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Title: The Duke's Children
Author: Anthony Trollope
Release Date: January, 2003 [Etext #3621]
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THE DUKE'S CHILDREN
by Anthony Trollope
CONTENTS
1 When the Duchess was Dead
2 Lady Mary Palliser
3 Francis Oliphant Tregear
4 It is Impossible
5 Major Tifto
6 Conservative Convictions
8 He is a Gentleman
9 'In Media Res'
10 Why not like Romeo if I Feel like Romeo?
11 Cruel
12 At Richmond
13 The Duke's Injustice
14 The New Member for Silverbridge
15 The Duke Receives a Letter,--and Writes One
16 Poor Boy
17 The Derby
18 One of the Results of the Derby
19 'No; My Lord, I Do Not'
20 Then He will Come Again
21 Sir Timothy Beeswax
22 The Duke in his Study
23 Frank Tregear wants a Friend
24 She Must be Made to Obey
25 A Family Breakfast-Table
26 Dinner at the Beargarden
27 Major Tifto and the Duke
28 Mrs Montacute
29 The Lovers Meet
30 What Came of the Meeting
31 Miss Boncassen's River-Party No. 1
32 Miss Boncassen's River-Party No. 2
33 The Langham Hotel
34 Lord Popplecourt
35 'Don't You Think -?'
36 Tally-ho Lodge
37 Grex
38 Crummie-Toddie
39 Killancodlem
40 And Then!
41 Ischl
42 Again at Killancodlem
43 What Happened at Doncaster
44 How It was Done
45 There Shall Not be Another Word About It
46 Lady Mary's Dream
47 Miss Boncassen's Idea of Heaven
48 The Party at Custins is Broken Up
49 The Major's Fate
50 The Duke's Arguments
51 The Duke's Guests
52 Miss Boncassen Tells the Truth
53 The I am Proud as a Queen
54 I Don't Think She is a Snake
55 Polpenno
56 The News is Sent to Matching
57 The Meeting at the Bobtailed Fox
58 The Major is Deposed
59 No One Can Tell What May Come to Pass
60 Lord Gerald in Further Trouble
61 'Bone of My Bone'
62 The Brake Country
63 'I've Seen 'em Like That Before'
64 'I Believe Him to be a Worthy Young Man'
65 'Do You Ever Think What Money Is?'
66 The Three Attacks
67 'He is Such a Beast'
68 Brook Street
69 Pert Popper
70 'Love May be a Great Misfortune'
71 'What am I to Say, Sir?'
72 Carlton Terrace
73 'I Have Never Loved You'
74 'Let Us Drink a Glass of Wine Together'
75 The Major's Story
76 On Deportment
77 'Mabel, Good-Bye'
78 The Duke Returns to Office
79 The First Wedding
80 The Second Wedding
CHAPTER 1
When The Duchess Was Dead
No one, probably, ever felt himself to be more alone in the world
than our old friend the Duke of Omnium, when the Duchess died.
When this sad event happened he had ceased to be Prime Minister.
During the first nine months after he had left office he and the
Duchess remained in England. Then they had gone abroad, taking
with them their three children. The eldest, Lord Silverbridge, had
been at Oxford, but had his career there cut short by some more
than ordinary youthful folly, which had induced his father to
agree with the college authorities that his name had better be
taken off the college books,--all which had been cause of very
great sorrow to the Duke. The other boy was to go to Cambridge,
but his father had thought it well to give him a twelve-month's
run on the Continent, under his own inspection. Lady Mary, the
only daughter, was the youngest of the family, and she also had
been with them on the Continent. They remained the full year
abroad, travelling with a large accompaniment of tutors, lady's-
maids, couriers, and sometimes friends. I do not know that the
Duchess or the Duke had enjoyed it much; but the young people had
seen something of foreign courts and much of foreign scenery, and
had perhaps perfected their French. The Duke had gone to work at
his travels with a full determination to create for himself an
occupation out of a new kind of life. He had studied Dante, and
had striven to arouse himself to ecstatic joy amidst the
loveliness of the Italian lakes. But through it all he had been
aware that he had failed. The Duchess had made no such
resolution,-had hardly, perhaps, made any attempt; but, in truth
they had both sighed to back amongst the war-trumpets. They had
both suffered much among the trumpets, and yet they longed to
return. He told himself from day to day, that though he had been
banished from the House of Commons, still, as a peer, he had a
seat in Parliament; and that though he was no longer a minister,
still he might be useful as a legislator. She, in her careers as a
leader of fashion, had no doubt met with some trouble,--with some
trouble but with no disgrace; and as she had been carried about
among the lakes and mountains, among the pictures and statues,
among the counts and countesses; she had often felt that there was
no happiness except in that dominion which circumstances had
enabled her to achieve once, and might enable her to achieve
again--in the realms of London society.
Then, in the early spring of 187-, they came back to England,
having persistently carried out their project, at any rate in
regard to time. Lord Gerald, the younger son, was at once sent up
to Trinity. For the eldest son a seat was to be found in the House
of Commons, and the fact that a dissolution of Parliament was
expected served to prevent any prolonged sojourn abroad. Lady Mary
Palliser was at that time nineteen, and her entrance into the
world was to be her mother's greatest care and great delight. In
March they spent a few days in London, and then went down to
Marching Priory. When she left town the Duchess was complaining of
cold, sore throat, and debility. A week after their arrival at
Matching she was dead.
Had the heavens fallen and mixed themselves with the earth, had
the people of London risen in rebellion with French ideas of
equality, had the Queen persistently declined to comply with the
constitutional advice of her ministers, had a majority in the
House of Commons lost its influence in the country,--the utter
prostration of the bereft husband could not have been more
complete. It was not only that his heart was torn to pieces, but
that he did not know how to look out into the world. It was as
though a man should be suddenly called upon to live without hands
or even arms. He was helpless, and knew himself to be helpless.
Hitherto he had never specially acknowledged to himself that his
wife was necessary to him as a component part of his life. Though
he had loved her dearly, and had in all things consulted her
welfare and happiness, he had at times been inclined to think that
in the exuberance of her spirits she had been a trouble rather
than a support to him. But now it was as though all outside
appliances were taken away from him. There was no one of whom he
could ask a question.
For it may be said of this man that, though throughout his life he
had had many Honourable and Right Honourable friends, and that,
though he had entertained guests by the score, and though he had
achieved for himself the respect of all good men and the thorough
admiration of some few who knew him, he had hardly made for
himself a single intimate friend--except that one who had now
passed away from him. To her he had been able to say what he
thought, even though she would occasionally ridicule him while he
was declaring his feelings. But there had been no other human soul
to whom he could open himself. There was one or two whom he loved,
and perhaps liked; but his loving and his liking had been
exclusively political. He had so habituated himself to devote his
mind and his heart to the service of his country, that he had
almost risen above or sunk below humanity. But she, who had been
essentially human, had been a link between him and the world.
There were his three children, the youngest of whom was now nearly
nineteen, and they surely were links! At the first moment of his
bereavement they were felt to be hardly more than burdens. A more
loving father there was not in England, but nature had made him so
undemonstrative that as yet they had hardly known his love. In all
their joys and in all their troubles, in all their desires and all
their disappointments, they had ever gone to their mother. She had
been conversant with everything about them, from the boys' bills
and the girl's gloves to the innermost turn in their heart and the
disposition of each. She had known with the utmost accuracy the
nature of the scrapes into which Lord Silverbridge had
precipitated himself, and had known also how probable it was that
Lord Gerald would do the same. The results of such scrapes she, of
course, deplored; and therefore she would give good counsel,
pointing out how imperative it was that such evil-doings should be
avoided; but with the spirit that produced the scrapes she fully
sympathized. The father disliked the spirit almost worse than the
results; and was therefore often irritated and unhappy.
And the difficulties about the girl were almost worse to bear that
those about the boys. She had done nothing wrong. She had given no
signs of extravagance or other juvenile misconduct. But she was
beautiful and young. How was he to bring her out into the world?
How was he to decide whom she should or whom she should not marry?
How was he to guide her through the shoals and rocks which lay in
the path of such a girl before she can achieve matrimony?
It was the fate of the family that, with a world of acquaintance,
they had not many friends. From all close connection with
relatives on the side of the Duchess they had been dissevered by
old feelings at first, and afterwards by want of any similitude in
the habits of life. She had, when young been repressed by male and
female guardians with an iron hand. Such repression had been
needed, and had been perhaps salutary, but it had not left behind
it much affection. And then her nearest relatives were not
sympathetic with the Duke. He could obtain no assistance in the
care of his girl from that source. Nor could he even do it from
his own cousins' wives, who were his nearest connections on the
side of the Pallisers. They were women to whom he had ever been
kind, but to whom he had never opened his heart. When, in the
midst of the stunning sorrow of the first week, he tried to think
of all this, it seemed to him that there was nobody.
There had been one lady, a very dear ally, staying in the house
with them when the Duchess died. This was Mrs Finn, the wife of
Phineas Finn, who had been one of the Duke's colleagues when in
office. How it had come to pass that Mrs Finn and the Duchess had
become singularly bound together has been told elsewhere. But
there had been close bonds,--so close that when the Duchess on
their return from the Continent had passed through London on her
way to Matching, ill at the time and very comfortless, it had been
almost a thing of course, that Mrs Finn should go with her. And as
she had sunk, and then despaired, and then died, it was this woman
who had always been at her side, who had ministered to her, and
had listened to the fears and the wishes and hopes that she had
expressed respecting the children.
At Matching, amidst the ruins of the old Priory, there is a parish
burying-ground, and there, in accordance with her own wish, almost
within sight of her own bedroom-window, she was buried. On the day
of the funeral a dozen relatives came, Pallisers and McCloskies,
who on such an occasion were bound to show themselves, as members
of the family. With them and his two sons the Duke walked across
to the graveyard, and then walked back; but even to those who
stayed the night at the house he hardly spoke. By noon the
following day they had all left him, and the only stranger in the
house was Mrs Finn.
On the afternoon of the day after the funeral the Duke and his
guest met, almost for the first time since the sad event. There
had been just a pressure of the hand, just a glance of compassion,
just some murmur of deep sorrow,--but there had been no real speech
between them. Now he had sent for her, and she went down to him in
the room in which he commonly sat at work. He was seated at his
table when she entered, but there was no book open before him, and
no pen ready to his hand. He was dressed of course in black. That,
indeed, was usual with him, but now the tailor by his funeral art
had added some deeper dye of blackness to his appearance. When he
rose and turned to her she thought that he had at once become an
old man. His hair was grey in parts, and he had never accustomed
himself to use that skill in managing his outside person by which
many men are able to preserve for themselves a look, if not of
youth, at any rate of freshness. He was thin, of an adust
complexion, and had acquired a habit of stooping which, when he
was not excited, gave him an appearance of age. All that was
common to him; but now it was so much exaggerated that he who was
not yet fifty might have been taken for over sixty.
He put out his hand to greet her as she came up to him.
'Silverbridge,' he said, 'tells me that you go back to London
tomorrow.'
'I thought it would be best, Duke. My presence here can be of no
comfort to you.'
'I will not say anything can be of comfort. But of course it is
right that you should go. I can have no excuse for asking you to
remain. While there was yet a hope for her--' Then he stopped,
unable to say a word further in that direction, and yet there was
no sign of a tear and no sound of a sob.
'Of course I would stay, Duke, if I could be of any service.'
'Mr Finn will expect you to return to him.'
'Perhaps it would be better that I should say that I would stay
were it not that I know that I can be of no real service.'
'What do you mean by that, Mrs Finn?'
'Lady Mary should have with her at such a time some other friend.'
'There was none other whom her mother loved as she loved you--none,
none.' This he said almost with energy.
'There was no one lately, Duke, with whom circumstances caused her
mother to be so closely intimate. But even that perhaps was
unfortunate.'
'I never thought so.'
'That is a great compliment. But as to Lady Mary, will it not be
well that she should have with her, as soon as possible, someone,--
perhaps someone of her own kindred if it be possible, or, if not
that, at least one of her own kind?'
'Who is there? Whom do you mean?'
'I mean no one. It is hard, Duke, to say what I do mean, but
perhaps I had better try. There will be,--probably there have
been,--some among your friends who have regretted the great
intimacy which chance produced between me and my lost friend.
While she was with us no such feeling would have sufficed to drive
me from her. She had chosen for herself, and if others disapproved
of her choice that was nothing to me. But as regards Lady Mary, it
will better, I think, that from the beginning she should be taught
to look for friendship and guidance to those--to those who are more
naturally connected with her.'
'I was not thinking of any guidance,' said the Duke.
'Of course not. But with one so young, where there is intimacy
there will be guidance. There should be somebody with her. It was
almost the last thought that occupied her mother's mind. I could
not tell her, Duke, but I can tell you, that I cannot with any
advantage to your girl be that somebody.'
'Cora wished it.'
'Her wishes, probably, were sudden and hardly fixed.'
'Who should it be, then?' asked the father, after a pause.
'Who am I, Duke, that I should answer such a question?'
After that there was another pause, and then the conference was
ended by a request from the Duke that Mrs Finn would stay at
Matching for yet two days longer. At dinner they all met,--the
father, the three children, and Mrs Finn. How far the young people
among themselves had been able to throw off something of the gloom
of death need not here be asked; but in the presence of their
father they were sad and sombre, almost as he was. On the next
day, early in the morning, the younger lad returned to his
college, and Lord Silverbridge went up to London, where he was
supposed to have his home.
'Perhaps you would not mind reading these letters,' the Duke said
to Mrs Finn, when she again went to him in compliance with a
message from him asking for her presence. Then she sat down and
read two letters, one from Lady Cantrip, and the other from a Mrs
Jeffrey Palliser, each of which contained an invitation for his
daughter, and expressed a hope that Lady Mary would not be
unwilling to spend some time with the writer. Lady Cantrip's
letter was long, and went minutely into circumstances. If Lady
Mary would come to her, she would abstain from having other
company in the house till her young friend's spirits should have
somewhat recovered themselves. Nothing could be more kind, or
proposed in a sweeter fashion. There had, however, been present in
the Duke's mind as he read it a feeling that a proposition to a
bereaved husband to relieve him of the society of an only
daughter, was not one which would usually be made to a father. In
such a position a child's company would probably be his best
solace. But he knew,--at this moment, he painfully remembered,--that
he was not as other men. He acknowledged the truth of this, but he
was not the less grieved and irritated by the reminder. The letter
from Mrs Jeffrey Palliser was to the same effect, but was much
shorter. If it would suit Mary to come to them for a month or six
weeks at their place in Gloucestershire, they would both be
delighted.
'I should not choose her to go there,' said the Duke, as Mrs Finn
refolded the latter letter. 'My cousin's wife is a very good
woman, but Mary would not be happy with her.'
'Lady Cantrip is an excellent friend for her.'
'Excellent. I know no one whom I esteem more than Lady Cantrip.'
'Would you wish her to go there, Duke?'
There came a piteous look over the father's face. Why should he be
treated as no other father would be treated? Why should it be
supposed that he would desire to send his girl away from him? But
yet he felt that it would be better that she should go. It was his
present purpose to remain at Matching through a portion of the
summer. What could he do to make a girl happy? What comfort would
there be in his companionship?
'I suppose she ought to go somewhere,' he said.
'I had not thought of it,' said Mrs Finn.
'I understood you to say,' replied the Duke, almost angrily, 'that
she ought to go someone who would take care of her.'
'I was thinking of some friend coming to her.'
'Who would come? Who is there that I could possibly ask? You will
not stay.'
'I certainly would stay, if it were for her good. I was thinking,
Duke, that perhaps you might ask the Greys to come to you.'
'They would not come,' he said, after a pause.
'When she was told that it was for her sake, she would come, I
think.'
