Is He Popenjoy?
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"That's what we think, sir. It's got about that his Lordship said some bad word of Miss Mary. A father wasn't to stand that because he's a clergyman, 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't see Prince Edward's monument, sir? Gentlemen always do go down to the crypt." Jack wouldn't see the monument to-day, and having paid his half-crown, was left to wander about alone through the aisles.
How would it have been with him if his life had been different; if he had become, perhaps, a clergyman and had married Mary Lovelace? – or if he had become anything but what he was with her for his wife? He knew that his life had been a failure, that the best of it was gone, and that even the best of it had been unsatisfactory. Many people liked him, but was there any one who loved him? In all the world there was but one person that he loved, and she was the wife of another man. Of one thing at this moment he was quite sure, – that he would never wound her ears by speaking of his love. Would it not be better that he should go away and see her no more? The very tone in which the verger had spoken of Miss Mary had thrown to the winds those doubts which had come from the teaching of Adelaide Houghton and Guss Mildmay. If she had been as they said, would even her father have felt for her as he did feel, and been carried away by his indignation at the sound of an evil word?
But he had asked after the Dean at the hotel, and had told the verger of his acquaintance, and had been seen by many in the town. He could not now leave the place without calling. So resolving he knocked at last at the deanery door, and was told that the Dean was at home. He asked for the Dean, and not for Lady George, and was shown into the library. In a minute the Dean was with him. "Come in and have some lunch," said the Dean. "We have this moment sat down. Mary will be delighted to see you, – and so am I." Of course he went in to lunch, and in a moment was shaking hands with Mary, who in truth was delighted to see 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 looked across to Mary, and saw that her face was sad and solemn.
"The child that they called Lord Popenjoy is dead," said the Dean. He was neither sad nor solemn. He could not control the triumph of his voice 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 of the way. Poor little fellow! As sure as I sit here he was not Lord Popenjoy."
"I never understood anything about it," said Jack.
"But I did. Of course the matter is at rest now. I'm not the man to grudge any one what belongs to him; but I do not choose that any one belonging to me should be swindled. If she were to have a son now, he would be the heir."
"Oh, papa, do not talk in that way."
"Rights are rights, and the truth is the truth. Can any one wish that such a property and such a title should go to the child of an Italian woman 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 be protected."
"Papa, he was at any rate my nephew."
"I don't know that. In law, I believe, he was no such thing. But he has 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 stake for which he had been playing. But in the midst of it all he was very civil to Jack De Baron. "You will stay and dine with us to-day, Captain De 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 will come and dine if you'll have me."
"We shall be delighted. We can't make company of you, because no one is coming. I shouldn't wonder if Lord George rode over. He will if he hears of this. Of course he'll know to-morrow; but perhaps they will not have telegraphed to him. I should go out to Manor Cross, only I don't quite like to put my foot in that man's house." Jack could not but feel that the Dean treated him almost as though he were one of the family. "I rather think I shall ride out and risk it. You won't mind my leaving you?" Of course Jack declared that he would not for worlds be in the way. "Mary will play Badminton with you, if you like it. Perhaps you 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's daughter.
"We shall do very well, papa. I'm not mad after Badminton, and I dare say we shall manage without Miss Pountner."
The Dean went off, and in spite of the feud did ride over to Manor Cross. His mind was so full of the child's death and of the all but certainty of coming glory which now awaited his daughter, that he could not keep himself quiet. It seemed to him that a just Providence had interfered to take that child away. And as the Marquis hated him, so did he hate the Marquis. He had been willing at first to fight the battle fairly without personal animosity. On the Marquis's first arrival he had offered him the right hand of fellowship. He remembered it all accurately, – how the Marquis had on that occasion ill-used and insulted him. No man knew better than the Dean when he was well-treated and when ill-treated. And then this lord had sent for him for the very purpose of injuring and wounding him through his daughter's name. His wrath on that occasion had not all expended itself in the blow. After that word had been spoken he was the man's enemy for ever. There could be no forgiveness. He could not find room in his heart for even a spark of pity because the man had lost an only child. Had not the man tried to do worse than kill his only child – his daughter? Now the pseudo-Popenjoy was dead, and the Dean was in a turmoil of triumph. It was essential to him that he should see his son-in-law. His son-in-law must be made to understand what it would be to be the father of the future Marquis of Brotherton.
"I think I'll just step across to the inn," said Jack, when the Dean had left them.
"And we'll have a game of croquet when you come back. I do like croquet, though papa laughs at me. I think I like all games. It is so nice to be doing something."
Jack sauntered back to the inn, chiefly that he might have a further opportunity of considering what he would say to her. And he did make up his mind. He would play croquet with all his might, and behave to her as 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 mallet in her hand; but she was seated on one of a cluster of garden-chairs under a great cedar tree. "I think it's almost too hot to play," she said. It was an August afternoon, and the sun was very bright in the heavens. Jack was of course quite willing to sit under the cedar-tree instead of playing croquet. He was prepared to do whatever she wished. If he could only know what subjects she would prefer, he would talk about them and nothing else. "How do you think papa is looking?" she asked.
