A DUCHESS'S SECRET.
When I was poor, and honest, and a novelist, I little thought that Ishould ever be rich, and something not very unlike a Duke; and, as tohonesty, but an indifferent character. I have had greatness thrust onme. I am, like Simpcox in the dramatis personae of "Henry IV.," "animpostor;" and yet I scarcely know how I could have escaped thisdeplorable (though lucrative) position. "Love is a great master," saysthe "Mort d'Arthur," and I perhaps may claim sympathy and pity as avictim of love. The following unaffected lines (in which only names anddates are disguised) contain all the apology I can offer to a censoriousworld.
Two or three years ago I was dependent on literature for my daily bread.I was a regular man-of-all-work. Having the advantage of knowing a clerkin the Foreign Office who went into society (he had been my pupil at theuniversity), I picked up a good deal of scandalous gossip, which Ipublished in the Pimlico Postboy, a journal of fashion. I was alsoengaged as sporting prophet to the Tipster, and was not less successfulthan my contemporaries as a vaticinator of future events. At the sametime I was contributing a novel (anonymously) to the Fleet StreetMagazine, a very respectable publication, though perhaps a little dull.The editor had expressly requested me to make things rather more lively,and I therefore gave my imagination free play in the construction of myplot. I introduced a beautiful girl, daughter of a preacher in theShaker community. Her hand was sought in marriage by a sporting baronet,who had seen her as he pursued the chase through the pathless glens ofthe New Forest. This baronet she married after suffering thingsintolerable from the opposition of the Shakers. Here I had a good dealof padding about Shakers and their ways; and, near the end of the sixthchapter my heroine became the wife of Sir William Buckley. But thebaronet proved a perfect William Rufus for variegated and versatileblackguardism. Lady Buckley's life was made impossible by his abominableconduct. At this juncture my heroine chanced to be obliged to lunch at arailway refreshment-room. My last chapter had described the poor ladylunching lonely in the bleak and gritty waiting room of Swilby Junction,lonely except for the company of her little boy. I showed how she fellinto a strange and morbid vein of reflection suggested by the qualitiesof the local sherry. If she was to live, her lord and master, Sir W.Buckley, must die! And I described how a fiendish temptation waswhispered to her by the glass of local sherry. "William's constitution,strong as it is," she murmured inwardly, "could never stand a dozen ofthat sherry. Suppose he chanced to partake of it--accidentally--ratherlate in the evening." Amidst these reflections I allowed the Decemberinstalment of "The Baronet's Wife" to come to a conclusion in the FleetStreet Magazine. Obviously crime was in the wind.
It is my habit to read the "Agony Column" (as it is flippantly called),the second column in the outer sheet of the Times. Who knows but he maythere see something to his advantage; and, besides, the mysteriousadvertisements may suggest ideas for plots. One day I took up the "AgonyColumn," as usual, at my club, and, to my surprise, read the followingadvertisement:--
"F. S. M.--SHERRY WINE. WRECK OF THE "JINGO."--WRETCHED BOY: Stay yourunhallowed hand! Would you expose an erring MOTHER'S secret? Authorwill please communicate with Messrs. Mantlepiece and Co., Solicitors,Upton-on-the-Wold."
