"my younger brother lionel brakespere;" those were lord caterham's words. margaret had heard them distinctly before consciousness left her; there was no mistake, no confusion in her mind,--"my younger brother lionel brakespere." all unconsciously, then, she had been for months acquainted and in occasional communication with _his_ nearest relatives! only that day she had been in the house where he had lived; had sat in a room all the associations of which were doubtless familiar to him; had gazed upon the portrait of that face for the sight of which her heart yearned with such a desperate restless longing!
lord caterham's brother! brother to that poor sickly cripple, in whom life's flame seemed not to shine, but to flicker merely,--her lionel, so bright and active and handsome! son of that proud, haughty lady beauport--yes, she could understand that; it was from his mother that he inherited the cool bearing, the easy assurance, the never-absent _hauteur_ which rendered him conspicuous even in a set of men where all these qualities were prized and imitated. she had not had the smallest suspicion the name she had known him by was assumed, or that he had an earl for his father and a viscount for his brother. he had been accustomed to speak of "the governor--a good old boy;" but his mother and his brother he never mentioned.
they knew him there, knew him as she had never known him--free, unrestrained, without that mask which, to a certain extent, he had necessarily worn in her presence. in his intercourse with them he had been untrammelled, with no lurking fear of what might happen some day; no dodging demon at his side suggesting the end, the separation that he knew must unavoidably come. and she had sat by, ignorant of all that was consuming their hearts' cores, which, had she been able to discuss it with them, would have proved to be her own deepest, most cherished, most pertinacious source of thought. they?--who were they? how many of them had known her lionel?--how many of them had cared for him? lady beauport and lord caterham, of course--but of the others? geoffrey himself had never known him. no; thank god for that! the comparison between her old lover and her husband which she had so often drawn in her own mind had never, could never have occurred to him. geoffrey's only connection with the beauport family had been through annie maurice. ah! annie maurice!--the heiress now, whose sudden acquisition of wealth and position they were all talking of--she had not seen lionel in the old days; and even if she had, it had been slight matter. but margaret's knowledge of the world was wide and ample, and it needed very little experience--far less indeed than she had had--to show her what might have been the effect had those two met under the existent different circumstances.
for margaret knew lionel brakespere, and read him like a book. all her wild infatuation about him,--and her infatuation about him was wilder, madder than it had ever been before--all the length of time since she lost him,--all the long, weary, deadening separation, had not had the smallest effect on her calm matured judgment. she knew that he was at heart a scoundrel; she knew that he had no stability of heart, no depth of affection. had not her own experience of him taught her that? had not the easy, indifferent, heartless way in which he had slipped out of her knotted arms, leaving her to pine and fret and die, for all he cared, shown her that? she had a thorough appreciation of his worship of the rising sun,--she knew how perfectly he would have sold himself for wealth and position; and yet she loved him, loved him through all!
this was her one consolation in the thought of his absence--his exile. had he been in england, how readily would he have fallen into those machinations which she guessed his mother would have been only too ready to plot! she knew he was thousands of miles away; and the thought that she was freed from rivalry in a great measure reconciled her to his absence. she could hold him in her heart of hearts as her own only love; there was no one, in her thoughts, to dispute her power over him. he was hers,--hers alone. and he had obtained an additional interest in her eyes since she had discovered his identity. now she would cultivate that acquaintance with his people,--all unknowingly she should be able to ally herself more closely to him. casual questions would bring direct answers--all bearing on the topic nearest her heart: without in the smallest degree betraying her own secret, she would be able to feed her own love-flame,--to hear of, to talk of him for whom every pulse of her heart throbbed and yearned.
did it never occur to her to catechise that heart, to endeavour to portray vividly to herself the abyss on the brink of which she was standing,--to ask herself whether she was prepared to abnegate all sense of gratitude and duty, and to persevere in the course which--not recklessly, not in a moment of passion, but calmly and unswervingly--she had begun to tread? yes; she had catechised herself often, had ruthlessly probed her own heart, had acknowledged her baseness and ingratitude, yet had found it impossible to struggle against the pervading thrall. worse than all, the sight of the man to whom she owed every thing--comfort, respectability, almost life itself,--the sight of him patiently labouring for her sake had become oppressive to her; from calmly suffering it, she had come to loathe and rebel against it. ah, what a contrast between the present dull, dreary, weary round and the bright old days of the past! to her, and to her alone, was the time then dedicated. she would not then have been left to sit alone, occupying her time as best she might, but every instant would have been devoted to her; and let come what might on the morrow, that time would have been spent in gaiety.
