<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2>
<p class="chapterhead">LORD GEORGE IS TROUBLED.</p>
<p><span class="firstwords">This</span> was a day of no little importance to Lord George; so much so,
that one or two circumstances which occurred before he saw his
brother at the hotel must be explained. On that day there had come
to him from the Dean a letter written in the Dean's best humour.
When the house had been taken in Munster Court there had been a
certain understanding, hardly quite a fixed assurance, that it was to be
occupied up to the end of June, and that then Lord George and his
wife should go into Brothershire. There had been a feeling ever
since the marriage that while Mary preferred London, Lord George
was wedded to the country. They had on the whole behaved well to
each other in the matter. The husband, though he feared that his
wife was surrounded by dangers, and was well aware that he himself
was dallying on the brink of a terrible pitfall, 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 dullness of Cross Hall, would not ask
to have the time postponed. It was now the end of May, and a certain
early day in July had been fixed for their retreat from London. Lord
George had, with a good grace, promised to spend a few days at the
deanery before he went to Cross Hall, and had given Mary permission
to remain there for some little time afterwards. Now there had come
a letter from the Dean full of smiles and pleasantness about this visit.
There were tidings in it about Mary's horse, which was still kept at the
deanery, and comfortable assurances of sweetest welcome. Not a word
had been said in this letter about the terrible family matter. Lord
George, though he was at the present moment not disposed to think in
the most kindly manner of his father-in-law, appreciated this, and
had read the letter aloud to his wife at the breakfast table with
pleasant approbation. As he left the house to go to his brother, he
told her that she had better answer her father's letter, and had explained
to her where she would find it in his dressing room.</p>
<p>But on the previous afternoon he had received at his club another
letter, the nature of which was not so agreeable. This letter had not
been pleasant even to himself, and certainly was not adapted to give
pleasure to his wife. After receiving it he had kept it in the close
custody of his breast-pocket; and when, as he left the house, he sent
his wife to find that which had come from her father, he certainly
thought that this prior letter was at the moment secure from all eyes
within the sanctuary of his coat. But it was otherwise. With that
negligence to which husbands are so specially subject, he had made the
Dean's letter safe next to his bosom, but had left the other epistle
unguarded. He had not only left it unguarded, but had absolutely so<!-- Page 206 -->
put his wife on the track of it that it was impossible that she should
not read it.</p>
<p>Mary found the letter and did read it before she left her husband's
dressing room,—and the letter was as follows:—</p>
<p>"Dearest George;—" When she read the epithet, which she and
she only was entitled to use, she paused for a moment and all the
blood rushed up into her face. She had known the handwriting
instantly, and at the first shock she put the paper down upon the
table. For a second there was a feeling prompting her to read no
further. But it was only for a second. Of course she would read it.
It certainly never would have occurred to her to search her husband's
clothes for letters. Up to this moment she had never examined a document
of his except at his bidding or in compliance with his wish. She
had suspected nothing, found nothing, had entertained not even any
curiosity about her husband's affairs. But now must she not read this
letter to which he himself had directed her? Dearest George! And
that in the handwriting of her friend,—her friend!—Adelaide
Houghton;—in the handwriting of the woman to whom her husband
had been attached before he had known herself! Of course she read
the letter.</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>
"<span class="smcap">Dearest George</span>,—</p>
<p>"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."</p>
</div>
<p>The letter had grieved him when he got it,—as had other letters
before that. And yet it flattered him, and the assurance of the
woman's love had in it a certain candied sweetness which prevented him
from destroying the paper instantly, as he ought to have done. Could
his wife have read all his mind in the matter her anger would have
been somewhat mollified. In spite of the candied sweetness he hated
the correspondence. It had been the woman's doing and not his. It
is so hard for a man to be a Joseph! The Potiphar's wife of the
moment has probably had some encouragement,—and after that
Joseph can hardly flee unless he be very stout indeed. This Joseph
would have fled, though after a certain fashion he liked the woman, had
he been able to assure himself that the fault had in no degree been his.
