you tell me to my face that you do not love me!Why have you sworn so often that you did?" He hadn't sworn it often. Hehad never sworn it at all since she had rejected him. He had beeninduced to admit a passion in the most meagre terms. "Do you ownyourself to be false?" she asked. 

"I am true to my wife. "

"Your wife! One would think you were the curate of the parish. And isthat to be all?"

"Yes, Mrs. Houghton; that had better be all. "

"Then why did you come here? Why are you here now?" She had notexpected such courage from him, and almost thought more of him now thanshe had ever thought before. "How dare you come to this house at all?"

"Perhaps I should not have come. "

"And I am nothing to you?" she asked in her most plaintive accents. "After all those scenes at Manor Cross you can think of me withindifference?" There had been no scenes, and as she spoke he shook hishead, intending to disclaim them. "Then go!" How was he to go? Was heto wake Mr. Houghton? Was he to disturb that other loving couple? Washe to say no word of farewell to her? "Oh, stay, " she added, "and unsayit all--unsay it all and give no reason, and it shall be as though itwere never said. " Then she seized him by the arm and lookedpassionately up into his eyes. Mr. Houghton moved restlessly in hischair and coughed aloud. "He'll be off again in half a moment, " saidMrs. Houghton. Then he was silent, and she was silent, looking at him. And he heard a word or two come clearly from the back drawing-room. "You will, Jack; won't you, dear Jack?"

The ridicule of the thing touched even him. "I think I had better go, "he said. 

"Then go!"

"Good-night, Mrs. Houghton. "

"I will not say good-night. I will never speak to you again. You arenot worth speaking to. You are false. I knew that men could be false, but not so false as you. Even that young fellow in there has someheart. He loves your--darling wife, and will be true to his love. " Shewas a very devil in her wickedness. He started as though he had beenstung, and rushed inside for his hat. "Halloa, Germain, are you going?"said the man of the house, rousing himself for the moment. 

"Yes, I am going. Where did I leave my hat?"

"You put it on the piano, " said Mrs. Houghton in her mildest voice, standing at the window. Then he seized his hat and went off. "What avery stupid man he is, " she said, as she entered the room. 

"A very good sort of fellow, " said Mr. Houghton. 

"He's a gentleman all round, " said Jack De Baron. Jack knew pretty wellhow the land lay and could guess what had occurred. 

"I am not so sure of that, " said the lady. "If he were a gentleman asyou say all round, he would not be so much afraid of his elder brother. He has come up to town now merely because Brotherton sent to him, andwhen he went to Scumberg's the Marquis would not see him. He is justlike his sisters, --priggish, punctilious and timid. "

"He has said something nasty to you, " remarked her husband, "or youwould not speak of him like that. "

She had certainly said something very nasty to him. As he returned tohis club he kept on repeating to himself her last words;--"He lovesyour darling wife. " Into what a mass of trouble had he not fallenthrough the Dean's determination that his daughter should live inLondon! He was told on all sides that this man was in love with hiswife, and he knew, --he had so much evidence for knowing, --that his wifeliked the man. And now he was separated from his wife, and she couldgo whither her father chose to take her. For aught that he could do shemight be made to live within the reach of this young scoundrel. Nodoubt his wife would come back if he would agree to take her back onher own terms. She would again belong to him if he would agree to takethe Dean along with her. But taking the Dean would be to put himselfinto the Dean's leading strings. The Dean was strong and imperious; andthen the Dean was rich. But anything would be better than losing hiswife. Faulty as he thought her to be, she was sweet as no one else wassweet. When alone with him she would seem to make every word of his alaw. Her caresses were full of bliss to him. When he kissed her herface would glow with pleasure. Her voice was music to him; her leasttouch was joy. There was a freshness about the very things which shewore which pervaded his senses. There was a homeliness about her beautywhich made her more lovely in her own room than when dressed for ballsand parties. And yet he had heard it said that when dressed she wasdeclared to be the most lovely woman that had come to London thatseason. And now she was about to become the mother of his child. He wasthoroughly in love with his wife. And yet he was told that his wife was"Jack De Baron's darling!"

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

THE MARQUIS MAKES A PROPOSITION. 

The next morning was very weary with him, as he had nothing to do tillthree o'clock. He was most anxious to know whether his sister-in-lawhad in truth left London, but he had no means of finding out. He couldnot ask questions on such a subject from Mrs. Walker and hersatellites; and he felt that it would be difficult to ask even hisbrother. He was aware that his brother had behaved to him badly, and hehad determined not to be over courteous, --unless, indeed, he shouldfind his brother to be dangerously ill. But above all things he wouldavoid all semblance of inquisitiveness which might seem to have areference to the condition of his own unborn child. He walked up anddown St. James' Park thinking of all this, looking up once at thewindows of the house which had brought so much trouble on him, thathouse of his which had hardly been his own, but not caring to knock atthe door and enter it. He lunched in solitude at his club, and exactlyat three o'clock presented himself at Scumberg's door. The Marquis'sservant was soon with him, and then again he found himself alone inthat dreary sitting-room. How wretched must his brother be, livingthere from day to day without a friend, or, as far as he was aware, without a companion!

He was there full twenty minutes, walking about the room in exasperatedill-humour, when at last the door was opened and his brother wasbrought in between two men-servants. He was not actually carried, butwas so supported as to appear to be unable to walk. Lord George askedsome questions, but received no immediate answers. The Marquis was atthe moment thinking too much of himself and of the men who wereministering to him to pay any attention to his brother. Then by degreeshe was fixed in his place, and after what seemed to be interminabledelay the two men went away. "Ugh!" ejaculated the Marquis. 

"I am glad to see that you can at any rate leave your room, " said LordGeorge. 

"Then let me tell you that it takes deuced little to make you glad. "

The beginning was not auspicious, and further progress in conversationseemed to be difficult. "They told me yesterday that Dr. Pullbody wasattending you. "

"He has this moment left me. I don't in the least believe in him. YourLondon doctors are such conceited asses that you can't speak to them?Because they can make more money than their brethren in other countriesthey think that they know everything, and that nobody else knowsanything. It is just the same with the English in every branch of life. The Archbishop of Canterbury is the greatest priest going, because hehas the greatest income, and the Lord Chancellor the greatest lawyer. All you fellows here are flunkies from top to bottom. "

Lord George certainly had not come up to town merely to hear the greatdignitaries of his country abused. But he was comforted somewhat as hereflected that a dying man would hardly turn his mind to such anoccupation. When a sick man criticises his doctor severely he is seldomin a very bad way. "Have you had anybody else with you, Brotherton?"

"One is quite enough. But I had another. A fellow named Bolton washere, a baronet, I believe, who told me I ought to walk a mile in HydePark every day. When I told him I couldn't he said I didn't know till Itried. I handed him a five-pound note, upon which he hauled out threepounds nineteen shillings change and walked off in a huff. I didn'tsend for him any more. "

"Sir James Bolton has a great reputation. "

"No doubt. I daresay he could cut off my leg if I asked him, and wouldthen have handed out two pounds eighteen with the same indifference. "

"I suppose your back is better?"

"No, it isn't, --not a bit. It gets worse and worse. "

"What does Dr. Pullbody say?"

"Nothing that anybody can understand. By George! he takes my moneyfreely enough. He tells me to eat beefsteaks and drink port-wine. I'dsooner die at once. I told him so, or something a little stronger, Ibelieve, and he almost jumped out of his shoes. "

"He doesn't think there is any----danger?"

"He doesn't know anything about it. I wish I could have yourfather-in-law in a room by ourselves, with a couple of loadedrevolvers. I'd make better work of it than he did. "

"God forbid!"

"I daresay he won't give me the chance. He thinks he has done a pluckything because he's as strong as a brewer's horse. I call that downrightcowardice. "

"It depends on how it began, Brotherton. "

"Of course there had been words between us. Things always begin in thatway. "

"You must have driven him very hard. "

"Are you going to take his part? Because, if so, there may as well bean end of it. I thought you had found him out and had separatedyourself from him. You can't think that he is a gentleman?"

"He is a very liberal man. "

"You mean to sell yourself, then, for the money that was made in hisfather's stables?"

"I have not sold myself at all. I haven't spoken to him for the lastmonth. "

"So I understood; therefore I sent for you. You are all back at ManorCross now?"

"Yes;--we are there. "

"You wrote me a letter which I didn't think quite the right thing. But, however, I don't mind telling you that you can have the house if we cancome to terms about it. "

"What terms?"

"You can have the house and the park, and Cross Hall Farm, too, ifyou'll pledge yourself that the Dean shall never enter your houseagain, and that you will never enter his house or speak to him. Youshall do pretty nearly as you please at Manor Cross. In that event Ishall live abroad, or here in London if I come to England. I thinkthat's a fair offer, and I don't suppose that you yourself can be veryfond of the man. " Lord George sat perfectly silent while the Marquiswaited for a reply. "After what has passed, " continued he, "you can'tsuppose that I should choose that he should be entertained in mydining-room. "

"You said the same about my wife before. "

"Yes, I did; but a man may separate himself from his father-in-law whenhe can't very readily get rid of his wife. I never saw your wife. "

"No;--and therefore cannot know what she is. "

"I don't in the least want to know what she is. You and I, George, haven't been very lucky in our marriages. "

"I have. "

"Do you think so? You see I speak more frankly of myself. But I am notspeaking of your wife. Your wife's father has been a blister to me eversince I came back to this country, and you must make up your mindwhether you will take his part or mine. You know what he did, and whathe induced you to do about Popenjoy. You know the reports that he hasspread abroad. And you know what happened in this room. I expect you tothrow him off altogether. " Lord George had thrown the Dean offaltogether. For reasons of his own he had come to the conclusion thatthe less he had to do with the Dean the better for himself; but hecertainly could give no such pledge as this now demanded from him. "Youwon't make me this promise?" said the Marquis. 

"No; I can't do that. "

"Then you'll have to turn out of Manor Cross, " said the Marquis, smiling. 

"You do not mean that my mother must be turned out?"

"You and my mother, I suppose, will live together?"

"It does not follow. I will pay you rent for Cross Hall. "

"You shall do no such thing. I will not let Cross Hall to any friend ofthe Dean's. "

"You cannot turn your mother out immediately after telling her to gothere?"

"It will be you who turn her out, --not I. I have made you a veryliberal offer, " said the Marquis. 

"I will have nothing to do with it, " said Lord George. "In any house inwhich I act as master I will be the judge who shall be entertained andwho not. "

"The first guests you will ask, no doubt, will be the Dean ofBrotherton and Captain De Baron. " This was so unbearable that he atonce made a rush at the door. "You'll find, my friend, " said theMarquis, "that you'll have to get rid of the Dean and of the Dean'sdaughter as well. " Then Lord George swore to himself as he left theroom that he would never willingly be in his brother's company again. 

He was rushing down the stairs, thinking about his wife, swearing tohimself that all this was calumny, yet confessing to himself that theremust have been terrible indiscretion to make the calumny so general, when he was met on the landing by Mrs. Walker in her best silk gown. "Please, my lord, might I take the liberty of asking for one word in myown room?" Lord George followed her and heard the one word. "Please, mylord, what are we to do with the Marquis?"

"Do with him!"

"About his going. "

"Why should he go? He pays his bills, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, my lord; the Marquis pays his bills. There ain't no difficultythere, my lord. He's not quite himself. "

"You mean in health?"

"Yes, my lord;--in health. He don't give himself, --not a chance. He'sout every night, --in his brougham. "

"I thought he was almost confined to his room?"

"Out every night, my lord, --and that Courier with him on the box. Whenwe gave him to understand that all manner of people couldn't be allowedto come here, we thought he'd go. "

"The Marchioness has gone?"

"Oh yes;--and the poor little boy. It was bad enough when they washere, because things were so uncomfortable; but now----. I wishsomething could be done, my lord. " Lord George could only assure herthat it was out of his power to do anything. He had no control over hisbrother, and did not even mean to come and see him again. "Dearie me!"said Mrs. Walker; "he's a very owdacious nobleman, I fear, --is theMarquis. "

All this was very bad. Lord George had learned, indeed, that theMarchioness and Popenjoy were gone, and was able to surmise that theparting had not been pleasant. His brother would probably soon followthem. But what was he to do himself! He could not, in consequence ofsuch a warning, drag his mother and sisters back to Cross Hall, intowhich house Mr. Price, the farmer, had already moved himself. Nor couldhe very well leave his mother without explaining to her why he did so. Would it be right that he should take such a threat, uttered as thathad been, as a notice to quit the house? He certainly would not live inhis brother's house in opposition to his brother. But how was he toobey the orders of such a madman?

When he reached Brotherton he went at once to the deanery and was veryglad to find his wife without her father. He did not as yet wish torenew his friendly relations with the Dean, although he had refused topledge himself to a quarrel. He still thought it to be his duty to takehis wife away from her father, and to cause her to expiate thosecalumnies as to De Baron by some ascetic mode of life. She had been, since his last visit, in a state of nervous anxiety about the Marquis. "How is he, George?" she asked at once. 

"I don't know how he is. I think he's mad. "

"Mad?"

"He's leading a wretched life. "

"But his back? Is he;--is he--? I am afraid that papa is so unhappyabout it! He won't say anything, but I know he is unhappy. "

"You may tell your father from me that as far as I can judge hisillness, if he is ill, has nothing to do with that. "

"Oh, George, you have made me so happy. "

"I wish I could be happy myself. I sometimes think that we had bettergo and live abroad. "

"Abroad! You and I?"

"Yes. I suppose you would go with me?"

"Of course I would. But your mother?"

"I know there is all manner of trouble about it. " He could not tell herof his brother's threat about the house, nor could he, after thatthreat, again bid her come to Manor Cross. As there was nothing more tobe said he soon left her, and went to the house which he had again beenforbidden to call his home. 

But he told his sister everything. "I was afraid, " she said, "that weshould be wrong in coming here. "

"It is no use going back to that now. "

"Not the least. What ought we to do? It will break mamma's heart to beturned out again. "

"I suppose we must ask Mr. Knox. "

"It is unreasonable;--monstrous! Mr. Price has got all his furnitureback again into the Hall! It is terrible that any man should have somuch power to do evil. "

"I could not pledge myself about the Dean, Sarah. "

"Certainly not. Nothing could be more wicked than his asking you. Ofcourse, you will not tell mamma. "

"Not yet. "

"I should take no notice of it whatever. If he means to turn us out ofthe house let him write to you, or send word by Mr. Knox. Out everynight in London! What does he do?" Lord George shook his head. "I don'tthink he goes into society. " Lord George could only shake his headagain. There are so many kinds of society! "They said he was comingdown to Mr. De Baron's in August. "

"I heard that too. I don't know whether he'll come now. To see himbrought in between two servants you'd think that he couldn't move. "

"But they told you he goes out every night?"

"I've no doubt that is true. "

"I don't understand it all, " said Lady Sarah. "What is he to gain bypretending. And so they used to quarrel. "

"I tell you what the woman told me. "

"I've no doubt it's true. And she has gone and taken Popenjoy? Did hesay anything about Popenjoy?"

"Not a word, " said Lord George. 

"It's quite possible that the Dean may have been right all through. What terrible mischief a man may do when he throws all idea of duty tothe winds! If I were you, George, I should just go on as though I hadnot seen him at all. "

That was the decision to which Lord George came, but in that he wassoon shaken by a letter which he received from Mr. Knox. "I think ifyou were to go up to London and see your brother it would have a goodeffect, " said Mr. Knox. In fact Mr. Knox's letter contained little morethan a petition that Lord George would pay another visit to theMarquis. To this request, after consultation with his sister, he gave apositive refusal. 

 "MY DEAR MR. KNOX, " he said, "I saw my brother less than a week ago, and the meeting was so unsatisfactory in every respect that I do not wish to repeat it. If he has anything to say to me as to the occupation of the house he had better say it through you. I think, however, that my brother should be told that though I may be subject to his freaks, we cannot allow that my mother should be annoyed by them. 

 "Faithfully yours, "GEORGE GERMAIN. "

At the end of another week Mr. Knox came in person. The Marquis waswilling that his mother should live at Manor Cross, --and his sisters. But he had, --so he said, --been insulted by his brother, and must insistthat Lord George should leave the house. If this order were not obeyedhe should at once put the letting of the place into the hands of ahouse agent. Then Mr. Knox went on to explain that he was to take backto the Marquis a definite reply. "When people are dependent on me Ichoose that they shall be dependent, " the Marquis had said. 

Now, after a prolonged consultation to which Lady Susanna wasadmitted, --so serious was the thing to be considered, --it was found tobe necessary to explain the matter to the Marchioness. Some stepclearly must be taken. They must all go, or Lord George must go. CrossHall was occupied, and Mr. Price was going to be married on thestrength of his occupation. A lease had been executed to Mr. Price, which the Dowager herself had been called upon to sign. "Mamma willnever be made to understand it, " said Lady Susanna. 

"No one can understand it, " said Lord George. Lord George insisted thatthe ladies should continue to live at the large house, insinuatingthat, for himself, he would take some wretched residence in the mostmiserable corner of the globe, which he could find. 

The Marchioness was told and really fell into a very bad way. Sheliterally could not understand it, and aggravated matters by appearingto think that her younger son had been wanting in respect to his elderbrother. And it was all that nasty Dean! And Mary must have behavedvery badly or Brotherton would not have been so severe! "Mamma, " saidLady Sarah, moved beyond her wont, "you ought not to think such things. George has been true to you all his life, and Mary has done nothing. Itis all Brotherton's fault. When did he ever behave well? If we are tobe miserable, let us at any rate tell the truth about it. " Then theMarchioness was put to bed and remained there for two days. 

At last the Dean heard of it, --first through Lady Alice, and thendirectly from Lady Sarah, who took the news to the deanery. Upon whichhe wrote the following letter to his son-in-law;--

 "MY DEAR GEORGE, --I think your brother is not quite sane. I never thought that he was. Since I have had the pleasure of knowing you, especially since I have been connected with the family, he has been the cause of all the troubles that have befallen it. It is to be regretted that you should ever have moved back to Manor Cross, because his temper is so uncertain, and his motives so unchristian!

 "I think I understand your position now, and will therefore not refer to it further than to say, that when not in London I hope you will make the deanery your home. You have your own house in town, and when here will be close to your mother and sisters. Anything I can do to make this a comfortable residence for you shall be done; and it will surely go for something with you, that a compliance with this request on your part will make another person the happiest woman in the world. 

 "In such an emergency as this am I not justified in saying that any little causes of displeasure that may have existed between you and me should now be forgotten? If you will think of them they really amount to nothing. For you I have the esteem of a friend and the affection of a father-in-law. A more devoted wife than my daughter does not live. Be a man and come to us, and let us make much of you. 

 "She knows I am writing, and sends her love; but I have not told her of the subject lest she should be wild with hope. 

 "Affectionately yours, "HENRY LOVELACE. "

The letter as he read it moved him to tears, but when he had finishedthe reading he told himself that it was impossible. There was onephrase in the letter which went sorely against the grain with him. TheDean told him to be a man. Did the Dean mean to imply that his conducthitherto had been unmanly?

CHAPTER XLIX. 

"WOULDN'T YOU COME HERE--FOR A WEEK?"

Lord George Germain was very much troubled by the nobility of theDean's offer. He felt sure that he could not accept it, but he felt atthe same time that it would be almost as difficult to decline to acceptit. What else was he to do? where was he to go? how was he now toexercise authority over his wife? With what face could he call upon herto leave her father's house, when he had no house of his own to whichto take her? There was, no doubt, the house in London, but that was herhouse, and peculiarly disagreeable to him. He might go abroad; but thenwhat would become of his mother and sisters? He had trained himself tothink that his presence was necessary to the very existence of thefamily; and his mother, though she ill-treated him, was quite of thesame opinion. There would be a declaration of a break up made to allthe world if he were to take himself far away from Manor Cross. In hisdifficulty, of course he consulted Lady Sarah. What other counsellorwas possible to him?

He was very fair with his sister, trying to explain everything toher--everything, with one or two exceptions. Of course he said nothingof the Houghton correspondence, nor did he give exactly a true accountof the scene at Mrs. Montacute Jones' ball; but he succeeded in makingLady Sarah understand that though he accused his wife of nothing, hefelt it to be incumbent on him to make her completely subject to hisown authority. "No doubt she was wrong to waltz after what you toldher, " said Lady Sarah. 

"Very wrong. "

"But it was simply high spirits, I suppose. "

"I don't think she understands how circumspect a young married womanought to be, " said the anxious husband. "She does not see how very muchsuch high spirits may injure me. It enables an enemy to say suchterrible things. "

"Why should she have an enemy, George?" Then Lord George merelywhispered his brother's name. "Why should Brotherton care to be herenemy?"

"Because of the Dean. "

"She should not suffer for that. Of course, George, Mary and I are verydifferent. She is young and I am old. She has been brought up to thepleasures of life, which I disregard, perhaps because they never camein my way. She is beautiful and soft, --a woman such as men like to havenear them. I never was such a one. I see the perils and pitfalls in herway; but I fancy that I am prone to exaggerate them, because I cannotsympathise with her yearnings. I often condemn her frivolity, but atthe same time I condemn my own severity. I think she is true ofheart, --a loving woman. And she is at any rate your wife. "

"You don't suppose that I wish to be rid of her?"

"Certainly not; but in keeping her close to you you must remember thatshe has a nature of her own. She cannot feel as you do in all thingsany more than you feel as she does. "

"One must give way to the other. "

"Each must give way to the other if there is to be any happiness. "

"You don't mean to say she ought to waltz, or dance stage dances?"

"Let all that go for the present. She won't want to dance much for atime now, and when she has a baby in her arms she will be more apt tolook at things with your eyes. If I were you I should accept the Dean'soffer. "

There was a certain amount of comfort in this, but there was more pain. His wife had defied him, and it was necessary to his dignity that sheshould be brought to submission before she was received into his fullgrace. And the Dean had encouraged her in those acts of defiance. Theyhad, of course, come from him. She had been more her father's daughterthan her husband's wife, and his pride could not endure that it shouldbe so. Everything had gone against him. Hitherto he had been able todesire her to leave her father and to join him in his own home. Now hehad no home to which to take her. He had endeavoured to do hisduty, --always excepting that disagreeable episode with Mrs. Houghton, --and this was the fruit of it. He had tried to serve hisbrother, because his brother was Marquis of Brotherton, and his brotherhad used him like an enemy. His mother treated him, with steadyinjustice. And now his sister told him that he was to yield to theDean! He could not bring himself to yield to the Dean. At last heanswered the Dean's letter as follows;--

 "MY DEAR DEAN, --

 "Your offer is very kind, but I do not think that I can accept it just at present. No doubt I am very much troubled by my brother's conduct. I have endeavoured to do my duty by him, and have met with but a poor return. What arrangements I shall ultimately make as to a home for myself and Mary, I cannot yet say. When anything is settled I shall, of course, let her know at once. It will always be, at any rate, one of my chief objects to make her comfortable, but I think that this should be done under my roof and not under yours. I hope to be able to see her in a day or two, when perhaps I shall have been able to settle upon something. 

 "Yours always affectionately, "G. GERMAIN. "

Then, upon reading this over and feeling that it was cold and almostheartless, he added a postscript. "I do feel your offer to be verygenerous, but I think you will understand the reasons which make itimpossible that I should accept it. " The Dean as he read this declaredto himself that he knew the reasons very well. The reasons were not farto search. The man was pigheaded, foolish, and obstinately proud. Sothe Dean thought. As far as he himself was concerned Lord George'spresence in the house would not be a comfort to him. Lord George hadnever been a pleasant companion to him. But he would have put up withworse than Lord George for the sake of his daughter. 

On the very next day Lord George rode into Brotherton and went directto the deanery. Having left his horse at the inn he met the Dean in theClose, coming out of a side door of the Cathedral close to the deanerygate. "I thought I would come in to see Mary, " he said. 

"Mary will be delighted. "

"I did not believe that I should be able to come so soon when I wroteyesterday. "

"I hope you are going to tell her that you have thought better of mylittle plan. "

"Well;--no; I don't think I can do that. I think she must come to mefirst, sir. "

"But where!"

"I have not yet quite made up my mind. Of course there is a difficulty. My brother's conduct has been so very strange. "

"Your brother is a madman, George. "

"It is very easy to say so, but that does not make it any better. Though he be ever so mad the house is his own. If he chooses to turn meout of it he can. I have told Mr. Knox that I would leave it within amonth, --for my mother's sake; but that as I had gone there at hisexpress instance, I could not move sooner. I think I was justified inthat. "

"I don't see why you should go at all. "

"He would let the place. "

"Or, if you do go, why you should not come here. But, of course, youknow your own business best. How d'ye do, Mr. Groschut? I hope theBishop is better this morning. "

At this moment, just as they were entering the deanery gate, theBishop's chaplain had appeared. He had been very studious in spreadinga report, which he had no doubt believed to be true, that all theGermain family, including Lord George, had altogether repudiated theDean, whose daughter, according to his story, was left upon herfather's hands because she would not be received at Manor Cross. ForMr. Groschut had also heard of Jack De Baron, and had been cut to thesoul by the wickedness of the Kappa-kappa. The general iniquity ofMary's life in London had been heavy on him. Brotherton, upon thewhole, had pardoned the Dean for knocking the Marquis into thefireplace, having heard something of the true story with more or lesscorrectness. But the Chaplain's morals were sterner than those ofBrotherton at large, and he was still of opinion that the Dean was achild of wrath, and poor Mary, therefore, a grandchild. Now, when hesaw the Dean and his son-in-law apparently on friendly terms, thespirit of righteousness was vexed within him as he acknowledged this tobe another sign that the Dean was escaping from that punishment whichalone could be of service to him in this world. "His Lordship is betterthis morning. I hope, my Lord, I have the pleasure of seeing yourLordship quite well. " Then Mr. Groschut passed on. 

"I'm not quite sure, " said the Dean, as he opened his own door, "whether any good is ever done by converting a Jew. "

"But St. Paul was a converted Jew, " said Lord George. 

"Well--yes; in those early days Christians were only to be had byconverting Jews or Pagans; and in those days they did actually becomeChristians. But the Groschuts are a mistake. " Then he called to Mary, and in a few minutes she was in her husband's arms on the staircase. The Dean did not follow them, but went into his own room on the groundfloor; and Lord George did not see him again on that day. 

Lord George remained with his wife nearly all the afternoon, going outwith her into the town as she did some little shopping, and being seenwith her in the market-place and Close. It must be owned of Mary thatshe was proud thus to be seen with him again, and that in buying herribbons and gloves she referred to him, smiling as he said this, andpouting and pretending to differ as he said that, with greater urgencythan she would have done had there been no breach between them. It hadbeen terrible to her to think that there should be a quarrel, --terribleto her that the world should think so. There was a gratification to herin feeling that even the shopkeepers should see her and her husbandtogether. And when she met Canon Pountner and stopped a moment in thestreet while that worthy divine shook hands with her husband, that wasan additional pleasure to her. The last few weeks had been heavy to herin spite of her father's affectionate care, --heavy with a feeling ofdisgrace from which no well-minded young married woman can quiteescape, when she is separated from her husband. She had endeavoured todo right. She thought she was doing right. But it was so sad! She wasfond of pleasure, whereas he was little given to any amusement; but nopleasures could be pleasant to her now unless they were in some sortcountenanced by him. She had never said such a word to a human being, but since that dancing of the Kappa-kappa she had sworn to herself athousand times that she would never waltz again. And she hourly yearnedfor his company, having quite got over that first difficulty of hermarried life, that doubt whether she could ever learn to love herhusband. During much of this day she was actually happy in spite of thegreat sorrow which still weighed so heavily upon them both. 

