Ричард Марш
The Twickenham Peerage

CHAPTER XV
THE NEW PEER: AND HIS MOTHER

One thing I saw at once; that he wasn't anything like so much at his ease as the lady was. Perhaps he wasn't much used to dropping down promiscuous-like on folks like me. I felt fuddled enough, I will admit; and was beginning to wonder if I was standing on my head or heels. But then I'm not used to high society; and it doesn't take much to upset a silly thing like me. He seemed even more fuddled than I was-I was conscious of so much, at any rate-and stood there, staring, on the doorstep as if his tongue was tied. And what there was about me to tie his tongue, or anybody else's, was what I couldn't think. Only his behaving like that made me worse; so that the only thing I could do was to keep on rubbing my hands together as if I was half-witted.

At last he did manage to say something.

'Can I speak to you, Mrs. Merrett, in private?'

It reminded me of what he had wanted to do the day before. But this time I didn't know how to refuse. I don't believe that I had sense enough.

'If you'll walk in, sir.'

He did walk in. Now as soon as you step into my passage, there's the parlour door upon the left. And as it was standing open, without waiting to be invited he walked right in. I meant to tell him about Miss Desmond being in the kitchen; but I felt that stupid that I didn't know how to say it. He upset me much more than he had done the day before.

To begin with, I couldn't imagine what he was at. He was all of a fidget. And he being so big, and all the gentleman, it did seem so ridiculous. First he put his hat upon the table, with his umbrella alongside of it. Then he took up his hat, and began to brush it with his sleeve. Then he took up his umbrella, and sticking the point into my carpet, leaned upon the handle. Then he appeared to make up his mind that perhaps, after all, they might both of them be safe, so back again he laid them. Then he started rubbing his gloves together, and putting his hands in front of him and behind. Then he got as far as a remark.

'May I ask you, Mrs. Merrett, to sit down for a few minutes?'

'If you don't mind, sir, I'd rather stand.'

My answer seemed at once to disconcert him and to make him pull himself together. He went and leaned against the mantelshelf; as I've noticed men, whether they're gentlemen or not, seem fond of doing. It's like a looking-glass to some women. I'm sure Mr. FitzHoward is standing in front of a fireplace most of the time there's one about for him to stand in front of. Directly Mr. Howarth felt that mantelpiece in the small of his back, he began to seem more at his ease.

'I was sorry to hear yesterday that you have had no news of your husband lately.'

'Were you indeed, sir?'

'I cannot imagine what possible grounds you have for associating me with his absence.'

'Whether that is true or not, sir, you know better than I do.'

'I understand that these absences of his are by no means infrequent.'

'That is so. Sometimes he has been away from me for months together.'

'Then why, in this particular case, should you suggest that I have been inciting him to desert his wife and home?'

'I suggest nothing, sir. It is you who are suggesting.'

'I may as well tell you that during my very brief acquaintance with your husband, I was very much struck by what I saw of him.'

'I hope, sir, that he was equally struck by you.'

'Well, we'll hope so. Indeed, without self-conceit, I think I may safely say that I believe he was.'

There was something in his tone which struck me.

'I don't know what you mean, sir, but I see you do mean something. I hope it's something to your credit.'

He moved, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, so that his face was half-turned away from me. He was so tall that he had to stoop to get his elbow in its place, though the shelf is pretty high.

'So the real name of the man I knew as Montagu Babbacombe is Merrett.'

'Yes, sir; James Merrett.'

'James Merrett. That is his real name?'

'So far as I know.'

'At any rate it is the name under which you married him.'

'It is.'

'Where were you married, Mrs. Merrett?'

'What has that to do with you, sir?'

He smiled, though not what I should call merrily.

'True. What has it? I was only thinking that, if he had one pseudonym he may quite possibly have had another, and that his name might not be Merrett after all: in which case, as his wife, you might find yourself in a peculiar position.'

'I don't see how. I married him in good faith, and whether his name is Brown or Robinson, I'm his wife.'