As soon as I saw this advertisement, as soon as my eyes fell on "SherryWine" and "Author," I felt that here was something for me. "F. S. M."puzzled me at first, but I read it Fleet Street Magazine, by a flash ofinspiration. "Wretched Boy" seemed familiar and unappropriate--I wastwenty-nine--but what of that? Of course I communicated with Messrs.Mantlepiece, saying that I had reason for supposing that I was the"author" alluded to in the advertisement. As to the words, "Wreck of theJingo" they entirely beat me, but I hoped that some light would be thrownon their meaning by the respectable firm of solicitors. It did occur tome that if any one had reasons for communicating with me, it would havebeen better and safer to address a letter to me, under cover, to theeditor of the Fleet Street Magazine. But the public have curious ideason these matters. Two days after I wrote to Messrs. Mantlepiece Ireceived a very guarded reply, in which I was informed that their clientwished to make my acquaintance, and that a carriage would await me, if Ipresented myself at Upton-on-the-Wold Station, by the train arriving at5.45 on Friday. Well, I thought to myself, I may as well do a"week-ending," as some people call it, with my anonymous friend asanywhere else. At the same time I knew that the "carriage" might behired by enemies to convey me to the Pauper Lunatic Asylum or to WestHam, the place where people disappear mysteriously. I might be thevictim of a rival's jealousy (and many men, novelists of most horribleimaginings, envied my talents and success), or a Nihilist plot might havedrawn me into its machinery. But I was young, and I thought I would seethe thing out. My journey was unadventurous, if you except a row with aGerman, who refused to let me open the window. But this has nothing todo with my narrative, and is not a false scent to make a guileless readerkeep his eye on the Teuton. Some novelists permit themselves theseartifices, which I think untradesmanlike and unworthy. When I arrived atUpton, the station-master made a charge at my carriage, and asked me if Iwas "The gentleman for the Towers?" The whole affair was so mysteriousthat I thought it better to answer in the affirmative. My luggage (aGladstone bag) was borne by four stately and liveried menials to a roomyand magnificent carriage, in which everything, from the ducal crown onthe silver foot-warmers to the four splendid bays, breathed of opulence,directed and animated by culture. I dismissed all thoughts of the PauperLunatic Asylum and the Nihilists, and was whirled through miles of parkand up an avenue lighted by electricity. We reached the baronial gatewayof the Towers, a vast Gothic pile in the later manner of Inigo Jones, anda seneschal stood at the foot of a magnificent staircase to receive me. Ihad never seen a seneschal before, but I recognized him by the peeledwhite wand he carried, by his great silver chain, and his black velvetcoat and knee-breeches.
"Your lordship's room," says the seneschal (obviously an old andconfidential family servant), "is your old one--the Tapestried Chamber.Her Grace is waiting anxiously for you."
Then two menials marched, with my Gladstone bag, to the apartment thusindicated. For me, I felt in a dream, or like a man caught up into thefairyland of the "Arabian Nights." "Her Grace" was all very well--thearistocracy always admired my fictitious creations; but "Your Lordship!"Why your Lordship? Then the chilling idea occurred to me that I had_not_ been "the gentleman for the Towers;" that I was in the position ofthe hero of "Happy Thoughts" when he went to the Duke's by mistake forthe humble home of the Plyte Frazers. But I was young. "Her Grace"could not eat me, and I determined, as I said before, to see it out.
I dressed very deliberately, and that process over, was led by the worthyseneschal into a singular octagonal boudoir, hung with soft dark bluearras. The only person in the room was a gaunt, middle-aged lady, indeep mourning. Though I knew no more of the British aristocracy than Mr.W. D. Howells, of New York, I recognized her for the Duchess by her nose,which resembled those worn by the duchesses of Mr. Du Maurier. As soonas we were alone, she rose, drew me to her bosom, much to my horror,looked at me long and earnestly, and at last exclaimed, "How changed youare, Percy!" (My name is Thomas--Thomas Cobson.) Before I could reply,she was pouring out reproaches on me for having concealed my existence,and revealed in my novel what she spoke of as "the secret."
When she grew, not calm, but fatigued, I ventured to ask why she hadconferred on me the honour of her invitation, and how I had beenunfortunate enough to allude to affairs of which I had certainly noknowledge. Her reply was given with stately dignity. "You need notpretend," she said, "to have forgotten what I told you in this very room,before you left England for an African tour in the Jingo. I thenrevealed to you the secret of my life, the secret of the Duke's death.Your horror when you heard how that most unhappy man compelled me to freemyself from his tyranny, by a method which his habits rendered only tooeasy--in short, by a dose of cheap sherry, was deep and natural. Oh,Percy, you did not kiss you
r mother before starting on your ill-omenedvoyage. As soon as I heard of the wreck of the Jingo, and that you werethe only passenger drowned, I recognized an artifice, un vieux truc, bywhich you hoped to escape from a mother of whom you were ashamed. Youhad only pretended to be the victim of Ocean's rage! People who aredrowned in novels always _do_ reappear: and, Percy, your mother is an oldnovel-reader! My agents have ever since been on your track, but it wasreserved for _me_ to discover the last of the Birkenheads in theanonymous author of the 'Baronet's Wife.' That romance, in which youhave had the baseness to use your knowledge of a mother's guilt as amotif in your twopenny plot, unveiled to me the secret of your hiddenexistence. You must stop the story, or alter the following numbers; youmust give up your discreditable mode of life. Heavens, that a Birkenheadshould be a literary character! And you must resume your place in myhouse and in society."