And he liked it also in his way. He thought that he had never seen herlooking more lovely. He was sure that she had never been more graciousto him. The touch of her hand was pleasant to his arm, and even he hadsufficient spirit of fun about him to enjoy something of the mirth ofher little grimaces. When he told her what her father had said aboutMr. Groschut, even he laughed at her face of assumed disgust. "Papadoesn't hate him half as much as I do, " she said. "Papa always doesforgive at last, but I never can forgive Mr. Groschut. "

"What has the poor man done?"

"He is so nasty! Don't you see that his face always shines. Any manwith a shiny face ought to be hated. " This was very well to give as areason, but Mary entertained a very correct idea as to Mr. Groschut'sopinion of herself. 

Not a word had been said between the husband and wife as to the greatquestion of residence till they had returned to the deanery after theirwalk. Then Lord George found himself unable to conceal from her theoffer which the Dean had made. "Oh, George, --why don't you come?"

"It would not be--fitting. "

"Fitting! Why not fitting? I think it would fit admirably. I know itwould fit me. " Then she leaned over him and took his hand and kissedit. 

"It was very good of your father. "

"I am sure he meant to be good. "

"It was very good of your father, " Lord George repeated, --"very goodindeed; but it cannot be. A married woman should live in her husband'shouse and not in her father's. "

Mary gazed into his face with a perplexed look, not quite understandingthe whole question, but still with a clear idea as to a part of it. Allthat might be very true, but if a husband didn't happen to have a housethen might not the wife's father's house be a convenience? They hadindeed a house, provided no doubt with her money, but not the less nowbelonging to her husband, in which she would be very willing to live ifhe pleased it, --the house in Munster Court. It was her husband thatmade objection to their own house. It was her husband who wished tolive near Manor Cross, not having a roof of his own under which to doso. Were not these circumstances which ought to have made the deanery aconvenience to him? "Then what will you do?" she asked. 

"I cannot say as yet. " He had become again gloomy and black-browed. 

"Wouldn't you come here--for a week?"

"I think not, my dear. "

"Not when you know how happy it would make me to have you with me onceagain. I do so long to be telling you everything. " Then she leantagainst him and embraced him, and implored him to grant her thisfavour. But he would not yield. He had told himself that the Dean hadinterfered between him and his wife, and that he must at any rate gothrough the ceremony of taking his wife away from her father. Let it beaccorded to him that he had done that, and then perhaps he might visitthe deanery. As for her, she would have gone with him anywhere now, having fully established her right to visit her father after leavingLondon. 

There was nothing further settled, and very little more said, when LordGeorge left the deanery and started back to Manor Cross. But with Marythere had been left a certain comfort. The shopkeepers and Dr. Pountnerhad seen her with her husband, and Mr. Groschut had met Lord George atthe deanery door. 

CHAPTER L. 

RUDHAM PARK. 

Lord George had undertaken to leave Manor Cross by the middle ofAugust, but when the first week of that month had passed away he hadnot as yet made up his mind what he would do with himself. Mr. Knox hadtold him that should he remain with his mother the Marquis would not, as Mr. Knox thought, take further notice of the matter; but on suchterms as these he could not consent to live in his brother's house. 

On a certain day early in August Lord George had gone with a returnticket to a town but a few miles distant from Brotherton to sit on acommittee for the distribution of coals and blankets, and in theafternoon got into a railway carriage on his way home. How great washis consternation when, on taking his seat, he found that his brotherwas seated alongside of him! There was one other old gentleman in thecarriage, and the three passengers were all facing the engine. On twoof the seats opposite were spread out the Marquis's travellingparaphernalia, --his French novel, at which he had not looked, hisdressing bag, the box in which his luncheon had been packed, and hiswine flask. There was a small basket of strawberries, should he beinclined to eat fruit, and an early peach out of a hothouse, with someflowers. "God Almighty, George;--is that you?" he said. "Where thedevil have you been?"

"I've been to Grumby. "

"And what are the people doing at Grumby?"

"Much the same as usual. It was the coal and blanket account. "

"Oh!--the coal and blanket account! I hope you liked it. " Then hefolded himself afresh in his cloaks, ate a strawberry, and looked asthough he had taken sufficient notice of his brother. 

But the matter was very important to Lord George. Nothing ever seemedto be of importance to the Marquis. It might be very probable that theMarquis, with half-a-dozen servants behind him, should drive up to thedoor at Manor Cross without having given an hour's notice of hisintention. It seemed to be too probable to Lord George that such wouldbe the case now. For what other reason could he be there? And thenthere was his back. Though they had quarrelled he was bound to askafter his brother's back. When last they two had met, the Marquis hadbeen almost carried into the room by two men. "I hope you find yourselfbetter than when I last saw you, " he said, after a pause of fiveminutes. 

"I've not much to boast of. I can just travel, and that's all. "

"And how is--Popenjoy?"

"Upon my word I can't tell you. He has never seemed to be very wellwhen I've seen him. "

"I hope the accounts have been better, " said Lord George, withsolicitude. 

"Coal and blanket accounts!" suggested the Marquis. And then theconversation was again brought to an end for five minutes. 

But it was essential that Lord George should know whither his brotherwas going. If to Manor Cross, then, thought Lord George, he himselfwould stay at an inn at Brotherton. Anything, even the deanery, wouldbe better than sitting at table with his brother, with the insults oftheir last interview unappeased. At the end of five minutes he pluckedup his courage, and asked his brother another question. "Are you goingto the house, Brotherton?"

"The house! What house? I'm going to a house, I hope. "

"I mean to Manor Cross. "

"Not if I know it. There is no house in this part of the country inwhich I should be less likely to show my face. " Then there was notanother word said till they reached the Brotherton Station, and therethe Marquis, who was sitting next the door, requested his brother toleave the carriage first. "Get out, will you?" he said. "I must waitfor somebody to come and take these things. And don't trample on memore than you can help. " This last request had apparently been made, because Lord George was unable to step across him without treading onthe cloak. 

"I will say good-bye, then, " said Lord George, turning round on theplatform for a moment. 

"Ta, ta, " said the Marquis, as he gave his attention to the servant whowas collecting the fruit, and the flowers, and the flask. Lord Georgethen passed on out of the station, and saw no more of his brother. 

"Of course he is going to Rudham, " said Lady Susanna, when she heardthe story. Rudham Park was the seat of Mr. De Baron, Mrs. Houghton'sfather, and tidings had reached Manor Cross long since that the Marquishad promised to go there in the autumn. No doubt other circumstanceshad seemed to make it improbable that the promise should be kept. Popenjoy had gone away ill, --as many said, in a dying condition. Thenthe Marquis had been thrown into a fireplace, and report had said thathis back had been all but broken. It had certainly been generallythought that the Marquis would go nowhere after that affair in thefireplace, till he returned to Italy. But Lady Susanna was, in truth, right. His Lordship was on his way to Rudham Park. 

Mr. De Baron, of Rudham Park, though a much older man than the Marquis, had been the Marquis's friend, --when the Marquis came of age, beingthen the Popenjoy of those days and a fast young man known as suchabout England. Mr. De Baron, who was a neighbour, had taken him by thehand. Mr. De Baron had put him in the way of buying and trainingrace-horses, and had, perhaps, been godfather to his pleasures in othermatters. Rudham Park had never been loved at Manor Cross by others thanthe present Lord, and for that reason, perhaps, was dearer to him. Hehad promised to go there soon after his return to England, and was nowkeeping his promise. On his arrival there the Marquis found a housefulof people. There were Mr. And Mrs. Houghton, and Lord Giblet, who, having engaged himself rashly to Miss Patmore Green, had rushed out oftown sooner than usual that he might devise in retirement some means ofescaping from his position; and, to Lord Giblet's horror, there wasMrs. Montacute Jones, who, he well knew, would, if possible, keep himto the collar. There was also Aunt Julia, with her niece Guss, and ofcourse, there was Jack De Baron. The Marquis was rather glad to meetJack, as to whom he had some hope that he might be induced to run awaywith Lord George's wife, and thus free the Germain family from thatlittle annoyance. But the guest who surprised the Marquis the most, wasthe Baroness Banmann, whose name and occupation he did not at firstlearn very distinctly. 

"All right again, my lord?" asked Mr. De Baron, as he welcomed hisnoble guest. 

"Upon my word I'm not, then. That coal-heaving brute of a parson prettynearly did for me. "

"A terrible outrage it was. "

"Outrage! I should think so. There's nothing so bad as a clericalbully. What was I to do with him? Of course he was the stronger. Idon't pretend to be a Samson. One doesn't expect that kind of thingamong gentlemen?"

"No, indeed. "

"I wish I could have him somewhere with a pair of foils with thebuttons off. His black coat shouldn't save his intestines. I don'tknow what the devil the country is come to, when such a fellow as thatis admitted into people's houses. "

"You won't meet him here, Brotherton. "

"I wish I might. I think I'd manage to be even with him before he gotaway. Who's the Baroness you have got?"

"I don't know much about her. My daughter Adelaide, --Mrs. Houghton, youknow, --has brought her down. There's been some row among the women upin London. This is one of the prophets, and I think she is brought hereto spite Lady Selina Protest who has taken an American prophetess bythe hand. She won't annoy you, I hope?"

"Not in the least. I like strange wild beasts. And so that is CaptainDe Baron, of whom I have heard?"

"That is my nephew, Jack. He has a small fortune of his own, which heis spending fast. As long as it lasts one has to be civil to him. "

"I am delighted to meet him. Don't they say he is sweet on a certainyoung woman?"

"A dozen, I believe. "

"Ah, --but one I know something of. "

"I don't think there is anything in that, Brotherton;--I don't, indeed, or I shouldn't have brought him here. "

"I do, though. And as to not bringing him here, why shouldn't you bringhim? If she don't go off with him, she will with somebody else, and thesooner the better, according to my ideas. " This was a matter upon whichMr. De Baron was not prepared to dilate, and he therefore changed thesubject. 

"My dear Lord Giblet, it is such a pleasure to me to meet you here, "old Mrs. Jones said to that young nobleman. "When I was told you wereto be at Rudham, it determined me at once. " This was true, for therewas no more persistent friend living than old Mrs. Jones, though itmight be doubted whether, on this occasion, Lord Giblet was the friendon whose behalf she had come to Rudham. 

"It's very nice, isn't it?" said Lord Giblet, gasping. 

"Hadn't we a pleasant time of it with our little parties in GrosvenorPlace?"

"Never liked anything so much in life; only I don't think that fellowJack De Baron, dances so much better than other people, after all?"

"Who says he does? But I'll tell you who dances well. Olivia Green wascharming in the Kappa-kappa. Don't you think so?"

"Uncommon pretty. " Lord Giblet was quite willing to be understood toadmire Miss Patmore Green, though he thought it hard that people shouldhurry him on into matrimony. 

"The most graceful girl I ever saw in my life, certainly, " said Mrs. Montacute Jones. "His Royal Highness, when he heard of the engagement, said that you were the happiest man in London. "

Lord Giblet could not satisfy himself by declaring that H. R. H. Was anold fool, as poor Mary had done on a certain occasion, --but at thepresent moment he did not feel at all loyal to the Royal Familygenerally. Nor did he, in the least, know how to answer Mrs. Jones. Shehad declared the engagement as a fact, and he did not quite dare todeny it altogether. He had, in an unguarded moment, when the weatherhad been warm and the champagne cool, said a word with so definite ameaning that the lady had been justified in not allowing it to pass byas idle. The lady had accepted him, and on the following morning he hadfound the lock of hair and the little stud which she had given him, andhad feverish reminiscences of a kiss. But surely he was not a bird tobe caught with so small a grain of salt as that! He had not as yet seenMr. Patmore Green, having escaped from London at once. He had answereda note from Olivia, which had called him "dearest Charlie" by a counternote, in which he had called her "dear O, " and had signed himself "everyours, G, " promising to meet her up the river. But of course he had notgone up the river! The rest of the season might certainly be donewithout assistance from him. He knew that he would be pursued. He couldnot hope not to be pursued. But he had not thought that Mrs. MontacuteJones would be so quick upon him. It was impossible that H. R. H shouldhave heard of any engagement as yet. What a nasty, false, wicked oldwoman she was! He blushed, red as a rose, and stammered out that he"didn't know. " He was only four-and-twenty, and perhaps he didn't know. 

"I never saw a girl so much in love in my life, " continued Mrs. Jones. "I know her just as well as if she were my own, and she speaks to me asshe doesn't dare to speak to you at present. Though she is barelytwenty-one, she has been very much sought after already, and the veryday she marries she has ten thousand pounds in her own hands. Thatisn't a large fortune, and of course you don't want a large fortune, but it isn't every girl can pay such a sum straight into her husband'sbank the moment she marries!"

"No, indeed, " said Lord Giblet. He was still determined that nothingshould induce him to marry Miss Green; but nevertheless, behind thatresolution there was a feeling, that if anything should bring about themarriage, such a sum of ready money would be a consolation. His father, the Earl of Jopling, though a very rich man, kept him a little close, and ten thousand pounds would be nice. But then, perhaps the old womanwas lying. 

"Now I'll tell you what I want you to do, " said Mrs. Jones, who wasresolved that if the game were not landed it should not be her fault. "We go from here to Killancodlem next week. You must come and joinus. "

"I've got to go and grouse at Stranbracket's, " said Lord Giblet, happyin an excuse. 

"It couldn't be better. They're both within eight miles of Dunkeld. " Ifso, then ropes shouldn't take him to Stranbracket's that year. "Ofcourse you'll come. It's the prettiest place in Perth, though I say it, as oughtn't. And she will be there. If you really want to know a girl, see her in a country house. "

But he didn't really want to know the girl. She was very nice, and heliked her uncommonly, but he didn't want to know anything more abouther. By George! Was a man to be persecuted this way, because he hadonce spooned a girl a little too fiercely? As he thought of this healmost plucked up his courage sufficiently to tell Mrs. Jones that shehad better pick out some other young man for deportation toKillancodlem. "I should like it ever so, " he said. 

"I'll take care that you shall like it, Lord Giblet. I think I mayboast that when I put my wits to work I can make my house agreeable. I'm very fond of young people, but there's no one I love as I do OliviaGreen. There isn't a young woman in London has so much to be loved for. Of course you'll come. What day shall we name?"

"I don't think I could name a day. "

"Let us say the 27th. That will give you nearly a week at the grousefirst. Be with us to dinner on the 27th. "

"Well, --perhaps I will. "

"Of course you will. I shall write to Olivia to-night, and I daresayyou will do so also. "

Lord Giblet, when he was let to go, tried to suck consolation from the£10, 000. Though he was still resolved, he almost believed that Mrs. Montacute Jones would conquer him. Write to Olivia to-night! Lying, false old woman! Of course she knew that there was hardly a lady inEngland to whom it was so little likely that he should write as to MissPatmore Green. How could an old woman, with one foot in the grave, beso wicked? And why should she persecute him? What had he done to her?Olivia Green was not her daughter, or even her niece. "So you are goingto Killancodlem?" Mrs. Houghton said to him that afternoon. 

"She has asked me, " said Lord Giblet. 

"It's simply the most comfortable house in all Scotland, and they tellme some of the best deer-stalking. Everybody likes to get toKillancodlem. Don't you love old Mrs. Jones?"

"Charming old woman!"

"And such a friend! If she once takes to you she never drops you. "

"Sticks like wax, I should say. "

"Quite like wax, Lord Giblet. And when she makes up her mind to do athing she always does it. It's quite wonderful; but she never getsbeaten. "

"Doesn't she now?"

"Never. She hasn't asked us to Killancodlem yet, but I hope she will. "A manly resolution now roused itself in Lord Giblet's bosom that hewould be the person to beat Mrs. Jones at last. But yet he doubted. Ifhe were asked the question by anyone having a right to ask he could notdeny that he had proposed to marry Miss Patmore Green. 

"So you've come down to singe your wings again?" said Mrs. Houghton toher cousin Jack. 

"My wings have been burned clean away already, and, in point of fact, Iam not half so near to Lady George here as I was in London. "

"It's only ten miles. "

"If it were five it would be the same. We're not in the same set downin Barsetshire. "

"I suppose you can have yourself taken to Brotherton if you please?"

"Yes, --I can call at the deanery; but I shouldn't know what to say whenI got there. "

"You've become very mealy-mouthed of a sudden. "

"Not with you, my sweet cousin. With you I can discuss the devil andall his works as freely as ever; but with Lady George, at her father'shouse, I think I should be dumb. In truth, I haven't got anything tosay to her. "

"I thought you had. "

"I know you think so; but I haven't. It is quite on the card that I mayride over some day, as I would to see my sister. "

"Your sister!"

"And that I shall make eager enquiries after her horse, her pet dog, and her husband. "

"You will be wrong there, for she has quarrelled with her husbandaltogether. "

"I hope not. "

"They are not living together, and never even see each other. He's atManor Cross, and she's at the deanery. She's a divinity to you, butLord George seems to have found her so human that he's tired of heralready. "

"Then it must be his own fault. "

"Or perhaps yours, Jack. You don't suppose a husband goes through alittle scene like that at Mrs. Jones' without feeling it?"

"He made an ass of himself, and a man generally feels that afterwards, "said Jack. 

"The truth is, they're tired of each other. There isn't very much inLord George, but there is something. He is slow, but there is a certainmanliness at the bottom of it. But there isn't very much in her!"

"That's all you know about it. "

"Perhaps you may know her better, but I never could find anything. Youconfess to being in love, and of course a lover is blind. But where youare most wrong is in supposing that she is something so much betterthan other women. She flirted with you so frankly that she made youthink her a goddess. "

"She never flirted with me in her life. "

"Exactly;--because flirting is bad, and she being a goddess cannot doevil. I wish you'd take her in your arms and kiss her. "

"I shouldn't dare. "

"No;--and therefore you're not in the way to learn that she's a womanjust the same as other women. Will Mrs. Jones succeed with that stupidyoung man?"

"With Giblet? I hope so. It can't make any difference to him whetherit's this one or another, and I do like Mrs. Jones. "

"Would they let me have just a little lecture in the dining-room?"asked the Baroness of her friend, Aunt Ju. There had been certainchanges among the Disabilities up in London. Lady Selina Protest hadtaken Dr. Olivia Q. Fleabody altogether by the hand, and had appointedher chief professor at the Institute, perhaps without sufficientauthority. Aunt Ju had been cast into the shade, and had consequentlybeen driven to throw herself into the arms of the Baroness. At presentthere was a terrible feud in which Aunt Ju was being much worsted. Forthe Baroness was an old Man of the Sea, and having got herself on toAunt Ju's shoulders could not be shaken off. In the meantime Dr. Fleabody was filling the Institute, reaping a golden harvest, andbreaking the heart of the poor Baroness, who had fallen into muchtrouble and was now altogether penniless. 

"I'm afraid not, " said Aunt Ju. "I'm afraid we can't do that. "

"Perhaps de Marquis would like it?"

"I hardly think so. "

"He did say a word to me, and I tink he would like it. He vant tounderstand. "

"My dear Baroness, I'm sure the Marquis of Brotherton does not careabout it in the least. He is quite in the dark on such subjects--quitebenighted. " What was the use, thought the Baroness, of bringing herdown to a house in which people were so benighted that she could not beallowed to open her mouth or carry on her profession. Had she not beenenticed over from her own country in order that she might open hermouth, and preach her doctrine, and become a great and a wealthy woman?There was a fraud in this enforced silence which cut her to the veryquick. "I tink I shall try, " she said, separating herself in her wrathfrom her friend. 

CHAPTER LI. 

GUSS MILDMAY'S SUCCESS. 

The treatment which the Marquis received at Rudham did not certainlyimply any feeling that he had disgraced himself by what he had doneeither at Manor Cross or up in London. Perhaps the ladies there did notknow as much of his habits as did Mrs. Walker at Scumberg's. Perhapsthe feeling was strong that Popenjoy was Popenjoy, and that thereforethe Marquis had been injured. If a child be born in Britishpurple, --true purple, though it may have been stained bycircumstances, --that purple is very sacred. Perhaps it was thought thatunder no circumstances should a Marquis be knocked into the fireplaceby a clergyman. There was still a good deal of mystery, both as toPopenjoy and as to the fireplace, and the Marquis was the hero of thesemysteries. Everyone at Rudham was anxious to sit by his side and to beallowed to talk to him. When he abused the Dean, which he did freely, those who heard him assented to all he said. The Baroness Banmann heldup her hands in horror when she heard the tale, and declared the Churchto be one grand bêtise. Mrs. Houghton, who was very attentive to theMarquis and whom the Marquis liked, was pertinacious in her enquiriesafter Popenjoy, and cruelly sarcastic upon the Dean. "Think what washis bringing up, " said Mrs. Houghton. 

"In a stable, " said the Marquis. 

"I always felt it to be a great pity that Lord George should have madethat match;--not but what she is a good creature in her way. "

"She is no better than she should be, " said the Marquis. Then Mrs. Houghton found herself able to insinuate that perhaps, after all, Marywas not a good creature, even in her own way. But the Marquis's chieffriend was Jack De Baron. He talked to Jack about races and billiards, and women; but though he did not refrain from abusing the Dean, he saidno word to Jack against Mary. If it might be that the Dean shouldreceive his punishment in that direction he would do nothing to preventit. "They tell me she's a beautiful woman. I have never seen hermyself, " said the Marquis. 

"She is very beautiful, " said Jack. 

"Why the devil she should have married George, I can't think. Shedoesn't care for him the least. "

"Don't you think she does?"

"I'm sure she don't. I suppose her pestilent father thought it was thenearest way to a coronet. I don't know why men should marry at all. They always get into trouble by it. "

"Somebody must have children, " suggested Jack. 

"I don't see the necessity. It's nothing to me what comes of theproperty after I'm gone. What is it, Madam?" They were sitting out onthe lawn after lunch and Jack and the Marquis were both smoking. Asthey were talking the Baroness had come up to them and made her littleproposition. "What! a lecture! If Mr. De Baron pleases, of course. Inever listen to lectures myself, --except from my wife. "

"Ah! dat is vat I vant to prevent. "

"I have prevented it already by sending her to Italy. Oh, rights ofwomen! Very interesting; but I don't think I'm well enough myself. Hereis Captain De Baron, a young man as strong as a horse, and very fond ofwomen. He'll sit it out. "

"I beg your pardon; what is it?" Then the Baroness, with rapid words, told her own sad story. She had been deluded, defrauded, and ruined bythose wicked females, Lady Selina Protest and Dr. Fleabody. The Marquiswas a nobleman whom all England, nay, all Europe, delighted to honour. Could not the Marquis do something for her? She was rapid and eloquent, but not always intelligible. "What is it she wants?" asked the Marquis, turning to Jack. 

"Pecuniary assistance, I think, my Lord. "

"Yah, yah. I have been bamboozled of everything, my Lord Marquis. "

"Oh, my G--, De Baron shouldn't have let me in for this. Would you mindtelling my fellow to give her a ten-pound note?" Jack said that hewould not mind; and the Baroness stuck to him pertinaciously, notleaving his side a moment till she had got the money. Of course therewas no lecture. The Baroness was made to understand that visitors at acountry house in England could not be made to endure such aninfliction; but she succeeded in levying a contribution from Mrs. Montacute Jones, and there were rumours afloat that she got a sovereignout of Mr. Houghton. 

Lord Giblet had come with the intention of staying a week, but, the dayafter the attack made upon him by Mrs. Montacute Jones, news arrivedwhich made it absolutely necessary that he should go to Castle Gosslingat once. "We shall be so sorry to miss you, " said Mrs. Montacute Jones, whom he tried to avoid in making his general adieux, but who was agreat deal too clever not to catch him. 

"My father wants to see me about the property, you know. "

"Of course. There must be a great deal to do between you. " Everybodywho knew the affairs of the family was aware that the old Earl neverthought of consulting his son; and Mrs. Montacute Jones kneweverything. 

"Ever so much; therefore I must be off at once. My fellow is packing mythings now; and there is a train in an hour's time. "

"Did you hear from Olivia this morning?"

"Not to-day. "

"I hope you are as proud as you ought to be of having such a sweet girlbelonging to you. " Nasty old woman! What right had she to say thesethings? "I told Mrs. Green that you were here, and that you were comingto meet Olivia on the 27th. "

"What did she say?"

"She thinks you ought to see Mr. Green as you go through London. He isthe easiest, most good-natured man in the world. Don't you think youmight as well speak to him?" Who was Mrs. Montacute Jones that sheshould talk to him in this way? "I would send a telegram if I were you, to say I would be there to-night. "

"Perhaps it would be best, " said Lord Giblet. 

"Oh, certainly. Now mind, we expect you to dinner on the 27th. Is thereanybody else you'd specially like me to ask?"

"Nobody in particular, thank ye. "

"Isn't Jack De Baron a friend of yours?"

"Yes, --I like Jack pretty well. He thinks a great deal of himself, youknow. "

"All the young men do that now. At any rate I'll ask Jack to meet you. "Unfortunately for Lord Giblet Jack appeared in sight at this verymoment. "Captain De Baron, Lord Giblet has been good enough to say thathe'll come to my little place at Killancodlem on the 27th. Can you meethim there?"

"Delighted, Mrs. Jones. Who ever refuses to go to Killancodlem?"

"It isn't Killancodlem and its little comforts that are bringing hislordship. We shall be delighted to see him; but he is coming tosee----. Well I suppose it's no secret now, Lord Giblet?" Jack bowedhis congratulations, and Lord Giblet again blushed as red as a rose. 

Detestable old woman! Whither should he take himself? In what furthestpart of the Rocky Mountains should he spend the coming autumn? Ifneither Mr. Nor Mrs. Green called upon him for an explanation, whatpossible right could this abominable old harpy have to prey upon him?Just at the end of a cotillon he had said one word! He knew men who haddone ten times as much and had not been as severely handled. And he wassure that Jack De Baron had had something to do with it. Jack had beenhand in hand with Mrs. Jones at the making up of the Kappa-kappa. Butas he went to the station he reflected that Olivia Green was a verynice girl. If those ten thousand pounds were true they would be a greatcomfort to him. His mother was always bothering him to get married. Ifhe could bring himself to accept this as his fate he would be saved adeal of trouble. Spooning at Killancodlem, after all, would not be badfun. He almost told himself that he would marry Miss Green, were it notthat he was determined not to be dictated to by that old harridan. 

Many people came and went at Rudham Park, but among those who did notgo was Guss Mildmay. Aunt Julia, who had become thoroughly ashamed ofthe Baroness, had wished to take her departure on the third day; butGuss had managed to stop her. "What's the good of coming to a house forthree days? You said you meant to stay a week. They know what she isnow, and the harm's done. It was your own fault for bringing her. Idon't see why I'm to be thrown over because you've made a mistake abouta vulgar old woman. We've nowhere to go to till November, and now weare out of town for heaven's sake let us stay as long as we can. " Inthis way Guss carried her point, watching her opportunity for a littleconversation with her former lover. 

At last the opportunity came. It was not that Jack had avoided her, butthat it was necessary that she should be sure of having half-an-houralone with him. At last she made the opportunity, calling upon him towalk with her one Sunday morning when all other folk were inchurch--or, perhaps, in bed. "No; I won't go to church, " she had saidto Aunt Ju. "What is the use of your asking 'why not?' I won't go. Theyare quite accustomed at Rudham to people not going to church. I alwaysgo in a stiff house, but I won't go here. When you are at Rome youshould do as the Romans do. I don't suppose there'll be half-a-dozenthere out of the whole party. " Aunt Ju went to church as a matter ofcourse, and the opportunity of walking in the grounds with Jack wasaccomplished. "Are you going to Killancodlem?" she said. 

"I suppose I shall, for a few days. "

"Have you got anything to say before you go?"

"Nothing particular. "

"Of course I don't mean to me. "

"I've nothing particular to say to anybody just at present. Since I'vebeen here that wretched old Marquis has been my chief fate. It's quitea pleasure to hear him abuse the Dean. "

"And the Dean's daughter?"