Then there was another pause. 'I could not ask them,' he said;
'for his sake I could not have it put to her in that way. Perhaps
Mary had better go to Lady Cantrip. Perhaps I had better be alone
for a time. I do not think that I am fit to have any human being
with me in my sorrow.'
CHAPTER 2
Lady Mary Palliser
It may be said at once that Mrs Finn knew something of Lady Mary
which was not known to her father, and which she was not yet
prepared to make known to him. The last winter abroad had been
passed at Rome, and there Lady Mary Palliser had become acquainted
with a certain Mr Tregear,--Francis Oliver Tregear. The Duchess,
who had been in constant correspondence with her friend, had asked
questions by letter as to Mr Tregear, of whom she had only known
that he was the younger son of a Cornish gentleman, who had become
Lord Silverbridge's friend at Oxford. In this there had certainly
been but little to recommend him to the intimacy of such a girl as
Lady Mary Palliser. Nor had the Duchess, when writing, ever spoken
of him as a probable suitor for her daughter's hand. She had never
connected the two names together. But Mrs Finn had been clever
enough to perceive that the Duchess had become fond of Mr Tregear,
and would willingly have heard something to his advantage. And she
did hear something to his advantage,--something also to his
disadvantage. At his mother's death, this young man would inherit
a property amounting to about fifteen hundred a year. 'And I am
told,' said Mrs Finn, 'that he is quite likely to spend his money
before it comes to him.' There had been nothing more written
specially about Mr Tregear, but Mrs Finn had feared not only that
the young man loved the girl, but that the young man's love had in
some imprudent way been fostered by the mother.
Then there had been some fitful confidence during those few days
of acute illness. Why should not the girl have the man if he were
lovable? And the Duchess referred to her own early days when she
had loved, and to the great ruin that had come upon her heart when
she had been severed from the man she loved. 'Not but that it has
been all for the best,' she had said. 'Not but that Plantagenet
has been to me all that a husband should be. Only if she can be
spared what I suffered, let her be spared.' Even when these
things had been said to her, Mrs Finn had found herself unable to
ask questions. She could not bring herself to inquire whether the
girl had in truth given her heart to his young Tregear. The one
was nineteen and the other as yet but two-and-twenty! But though
she asked no questions, she almost knew that it must be so. And
she knew also that the father was, as yet, quite in the dark on the
matter. How was it possible that in such circumstances she should
assume the part of the girl's confidential friend and monitress?
Were she to do so she must immediately tell the father everything.
In such a position no one could be a better friend than Lady
Cantrip, and Mrs Finn had already almost made up her mind that,
should Lady Cantrip occupy the place, she would tell her ladyship
all that had passed between herself and the Duchess on the
subject.
Of what hopes she might have, or what fears, about her girl, the
Duchess had said no word to her husband. But when she had believed
that the things of the world were fading away from her, and when
he was sitting by her bedside,--dumb, because at such a moment he
knew not how to express the tenderness of his heart,--holding her
hand, and trying so to listen to her words, that he might collect
and remember every wish, she had murmured something about the
ultimate division of the great wealth with which she herself had
been endowed. She had never, she said, even tried to remember what
arrangements had been made by lawyers, but she hoped that Mary
might be so circumstanced, that if her happiness depended on
marrying a poor man, want of money need not prevent it. The Duke
suspecting nothing, believing this to be a not unnatural question
expression of maternal interest, had assured her that Mary's
fortune would be ample.
Mrs Finn made the proposition to Lady Mary in respect to Lady
Cantrip's invitation. Lady Mary was very like her mother,
especially in having exactly her mother's tone of voice, her quick
manner of speech, and her sharp intelligence. She had also her
mother's eyes, large and round, and almost blue, full of life and
full of courage, eyes which never seemed to quail, and her
mother's dark brown hair, never long but very copious in its
thickness. She was, however, taller than her mother, and very much
more graceful in her movement. And she could already assume a
personal dignity of manner which had never been within her
mother's reach. She had become aware of a certain brusqueness of
speech in her mother, a certain aptitude to say sharp things
without thinking whether the sharpness was becoming to the
position which she held, and taking advantage of the example, the
girl had already learned that she might gain more than she would
lose by controlling her words.
'Papa wants me to go to Lady Cantrip,' she said.
'I think he would like it,--just for the present, Lady Mary.'
Though there had been the closest possible intimacy between the
Duchess and Mrs Finn, this had hardly been so as to the
intercourse between Mrs Finn and the children. Of Mrs Finn it must
be acknowledged that she was, perhaps fastidiously, afraid of
appearing to take advantage of her friendship with the Duke's
family. She would tell herself that though circumstances had
compelled her to be the closest and nearest friend of a Duchess,
still her natural place was not among dukes and their children,
and therefore in her intercourse with the girl she did not at
first assume the manner and bearing which her position in the
house would seem to warrant. Hence the 'Lady Mary'.
'Why does he want to send me away, Mrs Finn?'
'It is not true that he wants to send you away, but that he thinks
it will be better for you to be with some friend. Here you must be
so much alone.'
'Why don't you stay? But I suppose Mr Finn wants you to be back
in London.'
'It is not that only, or, to speak the truth, not that at all. Mr
Finn could come here if that were suitable. Or for a week or two
he might do very well without me. But there are other reasons.
There is no one whom your mother respected more than Lady
Cantrip.'
'I never heard her speak a word about Lady Cantrip.'
'Both he and she are your father's intimate friends.'
'Does Papa want to be--alone here?'
'It is you, not himself, of whom he is thinking.'
'Therefore, I must think of him. Mrs Finn, I do not wish him to be
alone. I am sure it would be better that I should stay with him.'
'He feels that it would not be well that you should live without
the companionship of some lady.'
'Then let him find some lady. You would be the best, because he
knows you so well. I, however, am not afraid of being alone. I am
sure he ought not to be here quite by himself. If he bids me go, I
must go, and then of course I shall go where he sends me; but I
won't say that I think it best that I should go, and certainly I
do not want to go to Lady Cantrip.' This she said with great
decision, as though the matter was one on which she had altogether
made up her mind. Then she added, in a lower voice: 'Why doesn't
papa speak to me about it?'
'He is thinking only of what may be best for you.'
'It would be best for me to stay near him. Whom else has he got?'
All this Mrs Finn repeated to the Duke as closely as she could,
and then of course the father was obliged to speak to his
daughter.
'Don't send me away, papa,' she said at once.
'You life here, Mary, will be inexpressibly sad.'
'It must be sad anywhere. I cannot go to college like Gerald, or
live anywhere just like Silverbridge.'
'Do you envy them that?'
'Sometimes, papa. Only I shall think of more of poor mama by being
alone, and I should like to be thinking of her always.' He shook
his head mournfully. 'I do not mean that I shall always be
unhappy, as I am now.'
'No, dear; you are too young for that. It is only the old who
suffer in that way.'
'You will suffer less if I am with you; won't you, papa? I do not
want to go to Lady Cantrip. I hardly remember her at all.'
'She is very good.'
'Oh, yes. That is what they used to say to mamma about Lady
Midlothian. Papa, do not send me to Lady Cantrip.'
Of course it was decided that she should not go to Lady Cantrip at
once, or to Mrs Jeffrey Palliser, and, after a short interval of
doubt, it was decided also that Mrs Finn should remain at Matching
for at least a fortnight. The Duke declared that he would be glad
to see Mr Finn, but she knew in his present mood the society of
any one man to whom he would feel himself called upon to devote
his time, would be a burden to him, and she plainly said that Mr
Finn had better not come to Matching at present. 'There are old
occasions,' she said, 'which will enable you to bear with me as
you will with your butler or your groom, but you are not as yet
quite able to make yourself happy with company.' This he bore
with perfect equanimity, and then, as it were, handed over his
daughter to Mrs Finn's care.
Very quickly there came a close intimacy between Mrs Finn and
Lady Mary. For a day or two the elder woman, though the place she
filled was one of absolute confidence, rather resisted than
encouraged the intimacy. She always remembered that the girl was
the daughter of a great duke, and that her position in the house
had sprung from circumstances which would not, perhaps, in the
eyes of the world at large, have recommended her for such a
friendship. She knew,--the reader may possibly know--that nothing
had ever been purer, nothing more disinterested than her
friendship. But she knew also--no one knew better--that the
judgement of men and women does not always run parallel with
facts. She entertained, too, a conviction with regard to herself,
that hard words and hard judgements were to be expected from the
world,--and were to be accepted by her without any strong feeling
of injustice,--because she had been elevated by chance to the
possession of more good things than she merited. She weighed all
this with a very fine balance, and even after the encouragement
she had received from the Duke, was intent on confining herself to
some position about the girl inferior to that which such a friend
as Lady Cantrip might have occupied. But the girl's manner and the
girl's speech about her own mother, overcame her. It was the
unintentional revelation of the Duchess's constant reference to
her,--the way in which Lady Mary would assert that 'Mamma used
always to say this of you; mamma always knew that you would think
so and so; mamma used to say that you had told her'. It was the
feeling thus conveyed, that the mother who was now dead had in her
daily dealings with her own child spoke of her as her nearest
friend, which mainly served to conquer the deference of manner
which she had assumed.
Then gradually there came confidences,--and at last absolute
confidence. The whole story of Mr Tregear was told. Yes; she loved
Mr Tregear. She had given him her heart, and had told him so.
'Then, my dear, your father ought to know about it,' said Mrs
Finn.
'No; not yet. Mamma knew it.'
'Did she know all that you have told me?'
'Yes; all. And Mr Tregear spoke to her, and she said that papa
ought not to be told quite yet.' Mrs Finn could not but remember
that the friend she had lost was not, among women, the one best
able to give a girl good counsel in such a crisis.
'Why not yet, dear?'
'Well, because-. It is very hard to explain. In the first place,
because Mr Tregear himself does not wish it.'
'That is a very bad reason; the worst in the world.'
'Of course you will say so. Of course everybody would say so. But
when there is one person whom one loves better than all the rest,
for whom one would be ready to die, to whom one is determined that
everything shall be devoted, surely the wishes of the person so
dear as that ought to have weight.'
'Not in persuading you to do that which is acknowledged to be
wrong.'
'What wrong? I am going to do nothing wrong.'
'The very concealment of your love is wrong, after that love has
been not only given but declared. A girl's position in such
matters is so delicate, especially that of such a girl as you!'
'I know all about that,' said Lady Mary, with something almost
like scorn in her tone. 'Of course I have to be--delicate. I don't
quite know what the word means. I am not ashamed of being in love
with Mr Tregear. He is a gentleman, highly educated, very clever,
of an old family,--older, I believe, than papa's. And he is manly
and handsome; just what a man should be. Only he is not rich.'
'If he be all that you say, ought you not to trust your papa? If
he approve of it, he should give you money.'
'Of course he must be told; but not now. He is nearly broken-
hearted about dear mamma. He could not bring himself to care about
anything of that kind at present. And then it is Mr Tregear that
should speak to him first.'
'Not now, Mary.'
'How do you mean not now?'
'If you had a mother you would talk to her about it.'
'Mamma knew.'
'If she were still living she would tell your father.'
'But she didn't tell him, though she did know. She didn't mean to
tell him quite yet. She wanted to see Mr Tregear here in England
first. Of course I shall do nothing till papa does know.'
'You will not see him?'
'How can I see him here? He will not come here, if you mean
that.'
'You do not correspond with him?' Here for the first time the
girl blushed. 'Oh, Mary! if you are writing to him your father
ought to know it.'
'I have not written to him; but when he heard how ill poor mamma
was, then he wrote to me--twice. You may see his letters. It is all
about her. No one worshiped mamma as he did.'
Gradually the whole story was told. These two young persons
considered themselves to be engaged, but had agreed that their
engagement should not be made known to the Duke till something had
occurred, or some time had arrived, as to which Mr Tregear was to
be the judge. In Mrs Finn's opinion nothing could be more unwise,
and she made to induce the girl to confess everything to her
father at once. But in all her arguments she was opposed by the
girl's reference to her mother. 'Mamma knew it.' And it did
certainly seem to Mrs Finn as though the mother had assented to
this imprudent concealment. When she endeavoured, in her own mind,
to make excuse for her friend, she felt almost sure that the
Duchess, with all her courage, had been afraid to propose to her
husband that their daughter should marry a commoner without an
income. But in thinking all that, there could be now nothing
gained. What ought she to do--at once? The girl, in telling her,
had exacted no promise of secrecy, nor would she have given any
such promise; but yet she did not like the idea of telling the
tale behind the girl's back. It was evident that Lady Mary had
considered herself to be safe in confiding her story to her
mother's old friend. Lady Mary no doubt had had her confidence
with her mother,--confidences from which it had been intended by
both that the father should be excluded; and now she seemed
naturally to expect that this new ally should look at this great
question as her mother had looked at it. The father had been
regarded as a great outside power, which could hardly be overcome,
but which might be evaded, or made inoperative by stratagem. It
was not that the daughter did not love him. She loved him and
venerated him highly,--the veneration perhaps being stronger than
the love. The Duchess, too, had loved him dearly,--more dearly in
late years than in her early life. But her husband to her had
always been an outside power which had in many cases to be evaded.
Lady Mary, though she did not express all this, evidently thought
that in this new friend she had found a woman whose wishes and
aspirations for her would be those which her mother had
entertained.
But Mrs Finn was much troubled in her mind, thinking that it was
her duty to tell the story to the Duke. It was not only the
daughter who had trusted her, but the father also; and the
father's confidence had been not only the first but by far the
holier of the two. And the question was one so important to the
girl's future happiness! There could be no doubt that the peril
of her present position was very great.
'Mary,' she said one morning, when the fortnight was nearly at an
end, 'your father ought to know all this. I should feel that I had
betrayed him were I to go away leaving him in ignorance.'
'You do not mean to say that you will tell?' said the girl,
horrified at the idea of such treachery.
'I wish that I could induce you to do so. Every day that he is
kept in the dark is an injury to you.'
'I am doing nothing. What harm can come? It is not as though I was
seeing him every day.'
'This harm will come; your father of course will know that you
became engaged to Mr Tregear in Italy, and that a fact so
important to him has been kept back from him.'
'If there is anything in that, the evil has been done already. Of
course poor mamma did mean to tell him.'
'She cannot tell him now, and therefore you ought to do what she
would have done.'
'I cannot break my promise to him.' 'Him' always meant Mr Tregear.
'I have told him that I would not do so till I had his consent,
and I will not.'
This was very dreadful to Mrs Finn, and yet she was most unwilling
to take upon herself the part of stern elder, and declare that
under the circumstances she must tell the tale. The story had been
told to her under the supposition that she was not a stern elder,
that she was regarded as the special friend of the dear mother who
was gone, that she might be trusted against the terrible weight of
parental authority. She could not endure to be regarded at once a
traitor by this young friend who had sweetly inherited the
affection with which the Duchess had regarded her. And yet if she
were to be silent now how could she forgive herself? 'The Duke
certainly ought to know at once,' said she, repeating her words
merely that she might gain some time for thinking, and pluck up
courage to declare her purpose, should she resolve on betraying
the secret.
'If you tell him now, I will never forgive you,' said Lady Mary.
'I am bound in honour to see that your father knows a thing which
is of such vital importance to him and to you. Having heard all
this I have no right to keep it from him. If Mr Tregear really
loves you'--Lady Mary smiled at the doubt implied by this
suggestion--'he ought to feel that for your sake there should be no
secret from your father.' Then she paused a moment to think.
'Will you let me see Mr Tregear myself, and talk to him about it?'