Here the Duchess of Stalybridge paused; she had quite recovered thatrepose of manner and icy hauteur which, I understand, is the heritage ofthe house of Birkenhead. For my part, I had almost lost the modestconfidence which is, I believe, hereditary in the family of Cobson. Itwas a scene to make the boldest stand aghast. Here was an unknown ladyof the highest rank confessing a dreadful crime to a total stranger, andrecognizing in that stranger her son, and the heir to an enormousproperty and a title as old--as old as British dukedoms, however old theymay be. Ouida would have said "heir to a title older than a thousandcenturies," but I doubt if the English duke is so ancient as that, or adirect descendant of the Dukes of Edom mentioned in Holy Writ. I beganpouring out an incoherent flood of evidence to show that I was onlyThomas Cobson, and had never been any one else, but at that moment a gongsounded, and a young lady entered the room. She also was dressed inmourning, and the Duchess introduced her to me as my cousin, MissBirkenhead. "Gwyneth was a child, Percy," said my august hostess, "whenyou went to Africa." I shook hands with my cousin with as much composureas I could assume, for, to tell the truth, I was not only moved by myrecent adventures, but I had on the spot fallen hopelessly in love withmy new relative. It was le coup de foudre of a French writer on theaffections--M. Stendhal. Miss Birkenhead had won my heart from the firstmoment of our meeting. Why should I attempt to describe a psychologicalexperience as rare as instantaneous conversion, or more so? MissBirkenhead was tall and dark, with a proud pale face, and eyes whichunmistakably indicated the possession of a fine sense of humour. Proudpale people seldom look when they first meet a total stranger--still morea long-lost cousin--as if they had some difficulty in refraining frommirth. Miss Birkenhead's face was as fixed and almost as pure as marble,but I read sympathy and amusement and kindness in her eyes.
Presently the door opened again, and an elderly man in the dress of apriest came in. To him I was presented--
"Your old governor, Percy."
For a moment my unhappy middle-class association made me suppose that theelderly ecclesiastic was my "old Guv'nor,"--my father, the late Duke. Butan instant's reflection proved to me that her Grace meant "tutor" bygovernor. I am ashamed to say that I now entered into the spirit of thescene, shook the holy man warmly by the hand, and quoted a convenientpassage from Horace.
He appeared to fall into the trap, and began to speak of oldrecollections of my boyhood.
Stately liveried menials now, greatly to my surprise, brought in tea. Iwas just declining tea (for I expected dinner in a few minutes), when avoice (a sweet low voice) whispered--
"Take some!"
I took some, providentially, as it turned out. Again, I was decliningtea-cake, when I could have sworn I heard the same voice (so low that itseemed like the admonition of a passing spirit) say--
"Take some!"
I took some, for I was exceedingly hungry; and then the conversationlapsed, began again vaguely, and lapsed again.
We all know that wretched quarter of an hour, or half hour, whichunpunctual guests make us pass in famine and fatigue while they keepdinner waiting. Upon my word, we waited till half-past eleven beforedinner was announced. But for the tea, I must have perished; for, likethe butler in Sir George Dasent's novel, "I likes my meals regular."
The Duchess had obviously forgotten all about dinner. There was aspinning-wheel in the room, and she sat and span like an elderly Fate.When dinner was announced at last, I began to fear it would never end.The menu covered _both sides_ of the card. The Duchess ate little, and"hardly anything was drunk." At last the ladies left us, about one inthe morning. I saw my chance, and began judiciously to "draw" thechaplain. It appeared that the Duchess did not always dine at half-pasteleven. The feast was a movable one, from eight o'clock onwards. TheDuchess and the establishment had got into these habits during the oldDuke's time. A very strange man the old Duke; rarely got up till eightin the evening, often prolonged breakfast till next day.
"But I need not tell _you_ all this, Percy, my old pupil," said thechaplain; and he winked as a clergyman ought not to wink.
"My dear sir," cried I, encouraged by this performance, "for Heaven'ssake tell me what all this means? In this so-called nineteenth century,in our boasted age of progress, what _does_ the Duchess mean by herinvitation to me, and by her conduct at large? Indeed, why is _she_ atlarge?"
