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The Marchioness Of Stonehenge
by
‘He is my son,’ said the Marchioness, as soon as she was alone in the cottage with Milly. ‘You must give him back to me, now that I am in a position in which I can defy the world’s opinion. I suppose he comes to see you continually?’
‘Every month since he returned from the war, my lady. And sometimes he stays two or three days, and takes me about seeing sights everywhere!’ She spoke with quiet triumph.
‘Well, you will have to give him up,’ said the Marchioness calmly. ‘It shall not be the worse for you–you may see him when you choose. I am going to avow my first marriage, and have him with me.’
‘You forget that there are two to be reckoned with, my lady. Not only me, but himself.’
‘That can be arranged. You don’t suppose that he wouldn’t–‘ But not wishing to insult Milly by comparing their positions, she said, ‘He is my own flesh and blood, not yours.’
‘Flesh and blood’s nothing!’ said Milly, flashing with as much scorn as a cottager could show to a peeress, which, in this case, was not so little as may be supposed. ‘But I will agree to put it to him, and let him settle it for himself.’
‘That’s all I require,’ said Lady Stonehenge. ‘You must ask him to come, and I will meet him here.’
The soldier was written to, and the meeting took place. He was not so much astonished at the disclosure of his parentage as Lady Stonehenge had been led to expect, having known for years that there was a little mystery about his birth. His manner towards the Marchioness, though respectful, was less warm than she could have hoped. The alternatives as to his choice of a mother were put before him. His answer amazed and stupefied her.
‘No, my lady,’ he said. ‘Thank you much, but I prefer to let things be as they have been. My father’s name is mine in any case. You see, my lady, you cared little for me when I was weak and helpless; why should I come to you now I am strong? She, dear devoted soul [pointing to Milly], tended me from my birth, watched over me, nursed me when I was ill, and deprived herself of many a little comfort to push me on. I cannot love another mother as I love her. She is my mother, and I will always be her son!’ As he spoke he put his manly arm round Milly’s neck, and kissed her with the tenderest affection.
The agony of the poor Marchioness was pitiable. ‘You kill me!’ she said, between her shaking sobs. ‘Cannot you–love–me–too?’
‘No, my lady. If I must say it, you were ashamed of my poor father, who was a sincere and honest man; therefore, I am ashamed of you.’
Nothing would move him; and the suffering woman at last gasped, ‘Cannot–oh, cannot you give one kiss to me–as you did to her? It is not much–it is all I ask–all!’
‘Certainly,’ he replied.
He kissed her coldly, and the painful scene came to an end. That day was the beginning of death to the unfortunate Marchioness of Stonehenge. It was in the perverseness of her human heart that his denial of her should add fuel to the fire of her craving for his love. How long afterwards she lived I do not know with any exactness, but it was no great length of time. That anguish that is sharper than a serpent’s tooth wore her out soon. Utterly reckless of the world, its ways, and its opinions, she allowed her story to become known; and when the welcome end supervened (which, I grieve to say, she refused to lighten by the consolations of religion), a broken heart was the truest phrase in which to sum up its cause.
* * * * *
The rural dean having concluded, some observations upon his tale were made in due course. The sentimental member said that Lady Caroline’s history afforded a sad instance of how an honest human affection will become shamefaced and mean under the frost of class-division and social prejudices. She probably deserved some pity; though her offspring, before he grew up to man’s estate, had deserved more. There was no pathos like the pathos of childhood, when a child found itself in a world where it was not wanted, and could not understand the reason why. A tale by the speaker, further illustrating the same subject, though with different results from the last, naturally followed.