"i quite agree," said hampstead, endeavouring to discuss the matter rationally with his sister, "that her ladyship should not be allowed to torment you."
"she does torment me. you cannot perceive what my life was at k?nigsgraaf! there is a kind of usage which would drive any girl to run away,—or to drown herself. i don't suppose a man can know what it is always to be frowned at. a man has his own friends, and can go anywhere. his spirits are not broken by being isolated. he would not even see half the things which a girl is made to feel. the very servants were encouraged to treat me badly. the boys were not allowed to come near me. i never heard a word that was not intended to be severe."
"i am sure it was bad."
"and it was not made better by the conviction that she has never cared for me. it is to suffer all the authority, but to enjoy none of the love of a mother. when papa came of course it was better; but even papa cannot make her change her ways. a man is comparatively so very little in the house. if it goes on it will drive me mad."
"of course i'll stand to you."
"oh, john, i am sure you will."
"but it isn't altogether easy to know how to set about it. if we were to keep house together at hendon—" as he made this proposition a look of joy came over her face, and shone amidst her tears. "there would, of course, be a difficulty."
"what difficulty?" she, however, knew well what would be the difficulty.
"george roden would be too near to us."
"i should never see him unless you approved."
"i should not approve. that would be the difficulty. he would argue the matter with me, and i should have to tell him that i could not let him come to the house, except with my father's leave. that would be out of the question. and therefore, as i say, there would be a difficulty."
"i would never see him,—except with your sanction,—nor write to him,—nor receive letters from him. you are not to suppose that i would give him up. i shall never do that. i shall go on and wait. when a girl has once brought herself to tell a man that she loves him, according to my idea she cannot give him up. there are things which cannot be changed. i could have lived very well without thinking of him had i not encouraged myself to love him. but i have done that, and now he must be everything to me."
"i am sorry that it should be so."
"it is so. but if you will take me to hendon i will never see him till i have papa's leave. it is my duty to obey him,—but not her."
"i am not quite clear about that."
"she has rejected me as a daughter, and therefore i reject her as a mother. she would get rid of us both if she could."
"you should not attribute to her any such thoughts."
"if you saw her as often as i do you would know. she hates you almost as much as me,—though she cannot show it so easily."
"that she should hate my theories i can easily understand."
"you stand in her way."
"of course i do. it is natural that a woman should wish to have the best for her own children. i have sometimes myself felt it to be a pity that frederic should have an elder brother. think what a gallant young marquis he would make, while i am altogether out of my element."
"that is nonsense, john."
"i ought to have been a tailor. tailors, i think, are generally the most ill-conditioned, sceptical, and patriotic of men. had my natural propensities been sharpened by the difficulty of maintaining a wife and children upon seven and sixpence a day, i really think i could have done something to make myself conspicuous. as it is, i am neither one thing nor another; neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring. to the mind devoted to marquises i can understand that i should be a revolting being. i have no aptitudes for aristocratic prettinesses. her ladyship has three sons, either of which would make a perfect marquis. how is it possible that she should not think that i am standing in her way?"
"but she knew of your existence when she married papa."
"no doubt she did;—but that does not alter her nature. i think i could find it in my heart to forgive her, even though she attempted to poison me, so much do i stand in her way. i have sometimes thought that i ought to repudiate myself; give up my prospects, and call myself john trafford—so as to make way for her more lordly lordlings."
"that is nonsense, john."
"at any rate it is impossible. i could only do it by blowing my brains out—which would not be in accordance with my ideas of life. but you are not in anybody's way. there is nothing to be got by poisoning you. if she were to murder me there would be something reasonable in it,—something that one could pardon; but in torturing you she is instigated by a vile ambition. she is afraid, lest her own position should be tarnished by an inferior marriage on your part. there would be something noble in killing me for the sake of dear little fred. she would be getting something for him who, of course, is most dear to her. but the other is the meanest vanity;—and i will not stand it."
