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IS HE POPENJOY?
studious in spreading a report, which he had no doubt believed to be true, that all the Germain family, including Lord
George, had altogether repudiated the Dean, whose daughter,
according to his story, was left upon her father’s hands because
she would not be received at Manor Cross. For Mr. Groschut
had also heard of Jack De Baron, and had been cut to the soul
by the wickedness of the Kappa-kappa. The general iniquity of
Mary’s life in London had been heavy on him. Brotherton, upon
the whole, had pardoned the Dean for knocking the Marquis
into the fireplace, having heard something of the true story
with more or less correctness. But the Chaplain’s morals were
sterner than those of Brotherton at large, and he was still of
opinion that the Dean was a child of wrath, and poor Mary,
therefore, a grandchild. Now, when he saw the Dean and his
son-in-law apparently on friendly terms, the spirit of righteousness was vexed within him as he acknowledged this to
be another sign that the Dean was escaping from that punishment which alone could be of service to him in this world.
“His Lordship is better this morning. I hope, my Lord, I have
the pleasure of seeing your Lordship 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 by converting Jews or Pagans; and in those days they
did actually become Christians. 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
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
them, but went into his own room on the ground floor; and
Lord George did not see him again on that day.
Lord George remained with his wife nearly all the afternoon, going out with her into the town as she did some little
shopping, and being seen with her in the market-place and
Close. It must be owned of Mary that she was proud thus to
be seen with him again, and that in buying her ribbons and
gloves she referred to him, smiling as he said this, and pouting
and pretending to differ as he said that, with greater urgency
than she would have done had there been no breach between
them. It had been terrible to her to think that there should
be a quarrel, — terrible to her that the world should think so.
There was a gratification to her in feeling that even the shopkeepers should see her and her husband together. And when
she met Canon Pountner and stopped a moment in the street
while that worthy divine shook hands with her husband,
that was an additional pleasure to her. The last few weeks
had been heavy to her in spite of her father’s affectionate
care, — heavy with a feeling of disgrace from which no wellminded young married woman can quite escape, when she is
separated from her husband. She had endeavoured to do right.
She thought she was doing right. But it was so sad! She was
fond of pleasure, whereas he was little given to any amusement; but no pleasures could be pleasant to her now unless
they were in some sort countenanced 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 a thousand times
that she would never waltz again. And she hourly yearned for
his company, having quite got over that first difficulty of her
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IS HE POPENJOY?
married life, that doubt whether she could ever learn to love
her husband. During much of this day she was actually happy in spite of the great sorrow which still weighed so heavily
upon them both.
And he liked it also in his way. He thought that he had
never seen her looking more lovely. He was sure that she had
never been more gracious to him. The touch of her hand was
pleasant to his arm, and even he had sufficient spirit of fun
about him to enjoy something of the mirth of her little grimaces. When he told her what her father had said about Mr. Groschut, even he laughed at her face of assumed disgust. “Papa
doesn’t hate him half as much as I do,” she said. “Papa always
does forgive 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 man with a shiny face ought to be hated.” This was very
well to give as a reason, but Mary entertained a very correct
idea as to Mr. Groschut’s opinion of herself.
Not a word had been said between the husband and wife
as to the great question of residence till they had returned to
the deanery after their walk. Then Lord George found himself unable to conceal from her the offer 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 it would fit me.” Then she leaned over him and took
his hand and kissed it.
“It was very good of your father.”
“I am sure he meant to be good.”
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“It was very good of your father,” Lord George repeated, —
“very good indeed; but it cannot be. A married woman should
live in her husband’s house and not in her father’s.”
Mary gazed into his face with a perplexed look, not quite
understanding the whole question, but still with a clear idea
as to a part of it. All that might be very true, but if a husband
didn’t happen to have a house then might not the wife’s father’s
house be a convenience? They had indeed a house, provided
no doubt with her money, but not the less now belonging to
her husband, in which she would be very willing to live if he
pleased it, — the house in Munster Court. It was her husband
that made objection to their own house. It was her husband
who wished to live near Manor Cross, not having a roof of
his own under which to do so. Were not these circumstances
which ought to have made the deanery a convenience 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 once again. I do so long to be telling you everything.” Then she leant against him and embraced him, and
implored him to grant her this favour. But he would not yield.
He had told himself that the Dean had interfered between
him and his wife, and that he must at any rate go through
the ceremony of taking his wife away from her father. Let it be
accorded to him that he had done that, and then perhaps he
might visit the deanery. As for her, she would have gone with
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IS HE POPENJOY?
him anywhere now, having fully established her right to visit
her father after leaving London.
There was nothing further settled, and very little more
said, when Lord George left the deanery and started back to
Manor Cross. But with Mary there had been left a certain
comfort. The shopkeepers and Dr. Pountner had seen her
with her husband, and Mr. Groschut had met Lord George at
the deanery door.
CHAPTER L
RUDHAM PARK
Lord George had undertaken to leave Manor Cross by
the middle of August, but when the first week of that month
had passed away he had not as yet made up his mind what he
would do with himself. Mr. Knox had told him that should he
remain with his mother the Marquis would not, as Mr. Knox
thought, take further notice of the matter; but on such terms
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 return ticket to a town but a few miles distant from
Brotherton to sit on a committee for the distribution of coals
and blankets, and in the afternoon got into a railway carriage
on his way home. How great was his consternation when,
on taking his seat, he found that his brother was seated alongside of him! There was one other old gentleman in the carriage, and the three passengers were all facing the engine.