'I should advise you not to be too certain. The law has its own way of looking at such matters.'

'I'm not afraid of the law. When I require its protection, Mr. Howarth, I shall have it. Why have you come to put such thoughts into my head?'

'I was thinking of you last night after you had gone, and I could not but feel interested in your case, both on account of your youth and your beauty.'

My fingers began to tingle that he should talk to me like that.

'If that's all you have to say, Mr. Howarth, you must excuse my saying that I was just making a pudding when you came.'

'And an excellent pudding, too, I am sure. By the way, Mrs. Merrett, have you any children?'

'I have two.'

Just then there came screams of laughter from the other side of the wall. He held up his hands.

'Ah? There they are! I thought I heard childish voices. Both girls?'

'A boy and a girl.'

What he was driving at I could not think. Somehow I felt pretty sure that the idea of my having children was one he didn't like at all; though what it had to do with him was beyond me altogether, and like his impudence. The queer thing was that, in spite of the fuss she made of them, I'd had the same feeling about Miss Desmond. I was beginning to wonder what connection there was between them; and how it came about that they were both in my house at the same time. That they were there to find out something, I could see; I could also see that they already knew more about me than I did about them. The interest which this fine lady and gentleman took in my belongings was clean out of the common. It was a good deal more than mere curiosity. And as for supposing that it was just sympathy with a stranger, I wasn't so simple as to do that. That Mr. FitzHoward was right, and that Mr. Howarth was mixed up in some way with my James, was getting clearer and clearer; but exactly in what way I had yet to discover.

He had got back to his fidgeting again. I could see that there was something which he very much wanted to say, but which he didn't find it easy to put quite in the shape he wanted. When he did start to get it out, and I began to have some idea of what it was he meant, I was almost too taken aback for words.

'As I have already remarked, I took the greatest possible interest in Mr. Merrett-or, as he was known to me, Mr. Montagu Babbacombe.'

'I heard you say it.'

'And while not accepting even the slightest shadow of a shade of responsibility for his-er-no doubt temporary absence from his family, I should like, at the same time, to assure you that my interest is of a thoroughly practical kind.'

He stopped, as if expecting me to say something. I didn't know what he meant; and said so.

'If you'll explain, Mr. Howarth, I dare say I shall understand what you're talking about.'

'It's quite simple, Mrs. Merrett; perfectly simple.'

I didn't think so. If I'd been asked I should have said that there wasn't anything simple about him. He wasn't that kind. He went on in that smooth, easy voice of his, every tone of which rang false to me.

'Be frank with me, Mrs. Merrett. Believe me, you will find in me a friend.' I didn't believe anything of the kind. 'Financially, has Mr. Merrett left you in any way awkwardly placed?'

'Do you mean, am I short of money?'

'Exactly. Plain language is always the best; isn't it, Mrs. Merrett? Are you short of money?'

'And what business have you to ask me such a question, any more than I have to ask you?'

'I ask merely because I should propose, if such were the case, to supply any deficiency. It would give me genuine pleasure.'

'What would give you genuine pleasure?'

Holding out his hands in front of him he began to wave them up and down-as if he wanted to persuade me how simple he really was. But it wouldn't do. Especially as what he started saying nearly took my breath away.

'It's in this way. From what you've said of your husband's previous proceedings-we won't call them eccentricities, you might object.'

'I should object.'

He smiled.

'I thought so. Well, from what you've said, it appears to be quite within the range of possibility that his absence may continue several weeks; even months. Under those circumstances one can easily understand how, as you yourself put it, you may become short of money. One moment!' He saw how words were trembling on the tip of my tongue, which it was all I could do to keep from tumbling off it. 'If that is, or should become, the case, I shall be very happy, while his absence continues, to make you an allowance.'

'To make me an allowance?' I stared. 'What allowance?'

'Well, shall we say, five pounds a week?'

'Five pounds a week?' I gasped. 'You'll allow me five pounds a week?'