To this Lady Mary at first demurred, but when she found that in no
other way could she prevent Mrs Finn from going at once to the
Duke and telling him everything, she consented. Under Mrs Finn's
directions she wrote a note to her lover, which Mrs Finn saw, and
then undertook to send it, with a letter from herself, to Mr
Tregear's address in London. The note was very short, and was
indeed dictated by the elder lady, with some dispute, however, as
to certain terms, in which the younger lady had her way. It was as
follows:
'DEAREST FRANK,
'I wish you to see Mrs Finn, who, as you know,
was dear mamma's most particular friend. Please go to
her, as she will ask you to do so. When you hear what
she says I think you ought to do what she advises.
'Yours for ever and always,
'M.P.'
This Mrs Finn sent enclosed in an envelope, with a few words from
herself, asking the gentleman to call upon her in Park Lane, on a
day and hour fixed.
CHAPTER 3
Francis Oliphant Tregear
Mr Francis Oliphant Tregear was a young man who might not
improbably make a figure in the world, should circumstances be
kind to him, but as to whom it might be doubted whether
circumstances would be sufficiently kind to enable him to use
serviceably his unquestionable talents and great personal gifts.
He had taught himself to regard himself as a young English
gentleman of the first water, qualified by his birth and position
to live with all that was most noble and most elegant, and he
could have lived in that sphere naturally and gracefully were it
not that part of the 'sphere' which he specially affected requires
wealth as well as birth and intellect. Wealth he had not, and yet
he did not abandon the sphere. As a consequence of all this, it
was possible that the predictions of his friends as to that figure
which he was to make in the world might be disappointed.
He had been educated at Eton, from whence he had been sent to
Christ Church; and both at school and at college had been the most
intimate friend of the son and heir of a great and wealthy duke.
He and Lord Silverbridge had been always together, and they who
were interested in the career of young noblemen had generally
thought he had chosen his friend well. Tregear had gone out in
honours, having been a second-class man. His friend Silverbridge,
we know, had been allowed to take no degree at all; but the
terrible practical joke by which the whole front of the Dean's
house had been coloured scarlet in the middle of the night, had
been carried on without any assistance from Tregear. The two young
men had then been separated for a year; but immediately after
taking his degree, Tregear, at the invitation of Lord
Silverbridge, had gone to Italy, and had there completely made
good his footing with the Duchess,--with what effect on another
member of the Palliser family the reader already knows.
The young man was certainly clever. When the Duchess found that he
cold talk without any shyness, that he could speak French
fluently, and that after a month in Italy could chatter Italian,
at any rate without reticence or shame, when she perceived that
all the women liked the lad's society and impudence, and that all
the young men were anxious to know him, she was glad to find that
Silverbridge had chosen so valuable a friend. And then he was
beautiful to look at,--putting her almost in mind of another man on
whom her eyes had once loved to dwell. He was dark, with hair that
was almost black, but yet was not black; with clear brown eyes, a
nose as regular as Apollo's, and a mouth in which was ever to be
found that expression of manliness, which of all characteristics
is the one which women love the best. He was five feet ten in
height. He was always well dressed, and yet always so dressed as
to seem to show that his outside garniture had not been matter of
trouble to him. Before the Duchess had dreamed what might take
place between the young man and her daughter she had been urgent
in her congratulations to her son as to the possession of such a
friend.
For though she now and then would catch a glimpse of the outer
man, which would remind her of that other beautiful one whom she
had known in her youth, and though, as these glimpses came, she
would remember how poor in spirit and how unmanly that other one
had been, though she would confess to herself how terrible had
been the heart-shipwreck which that other one had brought upon
herself; still she was able completely to assure herself that this
man, though not superior in external grace, was altogether
different in mind and character. She was old enough now to see all
this and to appreciate it. Young Tregear had his own ideas about
the politics of the day, and they were ideas with which she
sympathised, though they were antagonistic to the politics of her
life. He had his ideas about books too, as to manners of life, as
to art, and even ethics. Whether or no in all this there was not
much that was superficial only, she was not herself deep enough to
discover. Nor would she have been deterred from admiring him had
she been told that it was tinsel. Such were the acquirements, such
the charms, that she loved. Here was a young man who dared to
speak, and had always something ready to be spoken, who was not
afraid of beauty, nor daunted by superiority of rank; who, if he
had not money, could carry himself on equal terms among those who
had. In this way he won the Duchess's heart, and having done that,
was it odd that he should win the heart of her daughter also?
His father was a Cornwall squire of comfortable means, having
joined the property of his wife to his own for the period of his
own life. She had possessed land also in Cornwall, supposed to be
worth fifteen hundred a year, and his own paternal estate at
Polwenning was said to be double the value. Being a prudent man,
he lived at home as a country gentleman, and thus was able in his
county to hold his head as high as richer men. But Frank Tregear
was only his second son; and though Frank would hereafter inherit
his mother's fortune, he was by no means now in a position to
assume the right of living as an idle man. Yet he was idle. The
elder brother, who was considerably older than Frank, was an odd
man, much addicted to quarreling with his family, and who spent
his time chiefly in traveling about the world. Frank's mother, who
was not the mother of the heir also, would sometimes surmise in
Frank's hearing, that the entire property must ultimately come to
him. That other Tregear, who was now supposed to be investigating
the mountains of Crim Tartary, would surely never marry. And Frank
was the favourite also with his father, who paid his debts at
Oxford with not much grumbling, who was proud of his friendship
with a future duke, who did not urge, as he ought to have urged,
that vital question of a profession; and who, when he allowed his
son four hundred pounds a year, was almost content with that son's
protestations that he knew how to live as a poor man among rich
men, without chagrin and without trouble.
Such was the young man who now, in lieu of a profession, had taken
upon himself the responsibility of an engagement with Lady Mary
Palliser. He was tolerably certain that, should he be able to
overcome the parental obstacles which he would no doubt find in
his path, money would be forthcoming sufficient for the purposes
of matrimonial life. The Duke's wealth was fabulous, and as a
great part of it, if not the greater, had come from his wife,
there would probably be ample provision for the younger children.
And when the Duchess had found out how things were going, and had
yielded to her daughter, after an opposition which never had the
appearance even of being in earnest, she had taken upon herself to
say that she would use her influence to prevent any great weight
of trouble from pecuniary matters. Frank Tregear, young and
bright, and full of hearty ambitions, was certainly not the man to
pursue a girl simply because of her fortune; nor was he weak
enough to be attracted simply by the glitter of rank; but he was
wise enough with worldly wisdom to understand thoroughly the
comforts of a good income, and he was sufficiently attached to
high position to feel the advantage of marrying a daughter of the
Duke of Omnium.
There was one member of the family who had hitherto been half-
hearted in the matter. Lord Silverbridge had vacillated between
loyalty to his friend and a certain feeling as to the impropriety
of such a match for his sister. He was aware that something very
much better should be expected for her, and still was unable to
explain his objection to Tregear. He had not at first been
admitted into confidence, either by his sister or by Tregear, but
had questioned his friend when he saw what was going on.
'Certainly I love your sister,' Tregear had said; 'do you object?'
Lord Silverbridge was the weaker of the two, and much subject to
the influence of his friend; but he could on occasion be firm, and
he did at first object. But he did not object strongly, and
allowed himself at last to be content with declaring that the Duke
would never give his consent.
While Tregear was with his love, or near her, his hopes and fears
were sufficient to occupy his mind; and immediately upon his
return, all the world was nothing to him, except as far as the
world was concerned with Lady Mary Palliser. He had come back to
England somewhat before the ducal party, and the pleasures and
occupations of London life had not abated his love, but enabled
him to feel that there was something in life over and beyond his
love, whereas to Lady Mary, down at Matching, there had been
nothing over and beyond her love--except the infinite grief and
desolation produced by her mother's death.
Tregear, when he received the note from Mrs Finn, was staying at
the Duke's house in Carlton Terrace. Silverbridge was there, and,
on leaving Matching, had asked the Duke's permission to have his
friend with him. The Duke at that time was not well pleased with
his son as to the matter of politics, and gave his son's friend
credit for the evil counsel which had produced his displeasure.
But still he had not refused his consent to this proposition. Had
he done so, Silverbridge would probably have gone elsewhere: and
though there was a matter in respect to Tregear of which the Duke
disapproved, it was not a matter, as he thought, which would have
justified him in expelling the young man from his house. The young
man was a strong Conservative; and now Silverbridge had declared
his purpose of entering the House of Commons, if he did enter it,
as one of the Conservative party.
This had been a terrible blow to the Duke; and he believed that it
all came from the young Tregear. Still he must do his duty, and
not more than his duty. He knew nothing against Tregear. That a
Tregear should be a Conservative was natural enough--at any rate,
was not disgraceful; that he should have his political creed
sufficiently at heart to be able to persuade another man, was to
his credit. He was a gentleman, well educated, superior in many
things to Silverbridge himself. There were those who said that
Silverbridge had redeemed himself from contempt--from that sort of
contempt which might be supposed to await a young nobleman who had
painted scarlet the residence of the Head of his college--by the
fact of his having chosen such a friend. The Duke was essentially
a just man; and though, at the very moment in which the request
was made, his heart was half crushed by his son's apostasy, he
gave the permission asked.
'You know Mrs Finn,' Tregear said to his friend one morning at
breakfast.
'I remember her all my life. She used to be a great deal with my
grandfather. I believe he left her a lot of diamonds and money,
and that she wouldn't have them. I don't know whether the diamonds
are not locked up somewhere now, so that she can take them when
she pleases.'
'What a singular woman!'
'It was odd; but she had some fad about it. What makes you ask
about Mrs Finn?'
'She wants me to go and see her.'
'What about?'
'I think I have heard your mother speak of her as though she loved
her dearly,' said Tregear.
'I don't know about loving her dearly. They were intimate, and Mrs
Finn used to be with her very much when she was in the country.
She was at Matching just now, when my poor mother died. Why does
she want to see you?'
'She has written to me from Matching. She wants to see me-'
'Well?'
'To tell you the truth. I do not know what she has to say to me;
though I can guess.'
'What do you guess?'
'It is something about your sister.'
'You will have to give that up, Tregear.'
'I think not.'
'Yes you will; my father will never stand it.'
'I don't know what there is to stand. I am not noble, nor am I
rich; but I am as good a gentleman as he is.'
'My dear fellow,' said the young lord, 'you know very well what I
think about all that. A fellow is not better to me because he has
got a title, nor yet because he owns half a county. But men have
their ideas and feelings about it. My father is a rich man, and of
course he'll want his daughter to marry a rich man. My father is
noble, and he'll want his daughter to marry a nobleman. You can't
very well marry Mary without his permission, and therefore you had
better let it alone.'
'I haven't even asked his permission as yet.'
'Even my mother was afraid to speak to him about it, and I never
knew her to be afraid to say anything else to him.'
'I shall not be afraid,' said Tregear, looking grimly.
'I should. That's the difference between us.'
'He can't very well eat me.'
'Nor even bite you;--nor will he abuse you. But he can look at you,
and he can say a word or two which you will find it very hard to
bear. My governor is the quietest man I know, but he has a way of
making himself disagreeable when he wishes, that I never saw
equalled.'
'At any rate, I had better go and see your Mrs Finn.' Then
Tregear wrote a line to Mrs Finn, and made his appointment.
CHAPTER 4
Park Lane
From the beginning of the affair Tregear had found the necessity
of bolstering himself up inwardly in his attempt by mottoes,
proverbs, and instigations of courage addressed to himself. 'None
but the brave deserve the fair.' 'De l'audace, et encore de
l'audace, et toujours de l'audace.' He was a man naturally of
good heart in such matters, who was not afraid of his brother-men,
nor yet of women, his sisters. But in this affair he knew very
much persistence would be required of him, and that even with such
persistence he might probably fail, unless he should find that
more than ordinary constancy in the girl. That the Duke could not
eat him, indeed that nobody could eat him as long as he carried
himself as an honest man and a gentleman, was to him an inward
assurance on which he leaned much. And yet he was conscious,
almost with a feeling of shame, that in Italy he had not spoken to
the Duke about his daughter because he was afraid lest the Duke
might eat him. In such an affair he should have been careful from
the first to keep his own hands thoroughly clean. Had it not been
his duty as a gentleman to communicate with the father, if not
before he gained the girl's heart, at any rate as soon as he knew
he had done so? He had left Italy thinking that he would
certainly meet the Duchess and her daughter in London, and that
then he might go to the Duke as though this love of his had arisen
from the sweetness of those meetings in London. But all these
ideas had been dissipated by the great misfortune of the death of
Lady Mary's mother. From all this he was driven to acknowledge to
himself that his silence in Italy had been wrong, that he had been
weak in allowing himself to be guided by the counsel of the
Duchess, and that he had already armed the Duke with one strong
argument against him.
He did not doubt but that Mrs Finn would be opposed to him. Of
course he could not doubt but that all the world would now be
opposed to him,--except the girl herself. He would find no other
friend so generous, so romantic, so unworldly as the Duchess had
been. It was clear to him that Lady Mary had told the story of her
engagement to Mrs Finn, and that Mrs Finn had not as yet told the
Duke. From this he was justified in regarding Mrs Finn as the
girl's friend. The request made was that he should at once do
something which Mrs Finn was to suggest. He could hardly have been
so requested, and that in terms of such warm affection, had it
been Mrs Finn's intention to ask him to desist altogether from his
courtship. This woman was regarded by Lady Mary as her mother's
dearest friend. It was therefore incumbent on him now to induce
her to believe in him as the Duchess had believed.
He knocked at the door of Mrs Finn's little house in Park Lane a
few minutes before the time appointed, and found himself alone
when he was shown into the drawing-room. He had heard much of this
lady though he had never seen her, and had heard much also of her
husband. There had been a kind of mystery about her. People did
not quite understand how it was that she had been so intimate with
the Duchess, nor why the late Duke had left to her an enormous
legacy, which as yet had never been claimed. There was supposed,
too, to have been something especially in her marriage with her
present husband. It was believed also that she was very rich. The
rumours of all these things together had made her a person of
note, and Tregear, when he found himself alone in the drawing-
room, looked round about him as though a special interest was to
be attached to the belongings of such a woman. It was a pretty
room, somewhat dark, because the curtains were almost closed
across the windows, but furnished with a pretty taste, and now, in
these early April days, filled with flowers.
'I have to apologise, Mr Tregear, for keeping you waiting,' she
said as she entered the room.
'I fear I was before my time.'
'I know that I am after mine,--a few minutes,' said the lady. He
told himself that though she was not a young woman, yet she was
attractive. She was dark, and still wore her black hair in curls,
such as now seldom seen with ladies. Perhaps the reduced light of
the chamber had been regulated with some regard to her complexion
and her age. The effect, however, was good, and Frank Tregear felt
at once interested in her.
'You have just come up from Matching?' he said.
'Yes; only the day before yesterday. It is very good of you to
come to me so soon.'
'Of course I came when you sent for me. I am afraid the Duke felt
his loss severely.'
'How should he not, such a loss as it was? Few people knew how
much he trusted her, and how dearly he loved her.'
'Silverbridge has told me that he is awfully cut up.'
'You have seen Lord Silverbridge then?'
'Just at present I am living with him, at Carlton Terrace.'
'In the Duke's house?' she asked, with some surprise.
'Yes, in the Duke's house. Silverbridge and I have been very
intimate. Of course the Duke knows that I am there. Is there any
chance of him coming to town?'
'Not yet, I fear. He is determined to be alone. I wish it were
otherwise, as I am sure he would better bear his sorrow, if he
would go about with other men.'
'No doubt he would suffer less,' said Tregear. Then there was a
pause. Each wished that the other would introduce the matter which
both knew was to be the subject of their conversation. But Tregear
would not begin. 'When I left them all at Florence,' he said, 'I
little thought that I would ever see her again.'
'You had been intimate with them, Mr Tregear?'
'Yes; I think I may say that I have been intimate with them. I had
been at Eton and Christ Church with Silverbridge, and we have
always been much together.'
'I have understood that. Have you and the Duke been good friends?'
'We have never been enemies.'