"He has not much good to say about her either. "

"I'm not surprised at that, Jack. And what do you say to him about theDean's daughter?"

"Very little, Guss. "

"And what are you going to say to me about her?"

"Nothing at all, Guss. "

"She's all the world to you, I suppose?"

"What's the use of your saying that? In one sense she's nothing to me. My belief is that the only man she'll ever care a pin about is herhusband. At any rate she does not care a straw for me. "

"Nor you for her?"

"Well;--Yes I do. She's one of my pet friends. There's nobody I likebeing with better. "

"And if she were not married?"

"God knows what might have happened. I might have asked her to have me, because she has got money of her own. What's the use of coming back tothe old thing, Guss?"

"Money, money, money!"

"Nothing more unfair was ever said to anyone. Have I given any signs ofselling myself for money? Have I been a fortune hunter? No one has everfound me guilty of so much prudence. All I say is that having found outthe way to go to the devil myself, I won't take any young woman I likewith me there by marrying her. Heavens and earth! I can fancy myselfreturned from a wedding tour with some charmer, like you, without ashilling at my banker's, and beginning life at lodgings, somewhere downat Chelsea. Have you no imagination? Can't you see what it would be?Can't you fancy the stuffy sitting room with the horsehair chairs, andthe hashed mutton, and the cradle in the corner before long?"

"No I can't, " said Guss. 

"I can;--two cradles, and very little of the hashed mutton; and my ladywife with no one to pin her dress for her but the maid of all work withblack fingers. "

"It wouldn't be like that. "

"It very soon would, if I were to marry a girl without a fortune. And Iknow myself. I'm a very good fellow while the sun shines, but Icouldn't stand hardship. I shouldn't come home to the hashed mutton. Ishould dine at the club, even though I had to borrow the money. Ishould come to hate the cradle and its occupant, and the mother of itsoccupant. I should take to drink, and should blow my brains out just asthe second cradle came. I can see it all as plain as a pikestaff. Ioften lay awake the whole night and look at it. You and I, Guss, havemade a mistake from the beginning. Being poor people we have lived asthough we were rich. "

"I have never done so. "

"Oh yes, you have. Instead of dining out in Fitzroy Square and drinkingtea in Tavistock Place, you have gone to balls in Grosvenor Square andbeen presented at Court. "

"It wasn't my fault. "

"It has been so, and therefore you should have made up your mind tomarry 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, butsay that it was my fault. Of course it was my fault. Are you going toblow me up for that? I see a girl, and first I like her, and then Ilove her, and then I tell her so;--or else she finds it out without mytelling. 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. Wasthere ever a moment in which you thought that I thought of marryingyou?"

"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. Ihave been cautious, --for your sake!"

"Oh, Jack!"

"For your sake. When I first saw how it was going to be, --how it mightbe between you and me, --I took care to say outright that I couldn'tmarry unless a girl had money. "

"There will be something--when papa dies. "

"The most healthy middle-aged gentleman in London! There might be halfa dozen cradles, Guss, before that day. If it will do you good, youshall 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 togetherunder an old oak tree in the park. "Do you love me, Jack?" she thenasked, 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 youthat 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 agirl 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 didlove me once?" she said, persevering with her question. 

"Of course I did, " said Jack, who had no objection to making assurancesof 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, thenI 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 hisanswer. He knew that in that case he would not wish to pay the debt inthe only way in which it would be payable. "You mean then that youwould--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 anyduty well. If I had a wife of my own I should be sure to fall in lovewith somebody else's. "

"Lady George for instance. "

"No;--not Lady George. It would not be with somebody whom I had learnedto think the very best woman in all the world. I am very bad, but I'mjust 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 thisto-morrow!"

"To-morrow!"

"Well; yes; to-morrow. I must be a day or two in town, and there is notmuch doing here. I'm tired of the old Marquis who is the mostillnatured brute I ever came across in my life, and there's no more funto be made of the Baroness. I'm not sure but that she has the best ofthe fun. I didn't think there was an old woman in the world could get afive 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, --howwretched. 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 someday. I could put up with anything if you would let me hope. When youhave 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 willnever marry anybody else?"

"I never shall. "

"But will you promise me? If you will not say so much as that to me youmust be false indeed. When you have the twenty thousand pounds will youmarry me?"

"Oh, certainly. "

"And you can laugh about such a matter when I am pouring out my verysoul 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 willbe happy. If you won't, --I can only die. It may be play to you, butit's death to me. " He looked at her, and saw that she was quite inearnest. She was not weeping, but there was a drawn, heavy look abouther face which, in truth, touched his heart. Whatever might be hisfaults he was not a cruel man. He had defended himself without anyscruples of conscience when she had seemed to attack him, but now hedid not know how to refuse her request. It amounted to so little! "Idon't suppose it will ever take place, but I think I ought to allowmyself 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 manwhom 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 myselfto laugh now, Jack. Don't joke now. Heaven knows when we may see eachother 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 mightlose it; but she threw herself into his arms and buried her face uponhis bosom. 

Afterwards, when she was leaving him, she was very solemn in her mannerto him. "I will say good-bye now, Jack, for I shall hardly see youagain 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 herback to the garden among the flowers, and he wandered away by himselfacross the park. At last he had engaged himself. He knew that it wasso, and he knew that she would tell all her friends. Adelaide Houghtonwould know, and would, of course, congratulate him. There never couldbe 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, hewould be the young man engaged to marry Augusta Mildmay. And then hecould hardly now refuse to answer the letters which she would be sureto write to him, at least twice a week. There had been a previousperiod of letter-writing, but that had died a natural death throughutter neglect on his part. But now----. It might be as well that heshould take advantage of the new law and exchange into an Indianregiment. 

But, even in his present condition, his mind was not wholly occupiedwith Augusta Mildmay. The evil words which had been spoken to him ofMary had not been altogether fruitless. His cousin Adelaide had toldhim over and over again that Lady George was as other women, --by whichhis cousin had intended to say that Lady George was the same asherself. Augusta Mildmay had spoken of his Phoenix in the same strain. The Marquis had declared her to be utterly worthless. It was not thathe wished to think of her as they thought, or that he could be broughtso to think; but these suggestions, coming as they did from those whoknew how much he liked the woman, amounted to ridicule aimed againstthe purity of his worship. They told him, --almost told him, --that hewas afraid to speak of love to Lady George. Indeed he was afraid, andwithin his own breast he was in some sort proud of his fear. But, nevertheless, he was touched by their ridicule. He and Mary hadcertainly been dear friends. Certainly that friendship had given greatumbrage to her husband. Was he bound to keep away from her because ofher husband's anger? He knew that they two were not living together. Heknew 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 LadyGeorge. He had no purpose as to anything that he would say to her, buthe was resolved that he would see her. If then some word warmer thanany he had yet spoken should fall from him, he would gather from heranswer what her feelings were towards him. In going back to London onthe morrow he must pass by Brotherton, and he would make hisarrangements 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 muchimproved in wit or gaiety when Mrs. Montacute Jones, Lord Giblet, andJack de Baron had gone away, and Canon Holdenough and his wife, withMr. Groschut, had come in their places. This black influx, as LordBrotherton called it, had all been due to consideration for hisLordship. Mr. De Baron thought that his guest would like to see, at anyrate, one of his own family, and Lady Alice Holdenough was the only onewhom he could meet. As to Mr. Groschut, he was the Dean's bitterestenemy, and would, therefore, it was thought, be welcome. The Bishop hadbeen asked, as Mr. De Baron was one who found it expedient to makesacrifices to respectability; but, as was well known, the Bishop neverwent anywhere except to clerical houses. Mr. Groschut, who was ayounger man, knew that it behoved him to be all things to all men, andthat he could not be efficacious among sinners unless he would allowhimself to be seen in their paths. Care was, of course, taken thatLady Alice should find herself alone with her brother. It was probablyexpected that the Marquis would be regarded as less of an ogre in thecountry if it were known that he had had communication with one of thefamily 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 verywicked, 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 tothe 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. Heis so cowed by that man whose daughter he has married that he doesn'tknow how to call his soul his own. "

"I don't think that, Brotherton. He never goes to the deanery to staythere. "

"Then what makes him quarrel with me? He ought to know which side hisbread 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 thatside and say so. I will regard none of my family as on friendly termswith me who associate with the Dean of Brotherton or his daughter afterwhat took place up in London. " Lady Alice felt this to be a distinctthreat to herself, but she allowed it to pass by without notice. Shewas quite sure that the Canon would not quarrel with the Dean out ofdeference to his brother-in-law. "The fact is they should all have goneaway as I told them, and especially when George had married the girland got her money. It don't make much difference to me, but it willmake a deal to him. "

"How is Popenjoy, Brotherton?" asked Lady Alice, anxious to change theconversation. 

"I don't know anything about him. "

"What!"

"He has gone back to Italy with his mother. How can I tell? Ask theDean. I don't doubt that he knows all about him. He has peoplefollowing 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 Ithink 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'llnever forgive him. I fancy it was he and Sarah between them. They'llfind that they will have had the worst of it. The poor little beggarhadn'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 loveto my mother. Tell her that if I don't see her it is all George'sfault. I am not going to the house while he's there. " To the Canon hehardly spoke a word, nor was the Canon very anxious to talk to him. Butit became known throughout the country that the Marquis had met hissister 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 sameafternoon. 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 oflife unless a man has made some fixed line for himself. Some men caneat and drink a great deal, but I haven't got stomach for that. Somemen play cards; but I didn't begin early enough to win money, and Idon't like losing it. The sort of things that a man does care for dieaway 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 litterof 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 tocare 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 Ithink I should have had myself bled to death in a warm bath. But Iwon't now. That man's daughter shan't be Lady Brotherton if I can helpit. 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? Doesyour 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 tofinish 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 wonthere. I like her. If my wife would die and he would die, we might getup another match and cut out Lord George after all. " This speculationwas too deep even for Mr. De Baron, who laughed and shuffled himselfabout, and got out of the room. 

"Wouldn't you have liked to be a marchioness, " he said, some hoursafterwards, to Mrs. Houghton. She was in the habit of sitting by himand talking to him late in the evening, while he was sipping hiscuraçoa and soda water, and had become accustomed to hear odd thingsfrom him. He liked her because he could say what he pleased to her, andshe would laugh and listen, and show no offence. But this last questionwas very odd. Of course she thought that it referred to the oldovertures made to her by Lord George; but in that case, had she marriedLord George, she could only have been made a marchioness by his owndeath, --by that and by the death of the little Popenjoy of whom she hadheard 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 hadmarried 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? Suchthings 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 sayso. "

"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 tenyears 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 knowdid 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 thatlittle----" He did not fill up the blank, but Mrs. Houghton quiteunderstood that she was to suppose everything that was bad. "I neverheard 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 givenus 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 hisname. 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 housekeepingwithout 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, ifafter all, you should be Marchioness of Brotherton some day? After thatwon'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, ifthe 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 whatI asked. "

"I might regret it more if I did. " Then she took herself off, enquiringin her own mind whether it might still be possible that she should everpreside in the drawing-room at Manor Cross. Had he not been very muchin 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 hishost, that night. 

"You won't be going early. "

"No;--I never do anything early. But I don't like a fuss just as I amgoing. I'll get down and drive away to catch some train. My man willmanage it all. "

"You go to London?"

"I shall be in Italy within a week. I hate Italy, but I think I hateEngland 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 nothingelse to tell. I never write letters except to Knox, and very few tohim. 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 inItalian. The man said that he had heard. A letter had reached him thatafternoon from London. The letter had declared that little Popenjoy wassinking. "That will do Bonni, " he said. "I will get into bed bymyself. " Then he sat down and thought of himself, and his life, and hisprospects, --and of the prospects of his enemies. 

CHAPTER LIII. 

POOR POPENJOY!

On the following morning the party at Rudham Park were assembled atbreakfast between ten and eleven. It was understood that the Marquiswas gone, --or going. The Mildmays were still there with the Baroness, and the Houghtons, and the black influx from the cathedral town. A fewother new comers had arrived on the previous day. Mr. Groschut, who wassitting next to the Canon, had declared his opinion that, after all, the Marquis of Brotherton was a very affable nobleman. "He's civilenough, " said the Canon, "when people do just what he wants. "

"A man of his rank and position of course expects to have somedeference paid to him. "

"A man of his rank and position should be very careful of the rights ofothers, Mr. Groschut. "

"I'm afraid his brother did make himself troublesome. You're one of thefamily, 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 hisrank!"

"You probably don't know what took place in that room. I'm sure Idon't. But I'd rather trust the Dean than the Marquis any day. TheDean's a man!"

"But is he a clergyman?"

"Of course he is; and a father. If he had been very much in the wrongwe 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 thandegrade his sacred calling. " Mr. Groschut had hoped to extract from theCanon some expression adverse to the Dean, and to be able to assurehimself that he had enrolled a new ally. 

"Poor dear little fellow!" aunt Ju was saying to Mrs. Holdenough. Ofcourse 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 thinkone always does take things for granted till somebody proves that it isnot so. "

"The Dean, I take it, has given it up altogether, " said Mrs. Houghtonto 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 theprevious evening, and was now told that he was gone. Lady Brabazon fora week or two had been quite sure that Popenjoy was not Popenjoy, beingat that time under the influence of a very strong letter from LadySarah. But, since that, a general idea had come to prevail that theDean was wrong-headed, and Lady Brabazon had given in her adhesion toPopenjoy. She had gone so far as to call at Scumberg's, and to leave abox of bonbons. 

"I hope so, Mrs. Houghton; I do hope so. Quarrels are such dreadfulthings in families. Brotherton isn't, perhaps, all that he might havebeen. "

"Not a bad fellow, though, after all. "

"By no means, Mrs. Houghton, and quite what he ought to be inappearance. 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 wasgreat interference on his part, very great interference. I won't saythat I like foreigners myself. I should be very sorry if Brabazon wereto marry a foreigner. But if he chooses to do so I don't see why he isto be told that his heir isn't his heir. They say she is a very worthywoman, and devoted to him. " At this moment the butler came in andwhispered a word to Mr. De Baron, who immediately got up from hischair. "So my nephew hasn't gone, " said Lady Brabazon. "That was amessage from him. I heard his name. "

Her ears had been correct. The summons which Mr. De Baron obeyed hadcome from the Marquis. He went upstairs at once, and found LordBrotherton sitting in his dressing-gown, with a cup of chocolate beforehim, and a bit of paper in his hand. He did not say a word, but handedthe paper, which was a telegram, to Mr. De Baron. As the message was inItalian, and as Mr. De Baron did not read the language, he was at aloss. "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 neverhave to think what he'll do with himself. They'd almost told me that itmust 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 whatpeople call grief. I can't say that I was particularly fond of him, orthat 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;--itpinches me. "

"Of course it does. "

"It will be such a triumph to the Dean, and George. That's about theworst of it. But they haven't got it yet. Though I should be the mostmiserable dog on earth I'll go on living as long as I can keep my bodyand soul together. I'll have another son yet, if one is to be had forlove or money. They shall have trouble enough before they findthemselves at Manor Cross. "

"The Dean'll be dead before that time;--and so shall I, " said Mr. DeBaron. 

"Poor little boy! You never saw him. They didn't bring him in when youwere 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, accordingto English fashions. " Mr. De Baron stared. "They had something to standupon, but, --damn it, --they went about it in such a dirty way! It don'tmatter now, you know, but you needn't repeat all this. "

"Not a word, " said Mr. De Baron, wondering why such a communicationshould have been made to him. 

"And there was plenty of ground for a good fight. I hardly know whethershe 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 Deanknows quite as much about it as I do;--very likely more. What a rumpusthere 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'dconcealed 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 bePopenjoy 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 aMarchioness. "

"But he'd have been hung. "

"Then I wish he'd done it. I wonder how it would have gone. There wasnobody 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'moff. I wouldn't have them condoling with me, and rejoicing in theirsleeves, for a thousand pounds. Tell Holdenough, or my sister;--that'llbe enough. Good-bye. If you want ever to see me again, you must come toComo. " Then Mr. De Baron took his leave, and the Marquis prepared forhis departure. 

As he was stepping into the carriage at a side door he was greeted byMr. Groschut. "So your Lordship is leaving us, " said the Chaplain. TheMarquis looked at him, muttered something, and snarled as he hurried upthe step of the carriage. "I'm sorry that we are to lose your Lordshipso soon. " Then there was another snarl. "I had one word I wanted tosay. "

"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 thecoachman, and the carriage was driven off, leaving Mr. Groschut on thepath. 

Before lunch everybody in the house knew that poor little Popenjoy wasdead, and that the Dean had, in fact, won the battle, --though not inthe way that he had sought to win it. Lord Brotherton had, after afashion, been popular at Rudham, but, nevertheless, it was felt by themall that Lady George was a much greater woman to-day than she had beenyesterday. It was felt also that the Dean was in the ascendant. TheMarquis had been quite agreeable, making love to the ladies, and fairlycivil to the gentlemen, --excepting Mr. Groschut; but he certainly wasnot a man likely to live to eighty. He was married, and, as wasgenerally understood, separated from his wife. They might all live tosee Lady George Marchioness of Brotherton and a son of hers LordPopenjoy. 

"Dead!" said Lady Brabazon, when Lady Alice, with sad face, whisperedto 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. DeBaron afterwards assured Lady Brabazon that the poor father had beenvery much cut up. Great pity was expressed throughout the party, butthere 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 onhis way up to town, and kept his sorrow, if he felt it, very much tohimself. Soon after his arrival at Scumberg's, at which place they wereobliged to take him in as he was still paying for his rooms, he made itknown that he should start for Italy in a day or two. On that night andon the next he did not go out in his brougham, nor did he give anyoffence to Mrs. Walker. London was as empty as London ever is, andnobody came to see him. For two days he did not leave his room, thesame room in which the Dean had nearly killed him, and received nobodybut his tailor and his hair-dresser. I think that, in his way, he didgrieve for the child who was gone, and who, had he lived, would havebeen the intended heir of his title and property. They must now all gofrom him to his enemies! And the things themselves were to himself ofso very little value! Living alone at Scumberg's was not a pleasantlife. Even going out in his brougham at nights was not very pleasant tohim. He could do as he liked at Como, and people wouldn't grumble;--butwhat was there even at Como that he really liked to do? He had a halfworn out taste for scenery which he had no longer energy to gratify byvariation. It had been the resolution of his life to live withoutcontrol, and now, at four and forty, he found that the life he hadchosen was utterly without attraction. He had been quite in earnest inthose regrets as to shooting, hunting, and the duties of an Englishcountry life. Though he was free from remorse, not believing inanything good, still he was open to a conviction that had he done whatother people call good, he would have done better for himself. Something of envy stirred him as he read the records of a noblemanwhose political life had left him no moment of leisure for his privateaffairs;--something of envy when he heard of another whose cattle werethe fattest in the land. He was connected with Lord Grassangrains, andhad always despised that well-known breeder of bullocks;--but he couldunderstand now that Lord Grassangrains should wish to live, whereaslife to him was almost unbearable. Lord Grassangrains probably had agood appetite. 

On the last morning of his sojourn at Scumberg's he received two orthree letters which he would willingly have avoided by running away hadit been possible. The first he opened was from his old mother, who hadnot herself troubled him much with letters for some years past. It wasas 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 asbeing useless. Of course he would not answer it. They all knew that henever answered their letters. As to the final petition he had nothingto 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 histhinking it was almost impossible that what his brother said should betrue. Why should he be sorry, --he that had done his utmost to provethat Popenjoy was not Popenjoy? He crunched the letter up and cast iton one side. Of course he would not answer that. 

The third was from a new correspondent; and that also the reader shallsee;--

 "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-paperbasket, telling himself that birds of that feather very often did fallout with one another. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

JACK DE BARON'S VIRTUE. 

We must now go back to Jack De Baron, who left Rudham Park the same dayas the Marquis, --having started before the news of Lord Popenjoy'sdeath had been brought down stairs by Mr. De Baron. Being only Jack DeBaron he had sent to Brotherton for a fly, and in that conveyance hadhad himself taken to the "Lion, " arriving there three or four hoursbefore the time at which he purposed to leave the town. Indeed hisarrangements had intentionally been left so open that he might if heliked remain the night, --or if he pleased, remain a week at the "Lion. "He thought it not improbable that the Dean might ask him to dinner, and, if so, he certainly would dine with the Dean. 

He was very serious, --considering who he was, we may almost say solemn, as he sat in the fly. It was the rule of his life to cast all caresfrom him, and his grand principle to live from hand to mouth. He wasalmost a philosopher in his epicureanism, striving always that nothingshould trouble him. But now he had two great troubles, which he couldnot throw off from him. In the first place, after having strivenagainst it for the last four or five years with singular success, hehad in a moment of weakness allowed himself to become engaged to GussMildmay. She had gone about it so subtlely that he had found himselfmanacled almost before he knew that the manacles were there. He hadfallen into the trap of an hypothesis, and now felt that thepreliminary conditions on which he had seemed to depend could neveravail him. He did not mean to marry Guss Mildmay. He did not supposethat she thought he meant to marry her. He did not love her, and he didnot believe very much in her love for him. But Guss Mildmay, havingfought her battle in the world for many years with but indifferentsuccess, now felt that her best chance lay in having a bond upon herold lover. He ought not to have gone to Rudham when he knew that shewas to be there. He had told himself that before, but he had not likedto give up the only chance which had come in his way of being near LadyGeorge since she had left London. And now he was an engaged man, --aposition which had always been to him full of horrors. He had run hisbark on to the rock, which it had been the whole study of hisnavigation to avoid. He had committed the one sin which he had alwaysdeclared to himself that he never would commit. This made him unhappy. 

And he was uneasy also, --almost unhappy, --respecting Lady George. People whom he knew to be bad had told him things respecting her whichhe certainly did not believe, but which he did not find it compatiblewith his usual condition of life altogether to disbelieve. If he hadever loved any woman he loved her. He certainly respected her as he hadnever respected any other young woman. He had found the pleasure to bederived from her society to be very different from that which had comefrom his friendship with others. With her he could be perfectlyinnocent, and at the same time completely happy. To dance with her, toride with her, to walk with her, to sit with the privilege of lookingat her, was joy of itself, and required nothing beyond. It was adelight to him to have any little thing to do for her. When his dailylife was in any way joined with hers there was a brightness in it whichhe thoroughly enjoyed though he did not quite understand. When thataffair of the dance came, in which Lord George had declared hisjealousy, he had been in truth very unhappy because she was unhappy, and he had been thoroughly angry with the man, not because the man hadinterfered with his own pleasures, but because of the injury and theinjustice done to the wife. He found himself wounded, really hurt, because she had been made subject to calumny. When he tried to analysethe feeling he could not understand it. It was so different fromanything that had gone before! He was sure that she liked him, and yetthere was a moment in which he thought that he would purposely keep outof her way for the future, lest he might be a trouble to her. He lovedher so well that his love for a while almost made him unselfish. 

And yet, --yet he might be mistaken about her. It had been the theory ofhis life that young married women become tired of their husbands, andone of his chief doctrines that no man should ever love in such a wayas to believe in the woman he loves. After so many years, was he togive up his philosophy? Was he to allow the ground to be cut from underhis feet by a young creature of twenty-one who had been brought up in acounty town? Was he to run away because a husband had taken it into hishead to be jealous? All the world had given him credit for hisbehaviour at the Kappa-kappa. He had gathered laurels, --very muchbecause he was supposed to be the lady's lover. He had never boasted toothers of the lady's favour; but he knew that she liked him, and he hadtold himself that he would be poor-spirited if he abandoned her. 

He drove up to the "Lion" and ordered a room. He did not know whetherhe should want it, but he would at any rate bespeak it. And he orderedhis dinner. Come what come might, he thought that he would dine andsleep at Brotherton that day. Finding himself so near to Lady George, he would not leave her quite at once. He asked at the inn whether theDean was in Brotherton. Yes; the Dean was certainly at the deanery. Hehad been seen about in the city that morning. The inhabitants, whenthey talked about Brotherton, always called it the city. And were LordGeorge and Lady George at the deanery? In answer to this question, thelandlady with something of a lengthened face declared that Lady Georgewas with her papa, but that Lord George was at Manor Cross. Then JackDe Baron strolled out towards the Close. 

It was a little after one when he found himself at the cathedral door, and thinking that the Dean and his daughter might be at lunch, he wentinto the building, so that he might get rid of half an hour. He had notoften been in cathedrals of late years, and now looked about him withsomething of awe. He could remember that when he was a child he hadbeen brought here to church, and as he stood in the choir with theobsequient verger at his elbow he recollected how he had got throughthe minutes of a long sermon, --a sermon that had seemed to be verylong, --in planning the way in which, if left to himself, he would climbto the pinnacle which culminated over the bishop's seat, and thencemake his way along the capitals and vantages of stonework, till hewould ascend into the triforium and thus become lord and master of theold building. How much smaller his ambitions had become since then, andhow much less manly. "Yes, sir; his Lordship is here every Sunday whenhe is at the palace, " said the verger. "But his Lordship is ailingnow. "

"And the Dean?"

"The Dean always comes once a day to service when he is here; but theDean has been much away of late. Since Miss Mary's marriage the Deanisn't in Brotherton as much as formerly. "

"I know the Dean. I'm going to his house just now. They like him inBrotherton, I suppose?"

"That's according to their way of thinking, sir. We like him. I supposeyou heard, sir, there was something of a row between him and MissMary's brother-in-law!" Jack said that he had heard of it. "There'sthem as say he was wrong. "

"I say he was quite right. "

"That's what we think, sir. It's got about that his Lordship said somebad word of Miss Mary. A father wasn't to stand that because he's aclergyman, was he, sir?"

"The Dean did just what you or I would do. "

"That's just it, sir. That's what we all say. Thank you, sir. You won'tsee Prince Edward's monument, sir? Gentlemen always do go down to thecrypt. " Jack wouldn't see the monument to-day, and having paid hishalf-crown, was left to wander about alone through the aisles. 

How would it have been with him if his life had been different; if hehad become, perhaps, a clergyman and had married Mary Lovelace?--or ifhe had become anything but what he was with her for his wife? He knewthat his life had been a failure, that the best of it was gone, andthat even the best of it had been unsatisfactory. Many people likedhim, but was there any one who loved him? In all the world there wasbut one person that he loved, and she was the wife of another man. Ofone thing at this moment he was quite sure, --that he would never woundher ears by speaking of his love. Would it not be better that he shouldgo away and see her no more? The very tone in which the verger hadspoken of Miss Mary had thrown to the winds those doubts which had comefrom the teaching of Adelaide Houghton and Guss Mildmay. If she hadbeen as they said, would even her father have felt for her as he didfeel, and been carried away by his indignation at the sound of an evilword?

But he had asked after the Dean at the hotel, and had told the vergerof his acquaintance, and had been seen by many in the town. He couldnot now leave the place without calling. So resolving he knocked atlast at the deanery door, and was told that the Dean was at home. Heasked for the Dean, and not for Lady George, and was shown into thelibrary. In a minute the Dean was with him. "Come in and have somelunch, " said the Dean. "We have this moment sat down. Mary will bedelighted to see you, --and so am I. " Of course he went in to lunch, andin a moment was shaking hands with Mary, who in truth was delighted tosee him. 

"You've come from Rudham?" asked the Dean. 

"This moment. "

"Have they heard the news there?"

"What news?"

"Lord Brotherton is there, is he not?"

"I think he left to-day. He was to do so. I heard no news. " He lookedacross to Mary, and saw that her face was sad and solemn. 

"The child that they called Lord Popenjoy is dead, " said the Dean. Hewas neither sad nor solemn. He could not control the triumph of hisvoice as he told the news. 

"Poor little boy!" said Mary. 

"Dead!" exclaimed Jack. 

"I've just had a telegram from my lawyer in London. Yes; he's out ofthe way. Poor little fellow! As sure as I sit here he was not LordPopenjoy. "

"I never understood anything about it, " said Jack. 