'As I observed, to do so would give me genuine pleasure. I wish you to understand, Mrs. Merrett, that in me you have a sincere friend.' I believed it every moment less and less. 'Indeed, not only should I be willing to make you such an allowance, but I should be happy to see that your children are properly educated; particularly your boy.'

'You'll educate Jimmy?'

'Is that his name? I will see that he is educated. And, also, if you like, your little girl.'

For a moment or two I struggled against a rush of words. There were so many things which seemed to want saying all at once.

'Mr. Howarth, what has my James to do with you?'

'To do with me? I don't understand.'

'Oh yes, you do. What is there between my James and you?'

'Nothing; absolutely nothing. We have gone into that before; is it necessary to do so again?'

'Listen to me, Mr. Howarth. You take my advice, be careful what you say. Here's my husband's portrait. You look at it; and when you've looked at it you tell me what there is between you two.'

I handed him one of the heap off the table, which I had got out for Miss Desmond to see. He took it with a frown.

'So he was photographed? I shouldn't have thought he was that kind of man.'

'Then you're wrong. Because he was always being photographed.'

'It's not unlike him.'

'It's his very image. As you know very well.'

He had got to the table and was taking up the likenesses one by one.

'There are a great many here. Do I understand you to say that there are others in existence?'

'Plenty.'

'Where are they?'

'That's my business. Answer my question if you please. Did you never see my James-the man whose likeness that is-before you saw him that Thursday afternoon at the Aquarium?'

He looked me straight in the face and spoke as bold as brass.

'Never. To the best of my knowledge and belief, never.'

'That you swear?'

'I say it, Mrs. Merrett, on my honour, as a gentleman.'

'Then there's lying somewhere. Then do you mean to say that you come to me-a stranger, and the wife of a stranger-and offer to make me an allowance of five pounds a week, and to educate my children? Why, Mr. Howarth, why?'

'From quixotic motives, if you like to put it so. I say-which is the simple truth, Mrs. Merrett, although it seems so strange to you, – because of the interest with which your husband inspired me, even after our very brief acquaintance.'

'He called to me last night.'

'He? Who?'

'My James.'

'He called to you? What do you mean?

Returning to the fireplace, Mr. Howarth stood so that I couldn't see his face.

'Out of a box.'

He turned sharply round.

'Out of a box?'

'Out of a box into which you put him.

'Into which I put him? Woman! Are you mad?'

Whether I was mad or not I could see that he was more upset than he cared to own.

'Didn't you put him in a box? and leave him there?'

His face changed as it had done when I put the question to him the day before. He quite frightened me. He seemed to have been seized with a sort of paralysis. I half-expected to see him tumble all of a heap; I dare say he would have done, if it hadn't been for a voice which, coming from the door, startled me almost as much as it did him.

'Don't you think you'd better own it, Douglas? Hasn't the farce been carried far enough? Haven't we soiled our hands enough already?'

It was Miss Desmond. If I'd only thought, it was exactly what I might have looked for. She'd get tired of playing with the children; wonder what had become of me; leave the kitchen to find out; and discover him there. That it was a discovery there was very soon no doubt. That it was one of which he'd never dreamt there was just as little. If I'd ever had any suspicion that either knew of the other's visit, or that their presence in my house together was arranged, it was all blown away as I saw his look when he heard her voice.

My question seemed to have knocked the stuffing right out of him, as I have heard them say; hers made him jump straight up in the air. I never saw a man give such a jump. It was like a jack-in-the-box. And when he did come down he stared as if the jump had woke him out of a dream.

'Edith!'

'Yes, it is I. Odd that we should both have taken into our heads to pay Mrs. Merrett a morning call; isn't it, Douglas?'

'What-what are you doing here?'

'That is precisely the inquiry I was about to put to you. Because it would really seem as if your reiterated assurance to me last night that you took no personal interest whatever in Mrs. Merrett was-What shall we call it, Douglas?'

'I don't know what bee you've got in your bonnet lately. I believe you're going mad.'

