The Marquis of Westmarch by Frances Vernon

what he himself had suffered at twenty, when his father had arranged his marriage to Maid Clorinda Blandy, and forbidden him to see the girl he had chosen for himself. Depression settled on him.
    He had grown to depend on his blonde, clever wife, and had been wretched when she died in childbirth. But Lady Berinthia was not like Clorinda, and Auriol did not think that the Marquis would ever win her respect or learn to love her. Meriel was far too good for her, of course: she was ogling and worldly and she tried to be a wit.
    Everyone had to make these marriages. Why had he foolishly helped Westmarch to slight Berinthia in these last few weeks offreedom? He would marry her, and be first unhappy then indifferent, and she would never be so obliging as to die in childbed. And as for himself, Auriol considered that no woman in the world would really suit him. He had better marry again for money, as Meriel was about to do for the first time.
    *
    The Marquis walked through the chain of his apartments, through hall, saloon, antechamber, withdrawing-room, dining-room, and bedchamber, reached his closet and slammed the door. There were no servants about, for he insisted on their retiring at half-past ten if he was not entertaining.
    The closet was his private room, and very few people had ever been in it. It was austerely furnished, painted white, and had a red tiled floor. On the walls there were sepia drawings of Longmaster Wood, and a portrait in oils of Marquis Elphinstone. This hung opposite Meriel’s bed, a narrow, curtained bunk built into the thickness of the wall. He never slept in the huge flat bed next door, though he would have to do so if he married Berinthia. The Marquis sat down on a hard chair and reached for the brandy bottle which Esmond left on his writing-table every night. Then he thought of his prospective marriage and of Rosalba, and looked up at the portrait on the wall.
    When he was a child, Meriel had adored his father, whose pride in him had been immense: but Marquis Elphinstone had died less than a week after their only, terrible quarrel when Meriel was twelve. Now Meriel held his father’s memory in awe which was as remorseful as it was fierce, for deep down, irrationally, he believed that it was his behaviour which had killed him.
    Meriel had refused to forgive his father for beating him. In a savage rage, brought on by discovering that Meriel was quite unhurt after a night spent in the open with a new hunter who was supposed to be far too strong for him and whom he had taken out without permission, Elphinstone had flogged his son over the shoulders with a riding whip. Three grooms had been present in the stable yard when this happened, which added to Meriel’s natural pain, fear and fury, and to both men’s sense of dishonour. Westmarch custom made it unthinkable for one gentleman to strike another, even if they were father and son, and the son was only twelve years old.
    Made adult by the shock, Meriel had said, “Do not think I shall ever forgive you, sir.”
    â€œWell, you can scarcely demand satisfaction of me, Meriel! It’s a thousand pities there were witnesses, but don’t be making such a piece of work of it. They shan’t talk, I promise you. Come, forgive me, forget it.” Silence. “You deserved it!”
    â€œI ain’t your wife, sir!”
    â€œGood God, boy, it was only because I was beside myself at having you restored to me, where is the insult in that?”
    â€œBeside yourself! Ay. I wish you were dead, sir, indeed I wish it.”
    Meriel, remembering this now, poured himself another glass of brandy, and swore till the tears came pouring down his face.
    A few days after that quarrel, Marquis Elphinstone had fallen from his horse into an icy stream. He caught a chill which turned to an inflammation of the lungs, and was dead within a week. Juxon, summoned from Castle West, had been unable to save him.
    Then Meriel himself had fallen ill.