"But I did. Of course the matter is at rest now. I'm not the man togrudge any one what belongs to him; but I do not choose that any onebelonging to me should be swindled. If she were to have a son now, hewould be the heir. "

"Oh, papa, do not talk in that way. "

"Rights are rights, and the truth is the truth. Can any one wish thatsuch a property and such a title should go to the child of an Italianwoman whom no one has seen or knows?"

"Let it take its chance now, papa. "

"Of course it must take its chance; but your chances must beprotected. "

"Papa, he was at any rate my nephew. "

"I don't know that. In law, I believe, he was no such thing. But hehas gone, and we need think of him no further. " He was very triumphant. There was an air about him as though he had already won the great stakefor which he had been playing. But in the midst of it all he was verycivil to Jack De Baron. "You will stay and dine with us to-day, CaptainDe Baron?"

"Oh, do, " said Mary. 

"We can give you a bed if you will sleep here. "

"Thanks. My things are at the hotel, and I will not move them. I willcome and dine if you'll have me. "

"We shall be delighted. We can't make company of you, because no one iscoming. I shouldn't wonder if Lord George rode over. He will if hehears of this. Of course he'll know to-morrow; but perhaps they willnot have telegraphed to him. I should go out to Manor Cross, only Idon't quite like to put my foot in that man's house. " Jack could notbut feel that the Dean treated him almost as though he were one of thefamily. "I rather think I shall ride out and risk it. You won't mind myleaving you?" Of course Jack declared that he would not for worlds bein the way. "Mary will play Badminton with you, if you like it. Perhapsyou can get hold of Miss Pountner and Grey; and make up a game. " Mr. Grey was one of the minor canons, and Miss Pountner was the canon'sdaughter. 

"We shall do very well, papa. I'm not mad after Badminton, and I daresay we shall manage without Miss Pountner. "

The Dean went off, and in spite of the feud did ride over to ManorCross. His mind was so full of the child's death and of the all butcertainty of coming glory which now awaited his daughter, that he couldnot keep himself quiet. It seemed to him that a just Providence hadinterfered to take that child away. And as the Marquis hated him, sodid he hate the Marquis. He had been willing at first to fight thebattle fairly without personal animosity. On the Marquis's firstarrival he had offered him the right hand of fellowship. He rememberedit all accurately, --how the Marquis had on that occasion ill-used andinsulted him. No man knew better than the Dean when he was well-treatedand when ill-treated. And then this lord had sent for him for the verypurpose of injuring and wounding him through his daughter's name. Hiswrath on that occasion had not all expended itself in the blow. Afterthat word had been spoken he was the man's enemy for ever. There couldbe no forgiveness. He could not find room in his heart for even a sparkof pity because the man had lost an only child. Had not the man triedto do worse than kill his only child--his daughter? Now thepseudo-Popenjoy was dead, and the Dean was in a turmoil of triumph. Itwas essential to him that he should see his son-in-law. His son-in-lawmust be made to understand what it would be to be the father of thefuture Marquis of Brotherton. 

"I think I'll just step across to the inn, " said Jack, when the Deanhad left them. 

"And we'll have a game of croquet when you come back. I do likecroquet, though papa laughs at me. I think I like all games. It is sonice to be doing something. "

Jack sauntered back to the inn, chiefly that he might have a furtheropportunity of considering what he would say to her. And he did make uphis mind. He would play croquet with all his might, and behave to heras though she were his dearest sister. 

CHAPTER LV. 

HOW COULD HE HELP IT?

When he returned she was out in the garden with her hat on and a malletin her hand; but she was seated on one of a cluster of garden-chairsunder a great cedar tree. "I think it's almost too hot to play, " shesaid. It was an August afternoon, and the sun was very bright in theheavens. Jack was of course quite willing to sit under the cedar-treeinstead of playing croquet. He was prepared to do whatever she wished. If he could only know what subjects she would prefer, he would talkabout them and nothing else. "How do you think papa is looking?" sheasked. 

"He always looks well. "

"Ah; he was made dreadfully unhappy by that affair up in London. Henever would talk about it to me; but he was quite ill while he thoughtthe 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 heis elated. I wish he would not be so glad because that poor little boyhas 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 asanxious for my husband as any other woman. If it should come fairly, asit 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'tthink that people should long for things like this. If they can't keepfrom wishing them, they should keep their wishes to themselves. It isso like coveting other people's goods. Don't you think we ought to keepthe 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 fromgetting a title which wasn't his own. That wouldn't be breaking thecommandment. "

"Of course I am not finding fault with papa. He would not for worldstry to take anything that wasn't his, --or mine. But it's so sad aboutthe little boy. "

"I don't think the Marquis cared for him. "

"Oh, he must have cared! His only child! And the poor mother;--thinkhow 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 thingto say so. Wouldn't you like to smoke a cigar? You may, you know. Papaalways 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 hiscase 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 tellyou a secret, Captain De Baron. Mr. Groschut is my pet abomination. IfI hate anybody, I hate him. I think I do really hate Mr. Groschut. Ialmost 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 andmade a grimace as the Houghtons were named. "You used to be very fondof Adelaide. "

"Very fond is a long word. We were by way of being friends; but we arefriends no longer. "

"Tell me what she did to offend you, Lady George? I know there wassomething. "

"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 sayso. 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 Londonwho does that, you'll have a great many enemies. "

"And the hair at the back of her head got bigger and bigger everymonth. Papa always quotes something about Dr. Fell when he's asked whyhe 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. Andnow, if you please, we won't talk of her any more. Who else was thereat 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 youdo. "

"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 totell 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 Iwould 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 totrust her, anxious as he was that she should be his real friend hecould hardly bring himself to tell her all that had taken place atRudham Park during the last day or two. Up to that time he never hadgiven Miss Mildmay any right. So, at least, he still assured himself. But now, --it certainly was different now. He desired of all things tobe perfectly honest with Lady George, --to be even innocent in all thathe said to her; but--just for this once--he was obliged to deviate intoa 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 comeabout. 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 samething, Captain De Baron. "

"How am I to answer that? How am I to tell it all without seeming toboast. When it first came to pass that we knew ourselves well enough toadmit of such a thing being said between us, I told her that marriagewas impossible. Is not that enough?"

"I suppose so, " said Lady George, who remembered well every word thatGus Mildmay had said to herself. "I don't know why I should enquireabout 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. Perhapsit has been unfortunate. "

"Most unfortunate!" Then again there was a pause, during which he wenton smoking while she played with her mallet. "I wish I could tell youeverything 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. Onewants sometimes to tell the whole truth, but it won't come out. I amengaged 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 otherperson that I care for, and I never can care for any one else. There isone 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, nevercome 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 marryingher unless he loves her. It is different with a girl. She may come tolove a man. She may love a man better than all the world, though shehardly knew him when she married him. If he is good to her, she willcertainly do so. But if a man marries a woman without loving her, hewill 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 tohave some one to trust, even though I should be blamed as you areblaming me. It simply means that I can marry no one else. "

"But you love some one?" She felt when she was asking the question thatit was indiscreet. When the assertion was made she had not told herselfthat she was the woman. She had not thought it. For an instant she hadtried to imagine who that other one could be. But yet, when the wordswere out of her mouth, she knew that they were indiscreet. Was she notindiscreet in holding any such conversation with a man who was not herbrother or even her cousin? She wished that he were her cousin, so thatshe might become the legitimate depository of his secrets. Though shewas scolding him for his misdoings, yet she hardly liked him the lessfor them. She thought that she did understand how it was, and shethought that the girl was more in fault than the man. It was not tillthe words had passed her mouth and the question had been asked that shefelt 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 sinceI knew you I have had no pleasure but in being with you, and talking toyou, and looking at you?"

"Captain De Baron!" As she spoke she rose from her seat as though shewould at once leave him and go back into the house. 

"You must hear me now. You must not go without hearing me. I will notsay 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? Praydo 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 sayanother word that you can take amiss. I wish I could tell you all myfeelings. 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 asyllable to you that I might not have spoken to my sister. Have I askedyou to love me? I have not thought it possible that you should do so. Iknow 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 anangel to me. If I could write poetry, I should write about you. If everI build castles in the air and think what I might have been if thingshad gone well with me, I try to fancy then that I might have had youfor a wife. That is not wicked. That is not a crime. Can you be angrywith 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 reallyloved 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 sureof that. And he wished her to be still an angel. But he could notunderstand how any angel could passionately love Lord GeorgeGermain, --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 ofMrs. Jones' drawing-room, reprimanding her before all the guests forher conduct in dancing the Kappa-kappa? But this was a matter not opento 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. Ithink 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? Howcould 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 youwill surely forgive me, if I never speak of it again. You will forgiveme and understand me, and when hereafter you see me as a middle-agedman about town, you will partly know why it is so. Oh dear; I forgot totell you. We had another old friend of yours at Rudham, --a veryparticular friend. " Of course she had forgiven him and now she wasthankful to him for his sudden breach of the subject; but she was notherself strong enough immediately to turn to another matter. "Who doyou 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 tobring her, and the joke was that she did us all out of our money. Shegot 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 aman so shot in my life. He sent me to look for the money, and she neverleft 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 tomarry Miss Patmore Green after all. "

"Poor Lord Giblet!"

"And poor Miss Patmore Green. I don't know which will have the worst ofit. They can practice the Kappa-kappa together for consolation. It isall Mrs. Jones' doing, and she is determined that he shan't escape. I'mto 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 afriend of mine; so I'm bound to lend a hand. And now, Lady George, Ithink 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 worldmight not hear, --except this once, --to thank you. " Then he seized herhand 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 asa brother. "

"I will always regard you as a friend. "

"Regard is a cold word, but I will make the most of it. Here is yourfather. "

At this moment they were coming from a side path on to the lawn, and asthey did so the Dean appeared upon the terrace through the deanery roomwindow. With the Dean was Lord George, and Mary, as soon as she sawhim, rushed up to him and threw her arms round his neck. "Oh George, dear, dearest George, papa said that perhaps you would come. You aregoing to stay?"

"He will dine here, " said the Dean. 

"Only dine!"

"I cannot stay longer to-day, " said Lord George, with his eye uponCaptain 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, arenewed uneasiness came upon him. It could not be right that the manfrom whose arms he had rescued her on the night of the ball should beleft alone with her a whole afternoon in the Deanery Garden! She wasthoughtless as a child;--but it seemed to him that the Dean was asthoughtless as his daughter. The Dean must know what people had said. The Dean had himself seen that horrid dance, with its results. Theawful accusation made by the Marquis had been uttered in the Dean'sears. Because that had been wicked and devilishly false, the Dean'sfolly was not the less. Lord George embraced his wife, but she knewfrom the touch of his arm round her waist that there was somethingwrong 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. "Ican'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 wouldcome, " she said, hanging on him. 

"I did not like not to see you after the news. It is important. Youmust feel that. "

"Poor little boy! Don't you grieve for them. "

"Yes, I do. Brotherton has treated me very badly, but I do feel forhim. 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 shehardly knew how to talk to him. 

"Popenjoy is dead, --if he was Popenjoy. I suppose he was; but that doesnot 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 bePopenjoy. 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 allthink at Manor Cross that you should go over at once. "

"Are you going to stay there, George. Of course I will go if you aregoing 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 myvisit with papa, --as much as I had a right to expect. And, oh George, Ido so long to be with you again. " Then she hung upon him and kissedhim. It must have been impossible that he should be really jealous, though Captain De Baron had been there the whole day. Nor was hejealous, except with that Cæsarian jealousy lest she should beunfortunate enough to cause a whisper derogatory to his maritaldignity. 

The matter had been fully discussed at Manor Cross; and the Manor Crossconclave, meaning of course Lady Sarah, had thought that Mary should bebrought to the house, if only for a day or two, if only that people inBrothershire might know that there had been no quarrel between her andher husband. That she should have visited her father might beconsidered as natural. It need not be accounted as quite unnatural thatshe should have done so without her husband. But now, --now it wasimperative that Brothershire should know that the mother of the futureLord Popenjoy was on good terms with the family. "Of course herposition is very much altered, " Lady Susanna had said in private toLady Amelia. The old Marchioness felt a real longing to see "dearMary, " and to ask becoming questions as to her condition. And it wasquite understood that she was not to be required to make any cloaks orpetticoats. The garments respecting which she must be solicitous forthe next six months would, as the Marchioness felt, be of a very augustnature. Oh, that the future baby might be born at Manor Cross! TheMarchioness did not see why Lord George should leave the house at all. Brotherton couldn't know anything about it in Italy, and if George mustgo, Mary might surely be left there for the event. The Marchionessdeclared that she could die happy if she might see another Popenjoyborn in the purple of Manor Cross. 

"When am I to go?" asked Mary. She was sitting now close to him, andthe 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, thenof course you will take me with you. " There was a reality about thiswhich conquered him, even in spite of Captain De Baron, so that he camedown 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 DeBaron would of course have preferred that Lord George should haveremained at Manor Cross, but under no circumstances could he have hadmuch more to say to the lady. They understood each other now. He wasquite certain that any evil thing spoken of her had been sheer slander, and yet he had managed to tell her everything of himself withoutsubjecting himself to her undying anger. When she left thedrawing-room, the conversation turned again upon the great Popenjoyquestion, and from certain words which fell from the Dean, Jack wasenabled to surmise that Lord George had reason to hope that an heirmight be born to him. "He does not look as though he would live longhimself, " 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 hedoesn't look like it. " Lord George went away early, and Jack De Baronthought it prudent to retire at the same time. "So you're goingto-morrow, dear, " said the Dean. 

"Yes, papa. Is it not best?"

"Oh yes. Nothing could be worse than a prolonged separation. He meansto 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 ownway in coming here. Otherwise he would have triumphed. He would havetaken you away, and you and I would have been separated. Of course youare bound to obey him;--but there must be limits. He would have takenyou away as though in disgrace, and that I could not stand. There willbe 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 heever gets over any feeling. Having no home of his own why does he notbring 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 ina boat together, as he and I are because of you, all that feelingshould go to the wind. He ought not to be more ashamed to sit at mytable and drink of my cup than you are. If it were all well between usand he had the property, should I scruple to go and stay at ManorCross. "

"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 Godforbid that I should set you against him. He is not a rake nor aspendthrift, 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 heloves you. "

"I am sure he does. "

"But I can't help feeling sad at parting with you. I suppose I shall atany rate be able to see you up in town next season. " The Dean as hesaid this was almost weeping. 

Mary, when she was alone in her room, of course thought much of CaptainDe Baron and his story. It was a pity, --a thousand pities, --that itshould be so. It was to be regretted, --much regretted, --that he hadbeen induced to tell his story. She was angry with herself because shehad been indiscreet, and she was still angry, --a little angry withhim, --because he had yielded to the temptation. But there had beensomething sweet in it. She was sorry, grieved in her heart of heartsthat he should love her. She had never striven to gain his love. Shehad never even thought of it. It ought not to have been so. She shouldhave thought of it; she should not have shown herself to be so pleasedwith his society. But yet, --yet it was sweet. Then there came upon hersome memory of her old dreams, before she had been engaged to LordGeorge. She knew how vain had been those dreams, because she now lovedLord George with her whole heart; but yet she remembered them, and feltas though they had come true with a dreamy half truth. And she broughtto mind all those flattering words with which he had spoken herpraises, --how he had told her that she was an angel, too good and pureto be supposed capable of evil; how he had said that in his castles inthe air he would still think of her as his wife. Surely a man may buildwhat 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 alsothat his was the proper way of making love. And then she thought ofGuss Mildmay. Could she not in pure charity do a good turn to that poorgirl? Might she not tell Captain De Baron that it was his duty to marryher? And if he felt it to be his duty would he not do so? It may bedoubted whether in these moments she did not think much better ofCaptain De Baron than that gentleman deserved. 

On the next day the Manor Cross carriage came over for her. The Deanhad offered to send her, but Lord George had explained that his motherwas anxious that the carriage should come. There would be a cart forthe luggage. As to Lady George herself there was a general feeling atManor Cross that in the present circumstances the family carriageshould 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 thereyesterday. "

"I don't care a bit for the ladies. Where I go, papa, you can come. Ofcourse 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 stillrebelling in her heart against skirts and petticoats, and resolvingthat 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, allexcept the Marchioness. "We wouldn't go in, " said Lady Amelia, "becausewe didn't like to fill the carriage. "

"And George wanted us to send it early, " said Lady Sarah, "before wehad done our work. " They all kissed her affectionately, and then shewas again in her husband's arms. Mrs. Toff curtseyed to her mostrespectfully. Mary observed the curtsey and reminded herself at themoment that Mrs. Toff had never curtseyed to her before. Even the tallfootman in knee-breeches stood back with a demeanour which had hithertobeen vouchsafed only to the real ladies of the family. Who could tellhow soon that wicked Marquis would die; and then, --then how great wouldnot be the glory of the Dean's daughter! "Perhaps you won't mind comingup 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, andshe declared herself ready to go to the Marchioness. "Mamma has had agreat deal to trouble her since you were here, " said Lady Susanna, asshe led the way upstairs. "She has aged very much. You'll be kind toher, 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 doall we can to prevent her from crying, because it does make her soweak. Beef-tea is best, we think; and then we try to get her to sleepa good deal. Mary has come, mamma. Here she is. The carriage has onlyjust arrived. " Mary followed Lady Susanna into the room, and theMarchioness was immediately immersed in a flood of tears. 

"My darling!" she exclaimed; "my dearest, if anything can ever make mehappy again it is that you should have come back to me. " Mary kissedher mother-in-law and submitted to be kissed with a pretty grace, asthough she and the old lady had always been the warmest, mostaffectionate friends. "Sit down, my love. I have had the easy chairbrought 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 muchchanged. " This was very distressing to poor Mary, who, with all herdesire to oblige the Marchioness could not bring herself to sit down inthe 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 tobe sorry for them. I'm sure I did all I could to make thingscomfortable 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. Ialways thought that. But now there will be another, won't there?" Thiswas a question which the mother expectant could not answer, and inorder to get over the difficulty Susanna suggested that Mary should beallowed to go down to lunch. 

"Certainly, my dear. In her condition she ought not to be kept waitinga minute. And mind, Susanna, she has bottled porter. I spoke about itbefore. 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 wellas if it were yesterday Sir Henry telling me it was the only surething. That was before Popenjoy was born, --I mean Brotherton. I do sohope it will be a Popenjoy, my dear. " This was the last word said toher as Mary was escaping from the room. 

She was not expected to make cloaks and skirts, but she was obliged tofight against a worse servitude even than that. She almost longed forthe cloaks and skirts when day after day she was entreated to take herplace in the easy chair by the couch of the Marchioness. There was acruelty in refusing, but in yielding there was a crushing misery. TheMarchioness evidently thought that the future stability of the familydepended on Mary's quiescence and capability for drinking beer. Verymany lies were necessarily told her by all the family. She was made tobelieve that Mary never got up before eleven; and the doctor who cameto see herself and to whose special care Mary was of courserecommended, was induced to say that it was essential that Lady Georgeshould be in the open air three hours every day. "You know I'm not theleast ill, mother, " Mary said to her one day. Since these new hopes andthe necessity for such hopes had come up the Marchioness had requestedthat she might be called mother by her daughter-in-law. 

"No, my dear, not ill; but I remember as though it were yesterday whatSir Henry said to me when Popenjoy was going to be born. Of course hewas Popenjoy when he was born. I don't think they've any physicianslike 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 thisisn't a Popenjoy, my dear, --and it's all in the hands of God, --then thenext 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 hopethis will be a Popenjoy, because I might die before the next. " When aweek of all this had been endured Mary in her heart was glad that thesentence of expulsion from Manor Cross still stood against her husband, feeling that six months of reiterated longings for a Popenjoy wouldkill her and the possible Popenjoy also. 

Then came the terrible question of an immediate residence. The monthwas nearly over, and Lord George had determined that he would go up totown for a few days when the time came. Mary begged to be taken withhim, but to this he would not accede, alleging that his sojourn therewould only be temporary, till something should be settled. "I am sure, "said Mary, "your brother would dislike my being here worse than you. "That might be true, but the edict, as it had been pronounced, had notbeen against her. The Marquis had simply ordered that in the event ofLord George remaining in the house, the house and park should beadvertised for letting. "George, I think he must be mad, " said Mary. 

"He is sane enough to have the control of his own property. "

"If it is let, why shouldn't you take it?"

"Where on earth should I get the money?"

"Couldn't we all do it among us?"

"He wouldn't let it to us; he will allow my mother and sisters to livehere for nothing; and I don't think he has said anything to Mr. Knoxabout you. But I am to be banished. "

"He must be mad. "

"Mad or not, I must go. "

"Do, --do let me go with you! Do go to the deanery. Papa will make itall square by coming up to us in London. "

"Your father has a right to be in the house in London, " said LordGeorge with a scowl. 

When the month was over he did go up to town, and saw Mr. Knox. Mr. Knox advised him to go back to Manor Cross, declaring that he himselfwould take no further steps without further orders. He had not had aline from the Marquis. He did not even know where the Marquis was, supposing, however, that he was in his house on the lake; but he didknow that the Marchioness was not with him, as separate application hadbeen made to him by her Ladyship for money. "I don't think I can doit, " said Lord George. Mr. Knox shrugged his shoulders, and again saidthat he saw no objection. "I should be very slow in advertising, youknow, " said Mr. Knox. 

"But I don't think that I have a right to be in a man's house withouthis leave. I don't think I am justified in staying there against hiswill because he is my brother. " Mr. Knox could only shrug hisshoulders. 

He remained up in town doing nothing, doubtful as to where he should goand whither he should take his wife, while she was still at ManorCross, absolutely in the purple, but still not satisfied with herposition. She was somewhat cheered at this time by a highspiritedletter from her friend Mrs. Jones, written from Killancodlem. 

"We are all here, " said Mrs. Jones, "and we do so wish you were withus. I have heard of your condition at last, and of course it would notbe fit that you should be amusing yourself with wicked idle people likeus, while all the future of all the Germains is, so to say, in yourkeeping. How very opportune that that poor boy should have gone just asthe other is coming! Mind that you are a good girl and take care ofyourselves. I daresay all the Germain ladies are looking after you dayand night, so that you can't misbehave very much. No more Kappa-kappasfor many a long day for you!

"We have got Lord Giblet here. It was such a task! I thought cart-ropeswouldn't have brought him? Now he is as happy as the day is long, andlike a tame cat in my hands. I really think he is very much in lovewith her, and she behaves quite prettily. I took care that Green pèreshould come down in the middle of it, and that clenched it. The loverdidn't make the least fight when papa appeared, but submitted himselflike a sheep to the shearers. I shouldn't have done it if I hadn'tknown that he wanted a wife and if I hadn't been sure that she wouldmake a good one. There are some men who never really get on their legstill they're married, and never would get married without a littlehelp. I'm sure he'll bless me, or would do, only he'll think after abit that he did it all by himself. 

"Our friend Jack is with us, behaving very well, but not quite likehimself. There are two or three very pretty girls here, but he goesabout among them quite like a steady old man. I got him to tell me thathe'd seen you at Brotherton, and then he talked a deal of nonsenseabout the good you'd do when you were Marchioness. I don't see, mydear, why you should do more good than other people. I hope you'll begracious to your old friends, and keep a good house, and give niceparties. Try and make other people happy. That's the goodness I believein. I asked him why you were to be particularly good, and then hetalked a deal more nonsense, which I need not repeat. 

"I hear very queer accounts about the Marquis. He behaved himself atRudham almost like anybody else, and walked into dinner like aChristian. They say that he is all alone in Italy, and that he won'tsee her. I fancy he was more hurt in that little affair than somepeople will allow. Whatever it was, it served him right. Of course Ishould be glad to see Lord George come to the throne. I always tell thetruth, my dear, about these things. What is the use of lying. I shallbe very glad to see Lord George a marquis, --and then your Popenjoy willbe Popenjoy. 

"You remember the Baroness, --your Baroness. Oh, the Baroness! Sheabsolutely asked me to let her come to Killancodlem. 'But I hatedisabilities and rights, ' said I. She gave me to understand that thatmade no difference. Then I was obliged to tell her that I hadn't a bedleft. Any little room would do for her. 'We haven't any little rooms atKillancodlem, ' said I;--and then I left her. 

"Good-bye. Mind you are good and take care of yourself; and, whateveryou do, let Popenjoy have a royal godfather. "

Then her father came over to see her. At this time Lord George was upin town, and when her father was announced she felt that there was noone to help her. If none of the ladies of the family would see herfather she never would be gracious to them again. This was theturning-point. She could forgive them for the old quarrel. She couldunderstand that they might have found themselves bound to take theirelder brother's part at first. Then they had quarrelled with her, too. Now they had received her back into their favour. But she would havenone of their favours, unless they would take her father with her. 

She was sitting at the time in that odious arm-chair in the old lady'sroom; and when Mrs. Toff brought in word that the Dean was in thelittle drawing-room, Lady Susanna was also present. Mary jumped upimmediately, and knew that she was blushing. "Oh! I must go down topapa, " she said. And away she went. 

The Dean was in one of his best humours, and was full of Brothertonnews. Mr. Groschut had been appointed to the vicarage of Pugsty, andwould leave Brotherton within a month. 

"I suppose it's a good living. "

"About £300 a year, I believe. He's been acting not quite on the squarewith a young lady, and the Bishop made him take it. It was that ornothing. " The Dean was quite delighted; and when Mary told himsomething of her troubles, --how impossible she found it to drinkbottled porter, --he laughed, and bade her be of good cheer, and toldher that there were good days coming. They had been there for nearlyan hour together, and Mary was becoming unhappy. If her father wereallowed to go without some recognition from the family, she would neveragain be friends with those women. She was beginning to think that shenever would be friends again with any of them, when the door opened, and Lady Sarah entered the room. 

The greeting was very civil on both sides. Lady Sarah could, if shepleased, be gracious, though she was always a little grand; and theDean was quite willing to be pleased, if only any effort was made toplease him. Lady Sarah hoped that he would stay and dine. He wouldperhaps excuse the Marchioness, as she rarely now left her room. TheDean could not dine at Manor Cross on that day, and then Lady Sarahasked him to come on the Thursday following. 

CHAPTER LVII. 

MR. KNOX HEARS AGAIN FROM THE MARQUIS. 

"Do come, papa, " said Mary, jumping up and putting her arm round herfather's shoulders. She was more than willing to meet them allhalf-way. She would sit in the arm-chair all the morning and try todrink porter at lunch if they would receive her father graciously. Ofcourse she was bound to her husband. She did not wish not to be boundto him. She was quite sure that she loved her husband with a perfectlove. But her marriage happiness could not be complete unless herfather was to make a part of the intimate home circle of her life. Shewas now so animated in her request to him, that her manner told all herlittle story, --not only to him, but to Lady Sarah also. 

"I will say do come also, " said Lady Sarah, smiling. 

Mary looked up at her and saw the smile. "If he were your papa, " shesaid, "you would be as anxious as I am. " But she also smiled as shespoke. 

"Even though he is not, I am anxious. "

"Who could refuse when so entreated? Of course I shall be delighted tocome, " said the Dean. And so it was settled. Her father was to be againmade welcome at Manor Cross, and Mary thought that she could now behappy. 

"It was very good of you, " she whispered to Lady Sarah, as soon as hehad left them. "Of course I understand. I was very, very sorry that heand Lord Brotherton had quarrelled. I won't say anything now aboutanybody being wrong or anybody being right. But it would be dreadful tome if papa couldn't come to see me. I don't think you know what heis. "

"I do know that you love him very dearly. "

"Of course I do. There is nothing on earth he wouldn't do for me. He isalways trying to make me happy. And he'd do just as much for George, ifGeorge would let him. You've been very good about it, and I love youfor it. " Lady Sarah was quite open to the charm of being loved. She didnot talk much of such things, nor was it compatible with her nature tomake many professions of affection. But it would be a happiness to herif this young sister-in-law, who would no doubt sooner or later be thefemale head of the house, could be taught to love her. So she kissedMary, and then walked demurely away, conscious that any great displayof feeling would be antagonistic to her principles. 