this conversation took place early in october, when they had been some weeks at trafford park. hampstead had come and gone, as was his wont, never remaining there above two or three days at a time. lord kingsbury, who was ill at ease, had run hither and thither about the country, looking after this or the other property, and staying for a day or two with this or the other friend. the marchioness had declined to invite any friends to the house, declaring to her husband that the family was made unfit for gaiety by the wicked conduct of his eldest daughter. there was no attempt at shooting the pheasants, or even preparing to shoot them, so great was the general depression. mr. greenwood was there, and was thrown into very close intercourse with her ladyship. he fully sympathized with her ladyship. although he had always agreed with the marquis,—as he had not forgotten to tell george roden during that interview in london,—in regard to his lordship's early political tenets, nevertheless his mind was so constituted that he was quite at one with her ladyship as to the disgraceful horror of low associations for noble families. not only did he sympathize as to the abomination of the post office clerk, but he sympathized also fully as to the positive unfitness which lord hampstead displayed for that station in life to which he had been called. mr. greenwood would sigh and wheeze and groan when the future prospects of the house of trafford were discussed between him and her ladyship. it might be, or it might not be, well,—so he kindly put it in talking to the marchioness,—that a nobleman should indulge himself with liberal politics; but it was dreadful to think that the heir to a great title should condescend to opinions worthy of a radical tailor. for mr. greenwood agreed with lord hampstead about the tailor. lord hampstead seemed to him to be a matter simply for sorrow,—not for action. nothing, he thought, could be done in regard to lord hampstead. time,—time that destroys but which also cures so many things,—would no doubt have its effect; so that lord hampstead might in the fulness of years live to be as staunch a supporter of his class as any duke or marquis living. or perhaps,—perhaps, it might be that the lord would take him. mr. greenwood saw that this remark was more to the purpose, and at once went to work with the peerage, and found a score of cases in which, within half-a-century, the second brother had risen to the title. it seemed, indeed, to be the case that a peculiar mortality attached itself to the eldest sons of peers. this was comforting. but there was not in it so much ground for positive action as at the present moment existed in regard to lady frances. on this matter there was a complete unison of spirit between the two friends.
mr. greenwood had seen the objectionable young man, and could say how thoroughly objectionable he was at all points,—how vulgar, flippant, ignorant, impudent, exactly what a clerk in the post office might be expected to be. any severity, according to mr. greenwood, would be justified in keeping the two young persons apart. gradually mr. greenwood learnt to talk of the female young person with very little of that respect which he showed to other members of the family. in this way her ladyship came to regard lady frances as though she were not lady frances at all,—as though she were some distant fanny trafford, a girl of bad taste and evil conduct, who had unfortunately been brought into the family on grounds of mistaken charity.
things had so gone on at trafford, that trafford had hardly been preferable to k?nigsgraaf. indeed, at k?nigsgraaf there had been no mr. greenwood, and mr. greenwood had certainly added much to the annoyances which poor lady frances was made to bear. in this condition of things she had written to her brother, begging him to come to her. he had come, and thus had taken place the conversation which has been given above.
on the same day hampstead saw his father and discussed the matter with him;—that matter, and, as will be seen, some others also. "what on earth do you wish me to do about her?" asked the marquis.
"let her come and live with me at hendon. if you will let me have the house i will take all the rest upon myself."
"keep an establishment of your own?"
"why not? if i found i couldn't afford it i'd give up the hunting and stick to the yacht."
"it isn't about money," said the marquis, shaking his head.
"her ladyship never liked hendon for herself."
"nor is it about the house. you might have the house and welcome. but how can i give up my charge over your sister just when i know that she is disposed to do just what she ought not."
"she won't be a bit more likely to do it there than here," said the brother.
"he would be quite close to her."
"you may take this for granted, sir, that no two persons would be more thoroughly guided by a sense of duty than my sister and george roden."
"did she show her duty when she allowed herself to be engaged to a man like that without saying a word to any of her family."
"she told her ladyship as soon as it occurred."
"she should not have allowed it to have occurred at all. it is nonsense talking like that. you cannot mean to say that such a girl as your sister is entitled to do what she likes with herself without consulting any of her family,—even to accepting such a man as this for her lover."
"i hardly know," said hampstead, thoughtfully.
"you ought to know. i know. everybody knows. it is nonsense talking like that."
"i doubt whether people do know," said hampstead. "she is twenty-one, and as far as the law goes might, i believe, walk out of the house, and marry any man she pleases to-morrow. you as her father have no authority over her whatever;"—here the indignant father jumped up from his chair; but his son went on with his speech, as though determined not to be interrupted,—"except what may come to you by her good feeling, or else from the fact that she is dependent on you for her maintenance."
"good g——!" shouted the marquis.
"i think this is about the truth of it. young ladies do subject themselves to the authority of their parents from feeling, from love, and from dependence; but, as far as i understand in the matter, they are not legally subject beyond a certain age."
"you'd talk the hind legs off a dog."
"i wish i could. but one may say a few words without being so eloquent as that. if such is the case i am not sure that fanny has been morally wrong. she may have been foolish. i think she has been, because i feel that the marriage is not suitable for her."
"noblesse oblige," said the marquis, putting his hand upon his bosom.
"no doubt. nobility, whatever may be its nature, imposes bonds on us. and if these bonds be not obeyed, then nobility ceases. but i deny that any nobility can bind us to any conduct which we believe to be wrong."