'I think I just now heard you accuse Mrs. Merrett of going mad. It does seem strange that we should all of us be going mad together, and that you should be the only one to continue sane.' He turned his back on us. I saw that for some cause he was afraid of her; that she knew it; and that the knowledge stung her to the heart. 'Douglas, don't you think we'd better prick the bubble?'

'What do you mean?'

'Shall I tell you what I mean?'

'I have no desire to know. Your meaning, lately, is a puzzle to which I have no clue; nor wish for any. I have no taste for the twists and turns of a disordered brain.'

'Douglas! You didn't use to speak to me like that-before.'

'You mean before you developed your new fancy for prying into matters which are no concern of yours; and, in consequence, discovering mountains where there are not even molehills.'

'I have heard it stated that, when it comes to the sticking-point, a woman has more courage than a man; but I never dreamed, Douglas, to learn that it was true of you.'

'Fools, my dear Edith, step in where angels fear to tread.'

It appeared to dawn on her more quickly than it did on him that they were beginning to talk to each other in a way which wasn't exactly dignified in the presence of a stranger. Her voice and manner both changed as she came farther into the room, holding Jimmy with one hand, and Pollie with the other.

'Come, Douglas, let's play the game. You've often said it to me; now it seems as if it were my turn to say it to you.'

'You see, Edith, it depends on what is your idea of what you call the game. Unfortunately it sometimes happens that the feminine idea is a peculiar one.'

'My idea, on the present occasion, is to be frank, honest, and above-board; to use another phrase of yours, to face the music.'

'I'm afraid the music you want to face comes from a very funny sort of band.'

'Douglas, let's stop chopping phrases, you and I. Let me introduce you to some one instead.'

'Introduce me? What do you mean?'

'Let me introduce you to the Marquis of Twickenham.'

He had turned. Now he stared. I stared too. What she meant I did not understand, if he did.

'Edith! are you stark, staring mad?'

'Douglas, haven't you heard that it's a symptom of insanity to hurl at others reckless accusations of insanity. I can say to you, with Paul, I am not mad. But I am beginning to wonder if, somewhere deep down in your heart, you are not inclined to credit me with being something worse. For the second time let me ask your permission to make you known to the Marquis of Twickenham.'

She held Jimmy a little forward. What she meant I still had not the faintest notion. But it was plain that Mr. Howarth had. I could see that he shook; but whether it was passion or not was more than I could say.

'Edith, you are-you are making a serious mistake. Be careful; before you do mischief which you may be never able to undo.'

She looked at him for a second, as if she didn't catch what he meant. Then she took up one of James's likenesses.

'Isn't that Leonard?'

'No; it is not.'

'Douglas! – are you seriously saying that to me?'

'I tell you it is not. You are under a complete misapprehension. I am not able, nor, at this moment, am I willing, to tell you what the facts of the case actually are, but I do assure you of this-and I beg you to be so good as to remember that I have never told you a falsehood in my life-that the original of that photograph is not the person you suppose; and that any conclusions you may deduce from the supposition that he is are erroneous.'

'Douglas, in reply, shall I tell you what I think? Not all; for that would be to entirely destroy the whole fabric on which my life has been reared; but in part.'

'Edith, I entreat you to be warned in time; before the mischief's done beyond repair. Whatever you have to say to me say when we're alone.'

'You've not allowed me to say anything even when we've been alone; you've always wished to put a lock upon my lips. And think what you have said to me! No; it will not do. By some process of reasoning which is beyond my comprehension you appear to have made a compromise with your own conscience which will be productive of more evil than that of which you are afraid.'

'Afraid! – I am afraid of nothing.'

'Of nothing? And yet you're afraid that I should speak; and do not dare to speak yourself.'

I simply fear your rashness.'

Then, indeed, my dear Douglas, you are afraid of nothing; for I'm not of that constitution from which rashness springs. The truth is, you exaggerate. Your life has been so dominated by a single hope that, now a new factor appears, you over-estimate the consequences which may accrue. I have always held it better policy to look the truth straight in the face; and, until now, I have imagined that you thought with me.'