'I suppose not that.'
'The Duke, I think, does not much care about young people. I
hardly know what he used to do with himself. When I dined with
them, I saw him, but I did not often do that. I think he used to
read a good deal, and walk about alone. We were always riding.'
'Lady Mary used to ride?'
'Oh, yes; and Silverbridge and Lord Gerald. And the Duchess used
to drive. One of us would always be with her.'
'And so you became intimate with the whole family?'
'So I became intimate with the whole family.'
'And especially so with Lady Mary?' This she said in her sweetest
possible tone, and with a most gracious smile.
'Especially so with Lady Mary,' he replied.
'It will be very good of you, Mr Tregear, if you endure and
forgive all this cross-questioning from me, who am a perfect
stranger to you.'
'But you are not a perfect stranger to her.'
'That is it, of course. Now, if you will allow me, I will explain
to you exactly what my footing with her is. When the Duchess
returned, and when I found her to be so ill, as she passed through
London, I went down with her into the country,--quite as a matter
of course.'
'So I understand.'
'And there she died,--in my arms. I will not try to harass you by
telling you what those few days were; how absolutely he was struck
to the ground, how terrible was the grief of the daughter, how the
boys were astonished by the feeling of their loss. After a few
days they went away. It was, I think, their father's wish that
they should go. And I too was going away,--and had felt, indeed,
directly her spirit had parted from her, that I was only in the
way in his house. But I stayed at his request, because he did not
wish his daughter to be alone.'
'I can easily understand that, Mrs Finn.'
'I wanted her to go to Lady Cantrip who had invited her, but she
would not. In that way we were thrown together in the closest
intercourse. For two or three weeks. Then she told me the story of
your engagement.'
'That was natural, I suppose.'
'Surely so. Think of her position, left without a mother! It was
incumbent on her to tell someone. There was, however, one other
person in whom it would have been much better that she should have
confided.'
'What person?'
'Her father.'
'I rather fancy that it is I who ought to tell him.'
'As far as I understand things, Mr Tregear,--which, indeed, is very
imperfectly,--I think it is natural that a girl should at once tell
her mother when a gentleman has made her understand that he loves
her.'
'She did so, Mrs Finn.'
'And I suppose that generally the mother would tell the father.'
'She did not.'
'No; and therefore the position of the young lady is now one of
great embarrassment. The Duchess has gone from us, and we must now
make up our minds as to what had better be done. It is out of the
question that Lady Mary should be allowed to consider herself to
be engaged, and that her father should be kept in ignorance of her
position.' She paused for his reply, but as he said nothing, she
continued: 'Either you must tell the Duke, or she must do so, or I
must do so.'
'I suppose she told you in confidence.'
'No doubt. She told me presuming that I would not betray her; but
I shall,--if that be a betrayal. The Duke must know it. It will be
infinitely better that he should know it through you, or through
her, than through me. But he must be told.'
'I can't quite see why,' said Tregear.
'For her sake,--whom I suppose you love.'
'Certainly I love her.'
'In order that she may not suffer. I wonder you do not see it, Mr
Tregear. Perhaps you have a sister.'
'I have no sister as it happens.'
'But you can imagine what your feelings would be. Should you like
to think of a sister as being engaged to a man without the
knowledge of any of her family?'
'It was not so. The Duchess knew it. The present condition of
things is altogether an accident.'
'It is an accident that must be brought to an end.'
'Of course it must be brought to an end. I am not such a fool as
to suppose that I can make her my wife without telling her
father.'
'I mean at once, Mr Tregear.'
'It seems to me that you are rather dictating to me, Mrs Finn.'
'I owe you an apology of course, for meddling in your affairs at
all. But as it will be more conducive to your success that the
Duke should hear this from you than from me, and as I feel I am
bound by my duty to him and to Lady Mary to see that he be not
left in ignorance, I think that I am doing you a service.'
'I do not like to have a constraint put upon me.'
'That, Mr Tregear, is what a gentleman, I fancy, very often feels
in regard to ladies. But the constraint of which you speak is
necessary for their protection. Are you unwilling to see the
Duke?'
He was very unwilling, but he would not confess so much. He gave
various reasons for delay, urging repeatedly the question of his
marriage was one which he could not press upon the Duke so soon
after the death of the Duchess. And when she assured him that this
was a matter of importance so great, that even the death of the
man's wife should not be held by him to justify delay, he became
angry, and for awhile insisted that must be allowed to follow his
own judgement. But he gave her a promise that he would see the
Duke before a week was over. Nevertheless he left the house in
dudgeon, having told Mrs Finn more than once that she was taking
advantage of Lady Mary's confidence. They hardly parted as
friends, and her feeling was, on the whole, hostile to him and to
his love. It could not, she thought, be for the happiness of such
a one as Lady Mary that she should give herself to one who seemed
to have so little to recommend him.
He, when he had left her, was angry with his own weakness. He had
not only promised that he would make his application to the Duke,
but that he would do so within the period of a week. Who was she
that she should exact terms from him after this fashion, and
prescribe days and hours? And now, because this strange woman had
spoken to him, he was compelled to make a journey down to the
Duke's country house, and seek an interview in which he would be
surely snubbed?
This occurred on a Wednesday, and he resolved that he would go
down to Matching on the next Monday. He said nothing of his plan
to anyone, and not a word passed between him and Lord Silverbridge
about Lady Mary during the first two or three days. But on
Saturday Silverbridge appeared at breakfast with a letter in his
hand. 'The governor is coming up to town,' he said.
'Immediately?'
'In the course of next week. He says that he thinks he shall be
here on Wednesday.'
It immediately struck Tregear that this sudden journey must have
some reference to Lady Mary and her engagement. 'Do you know why
he is coming?'
'Because of these vacancies in Parliament.'
'Why should that bring him up?'
'I suppose he hopes to be able to talk me into obedience. He wants
me to stand for the county--as a Liberal, of course. I intend to
stand for the borough as a Conservative, and I have told them so
down at Silverbridge. I am very sorry to annoy him, and all that
kind of thing. But what the deuce is a fellow to do? If a man has
got political convictions of his own, of course he must stick to
them.' This the young Lord said with a good deal of self-
assurance, as though he, by the light of his own reason, had
ascertained on which side the truth lay in the political contests
of the day.
'There is a good deal to be said on both sides of the question, my
boy.' At this particular moment Tregear felt that the Duke ought
to be propitiated.
'You wouldn't have me give up my convictions!'
'A seat in Parliament is a great thing.'
'I can probably secure that, whichever side I take. I thought you
were so devilish hot against the Radicals.'
'So I am. But then you are, as it were, bound by family
allegiance.'
'I'll be shot if I am. One never knows how to understand you
nowadays. It used to be a great doctrine with you that nothing
should induce a man to vote against his political opinion.'
'So it is,--if he has really got any. However, as your father is
coming to London, I need not go down to Matching.'
'You don't mean that you were going to Matching?'
'I had intended to beard the lion in his country den; but now the
lion will find me in his own town den, and I must beard him here.'
Then Tregear wrote a most chilling note to Mrs Finn, informing her
with great precision, that, as the Duke of Omnium intended to be
in town one day next week, he would postpone the performance of
his promise for a day or two beyond the allotted time.
CHAPTER 5
It is Impossible
Down at Matching Lady Mary's life was very dull after Mrs Finn had
left her. She had a horse to ride, but had no one to ride with
her; she had a carriage in which to be driven, but no one to be
driven with her, and no special places whither to go. Her father
would walk daily for two hours, and she would accompany him when
he encouraged her to do so; but she had an idea that he preferred
taking his walks alone, and when they were together there was no
feeling of confidence between them. There could be none on her
part, as she knew that she was keeping back information which he
was entitled to possess. On this matter she received two letters
from Mrs Finn, in the first of which she was told that Mr Tregear
intended to present himself at Matching within a few days, and was
advised in the same letter not to endeavour to see her lover on
that occasion; and then, in the second she was informed that this
interview with her father was to be sought not at Matching but in
London. From this letter there was of course some disappointment,
though some feeling of relief. Had he come there she might
possibly have seen him after the interview. But she would have
been subjected to the immediate sternness of her father's anger.
That she would now escape. She would not be called on to meet him
just when the first blow had fallen upon him. She was quite sure
that he would disapprove of the thing. She was quite sure that he
would be very angry. She knew that he was a peculiarly just man,
and yet she thought that in this he would be unjust. Had she been
called upon to sing the praises of her father she would have
insisted above all things on the absolute integrity of his mind,
and yet, knowing as she did that he would be opposed to her
marriage with Mr Tregear, she assured herself every day and every
hour that he had no right to make any such objection. The man she
loved was a gentleman, and an honest man, by no means a fool, and
subject to no vices. Her father had no right to demand that she
should give her heart to a rich man, or to one of high rank. Rank!
As for rank, she told herself that she had the most supreme
contempt for it. She thought that she had seen it near enough
already to be sure that it ought to have no special allurements.
What was it doing for her? Simply restraining her choice among
comparatively a few who seemed to her by no means best endowed of
God's creatures.
Of one thing she was very sure, that under no pressure whatsoever
would she abandon her engagement to Mr Tregear. That to her had
become a bond almost as holy as matrimony itself could be. She had
told the man that she loved him, and after that there could be no
retreat. He had kissed her, and she had returned his caress. He
had told her that she was his, as his arm was round her; and she
had acknowledged that it was so, that she belonged to him, and
could not be taken away from him. All this was to her a compact so
sacred that nothing could break it but a desire on his part to
have it annulled. No other man had an idea entered into her mind
that it could be pleasant to join her lot in life with his. With
her it had been all new and all sacred. Love with her had that
religion which nothing but freshness can give it. That freshness,
that bloom, may last through a long life. But every change impairs
it, and after many changes it has perished forever. There was no
question with her but that she must bear her father's anger,
should he be angry; put up with his continued opposition, should
he resolutely oppose her; bear all that the countesses of the
world might say to her;--for it was thus that she thought of Lady
Cantrip now. And retrogression was beyond her power.
She was walking with her father when she first heard of the
intended trip to London. At that time she had received Mrs Finn's
first letter, but not the second. 'I suppose you will see
Silverbridge,' she said. She knew that Frank Tregear was living
with her brother.
'I am going up on purpose to see him. He is causing me much
annoyance.'
'Is he extravagant?'
'It is not that--at present.' He winced even as he said this, for
he had in truth suffered somewhat from demands made upon him for
money; which had hurt him not so much by their amount as by their
nature. Lord Silverbridge had taken upon himself to 'own a horse
or two', very much to his father's chagrin, and was at that moment
part proprietor of an animal supposed to stand well for the Derby.
The fact was not announced in the papers with his lordship's name,
but his father was aware of it, and did not like it the better
because his son held the horse in partnership with a certain Major
Tifto, who was well known in the sporting world.
'What is it, papa?'
'Of course he ought to go into Parliament.'
'I think he wishes it himself.'
'Yes, but how? By a piece of extreme good fortune. West
Barsetshire is open to him. The two seats are vacant together.
There is hardly another agricultural county in England that will
return a Liberal, and I fear I am not asserting too much in saying
that no other Liberal could carry the seat but one of our family.'
'You used to sit for Silverbridge, papa.'
'Yes, I did. In those days the county returned four Conservatives.
I cannot explain it all to you, but it is his duty to contest the
county on the Liberal side.'
'But if he is a Conservative himself, papa?' asked Lady Mary, who
had some political ideas suggested to her own mind by her lover.
'It is all rubbish. It has come from that young man Tregear, with
whom he has been associating.'
'But, papa,' said Lady Mary, who felt that even in this matter she
was bound to be firm on what was now her side of the question. 'I
suppose it is as--as--as respectable to be a Conservative as a
Liberal.'
'I don't know that at all,' said the Duke angrily.
'I thought that--the two sides were--'
She was going to express an opinion that the two parties might be
supposed to stand as equal in the respect of the country, when he
interrupted her. 'The Pallisers have always been Liberal. It will
be a blow to me, indeed, if Silverbridge deserts his colours. I
know that as yet he himself has had no deep thoughts on the
subject, that unfortunately he does not give himself much to
thinking, and that in this matter he is being taken over by a
young man whose position in life hardly justified the great
intimacy which has existed.'
This was very far from being comfortable to her, but of course she
said nothing in defence of Tregear's politics. Nor at present was
she disposed to say anything to his position in life, though at
some future time she might not be so silent. A few days later they
were again walking together, when he spoke to her about himself.
'I cannot bear that you should be left her alone while I am away,'
he said.
'You will not be long gone, I suppose?'
'Only for three of four days now.'
'I shall not mind, papa.'
'But very probably I may have to go to Barsetshire. Would you not
be happier if you would let me write to Lady Cantrip, and tell her
that you will go to her?'
'No, papa, I think not. There are times when one feels that one
ought to be almost alone. Don't you feel that?'
'I do not wish you to feel it, nor would you do so long if you had
other people round you. With me it is different. I am an old man,
and cannot look for new pleasures in society. It has been the
fault of my life to be too much alone. I do not want to see my
children follow me in that.'
'It is so very short time as yet,' said she, thinking of her
mother's death.
'But I think that you should be with somebody,--with some woman who
would be kind to you. I like to see you with books, but books
alone should not be sufficient at your age.' How little, she
thought, did he know of the state either of her heart or mind!
'Do you dislike Lady Cantrip?'
'I do not know her. I can't say that I dislike a person whom I
don't think I ever spoke to, and never saw above once or twice.
But how can I say that I like her?' She did, however, know that
Lady Cantrip was a countess all over, and would be shocked at the
idea of a daughter of a Duke of Omnium marrying the younger son of
a country squire. Nothing further was then said on the matter, and
when the Duke went to town, Lady Mary was left quite alone, with
an understanding that if he went into Barsetshire he should come
back and take her with him.
He arrived at his own house in Carlton Terrace about five o'clock
in the afternoon, and immediately went to his study, intending to
dine and spend the evening there alone. His son had already
pleaded an engagement for that afternoon, but had consented to
devote the following morning to his father's wishes. Of the other
sojourner in his house the Duke had thought nothing; but the other
sojourner had thought very much of the Duke. Frank Tregear was
fully possessed of that courage which induces a man who knows that
he must be thrown over a precipice, to choose the first possible
moment for his fall. He had sounded Silverbridge about the change
in his politics, and had found his friend quite determined not to
go back to the family doctrine. Such being the case, the Duke's
ill-will and hardness and general severity would probably be
enhanced by his interview with his son. Tregear, therefore,
thinking that nothing could be got by delay, sent his name in to
the Duke before he had been an hour in the house, and asked for an
interview. The servant brought back word that his Grace was
fatigued, but would see Mr Tregear if the matter in question was
one of importance. Frank's heart quailed for a moment, but only
for a moment. He took up a pen and wrote a note.
'MY DEAR DUKE OF OMNIUM,
'If your Grace can spare a moment, I think you
will find that what I have to say will justify the
intrusion.
'Your very faithful servant,
F.O.TREGEAR'
Of course the Duke admitted him. There was but one idea on his
head as to what was coming. His son had taken this way of making
some communication to him respecting his political creed. Some
overture or some demand was to be preferred through Tregear. If
so, it was proof of a certain anxiety on the matter on his son's
part which was not displeasing to him. But he was not left long in
the mistake after Tregear had entered the room. 'Sir,' he said,
speaking quite at once, as soon as the door was closed behind him,
but still speaking very slowly, looking beautiful as Apollo as he
stood upright before his wished-for father-in-law--'Sir, I have
come to ask you to give me the hand of your daughter.' The few
words had been all arranged beforehand, and were now spoken
without any appearance of fear or shame. No one hearing them would
have imagined that an almost penniless young gentleman was asking
in marriage the daughter of the richest and greatest nobleman in
England.
'The hand of my daughter!' said the Duke, rising from his chair.