The chaplain drew closer to me. "Did ye ever hear of a duchess in amadhouse?" said he; and I owned that I never had met with such anincident in my reading (unless there is one in Webster's plays,somewhere).
"Well, then, who is to make a beginning?" asked the priest. "The Duchesshas not a relation in the world but Miss Birkenhead, the only daughter ofa son of the last Duke but one. The late Duke was a dreadful man, and heturned the poor Duchess's head with the life he led her. The drowning ofher only son in the Jingo finished the business. She has got that storyabout"--(here he touched the decanter of sherry: I nodded)--"she has gotthat story into her head, and she believes her son is alive; otherwiseshe is as sane and unimaginative as--as--as Mr. Chaplin," said he, with aflash of inspiration. "Happily you are an honest man, or you seem likeone, and won't take advantage of her delusion."
This was all I could get out of the chaplain; indeed, there was no moreto be got. I went to bed, but not to sleep. Next day, and many otherdays, I spent wrestling in argument with the Duchess. I brought her mycertificate of baptism, my testamurs in Smalls and Greats, an oldpassport, a bill of Poole's, anything I could think of to prove myidentity. She was obdurate, and only said--"If you are not Percy, how doyou know my secret?" I had in the meantime to alter the intended courseof my novel--"The Baronet's Wife." The Baronet was made to become areformed character. But in all those days at the lonely Towers, and inthe intervals of arguing with the poor Duchess, I could not but meetGwyneth Birkenhead. We met, not as cousins, for Miss Birkenhead had onlytoo clearly appreciated the situation from the moment she first met me.The old seneschal, too, was in the secret; I don't know what the rest ofthe menials thought. They were accustomed to the Duchess. But ifGwyneth and I did not meet as cousins, we met as light-hearted youngpeople, in a queer situation, and in a strange, dismal old house.
_We_ could not in the selfsame mansion dwell Without some stir of heart, some malady; We could not sit at meals but feel how well It soothed each to be the other by.
Indeed _I_ could not sit at meals without being gratefully reminded ofGwyneth's advice about "taking some" on the night of my first arrival atthe Towers.
These queer happy times ended.
One day a party of archaeologists came to visit the Towers. They weremembers of a "Society for Badgering the Proprietors of Old Houses," andthey had been lunching at Upton-on-the-Wold. After luncheon they invadedthe Towers, personally conducted by Mr. Bulkin, a very learned historian.Bulkin had nearly plucked me in Modern History, and when I heard hisvoice afar off I arose and fled swiftly. Unluckily the Duchess chanced,by an unprecedented accident, to be in the library, a room which thefamily never used, and which was, therefore, exhibited to curiousstrangers. Into this library Bul
kin precipitated himself, followed byhis admirers, and began to lecture on the family portraits. Beginningwith the Crusaders (painted by Lorenzo Credi) he soon got down to moderntimes. He took no notice of the Duchess, whom he believed to be ahousekeeper; but, posting himself between the unfortunate lady and thedoor, gave a full account of the career of the late Duke. This was morethan the Duchess (who knew all about the subject of the lecture) couldstand; but Mr. Bulkin, referring her to his own Appendices, finished hisaddress, and offered the Duchess half-a-crown as he led his troop toother victories. From this accident the Duchess never recovered. Herspirits, at no time high, sank to zero, and she soon passed peacefullyaway. She left a will in which her personal property (about 40,000pounds a year) was bequeathed to Gwyneth, "as my beloved son, Percy, hasenough for his needs," the revenues of the dukedom of Stalybridge beingabout 300,000 pounds per annum before the agricultural depression. Shemight well have thought I needed no more. Of course I put in no claimfor these estates, messuages, farms, mines, and so forth, nor for myhereditary ducal pension of 15,000 pounds. But Gwyneth and I are notuncomfortably provided for, and I no longer contribute paragraphs ofgossip to the Pimlico Postboy, nor yet do I vaticinate in the columns ofthe Tipster. Perhaps I ought to have fled from the Towers the morningafter my arrival. And I declare that I would have fled but for Gwynethand "Love, that is a great Master."
In the Wrong Paradise, and Other Stories Page 19
