CHAPTER III.
THE MARCHIONESS.
Though the departure of the Marquis was much hurried, there wereother meetings between Hampstead and the family before the flittingwas actually made.
"No doubt I will. I am quite with you there," the son said tothe father, who had desired him to explain to the young man theimpossibility of such a marriage. "I think it would be a misfortuneto them both, which should be avoided,--if they can get over theirpresent feelings."
"Feelings!"
"I suppose there are such feelings, sir?"
"Of course he is looking for position--and money."
"Not in the least. That might probably be the idea with some youngnobleman who would wish to marry into his own class, and to improvehis fortune at the same time. With such a one that would be fairenough. He would give and take. With George that would not behonest;--nor would such accusation be true. The position, as you callit, he would feel to be burdensome. As to money, he does not knowwhether Frances has a shilling or not."
"Not a shilling,--unless I give it to her."
"He would not think of such a matter."
"Then he must be a very imprudent young man, and unfit to have a wifeat all."
"I cannot admit that,--but suppose he is?"
"And yet you think--?"
"I think, sir, that it is unfortunate. I have said so ever since Ifirst heard it. I shall tell him exactly what I think. You will haveFrances with you, and will of course express your own opinion."
The Marquis was far from satisfied with his son, but did not dare togo on further with the argument. In all such discussions he was wontto feel that his son was "talking the hind legs off a dog." His ownideas on concrete points were clear enough to him,--as this presentidea that his daughter, Lady Frances Trafford, would outrage allpropriety, all fitness, all decency, if she were to give herself inmarriage to George Roden, the Post Office clerk. But words were notplenty with him,--or, when plenty, not efficacious,--and he was proneto feel, when beaten in argument, that his opponent was taking anunfair advantage. Thus it was that he often thought, and sometimessaid, that those who oppressed him with words would "talk the hindlegs off a dog."
The Marchioness also expressed her opinion to Hampstead. She was alady stronger than her husband;--stronger in this, that she neverallowed herself to be worsted in any encounter. If words would notserve her occasion at the moment, her countenance would do so,--andif not that, her absence. She could be very eloquent with silence,and strike an adversary dumb by the way in which she would leave aroom. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a sublime gait.--"Veraincessu patuit Dea." She had heard, if not the words, then sometranslation of the words, and had taken them to heart, and borne themwith her as her secret motto. To be every inch an aristocrat, in lookas in thought, was the object of her life. That such was her highestduty was quite fixed in her mind. It had pleased God to make her aMarchioness,--and should she derogate from God's wish? It had beenher one misfortune that God should not also have made her the motherof a future Marquis. Her face, though handsome, was quite impassive,showing nothing of her sorrows or her joys; and her voice was equallyunder control. No one had ever imagined, not even her husband,that she felt acutely that one blow of fortune. Though Hampstead'spolitics had been to her abominable, treasonable, blasphemous, shetreated him with an extreme courtesy. If there were anything thathe wished about the house she would have it done for him. She wouldendeavour to interest herself about his hunting. And she would payhim a great respect,--to him most onerous,--as being second in allthings to the Marquis. Though a Republican blasphemous rebel,--soshe thought of him,--he was second to the Marquis. She would fainhave taught her little boys to respect him,--as the future head ofthe family,--had he not been so accustomed to romp with them, topull them out of their little beds, and toss them about in theirnight-shirts, that they loved him much too well for respect. It wasin vain that their mother strove to teach them to call him Hampstead.
Lady Frances had never been specially in her way, but to Lady Francesthe stepmother had been perhaps harder than to the stepson, of whosepresence as an absolute block to her ambition she was well aware.Lady Frances had no claim to a respect higher than that which was dueto her own children. Primogeniture had done nothing for her. She wasa Marquis's daughter, but her mother had been only the offspring of acommoner. There was perhaps something of conscience in her feelingstowards the two. As Lord Hampstead was undoubtedly in her way, itoccurred to her to think that she should not on that account beinimical to him. Lady Frances was not in her way,--and thereforewas open to depreciation and dislike without wounds to herconscience; and then, though Hampstead was abominable because ofhis Republicanism, his implied treason, and blasphemy, yet he wasentitled to some excuse as being a man. These things were abominableno doubt in him, but more pardonably abominable than they would be ina woman. Lady Frances had never declared herself to be a Republicanor a disbeliever, much less a rebel,--as, indeed, had neither LordHampstead. In the presence of her stepmother she was generally silenton matters of political or religious interest. But she was supposedto sympathise with her brother, and was known to be far from properlyalive to aristocratic interests. There was never quarrellingbetween the two, but there was a lack of that friendship which maysubsist between a stepmother of thirty-eight and a stepdaughter oftwenty-one. Lady Frances was tall and slender, with quiet speakingfeatures, dark in colour, with blue eyes, and hair nearly black.In appearance she was the very opposite of her stepmother, movingquickly and achieving grace as she did so, without a thought, by thenatural beauty of her motions. The dignity was there, but withouta thought given to it. Not even did the little lords, her brothers,chuck their books and toys about with less idea of demeanour. Butthe Marchioness never arranged a scarf or buttoned a glove withoutfeeling that it was her duty to button her glove and arrange herscarf as became the Marchioness of Kingsbury.