'I know how very great is the prize,' said Frank, 'and how
unworthy I am of it. But--as she thinks me worthy--'
'She! What she?'
'Lady Mary.'
'She think you worthy!'
'Yes, your Grace.'
'I do not believe it.' On hearing this, Frank simply bowed his
head. 'I beg your pardon, Mr Tregear. I do not mean to say that I
do not believe you. I never gave the lie to any gentleman, and I
hope I never may be driven to do so. But there must be some
mistake in this.'
'I am complying with Lady Mary's wishes in asking your permission
to enter your house as a suitor.' The Duke stood for a moment
biting his lips in silence. 'I cannot believe it,' he said at
last. 'I cannot bring myself to believe it. There must be some
mistake. My daughter! Lady Mary Palliser!' Again the young man
bowed his head. 'What are your pretensions?'
'Simply her regard.'
'Of course it is impossible. You are not so ignorant but that you
must have known as much when you came to me.'
There was so much scorn in his words, and in the tone in which
they were uttered, that Tregear in his turn was becoming angry. He
had prepared himself to bow humbly before the great man, before
the Duke, before the Croesus, before the late Prime Minister,
before the man who was to be regarded as certainly the most
exalted of the earth; but he had not prepared himself to be looked
at as the Duke looked at him. 'The truth, my Lord Duke, is this,'
he said, 'that your daughter loves me, and that we are engaged to
each other,--as far as that engagement can be made without your
sanction as her father.'
'It cannot have been made at all,' said the Duke.
'I can only hope,--we can both of us only hope that a little time
may soften-'
'It is out of the question. There must be an end of this
altogether. You must neither see her, nor hear from her, no in any
way communicate with her. It is altogether impossible. I believe,
sir, that you have no means?'
'Very little at present, Duke.'
'How did you think you were to live? But it is altogether
unnecessary to speak of such a matter as that. There are so many
reasons to make this impossible, that it would be useless to
discuss one as being more important than the others. Has any other
one of my family known of this?' This he added, wishing to
ascertain whether Lord Silverbridge had disgraced himself by
lending his hand to such a disposition of his sister.
'Oh, yes,' said Tregear.
'Who has known it?'
'The Duchess, sir. We had all her sympathy and approval.'
'I do not believe a word of it,' said the Duke, becoming extremely
red in the face. He was forced to do now that which he had just
declared that he had never done in his life,--driven by the desire
of his heart to acquit the wife he had lost of the terrible
imprudence, worse than imprudence, of which she was now accused.
'That is the second time, my Lord, that you have found it
necessary to tell me that you have not believed direct assertions
which I made to you. But, luckily for me, the two assertions are
capable of the earliest and most direct proof. You will believe
Lady Mary, and she will confirm me in the one and the other.'
The Duke was almost beside himself with emotion and grief. He did
know,--though now at this moment he was most loath to own to
himself that it was so,--that his dear wife had been the most
imprudent of women. And he recognized in her encouragement of this
most pernicious courtship,---if she had encouraged it,---a repetition
of that romantic folly by which she had so nearly brought herself
to shipwreck her own early life. If it had been so,---even whether
it had been so or not,--he had been wrong to tell the man that he
did not believe him. And the man had rebuked him with dignity. 'At
any rate it is impossible,' he repeated.
'I cannot allow that it is impossible.'
'That is for me to judge, sir.'
'I trust that you will excuse me when I say that I also must hold
myself to be in some degree a judge in the matter. If you were in
my place, you would feel--'
'I could not possibly be in your place.'
'If your Grace were in my place you would feel that as long as you
were assured by the young lady that your affection was valued by
her you would not be deterred by the opposition of her father.
That you should yield to me, of course, I do not expect; that Lady
Mary should be persistent in her present feelings when she knows
your mind, perhaps I have no right to hope. But should she be so
persistent as to make you feel that her happiness depends, as mine
does, on our marriage, then I shall believe that you will yield at
last.'
'Never!' said the Duke. 'Never! I shall never believe that my
daughter's happiness can be assured by a step which I should regard
as disgraceful to her.'
'Disgraceful is a violent word, my Lord.'
'It is the only word that will express my meaning.'
'And one which I must be bold enough to say you are not justified
in using. Should she become my wife tomorrow, no one in England
would think that she had disgraced herself. The Queen would
receive her on her marriage. All your friends would hold their
hands out to us,--presuming that we had your good-will.'
'But you would not have it.'
'Her disgrace would not depend upon that, my Lord. Should your
daughter so dispose herself, as to disgrace herself,--which I think
to be impossible,--your countenance could not set her right. Nor
can the withdrawal of your countenance condemn her before the
world if she does that with herself which any other lady might do
and remain a lady.'
The Duke, when he heard this, even in the midst of his wrath,
which was very violent, and the in the midst of his anger, which
was very acute, felt that he had to deal with a man,--with one whom
he could not put off from him into the gutter, and there leave as
buried in the mud. And there came, too, a feeling upon him, which
he had no time to analyse, but of which he was part aware, that
this terrible indiscretion on the part of his daughter and of his
late wife was less wonderful than it had at first appeared to be.
But not on that account was he the less determined to make the
young man feel that his parental opposition would be invincible.
'It is quite impossible, sir. I do not think that I need say
anything more.' Then, while Tregear was meditating whether to
make any reply; the Duke asked a question which had better have
been left unasked. The asking of it diminished somewhat from that
ducal, grand-ducal, quasi-archducal, almost Godlike superiority
which he had assumed, and showed the curiosity of a mere man. 'Has
anybody else been aware of this?' he said, still wishing to know
whether he had cause for anger against Silverbridge in the matter.
'Mrs Finn is aware of it,' said Tregear.
'Mrs Finn!' exclaimed the Duke, as though he had been stung by an
adder. This was the woman whom he had prayed to remain awhile with
his daughter after his wife had been laid in her grave, in order
that there might be someone near whom he could trust! And this
very woman whom he had so trusted,--whom, in his early associations
with her, he had disliked and distrusted, but had taught himself
both to like and to trust because his wife had loved her,--this
woman was the she-Pandarus who had managed matters between Tregear
and his daughter! His wife had been too much subject to her
influence. That he had always known. And now, in this last act of
her life, she had allowed herself to be persuaded to give up her
daughter by the baneful wiles of this most pernicious woman. Such
were the workings of the Duke's mind when the young man told him
that Mrs Finn was acquainted with the whole affair. As the reader
is aware, nothing could have been more unjust.
'I mentioned her name,' said Tregear, 'because I thought she had
been a friend of the family.'
'That will do, sir. I have been greatly pained as well as
surprised by what I have heard. Of the real state of the case I
can form no opinion till I see my daughter. You, of course, will
hold no further intercourse with her.' He paused as though for a
promise, but Tregear did not feel himself called upon to say a
word in one direction or the other. 'It will be my care that you
shall not do so. Good-morning, sir.'
Tregear, who during the interview had been standing, then bowed,
turned upon his heel and left the room.
The Duke seated himself, and, crossing his arms upon his chest,
sat for an hour looking up at the ceiling. Why was it that, for
him, such a world of misery had been prepared? What wrong had he
done, of what imprudence had been guilty, that, at every turn of
life, something should occur so grievous as to make him think of
himself the most wretched of men? No man had ever loved his wife
more dearly than he had done; and yet now, in that very excess of
tenderness which her death had occasioned, he was driven to accuse
her of a great sin against himself, in that she had kept from him
her knowledge of this affair;--for, when he came to turn the matter
over in his mind, he did believe Tregear's statement as to her
encouragement. Then, too, he had been proud of his daughter. He
was a man so reticent and undemonstrative in his manner that he
had never known how to make confidential friends of his children.
In his sons hitherto he had not taken pride. They were gallant,
well-grown, handsome boys with a certain dash of cleverness,--more
like their mother than their father; but they had not as yet done
anything as he would have made them do it. But the girl, in the
perfection of her beauty, in the quiescence of her manner, in the
nature of her studies, and in the general dignity of her bearing,
had seemed to be all that he had desired. And now she had engaged
herself, behind his back, to the younger son of a county squire!
But his anger against Mrs Finn was hotter than the anger against
anyone in his own family.
CHAPTER 6
Major Tifto
Major Tifto had lately become a member of the Beargarden Club,
under the auspices of his friend Lord Silverbridge. It was
believed, by those who had made some inquiry into the matter, that
the Major had really served a campaign as a volunteer in the
Carlist army in the north of Spain. When, therefore, it was
declared by someone else that he was not a major at all, his
friends were able to contradict the assertion, and to impute it to
slander. Instances were brought up,--declared by these friends to be
innumerable, but which did, in truth, amount to three of four,--of
English gentlemen who had come up from a former Carlist war,
bearing the title of colonel, without any contradiction or
invidious remark. Had this gallant officer appeared as Colonel
Tifto, perhaps less might have been said about it. There was a
little lack of courage in the title which he did choose. But it
was accepted at last, and, as Major Tifto, he was proposed,
seconded, and elected at the Beargarden.
But he had other points in his favour besides the friendship of
Lord Silverbridge,--points which had probably led to that
friendship. He was, without doubt, one of the best horsemen in
England. There were some who said that, across country, he was the
very best, and that, as a judge of hunters few excelled him. Of
late years he had crept into credit as a betting-man. No one
supposed that he had much capital to work with, but still, when he
lost a bet he paid it.
Soon after his return from Spain, he was chosen as Master of the
Runnymede Fox Hounds, and was thus enabled to write the letters
M.F.H. after his name. The gentlemen who rode in the Runnymede
were not very liberal in their terms, and had lately been
compelled to change their Master rather more frequently than was
good for that quasi-suburban hunt; but now they had fitted
themselves well. How he was to hunt the county five days a
fortnight, finding servants and horses, and feeding the hounds,
for eight hundred pounds a year, no one could understand. But
Major Tifto not only undertook to do it, but did it. And he
actually succeeded in obtaining for the Runnymede a degree of
popularity which for many years previous it had not possessed.
Such a man,--even though no one did know anything of his father or
mother, though no one had ever heard him speak of a brother or a
sister, though it was believed that he had no real income,--was
felt by many to be the very man for the Beargarden; and when his
name was brought up at the committee, Lord Silverbridge was able
to say so much in his favour that only two blackballs were given
against him. Under the mild rule of the club, three would have
been necessary to exclude him; and therefore Major Tifto was now
as good a member as anyone else.
He was a well-made little man, good-looking for those who like
such good looks. He was light-haired and blue-eyed, with regular
and yet not inexpressive features. But his eyes were small and
never tranquil, and rarely capable of looking at the person who
was speaking to him. He had small, well-trimmed, glossy whiskers,
with the best-kept mustache, and the best-kept tuft on his chin
which were to be seen anywhere. His face still bore the freshness
of youth, which was a marvel to many, who declared that, from
facts within their knowledge, Tifto must be far on the wrong side
of forty. At a first glance you would hardly have called him
thirty. No doubt, when, on close inspection, you came to look into
his eyes, you could see the hand of time. Even if you believed the
common assertion that he painted,--which it was very hard to
believe of a man who passed the most of his time in the hunting-
field or on a race-course,--yet the paint on his cheeks would not
enable him to move with the elasticity which seemed to belong to
all his limbs. He rode flat races and steeple chases,--if jump
races may still be so called; and with his own hounds and with the
Queen's did incredible things on horseback. He could jump over
chairs too,--the backs of four chairs in a dining-room after
dinner,--a feat which no gentleman of forty-five could perform,
even though he painted himself ever so.
So much in praise of Major Tifto honesty has compelled the present
chronicler to say. But there were traits of character in which he
fell off a little, even in the estimation of those whose pursuits
endeared him to them. He could not refrain from boasting,--and
especially from boasting about women. His desire for glory in that
direction knew no bounds, and he would sometimes mention names,
and bring himself into trouble. It was told of him that at one
period of his life, when misfortune had almost overcome him, when
sorrow had produced prostration, and prostration some expression
of truth, he had owned to a friend his own conviction that could
he have kept his tongue from talking of women, he might have risen
to prosperity in his profession. From these misfortunes he had
emerged, and, no doubt, had often reflected on what he himself had
then said. But we know that the drunkard, though he hates
drunkenness, cannot but drink,--that the gambler cannot keep from
the dice. Major Tifto still lied about women, and could not keep
his tongue from the subject. He would boast, too, about other
matters,--much to his own disadvantage. He was, too, very 'deep',
and some men, who could put up with his other failings, could not
endure that. Whatever he wanted to do he would attempt round three
corners. Though he could ride straight, he could do nothing else
straight. He was full of mysteries. If he wanted to draw Charter
Wood he would take his hounds out of the street at Egham directly
in the other direction. If he had made up his mind to ride Lord
Pottlepot's horse for the great Leamington handicap, he would be
sure to tell even his intimate friends that he was almost
determined to take the 'baronet's' offer of a mount. This he would
do even when there was no possible turn in the betting to be
affected by such falsehood. So that his companions were apt to
complain that there was no knowing where to have Tifto. And then,
they who were old enough in the world to have had some experience
in men, perceived that peculiar quality of his eyes, which never
allowed him to look anyone in the face.
That Major Tifto should make money by selling horses was, perhaps,
a necessity to his position. No one grumbled at him because he did
so, or thought that such a pursuit was incompatible with his
character as a sporting gentleman. But there were some who
considered that they had suffered unduly under his hands, and in
their bargains with him had been made to pay more than a proper
amount of tax for the advantages of his general assistance. When a
man has perhaps made fifty pounds by using a 'straight tip' as to
a horse at Newmarket, in doing which he had of course encountered
some risks, he feels he ought not be made to pay the amount back
into the pockets of the 'tipper', and at the same time to find
himself saddled with the possession of a perfectly useless animal.
In this way there were rocks in the course through which Tifto was
called on to steer his bark. Of course he was anxious, when
preying upon his acquaintances, to spare those who were useful
friends to him. Now and again he would sell a serviceable animal
at a fair price, and would endeavour to make such a sale in favour
of someone whose countenance would be a rock to him. He knew his
business well, but yet there would be mistakes.
Now, at this very moment, was the culmination of the Major's life.
He was Master of Runnymede Hounds, he was partner with the eldest
son of a Duke in the possession of that magnificent colt, the
Prime Minister, and he was a member of the Beargarden. He was a
man who had often been despondent about himself, but was now
disposed to be little triumphant. He had finished his season well
with the Runnymede, and were it not that, let him work as he
would, his expenses always exceeded his means, he would have been
fairly comfortable.
At eight o'clock Lord Silverbridge and his friend met in the
dining-room of the Beargarden. 'Have you been here before?' asked
the Lord.
'Not in here, my Lord. I just looked in at the smoking-room last
night. Glasslough and Nidderdale were there. I thought we should
have got up a rubber, but they didn't seem to see it.'
'There is whist there generally. You'll find out all about it
before long. Perhaps they are a little afraid of you.'
'I'm the worst hand at cards, I suppose, In England. A dash at loo
for about an hour, and half-a-dozen cuts at blind hookey,--that's
about my form. I know I drop more than I pick up. If I knew what I
was about I should never touch a card.'
'Horses; eh, Tifto?'
'Horses, yes. They've pretty good claret, here, eh, Silverbridge?'
He could never hit off his familiarity quite right. He had my-
Lorded his young friend at first, and now brought out the name
with a hesitating twang, which the young nobleman appreciated. But
then the young nobleman was quite aware that the Major was a
friend for club purposes, and sporting purposes, and not for home
use.
'Everything of that kind is pretty good here,' said the Lord.
'You were saying--horses.'
'I dare say you deal better with them than cards.'
'If I didn't I don't know where I should be, seeing what a lot
pass through my hands in the year. Anyone of our fellows who has a
horse to sell thinks that I am bound to buy him. And I do buy 'em.