But looking back, he thought that he had encouraged her, and did
not know how to fly. Of all this Mary knew nothing. She only knew
that old Mr. Houghton's wife, who professed to be her dear friend,
had written a most foul love-letter to her husband, and that her<!-- Page 207 -->
husband had preserved it carefully, and had then through manifest
mistake delivered it over into her hands.</p>
<p>She read it twice, and then stood motionless for a few minutes
thinking what she would do. Her first idea was that she would tell
her father. But that she soon abandoned. She was grievously
offended with her husband; but, as she thought of it, she became
aware that she did not wish to bring on him any anger but her own.
Then she thought that she would start immediately for Berkeley Square,
and say what she had to say to Mrs. Houghton. As this idea presented
itself to her, she felt that she could say a good deal. But how
would that serve her? Intense as was her hatred at present against
Adelaide, Adelaide was nothing to her in comparison with her husband.
For a moment she almost thought that she would fly after him,
knowing, as she did, that he had gone to see his brother at Scumberg's
Hotel. But at last she resolved that she would do nothing and say
nothing till he should have perceived that she had read the letter.
She would leave it open on his dressing-table so that he might know
immediately on his return what had been done. Then it occurred to
her that the servants might see the letter if she exposed it. So she
kept it in her pocket, and determined that when she heard his knock
at the door she would step into his room, and place the letter ready
for his eyes. After that she spent the whole day in thinking of it,
and read the odious words over and over again till they were fixed in
her memory. "Say that you love me!" Wretched viper; ill-conditioned
traitor! Could it be that he, her husband, loved this
woman better than her? Did not all the world know that the woman
was plain and affected, and vulgar, and odious? "Dearest George!"
The woman could not have used such language without his sanction.
Oh;—what should she do? Would it not be necessary that she should
go back and live with her father? Then she thought of Jack De Baron.
They called Jack De Baron wild; but he would not have been guilty
of wickedness such as this. She clung, however, to the resolution of
putting the letter ready for her husband, so that he should know that
she had read it before they met.</p>
<p>In the meantime Lord George, ignorant as yet of the storm which
was brewing at home, was shown into his brother's sitting-room.
When he entered he found there, with his brother, a lady whom he
could recognise without difficulty as his sister-in-law. She was a tall,
dark woman, as he thought very plain, but with large bright eyes and
very black hair. She was ill-dressed, in a morning wrapper, and
looked to him to be at least as old as her husband. The Marquis said
something to her in Italian which served as an introduction, but of
which Lord George could not understand a word. She curtseyed and
Lord George put out his hand. "It is perhaps as well that you should
make her acquaintance," said the Marquis. Then he again spoke in
Italian, and after a minute or two the lady withdrew. It occurred to<!-- Page 208 -->
Lord George afterwards that the interview had certainly been arranged.
Had his brother not wished him to see the lady, the lady could have
been kept in the background here as well as at Manor Cross. "It's
uncommon civil of you to come," said the Marquis as soon as the door
was closed. "What can I do for you?"</p>
<p>"I did not like that you should be in London without my seeing
you."</p>
<p>"I daresay not. I daresay not. I was very much obliged to you,
you know, for sending that lawyer down to me."</p>
<p>"I did not send him."</p>
<p>"And particularly obliged to you for introducing that other lawyer
into our family affairs."</p>
<p>"I would have done nothing of the kind if I could have helped it.