The stepmother wished no evil to Lady Frances,--only that she shouldbe married properly and taken out of the way. Any stupid Earl ormercurial Viscount would have done, so long as the blood and themoney had been there. Lady Frances had been felt to be dangerous,and the hope was that the danger might be got rid of by a propermarriage. But not by such a marriage as this!
When that accidental calling of the name was first heard and thefollowing avowal made, the Marchioness declared her immediatefeelings by a look. It was so that Arthur may have looked when hefirst heard that his Queen was sinful,--so that Caesar must have feltwhen even Brutus struck him. For though Lady Frances had been knownto be blind to her own greatness, still this,--this at any rate wasnot suspected. "You cannot mean it!" the Marchioness had at lastsaid.
"I certainly mean it, mamma." Then the Marchioness, with one handguarding her raiment, and with the other raised high above hershoulder, in an agony of supplication to those deities who arrangethe fates of ducal houses, passed slowly out of the room. It wasnecessary that she should bethink herself before another word wasspoken.
For some time after that very few words passed between her and thesinner. A dead silence best befitted the occasion;--as, when a childsoils her best frock, we put her in the corner with a scolding;but when she tells a fib we quell her little soul within her by aterrible quiescence. To be eloquently indignant without a word iswithin the compass of the thoughtfully stolid. It was thus that LadyFrances was at first treated by her stepmother. She was, however,at once taken up to London, subjected to the louder anger of herfather, and made to prepare for the Saxon Alps. At first, indeed, herimmediate destiny was not communicated to her. She was to be takenabroad;--and, in so taking her, it was felt to be well to treat heras the policeman does his prisoner, whom he thinks to be the lastperson who need be informed as to the whereabouts of the prison. Itdid leak out quickly, because the Marquis had a castle or chateau ofhis own in Saxony;--but that was only an accident.
The Marchioness still said little on the matter,--unless in whatshe might say to her husband in the secret recesses of maritaldi
scussion; but before she departed she found it expedient to expressherself on one occasion to Lord Hampstead. "Hampstead," she said,"this is a terrible blow that has fallen upon us."
"I was surprised myself. I do not know that I should call it exactlya blow."
"Not a blow! But of course you mean that it will come to nothing."
"What I meant was, that though I regard the proposition asinexpedient--"
"Inexpedient!"
"Yes;--I think it inexpedient certainly; but there is nothing in itthat shocks me."
"Nothing that shocks you!"
"Marriage in itself is a good thing."
"Hampstead, do not talk to me in that way."
"But I think it is. If it be good for a young man to marry it must begood for a young woman also. The one makes the other necessary."
"But not for such as your sister,--and him--together. You arespeaking in that way simply to torment me."
"I can only speak as I think. I do agree that it would beinexpedient. She would to a certain extent lose the countenance ofher friends--"
"Altogether!"
"Not altogether,--but to some extent. A certain class of people,--notthe best worth knowing,--might be inclined to drop her. Howeverfoolish her own friends may be we owe something--even to theirfolly."
"Her friends are not foolish,--her proper friends."
"I quite agree with that; but then so many of them are improper."
"Hampstead!"
"I am afraid that I don't make myself quite clear. But never mind. Itwould be inexpedient. It would go against the grain with my father,who ought to be consulted."
"I should think so."
"I quite agree with you. A father ought to be consulted, even thougha daughter be of age, so as to be enabled by law to do as she likeswith herself. And then there would be money discomforts."
"She would not have a shilling."
"Not but what I should think it my duty to put that right if therewere any real distress." Here spoke the heir, who was already inpossession of much, and upon whom the whole property of the familywas entailed. "Nevertheless if I can prevent it,--without quarrellingeither with one or the other, without saying a hard word,--I shall doso."
"It will be your bounden duty."
"It is always a man's bounden duty to do what is right. Thedifficulty is in seeing the way." After this the Marchioness wassilent. What she had gained by speaking was very little,--little ornothing. The nature of the opposition he proposed was almost as badas a sanction, and the reasons he gave for agreeing with her were ashurtful to her feelings as though they had been advanced on the otherside. Even the Marquis was not sufficiently struck with horror at theidea that a daughter of his should have condescended to listen tolove from a Post Office clerk!
On the day before they started Hampstead was enabled to be alone withhis sister for a few minutes. "What an absurdity it is," she said,laughing,--"this running away."
"It is what you must have expected."
"But not the less absurd. Of course I shall go. Just at the moment Ihave no alternative; as I should have none if they threatened to lockme up, till I got somebody to take my case in hand. But I am as freeto do what I please with myself as is papa."
"He has got money."
"But he is not, therefore, to be a tyrant."
"Yes he is;--over an unmarried daughter who has got none. We cannotbut obey those on whom we are dependent."
"What I mean is, that carrying me away can do no good. You don'tsuppose, John, that I shall give him up after having once broughtmyself to say the word! It was very difficult to say;--but ten timesharder to be unsaid. I am quite determined,--and quite satisfied."
"But they are not."