On two of the seats opposite were spread out the Marquis’s
travelling paraphernalia, — his French novel, at which he
had not looked, his dressing bag, the box in which his luncheon had been packed, and his wine flask. There was a small
basket of strawberries, should he be inclined to eat fruit, and
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IS HE POPENJOY?
an early peach out of a hothouse, with some flowers. “God Almighty, George; — is that you?” he said. “Where the devil 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 he folded himself afresh in his cloaks, ate a strawberry,
and looked as though he had taken sufficient notice of his
brother.
But the matter was very important to Lord George. Nothing ever seemed to be of importance to the Marquis. It might
be very probable that the Marquis, with half-a-dozen servants
behind him, should drive up to the door at Manor Cross without having given an hour’s notice of his intention. It seemed to
be too probable to Lord George that such would be the case
now. For what other reason could he be there? And then there
was his back. Though they had quarrelled he was bound to ask
after his brother’s back. When last they two had met, the Marquis had been almost carried into the room by two men. “I hope
you find yourself better than when I last saw you,” he said, after a pause of five minutes.
“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 well when I’ve seen him.”
“I hope the accounts have been better,” said Lord George,
with solicitude.
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“Coal and blanket accounts!” suggested the Marquis. And
then the conversation was again brought to an end for five
minutes.
But it was essential that Lord George should know whither
his brother was going. If to Manor Cross, then, thought Lord
George, he himself would stay at an inn at Brotherton. Anything, even the deanery, would be better than sitting at table
with his brother, with the insults of their last interview unappeased. At the end of five minutes he plucked up his courage, and asked his brother another question. “Are you going to
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 in which I should be less likely to show my face.” Then
there was not another word said till they reached the Brotherton Station, and there the Marquis, who was sitting next
the door, requested his brother to leave the carriage first. “Get
out, will you?” he said. “I must wait for somebody to come and
take these things. And don’t trample on me more than you can
help.” This last request had apparently been made, because
Lord George was unable to step across him without treading
on the cloak.
“I will say good-bye, then,” said Lord George, turning
round on the platform for a moment.
“Ta, ta,” said the Marquis, as he gave his attention to
the servant who was collecting the fruit, and the flowers, and
the flask. Lord George then passed on out of the station, and
saw no more of his brother.
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IS HE POPENJOY?
“Of course he is going to Rudham,” said Lady Susanna,
when she heard the story. Rudham Park was the seat of Mr.
De Baron, Mrs. Houghton’s father, and tidings had reached
Manor Cross long since that the Marquis had promised to
go there in the autumn. No doubt other circumstances had
seemed to make it improbable that the promise should be
kept. Popenjoy had gone away ill, — as many said, in a dying
condition. Then the Marquis had been thrown into a fireplace,
and report had said that his back had been all but broken. It
had certainly been generally thought that the Marquis would
go nowhere after that affair in the fireplace, 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, being then the Popenjoy of those days
and a fast young man known as such about England. Mr. De
Baron, who was a neighbour, had taken him by the hand. Mr.
De Baron had put him in the way of buying and training racehorses, and had, perhaps, been godfather to his pleasures in
other matters. Rudham Park had never been loved at Manor
Cross by others than the present Lord, and for that reason,
perhaps, was dearer to him. He had promised to go there soon
after his return to England, and was now keeping his promise.
On his arrival there the Marquis found a houseful of people.
There were Mr. and Mrs. Houghton, and Lord Giblet, who,
having engaged himself rashly to Miss Patmore Green, had
rushed out of town sooner than usual that he might devise in
retirement some means of escaping from his position; and, to
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
Lord Giblet’s horror, there was Mrs. Montacute Jones, who, he
well knew, would, if possible, keep him to the collar. There
was also Aunt Julia, with her niece Guss, and of course, there
was Jack De Baron. The Marquis was rather glad to meet Jack,
as to whom he had some hope that he might be induced to
run away with Lord George’s wife, and thus free the Germain
family from that little annoyance. But the guest who surprised
the Marquis the most, was the Baroness Banmann, whose
name and occupation he did not at first learn very distinctly.
“All right again, my lord?” asked Mr. De Baron, as he welcomed his noble guest.
“Upon my word I’m not, then. That coal-heaving brute of
a parson pretty nearly did for me.”
“A terrible outrage it was.”
“Outrage! I should think so. There’s nothing so bad as
a clerical bully. What was I to do with him? Of course he was
the stronger. I don’t pretend to be a Samson. One doesn’t expect that kind of thing among gentlemen?”
“No, indeed.”
“I wish I could have him somewhere with a pair of foils
with the buttons off. His black coat shouldn’t save his intestines. I don’t know what the devil the country is come to, when
such a fellow as that is 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 got away. Who’s the Baroness you have got?”
“I don’t know much about her. My daughter Adelaide, —
Mrs. Houghton, you know, — has brought her down. There’s
been some row among the women up in London. This is one of
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