If you will believe me, Brotherton, my only object is to have all this
so firmly settled that there may not be need of further enquiry at a
future time."</p>
<p>"When I am dead?"</p>
<p>"When we may both be dead."</p>
<p>"You have ten years advantage of me. Your own chance isn't
bad."</p>
<p>"If you will believe me——"</p>
<p>"But suppose I don't believe you! Suppose I think that in saying
all that you are lying like the very devil!" Lord George jumped in
his chair, almost as though he had been shot. "My dear fellow,
what's the good of this humbug? You think you've got a chance. I
don't believe you were quick enough to see it yourself, but your father-in-law
has put you up to it. He is not quite such an ass as you are;
but even he is ass enough to fancy that because I, an Englishman,
have married an Italian lady, therefore the marriage may, very likely,
be good for nothing."</p>
<p>"We only want proof."</p>
<p>"Does anybody ever come to you and ask you for proofs of your
marriage with that very nice young woman, the Dean's daughter?"</p>
<p>"Anybody may find them at Brotherton."</p>
<p>"No doubt. And I can put my hand on the proofs of my marriage
when I want to do so. In the meantime I doubt whether you can
learn anything to your own advantage by coming here."</p>
<p>"I didn't want to learn anything."</p>
<p>"If you would look after your own wife a little closer, I fancy it
would be a better employment for you. She is at present probably
amusing herself with Captain De Baron."</p>
<p>"That is calumny," said Lord George, rising from his chair.</p>
<p>"No doubt. Any imputation coming from me is calumny. But
you can make imputations as heavy and as hard as you please—and all
in the way of honour. I've no doubt you'll find her with Captain De
Baron if you'll go and look."<!-- Page 209 --></p>
<p>"I should find her doing nothing that she ought not to do," said
the husband, turning round for his hat and gloves.</p>
<p>"Or perhaps making a speech at the Rights of Women Institute on
behalf of that German baroness who, I'm told, is in gaol. But, George,
don't you take it too much to heart. You've got the money. When
a man goes into a stable for his wife, he can't expect much in the way
of conduct or manners. If he gets the money he ought to be contented."
He had to hear it all to the last bitter word before he could
escape from the room and make his way out into the street.</p>
<p>It was at this time about four o'clock, and in his agony of mind he
had turned down towards Piccadilly before he could think what he
would do with himself for the moment. Then he remembered that
Berkeley Square was close to him on the other side, and that he had
been summoned there about this hour. To give him his due, it should
be owned that he had no great desire to visit Berkeley Square in his
present condition of feeling. Since the receipt of that letter,—which
was now awaiting him at home,—he had told himself half a dozen times
that he must and would play the part of Joseph. He had so resolved
when she had first spoken to him of her passion, now some months
ago; and then his resolution had broken down merely because he
had not at the moment thought any great step to be necessary. But
now it was clear that some great step was necessary. 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 brutal language by his
brother, softened his heart to her. Why, oh why, had he allowed
himself to be brought up to a place he hated as he had always hated
London! Of course Jack De Baron made him unhappy, though he
was at the present moment prepared to swear that his wife was as
innocent as any woman in London.</p>
<p>But now, as he was so near, and as his decision must be declared in
person, he might as well go to Berkeley Square. As he descended
Hay Hill he put his hand into his pocket for the lady's letter, and
pulled out that from the Dean which he had intended to leave with
his wife. In an instant he knew what he had done. He remembered
it all, even to the way in which he had made the mistake with the
two letters. There could be no doubt but that he had given Adelaide
Houghton's letter into his wife'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 Berkeley Square. He could not go and tell
Mrs. Houghton that he loved her, and certainly would not have
strength to tell her that he did not love her while suffering such agony
as this. Of course he must see his wife. Of course 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 home<!-- Page 210 -->wards
across the Green Park. But, in going homewards, he did not
walk very fast.</p>
<p>What would she do? How would she take it? Of course women
daily forgive such offences; and he might probably, after the burst
of the storm was over, succeed in making her believe that he did in
truth love her and did not love the other woman. In his present mood
he was able to assure himself most confidently that such was the truth.
He could tell himself now that he never wished to see Adelaide
Houghton again. But, before anything of this could be achieved, he
would have to own himself a sinner before her. He would have, as it
were, to grovel at her feet. Hitherto, in all his intercourse with her,
he had been masterful and marital. He had managed up to this
point so to live as to have kept in all respects the upper hand. He
had never yet been found out even in a mistake or an indiscretion.