"As regards my father, I am very sorry. As to mamma, she and I are sodifferent in all our thinking that I know beforehand that whatever Imight do would displease her. It cannot be helped. Whether it be goodor bad I cannot be made such as she is. She came too late. You willnot turn against me, John?"
"I rather think I shall."
"John!"
"I may rather say that I have. I do not think your engagement to bewise."
"But it has been made," said she.
"And may be unmade."
"No;--unless by him."
"I shall tell him that it ought to be unmade,--for the happiness ofboth of you."
"He will not believe you."
Then Lord Hampstead shrugged his shoulders, and thus the conversationwas finished.
It was now about the end of June, and the Marquis felt it to be agrievance that he should be carried away from the charm of politicallife in London. In the horror of the first revelation he hadyielded, but had since begun to feel that too much was being done inwithdrawing him from Parliament. The Conservatives were now in; butduring the last Liberal Government he had consented so far to trammelhimself with the bonds of office as to become Privy Seal for theconcluding six months of its existence, and therefore felt his ownimportance in a party point of view. But having acceded to his wifehe could not now go back, and was sulky. On the evening before theirdeparture he was going to dine out with some of the party. His wife'sheart was too deep in the great family question for any gaiety,and she intended to remain at home,--and to look after the finalpackings-up for the little lords.
"I really do not see why you should not have gone without me," theMarquis said, poking his head out of his dressing-room.
"Impossible," said the Marchioness.
"I don't see it at all."
"If he should appear on the scene ready to carry her off, what shouldI have done?"
Then the Marquis drew his head in again, and went on with hisdressing. What, indeed, could he do himself if the man were to appearon the scene, and if his daughter should declare herself willing togo off with him?
When the Marquis went to his dinner party the Marchioness dined withLady Frances. There was no one else present but the two servants whowaited on them, and hardly a word was spoken. The Marchioness feltthat an awful silence was becoming in the situation. Lady Francesmerely determined more strongly than ever that the situation shouldnot last very long. She would go abroad now, but would let her fatherunderstand that the kind of life planned out for her was one that shecould not endure. If she was supposed to have disgraced her position,let her be sent away.
As soon as the melancholy meal was over the two ladies separated, theMarchioness going up-stairs among her own children. A more careful,more affectionate, perhaps, I may say, a more idolatrous mother neverlived. Every little want belonging to them,--for even little lordshave wants,--was a care to her. To see them washed and put in and outof their duds was perhaps the greatest pleasure of her life. To hereyes they were pearls of aristocratic loveliness; and, indeed, theywere fine healthy bairns, clean-limbed, bright-eyed, with grandappetites, and never cross as long as they were allowed either toromp and make a noise, or else to sleep. Lord Frederic, the eldest,was already in words of two syllables, and sometimes had a bad timewith them. Lord Augustus was the owner of great ivory letters ofwhich he contrived to make playthings. Lord Gregory had not as yetbeen introduced to any of the torments of education. There was an oldEnglish clergyman attached to the family who was supposed to be theirtutor, but whose chief duty consisted in finding conversation for theMarquis when there was no one else to talk to him. There was also aFrench governess and a Swiss maid. But as they both learned Englishquicker than the children learned French, they were not serviceablefor the purpose at first intended. The Marchioness had resolved thather children should talk three or four languages as fluently as theirown, and that they should learn them without any of the agoniesgenerally incident to tuition. In that she had not as yet succeeded.
She seated herself for a few minutes among the boxes and portmanteausin the midst of which the children were disporting themselves priorto their final withdrawal to bed. No mother was ever so blessed,--ifonly, if only! "Mamma," said Lord Frederic, "where's Jack?" "Jack"absolutely was intended to signify Lord H
ampstead.
"Fred, did not I say that you should not call him Jack?"
"He say he is Jack," declared Lord Augustus, rolling up in betweenhis mother's knees with an impetus which would have upset her had shenot been a strong woman and accustomed to these attacks.
"That is only because he is good-natured, and likes to play with you.You should call him Hampstead."
"Mamma, wasn't he christianed?" asked the eldest.
"Yes, of course he was christened, my dear," said the mother,sadly,--thinking how very much of the ceremony had been thrown awayupon the unbelieving, godless young man. Then she superintended theputting to bed, thinking what a terrible bar to her happiness hadbeen created by that first unfortunate marriage of her husband's.Oh, that she should be stepmother to a daughter who desired to flingherself into the arms of a clerk in the Post Office! And then that an"unchristianed," that an infidel, republican, un-English, heir shouldstand in the way of her darling boy! She had told herself a thousandtimes that the Devil was speaking to her when she had dared to wishthat,--that Lord Hampstead was not there! She had put down the wishin her heart very often, telling herself that it came from the Devil.She had made a faint struggle to love the young man,--which hadresulted in constrained civility. It would have been unnatural to herto love any but her own. Now she thought how glorious her Fredericwould have been as Lord Hampstead,--and how infinitely better itwould have been, how infinitely better it would be, for all theTraffords, for all the nobles of England, and for the country atlarge! But in thinking this she knew that she was a sinner, and sheendeavoured to crush the sin. Was it not tantamount to wishing thather husband's son was--dead?