"He always looks well."
"Ah; he was made dreadfully unhappy by that affair up in London. He never would talk about it to me; but he was quite ill while he thought the Marquis was in danger."
"I don't believe the Marquis was much the worse for it."
"They said he was, and papa for some time could not get over it. Now he is elated. I wish he would not be so glad because that poor little boy has died."
"It makes a great difference to him, Lady George; – and to you."
"Of course it makes a difference, and of course I feel it. I am as anxious for my husband as any other woman. If it should come fairly, as it were by God's doing, I am not going to turn up my nose at it."
"Is not this fairly?"
"Oh yes. Papa did not make the little boy die, of course. But I don't think that people should long for things like this. If they can't keep from wishing them, they should keep their wishes to themselves. It is so like coveting other people's goods. Don't you think we ought to keep the commandments, Captain De Baron?"
"Certainly – if we can."
"Then we oughtn't to long for other people's titles."
"If I understand it, the Dean wanted to prevent somebody else from getting a title which wasn't his own. That wouldn't be breaking the commandment."
"Of course I am not finding fault with papa. He would not for worlds try to take anything that wasn't his, – or mine. But it's so sad about the little boy."
"I don't think the Marquis cared for him."
"Oh, he must have cared! His only child! And the poor mother; – think how she must feel."
"In spite of it all, I do think it's a very good thing that he's dead," said Jack, laughing.
"Then you ought to keep it to yourself, sir. It's a very horrid thing to say so. Wouldn't you like to smoke a cigar? You may, you know. Papa always smokes out here, because he says Mr. Groschut can't see him."
"Mr. Groschut is at Rudham," said Jack, as he took a cigar out of his case and lit it.
"At Rudham? What promotion!"
"He didn't seem to me to be a first-class sort of a fellow."
"Quite a last-class sort of fellow, if there is a last class. I'll tell you a secret, Captain De Baron. Mr. Groschut is my pet abomination. If I hate anybody, I hate him. I think I do really hate Mr. Groschut. I almost wish that they would make him bishop of some unhealthy place."
"So that he might go away and die?"
"If the mosquitoes would eat him day and night, that would be enough. Who else was there at Rudham?"
"Mrs. Montacute Jones."
"Dear Mrs. Jones. I do like Mrs. Jones."
"And Adelaide Houghton with her husband." Mary turned up her nose and made a grimace as the Houghtons were named. "You used to be very fond of Adelaide."
"Very fond is a long word. We were by way of being friends; but we are friends no longer."
"Tell me what she did to offend you, Lady George? I know there was something."
"You are her cousin. Of course I am not going to abuse her to you."
"She's not half so much my cousin as you are my friend, – if I may say so. What did she do or what did she say?"
"She painted her face."
"If you're going to quarrel, Lady George, with every woman in London who does that, you'll have a great many enemies."
"And the hair at the back of her head got bigger and bigger every month. Papa always quotes something about Dr. Fell when he's asked why he does not like anybody. She's Dr. Fell to me."
"I don't think she quite knows why you've cut her."
"I'm quite sure she does, Captain De Baron. She knows all about it. And now, if you please, we won't talk of her any more. Who else was there at Rudham?"
"All the old set. Aunt Ju and Guss."
"Then you were happy."
"Quite so. I believe that no one knows all about that better than you do."
"You ought to have been happy."
"Lady George, I thought you always told the truth."
"I try to; and I think you ought to have been happy. You don't mean to tell me that Miss Mildmay is nothing to you?"
"She is a very old friend."
"Ought she not to be more? Though of course I have no right to ask."
"You have a right if any one has. I haven't a friend in the world I would trust as I would you. No; she ought not to be more."
"Have you never given her a right to think that she would be more?"
He paused a moment or two before he answered. Much as he wished to trust her, anxious as he was that she should be his real friend he could hardly bring himself to tell her all that had taken place at Rudham Park during the last day or two. Up to that time he never had given Miss Mildmay any right. So, at least, he still assured himself. But now, – it certainly was different now. He desired of all things to be perfectly honest with Lady George, – to be even innocent in all that he said to her; but – just for this once – he was obliged to deviate into a lie. "Never!" he said.
"Of course it is not for me to enquire further."
"It is very hard to describe the way in which such an intimacy has come about. Guss Mildmay and I have been very much thrown together; but, even had she wished it, we never could have married. We have no means."
"And yet you live like rich people."
"We have no means because we have lived like rich people."
"You have never asked her to marry you?"
"Never."
"Nor made her think that you would ask her? That comes to the same thing, Captain De Baron."