He had never given her an opening for the mildest finding of fault.
She, no doubt, was young, and practice had not come to her. But, as
a natural consequence of this, Lord George had hitherto felt that an
almost divine superiority was demanded from him. That sense of
divine superiority must now pass away.</p>
<p>I do not know whether a husband's comfort is ever perfect till some
family peccadilloes have been conclusively proved against him. I am
sure that a wife's temper to him is sweetened by such evidence of
human imperfection. A woman will often take delight in being angry;
will sometimes wrap herself warm in prolonged sullenness; will frequently
revel in complaint;—but she enjoys forgiving better than aught
else. She never feels that all the due privileges of her life have been
accorded to her, till her husband shall have laid himself open to the
caresses of a pardon. Then, and not till then, he is her equal; and
equality is necessary for comfortable love. But the man, till he be
well used to it, does not like to be pardoned. He has assumed divine
superiority, and is bound to maintain it. Then, at last, he comes home
some night with a little too much wine, or he cannot pay the weekly
bills because he has lost too much money at cards, or he has got into
trouble 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 to
tell himself that he has been "found out." The feeling is at first very
uncomfortable; but it is, I think, a step almost necessary in reaching
true matrimonial comfort. Hunting men say that hard rain settles
the ground. A good scold with a "kiss and be friends" after it, perhaps,
does the same.</p>
<p>Now Lord George had been found out. He was quite sure of that.
And he had to undergo all that was unpleasant without sufficient
experience to tell him that those clouds too would pass away quickly.
He still walked homewards across St. James's Park, never stopping,
but dragging himself along slowly, and when he came to his own door
he let himself in very silently. She did not expect him so soon, and<!-- Page 211 -->
when he entered the drawing-room was startled to see him. She had
not as yet put the letter, as she had intended, on his dressing-table,
but still had it in her pocket; nor had it occurred to her that he would
as yet have known the truth. She looked at him when he entered,
but did not at first utter a word. "Mary," he said.</p>
<p>"Well; is anything the matter?"</p>
<p>It was possible that she had not found the letter,—possible, though
very improbable. But he had brought his mind so firmly to the point
of owning what was to be owned and defending what might be defended,
that he hardly wished for escape in that direction. At any
rate, he was not prepared to avail himself of it. "Did you find the
letter?" he asked.</p>
<p>"I found a letter."</p>
<p>"Well!"</p>
<p>"Of course I am sorry to have intruded upon so private a correspondence.
There it is." And she threw the letter to him. "Oh,
George!"</p>
<p>He picked up the letter, which had fallen to the ground, and,
tearing it into bits, threw the fragments into the grate. "What do
you believe about it, Mary?"</p>
<p>"Believe!"</p>
<p>"Do you think that I love any one as I love you?"</p>
<p>"You cannot love me at all,—unless that wicked, wretched creature
is a liar."</p>
<p>"Have I ever lied to you? You will believe me?"</p>
<p>"I do not know."</p>
<p>"I love no one in the world but you."</p>
<p>Even that almost sufficed for her. She already longed to have her
arms round his neck and to tell him that it was all forgiven;—that he
at least was forgiven. During the whole morning she had been thinking
of the angry words she would say to him, and of the still more angry
words which she would speak of that wicked, wicked viper. The
former were already forgotten; but she was not as yet inclined to
refrain as to Mrs. Houghton. "Oh, George, how could you bear such
a woman as that;—that you should let her write to you in such
language? Have you been to her?"</p>
<p>"What, to-day?"</p>
<p>"Yes, to-day."</p>
<p>"Certainly not. I have just come from my brother."</p>
<p>"You will never go into the house again! You will promise that!"</p>
<p>Here was made the first direct attack upon his divine superiority!
