that is all true. But a girl situated like Frances is bound not to—not to sacrifice those with whom Fame and Fortune have connected her. I can speak plainly to you, Mrs. Roden, because you know what are my own opinions about many things."
"George has no sister, no girl belonging to him; but if he had, and you loved her, would you abstain from marrying her lest you should sacrifice your—connections?"
"The word has offended you?"
"Not in the least. It is a word true to the purpose in hand. I understand the sacrifice you mean. Lady Kingsbury's feelings would be—sacrificed were her daughter—even her stepdaughter—to become my boy's husband. She supposes that her girl's birth is superior to my boy's."
"There are so many meanings to that word 'birth.'"
"I will take it all as you mean, Lord Hampstead, and will not be offended. My boy, as he is, is no match for your sister. Both Lord and Lady Kingsbury would think that there had been—a sacrifice. It might be that those little lords would not in future years be wont to talk at their club of their brother-in-law, the Post Office clerk, as they would of some earl or some duke with whom they might have become connected. Let us pass it by, and acknowledge that there would be—a sacrifice. So there will be should you marry below your degree. The sacrifice would be greater because it would be carried on to some future Marquis of Kingsbury. Would you practise such self-denial as that you demand from your sister?"
Lord Hampstead considered the matter a while, and then answered the question. "I do not think that the two cases would be quite analogous."
"Where is the difference?"
"There is something more delicate, more nice, requiring greater caution in the conduct of a girl than of a man."
"Quite so, Lord Hampstead. Where conduct is in question, the girl is bound to submit to stricter laws. I may explain that by saying that the girl is lost for ever who gives herself up to unlawful love—whereas, for the man, the way back to the world's respect is only too easy, even should he, on that score, have lost aught of the world's respect. The same law runs through every act of a girl's life, as contrasted with the acts of men. But in this act—the act now supposed of marrying a gentleman whom she loves—your sister would do nothing which should exclude her from the respect of good men or the society of well-ordered ladies. I do not say that the marriage would be well-assorted. I do not recommend it. Though my boy's heart is dearer to me than anything else can be in the world, I can see that it may be fit that his heart should be made to suffer. But when you talk of the sacrifice which he and your sister are called on to make, so that others should be delivered from lesser sacrifices, I think you should ask what duty would require from yourself. I do not think she would sacrifice the noble blood of the Traffords more effectually than you would by a similar marriage." As she thus spoke she leant forward from her chair on the table, and looked him full in the face. And he felt, as she did so, that she was singularly handsome, greatly gifted, a woman noble to the eye and to the ear. She was pleading for her son—and he knew that. But she had condescended to use no mean argument.
"If you will say that such a law is dominant among your class, and that it is one to which you would submit yourself, I will not repudiate it. But you shall not induce me to consent to it, by even a false idea as to the softer delicacy of the sex. That softer delicacy, with its privileges and duties, shall be made to stand for what it is worth, and to occupy its real ground. If you use it for other mock purposes, then I will quarrel with you." It was thus that she had spoken, and he understood it all.
"I am not brought in question," he said slowly.
"Cannot you put it to yourself as though you were brought in question? You will at any rate admit that my argument is just."
"I hardly know. I must think of it. Such a marriage on my part would not outrage my stepmother, as would that of my sister."
"Outrage! You speak, Lord Hampstead, as though your mother would think that your sister would have disgraced herself as a woman!"
"I am speaking of her feelings—not of mine. It would be different were I to marry in the same degree."
"Would it? Then I think that perhaps I had better counsel George not to go to Hendon Hall."
"My sister is not there. They are all in Germany."
"He had better not go where your sister will be thought of."
"I would not quarrel with your son for all the world."
"It will be better that you should. Do not suppose that I am pleading for him." That, however, was what he did suppose, and that was what she was doing. "I have told him already that I think that the prejudices will be too hard for him, and that he had better give it up before he adds to his own misery, and perhaps to hers. What I have said has not been in the way of pleading—but only as showing the ground on which I think that such a marriage would be inexpedient. It is not that we, or our sister, are too bad or too low for such contact; but that you, on your side, are not as yet good enough or high enough."
"I will not dispute that with you, Mrs. Roden. But you will give him my message?"
"Yes; I will give him your message."
Then Lord Hampstead, having spent a full hour in the house, took his departure and rode away.
"Just an hour," said Clara Demijohn, who was still looking out of Mrs. Duffer's window. "What can they have been talking about?"
"I think he must be making up to the widow," said Mrs. Duffer, who was so lost in surprise as to be unable to suggest any new idea.
"He'd never have come with saddle horses to do that. She wouldn't be taken by a young man spending his money in that fashion. She'd like saving ways better. But they're his own horses, and his own man, and he's no more after the widow than he's after me," said Clara, laughing.
"I wish he were, my dear."
"There may be as good as him come yet, Mrs. Duffer. I don't think so much of their having horses and grooms. When they have these things they can't afford to have wives too—and sometimes they can't afford to pay for either." Then, having seen the last of Lord Hampstead as he rode out of the Row, she went back to her mother's house.
But Mrs. Demijohn had been making use of her time while Clara and Mrs. Duffer had been wasting theirs in mere gazing, and making vain surmises. As soon as she found herself alone the old woman got her bonnet and shawl, and going out slily into the Row, made her way down to the end of the street in the direction opposite to that in which the groom was at that moment walking the horses. There she escaped the eyes of her niece and of the neighbours, and was enabled to wait unseen till the man, in his walking, came down to the spot at which she was standing. "My young man," she said in her most winning voice, when the groom came near her.
"What is it, Mum?"
"You'd like a glass of beer, wouldn't you;—after walking up and down so long?"
"No, I wouldn't, not just at present." He knew whom he served, and from whom it would become him to take beer.
"I'd be happy to pay for a pint," said Mrs. Demijohn, fingering a fourpenny bit so that he might see it.
"Thankye, Mum; no, I takes it reg'lar when I takes it. I'm on dooty just at present."
"Your master's horses, I suppose?"
"Whose else, Mum? His lordship don't ride generally nobody's 'orses but his own."
Here was a success! And the fourpenny bit saved! His lordship! "Of course not," said Mrs. Demijohn. "Why should he?"
"Why, indeed, Mum?"
"Lord—; Lord—;—Lord who, is he?"
The groom poked up his hat, and scratched his head, and bethought himself. A servant generally wishes to do what honour he can to his master. This man had no desire to gratify an inquisitive old woman, but he thought it derogatory to his master and to himself to seem to deny their joint name. "'Ampstead!" he said, looking down very serenely on the lady, and then moved on, not wasting another word.