During the hour that Mary had been closeted with her father there hadbeen much difficulty among the ladies upstairs about the Dean. Thesuggestion that he should be asked to dine had of course come from LadySarah, and it fell like a little thunderbolt among them. In the firstplace, what would Brotherton say? Was it not an understood portion ofthe agreement under which they were allowed to live in the house, thatthe Dean should not be a guest there? Lady Susanna had even shudderedat his coming to call on his daughter, and they had all thought it tobe improper when a short time since he had personally brought the newsof Popenjoy's death to the house. And then there was their ownresentment as to that affray at Scumberg's. They were probably inclinedto agree with Lady Brabazon that Brotherton was not quite all that heshould be; but still he was Brotherton, and the man who had nearlymurdered him could not surely be a fit guest at Manor Cross. "I don'tthink we can do that, Sarah, " Lady Susanna had said after a longsilence. "Oh dear! that would be very dreadful!" the Marchioness hadexclaimed. Lady Amelia had clasped her hands together and had trembledin every limb. But Lady Sarah, who never made any suggestion withoutdeep thought, was always loth to abandon any that she had made. Sheclung to this with many arguments. Seeing how unreasonable Brothertonwas, they could not feel themselves bound to obey him. As to the house, while their mother lived there it must be regarded as her house. It wasout of the question that they should have their guests dictated to themby their brother. Perhaps the Dean was not all that a dean ought tobe, --but then, who was perfect? George had married his daughter, and itcould not be right to separate the daughter from the father. Then camethe final, strong, clenching argument. Mary would certainly bedisturbed in her mind if not allowed to see her father. Perfecttranquillity for Mary was regarded as the chief ingredient in the cupof prosperity which, after many troubles, was now to be re-brewed forthe Germain family. If she were not allowed to see her father, thecoming Popenjoy would suffer for it. "You'd better let him come, Susanna, " said the Marchioness through her tears. Susanna had lookedas stern as an old sibyl. "I really think it will be best, " said LadyAmelia. "It ought to be done, " said Lady Sarah. "I suppose you hadbetter go to him, " said the Marchioness. "I could not see him; indeed Icouldn't. But he won't want to see me. " Lady Susanna did not yield, butLady Sarah, as we know, went down on her mission of peace. 

Mary, as soon as she was alone, sat herself down to write a letter toher husband. It was then Monday, and her father was to dine there onThursday. The triumph would hardly be complete unless George would comehome to receive him. Her letter was full of arguments, full ofentreaties, and full of love. Surely he might come for one night, if hecouldn't stay longer. It would be so much nicer for her father to havea gentleman there. Such an attention would please him so much! "I amsure he would go twice the distance if you were coming to his house, "pleaded Mary. 

Lord George came, and in a quiet way the dinner was a success. The Deanmade himself very agreeable. The Marchioness did not appear, but herabsence was attributed to the condition of her health. Lady Sarah, asthe great promoter of the festival, was bound to be on her goodbehaviour, and Lady Amelia endeavoured to copy her elder sister. It wasnot to be expected that Lady Susanna should be cordially hospitable;but it was known that Lady Susanna was habitually silent in company. Mary could forgive her second sister-in-law's sullenness, understanding, as she did quite well, that she was at this momenttriumphing over Lady Susanna. Mr. Groschut was not a favourite with anyof the party at Manor Cross, and the Dean made himself pleasant bydescribing the nature of the late chaplain's promotion. "He begged theBishop to let him off, " said the Dean, "but his Lordship wasperemptory. It was Pugsty or leave the diocese. "

"What had he done, papa?" asked Mary. 

"He had promised to marry Hawkins' daughter. " Hawkins was theBrotherton bookseller on the Low Church side. "And then he denied thepromise. Unfortunately he had written letters, and Hawkins took them tothe Bishop. I should have thought Groschut would have been too sharp towrite letters. "

"But what was all that to the Bishop?" asked Lord George. 

"The Bishop was, I think, just a little tired of him. The Bishop is oldand meek, and Mr. Groschut thought that he could domineer. He did notquite know his man. The Bishop is old and meek, and would have bornemuch. When Mr. Groschut scolded him, I fancy that he said nothing. Buthe bided his time; and when Mr. Hawkins came, then there was a decisionpronounced. It was Pugsty, or nothing. "

"Is Pugsty very nasty, papa?"

"It isn't very nice, I fancy. It just borders on the Potteries, andthe population is heavy. As he must marry the bookseller's daughteralso, the union, I fear, won't be very grateful. "

"I don't see why a bishop should send a bad man to any parish, "suggested Lady Sarah. 

"What is he to do with a Groschut, when he has unfortunately got holdof one? He couldn't be turned out to starve. The Bishop would neverhave been rid of him. A small living--some such thing as Pugsty--wasalmost a necessity. "

"But the people, " said Lady Sarah. "What is to become of the poorpeople?"

"Let us hope they may like him. At any rate, he will be better atPugsty than at Brotherton. " In this way the evening passed off; andwhen at ten o'clock the Dean took his departure, it was felt by everyone except Lady Susanna that the proper thing had been done. 

Lord George, having thus come back to Manor Cross, remained there. Hewas not altogether happy in his mind; but his banishment seemed to beso absurd a thing that he did not return to London. At Manor Crossthere was something for him to do. In London there was nothing. And, after all, there was a question whether, as a pure matter of right, theMarquis had the power to pronounce such a sentence. Manor Cross nodoubt belonged to him, but then so also did Cross Hall belong for thetime to his mother; and he was receiving the rent of Cross Hall whilehis mother was living at Manor Cross. Lady Sarah was quite clear thatfor the present they were justified in regarding Manor Cross asbelonging to them. "And who'll tell him when he's all the way outthere?" asked Mary. "I never did hear of such a thing in all my life. What harm can you do to the house, George?"

So they went on in peace and quietness for the next three months, during which not a single word was heard from the Marquis. They did noteven know where he was, and under the present circumstances did notcare to ask any questions of Mr. Knox. Lord George had worn out hisscruples, and was able to go about his old duties in his old fashion. The Dean had dined there once or twice, and Lord George on one occasionhad consented to stay with his wife for a night or two at the deanery. Things seemed to have fallen back quietly into the old way, --as theywere before the Marquis with his wife and child had come to disturbthem. Of course there was a great difference in Mary's position. It wasnot only that she was about to become a mother, but that she would doso in a very peculiar manner. Had not the Marquis taken a wife tohimself, there would always have been the probability that he wouldsome day do so. Had there not been an Italian Marchioness and a littleItalian Popenjoy, the ladies at Manor Cross would still have given himcredit for presenting them with a future marchioness and a futurePopenjoy at some future day. Now his turn had, as it were, gone. Another Popenjoy from that side was not to be expected. In consequenceof all this Mary was very much exalted. They none of them now wishedfor another Popenjoy from the elder branch. All their hopes werecentred in Mary. To Mary herself this importance had its drawbacks. There was the great porter question still unsettled. The arm-chair withthe footstool still was there. And she did not like being told that amile and a half on the sunny side of the trees was the daily amount ofexercise which Sir Henry, nearly half a century ago, had prescribed forladies in her condition. But she had her husband with her, and could, with him, be gently rebellious and affectionately disobedient. It is agreat thing, at any rate, to be somebody. In her early married days shehad felt herself to be snubbed as being merely the Dean's daughter. Herpresent troubles brought a certain balm with them. No one snubbed hernow. If she had a mind for arrowroot, Mrs. Toff would make it herselfand suggest a thimbleful of brandy in it with her most coaxing words. Cloaks and petticoats she never saw, and she was quite at liberty tostay away from afternoon church if she pleased. 

It had been decided, after many discussions on the subject, that sheand her husband should go up to town for a couple of months afterChristmas, Lady Amelia going with them to look after the porter andarrowroot, and that in March she should be brought back to Manor Crosswith a view to her confinement. This had not been conceded to hereasily, but it had at last been conceded. She had learned in secretfrom her father that he would come up to town for a part of the time, and after that she never let the question rest till she had carried herpoint. The Marchioness had been obliged to confess that, inanticipation of her Popenjoy, Sir Henry had recommended a change fromthe country to town. She did not probably remember that Sir Henry haddone so because she had been very cross at the idea of being keptrunning down to the country all through May. Mary pleaded that it wasno use having a house if she were not allowed to see it, that all herthings were in London, and at last declared that it would be veryconvenient to have the baby born in London. Then the Marchioness sawthat a compromise was necessary. It was not to be endured that thefuture Popenjoy, the future Brotherton, should be born in a littlehouse in Munster Court. With many misgivings it was at last arrangedthat Mary should go to London on the 18th of January, and be broughtback on the 10th of March. After many consultations, computations, andcalculations, it was considered that the baby would be born somewhereabout the 1st of April. 

It may be said that things at Manor Cross were quite in a halcyoncondition, when suddenly a thunderbolt fell among them. Mr. Knoxappeared one day at the house and showed to Lord George a letter fromthe Marquis. It was written with his usual contempt of all ordinarycourtesy of correspondence, but with more than his usual bitterness. It declared the writer's opinion that his brother was a mean fellow, and deserving of no trust in that he had continued to live at the houseafter having been desired to leave it by its owner; and it went on togive peremptory orders to Mr. Knox to take steps for letting the houseat once. This took place at the end of the first week in December. Thenthere was a postscript to the letter in which the Marquis suggestedthat Mr. Knox had better take a house for the Marchioness, and applyMr. Price's rent in the payment for such house. "Of course you willconsult my mother, " said the postscript; "but it should not be anywherenear Brotherton. "

There was an impudence as well as a cruelty about this which almostshook the belief which Lord George still held in the position of anelder brother. Mr. Knox was to take a house;--as though his mother andsisters had no rights, no freedom of their own! "Of course I will go, "said he, almost pale with anger. 

Then Mr. Knox explained his views. It was his intention to write backto the Marquis and to decline to execute the task imposed upon him. Thecare of the Marquis's property was no doubt his chief mainstay; butthere were things, he said, which he could not do. Of course theMarquis would employ someone else, and he must look for his breadelsewhere. But he could not, he said, bring himself to take steps forthe letting of Manor Cross as long as the Marchioness was living there. 

Of course there was a terrible disturbance in the house. There arose agreat question whether the old lady should or should not be told ofthis new trouble, and it was decided at last that she should for thepresent be kept in the dark. Mr. Knox was of opinion that the housenever would be let, and that it would not be in his Lordship's power toturn them out without procuring for them the use of Cross Hall;--inwhich Mr. Price's newly married bride had made herself comfortable on alease of three years. And he was also of opinion that the attempt madeby the Marquis to banish his brother was a piece of monstrous tyrannyto which no attention should be paid. This he said before all theyounger ladies;--but to Lord George himself he said even more. Heexpressed a doubt whether the Marquis could be in his right mind, andadded a whisper that the accounts of the Marquis's health were very badindeed. "Of course he could let the house?" asked Lord George. 

"Yes;--if he can get anybody to let it for him, and anybody else totake it. But I don't think it ever will be let. He won't quite knowwhat to do when he gets my letter. He can hardly change his agentwithout coming to London, and he won't like to do that in the winter. He'll write me a very savage letter, and then in a week or two I shallanswer him. I don't think I'd disturb the Marchioness if I were you, mylord. "

The Marchioness was not disturbed, but Lord George again went up toLondon, on this occasion occupying the house in Munster Court insolitude. His scruples were all renewed, and it was in vain that LadySarah repeated to him all Mr. Knox's arguments. He had been called amean fellow, and the word rankled with him. He walked about alonethinking of the absolute obedience with which in early days he hadcomplied with all the behests of his elder brother, and the perfectfaith with which in latter days he had regarded that brother'sinterests. He went away swearing to himself that he would never againput his foot within the domain of Manor Cross as long as it was hisbrother's property. A day might come when he would return there; butLord George was not a man to anticipate his own prosperity. Mary wishedto accompany him; but this was not allowed. The Marchioness inquired adozen times why he should go away; but there was no one who could tellher. 

CHAPTER LVIII. 

MRS. JONES' LETTER. 

A few days before Christmas Mary received a long letter from her friendMrs. Montacute Jones. At this time there was sad trouble again at ManorCross. Lord George had been away for a fortnight, and no reason for hisdeparture had as yet been given to the Marchioness. She had now becomeaware that he was not to be at home at Christmas, and she was full ofdoubt, full of surmises of her own. He must have quarrelled with hissisters! They all assured her that there hadn't been an unpleasant wordbetween him and any one of them. Then he must have quarrelled with hiswife! "Indeed, indeed he has not, " said Mary. "He has never quarrelledwith me and he never shall. " Then why did he stay away? Business wasnonsense. Why was he going to stay away during Christmas. Then it wasnecessary to tell the old lady a little fib. She was informed thatBrotherton had specially desired him to leave the house. This certainlywas a fib, as Brotherton's late order had been of a very differentnature. "I hope he hasn't done anything to offend his brother again, "said the Marchioness. "I wonder whether it's about Popenjoy!" In themidst of her troubles the poor old woman's wits were apt to wander. 

Mary too had become rather cross, thinking that as her husband was upin town she should be allowed to be there too. But it had been concededby her, and by her father on her behalf, that her town life was not tobegin till after Christmas, and now she was unable to prevail. She andthe family were in this uncomfortable condition when Mrs. MontacuteJones' letter came for her consolation. As it contained tidings, moreor less accurate, concerning many persons named in this chronicle, itshall be given entire. Mrs. Montacute Jones was a great writer ofletters, and she was wont to communicate many details among her friendsand acquaintances respecting one another. It was one of the marvels ofthe day that Mrs. Jones should have so much information; and no onecould say how or whence she got it. 

 "CURRY HALL, _December 12, 187--_. "

Curry Hall was the name of Mr. Jones' seat in Gloucestershire, whereas, as all the world knew, Killancodlem was supposed to belong to Mrs. Jones herself. 

 "DEAREST LADY GEORGE, --We have been here for the last six weeks, quite quiet. A great deal too quiet for me, but for the three or four winter months, I am obliged to give way a little to Mr. Jones. We have had the Mildmays here, because they didn't seem to have any other place to go to. But I barred the Baroness. I am told that she is now bringing an action against Aunt Ju, who unfortunately wrote the letter which induced the woman to come over from--wherever she came from. Poor Aunt Ju is in a terrible state, and wants her brother to buy the woman off, --which he will probably have to do. That's what comes, my dear, of meddling with disabilities. I know my own disabilities, but I never think of interfering with Providence. Mr. Jones was made a man, and I was made a woman. So I put up with it, and I hope you will do the same. 

 "Mr. And Mrs. Green are here also, and remain till Christmas when the Giblets are coming. It was the prettiest wedding in the world, and they have been half over Europe since. I am told he's the happiest man in the world, and the very best husband. Old Gossling didn't like it at all, but every stick is entailed, and they say he's likely to have gout in his stomach, so that everything will go pleasantly. Lord Giblet himself is loud against his father, asking everybody whether it was to be expected that in such a matter as that he shouldn't follow his own inclination. I do hope he'll show a little gratitude to me. But it's an ungrateful world, and they'll probably both forget what I did for them. 

 "And now I want to ask you your opinion about another friend. Don't you think that Jack had better settle down with poor dear Guss? She's here, and upon my word I think she's nearly broken-hearted. Of course you and I know what Jack has been thinking of lately. But when a child cries for the top brick of the chimney, it is better to let him have some possible toy. You know what top brick he has been crying for. But I'm sure you like him, and so do I, and I think we might do something for him. Mr. Jones would let them a nice little house a few miles from here at a peppercorn rent; and I suppose old Mr. Mildmay could do something. They are engaged after a fashion. She told me all about it the other day. So I've asked him to come down for Christmas, and have offered to put up his horses if he wants to hunt. 

 "And now, my dear, I want to know what you have heard about Lord Brotherton at Manor Cross. Of course we all know the way he has behaved to Lord George. If I were Lord George I should not pay the slightest attention to him. But I'm told he is in a very low condition, --never sees anybody except his courier, and never stirs out of the house. Of course you know that he makes his wife an allowance, and refuses to see her. From what I hear privately I really do think that he'll not last long. What a blessing it would be! That's plain speaking;--but it would be a blessing! Some people manage to live so that everybody will be the better for their dying. I should break my heart if anybody wanted me to die. 

 "How grand it would be! The young and lovely Marchioness of Brotherton! I'll be bound you think about it less than anybody else, but it would be nice. I wonder whether you'd cut a poor old woman like me, without a handle to her name. And then it would be Popenjoy at once! Only how the bonfires wouldn't burn if it should turn out to be only a disability after all. But we should say, better luck next time, and send you caudle cups by the dozen. Who wouldn't send a caudle cup to a real young lovely live Marchioness? I'll be bound your father knows all about it, and has counted it all up a score of times. I suppose it's over £40, 000 a year since they took to working the coal at Popenjoy, and whatever the present man has done he can't have clipped the property. He has never gambled, and never spent his income. Italian wives and that sort of thing don't cost so much money as they do in England. 

 "Pray write and tell me all about it. I shall be in town in February, and of course shall see you. I tell Mr. Jones that I can't stand Curry Hall for more than three months. He won't come to town till May, and perhaps when May comes he'll have forgotten all about it. He is very fond of sheep, but I don't think he cares for anything else, unless he has a slight taste for pigs. 

 "Your affectionate friend, "G. MONTACUTE JONES. "

There was much in this letter that astonished Mary, something thatshocked her, but something also that pleased her. The young and lovelyMarchioness of Brotherton! Where is the woman who would not like to bea young and lovely Marchioness, so that it had all been come byhonestly, that the husband had been married as husbands ought to bemarried, and had not been caught like Lord Giblet; and she knew thather old friend, --her old friend whom she had not yet known for quitetwelve months, --was only joking with her in that suggestion as tobeing cut. What a fate was this in store for her--if it really was instore--that so early in her life she should be called upon to fill sohigh a place. Then she made some resolutions in her mind that should itbe so she would be humble and meek; and a further resolution that shewould set her heart upon none of it till it was firmly her own. 

But it shocked her that the Marquis should be so spoken of, especiallythat he should be so spoken of if he were really dying! Plain speaking!Yes, indeed. But such plain speaking was very terrible. This old womancould speak of another nobleman having gout in his stomach as thoughthat were a thing really to be desired. And then that allusion to theItalian wife or wives! Poor Mary blushed as she thought of it. 

But there was a paragraph in the letter which interested her as much asthe tidings respecting Lord Brotherton. Could it be right that Jack DeBaron should be made to marry Guss Mildmay? She thought not, for sheknew that he did not love Guss Mildmay. That he should have wanted animpossible brick, whether the highest or lowest brick, was very sad. When children cry for impossible bricks they must of course bedisappointed. But she hardly thought that this would be the proper curefor his disappointment. There had been a moment in which the same ideahad suggested itself to her; but now since her friendship with Jack hadbeen strengthened by his conduct in the deanery garden she thought thathe might do better with himself than be made by Mrs. Jones to marryGuss Mildmay. Of course she could not interfere, but she hoped thatsomething might prevent Jack De Baron from spending his Christmas atCurry Hall. She answered Mrs. Jones' letter very prettily. She trustedthat Lord Giblet might be happy with his wife, even though his fathershould get well of the gout. She was very sorry to hear that LordBrotherton was ill. Nothing was known about him at Manor Cross, exceptthat he seemed to be very ill-natured to everybody. She was surprisedthat anybody should be so ill-natured as he was. If ever she shouldlive to fill a high position she hoped she would be good-natured. Sheknew that the people she would like best would be those who had beenkind to her, and nobody had been so kind as a certain lady named Mrs. Montacute Jones. Then she spoke of her coming trial. "Don't joke withme about it any more, there's a dear woman. They all flutter me here, talking of it always, though they mean to be kind. But it seems to meso serious. I wish that nobody would speak to me of it except George, and he seems to think nothing about it. "

Then she came to the paragraph the necessity for writing which had madeher answer Mrs. Jones' letter so speedily. "I don't think you ought topersuade anybody to marry anyone. It didn't much signify, perhaps, withLord Giblet, as he isn't clever, and I daresay that Miss Green willsuit him very well; but as a rule I think gentlemen should choose forthemselves. In the case you speak of I don't think he cares for her, and then they would be unhappy. " She would not for worlds havementioned Captain De Baron's name; but she thought that Mrs. Joneswould understand her. 

Of course Mrs. Jones understood her, --had understood more than Mary hadintended her to understand. Christmas was over and Mary was up in townwhen she received Mrs. Jones' rejoinder, but it may as well be givenhere. "The child who wanted the top brick is here, and I think willcontent himself with a very much less exalted morsel of the building. Iam older than you, my dear, and know better. Our friend is a very goodfellow in his way, but there is no reason why he should not bend hisneck as well as another. To you no doubt he seems to have many graces. He has had the great grace of holding his tongue because he appreciatedyour character. " Mary, as she read this, knew that even Mrs. MontacuteJones could be misinformed now and then. "But I do not know that he isin truth more gracious than others, and I think it quite as well thatMiss Mildmay should have the reward of her constancy. "

But this was after Christmas, and in the meantime other occurrences hadtaken place. On the 20th of December Lord George was informed by Mr. Knox that his brother, who was then at Naples, had been struck byparalysis, and at Mr. Knox's advice he started off for the southerncapital of Italy. The journey was a great trouble to him, but this wasa duty which he would under no circumstances neglect. The tidings werecommunicated to Manor Cross, and after due consultation, were conveyedby Lady Sarah to her mother. The poor old lady did not seem to be madevery unhappy by them. "Of course I can't go to him, " she said; "howcould I do it?" When she was told that that was out of the question shesubsided again into tranquillity, merely seeming to think it necessaryto pay increased attention to Mary; for she was still quite alive tothe fact that all this greatly increased the chances that the babywould be Popenjoy; but even in this the poor old lady's mind wanderedmuch, for every now and then she would speak of Popenjoy as thoughthere were a living Popenjoy at the present moment. 

Lord George hurried off to Naples, and found that his brother wasliving at a villa about eight miles from the town. He learned in thecity, before he had made his visit, that the Marquis was better, havingrecovered his speech and apparently the use of his limbs. Still beingat Naples he found himself bound to go out to the villa. He did so, andwhen he was there his brother refused to see him. He endeavoured to getwhat information he could from the doctor; but the doctor was anItalian, and Lord George could not understand him. As far as he couldlearn the doctor thought badly of the case; but for the present hispatient had so far recovered as to know what he was about. Then LordGeorge hurried back to London, having had a most uncomfortable journeyin the snow. Come what might he didn't think that he would ever againtake the trouble to pay a visit to his brother. The whole time taken onhis journey and for his sojourn in Naples was less than three weeks, and when he returned the New Year had commenced. 

He went down to Brotherton to bring his wife up to London, but met herat the deanery, refusing to go to the house. When the Marchioness heardof this, --and it became impossible to keep it from her, --she declaredthat it was with herself that her son George must have quarrelled. Thenit was necessary to tell her the whole truth, or nearly the whole. Brotherton had behaved so badly to his brother that Lord George hadrefused to enter even the park. The poor old woman was very wretched, feeling in some dim way that she was being robbed of both her sons. "Idon't know what I've done, " she said, "that everything should be likethis. I'm sure I did all I could for them; but George never wouldbehave properly to his elder brother, and I don't wonder thatBrotherton feels it. Brotherton always had so much feeling. I don'tknow why George should be jealous because Popenjoy was born. Whyshouldn't his elder brother have a son of his own like anybody else?"And yet whenever she saw Mary, which she did for two or three hoursevery day, she was quite alive to the coming interest. It was suggestedto her that she should be driven into Brotherton, so that she might seeGeorge at the deanery; but her objection to go to the Dean's house wasas strong as was that of Lord George to come to his brother's. 

Mary was of course delighted when the hour of her escape came. It hadseemed to her that there was especial cruelty in keeping her at ManorCross while her husband was up in town. Her complaints on this head hadof course been checked by her husband's unexpected journey to Naples, as to which she had hardly heard the full particulars till she foundherself in the train with him. "After going all that way he wouldn'tsee you!"

"He neither would see me or send me any message. "

"Then he must be a bad man. "

"He has lived a life of self-indulgence till he doesn't know how tocontrol a thought or a passion. It was something of that kind which wasmeant when we were told about the rich man and the eye of the needle. "

"But you will be a rich man soon, George. "

"Don't think of it, Mary; don't anticipate it. God knows I have neverlonged for it. Your father longs for it. "

"Not for his own sake, George. "

"He is wrong all the same. It will not make you happier, --nor me. "

"But, George, when you thought that that little boy was not Popenjoyyou were as anxious as papa to find it all out. "

"Right should be done, " said Lord George, after a pause. "Whether it befor weal or woe, justice should have its way. I never wished that thechild should be other than what he was called; but when there seemed tobe reason for doubt I thought that it should be proved. "

"It will certainly come to you now, George, I suppose. "

"Who can say? I might die to-night, and then Dick Germain, who is asailor somewhere, would be the next Lord Brotherton. "

"Don't talk like that, George. "

"He would be if your child happened to be a girl. And Brotherton mightlive ever so long. I have been so harassed by it all that I am almostsick of the title and sick of the property. I never grudged himanything, and see how he has treated me. " Then Mary was very graciousto him and tried to comfort him, and told him that fortune had at anyrate given him a loving wife. 

CHAPTER LIX. 

BACK IN LONDON. 

Mary was fond of her house in Munster Court. It was her own; and herfather and Miss Tallowax between them had enabled her to make it verypretty. The married woman who has not some pet lares of her own is buta poor woman. Mary worshipped her little household gods with a perfectreligion, and was therefore happy in being among them again; but shewas already beginning to feel that in a certain event she would beobliged to leave Munster Court. She knew that as Marchioness ofBrotherton she would not be allowed to live there. There was a largebrick house, with an unbroken row of six windows on the first-floor, inSt. James' Square, which she already knew as the town house of theMarquis of Brotherton. It was, she thought, by far the most gloomyhouse in the whole square. It had been uninhabited for years, thepresent Marquis having neither resided there nor let it. Her husbandhad never spoken to her about the house, had never, as far as she couldremember, been with her in St. James' Square. She had enquired about itof her father, and he had once taken her through the square, and hadshown her the mansion. But that had been in the days of the formerPopenjoy, when she, at any rate, had never thought that thedreary-looking mansion would make or mar her own comfort. Now there hadarisen a question of a delicate nature on which she had said a word ortwo to her husband in her softest whisper. Might not certain changes bemade in the house at Munster Court in reference to--well, to a nursery. A room to be baby's own she had called it. She had thus made herselfunderstood, though she had not said the word which seemed to imply aplural number. "But you'll be down at Manor Cross, " said Lord George. 

"You don't mean to keep me there always. "

"No, not always; but when you come back to London it may be to anotherhouse. "

"You don't mean St. James' Square?" But that was just what he did mean. "I hope we shan't have to live in that prison. "

"It's one of the best houses in London, " said Lord George, with acertain amount of family pride. "It used to be, at least, before therich tradesmen had built all those palaces at South Kensington. "

"It's dreadfully dingy. "

"Because it has not been painted lately. Brotherton has never doneanything like anybody else. "

"Couldn't we keep this and let that place?"

"Not very well. My father and grandfather, and great-grandfather livedthere. I think we had better wait a bit and see. " Then she felt surethat the glory was coming. Lord George would never have spoken of herliving in St. James' Square had he not felt almost certain that itwould soon come about. 

Early in February her father came to town, and he was quite certain. "The poor wretch can't speak articulately, " he said. 

"Who says so, papa?"