"How am I to answer that? How am I to tell it all without seeming to boast. When it first came to pass that we knew ourselves well enough to admit of such a thing being said between us, I told her that marriage was impossible. Is not that enough?"
"I suppose so," said Lady George, who remembered well every word that Gus Mildmay had said to herself. "I don't know why I should enquire about it, only I thought – "
"I know what you thought."
"What did I think?"
"That I was a heartless scoundrel."
"No, never. If I had, I should not have, – have cared about it. Perhaps it has been unfortunate."
"Most unfortunate!" Then again there was a pause, during which he went on smoking while she played with her mallet. "I wish I could tell you everything about it; – only I can't. Did she ever speak to you?"
"Yes, once."
"And what did she say?"
"I cannot tell you that either."
"I have endeavoured to be honest; but sometimes it is so difficult. One wants sometimes to tell the whole truth, but it won't come out. I am engaged to her now."
"You are engaged to her!"
"And two days since I was as free as ever."
"Then I may congratulate you."
"No, no. It makes me miserable. I do not love her. There is one other person that I care for, and I never can care for any one else. There is one woman that I love, and I never really loved any one else."
"That is very sad, Captain De Baron."
"Is it not? I can never marry Miss Mildmay."
"And yet you have promised?"
"I have promised under certain circumstances which can never, never come about."
"Why did you promise if you do not love her?"
"Cannot you understand without my telling you? I cannot tell you that. I am sure you understand."
"I suppose I do. Poor Miss Mildmay!"
"And poor Jack De Baron!"
"Yes; poor Jack De Baron also! No man should talk to a girl of marrying her unless he loves her. It is different with a girl. She may come to love a man. She may love a man better than all the world, though she hardly knew him when she married him. If he is good to her, she will certainly do so. But if a man marries a woman without loving her, he will soon hate her."
"I shall never marry Miss Mildmay."
"And yet you have said you would?"
"I told you that I wanted to tell you everything. It is so pleasant to have some one to trust, even though I should be blamed as you are blaming me. It simply means that I can marry no one else."
"But you love some one?" She felt when she was asking the question that it was indiscreet. When the assertion was made she had not told herself that she was the woman. She had not thought it. For an instant she had tried to imagine who that other one could be. But yet, when the words were out of her mouth, she knew that they were indiscreet. Was she not indiscreet in holding any such conversation with a man who was not her brother or even her cousin? She wished that he were her cousin, so that she might become the legitimate depository of his secrets. Though she was scolding him for his misdoings, yet she hardly liked him the less for them. She thought that she did understand how it was, and she thought that the girl was more in fault than the man. It was not till the words had passed her mouth and the question had been asked that she felt the indiscretion. "But you love some one else?"
"Certainly I do; but I had not meant to speak about that."
"I will enquire into no secrets."
"Is that a secret? Can it be a secret? Do you not know that ever since I knew you I have had no pleasure but in being with you, and talking to you, and looking at you?"
"Captain De Baron!" As she spoke she rose from her seat as though she would at once leave him and go back into the house.
"You must hear me now. You must not go without hearing me. I will not say a word to offend you."
"You have offended me."
"How could I help it? What was I to do? What ought I to have said? Pray do not go, Lady George."
"I did not think you would have insulted me. I did trust you."
"You may trust me. On my honour as a gentleman, I will never say another word that you can take amiss. I wish I could tell you all my feelings. One cannot help one's love."
"A man may govern his words."
"As I trust in heaven, I had determined that I would never say a syllable to you that I might not have spoken to my sister. Have I asked you to love me? I have not thought it possible that you should do so. I know you to be too good. It has never come within my dreams."
"It is wicked to think of it."
"I have not thought of it. I will never think of it. You are like an angel to me. If I could write poetry, I should write about you. If ever I build castles in the air and think what I might have been if things had gone well with me, I try to fancy then that I might have had you for a wife. That is not wicked. That is not a crime. Can you be angry with me because, having got to know you as I do, I think you better, nicer, jollier, more beautiful than any one else? Have you never really loved a friend?"
"I love my husband with all my heart, – oh, better than all the world."
Jack did not quite understand this. His angel was an angel. He was sure of that. And he wished her to be still an angel. But he could not understand how any angel could passionately love Lord George Germain, – especially this angel who had been so cruelly treated by him. Had she loved him better than all the world when he walked her out of Mrs. Jones' drawing-room, reprimanding her before all the guests for her conduct in dancing the Kappa-kappa? But this was a matter not open to argument. "I may still be your friend?" he said.
"I think you had better not come again."
"Do not say that, Lady George. If I have done wrong, forgive me. I think you must admit that I could hardly help myself."
"Not help yourself!"
"Did I not tell you that I wanted you to know the whole truth? How could I make you understand about Miss Mildmay without telling it all? Say that you will forgive me."