'And you've been right. In this case I tell you again and again, that what you take to be the truth is not the truth.'

'Douglas, all our lives we have known each other, but until now I have not known you to be this man.'

What she meant I couldn't say; whatever it was, it made him turn away from her.

'Edith! You're-you're doing me a great injustice.'

Her voice faltered when she spoke again.

'Is this-is this to be parting of the ways? Won't you speak, and so save me from shaming you?'

'You'll shame yourself if you will not be advised by me.'

'Then I'll be shamed. For I'm of opinion that to be a party to the concealment of what I deem to be the truth, now that I know it, would be to make my shame much more.' She lifted Jimmy in her arms. 'My little man, it's my sad duty to have to inform you that you're the Most Honourable the Marquis of Twickenham. My Lord Marquis, I salute you.'

She kissed him. It was plain that Jimmy had no more notion why she did it, or what was the meaning of her hotch-potch of words, than I had. He wasn't very far from crying.

I had been listening to their going at it hammer and tongs, in a genteel sort of way, with, strong on me, a growing feeling that the world was turning topsy-turvy. When she said that to my boy I at last had a chance of getting a word in edgeways.

'If you please, miss, what was that you said to Jimmy?'

For answer she set down Jimmy and picked up his father's likeness.

'You say that this was your husband?'

'Yes, miss; he was; and is.'

'Then, my dear, in that case you're the Marchioness of Twickenham.'

'Miss! What-what's that you say?'

'I say that you're the Marchioness of Twickenham, since it's certain your husband was the Marquis; and I say also that your son, reigning in his stead, is the Marquis of Twickenham now.'

'I-I don't understand.'

My heart was beating against my ribs-oh, dear!

'Your husband's life was a strange one. One day I'll tell you as much of it as you care to know. But its strangeness did not alter the fact that he was the Marquis of Twickenham; and, indeed, now that I have seen you, I am beginning to understand that at least the latter part of it was not so strange as I imagined.'

'You-you say my James is-the Marquis of Twickenham?'

'He was.'

'Was? Where is he?'

'My dear, he's dead. Your boy is the Marquis now.'

'Dead? – dead? – dead? My James-dead?'

'He died on the day following that on which you saw him last.'

'Died? He died? And-you knew it?'

'I did not know that you were his wife; or, indeed, that he had a wife at all, until just now.'

'And-he knew it?'

'Mr. Howarth knew that the late Marquis was dead; whether he knew that he was your husband is another matter. My dear, you must judge him leniently. When you know the whole strange story you will think better of us all than you may be disposed to do at present.'

'You say-my James is dead? Then-he killed him?'

'Hush! You mustn't utter such wild words; you mustn't think such dreadful thoughts. Your husband died in his bed-in my presence, and in the presence of other persons, among whom were two doctors.'

'He killed him!' She laid her hand upon my shoulder. I shook it off. 'Don't touch me! – don't dare! He killed him!'

'My dear child, if, as you will have it, there was any killing, the hand which slew him was the Lord's. Although you don't seem to have been aware of the fact, your husband's heart was always weak. What had been expected for years took place at last; his heart collapsed, and there was an end.'

'You, who've been in my house all the morning pretending you knew nothing, when all the time you knew that my James was dead-you now want to make out that you knew him better than I did! You may be a sly fine lady, but you're a fool. What you say's lies-lies-all lies! But it's not you I want to speak to-you're nothing. It's him! Get out of my way, and let me pass.'

She got out of my way, or I'd have knocked her down. I could have done it. And I went to Mr. Howarth.

'You killed him; and, as I stand here, in the presence of your God and mine, I swear that you shall hang for it, unless you kill me too. He called to me last night. How often, in the night, does he call to you? – out of the box into which you put him? As I live, I believe his voice is always in your ears-calling, calling, calling.'

Although he was a big man and I'm a little woman, I could have taken him and killed him, then and there, with my two hands, and he could have done nothing to have stayed me. For his heart was as butter, and his soul was white with fear.