"I have taken care to find out the truth. What a life! And what adeath! He is there all alone. Nobody ever sees him but an Italiandoctor. If it's a boy, my dear, he will be my lord as soon as he'sborn; or for the matter of that, if it's a girl she will be my lady. "

"I wish it wasn't so. "

"You must take it all as God sends it, Mary. "

"They've talked about it till I'm sick of it, " said Mary angrily. Thenshe checked herself and added--"I don't mean you, papa; but at ManorCross they all flatter me now, because that poor man is dying. If youwere me you wouldn't like that. "

"You've got to bear it, my dear. It's the way of the world. People atthe top of the tree are always flattered. You can't expect that MaryLovelace and the Marchioness of Brotherton will be treated in the sameway. "

"Of course it made a difference when I was married. "

"But suppose you had married a curate in the neighbourhood. "

"I wish I had, " said Mary wildly, "and that someone had given him theliving of Pugsty. " But it all tended in the same direction. She beganto feel now that it must be, and must be soon. She would, she toldherself, endeavour to do her duty; she would be loving to all who hadbeen kind to her, and kind even to those who had been unkind. To all ofthem at Manor Cross she would be a real sister, --even to Lady Susannawhom certainly she had not latterly loved. She would forgiveeverybody, --except one. Adelaide Houghton she never could forgive, butAdelaide Houghton should be her only enemy. It did not occur to herthat Jack De Baron had been very nearly as wicked as AdelaideHoughton. She certainly did not intend that Jack De Baron should be oneof her enemies. 

When she had been in London about a week or two Jack De Baron came tosee her. She knew that he had spent his Christmas at Curry Hall, andshe knew that Guss Mildmay had also been there. That Guss Mildmayshould have accepted such an invitation was natural enough, but shethought that Jack had been very foolish. Why should he have gone to thehouse when he had known that the girl whom he had promised to marry, but whom he did not intend to marry, was there? And now what was to bethe result? She did not think that she could ask him; but she wasalmost sure that he would tell her. 

"I suppose you've been hunting?" she asked. 

"Yes; they put up a couple of horses for me, or I couldn't haveafforded it. "

"She is so good-natured. "

"Mrs. Jones! I should think she was; but I'm not quite sure that sheintended to be very good-natured to me. "

"Why not?" Mary, of course, understood it all; but she could notpretend to understand it, at any rate as yet. 

"Oh, I don't know. It was all fair, and I won't complain. She had gotMiss Green off her hands, and therefore she wanted something to do. I'mgoing to exchange, Lady George, into an Indian regiment. "

"You're not in earnest. "

"Quite in earnest. My wing will be at Aden, at the bottom of the RedSea, for the next year or two. Aden, I'm told, is a charming place. "

"I thought it was hot. "

"I like hot places; and as I have got rather sick of society I shall dovery well there, because there's none. A fellow can't spend any money, except in soda and brandy. I suppose I shall take to drink. "

"Don't talk of yourself in that horrid way, Captain De Baron. "

"It won't much matter to any one, for I don't suppose I shall ever comeback again. There's a place called Perim, out in the middle of the sea, which will just suit me. They only send one officer there at a time, and there isn't another soul in the place. "

"How dreadful!"

"I shall apply to be left there for five years. I shall get through allmy troubles by that time. "

"I am sure you won't go at all. "

"Why not?"

"Because you have got so many friends here. "

"Too many, Lady George. Of course you know what Mrs. Jones has beendoing?"

"What has she been doing?"

"She tells you everything, I fancy. She has got it all cut and dry. I'mto be married next May, and am to spend the honeymoon at Curry Hall. Ofcourse I'm to leave the army and put the value of my commission intothe three per cents. Mr. Jones is to let me have a place called CloverCottage, down in Gloucestershire, and, I believe, I'm to take a farmand be churchwarden of the parish. After paying my debts we shall haveabout two hundred a-year, which of course will be ample for CloverCottage. I don't exactly see how I'm to spend my evenings, but Isuppose that will come. It's either that or Perim. Which would youadvise?"

"I don't know what I ought to say. "

"Of course I might cut my throat. "

"I wish you wouldn't talk in that way. If it's all a joke I'll take itas a joke. "

"It's no joke at all; it's very serious. Mrs. Jones wants me to marryGuss Mildmay. "

"And you are engaged to her?"

"Only on certain conditions, --which conditions are almost impossible. "

"What did you say to--Miss Mildmay at Curry Hall?"

"I told her I should go to Perim. "

"And what did she say?"

"Like a brick, she offered to go with me, just as the girl offered toeat the potato parings when the man said that there would not bepotatoes enough for both. Girls always say that kind of thing, though, when they are taken at their words, they want bonnets and gloves andfur cloaks. "

"And you are going to take her?"

"Not unless I decide upon Clover Cottage. No; if I do go to Perim Ithink that I shall manage to go alone. "

"If you don't love her, Captain De Baron, don't marry her. "

"There's Giblet doing very well, you know; and I calculate I couldspend a good deal of my time at Curry Hall. Perhaps if we madeourselves useful, they would ask us to Killancodlem. I should manage tobe a sort of factotum to old Jones. Don't you think it would suit me?"

"You can't be serious about it. "

"Upon my soul, Lady George, I never was so serious in my life. Do youthink that I mean nothing because I laugh at myself? You know I don'tlove her. "

"Then say so, and have done with it. "

"That is so easy to suggest, but so impossible to do. How is a man totell a girl that he doesn't love her after such an acquaintance as Ihave had with Guss Mildmay? I have tried to do so, but I couldn't doit. There are men, I believe, hard enough even for that; and things arechanged now, and the affectation of chivalry has gone bye. Women askmen to marry them, and the men laugh and refuse. "

"Don't say that, Captain De Baron. "

"I'm told that's the way the thing is done now; but I've no strengthmyself, and I'm not up to it. I'm not at all joking. I think I shallexchange and go away. I've brought my pigs to a bad market, but as faras I can see that is the best that is left for me. " Mary could only saythat his friends would be very--very sorry to lose him, but that in heropinion anything would be better than marrying a girl whom he did notlove. 

Courtesies at this time were showered upon Lady George from all sides. Old Lady Brabazon, to whom she had hardly spoken, wrote to her at greatlength. Mrs. Patmore Green came to her on purpose to talk about herdaughter's marriage. "We are very much pleased of course, " said Mrs. Green. "It was altogether a love affair, and the young people are sofond of each other! I do so hope you and she will be friends. Of courseher position is not so brilliant as yours, but still it is very good. Poor dear Lord Gossling"--whom, by the bye, Mrs. Patmore Green hadnever seen--"is failing very much; he is a martyr to the gout, and thenhe is so imprudent. "

Lady Mary smiled and was civil, but did not make any promise ofpeculiarly intimate friendship. Lady Selina Protest came to her with along story of her wrongs, and a petition that she would take theFleabody side in the coming contest. It was in vain that she declaredthat she had no opinion whatsoever as to the rights of women; amarchioness she was told would be bound to have opinions, or, at anyrate, would be bound to subscribe. 

But the courtesy which surprised and annoyed her most was a visit fromAdelaide Houghton. She came up to London for a week about the end ofFebruary, and had the hardihood to present herself at the house inMunster Court. This was an insult which Mary had by no means expected;she had therefore failed to guard herself against it by any specialinstructions to her servant. And thus Mrs. Houghton, the woman who hadwritten love-letters to her husband, was shown up into her drawing-roombefore she had the means of escaping. When the name was announced shefelt that she was trembling. There came across her a feeling that shewas utterly incapable of behaving properly in such an emergency. Sheknew that she blushed up to the roots of her hair. She got up from herseat as she heard the name announced, and then seated herself againbefore her visitor had entered the room. She did resolve that nothingon earth should induce her to shake hands with the woman. "My dear LadyGeorge, " said Mrs. Houghton, hurrying across the room, "I hope you willlet me explain. " She had half put out her hand, but had done so in amanner which allowed her to withdraw it without seeming to have had heroverture refused. 

"I do not know that there is anything to explain, " said Mary. 

"You will let me sit down?" Mary longed to refuse; but, not quitedaring to do so, simply bowed, --upon which Mrs. Houghton did sit down. "You are very angry with me, it seems?"

"Well;--yes, I am. "

"And yet what harm have I done you?"

"None in the least--none at all. I never thought that you could do meany harm. "

"Is it wise, Lady George, to give importance to a little trifle?"

"I don't know what you call a trifle. "

"I had known him before you did; and, though it had not suited me tobecome his wife, I had always liked him. Then the intimacy sprang upagain; but what did it amount to? I believe you read some foolishletter?"

"I did read a letter, and I was perfectly sure that my husband had donenothing, I will not say to justify, but even to excuse the writing ofit. I am quite aware, Mrs. Houghton, that it was all on one side. "

"Did he say so?"

"You must excuse me if I decline altogether to tell you what he said. "

"I am sure he did not say that. But what is the use of talking of itall. Is it necessary, Lady George, that you and I should quarrel aboutsuch a thing as that?"

"Quite necessary, Mrs. Houghton. "

"Then you must be very fond of quarrelling. "

"I never quarrelled with anybody else in my life. "

"When you remember how near we are to each other in the country----. Iwill apologise if you wish it. "

"I will remember nothing, and I want no apology. To tell you the truth, I really think that you ought not to have come here. "

"It is childish, Lady George, to make so much of it. "

"It may be nothing to you. It is a great deal to me. You must excuse meif I say that I really cannot talk to you any more. " Then she got upand walked out of the room, leaving Mrs. Houghton among her treasures. In the dining-room she rang the bell and told the servant to open thedoor when the lady upstairs came down. After a very short pause, thelady upstairs did come down, and walked out to her carriage with anunabashed demeanour. 

After much consideration Lady George determined that she must tell herhusband what had occurred. She was aware that she had been veryuncourteous, and was not sure whether in her anger she had not beencarried further than became her. Nothing could, she thought, shake herin her determination to have no further friendly intercourse of anykind with the woman. Not even were her husband to ask her would that bepossible. Such a request from him would be almost an insult to her. Andno request from anyone else could have any strength, as no one elseknew the circumstances of the case. It was not likely that he wouldhave spoken of it, --and of her own silence she was quite sure. But howhad it come to pass that the woman had had the face to come to her?Could it be that Lord George had instigated her to do so? She nevermade enquiries of her husband as to where he went and whom he saw. Foraught that she knew, he might be in Berkeley Square every day. Then shecalled to mind Mrs. Houghton's face, with the paint visible on it inthe broad day, and her blackened eyebrows, and her great crested helmetof false hair nearly eighteen inches deep, and her affected voice andfalse manner, --and then she told herself that it was impossible thather husband should like such a creature. 

"George, " she said to him abruptly, as soon as he came home, "who doyou think has been here? Mrs. Houghton has been here. " Then came thatold frown across his brow; but she did not know at first whether it wasoccasioned by anger against herself or against Mrs. Houghton. "Don'tyou think it was very unfortunate?"

"What did she say?"

"She wanted to be friends with me. "

"And what did you say?"

"I was very rude to her. I told her that I would never have anything todo with her; and then I left the room, so that she had to get out ofthe house as she could. Was I not right? You don't want me to know her, do you?"

"Certainly not. "

"And I was right. "

"Quite right. She must be a very hardened woman. "

"Oh George, dear George! You have made me so happy!" Then she jumped upand threw her arms round him. "I never doubted you for a moment--never, never; but I was afraid you might have thought----. I don't know what Iwas afraid of, but I was a fool. She is a nasty hardened creature, andI do hate her. Don't you see how she covers herself with paint?"

"I haven't seen her for the last three months. "

Then she kissed him again and again, foolishly betraying her pastfears. "I am almost sorry I bothered you by telling you, only I didn'tlike to say nothing about it. It might have come out, and you wouldhave thought it odd. How a woman can be so nasty I cannot imagine. ButI will never trouble you by talking of her again. Only I have toldJames that she is not to be let into the house. "

CHAPTER LX. 

THE LAST OF THE BARONESS. 

At this time Dr. Olivia Q. Fleabody had become quite an institution inLondon. She had obtained full though by no means undisputed possessionof the great hall in the Marylebone Road, and was undoubtedly for themoment the Queen of the Disabilities. She lectured twice a week tocrowded benches. A seat on the platform on these occasions wasconsidered by all high-minded women to be an honour, and the body ofthe building was always filled by strongly-visaged spinsters andmutinous wives, who twice a week were worked up by Dr. Fleabody to afull belief that a glorious era was at hand in which woman would bechosen by constituencies, would wag their heads in courts of law, wouldbuy and sell in Capel Court, and have balances at their banker's. Itwas certainly the case that Dr. Fleabody had made proselytes by thehundred, and disturbed the happiness of many fathers of families. 

It may easily be conceived that all this was gall and wormwood to theBaroness Banmann. The Baroness, on her arrival in London, hadanticipated the success which this low-bred American female hadachieved. It was not simply the honour of the thing, --which was verygreat and would have been very dear to the Baroness, --but the AmericanDoctor was making a rapid fortune out of the proceeds of the hall. Shehad on one occasion threatened to strike lecturing unless she wereallowed a certain very large percentage on the sum taken at the doors, and the stewards and directors of the Institute had found themselvescompelled to give way to her demands. She had consequently lodgedherself magnificently at the Langham Hotel, had set up her brougham, inwhich she always had herself driven to the Institute, and was asked outto dinner three or four times a week; whereas the Baroness was in avery poor condition. She had indeed succeeded in getting herselfinvited to Mr. De Baron's house, and from time to time raised a littlemoney from those who were unfortunate enough to come in her way. Butshe was sensible of her own degradation, and at the same time quiteassured that as a preacher on women's rights at large she could teachlessons infinitely superior to anything that had come from thatimpudent but imbecile American. 

She had undoubtedly received overtures from the directors of theInstitute of whom poor Aunt Ju had for the moment been the spokeswoman, and in these overtures it had been intimated to her that the directorswould be happy to remunerate her for her trouble should the moneycollected at the hall enable them to do so. The Baroness believed thatenormous sums had been received, and was loud in assuring all herfriends that this popularity had in the first place been produced byher own exertions. At any rate, she was resolved to seek redress atlaw, and at last had been advised to proceed conjointly against AuntJu, Lady Selina Protest, and the bald-headed old gentleman. Thebusiness had now been brought into proper form, and the trial was totake place in March. 

All this was the cause of much trouble to poor Mary, and of very greatvexation to Lord George. When the feud was first becoming furious, anenormous advertisement was issued by Dr. Fleabody's friends, in whichher cause was advocated and her claims recapitulated. And to this wasappended a list of the nobility, gentry, and people of England whosupported the Disabilities generally and her cause in particular. Amongthese names, which were very numerous, appeared that of Lady GeorgeGermain. This might probably have escaped both her notice and herhusband's, had not the paper been sent to her, with usual friendlyzeal, by old Lady Brabazon. "Oh George, " she said, "look here. Whatright have they to say so? I never patronised anything. I went thereonce when I came to London first, because Miss Mildmay asked me. "

"You should not have gone, " said he. 

"We have had all that before, and you need not scold me again. Therecouldn't be any great harm in going to hear a lecture. " This occurredjust previous to her going down to Manor Cross, --that journey which wasto be made for so important an object. 

Then Lord George did--just what he ought not to have done. He wrote anangry letter to Miss Fleabody, as he called her, complaining bitterlyof the insertion of his wife's name. Dr. Fleabody was quite cleverenough to make fresh capital out of this. She withdrew the name, explaining that she had been ordered to do so by the lady's husband, and implying that thereby additional evidence was supplied that theDisabilities of Women were absolutely crushing to the sex in England. Mary, when she saw this, --and the paper did not reach her till she wasat Manor Cross, --was violent in her anxiety to write herself, in herown name, and disclaim all disabilities; but her husband by this timehad been advised to have nothing further to do with Dr. Fleabody, andMary was forced to keep her indignation to herself. 

But worse than this followed the annoyance of the advertisement. A mancame all the way down from London for the purpose of serving LadyGeorge with a subpoena to give evidence at the trial on the part of theBaroness. Lord George was up in London at the time, never havingentered the house at Manor Cross, or even the park, since his visit toItaly. The consternation of the ladies may be imagined. Poor Mary wascertainly not in a condition to go into a court of law, and would beless so on the day fixed for the trial. And yet this awful documentseemed to her and to her sisters-in-law to be so imperative as to admitof no escape. It was in vain that Lady Sarah, with considerablecircumlocution, endeavoured to explain to the messenger the true stateof the case. The man could simply say that he was only a messenger, andhad now done his work. Looked at in any light, the thing was veryterrible. Lord George might probably even yet be able to run away withher to some obscure corner of the continent in which messengers fromthe Queen's judges would not be able to find her; and she might perhapsbear the journey without injury. But then what would become of ababy--perhaps of a Popenjoy--so born? There were many who still thoughtthat the Marquis would go before the baby came; and, in that case, thebaby would at once be a Popenjoy. What a condition was this for aMarchioness to be in at the moment of the birth of her eldest child!"But I don't know anything about the nasty women!" said Mary, throughher tears. 

"It is such a pity that you should ever have gone, " said Lady Susanna, shaking her head. 

"It wasn't wicked to go, " said Mary, "and I won't be scolded about itany more. You went to a lecture yourself when you were in town, andthey might just as well have sent for you. "

Lady Sarah promised her that she should not be scolded, and was verykeen in thinking what steps had better be taken. Mary wished to run offto the deanery at once, but was told that she had better not do so tillan answer had come to the letter which was of course written by thatday's post to Lord George. There were still ten days to the trial, andtwenty days, by computation, to the great event. There were, of course, various letters written to Lord George. Lady Sarah wrote very sensibly, suggesting that he should go to Mr. Stokes, the family lawyer. LadySusanna was full of the original sin of that unfortunate visit to theDisabilities. She was, however, of opinion that if Mary was concealedin a certain room at Manor Cross, which might she thought besufficiently warmed and ventilated for health, the judges of theQueen's Bench would never be able to find her. The baby in that casewould have been born at Manor Cross, and posterity would know nothingabout the room. Mary's letter was almost hysterically miserable. Sheknew nothing about the horrid people. What did they want her to say?All she had done was to go to a lecture, and to give the wicked woman aguinea. Wouldn't George come and take her away. She wouldn't care whereshe went. Nothing on earth should make her go up and stand before thejudges. It was, she said, very cruel, and she did hope that Georgewould come to her at once. If he didn't come she thought that she woulddie. 

Nothing, of course, was said to the Marchioness, but it was foundimpossible to keep the matter from Mrs. Toff. Mrs. Toff was of opinionthat the bit of paper should be burned, and that no further noticeshould be taken of the matter at all. "If they don't go they has to pay£10, " said Mrs. Toff with great authority, --Mrs. Toff remembering thata brother of hers, who had "forgotten himself in liquor" at theBrotherton assizes, had been fined £10 for not answering to his name asa juryman. "And then they don't really have to pay it, " said Mrs. Toff, who remembered also that the good-natured judge had not at last exactedthe penalty. But Lady Sarah could not look at the matter in that light. She was sure that if a witness were really wanted, that witness couldnot escape by paying a fine. 

The next morning there came a heartrending letter from Aunt Ju. She wasvery sorry that Lady George should have been so troubled;--but then letthem think of her trouble, of her misery! She was quite sure that itwould kill her, --and it would certainly ruin her. That odious Baronesshad summoned everybody that had ever befriended her. Captain De Baronhad been summoned, and the Marquis, and Mrs. Montacute Jones. And thewhole expense, according to Aunt Ju, would fall upon her; for it seemedto be the opinion of the lawyers that she had hired the Baroness. Thenshe said some very severe things against the Disabilities generally. There was that woman Fleabody making a fortune in their hall, and wouldtake none of this expense upon herself. She thought that such thingsshould be left to men, who after all were not so mean as women;--so, atleast, said Aunt Ju. 

And then there was new cause for wonderment. Lord Brotherton had beensummoned, and would Lord Brotherton come? They all believed that he wasdying, and, if so, surely he could not be made to come. "But is it nothorrible, " said Lady Susanna, "that people of rank should be madesubject to such an annoyance! If anybody can summon anybody, nobody canever be sure of herself!"

On the next morning Lord George himself came down to Brotherton, andMary with a carriage full of precautions, was sent into the deanery tomeet him. The Marchioness discovered that the journey was to be made, and was full of misgivings and full of enquiries. In her presentcondition, the mother expectant ought not to be allowed to make anyjourney at all. The Marchioness remembered how Sir Henry had told her, before Popenjoy was born, that all carriage exercise was bad. And whyshould she go to the deanery? Who could say whether the Dean would lether come away again? What a feather it would be in the Dean's cap ifthe next Popenjoy were born at the deanery. It was explained to herthat in no other way could she see her husband. Then the poor old womanwas once more loud in denouncing the misconduct of her youngest son tothe head of the family. 

Mary made the journey in perfect safety, and then was able to tell herfather the whole story. "I never heard of anything so absurd in mylife, " said the Dean. 

"I suppose I must go, papa?"

"Not a yard. "

"But won't they come and fetch me?"

"Fetch you? No. "

"Does it mean nothing. "

"Very little. They won't attempt to examine half the people they havesummoned. That Baroness probably thinks that she will get money out ofyou. If the worst comes to the worst, you must send a medicalcertificate. "

"Will that do?"

"Of course it will. When George is here we will get Dr. Loftly, and hewill make it straight for us. You need not trouble yourself about it atall. Those women at Manor Cross are old enough to have known better. "

Lord George came and was very angry. He quite agreed as to Dr. Loftly, who was sent for, and who did give a certificate, --and who took uponhimself to assure Lady George that all the judges in the land could notenforce her attendance as long as she had that certificate in herhands. But Lord George was vexed beyond measure that his wife's nameshould have been called in question, and could not refrain himself froma cross word or two. "It was so imprudent your going to such a place!"

"Oh George, are we to have that all again?"

"Why shouldn't she have gone?" asked the Dean. 

"Are you in favour of rights of women?"

"Not particularly;--though if there be any rights which they haven'tgot, I thoroughly wish that they might get them. I certainly don'tbelieve in the Baroness Banmann, nor yet in Dr. Fleabody; but I don'tthink they could have been wrong in going in good company to hear whata crazy old woman might have to say. "

"It was very foolish, " said Lord George. "See what has come of it!"

"How could I tell, George? I thought you had promised that you wouldn'tscold any more. Nasty fat old woman! I'm sure I didn't want to hearher. " Then Lord George went back to town with the medical certificatein his pocket, and Mary, being in her present condition, afraid of theauthorities, was unable to stay and be happy even for one evening withher father. 

During the month the Disabilities created a considerable interestthroughout London, of which Dr. Fleabody reaped the full advantage. TheBaroness was so loud in her clamours that she forced the question ofthe Disabilities on the public mind generally, and the result was thatthe world flocked to the Institute. The Baroness, as she heard of this, became louder and louder. It was not this that she wanted. Those whowished to sympathise with her should send her money, --not go to thehall to hear that loud imbecile American female! The Baroness, when shedesired to be-little the doctor, always called her a female. And theBaroness, though in truth she was not personally attractive, didcontrive to surround herself with supporters, and in these days movedinto comfortable lodgings in Wigmore Street. Very few were heard tospeak in her favour, but they who contributed to the relief of hernecessities were many. It was found to be almost impossible to escapefrom her without leaving some amount of money in her hands. And then, in a happy hour, she came at last across an old gentleman who didappreciate her and her wrongs. How it was that she got an introductionto Mr. Philogunac Coelebs was not, I think, ever known. It is notimprobable that having heard of his soft heart, his peculiarpropensities, and his wealth, she contrived to introduce herself. Itwas, however, suddenly understood that Mr. Philogunac Coelebs, who wasa bachelor and very rich, had taken her by the hand, and intended tobear all the expenses of the trial. It was after the general intimationwhich had been made to the world in this matter that the summons forLady Mary had been sent down to Manor Cross. 

And now in these halcyon days of March the Baroness also had herbrougham and was to be seen everywhere. How she did work! The attornieswho had the case in hands, found themselves unable to secure themselvesagainst her. She insisted on seeing the barristers, and absolutely didwork her way into the chambers of that discreet junior Mr. Stuffenruff. She was full of her case, full of her coming triumph. She would teachwomen like Miss Julia Mildmay and Lady Selina Protest what it was tobamboozle a Baroness of the Holy Roman Empire! And as for the Americanfemale----. 

"You'll put her pipe out, " suggested Mr. Philogunac Coelebs, who wasnot superior to a mild joke. 

"Stop her from piping altogether in dis contry, " said the Baroness, whoin the midst of her wrath and zeal and labour was superior to alljokes. 

Two days before that fixed for the trial there fell a great blow uponthose who were interested in the matter;--a blow that was heavy on Mr. Coelebs but heavier still on the attornies. The Baroness had takenherself off, and when enquiries were made it was found that she was atMadrid. Mr. Snape, one of the lawyers, was the person who firstinformed Mr. Coelebs, and did so in a manner which clearly implied thathe expected Mr. Coelebs to pay the bill. Then Mr. Snape encountered aterrible disappointment, and Mr. Coelebs was driven to confess his owndisgrace. He had, he said, never undertaken to pay the cost of thetrial, but he had, unfortunately, given the lady a thousand pounds toenable her to pay the expenses herself. Mr. Snape, expostulated, and, later on, urged with much persistency, that Mr. Coelebs had more thanonce attended in person at the office of Messrs. Snape and Cashett. Butin this matter the lawyers did not prevail. They had taken their ordersfrom the lady, and must look to the lady for payment. They who bestknew Mr. Philogunac Coelebs thought that he had escaped cheaply, asthere had been many fears that he should make the Baroness altogetherhis own. 

"I am so glad she has gone, " said Mary, when she heard the story. "Ishould never have felt safe while that woman was in the country. I'mquite sure of one thing. I'll never have anything more to do withdisabilities. George need not be afraid about that. "

CHAPTER LXI. 

THE NEWS COMES HOME. 

During those last days of the glory of the Baroness, when she wasdriving about London under the auspices of Philogunac Coelebs in herprivate brougham and talking to everyone of the certainty of her comingsuccess, Lord George Germain was not in London either to hear or to seewhat was going on. He had gone again to Naples, having received aletter from the British Consul there telling him that his brother wascertainly dying. The reader will understand that he must have been mostunwilling to take this journey. He at first refused to do so, allegingthat his brother's conduct to him had severed all ties between them;but at last he allowed himself to be persuaded by the joint efforts ofMr. Knox, Mr. Stokes, and Lady Sarah, who actually came up to Londonherself for the purpose of inducing him to take the journey. "He is notonly your brother, " said Lady Sarah, "but the head of your family aswell. It is not for the honour of the family that he should pass awaywithout having someone belonging to him at the last moment. " When LordGeorge argued that he would in all probability be too late, Lady Sarahexplained that the last moments of a Marquis of Brotherton could nothave come as long as his body was above ground. 

So urged the poor man started again, and found his brother still alive, but senseless. This was towards the end of March, and it is hoped thatthe reader will remember the event which was to take place on the 1stof April. The coincidence of the two things added of course verygreatly to his annoyance. Telegrams might come to him twice a-day, butno telegram could bring him back in a flash when the moment of perilshould arrive, or enable him to enjoy the rapture of standing at hiswife's bedside when that peril should be over. He felt as he went awayfrom his brother's villa to the nearest hotel, --for he would not sleepnor eat in the villa, --that he was a man marked out for misfortune. When he returned to the villa on the next morning the Marquis ofBrotherton was no more. His Lordship had died in the 44th year of hisage, on the 30th March, 187--. 