was there no element of rest in the new era of her life? did not the child which lay upon her bosom bring some alleviating influence, some new sphere for the absorption of her energies, some new hope, in the indulgence in which she might have found at least temporary forgetfulness of self? alas, none! she had accepted her maternity as she had accepted her wifehood,--calmly, quietly, without even a pretence of that delicious folly, that pardonable self-satisfaction, that silly, lovable, incontrovertible, charming pride which nearly always accompanies the first experience of motherhood. old geoff was mad about his firstborn--would leave his easel and come crooning and peering up into the nursery,--would enter that sacred domain in a half-sheepish manner, as though acknowledging his intrusion, but on the score of parental love hoping for forgiveness,--would say a few words of politeness to the nurse, who, inexorable to most men, was won over by his genuine devotion and his evident humility,--would take up the precious bundle, at length confided to him, in the awkwardest manner, and would sit chirrupping to the little putty face, or swing the shapeless mass to and fro, singing meanwhile the dismallest of apparently indian dirges, and all the while be experiencing the most acute enjoyment. geoff was by nature a heavy sleeper; but the slightest cry of the child in the adjoining chamber would rouse him; the inevitable infantile maladies expressed in the inevitable peevish whine, so marvellously imitated by the toy-baby manufacturers, would fill him with horror and fright, causing him to lie awake in an agony of suspense, resting on his elbow and listening with nervous anxiety for their cessation or their increase; while margaret, wearied out in mental anxiety, either slept tranquilly by his side or remained awake, her eyes closed, her mind abstracted from all that was going on around her, painfully occupied with retrospect of the past or anticipation of the future. she did not care for her baby? no--plainly no! she accepted its existence as she had accepted the other necessary corollaries of her marriage; but the grand secret of maternal love was as far removed from her as though she had never suffered her travail and brought a man-child into the world. that she would do her duty by her baby she had determined,--much in the same spirit that she had decided upon the strict performance of her conjugal duty; but n question of love influenced her. she did not dislike the child,--she was willing to give herself up to the inconveniences which its nurture, its care, its necessities occasioned her; but that was all.
if margaret did not "make a fuss" with the child, there were plenty who did; numberless people to come and call; numberless eyes to watch all that happened,--to note the _insouciance_ which existed, instead of the solicitude which should have prevailed; numberless tongues to talk and chatter and gossip,--to express wonderment, to declare that their owners "had never seen the like," and so on. little dr. brandmm found it more difficult than ever to get away from his lady-patients. after all their own disorders had been discussed and remedies suggested, the conversation was immediately turned to his patient at elm lodge; and the little medico had to endure and answer a sharp fire of questions of all kinds. was it really a fine child? and was it true that mrs. ludlow did not care about it? she was nursing it herself; yes: that proved nothing; every decent woman would do that, rather than have one of those dreadful creatures in the house--pints of porter every hour, and doing nothing but sit down and abuse every one, and wanting so much waiting on, as though they were duchesses. but was it true? now, doctor, you must know all these stories about her not caring for the child? caring!--well, you ought to know, with all your experience, what the phrase meant. people would talk, you know, and that was what they said; and all the doctor's other patients wanted to know was whether it was really true. he did his best, the little doctor--for he was a kindly-hearted little creature, and margaret's beauty had had its usual effect upon him,--he did his best to endow the facts with a roseate hue; but he had a hard struggle, and only partially succeeded. if there was one thing on which the ladies of lowbar prided themselves, it was on their fulfilment of their maternal duties; if there was one bond of union between them, it was a sort of tacitly recognised consent to talk of and listen to each other's discussion of their children, either in existence or in prospect. it was noticed now that margaret had always shirked this inviting subject; and it was generally agreed that it was no wonder, since common report averred that she had no pride in her firstborn. a healthy child too, according to dr. brandram--a fine healthy well-formed child. why, even poor mrs. ricketts, whose baby had spinal complaint, loved it, and made the most of it; and mrs. moule, whose little sarah had been blind from her birth, thought her offspring unmatchable in the village, and nursed and tended it night and day. no wonder that in a colony where these sentiments prevailed, margaret's reputation, hardly won, was speedily on the decline. it may be easily imagined too that to old mrs. ludlow's observant eyes margaret's want of affection for her child did not pass unnoticed. by no one was the child's advent into the world more anxiously expected than by its grandmother, who indeed looked forward to deriving an increased social status from the event, and who had already discussed it with her most intimate friends. mrs. ludlow had been prepared for a great contest for supremacy when the child was born--a period at which she intended to assert her right of taking possession of her son's house and remaining its mistress until her daughter-in-law was able to resume her position. she had expected that in this act she would have received all the passive opposition of which margaret was capable--opposition with which geoff, being indoctrinated, might have been in a great measure successful. but, to her intense surprise, no opposition was made. margaret received the announcement of mrs. ludlow's intended visit and mrs. ludlow's actual arrival with perfect unconcern; and after her baby had been born, and she had bestowed on it a very calm kiss, she suffered it to be removed by her mother-in-law with an expression which told even more of satisfaction than resignation. this behaviour was so far different from any thing mrs. ludlow had expected, that the old lady did not know what to make of it; and her daughter-in-law's subsequent conduct increased her astonishment. this astonishment she at first tried to keep to herself; but that was impossible. the feeling gradually vented itself in sniffs and starts, in eyebrow-upliftings for the edification of the nurse, in suggestive exclamations of "well, my dear?" and "don't you think, my love?" and such old-lady phraseology. further than these little ebullitions mrs. ludlow made no sign until her daughter came to see her; and then she could no longer contain herself, but spoke out roundly.