Last May I had forty-two hunters on my hands.'
'How many of them have you got now?'
'Three. Three of that lot,--though a goodish many have come up
since. But what does it amount to? When I have anything that is
very good, some fellow that I like gets it from me.'
'After paying for him?'
'After paying for him! Yes, I don't mean that I make a fellow a
present. But the man who buys has a deal the best of it. Did you
ever get anything better than that spotted chestnut in your life?'
'What, old Sarcinet?'
'You had her for one hundred and sixty pounds. Now, if you were on
your oath, what is she worth?'
'She suits me, Major, and of course I shouldn't sell her.'
'I rather think not. I knew what that mare was well enough. A
dealer would have had three hundred and fifty pounds for her. I
could have got the money easily if I had taken her down into the
shires, and ridden her a day or two myself.'
'I gave you what you asked.'
'Yes, you did. It isn't often that I take less than I ask. But the
fact is, about horses. I don't know whether I shouldn't do better
if I never owned an animal at all but those I want for my own use.
When I am dealing with a man I call a friend, I can't bear to make
money of him. I don't think fellows give me all the credit they
should do for sticking to them.' The Major, as he said this,
leaned back in his chair, put his hand up to his mustache, and
looked sadly away into the vacancy of the room, as though he were
meditating sorrowfully on the ingratitude of the world.
'I suppose it's all right about Cream Cheese?' asked the Lord.
'Well; it ought to be.' And now the Major spoke like an oracle,
leaning forward on the table, uttering his words in a low voice,
but very plainly, so that not a syllable might be lost. 'When you
remember how he ran at the Craven with 9st 12lb on him, that it
took Archbishop all he knew to beat him with only 9st 2lb, and
what the lot at Chester are likely to be, I don't think that there
can be seven to one against him. I should be very glad to take it
off your hands, only the figures are a little too heavy for me.'
'I suppose Sunflower'll be the best animal there?'
'Not a doubt of it, if he's all right, and if his temper will
stand. Think what a course Chester is for an ill-conditioned brute
like that! And then he's the most uncertain horse in training.
There are times he won't feed. From what I hear, I shouldn't
wonder if he don't turn up at all.'
'Solomon says he's all right.'
'You won't get Solomon to take four to one against him, nor yet
four and a half. I suppose you'll go down my Lord?'
'Well, yes; if there's nothing else doing just then. I don't know
how it may be about this electioneering business. I shall go and
smoke upstairs.'
At the Beargarden there were,--I was going to say, two smoking-
rooms; but in truth the house was a smoking-room all over. It was,
however, the custom of those who habitually played cards, to have
their cigars and coffee upstairs. Into this sanctum Major Tifto
had not yet been introduced, but now he was taken there under Lord
Silverbridge's wing. There were already four or five assembled,
among whom was Mr Adolphus Longstaff, a young man of about thirty-
five years of age, who spent very much of his time at the
Beargarden. 'Do you know my friend Tifto?' said the Lord. 'Tifto,
this is Mr Longstaff, whom men within the walls of this asylum
sometimes call Dolly.' Whereupon the Major bowed and smiled
graciously.
'I have heard of Major Tifto,' said Dolly.
'Who has not?' said Lord Nidderdale, another middle-aged young
man, who made one of the company. Again the Major bowed.
'Last season I was always intending to get down to your country
and have a day with the Tiftoes,' said Dolly. 'Don't they call
your hounds the Tiftoes?'
'They shall be called so if you like,' said the Major. 'And why
didn't you come?'
'It always was such a grind.'
'Train down from Paddington every day at 10.30.'
'That's all very well if you happen to be up. Well, Silverbridge,
how's the Prime Minister?'
'How is he, Tifto?' asked the noble partner.
'I don't think there's a man in England just at present enjoying a
very much better state of health,' said the Major pleasantly.
'Safe to run?' asked Dolly.
'Safe to run! Why shouldn't he be safe to run?'
'I means sure to start.'
'I think we mean him to start, don't we, Silverbridge?' said the
Major.
There was something perhaps in the tone in which the last remark
was made which jarred a little against the young lord's dignity.
At any rate he got up and declared his purpose of going to the
opera. He should look in, he said, and hear a song from
Mademoiselle Stuffa. Mademoiselle Stuffa was the nightingale of
the season, and Lord Silverbridge, when he had nothing else to do,
would sometimes think that he was fond of music. Soon after he was
gone Major Tifto had some whisky-and-water, lit his third cigar,
and began to feel the glory of belonging to the Beargarden. With
Lord Silverbridge, to whom it was essentially necessary that he
should make himself agreeable at all times, he was somewhat
overweighted as it were. Though he attempted an easy familiarity,
he was a little afraid of Lord Silverbridge. With Dolly Longstaff
he felt that he might be comfortable,--not, perhaps, understanding
that gentleman's character. With Lord Nidderdale he had previously
been acquainted, and had found him to be good-natured. So he
sipped his whisky, he became confidential and comfortable.
'I never thought so much about her good looks,' he said. They were
talking of the singer, the charm of whose voice had carried Lord
Silverbridge away.
'Did you ever see her off the stage?' asked Nidderdale.
'Oh dear yes.'
'She does not go about very much, I fancy,' said someone.
'I dare say not,' said Tifto. 'But she and I have had a day or two
together, for all that.'
'You must have been very much favoured,' said Dolly.
'We've been pals ever since she has been over here,' said Tifto,
with an enormous lie.
'How do you get on with her husband?' asked Dolly,--in the simplest
voice, as though not in the least surprised at his companion's
statement.
'Husband!' exclaimed the Major; who was not possessed of
sufficient presence of mind to suppress all signs of ignorance.
'Ah,' said Dolly; 'you are not probably aware that your pal has
been married to Mr Thomas Jones for the last year and a half.'
Soon after that Major Tifto left the club,--with considerable
enhanced respect for Mr Longstaff.
CHAPTER 7
Conservative Convictions
Lord Silverbridge had engaged himself to be with his father the
next morning at half-past nine, and he entered the breakfast-room
a very few minutes after that hour. He had made up his mind as to
what he would say to his father. He meant to call himself a
Conservative, and to go into the House of Commons under that
denomination. All the men among whom he lived were Conservatives.
It was a matter on which, as he thought, his father could have no
right to command him. Down in Barsetshire, as well as up in
London, there was some little difference of opinion in this
matter. The people of Silverbridge declared that they would prefer
to have a conservative member, as indeed they had had one for the
last session. They had loyally returned the Duke himself while he
was a commoner, but they had returned him as being part and parcel
of the Omnium appendages. That was all over now. As a constituency
they were not endowed with advanced views, and thought that a
Conservative would suit them best. That being so, and as they had
been told that the Duke's son was a Conservative, they fancied
that by electing him they would be pleasing everybody. But, in
truth, by so doing they would by no means please the Duke. He had
told them on previous occasions that they might elect whom they
pleased, and felt no anger because they had elected a
Conservative. They might send up to Parliament the most
antediluvian old Tory they could find in England if they wished,
on not his son, not a Palliser as a Tory or Conservative. And
then, though the little town had gone back in the ways of the
world, the county, or the Duke's division of the county, had made
so much progress, that a Liberal candidate recommended by him
would almost certainly be returned. It was just the occasion on
which a Palliser should show himself ready to serve his country.
There would be an expense, but he would think nothing of expense
in such a matter. Ten thousand pounds spent on such an object
would not vex him. The very contest would have given him new life.
All this Lord Silverbridge understood, but had said to himself and
to all his friends that it was a matter in which he did not intend
to be controlled.
The Duke had passed a very unhappy night. He had told himself that
any such marriage as that spoken of was out of the question. He
believed that the matter might be so represented to his girl as to
make her feel that it was out of the question. He hardly doubted
but that he could stamp it out. Though he should have to take her
away to some further corner of the world, he would stamp it out.
But she, when this foolish passion of hers should have been thus
stamped out, could never be the pure, the bright, the unsullied,
unsoiled thing, of the possession of which he had thought so much.
He had never spoken of his hopes about her even to his wife, but
in the silence of his very silent life he had thought much of the
day when he would give her to some noble youth,--noble with all the
gifts of nobility, including rank and wealth,--who might be fit to
receive her. Now, even though no one else should know it,--and all
would know it,--she would be the girl who had condescended to love
young Tregear.
His own Duchess, she whose loss to him now was as though he had
lost half of his limbs,--had not she in the same way loved a
Tregear, or worse than a Tregear, in her early days? Ah, yes!
And though his Cora had been so much to him, had he not often
felt, had he not been feeling all his days, that Fate had robbed
him of the sweetest joy that is given to man, in that she had not
come to him loving him with her early spring of love, as she had
loved that poor ne'er-do-well? How infinite had been his regrets.
How often had he told himself that, with all that Fortune had
given him, still Fortune had been unjust to him because he had
been robbed of that. Not to save his life could he have whispered
a word of this to anyone, but he had felt it. He had felt it for
years. Dear as she had been, she had not been quite what she
should have been but for that. And now this girl of his, who was
so much dearer to him than anything else left to him, was doing
exactly as her mother had done. The young man might be stamped
out. He might be made to vanish as that other young man had
vanished. But the fact that he had been there, cherished in the
girl's heart,--that could not be stamped out.
He struggled gallantly to acquit the memory of his wife. He could
best do that by leaning with the full weight of his mind on the
presumed iniquity of Mrs Finn. Had he not known from the first
that the woman was an adventuress? And had he not declared to
himself over and over again that between such a one and himself
there should be no intercourse, no common feeling? He had allowed
himself to be talked into an intimacy, to be talked into an
affection. And this was the result!
And how should he treat this matter in his coming interview with
his son,--or should he make allusion to it? At first it seemed as
though it would be impossible for him to give his mind to that
other subject. How could he enforce the merits of political
liberalism, and the duty of adhering to the old family party,
while his mind was entirely preoccupied with his daughter? It had
suddenly become almost indifferent to him whether Silverbridge
should be a Conservative or a Liberal. But as he dressed he told
himself, that, as a man, he ought to be able to do a plain duty,
marked out for him as this had been by his own judgement, without
regard to personal suffering. The hedger and ditcher must make his
hedge clean and clean his ditch even though he be tormented by
rheumatism. His duty by his son he must do, even though his heart
were torn to pieces.
During breakfast he tried to be gracious, and condescended to ask
a question about Prime Minister. Racing was an amusement to which
English noblemen had been addicted for many ages, and had been
held to be serviceable rather than disgraceful, if conducted in a
noble fashion. He did not credit Tifto with much nobility. He knew
but little about the Major. He would much have preferred that his
son should have owned a horse alone, if he must have anything to
do with ownership. 'Would it not be better to buy the other
share?' asked the Duke.
'It would take a deal of money, sir. The Major would ask a couple
of thousand, I should think.'
'That is a great deal.'
'And then the Major is a very useful man. He thoroughly
understands the turf.'
'I hope he doesn't live by it?'
'Oh no, he doesn't live by it. That is, he has a great many irons
in the fire.'
'I do not mind a young man owning a horse, if he can afford the
expense,--as you perhaps can do; but I hope you don't bet.'
'Nothing to speak of.'
'Nothing to speak of is so apt to grow into that which has to be
spoken of.' So much that father said at breakfast, hardly giving
his mind to the matter discussed,--his mind being on other things.
But when their breakfast was eaten, then it was necessary that he
should begin. 'Silverbridge,' he said, 'I hope you have thought
better of what we were talking about as to these coming
elections.'
'Well, sir,--of course I have thought about it.'
'And can you do as I would have you?'
'You see, sir, a man's political opinion is a kind of thing he
can't get rid of.'
'You can hardly as yet have any confirmed political opinion. You
are still young, and I do not suppose that you have thought much
about politics.'
'Well, sir; I think I have. I've got my own ideas. We've got to
protect our position as well as we can against the Radicals and
Communists.'
'I cannot admit that at all, Silverbridge. There is no great
political party in this county anxious either for communism or for
revolution. But, putting all that aside for the present, do you
think that a man's political opinions should be held in regard to
his own individual interests, or to the much wider interests of
others, whom we call the public?'
'To his own interest,' said the young man with decision.
'It is simply self-protection then?'
'His own and his class. The people will look after themselves, and
we must look after ourselves. We are so few and they are so many,
that we shall have quite enough to do.'
Then the Duke gave his son a somewhat lengthy political lecture,
which was intended to teach him that the greatest benefit of the
greatest number was the object to which all political studies
should tend. The son listened with attention, and when it was
over, expressed his opinion that there was a great deal in what
his father had said. 'I trust, if you will consider it,' said the
Duke, 'that you will not find yourself obliged to desert the
school of politics in which your father has not been an inactive
supporter, and to which your family has belonged for many years.'
'I could not call myself a Liberal,' said the young politician.
'Why not?'
'Because I am a Conservative.'
'And you won't stand for the county on the Liberal interest?'
'I should be obliged to tell them that I should always give a
Conservative vote.'
'Then you refuse to do as I ask?'
'I do not know how I can help refusing it. If you wanted me to
grow a couple of inches taller, I couldn't do it, even though I
should be ever so anxious to oblige you.'
'But a very young man, as you are, may have so much deference for
his elders as to be induced to believe that he has been in error.'
'Oh yes; of course.'
'You cannot but be aware that the political condition of the
country is the one subject to which I have devoted the labour of
my life.'
'I know that very well; and of course, I know how much they all
think of you.'
'Then my opinion might go for something with you?'
'So it does, sir; I shouldn't have doubted at all only for that.
Still, you see, as the thing is,--how am I to help myself?'
'You believe that you must be right,--you who have never given an
hour's study to the subject.'
'No, sir. In comparison with a great many men, I know that I am a
fool. Perhaps it is because I know that, that I am a Conservative.
The Radicals are always saying that a Conservative must be a fool.
Then a fool ought to be a Conservative.'
Hereupon the father got up from his chair and turned round, facing
the fire, with his back to his son. He was becoming very angry,
but endeavoured to restrain his anger. The matter in dispute
between them was of so great importance, that he could hardly be
justified in abandoning it in consequence of arguments so trifling
in themselves as these which his son adduced. As he stood there
for some minutes thinking of it all, he was tempted again and
again to burst out in wrath and threaten the lad,--to threaten him
as to money, as to his amusements, as to the general tenure of his
life. The pity was so great that the lad should be so stubborn and
so foolish! He would never ask his son to be a slave to the
Liberal party, as he had been. But that a Palliser should not be a
Liberal,--and his son, as the first recreant Palliser,--was
wormwood to him! As he stood there he more than once clenched his
fist in eager desire to turn upon the young man; but he restrained
himself, telling himself that in justice he should not be angry
for such offence as this. To become a Conservative, when the path
to liberalism was so fairly open, might be the part of a fool, but
could not fairly be imputed as a crime. To endeavour to be just
was the study of his life, and in no condition of life can justice
be more imperatively due than from a father to his son.
'You mean to stand for Silverbridge?' he said at last.
'Not if you object, sir.'
This made it worse. It became now still more difficult for him to
scold the young man. 'You are aware that I should not meddle in
any way.'
'That is what I supposed. They will return a Conservative at any
rate.'
'It is not that I care about,' said the Duke sadly.
'Upon my word, sir, I am very sorry to vex you; but what would you
have me do? I will give up Parliament altogether, if you say that
you wish it.'
'No; I do not wish that.'
'You wouldn't have me tell a lie?'
'No.'
'What can I do then?'
'Learn what there is to learn from some master fit to teach you.'
'There are so many masters.'
'I believe it to be that most arrogant ill-behaved young man who
was with me yesterday who has done this evil.'
'You mean Frank Tregear?'
'I do mean Mr Tregear.'
'He's a Conservative, of course; and of course he and I have been
much together. Was he with you yesterday, sir?'
'Yes, he was.'