The Marquis of Brotherton was dead, and Lord George Germain was Marquisof Brotherton, and would be so called by all the world as soon as hisbrother was decently hidden under the ground. It concerns our story nowto say that Mary Lovelace was Marchioness of Brotherton, and that theDean of Brotherton was the father-in-law of a Marquis, and would, inall probability, be the progenitor of a long line of Marquises. LordGeorge, as soon as the event was known, caused telegrams to be sent toMr. Knox, to Lady Sarah, --and to the Dean. He had hesitated about thelast, but his better nature at last prevailed. He was well aware thatno one was so anxious as the Dean, and though he disliked and condemnedthe Dean's anxiety, he remembered that the Dean had at any rate been aloving father to his wife, and a very liberal father-in-law. 

Mr. Knox, when he received the news, went at once to Mr. Stokes, andthe two gentlemen were not long in agreeing that a very troublesome anduseless person had been removed out of the world. "Oh, yes; there's awill, " said Mr. Stokes in answer to an enquiry from Mr. Knox, "madewhile he was in London the other day, just before he started, --as bad awill as a man could make; but he couldn't do very much harm. Every acrewas entailed. "

"How about the house in town?" asked Mr. Knox. 

"Entailed on the baby about to be born, if he happens to be a boy. "

"He didn't spend his income?" suggested Mr. Knox. 

"He muddled a lot of money away; but since the coal came up he couldn'tspend it all, I should say. "

"Who gets it?" asked Mr. Knox, laughing. 

"We shall see that when the will is read, " said the attorney with asmile. 

The news was brought out to Lady Sarah as quick as the very wretchedpony which served for the Brotherton telegraph express could bring it. The hour which was lost in getting the pony ready, perhaps, did notsignify much. Lady Sarah, at the moment, was busy with her needle, andher sisters were with her. "What is it?" said Lady Susanna, jumping up. Lady Sarah, with cruel delay, kept the telegram for a moment in herhand. "Do open it, " said Lady Amelia; "is it from George? Pray openit;--pray do!" Lady Sarah, feeling certain of the contents of theenvelope, and knowing the importance of the news, slowly opened thecover. "It is all over, " she said, "Poor Brotherton!" Lady Amelia burstinto tears. "He was never so very unkind to me, " said Lady Susanna, with her handkerchief up to her eyes. "I cannot say that he was good tome, " said Lady Sarah, "but it may be that I was hard to him. May GodAlmighty forgive him all that he did amiss!"

Then there was a consultation held, and it was decided that Mary andthe Marchioness must both be told at once. "Mamma will be dreadfullycut up, " said Lady Susanna. Then Lady Amelia suggested that theirmother's attention should be at once drawn off to Mary's condition, for the Marchioness at this time was much worried in her feelings aboutMary, --as to whom it now seemed that some error must have been made. The calculations had not been altogether exact. So at least, judgingfrom Mary's condition, they all now thought at Manor Cross. Mrs. Toffwas quite sure, and the Marchioness was perplexed in her memory as tocertain positive information which had been whispered into her ear bySir Henry just before the birth of that unfortunate Popenjoy, who wasnow lying dead as Lord Brotherton at Naples. 

The telegram had arrived in the afternoon at the hour in which Mary wasaccustomed to sit in the easy chair with the Marchioness. The penaltyhad now been reduced to an hour a day, and this, as it happened, wasthe hour. The Marchioness had been wandering a good deal in her mind. From time to time she expressed her opinion that Brotherton would getwell and would come back; and she would then tell Mary how she ought tourge her husband to behave well to his elder brother, always assertingthat George had been stiff-necked and perverse. But in the midst of allthis she would refer every minute to Mary's coming baby as the comingPopenjoy--not a possible Popenjoy at some future time, but theimmediate Popenjoy of the hour, --to be born a Popenjoy! Poor Mary, inanswer to all this, would agree with everything. She never contradictedthe old lady, but sat longing that the hour might come to an end. 

Lady Sarah entered the room, followed by her two sisters. "Is there anynews?" asked Mary. 

"Has Brotherton come back?" demanded the Marchioness. 

"Dear mamma!" said Lady Sarah;--and she went up and knelt down beforeher mother and took her hand. 

"Where is he?" asked the Marchioness. 

"Dear mamma! He has gone away, --beyond all trouble. "

"Who has gone away?"

"Brotherton is--dead, mamma. This is a telegram from George. " The oldwoman looked bewildered, as though she did not as yet quite comprehendwhat had been said to her. "You know, " continued Lady Sarah, "that hewas so ill that we all expected this. "

"Expected what?"

"That my brother could not live. "

"Where is George? What has George done? If George had gone to him----. Oh me! Dead! He is not dead! And what has become of the child?"

"You should think of Mary, mamma. "

"My dear, of course I think of you. I am thinking of nothing else. Ishould say it would be Friday. Sarah, --you don't mean to say thatBrotherton is--dead?" Lady Sarah merely pressed her mother's hand andlooked into the old lady's face. "Why did not they let me go to him?And is Popenjoy dead also?"

"Dear mamma, don't you remember?" said Lady Susanna. 

"Yes; I remember. George was determined it should be so. Ah me!--ah me!Why should I have lived to hear this!" After that it was in vain thatthey told her of Mary and of the baby that was about to be born. Shewept herself into hysterics, --was taken away and put to bed; and thensoon wept herself asleep. 

Mary during all this had said not a word. She had felt that the momentof her exaltation, --the moment in which she had become the mistress ofthe house and of everything around it, --was not a time in which shecould dare even to speak to the bereaved mother. But when the twoyounger sisters had gone away with the Marchioness, she asked after herhusband. Then Lady Sarah showed her the telegram in which Lord George, after communicating the death of his brother, had simply said that heshould himself return home as quickly as possible. "It has come veryquick, " said Lady Sarah. 

"What has come!"

"Your position, Mary. I hope, --I hope you will bear it well. "

"I hope so, " said Mary, almost sullenly. But she was awestruck, and notsullen. 

"It will all be yours now, --the rank, the wealth, the position, thepower of spending money, and tribes of friends anxious to share yourprosperity. Hitherto you have only seen the gloom of this place, whichto you has of course been dull. Now it will be lighted up, and you canmake it gay enough. "

"This is not a time to think of gaiety, " said Mary. 

"Poor Brotherton was nothing to you. I do not think you ever saw him. "

"Never. "

"He was nothing to you. You cannot mourn. "

"I do mourn. I wish he had lived. I wish the boy had lived. If you havethought that I wanted all this, you have done me wrong. I have wantednothing but to have George to live with me. If anybody thinks that Imarried him because all this might come, --oh, they do not know me. "

"I know you, Mary. "

"Then you will not believe that. "

"I do not believe it. I have never believed it. I know that you aregood and disinterested and true of heart. I have loved you dearly andmore dearly as I have seen you every day. But Mary, you are fond ofwhat the world calls--pleasure. "

"Yes, " said Mary, after a pause, "I am fond of pleasure. Why not? Ihope I am not fond of doing harm to anyone. "

"If you will only remember how great are your duties. You may havechildren to whom you may do harm. You have a husband, who will now havemany cares, and to whom much harm may be done. Among women you will bethe head of a noble family, and may grace or disgrace them all by yourconduct. "

"I will never disgrace them, " she said proudly. 

"Not openly, not manifestly I am sure. Do you think that there are notemptations in your way?"

"Everybody has temptations. "

"Who will have more than you? Have you thought that every tenant, everylabourer on the estate will have a claim on you?"

"How can I have thought of anything yet?"

"Don't be angry with me, dear, if I bid you think of it. I think ofit, --more I know than I ought to do. I have been so placed that I coulddo but little good and little harm to others than myself. The femalesof a family such as ours, unless they marry, are very insignificant inthe world. You who but a few years ago were a little school girl inBrotherton have now been put over all our heads. "

"I didn't want to be put over anybody's head. "

"Fortune has done it for you, and your own attractions. But I was goingto say that little as has been my power and low as is my condition, Ihave loved the family and striven to maintain its respectability. Thereis not, I think, a face on the estate I do not know. I shall have to gonow and see them no more. "

"Why should you go?"

"It will probably be proper. No married man likes to have his unmarriedsisters in his house. "

"I shall like you. You shall never go. "

"Of course I shall go with mamma and the others. But I would have yousometimes think of me and those I have cared for, and I would have youbear in mind that the Marchioness of Brotherton should have more to dothan to amuse herself. "

Whatever assurances Mary might have made or have declined to make inanswer to this were stopped by the entrance of a servant, who came toinform Lady George that her father was below. The Dean too had receivedhis telegram, and had at once ridden over to greet the new Marchionessof Brotherton. 

Of all those who first heard the news, the Dean's feelings were by farthe strongest. It cannot be said of any of the Germains that there wassincere and abiding grief at the death of the late Marquis. The poormother was in such a state, was mentally so weak, that she was in truthno longer capable of strong grief or strong joy. And the man had been, not only so bad but so injurious also, to all connected with him, --hadcontrived of late to make his whole family so uncomfortable, --that hehad worn out even that enduring love which comes of custom. He had beena blister to them, --assuring them constantly that he would ever be ablister; and they could not weep in their hearts because the blisterwas removed. But neither did they rejoice. Mary, when, in her simplelanguage, she had said that she did not want it, had spoken the plaintruth. Munster Court, with her husband's love and the power to go toMrs. Jones' parties, sufficed for her ambition. That her husband shouldbe gentle with her, should caress her as well as love her, was all theworld to her. She feared rather than coveted the title of Marchioness, and dreaded that gloomy house in the Square with all her heart. But tothe Dean the triumph was a triumph indeed and the joy was a joy! He hadset his heart upon it from the first moment in which Lord George hadbeen spoken of as a suitor for his daughter's hand, --looking forward toit with the assured hope of a very sanguine man. The late Marquis hadbeen much younger than he, but he calculated that his own life had beenwholesome while that of the Marquis was the reverse. Then had come thetidings of the Marquis' marriage. That had been bad;--but he had againtold himself how probable it was that the Marquis should have no son. And then the Lord had brought home a son. All suddenly there had cometo him the tidings that a brat called Popenjoy, --a brat who in lifewould crush all his hopes, --was already in the house at Manor Cross! Hewould not for a moment believe in the brat. He would prove that the boywas not Popenjoy, though he should have to spend his last shilling indoing so. He had set his heart upon the prize, and he would allownothing to stand in his way. 

And now the prize had come before his daughter had been two yearsmarried, before the grandchild was born on whose head was to beaccumulated all these honours! There was no longer any doubt. TheMarquis was gone, and that false Popenjoy was gone; and his daughterwas the wife of the reigning Lord, and the child, --his grandchild, --wasabout to be born. He was sure that the child would be a boy! But evenwere a girl the eldest, there would be time enough for boys after that. There surely would be a real Popenjoy before long. 

And what was he to gain, --he himself? He often asked himself thequestion, but could always answer it satisfactorily. He had risen abovehis father's station by his own intellect and industry so high as to beable to exalt his daughter among the highest in the land. He couldhardly have become a Marquis himself. That career could not have beenopen to him; but a sufficiency of the sweets of the peerage would behis own if he could see his daughter a Marchioness. And now that washer rank. Fate could not take it away from her. Though Lord George wereto die to-morrow, she would still be a Marchioness, and the coming boy, his grandson, would be the Marquis. He himself was young for his age. He might yet live to hear his grandson make a speech in the House ofCommons as Lord Popenjoy. 

He had been out about the city and received the telegram at threeo'clock. He felt at the moment intensely grateful to Lord George forhaving sent it;--as he would have been full of wrath had none been sentto him. There was no reference to "Poor Brotherton!" on his tongue; noreference to "Poor Brotherton!" in his heart. The man had grosslymaligned his daughter to his own ears, had insulted him with bittermalignity, and was his enemy. He did not pretend to himself that hefelt either sorrow or pity. The man had been a wretch and his enemy andwas now dead; and he was thoroughly glad that the wretch was out of hisway. "Marchioness of Brotherton!" he said to himself, as he rested fora few minutes alone in his study. He stood with his hands in hispockets, looking up at the ceiling, and realizing it all. Yes; all thatwas quite true which had been said to himself more than once. He hadbegun his life as a stable-boy. He could remember the time when hisfather touched his hat to everybody that came into the yard. Nevertheless he was Dean of Brotherton, --and so much a Dean as to havegot the better of all enemies in the Close. And his daughter wasMarchioness of Brotherton. She would be Mary to him, and wouldadminister to his little comforts when men descended from the comradesof William the Conqueror would treat her with semi-regal respect. Hetold himself that he was sure of his daughter. 

Then he ordered his horse, and started off to ride to Manor Cross. Hedid not doubt but that she knew it already, but still it was necessarythat she should hear it from his lips and he from hers. As he rodeproudly beneath the Manor Cross oaks he told himself again and againthat they would all belong to his grandson. 

When the Dean was announced Mary almost feared to see him, --or ratherfeared that expression of triumph which would certainly be made both byhis words and manner. All that Lady Sarah had said had entered into hermind. There were duties incumbent on her which would be very heavy, forwhich she felt that she could hardly be fit, --and the first of theseduties was to abstain from pride as to her own station in life. But herfather she knew would be very proud, and would almost demand pride fromher. She hurried down to him nevertheless. Were she ten times aMarchioness, next to her husband her care would be due to him. Whatdaughter had ever been beloved more tenderly than she? Administer tohim! Oh yes, she would do that as she had always done. She rushed intohis arms in the little parlour and then burst into tears. 

"My girl, " he said, "I congratulate you. "

"No;--no, no. "

"Yes, yes, yes. Is it not better in all ways that it should be so? I docongratulate you. Hold up your head, dear, and bear it well. "

"Oh, papa, I shall never bear it well. "

"No woman that was ever born has, I believe, borne it better than youwill. No woman was ever more fit to grace a high position. My owngirl!"

"Yes, papa, your own girl. But I wish, --I wish----"

"All that I have wished has come about. " She shuddered as she heardthese words, remembering that two deaths had been necessary for thisfruition of his desires. But he repeated his words. "All that I havewished has come about. And, Mary, let me tell you this;--you should inno wise be afraid of it, nor should you allow yourself to think of itas though there were anything to be regretted. Which do you believewould make the better peer; your husband or that man who has died?"

"Of course George is ten times the best. "

"Otherwise he would be very bad. But no degree of comparison wouldexpress the difference. Your husband will add an honour to his rank. "She took his hand and kissed it as he said this, --which certainly wouldnot have been said had not that telegram come direct to the deanery. "And, looking to the future, which would probably make the better peerin coming years;--the child born of that man and woman, and bred bythem as they would have bred it, or your child, --yours and yourhusband's? And here, in the country, --from which lord would the tenantsreceive the stricter justice, and the people the more enduringkindness? Don't you know that he disgraced his order, and that thewoman was unfit to bear the name which rightly or wrongly she hadassumed? You will be fit. "

"No, papa. "

"Excuse me, dear. I am praising myself rather than you when Isay, --yes. But though I praise myself it is a matter as to which I haveno shadow of doubt. There can be nothing to regret, --no cause forsorrow. With the inmates of this house custom demands the decency ofoutward mourning;--but there can be no grief of heart. The man was awild beast, destroying everybody and everything that came near him. Only think how he treated your husband. "

"He is dead, papa!"

"I thank God that he has gone. I cannot bring myself to lie about it. Ihate such lying. To me it is unmanly. Grief or joy, regrets orsatisfaction, when expressed, should always be true. It is a grandthing to rise in the world. The ambition to do so is the very salt ofthe earth. It is the parent of all enterprise, and the cause of allimprovement. They who know no such ambition are savages and remainsavage. As far as I can see, among us Englishmen such ambition ishealthily and happily almost universal, and on that account we standhigh among the citizens of the world. But, owing to false teaching, menare afraid to own aloud a truth which is known to their own hearts. Iam not afraid to do so and I would not have you afraid. I am proud thatby one step after another I have been able so to place you and so toform you that you should have been found worthy of rank much higherthan my own. And I would have you proud also and equally ambitious foryour child. Let him be the Duke of Brotherton. Let him be brought up tobe one of England's statesmen, if God shall give him intellect for thework. Let him be seen with the George and Garter, and be knownthroughout Europe as one of England's worthiest worthies. Though notborn as yet his career should already be a care to you. And that he maybe great you should rejoice that you yourself are great already. "

After that he went away, leaving messages for Lord George and thefamily. He bade her tell Lady Sarah that he would not intrude on thepresent occasion, but that he hoped to be allowed to see the ladies ofthe family very shortly after the funeral. 

Poor Mary could not but be bewildered by the difference of the twolessons she had received on this the first day of her assured honours. And she was the more perplexed because both her instructors hadappeared to her to be right in their teaching. The pagan exaltation ofher father at the death of his enemy she could put on one side, excusing it by the remembrance of the terrible insult which she knewthat he had received. But the upshot of his philosophy she did receiveas true, and she declared to herself that she would harbour in herheart of hearts the lessons which he had given her as to her own child, lessons which must be noble as they tended to the well-being of theworld at large. To make her child able to do good to others, to assistin making him able and anxious to do so, --to train him from the firstin that way, --what wish could be more worthy of a mother than this? Butyet the humility and homely carefulness inculcated by Lady Sarah, --wasnot that lesson also true? Assuredly yes! And yet how should shecombine the two?

She was unaware that within herself there was a power, a certainintellectual alembic of which she was quite unconscious, by which shecould distil the good of each, and quietly leave the residuum behindher as being of no moment. 

CHAPTER LXII. 

THE WILL. 

Lord George came back to England as quick as the trains would carryhim, and with him came the sad and mournful burden which had to bedeposited in the vaults of the parish church at Manor Cross. There mustbe a decent tombstone now that the life was gone, with decent wordsupon it and a decent effigy, --even though there had been nothing decentin the man's life. The long line of past Marquises must be perpetuated, and Frederic Augustus, the tenth peer of the name, must be made to liewith the others. Lord George, therefore, --for he was still Lord Georgetill after the funeral, --travelled with his sad burden, some deputyundertaker having special charge of it, and rested for a few hours inLondon. Mr. Knox met him in Mr. Stokes' chambers, and there he learnedthat his brother, who had made many wills in his time, had made onelast will just before he left London, after his return from RudhamPark. Mr. Stokes took him aside and told him that he would find thewill to be unfavourable. "I thought the property was entailed, " saidLord George very calmly. Mr. Stokes assented, with many assurances asto the impregnability of the family acres and the family houses; butadded that there was money, and that the furniture had belonged to thelate Marquis to dispose of as he pleased. "It is a matter of noconsequence, " said Lord George, --whom the loss of the money andfurniture did not in truth at all vex. 

Early on the following morning he went down to Brotherton, leaving theundertakers to follow him as quickly as they might. He could enter thehouse now, and to him as he was driven home under the oaks no doubtthere came some idea of his own possession of them. But the idea wasmuch less vivid than the Dean's, and was chiefly confined to therecollection that no one could now turn him out of the home in which hehad been born and in which his mother and sisters and wife were living. Had his elder brother been a man of whom he could have been proud, Ialmost think he would have been more contented as a younger brother. "It is over at last" were the first words he said to his wife, notfinding it to be more important that his greatness was beginning thanthat his humiliation should be brought to an end. 

The funeral took place with all the state that undertakers could giveto it in a little village, but with no other honours. Lord George wasthe chief mourner and almost the only one. One or two neighbourscame, --Mr. De Baron, from Rudham Park, and such of the farmers as hadbeen long on the land, among them being Mr. Price. But there was oneperson among the number whom no one had expected. This was Jack DeBaron. "He has been mentioned in the will, " said Mr. Stokes verygravely to Lord George, "and perhaps you would not object to my askinghim to be present. " Lord George did not object, though certainlyCaptain De Baron was the last person whom he would have thought ofasking to Manor Cross on any occasion. He was made welcome, however, with a grave courtesy. 

"What on earth has brought you here?" said old Mr. De Baron to hiscousin. 

"Don't in the least know! Got a letter from a lawyer, saying I hadbetter come. Thought everybody was to be here who had ever seen him. "

"He hasn't left you money, Jack, " said Mr. De Baron. 

"What will you give for my chance?" said Jack. But Mr. De Baron, thoughhe was much given to gambling speculations, did not on this occasionmake an offer. 

After the funeral, which was sadder even than funerals are in generalthough no tear was shed, the will was read in the library at ManorCross, Lord George being present, together with Mr. Knox, Mr. Stokesand the two De Barons. The Dean might have wished to be there; but hehad written early on that morning an affectionate letter to hisson-in-law, excusing himself from being present at the funeral. "Ithink you know, " he had said, "that I would do anything either topromote your welfare or to gratify your feelings, but there hadunfortunately been that between me and the late Marquis which wouldmake my attendance seem to be a mockery. " He did not go near ManorCross on that day; but no one knew better than he, --not even Mr. Knoxhimself, --that the dead lord had possessed no power of alienating astick or a brick upon the property. The will was very short, and theupshot of it was that every shilling of which the Marquis diedpossessed, together with his house at Como and the furniture containedin the three houses, was left to our old friend Jack De Baron. "I tookthe liberty, " said Mr. Stokes, "to inform his lordship that should hedie before his wife, his widow would be entitled to a third of hispersonal property. He replied that whatever his widow could claim bylaw, she could get without any act of his. I mention this, as CaptainDe Baron may perhaps be willing that the widow of the late Marquis maybe at once regarded as possessed of a third of the property. "

"Quite so, " said Jack, who had suddenly become as solemn and funerealas Mr. Stokes himself. He was now engaged to Guss Mildmay with avengeance!

When the solemnity of the meeting was over, Lord George, --or theMarquis, as he must now be called, --congratulated the young heir withexquisite grace. "I was so severed from my brother of late, " he said, "that I had not known of the friendship. "

"Never saw him in my life till I met him down at Rudham, " said Jack. "Iwas civil to him there because he seemed to be ill. He sent me once tofetch a ten-pound note. I thought it odd, but I went. After that heseemed to take to me a good deal. "

"He took to you to some purpose, Captain De Baron. As to me, I did notwant it, and certainly should not have got it. You need not for amoment think that you are robbing us. "

"That is so good of you!" said Jack, whose thoughts, however, were toofull of Guss Mildmay to allow of any thorough enjoyment of hisunexpected prosperity. 

"Stokes says that after the widow is paid and the legacy duty therewill be eight--and twenty--thousand pounds!" whispered Mr. De Baron tohis relative. "By heavens! you are a lucky fellow. "

"I am rather lucky. "

"It will be fourteen hundred a year, if you only look out for a goodinvestment. A man with ready money at his own disposal can always getfive per cent, at least. I never heard of such a fluke in my life. "

"It was a fluke, certainly. "

"You'll marry now and settle down, I suppose?"

"I suppose I shall, " said Jack. "One has to come to that kind of thingat last. I knew when I was going to Rudham that some d---- thing wouldcome of it. Oh, --of course I'm awfully glad. It's sure to come sooneror later, and I suppose I've had my run. I've just seen Stokes, and hesays I'm to go to him in about a month's time. I thought I should havegot some of it to-morrow?"

"My dear fellow, I can let you have a couple of hundreds, if you wantthem, " said Mr. De Baron, who had never hitherto been induced toadvance a shilling when his young cousin had been needy. 

Mr. Stokes, Mr. Knox, Mr. De Baron and the heir went away, leaving thefamily to adjust their own affairs in their new position. Then Maryreceived a third lecture as she sat leaning upon her husband'sshoulder. 

"At any rate, you won't have to go away any more, " she had said to him. "You have been always away, for ever so long. "

"It was you who would go to the deanery when you left London. "

"I know that. Of course I wanted to see papa then. I don't want to talkabout that any more. Only, you won't go away again?"

"When I do you shall go with me. "

"That won't be going away. Going away is taking yourself off, --byyourself. "

"Could I help it?"

"I don't know. I could have gone with you. But it's over now, isn'tit?"

"I hope so. "

"It shall be over. And when this other trouble is done, --you'll go toLondon then?"

"It will depend on your health, dear. "

"I am very well. Why shouldn't I be well? When a month is over, --thenyou'll go. "

"In two months, perhaps. "

"That'll be the middle of June. I'm sure I shall be well in threeweeks. And where shall we go? We'll go to Munster Court, --shan't we?"

"As soon as the house is ready in St. James' Square, we must go there. "

"Oh! George, --I do so hate that house in St. James' Square. I shallnever be happy there. It's like a prison. "

Then he gave her his lecture. "My love, you should not talk of hatingthings that are necessary. "

"But why is St. James' Square necessary?"

"Because it is the town residence belonging to the family. MunsterCourt was very well for us as we were before. Indeed, it was much toogood, as I felt every hour that I was there. It was more than we couldafford without drawing upon your father for assistance. "

"But he likes being drawn upon, " said Mary. "I don't think there isanything papa likes so much as to be drawn upon. "

"That could make no difference to me, my dear. I don't think that asyet you understand money matters. "

"I hope I never shall, then. "

"I hope you will. It will be your duty to do so. But, as I was saying, the house at Munster Court will be unsuitable to you as LadyBrotherton. " On hearing this Mary pouted and made a grimace. "There isa dignity to be borne which, though it may be onerous, must besupported. "

"I hate dignity. "

"You would not say that if you knew how it vexed me. Could I havechosen for myself personally, perhaps, neither would I have taken thisposition. I do not think that I am by nature ambitious. But a man isbound to do his duty in that position in which he finds himselfplaced, --and so is a woman. "

"And it will be my duty to live in an ugly house?"

"Perhaps the house may be made less ugly; but to live in it willcertainly be a part of your duty. And if you love me, Mary----"

"Do you want me to tell you whether I love you?"

"But, loving me as I know you do, I am sure you will not neglect yourduty. Do not say again that you hate your dignity. You must neverforget now that you are Marchioness of Brotherton. "

"I never shall, George. "

"That is right, my dear, " he said, omitting to understand the littlesatire conveyed in her words. "It will come easy to you before long. But I would have all the world feel that you are the mistress of therank to which you have been raised. Of course, it has been differenthitherto, " he said, endeavouring in his own mind to excuse theindiscretion of that Kappa-kappa. This lecture also she turned towholesome food and digested, obtaining from it some strength andthrowing off the bombast by which a weaker mind might have beeninflated. She understood, at any rate, that St. James' Square must beher doom; but while acknowledging this to herself, she made a littleresolution that a good deal would have to be done to the house beforeit was ready for her reception, and that the doing would require aconsiderable time. 

When she heard the purport of the late lord's will she was muchsurprised, --more surprised, probably, than Jack himself. Why should aman who was so universally bad, --such a horror, --leave his money to onewho was so--so--so good as Jack De Baron. The epithet came to her atlast in preference to any other. And what would he do now? George hadtold her that the sum would be very large, and of course he could marryif he pleased. At any rate he would not go to Perim. The idea that heshould go to Perim had made her uncomfortable. Perhaps he had bettermarry Guss Mildmay. She was not quite all that his wife should be; buthe had said that he would do so in certain circumstances. Thosecircumstances had come round and it was right that he should keep hisword. And yet it made her somewhat melancholy to think that he shouldmarry Guss Mildmay. 

Very shortly after this, and when she was becoming aware that the eventwhich ought to have taken place on the 1st of April would not be muchlonger delayed, there came home to her various things containinglectures almost as severe, and perhaps more eloquent than those she hadreceived from her sister, her father, and her husband. There was aninfinity of clothes which someone had ordered for her, and on all thethings which would bear a mark, there was a coronet. The coronets onthe pockethandkerchiefs seemed to be without end. And there wasfunereal note-paper, on which the black edges were not more visiblethan the black coronets. And there came invoices to her from thetradesmen, addressed to the Marchioness of Brotherton. And then therecame the first letter from her father with her rank and title on theenvelope. At first she was almost afraid to open it. 

CHAPTER LXIII. 

POPENJOY IS BORN--AND CHRISTENED. 

At last, not much above a week after the calculations, in all the gloryof the purple of Manor Cross, the new Popenjoy was born. For it was aPopenjoy. The Fates, who had for some time past been unpropitious tothe house of Brotherton, now smiled; and Fortune, who had been good tothe Dean throughout, remained true to him also in this. The family hada new heir, a real Popenjoy; and the old Marchioness when the baby wasshown to her for awhile forgot her sorrows and triumphed with the rest. 