"who has said that it does?"
"nobility," continued the son, not regarding his father's question, "cannot bind me to do that which you or others think to be right, if i do not approve it myself."
"what on earth are you driving at?"
"you imply that because i belong to a certain order,—or my sister,—we are bound to those practices of life which that order regards with favour. this i deny both on her behalf and my own. i didn't make myself the eldest son of an english peer. i do acknowledge that as very much has been given to me in the way of education, of social advantages, and even of money, a higher line of conduct is justly demanded from me than from those who have been less gifted. so far, noblesse oblige. but before i undertake the duty thus imposed upon me, i must find out what is that higher line of conduct. fanny should do the same. in marrying george roden she would do better, according to your maxim, than in giving herself to some noodle of a lord who from first to last will have nothing to be proud of beyond his acres and his title."
the marquis had been walking about the room impatiently, while his didactic son was struggling to explain his own theory as to those words noblesse oblige. nothing could so plainly express the feelings of the marquis on the occasion as that illustration of his as to the dog's hind legs. but he was a little ashamed of it, and did not dare to use it twice on the same occasion. he fretted and fumed, and would have stopped hampstead had it been possible; but hampstead was irrepressible when he had become warm on his own themes, and his father knew that he must listen on to the bitter end. "i won't have her go to hendon at all," he said, when his son had finished.
"then you will understand little of her nature,—or of mine. roden will not come near her there. i can hardly be sure that he will not do so here. here fanny will feel that she is being treated as an enemy."
"you have no right to say so."
"there she will know that you have done much to promote her happiness. i will give you my assurance that she will neither see him nor write to him. she has promised as much to me herself, and i can trust her."
"why should she be so anxious to leave her natural home?"
"because," said hampstead boldly, "she has lost her natural mother." the marquis frowned awfully at hearing this. "i have not a word to say against my stepmother as to myself. i will not accuse her of anything as to fanny,—except that they thoroughly misunderstand each other. you must see it yourself, sir." the marquis had seen it very thoroughly. "and mr. greenwood has taken upon himself to speak to her,—which was, i think, very impertinent."
"i never authorized him."
"but he did. her ladyship no doubt authorized him. the end of it is that fanny is watched. of course she will not bear a continuation of such misery. why should she? it will be better that she should come to me than be driven to go off with her lover."
before the week was over the marquis had yielded. hendon hall was to be given up altogether to lord hampstead, and his sister was to be allowed to live with him as the mistress of his house. she was to come in the course of next month, and remain there at any rate till the spring. there would be a difficulty about the hunting, no doubt, but that hampstead if necessary was prepared to abandon for the season. he thought that perhaps he might be able to run down twice a week to the vale of aylesbury, going across from hendon to the willesden junction. he would at any rate make his sister's comfort the first object of his life, and would take care that in doing so george roden should be excluded altogether from the arrangement.
the marchioness was paralyzed when she heard that lady frances was to be taken away,—to be taken into the direct neighbourhood of london and the post office. very many words she said to her husband, and often the marquis vacillated. but, when once the promise was given, lady frances was strong enough to demand its fulfilment. it was on this occasion that the marchioness first allowed herself to speak to mr. greenwood with absolute disapproval of her husband. "to hendon hall!" said mr. greenwood, holding up his hands with surprise when the project was explained.
"yes, indeed! it does seem to me to be the most,—most improper sort of thing to do."
"he can walk over there every day as soon as he has got rid of the letters." mr. greenwood probably thought that george roden was sent about with the post office bags.
"of course they will meet."
"i fear so, lady kingsbury."
"hampstead will arrange that for them."
"no, no!" said the clergyman, as though he were bound on behalf of the family to repudiate an idea that was so damnatory to its honour.
"it is just what he will do. why else should he want to have her there? with his ideas he would think it the best thing he could do utterly to degrade us all. he has no idea of the honour of his brothers. how should he, when he is so anxious to sacrifice his own sister? as for me, of course, he would do anything to break my heart. he knows that i am anxious for his father's name, and, therefore, he would disgrace me in any way that was possible. but that the marquis should consent!"
"that is what i cannot understand," said mr. greenwood.
"there must be something in it, mr. greenwood, which they mean to keep from me."
"the marquis can't intend to give her to that young man!"
"i don't understand it. i don't understand it at all," said the marchioness. "he did seem so firm about it. as for the girl herself, i will never see her again after she has left my house in such a fashion. and, to tell the truth, i never wish to see hampstead again. they are plotting against me; and if there is anything i hate it is a plot." in this way mr. greenwood and the marchioness became bound together in their great disapproval of lady frances and her love.