"what it is, my dear, i can't tell for the life of me; but there's something the matter with margaret. she takes no more notice of the child than if it were a chair or a table;--just a kiss, and how do you do? and nothing more."
"it's because this is her first child, mother. she's strange to it, you know, and--"
"strange to it, my dear! nonsense! nothing of the sort. you're a young girl, and can't understand these things. but not only that,--one would think, at such a time, she would be more than ever fond of her husband. i'm sure when geoff was born i put up with more from your father than ever i did before or since. his 'gander-month,' he called it; and he used to go gandering about with a parcel of fellows, and come home at all hours of the night--i used to hear him, though he did creep upstairs with his boots off--but he never had cross word or look from me."
"well, but surely, mother, geoff has not had either cross words or cross looks from margaret?"
"how provoking you are, matilda! that seems to be my my fate, that no one can understand me. i never said he had, did i? though it would be a good thing for him if he had, poor fellow, i should say--any thing better than what he has to endure now."
"don't be angry at my worrying you, dear mother; but for heaven's sake tell me what you mean--what geoff has to endure?"
"i am not angry, til; though it seems to be my luck to be imagined angry when there's nothing further from my thoughts. i'm not angry, my dear--not in the least."
"what about geoff, mother?"
"o, my dear, that's enough to make one's blood boil! ive never said a word to you before about this, matilda--being one of those persons who keep pretty much to themselves, though i see a great deal more than people think for,--ive never said a word to you before about this; for, as i said to myself, what good could it do? but i'm perfectly certain that there's something wrong with margaret."
"how do you mean, mother? something wrong!--is she ill?"
"now, my dear matilda, as though a woman would be likely to be well when she's just had----. bless my soul, the young women of the present day are very silly! i wasn't speaking of her health, of course."
"of what then, mother?" said til, with resignation.
"well, then, my dear, haven't you noticed,--but i suppose not: no one appears to notice these things in the way that i do,--but you might have noticed that for the last few weeks margaret has seemed full of thought, dreamy, and not caring for any thing that went on. if ive pointed out once to her about the mite of a cap that that harriet wears, and all her hair flying about her ears, and a crinoline as wide as wide, ive spoken a dozen times; but she's taken no notice; and now the girl sets me at defiance, and tells me i'm not her mistress, and never shall be i that's one thing; but there are plenty of others. i was sure geoffrey's linen could not be properly aired--the colds he caught were so awful; and i spoke to margaret about it, but she took no notice; and yesterday, when the clothes came home from the laundress, i felt them myself, and you might have wrung the water out of them in pints. there are many other little things too that ive noticed; and i'll tell you what it is, matilda--i'm certain she has got something on her mind."
"o, i hope not, poor girl, poor dear margaret!"
"poor dear fiddlestick! what nonsense you talk, matilda! if there's any one to be pitied, it's geoffrey, i should say; though what he could have expected, taking a girl for his wife that he'd known so little of, and not having any wedding-breakfast, or any thing regular, i don't know!"
"but why is geoffrey to be pitied, mother?"
"why? why, because his wife doesn't love him, my dear! now you know it!"
"o, mother, for heaven's sake don't say such a thing! you know you're--you won't mind what i say, dearest mother,--but you're a little apt to jump at conclusions, and--"
"o yes, i know, my dear; i know i'm a perfect fool!--i know that well enough; and if i don't, it's not for want of being reminded of it by my own daughter. but i know i'm right in what i say; and what's more, my son shall know it before long."
"o, mother, you would never tell geoff!--you would never--"
"if a man's eyes are not open naturally, my dear, they must be opened for him. i shall tell geoffrey my opinion about his wife; and let him know it in pretty plain terms, i can tell you!"