The Dean's anxiety had been so great that he had insisted on remainingat the house. It had been found impossible to refuse such a requestmade at such a time. And now, at last, the ladies at Manor Crossgradually forgave the Dean his offences. To the old dowager they didnot mention his name, and she probably forgot his existence; but theMarquis appeared to live with him on terms of perfect friendship, andthe sisters succumbed to the circumstances and allowed themselves totalk to him as though he were in truth the father of the reigningMarchioness. 

It will be understood that for forty-eight hours before the birth ofthe child and for forty-eight hours afterwards all Manor Cross wasmoved in the matter, as though this were the first male child born intothe world since the installation of some new golden age. It was a greatthing that, after all the recent troubles, a Popenjoy, --a properPopenjoy, --should be born at Manor Cross of English parents, --a healthyboy, --a bouncing little lord, as Mrs. Toff called him; and the eventalmost justified the prophetic spirit in which his grandmother spoke ofthis new advent. "Little angel!" she said. "I know he'll grow up tobring new honours to the family, and do as much for it as hisgreat-grandfather. " The great-grandfather spoken of had been an earl, great in borough-mongery, and had been made a marquis by Pitt on thescore of his votes. "George, " she went on to say, "I do hope there willbe bells and bonfires, and that the tenants will be allowed to seehim. " There were bells and bonfires. But in these days tenants areperhaps busier men than formerly, and have less in them certainly ofthe spirit of heir-worship than their fathers. But Mr. Price, with hisbride, did come down and see the baby; on which occasion the gallanthusband bade his wife remember that although they had been married morethan twelve months after Lord George, their baby would only be threemonths younger. Whereupon Mrs. Price boxed her husband's ears, --to thegreat delight of Mrs. Toff, who was dispensing sherry and cherry brandyin her own sitting-room. 

The Dean's joy, though less ecstatic in its expression, was quite asdeep and quite as triumphant as that of the Marchioness. When he wasadmitted for a moment to his daughter's bedside, the tears rolled downhis face as he prayed for a blessing for her and her baby. Lady Sarahwas in the room, and began to doubt whether she had read the man'scharacter aright. There was an ineffable tenderness about him, asweetness of manners, a low melody of voice, a gracious solemnity inwhich piety seemed to be mingled with his love and happiness! That hewas an affectionate father had been always known; but now it had to beconfessed that he bore himself as though he had sprung from some noblefamily or been the son and grandson of archbishops. How it would havebeen with him on such an occasion had his daughter married some vicarof Pugsty, as she had herself once suggested, Lady Sarah did not nowstop to enquire. It was reasonable to Lady Sarah that the coming of aPopenjoy should be hailed with greater joy and receive a warmer welcomethan the birth of any ordinary baby. "You have had a good deal to bear, Brotherton, " he said, holding his noble son-in-law by the hand; "but Ithink that this will compensate for it all. " The tears were still inhis eyes, and they were true tears, --tears of most unaffected joy. Hehad seen the happy day; and as he told himself in words which wouldhave been profane had they been absolutely uttered, he was now readyto die in peace. Not that he meant to die, or thought that he shoulddie. That vision of young Popenjoy, bright as a star, beautiful as ayoung Apollo, with all the golden glories of the aristocracy upon hishead, standing up in the House of Commons and speaking to the world atlarge with modest but assured eloquence, while he himself occupied somecorner in the gallery, was still before his eyes. 

After all, who shall say that the man was selfish? He was contented toshine with a reflected honour. Though he was wealthy, he never desiredgrand doings at the deanery. In his own habits he was simple. Thehappiness of his life had been to see his daughter happy. His very soulhad smiled within him when she had smiled in his presence. But he hadbeen subject to one weakness, which had marred a manliness which wouldotherwise have been great. He, who should have been proud of thelowliness of his birth, and have known that the brightest feather inhis cap was the fact that having been humbly born he had made himselfwhat he was, --he had never ceased to be ashamed of the stable-yard. Andas he felt himself to be degraded by that from which he had sprung, sodid he think that the only whitewash against such dirt was to be foundin the aggrandisement of his daughter and the nobility of her children. He had, perhaps, been happier than he deserved. He might have sold herto some lord who would have scorned her after a while and despisedhimself. As it was, the Marquis, who was his son-in-law, was a man whomupon the whole he could well trust. Lord George had indeed made onelittle error in regard to Mrs. Houghton; but that had passed away andwould not probably be repeated. 

Of all those closely concerned in the coming of Popenjoy the fatherseemed to bear the greatness of the occasion with the most modesty. When the Dean congratulated him he simply smiled and expressed a hopethat Mary would do well in her troubles. Poor Mary's welfare hadhitherto been almost lost in the solicitude for her son. "She can't butdo well now, " said the Dean, who of all men was the most sanguine. "Sheis thoroughly healthy, and nothing has been amiss. "

"We must be very careful--that's all, " said the Marquis. Hitherto hehad not brought his tongue to speak of his son as Popenjoy, and did notdo so for many a day to come. That an heir had been born was very well;but of late the name of Popenjoy had not been sweet to his ears. 

Nothing had gone amiss, and nothing did go amiss. When it was decidedthat the young Marchioness was to nurse her own baby, --a matter whichMary took into her own hands with a very high tone, --the oldMarchioness became again a little troublesome. She had her memoriesabout it all in her own time; how she had not been able to do as Marywas doing. She remembered all that, and how unhappy it had made her;but she remembered also that, had she done so for Popenjoy, Sir Henrywould have insisted on three pints of porter. Then Mary rebelledaltogether, and talked of drinking nothing but tea, --and would not bebrought to consent even to bitter beer without a great deal of trouble. But, through it all, the mother throve and the baby throve; and whenthe bonfires had been all burned and the bells had been all rung, andthe child had been shown to such tenants and adherents and workmen asdesired to see him, the family settled down to a feeling of permanentsatisfaction. 

And then came the christening. Now in spite of the permanentsatisfaction there were troubles, --troubles of which the Marquis becameconscious very soon, and which he was bound to communicate to hissister, --troubles of which the Dean was unfortunately cognisant, and ofwhich he would speak and with which he would concern him, --much to theannoyance of the Marquis. The will which the late man had made was aserious temporary embarrassment. There was no money with which to doanything. The very bed on which the mother lay with her baby belongedto Jack De Baron. They were absolutely drinking Jack De Baron's portwine, and found, when the matter came to be considered, that they weremaking butter from Jack De Baron's cows. This could not be longendured. Jack, who was now bound to have a lawyer of his own, had veryspeedily signified his desire that the family should be put to noinconvenience, and had declared that any suggestion from the Marquis asto the house in town or that in the country would be a law to him. Butit was necessary that everything should be valued at once, and eitherpurchased or given up to be sold to those who would purchase it. Therewas, however, no money, and the Marquis who hated the idea of borrowingwas told that he must go among the money-lenders. Then the Deanproposed that he and Miss Tallowax between them might be able toadvance what was needed. The Marquis shook his head and said nothing. The proposition had been very distasteful to him. 

Then there came another proposition. But it will be right in the firstplace to explain that the great question of godfather and godmother hadreceived much attention. His Royal Highness the Duke of Windsor hadsignified through young Lord Brabazon that he would stand as one of thesponsors. The honour had been very great, and had of course beenaccepted at the moment. The Dean had hankered much after the office, but had abstained from asking with a feeling that should the request berefused a coolness would be engendered which he himself would be unableto repress. It would have filled him with delight to stand in his owncathedral as godfather to the little Popenjoy; but he abstained, andsoon heard that the Duke of Dunstable, who was a distant cousin, was tobe the colleague of His Royal Highness. He smiled and said nothing ofhimself, --but thought that his liberality might have been moreliberally remembered. 

Just at this time Miss Tallowax arrived at the deanery, and on the nextmorning the Dean came over to Manor Cross with a proposition from thatlady. She would bestow twenty thousand pounds immediately uponPopenjoy, and place it for instant use in the father's hands, oncondition that she might be allowed to stand as godmother!

"We could not consent to accept the money, " said the Marquis verygravely. 

"Why not? Mary is her nearest living relative in that generation. As amatter of course, she will leave her money to Mary or herchildren, --unless she be offended. Nothing is so common as for oldpeople with liberal hearts to give away the money which they must soonleave behind them. A more generous creature than my old aunt doesn'tlive. "

"Very generous; but I am afraid we cannot accept it. "

"After all, it is only an empty honour. I would not ask it for myselfbecause I knew how you might be situated. But I really think you mightgratify the old lady. Twenty thousand pounds is an important sum, andwould be so useful just at present!"

This was true, but the father at the moment declined. The Dean, however, who knew his man, determined that the money should not belost, and communicated with Mr. Knox. Mr. Knox came down to Manor Crossand held a long consultation at which both the Dean and Lady Sarah werepresent. "Let it be granted, " said the Dean, "that it is a foolishrequest; but are you justified in refusing twenty thousand poundsoffered to Popenjoy?"

"Certainly, " said Lady Sarah, "if the twenty thousand pounds is abribe. "

"But it is no bribe, Lady Sarah, " said Mr. Knox. "It is notunreasonable that Miss Tallowax should give her money to hergreat-nephew, nor is it unreasonable that she should ask for thishonour, seeing that she is the child's great-aunt. " There was a strongopposition to Miss Tallowax's liberal offer, --but in the end it wasaccepted. The twenty thousand pounds was important, and, after all, thegodmother could do no lasting injury to the child. Then it wasdiscovered that the offer was clogged with a further stipulation. Theboy must be christened Tallowax! To this father and mother and auntsall objected, swearing that they would not subject their young Popenjoyto so great an injury, --till it was ascertained that the old lady didnot insist on Tallowax as a first name, or even as a second. It wouldsuffice that Tallowax should be inserted among others. It was at lastdecided that the boy should be christened Frederic Augustus Tallowax. Thus he became Frederic Augustus Tallowax Germain, --commonly to becalled, by the Queen's courtesy, Lord Popenjoy. The christening itselfwas not very august, as neither the Royal Duke nor his fellow attendedin person. The Dean stood proxy for the one, and Canon Holdenough forthe other. 

Mary by this time was able to leave her room, and was urgent with herhusband to take her up to London. Had she not been very good, and doneall that she was told, --except in regard to the porter? And was it notmanifest to everybody that she would be able to travel to St. Petersburg and back if such a journey were required? Her husbandassured her that she would be knocked up before she got half-way. "ButLondon isn't a tenth part of the distance, " said Mary, with a woman'slogic. Then it was settled that on May 20th she should be taken withher baby to Munster Court. The following are a few of the letters ofcongratulation which she received during the period of herconvalescence. 

 "GROSVENOR PLACE. 

 "MY DEAR MARCHIONESS, --Of course I have heard all about you from time to time, and of course I have been delighted. In the first place, we none of us could grieve very much for that unfortunate brother of yours. Really it was so very much better for everybody that Lord George should have the title and property, --not to talk of all the advantage which the world expects from a young and fascinating Lady Brotherton. I am told that the scaffolding is already up in St. James' Square. I drove through the place the other day, and bethought myself how long it might be before I should receive the honour of a card telling me that on such and such a day the Marchioness of Brotherton would be at home. I should not suggest such a thing but for a dearly kind expression in your last letter. 

 "But the baby of course is the first object. Pray tell me what sort of a baby it is. Two arms and two legs, I know, for even a young Lord Popenjoy is not allowed to have more; but of his special graces you might send me a catalogue, if you have as yet been allowed pen and paper. I can believe that a good deal of mild tyranny would go on with those estimable sisters, and that Lord George would be anxious. I beg his pardon, --the Marquis. Don't you find this second change in your name very perplexing, --particularly in regard to your linen? All your nice wedding things will have become wrong so soon!

 "And now I can impart a secret. There are promises of a little Giblet. Of course it is premature to speak with certainty; but why shouldn't there be a little Giblet as well as a little Popenjoy? Only it won't be a Giblet as long as dear old Lord Gossling can keep the gout out of his stomach. They say that in anger at his son's marriage he has forsworn champagne and confines himself to two bottles of claret a-day. But Giblet, who is the happiest young man of my acquaintance, says that his wife is worth it all. 

 "And so our friend the Captain is a millionaire! What will he do? Wasn't it an odd will? I couldn't be altogether sorry, for I have a little corner in my heart for the Captain, and would have left him something myself if I had anything to leave. I really think he had better marry his old love. I like justice, and that would be just. He would do it to-morrow if you told him. It might take me a month of hard work. How much is it he gets? I hear such various sums, --from a hundred thousand down to as many hundreds. Nevertheless, the will proves the man to have been mad, --as I always said he was. 

 "I suppose you'll come to Munster Court till the house in the square be finished. Or will you take some furnished place for a month or two? Munster Court is small; but it was very pretty, and I hope I may see it again. 

 "Kiss the little Popenjoy for me, and believe me to be, "Dear Lady Brotherton, "Your affectionate old friend, "G. MONTACUTE JONES. "

The next was from their friend the Captain himself. 

 "DEAR LADY BROTHERTON, --I hope it won't be wrong in me to congratulate you on the birth of your baby. I do so with all my heart. I hope that some day, when I am an old fogy, I may be allowed to know him and remind him that in old days I used to know his mother. I was down at Manor Cross the other day; but of course on such an occasion I could not see you. I was sent for because of that strange will; but it was more strange to me that I should so soon find myself in your house. It was not very bright on that occasion. 

 "I wonder who was surprised most by the will, --you or I?" Mary, when she read this, declared to herself that she ought not to have been surprised at all. How could anyone be surprised by what such a man as that might do?

 "He had never seen me, as far as I know, till he met me at Rudham. I did not want his money, --though I was poor enough. I don't know what I shall do now; but I shan't go to Perim. 

 "Mrs. Jones says you will soon be in town. I hope I may be allowed to call. 

 "Believe me always, "Most sincerely yours, "JOHN DE BARON. "

Both those letters gave her pleasure, and both she answered. To allMrs. Jones' enquiries she gave very full replies, and enjoyed her jokeswith her old friend. She hinted that she did not at all intend to hurrythe men at St. James' Square, and that certainly she would be found inMunster Court till the men had completed their work. As to what theiryoung friend would do with his money she could say nothing. She couldnot undertake the commission, --though perhaps that might be best, --andso on. Her note to Jack was very short. She thanked him heartily forhis good wishes, and told him the day on which she would be in MunsterCourt. Then in a postscript she said that she was "_very, very glad_"that he had inherited the late lord's money. 

The other letter offended her as much as those two had pleased her. Itoffended her so much that when she saw the handwriting she would nothave read it but that curiosity forbade her to put it on one side. Itwas from Adelaide Houghton, and as she opened it there was a sparkle ofanger in her eyes which perhaps none of her friends had ever seenthere. This letter was as follows;--

 "DEAR LADY BROTHERTON, --Will you not at length allow bygones to be bygones? What can a poor woman do more than beg pardon and promise never to be naughty again. Is it worth while that we who have known each other so long should quarrel about what really amounted to nothing? It was but a little foolish romance, the echo of a past feeling, --a folly if you will, but innocent. I own my fault and put on the sackcloth and ashes of confession, and, after that, surely you will give me absolution. 

 "And now, having made my apology, which I trust will be accepted, pray let me congratulate you on all your happiness. The death of your poor brother-in-law of course we have all expected. Mr. Houghton had heard a month before that it was impossible that he should live. Of course, we all feel that the property has fallen into much better hands. And I am so glad that you have a boy. Dear little Popenjoy! Do, do forgive me, so that I may have an opportunity of kissing him. I am, at any rate, "Your affectionate old friend, "ADELAIDE HOUGHTON. "

Affectionate old friend! Serpent! Toad! Nasty degraded painted Jezebel!Forgive her! No, --never; not though she were on her knees! She wascontemptible before, but doubly contemptible in that she could humbleherself to make an apology so false, so feeble, and so fawning. It wasthus that she regarded her correspondent's letter. Could any woman whoknew that love-letters had been written to her husband by another womanforgive that other? We are all conscious of trespassers againstourselves whom we especially bar when we say our prayers. Forgive usour trespasses, as we forgive them who trespass against us, --exceptingJones who has committed the one sin that we will not forgive, that weought not to forgive. Is there not that sin against the Holy Ghost tojustify us? This was the sin that Mary could not forgive. Thedisgusting woman, --for to Mary the woman was now absolutelydisgusting, --had attempted to take from her the heart of her husband!There was a good deal of evidence also against her husband, but thatshe had quite forgotten. She did not in the least believe that Adelaidewas preferred to herself. Her husband had eyes, and could see, --aheart, and could feel, --an understanding, and could perceive. She wasnot in the least afraid as to her husband. But nothing on earth shouldinduce her to forgive Mrs. Houghton. She thought for a moment whetherit was worth her while to show the letter to the Marquis, and then toreit into fragments and threw the pieces away. 

CHAPTER LXIV. 

CONCLUSION. 

It is now only necessary that we should collect together the few loosethreads of our story which require to be tied lest the pieces shouldbecome unravelled in the wear. Of our hero, Lord Popenjoy, it need onlybe said that when we last heard of him he was a very healthy and rathermischievous boy of five years old, who tyrannised over his two littlesisters, --the Lady Mary and the Lady Sarah. Those, however, who lookmost closely to his character think that they can see the germs of thatfuture success which his grandfather so earnestly desires for him. Hismother is quite sure that he will live to be Prime Minister, and hasalready begun to train him for that office. The house in Munster Courthas of course been left, and the Marchioness was on one occasion rousedinto avowing that the family mansion is preferable. But then the familymansion has been so changed that no Germain of a former generationwould know it. The old Dowager who still lives at Manor Cross has neverseen the change, but Lady Sarah, who always spends a month or two intown, pretends to disbelieve that it is the same house. One of theevents in Mary's life which astonishes her most is the perfectfriendship which exists between her and her eldest sister-in-law. Shecorresponds regularly with Lady Sarah, and is quite content to have herletters filled with the many ailments and scanty comforts of the poorpeople on the estate. Lady Sarah is more than content to be able tolove the mother of the heir, and she does love her, and the boy too, with all her heart. Now that there is a Popenjoy, --a coming Brotherton, of whom she can be proud, she finds nothing in her own life with whichshe ought to quarrel. The Ladies Susanna and Amelia also come up totown every year, very greatly to their satisfaction, and are mostdevoted to the young Marchioness. But the one guest who is honouredabove all others in St. James' Square, for whose comfort everything ismade to give way, whom not to treat with loving respect is to secure abanishment from the house, whom all the servants are made to regard asa second master, is the Dean. His lines have certainly fallen to him inpleasant places. No woman in London is more courted and more popularthan the Marchioness of Brotherton, and consequently the Dean spendshis two months in London very comfortably. But perhaps the happiestperiod of his life is the return visit which his daughter always makesto him for a fortnight during the winter. At this period the Marquiswill generally pass a couple of days at the deanery, but for thegreater part of the time the father and daughter are alone together. Then he almost worships her. Up in London he allows himself to beworshipped with an exquisite grace. To Mrs. Houghton the Marchionesshas never spoken, and on that subject she is inexorable. Friends haveinterceded, but such intercession has only made matters worse. Of whatnature must the woman be who could speak to any friend of such anoffence as she had committed? The Marchioness, in refusing to bereconciled, has never alluded to the cause of her anger, but has shownher anger plainly and has persistently refused to abandon it. 

The Marquis has become a model member of the House of Lords. He ispresent at all their sittings, and is indefatigably patient onCommittees, --but very rarely speaks. In this way he is graduallygaining weight in the country, and when his hair is quite grey and hisstep less firm than at present, he will be an authority in Parliament. He is also a pattern landlord, listening to all complaints, andendeavouring in everything to do justice between himself and those whoare dependent on him. He is also a pattern father, expecting greatthings from Popenjoy, and resolving that the child shall be subjectedto proper discipline as soon as he is transferred from feminine tovirile teaching. In the meantime the Marchioness reigns supreme in thenursery, --as it is proper that she should do. 

The husband now never feels himself called upon to remind his wife tosupport her dignity. Since the dancing of the Kappa-kappa she has neverdanced, except when on grand occasions she has walked through aquadrille with some selected partner of special rank; and this she doessimply as a duty. Nevertheless, in society she is very gay and veryjoyous. But dancing has been a peril to her, and she avoids italtogether, pleading to such friends as Mrs. Jones that a woman with alot of babies is out of place capering about a room. Mrs. Jonesremembers the Kappa-kappa and says little or nothing on the subject, but she heartily dissents from her friend, and still hopes that theremay be a good time coming. The Marquis remembers it all, too, and isthoroughly thankful to his wife, showing his gratitude every now andthen by suggesting that Captain and Mrs. De Baron may be asked todinner. He knows that there is much for which he has to be grateful. Though the name of Mrs. Houghton is never on his tongue, he has notforgotten the way in which he went astray in Berkeley Square, --nor thesweet reticence of his wife, who has never thrown his fault in histeeth since that day on which, at his bidding, she took the letter fromhis pocket and read it. No man in London is better satisfied with hiswife than the Marquis, and perhaps no man in London has better cause tobe satisfied. 

Yes! Captain De Baron--and his wife--do occasionally dine together inSt. James' Square. Whether it was that Mrs. Montacute Jones wassuccessful in her efforts, or that Guss was enabled to found argumentson Jack's wealth which Jack was unable to oppose, or that a sense ofwhat was due to the lady prevailed with him at last, he did marry herabout a twelvemonth after the reading of the will. When the Marchionesscame to town, --before Popenjoy was born, --he called, and was allowed tosee her. Nothing could be more respectful than was his demeanour then, nor than it had been ever since; and when he announced to his friend, as he did in person, that he was about to be married to Miss Mildmay, she congratulated him with warmth, not saying a word as to pastoccurrences. But she determined that she would ever be his friend, andfor his sake she has become friendly also to his wife. She never reallyliked poor Guss, --nor perhaps does the Captain. But there have been noquarrels, at any rate, no public quarrels, and Jack has done his dutyin a manner that rather surprised his old acquaintances. But he is amuch altered man, and is growing fat, and has taken to playing whist athis club before dinner for shilling points. I have always thought thatin his heart of hearts he regrets the legacy. 

Whether to spite his son, or at the urgent entreaty of his wife anddoctors, Lord Gossling has of late been so careful, that the gout hasnot had a chance of getting into his stomach. Lord Giblet professeshimself to be perfectly satisfied with things as they are. He hasalready four children. He lives in a small house in Green Street, andis a member of the Entomological Society. He is so strict in hisattendance that it is thought that he will some day be president. Butthe old lord does not like this turn in his son's life, and says thatthe family of De Geese must be going to the dogs when the heir hasnothing better to do than to attend to insects. 

Mrs. Montacute Jones gives as many parties as ever in Grosvenor Place, and is never so well pleased as when she can get the Marchioness ofBrotherton to her house. She is still engaged in matrimonial pursuits, and is at the present moment full of an idea that the minister fromSaxony, who is a fine old gentleman of sixty, but a bachelor, may begot to marry Lady Amelia Germain. Mary assures her that there isn't theleast chance, --that Amelia would certainly not accept him, --and that anold German of sixty, used to diplomacy all his life, is the last man inthe world to be led into difficulties. But Mrs. Jones never gives wayin such matters, and has already made the plans for a campaign atKillancodlem next August. 

I regret to state that Messrs. Snape and Cashett have persecuted thepoor Baroness most cruelly. They have contrived to show that the ladyhas not only got into their debt, but has also swindled them, --swindledthem according to law, --and consequently they have been able to set allthe police of the continent on her track. She had no sooner shown herface back in Germany, than they were upon her. For a while sheescaped, rushing from one country to another, but at last she wasarrested on a platform in Oregon, and is soon about to stand her trialin an English Court. As a good deal of sympathy has been expressed inher favour, and as Mr. Philogunac Coelebs has taken upon himself theexpense of her defence, it is confidently hoped in many quarters thatno jury will convict her. In the meantime, Dr. Fleabody has, I am told, married a store-keeper in New York, and has settled down into a goodmother of a family. 

At Manor Cross during the greater portion of the year things go on verymuch as they used. The Marchioness is still living, and interestsherself chiefly in the children of her daughter-in-law, --born, and tobe born. But the great days of her life are those in which Popenjoy isbrought to her. The young scapegrace will never stay above five minuteswith his grandmother, but the old lady is sure that she is regarded byhim with a love passing the love of children. At Christmas time, andfor a week or two before, and a month or two afterwards, the house isfull of company and bright with unaccustomed lights. Lady Sarah puts onher newest silk, and the Marchioness allows herself to be brought intothe drawing-room after dinner. But at the end of February the youngfamily flits to town, and then the Manor Cross is as Manor Cross solong has been. 

Mr. Price still hunts, and is as popular in the country as ever. Heoften boasts that although he was married much after the Marquis, theyoungest of his three children is older than Lady Mary. But when hedoes this at home, his ears are always boxed for him. 

Of Mr. Groschut it is only necessary to say that he is still at Pugsty, vexing the souls of his parishioners by Sabbatical denunciations. 

THE END. 

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Transcriber's note:

Inconsistent hyphenation "a-head" / "ahead", "farm-house" / "farmhouse", "fire-place" / "fireplace", "grand-daughter" / "granddaughter", "high-spirited" / "highspirited", "ill-natured" / "illnatured", "note-paper" / "notepaper", "play-fellow" / "playfellow", "half-a-dozen" / "half a dozen", and "cock-and-bull" / "cock and bull"has been retained. Inconsistent capitalization of "Marchioness"has also been retained as has the use of "grey" and "gray". 

The following minor typographical corrections were made:

 - Changed single quote to double after "MINISTER" on cover page. - Capitalized "he" in "He is thirty" on page 8. - Changed period to comma after "said" on page 16. - "Sarahs" changed to "Sarah" on page 25. - End quote added after "Italy" on page 28. - Original reads "ill-dawn" instead of "ill-drawn" on page 29. - Quotation mark added before "when Brotherton came of age" on page 29. - Original reads "andj" instead of "and" on page 33. - Comma changed to period here after "closely" on page 48. - Period added after "family" on page 46. - Second "made" removed on page 60. - End quote added after "quarrel" on page 64. - End quote added after "cousin" on page 74. - End quote added after "once" on page 82. - End quote added after "boy" on page 83. - Quotation mark added before "She would draw" on page 107. - Removed second "was" on page 116. - Double quote added before "We have been" on page 131. - Original reads "de" instead of "he" on page 134. - End quote added after "Sarah Germain" on page 135. - Single quote changed to double after "duties. " on page 137. - Second "a" deleted on page 141. - Original reads "intercouse" instead of "intercourse" on page 142. - Original reads "musn't" instead of "mustn't" on page 149. - Comma removed after "Lord George" on page 154. - Single quote changed to double before "Ah" on page 187. - Quotation added before "I feel like" on page 192. - Comma changed to period after "undone" on page 193. - End quote added after "George, " on page 193. - Period changed to a comma after "it" on page 199. - End quote added after "matter?" on page 218. - End quote added after "ball. " On page 223. - On page 237, I have used blockquoted text similar to that used elsewhere in the text for correspondence. - New paragraph added before "B" on page 237. - Period added after "herself" on page 253. - Original reads "Dont" instead of "Don't" on page 258. - Quotation mark removed from before "What" on page 293. - End quote added after "happy. " On page 295. - Double quotes changed to single around "B. " on page 301. - Quotation mark added before "and unsay" on page 311. - Comma changed to period after "Lord" on page 334. - Original reads "dul" instead of "dull" on page 343. - Period added after "out" on page 348. - Original shows "s" instead of "is" on page 359. - End quote added after "parish, " on page 375. - Quotation mark removed from before "It had been" on page 376. - New paragraph added before "He had never" on page 416.