Was he, at his wife's instance, to give a pledge that he would not go
into a certain house under any circumstances? This was the process
of bringing his nose down to the ground which he had feared. Here
was the first attempt made by his wife to put her foot on his neck.
"I think that I had better tell you all that I can tell," he said.<!-- Page 212 --></p>
<p>"I only want to know that you hate her," said Mary.</p>
<p>"I neither hate her nor love her. I did—love her—once. You
knew that."</p>
<p>"I never could understand it. I never did believe that you really
could have loved her." Then she began to sob. "I shouldn't—ever—have
taken you—if—I had."</p>
<p>"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. "There has never been a moment since in which you have
not had all my heart."</p>
<p>"But why—why—why—," she sobbed, meaning to ask how it could
have come to pass that the wicked viper could, in those circumstances,
have written such a letter as that which had fallen into her hands.</p>
<p>The question certainly was not unnatural. But it was a question very
difficult to answer. No man likes to say that a woman has pestered
him with unwelcome love, and certainly Lord George was not the man
to make such a boast. "Dearest Mary," he said, "on my honour as
a gentleman I am true to you."</p>
<p>Then she was satisfied and turned her face to him and covered him
with kisses. I think that morning did more than any day had done
since their marriage to bring about the completion of her desire to be
in love with her husband. Her heart was so softened towards him that
she would not even press a question that would pain him. She had
intended sternly to exact from him a pledge that he would not again
enter the house in Berkeley Square, but she let even that pass by
because she would not annoy him. She gathered herself up close to
him on the sofa, and drawing his arm over her shoulder, sobbed and
laughed, stroking him with her hands as she crouched against his
shoulder. But yet, every now and then, there came forth from, her
some violent ebullition against Mrs. Houghton. "Nasty creature!
wicked, wicked beast! Oh, George, she is so ugly!" And yet before
this little affair, she had been quite content that Adelaide Houghton
should be her intimate friend.</p>
<p>It had been nearly five when Lord George reached the house, and
he had to sit enduring his wife's caresses, and listening to devotion to
himself and her abuses of Mrs. Houghton till past six. Then it
struck him that a walk by himself would be good for him. They were
to dine out, but not till eight, and there would still be time. When
he proposed it, she acceded at once. Of course she must go and dress,
and equally 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 the wiles of that nasty woman. They would go to the country
soon, and then the wicked viper would not be near them.</p>
<p>Lord George walked across to Pall Mall, looked at an evening paper
at his club, and then walked back again. Of course it had been his
object to have a cool half hour in which to think it all over,—all that<!-- Page 213 -->
had passed between him and his wife, and also what had passed
between him and his brother. That his wife was the dearest, sweetest
woman in the world he was quite sure. He was more than satisfied
with her conduct to him. She had exacted from him very little
penitence:—had not required to put her foot in any disagreeable way upon
his neck. No doubt she felt that his divine superiority had been
vanquished, but she had uttered no word of triumph. With all that he
was content. But what was he to do with Mrs. Houghton, as to whom he
had sworn a dozen times within the last hour that she was quite indifferent
to him. He now repeated the assertion to himself, and felt
himself to be sure of the fact. 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 he did not stop it; and every such
letter not shown to his wife would be a new treason against her. This
was a great trouble. And then, through it all, those terrible words
which his brother had spoken to him about Captain De Baron rung in
his ears. This afternoon had certainly afforded no occasion to him to
say a word about Captain De Baron to his wife. When detected in
his own sin he could not allude to possible delinquencies on the other
side. Nor did he think that there was any delinquency. But
Cæsar said that Cæsar's wife should be above suspicion, and in that
matter every man is a Cæsar to himself. Lady Susanna had spoken
about this Captain, and Adelaide Houghton had said an ill-natured
word or two, and he himself had seen them walking together. Now
his brother had told him that Captain De Baron was his wife's lover.
He did not at all like Captain De Baron.</p>
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