'What was that about?' asked Lord Silverbridge, in a voice that
almost betrayed fear, for he knew very well what cause had
produced the interview.
'He has been speaking to me-' When the Duke had got so far as this
he paused, finding himself hardly able to declare the disgrace
which had fallen upon himself and his family. As he did tell the
story, both his face and his voice was altered, so that the son,
in truth, was scared. 'He has been speaking to me about your
sister. Did you know of this?'
'I knew there was something between them.'
'And you encouraged it?'
'No, sir; just the contrary. I have told him that I was quite sure
it would never do.'
'And why did you not tell me?'
'Well, sir; it was hardly my business, was it?'
'Not to guard the honour of your sister?'
'You see, sir; so many things have happened all at once.'
'What things?'
'My dear mother, sir, though well of him.' The Duke uttered a
deep sigh, and turned round to the fire. 'I always told him you
would never consent.'
'I should think not.'
'It has come so suddenly. I should have spoken to you about it as
soon as--as soon-' He had meant to say as soon as the husband's
grief for the loss of his wife had been in some degree appeased,
but could not speak the words. The Duke, however, perfectly
understood him. 'In the meantime, they were not seeing each
other.'
'Nor writing?'
'I think not.'
'Mrs Finn has known it all.'
'Mrs Finn!'
'Certainly. She has known all through.'
'I do not see how it can have been so.'
'He told me so himself,' said the Duke, unwittingly putting words
into Tregear's mouth which Tregear had never uttered. 'There must
be an end of this. I will speak to your sister. In the meantime,
the less, I think, you see of Mr Tregear the better. Of course it
is out of the question he should be allowed to remain in this
house. You will make him understand that at once, if you please.'
'Oh, certainly,' said Silverbridge.
CHAPTER 8
He is a Gentleman
The Duke returned to Matching an almost broken-hearted man. He had
intended to go down into Barsetshire, in reference to the coming
elections;--not with the view of interfering in any unlordly, or
rather, unpeerlike fashion, but thinking that if his eldest son
were to stand for the county in a proper constitutional spirit, as
the eldest son of so great a county magnate ought to do, his
presence at Gatherum Castle, among his own people, might properly
be serviceable, and would certainly be gracious. There would be no
question of entertainment. His bereavement would make that
impossible. But there would come from his presence a certain
savour of proprietorship, and a sense of power, which would be
beneficial to his son, and would not, as the Duke thought, be
contrary to the spirit of the constitution. But all this was now
at an end. He told himself that he did not care how the elections
might go;--that he did not care much how anything might go.
Silverbridge might stand for Silverbridge if he so pleased. He
would give neither assistance nor obstruction, either in the
county or in the borough. He wrote to this effect to his agent, Mr
Morton;--but at the same time desired that gentleman to pay Lord
Silverbridge's electioneering expenses, feeling it to be his duty
as a father to do so much for his son.
But though he endeavoured to engage his thoughts in these
parliamentary matters, though he tried to make himself believe
that this political apostasy was the trouble which vexed him, in
truth that other misery was so crushing, as to make the affairs of
his son insignificant. How should he express himself to her? That
was the thought present to his mind as he went down to Matching.
Should he content himself with simply telling her that such a wish
on her part was disgraceful, and that it could never be fulfilled;
or should he argue the matter with her, endeavouring as he did so
to persuade her gently that she was wrong to place her affections
so low, and so to obtain from her an assurance that the idea
should be abandoned?
The latter course would be infinitely the better,--if only he could
accomplish it. But he was conscious of his own hardness of manner,
and was aware that he had never succeeded in establishing
confidence between himself and his daughter. It was a thing for
which he had longed,--as a plain girl might long to possess the
charms of an acknowledged beauty;--as a poor little fellow, five
feet in height, might long to a cubit added to his stature.
Though he was angry with her, how willingly would he take her into
his arms and assure her of his forgiveness! How anxious he would
be to make her understand that nothing should be spared by him to
add beauty and grace to her life! Only, as a matter of course, Mr
Tregear must be abandoned. But he knew of himself that he would
not know how to begin to be tender and forgiving. He knew that he
would not know not to be stern and hard.
But he must find out the history of it all. No doubt the man had
been his son's friend, and had joined the party in Italy at his
son's instance. But yet he had come to entertain the idea that Mrs
Finn had been the great promoter of this sin, and he thought that
Tregear had told him that that lady had been concerned with the
matter from the beginning. In all this there was a craving in his
heart to lessen the amount of culpable responsibility which might
seem to attach itself to the wife he had lost.
He reached Matching about eight, and ordered his dinner to be
brought to him in his own study. When Lady Mary came to welcome
him, he kissed her forehead, and bade her to come to him after his
dinner. 'Shall I not sit with you, papa, whilst you are eating
it?' she asked; but he merely told her that he would not trouble
her to do that. Even in saying this, he was so unusually tender to
her that she assured herself that her lover had not as yet told
his tale.
The Duke's meals were generally not feasts for a Lucullus. No man
living, perhaps, cared less what he ate, or knew less what he
drank. In such matters he took what was provided for him, making
his dinner off the first bit of meat that was brought, and simply
ignoring anything offered to him afterwards. And he would drink
what wine the servant gave him, mixing it, whatever it might be,
with seltzer water. He had never been given much the pleasures of
the table; but this habit of simplicity had grown on him of late,
till the Duchess used to tell him that his wants were so few that
it was a pity he was not a hermit, vowed to poverty.
Very shortly a message was brought to Lady Mary, saying that her
father wished to see her. She went at once, and found him seated
on a sofa, which stood close along the bookshelves on one side of
the room. The table had already been cleared, and he was alone. He
not only was alone, but had not even a pamphlet or newspaper in
his hand.
Then she knew that Tregear must have told the story. As his
occurred to her, her legs almost gave way under her. 'Come and sit
down, Mary,' he said, pointing to the seat on the sofa beside
himself.
She sat down and took one of his hands within her own. Then, as he
did not begin at once, she asked a question. 'Will Silverbridge
stand for the county, papa?'
'No, my dear.'
'But for the town.'
'Yes, my dear.'
'And he won't be a Liberal?'
'I am afraid not. It is a cause of great unhappiness to me; but I
do not know that I should be justified in any absolute opposition.
A man is entitled to his own opinion, even though he be a very
young man.'
'I am so sorry that it should be so, papa, because it vexes you.'
'I have many things to vex me;--things to break my heart.'
'Poor mamma!' she exclaimed.
'Yes; that above all others. But life and death are in God's
hands, and even though we may complain we can alter nothing. But
whatever our sorrows are, while we are here we must do our duty.'
'I suppose he may be a good Member of Parliament, though he has
turned Conservative.'
'I am not thinking about your brother. I am thinking about you.'
The poor girl gave a little start on the sofa. 'Do you know-Mr
Tregear?' he added.
'Yes, papa; of course I know him. You used to see him in Italy.'
'I believe I did; I understood that he was there as a friend of
Silverbridge.'
'His most intimate friend, papa.'
'I dare say. He came to me in London yesterday, and told me,--! Oh
Mary, can it be true?'
'Yes, papa,' she said, covered up to her forehead with blushes,
and with her eyes turned down. In the ordinary affairs of life she
was a girl of great courage, who was not given to be shaken from
her constancy by the pressures of any present difficulty; but now
the terror inspired by her father's voice almost overpowered her.
'Do you mean to tell me that you have engaged yourself to that
young man without my approval?'
'Of course you were to have been asked, papa.'
'Is that in accordance with your idea of what should be the
conduct of a young lady in your position?'
'Nobody meant to conceal anything from you, papa.'
'It has been so far concealed. And yet this young man has the
self-confidence to come to me and to demand your hand as though it
were a matter of course that I should accede to so trivial a
request. It is, as a matter of course, quite impossible. You
understand that; do you not?' When she did not answer him at
once, he repeated the question. 'I ask you whether you do not feel
that it is altogether impossible?'
'No, papa,' she said, in the lowest possible whisper, but still in
such a whisper that he could hear the word, and with so much
clearness that he could judge from her face the obstinacy of her
mind.
'Then, Mary, it becomes my duty to tell you that it is quite
impossible. I will not have it thought of. There must be an end of
it.'
'Why, papa?'
'Why! I am astonished that you should ask me why.'
'I should not have allowed him, papa, to go to you unless I had,--
unless I had loved him.'
'Then you must conquer your love. It is disgraceful and must be
conquered.'
'Disgraceful!'
'Yes. I am sorry to use such word to my own child, but it is so.
If you will promise to be guided by me in this matter, if you will
undertake not to see him any more, I will,--if not forget it,--at
any rate pardon it, and be silent. I will excuse it because you
were young, and were thrown imprudently in his way. There has, I
believe, been someone at work in the matter with whom I ought to
be more angry than with you. Say that you will obey me, and there
is nothing within a father's power that I will not do for you, to
make your life happy.' It was thus that he strove to be stern.
His heart, indeed, was tender enough, but there was nothing tender
in the tone of his voice or in the glance of his eye. Though he
was very positive in what he said, yet he was shy and shamefaced
even with his own daughter. He, too, had blushed when he told her
that she must conquer her love.
That she should be told that she had disgraced herself was
terrible to her. That her father should speak of her marriage with
this man as an event that was impossible made her very unhappy.
That he should talk of pardoning her, as for some great fault, was
in itself a misery. But she had not on that account the least idea
of giving up her lover. Young as she was, she had her own peculiar
theory on that matter, her own code of conduct and honour, from
which she did not mean to be driven. Of course she had not
expected that her father would yield at the first word. He, no
doubt, would wish that she should make a more exalted marriage.
She had known that she would have to encounter opposition, though
she had not expected to be told that she had disgraced herself. As
she sat there she resolved that under no pretence would she give
up her lover;--but she was so far abashed that she could not find
words to express herself. He, too, had been silent for a few
moments before he again asked her for her promise.
'Will you tell me, Mary, that you will not see him again?'
'I don't think I can say that, papa.'
'Why not?'
'Oh, papa, how can I, when of all people in the world I love him
the best.'
It is not without a pang that anyone can be told that she who is
of all the dearest has some other one who is to her the dearest.
Such pain fathers and mothers have to bear; and though, I think,
the arrow is never so blunted but that it leaves something of a
wound behind, there is in most cases, if not a perfect salve,
still an ample consolation. The mother knows that it is good that
her child should love some man better than all the world beside,
and that she should be taken away to become a wife and a mother.
And the father, when that delight of his eye ceases to assure him
that he is her nearest and dearest, though he abandon the treasure
of the nearestness and dearestness with a soft melancholy, still
knows that it should be. Of course that other 'him' is the person
she loves the best in the world. Were it not so how evil a thing
it would be that she should marry him? Were it not so with
reference to some 'him', how void would her life be! But now, to
the poor Duke the wound had no salve, no consolation. When he was
told that this young Tregear was the owner of the girl's sweet
love, was the treasure of her heart, he shrank as though arrows
with sharp points were pricking him all over. 'I will not hear of
such love,' he said.
'What am I to say, papa?'
'Say that you will obey me.'
Then she sat silent. 'Do you not know that he is not fit to be
your husband?'
'No, papa.'
'Then you cannot have thought much either of your position or of
mine.'
'He is a gentleman, papa.'
'So is my private secretary. There is not a clerk in one of our
public offices who does not consider himself to be a gentleman.
The curate of the parish is a gentleman, and the medical man who
comes here from Bradstock. The word is too vague to carry with it
any meaning that ought to be serviceable to you in thinking of
such a matter.'
'I do not know of any other way of dividing people,' said she,
showing thereby that she had altogether made up her mind as to
what ought to be serviceable to her.
'You are not called upon to divide people. That division requires
so much experience that you are bound in this matter to rely upon
those to whom your obedience is due. I cannot but think you must
have known that you were not entitled to give your love to any man
without being assured that the man would be approved of by--by--by
me. He was going to say 'your parents', but was stopped by the
remembrance of his wife's imprudence.
She saw it all, and was too noble to plead her mother's authority.
But she was not too dutiful to cast a reproach upon him, when he
was so stern to her. 'You have been so little with me, papa.'
'That is true,' he said, after a pause. 'That is true. It has been
a fault and I will need to mend it. It is a reason for
forgiveness, and I will forgive you. But you must tell me that
there shall be an end to this.'
'No, papa.'
'What do you mean?'
'That I love Mr Tregear, and as I have told him so, and as I have
promised him, I will be true to him. I cannot let there be an end
to it.'
'You do not suppose that you will be allowed to see him again?'
'I hope so.'
'Most assuredly not. Do you write to him?'
'No, papa.'
'Never?'
'Never since we have been back in England.'
'You must promise me that you will not write.'
She paused for a moment before she answered him, and now she was
looking him full in the face. 'I shall not write to him. I do not
think I shall write to him; but I will not promise.'
'Not promise me,--your father!'
'No, papa. It might be that--that I should do it.'
'You would not wish me so to guard you that you should have no
power of sending a letter but by permission?'
'I should not like that.'
'But it will have to be so.'
'If I do write I will tell you.'
'And show me what you write?'
'No, papa; not that, but I will tell you what I have written.'
Then it occurred to him that this bargaining was altogether
derogatory to his parental authority, and by no means likely to
impress upon her mind the conviction that Tregear must be
completely banished from her thoughts. He began already to find
how difficult it would be for him to have the charge of such a
daughter,--how impossible that he should conduct such a charge with
sufficient firmness, and yet with sufficient tenderness! At
present he had done no good. He had only been made more wretched
than ever by her obstinacy. Surely he must pass her over to the
charge of some lady,--but of some lady who would be as determined
as he was himself that she should not throw herself away by
marrying Mr Tregear. 'There shall be no writing,' he said, 'no
visiting, no communication of any kind. As you refuse to obey me
now, you had better go to your room.'
CHAPTER 9
'In Media Res'
Perhaps the method of rushing at once 'in media res' is, of all
the ways of beginning a story, or a separate branch of a story,
the least objectionable. The reader is made to think that the gold
lies so near the surface that he will be required to take very
little trouble in digging for it. And the writer is enabled,--at
any rate for a time, and till his neck has become, as it were,
warm to the collar,--to throw off from him the difficulties and
dangers, the tedium and prolixity, of description. This rushing
'in media res' has doubtless the charm of ease. 'Certainly when I
threw her from the garret window to the stony pavement below, I
did not anticipate that she would fall so far without injury to
life or limb.' When a story has been begun after this fashion,
without any prelude, without description of the garret or of the
pavement, or of the lady thrown, or of the speaker, a great amount
of trouble seems to have been saved. The mind of the reader fills
up the blanks,--if erroneously, still satisfactorily. He knows, at
least, that the heroine has encountered a terrible danger, and has
escaped from it with almost incredible good fortune, that the
demon of the piece is a bold demon, not ashamed to speak of his
own iniquity, and that the heroine and the demon are so far united
that they have been in a garret together. But there is the
drawback on the system,--that it is almost impossible to avoid the
necessity of doing, sooner or later, that which would naturally be
done at first. It answers, perhaps, for a half-a-dozen chapters;--
and to carry the reader pleasantly for half-a-dozen chapters is a
great matter!-but after that a certain nebulous darkness gradually
seems to envelope the characters and the incidents. 'Is all this
going on in the country, or is it in town,--or perhaps in the
Colonies? How old was she? Was she tall? Is she fair? Is she
heroine-like in her form and gait? And, after all, how high was
the garret window? I have always found that the details would
insist on being told at last, and that by rushing 'in media res' I
was simply presenting the cart before the horse. But as readers
like the cart the best, I will do it once again,--trying it only
for a branch of my story,--and will endeavour to let as little as
possible of the horse be seen afterwards.
'And so poor Frank has been turned out of heaven?' said Lady Mabel
Grex to young Lord Silverbridge.
'Who told you that? I have said nothing to anybody.'