"Say that it is not so, and then I will forgive you."
"No. It is so, and it must be so. It will remain so always, but yet you will surely forgive me, if I never speak of it again. You will forgive me and understand me, and when hereafter you see me as a middle-aged man about town, you will partly know why it is so. Oh dear; I forgot to tell you. We had another old friend of yours at Rudham, – a very particular friend." Of course she had forgiven him and now she was thankful to him for his sudden breach of the subject; but she was not herself strong enough immediately to turn to another matter. "Who do you think was there?"
"How can I tell?"
"The Baroness."
"No?"
"As large as life."
"Baroness Banmann at Mr. De Baron's."
"Yes; – Baroness Banmann. Aunt Julia had contrived to get permission to bring her, and the joke was that she did us all out of our money. She got a five-pound note from me."
"What a goose you were."
"And ten from Lord Brotherton! I think that was the greatest triumph. She was down on him without the slightest compunction. I never saw a man so shot in my life. He sent me to look for the money, and she never left me till I had got it for her."
"I thought Aunt Ju had had enough of her."
"I should think she has now. And we had Lord Giblet. Lord Giblet is to marry Miss Patmore Green after all."
"Poor Lord Giblet!"
"And poor Miss Patmore Green. I don't know which will have the worst of it. They can practise the Kappa-kappa together for consolation. It is all Mrs. Jones' doing, and she is determined that he shan't escape. I'm to go down to Killancodlem and help."
"Why should you have anything to do with it?"
"Very good shooting, and plenty to eat and drink, – and Giblet is a friend of mine; so I'm bound to lend a hand. And now, Lady George, I think I'll go to the hotel and be back to dinner. We are friends."
"Yes; if you promise not to offend me."
"I will never offend you. I will never say a word that all the world might not hear, – except this once, – to thank you." Then he seized her hand and kissed it. "You shall always be a sister to me," he said. "When I am in trouble I will come to you. Say that you will love me as a brother."
"I will always regard you as a friend."
"Regard is a cold word, but I will make the most of it. Here is your father."
At this moment they were coming from a side path on to the lawn, and as they did so the Dean appeared upon the terrace through the deanery room window. With the Dean was Lord George, and Mary, as soon as she saw him, rushed up to him and threw her arms round his neck. "Oh George, dear, dearest George, papa said that perhaps you would come. You are going to stay?"
"He will dine here," said the Dean.
"Only dine!"
"I cannot stay longer to-day," said Lord George, with his eye upon Captain De Baron. The Dean had told him that De Baron was there; but, still, when he saw that the man had been walking with his wife, a renewed uneasiness came upon him. It could not be right that the man from whose arms he had rescued her on the night of the ball should be left alone with her a whole afternoon in the Deanery Garden! She was thoughtless as a child; – but it seemed to him that the Dean was as thoughtless as his daughter. The Dean must know what people had said. The Dean had himself seen that horrid dance, with its results. The awful accusation made by the Marquis had been uttered in the Dean's ears. Because that had been wicked and devilishly false, the Dean's folly was not the less. Lord George embraced his wife, but she knew from the touch of his arm round her waist that there was something wrong with him.
The two men shook hands of course, and then De Baron went out, muttering something to the Dean as to his being back to dinner. "I can't say I like that young man," said Lord George.
"I like him very much," replied the Dean. "He is always good-humoured, and I think he's honest. I own to a predilection for happy people."
Mary was of course soon upstairs with her husband. "I thought you would come," she said, hanging on him.
"I did not like not to see you after the news. It is important. You must feel that."
"Poor little boy! Don't you grieve for them."
"Yes, I do. Brotherton has treated me very badly, but I do feel for him. I shall write to him and say so. But that will not alter the fact. Popenjoy is dead."
"No; it will not alter the fact." He was so solemn with her that she hardly knew how to talk to him.
"Popenjoy is dead, – if he was Popenjoy. I suppose he was; but that does not signify now."
"Not in the least I suppose."
"And if you have a son – "
"Oh, George?"
"He won't be Popenjoy yet."
"Or perhaps ever."
"Or perhaps ever; – but a time will probably come when he will be Popenjoy. We can't help thinking about it, you know."
"Of course not."
"I'm sure I don't want my brother to die."
"I am sure I don't."
"But the family has to be kept up. I do care about the family. They all think at Manor Cross that you should go over at once."
"Are you going to stay there, George. Of course I will go if you are going to stay there."
"They think you should come, though it were only for a few days."
"And then? Of course I will go, George, if you say so. I have had my visit with papa, – as much as I had a right to expect. And, oh George, I do so long to be with you again." Then she hung upon him and kissed him. It must have been impossible that he should be really jealous, though Captain De Baron had been there the whole day. Nor was he jealous, except with that Cæsarian jealousy lest she should be unfortunate enough to cause a whisper derogatory to his marital dignity.