'Of course he told me himself,' said the young beauty. I am aware
that, in the word beauty, and perhaps, also, the word young, a
little bit of the horse appearing; and I am already sure that I
shall have to show his head and neck, even if not his very tail.
'Poor Frank! Did you hear it all?'
'I heard nothing, Lady Mab, and know nothing.'
'You know that your awful governor won't let him stay any longer
in Carlton Terrace?'
'Yes, I know that.'
'And why not?'
'Would Lord Grex allow Percival to have his friends living here?'
Lord Grex was Lady Mabel's father, Lord Percival was the Earl's
son;--and the Earl lived in Belgrave Square. All these little bits
of the horse.
'Certainly not. In the first place, I am here.'
'That makes a difference, certainly.'
'Of course it makes a difference. They would be wanting to make
love to me.'
'No doubt. I should, I know.'
'And therefore it wouldn't do for you to live here, and then papa
is living here himself. And then the permission never has been
given. I suppose Frank did not go there without the Duke knowing
it.'
'I daresay that I mentioned it.'
'You might as well tell me about it. We are cousins, you know.'
Frank Tregear, through his mother's family, was second cousin to
Lady Mabel; as was also Lord Silverbridge, one of the Grexes
having, at some remote period, married a Palliser. This is another
bit of the horse.
'The governor merely seemed to think that he would like to have
his own house to himself,--like other people. What an ass Tregear
was to say anything to you about it.'
'I don't think he was an ass at all. Of course he had to tell us
that he was changing his residence. He says that he is going to
take a back bedroom somewhere near the Seven Dials.'
'He has got very nice rooms in Duke Street.'
'Have you seen him, then?'
'Of course I have.'
'Poor fellow! I wish he had a little money; he is so nice. And
now, Lord Silverbridge, do you mean to say that there is something
in the wind about Lady Mary?'
'If there were I should not talk about it,' said Lord
Silverbridge.
'You are a very innocent young gentleman.'
'And you are a very interesting young lady.'
'You ought to think me so, for I interest myself very much about
you. Was the Duke very angry about your not standing for the
county?'
'He was vexed.'
'I do think it is so odd that a man should be expected to be this
or that in politics because his father happened to be so before
him! I don't understand how he should expect that you should
remain with a party so utterly snobbish and down in the world as
the Radicals. Everybody that is worth anything is leaving them.'
'He has not left them.'
'No, I don't suppose he could; but you have.'
'I never belonged to them, Lady Mab.'
'And never will, I hope. I always told papa that you would
certainly be one of us.' All this took place in the drawing-room
of Lord Grex's house. There was no Lady Grex alive, but there
lived with the Earl, a certain elderly lady, reported in some
distant way a cousin of the family, named Miss Cassewary, who in
the matter of looking after Lady Mab, did what was supposed to be
absolutely necessary. She now entered the room with her bonnet on,
having just returned from church. 'What was the text?' asked Lady
Mab at once.
'If you had gone to church, as you ought to have done, my dear,
you would have heard it.'
'But as I didn't?'
'I don't think the text alone will do you any good.'
'And probably you forget it.'
'No, I don't, my dear. How do you do, Lord Silverbridge?'
'He is a Conservative, Miss Cass.'
'Of course he is. I am quite sure that a young nobleman of so much
taste and intellect would take the better side.'
'You forget that all you are saying is against my father and my
family, Miss Cassewary.'
'I dare say it was different when your father was a young man. And
your father, too, was not very long since, at the head of a
government which contained many Conservatives. I don't look upon
your father as a Radical, though perhaps I should not be justified
in calling him a Conservative.'
'Well; certainly not, I think.'
'But now it is necessary that all noblemen in England should rally
to the defence of their order.' Miss Cassewary was a great
politician, and was one of those who are always foreseeing the
ruin of their country. 'My dear, I will go up and take my bonnet
off. Perhaps you will have tea when I come down.'
'Don't you go,' said Lady Mabel, when Silverbridge got up to take
his departure.
'I always do when tea comes.'
'But you are going to dine here?'
'Not that I know of. In the first place, nobody has asked me. In
the second place, I am engaged. Thirdly, I don't care about having
to talk politics to Miss Cass; and fourthly, I hate family dinners
on Sunday.'
'In the first place, I ask you. Secondly, I know you are going to
dine with Frank Tregear, at the club. Thirdly, I want you to talk
to me, and not to Miss Cass. And, fourthly, you are an uncivil
young,--young,--young,--I should say cub, if I dared, to tell me that
you don't like dining with me any day of the week.'
'Of course you know what I mean is, that I don't like troubling
your father.'
'Leave that to me. I shall tell him you are coming, and Frank too.
Of course you can bring him. Then he can talk to me when papa goes
down to his club, and you can arrange your politics with Miss
Cass.' So it was settled, and at eight o'clock Lord Silverbridge
reappeared in Belgrave Square with Frank Tregear.
Earl Grex was a nobleman of a very ancient family, the Grexes
having held the parish of Grex, in Yorkshire, from some time long
prior to the Conquest. In saying all this, I am, I know, allowing
the horse to appear wholesale;--but I find that he cannot be kept
out. I may as well go on to say that the present Earl was better
known at Newmarket and the Beaufort,--where he spent a large part
of his life in playing whist,--than in the House of Lords. He was a
grey-haired, handsome, worn-out old man, who through a long life
of pleasure had greatly impaired a fortune, which, for an earl,
had never been magnificent, and who now strove hard, but not
always successfully, to remedy that evil by gambling. As he could
no longer eat and drink as he used to do, and as he cared no
longer for the light that lies in a lady's eye, there was not much
left to him but cards and racing. Nevertheless he was a handsome
old man, of polished manners, when he chose to use them; a staunch
Conservative and much regarded by his party, for whom in his early
life he had done some work in the House of Commons.
'Silverbridge is all very well,' he had said; 'but I don't see why
that young Tregear is to dine here every night of his life.'
'This is the second time since he has been up in town. Papa.'
'He was here last week, I know.'
'Silverbridge wouldn't come without him.'
'That's d-d nonsense,' said the Earl. Miss Cassewary gave a
start,--not, we may presume, because she was shocked, for she could
not be much shocked, having heard the same word from the same lips
very often; but she thought it right always to enter a protest.
Then the two young men were announced.
Frank Tregear, having been known by the family as a boy, was Frank
to all of them,--as was Lady Mabel, Mabel to him, somewhat to the
disgust of the father and not altogether with the approbation of
Miss Cass. But Lady Mabel had declared that she would not be
guilty of the folly of changing old habits. Silverbridge, being
Silverbridge to all his own people, hardly seemed to have a
Christian name;--his godfathers and godmothers had indeed called
him Plantagenet;--but having only become acquainted with the family
since his Oxford days he was Lord Silverbridge to Lady Mabel. Lady
Mabel had not as yet become Mabel to him, but, as by her very
intimate friends she was called Mab, had allowed herself to be
addressed by him as Lady Mab. There was thus between them all
considerable intimacy.
'I'm deuced glad to hear it,' said the Earl when dinner was
announced. For although he could not eat much, Lord Grex was
always impatient when the time of eating was at hand. Then he
walked down alone. Lord Silverbridge followed with his daughter,
and Frank Tregear gave his arm to Miss Cassewary. 'If that woman
can't clear her soup better than that, she might as well go to the
d-,' said the Earl;--upon which remark no one in the company made
any observation. As there were two men-servants in the room when
it was made the cook probably had the advantage of it. It may be
almost unnecessary to add that though the Earl had polished
manners for certain occasions he would sometimes throw them off in
the bosom of his own family.
'My Lord,' said Miss Cassewary--she always called him 'My Lord'--
'Lord Silverbridge is going to stand for the Duke's borough in the
conservative interest.'
'I didn't know the Duke had a borough.'
'He had one till he thought it proper to give it up,' said the son,
taking his father's part.
'And you are going to pay him off for what he has done by standing
against him. It's just the sort of thing a son to do in these
days. If I had a borough Percival would go down and make radical
speeches there.'
'There isn't a better Conservative in England than Percival,' said
Lady Mabel, bridling up.
'Nor a worse son,' said the father. 'I believe he would do
anything he could lay his hand on to oppose me.' During the past
week there had been some little difference of opinion between the
father and the son as to the signing of a deed.
'My father does not take it in bad part at all,' said
Silverbridge.
'Perhaps he is ratting himself,' said the Earl. 'When a man lends
himself to a coalition he is as good as half gone.'
'I do not think that in all England there is so thorough a Liberal
as my father,' said Lord Silverbridge. 'And when I say that he
doesn't take this badly, I don't mean that it doesn't vex him. I
know it vexes him. But he doesn't quarrel with me, he even wrote
to Barsetshire to say that all my expenses at Silverbridge were to
be paid.'
'I call that bad politics,' said the Earl.
'It seems to me to be very grand,' said Frank.
'Perhaps, sir, you don't know what is good or what is bad in
politics,' said the Earl, trying to snub his guest.
But it was difficult to snub Frank. 'I know a gentleman when I see
him, I think,' he said. 'Of course Silverbridge is right to be a
Conservative. Nobody has a stronger opinion about that than I
have. But the Duke is behaving so well that if I were he I should
almost regret it.'
'And so I do,' said Silverbridge.
When the ladies were gone the old Earl turned himself round the
fire, having filled his glass and pushed the bottles away from
him, as though he meant to leave the two young men to themselves.
He sat leaning with his head on his hand, looking the picture of
woe. It was now only nine o'clock, and there would be no more
whist at the Beaufort till eleven. There was still more than a
hour to be endured before the brougham would come to fetch him. 'I
suppose we shall have a majority,' said Frank, trying to rouse
him.
'Who does "We" mean?' asked the Earl.
'The Conservatives, of whom I take the liberty to call myself
one.'
'It sounded as though you were a very influential member of the
party.'
'I consider myself to be one of the party, and so I say "We".'
Upstairs in the drawing-room Miss Cassewary did her duty loyally.
It was quite right that young ladies and young gentlemen should be
allowed to talk together, and very right indeed that such a young
gentleman as Lord Silverbridge should be allowed to talk so such a
young lady as Lady Mabel. What could be so nice as a marriage
between the heir of the house of Omnium and Lady Mabel Grex? Lady
Mabel looked indeed to be the elder,--but they were in truth the
same age. All the world acknowledged that Lady Mabel was very
clever and very beautiful and fit to be a Duchess. Even the Earl,
when Miss Cassewary hinted at the matter to him, grunted an
assent. Lady Mabel had already refused one or two not ineligible
offers, and it was necessary that something should be done. There
had been at one time a fear in Miss Cassewary's bosom lest her
charge should fall too deeply in love with Frank Tregear,--but Miss
Cassewary knew that whatever danger there might have been in that
respect had passed away. Frank was willing to talk to her, while
Mabel and Lord Silverbridge were in a corner together.
'I shall be on tenterhooks now till I know how it is to be at
Silverbridge,' said the young lady.
'It is very good of you to feel so much interest.'
'Of course I feel an interest. Are you not one of us? When is to
be?'
'They say that the elections will be over before the Derby.'
'And which do you care for the most?'
'I should like to pull off the Derby, I own.'
'From what papa says, I should think the other event is more
probable.'
'Doesn't the Earl stand to win on Prime Minister?'
'I never know anything about his betting. But,--you know his way,--
he said you were going to drop a lot of money like a-I can't quite
tell you what he likened you to.'
'The Earl may be mistaken.'
'You are not betting much, I hope.'
'Not plunging. But I have a little money on.'
'Don't get into the way of betting.'
'Why:--what difference does it make,--to you?'
'Is that kind, Lord Silverbridge?'
'I meant to say that if I did make a mess of it you wouldn't care
about it.'
'Yes, I should. I should care very much. I dare say you could lose
a great deal of money and care nothing about it.'
'Indeed I could not.'
'What would be a great deal of money to me. But you would want to
get it back again. And in that way you would be regularly on the
turf.'
'And why not?'
'I want to see better things from you.'
'You ought not to preach against the turf, Lady Mab.'
'Because of papa? But I am not preaching against the turf. If I
were such as you are I would have a horse or two myself. A man in
your position should do a little of everything. You should hunt
and have a yacht, and stalk deer and keep your own trainer at
Newmarket.'
'I wish you would say all that to my father.'
'Of course I mean if you can afford it. I like a man to like
pleasure. But I despise a man who makes a business of his
pleasures. When I hear that this man is the best whist-player in
London, and that man the best billiard-player, I always know that
they can do nothing else, and then I despise them.'
'You needn't despise me, because I do nothing well,' said he, as
he got up to take his leave.
'I do so hope you'll get the seat,--and win the Derby.'
These were her last words to him as she wished him good-night.
CHAPTER 10
Why if not Romeo if I Feel like Romeo?
'That's nonsense, Miss Cass, and I shall,' said Lady Mabel. They
were together on the morning after the little dinner-party
described in the last chapter, in a small back sitting-room which
was supposed to be Lady Mabel's own, and the servant had just
announced that Mr Tregear was below.
'Then I shall go down too,' said Miss Cassewary.
'You'll do nothing of the kind. Will you please to tell me what it
is you are afraid of? Do you think that Frank is going to make
love to me again?'
'No.'
'Or that if I chose that he should I would let you stop me? He is
in love with somebody else,--and perhaps I am too. And we are two
paupers.'
'My lord would not approve of it.'
'If you know what my lord approves of and he disapproves you
understand a great deal better than I do. And if you mind what he
approves or disapproves, you care for his opinion a great deal
more than I do. My cousin is here now to talk to me,--about it his
own affairs, and I mean to see him,--alone.' Then she left the
room, and went down to that in which Frank was waiting for her,
without the company of Miss Cassewary.
'Do you really mean,' she said, after they had been together for
some minutes, 'that you had the courage to ask the Duke for his
daughter's hand?'
'Why not?'
'I believe you would dare to do anything.'
'I couldn't very well take it without asking him.'
'As I am not acquainted with the young lady I don't know how that
might be.'
'And if I took her so, I should have to take her empty-handed.'
'Which wouldn't suit;--would it?'
'It wouldn't suit for her,--whose comforts and happiness are much
more to me than my own.'
'No doubt! Of course you are terribly in love.'
'Very thoroughly in love, I think I am.'
'For the tenth time, I should say.'
'For the second only. I don't regard myself as a monument of
constancy, but I think I am less fickle than some other people.'
'Meaning me?'
'Not especially.'
'Frank, that is ill-natured, and almost unmanly,--and false also.
When have been fickle? You say that there was one before with you.
I say that thee has never really been one with me at all. No one
knows that better than yourself. I cannot afford to be in love
till I am quite sure that the man is fit to be, and will be, my
husband.
'I doubt sometimes whether you are capable of being in love with
anyone.'
'I think I am,' she said, very gently. 'But I am at any rate
capable of not being in love till I wish it. Come, Frank, do not
quarrel with me. You know,--you ought to know,--that I should have
loved you had not been that such love would have been bad for both
of us.'
'It is a kind of self-restraint I do not understand.'
'Because you are not a woman.'
'Why did you twit me with changing my love?'
'Because I am a woman. Can't you forgive as much as that to me?'
'Certainly. Only you must not think that I have been false because
I now love so dearly.'
'I do not think you are false. I would do anything to help you if
there were anything I could do. But when you spoke so like a Romeo
of your love,--'
'Why not like a Romeo, if I feel like a Romeo?'
'But I doubt whether Romeo talked much to Rosaline of his love for
Juliet. But you shall talk to me of yours for Lady Mary, and I
will listen to you patiently and encourage you, and will not even
think of those former vows.'
'The former vows were foolish.'
'Oh--of course.'
'You at least used to say so.'
'I say so now, and they shall be as though they had never been
spoken. So you bearded the Duke in his den, and asked him for Lady
Mary's hand,--just as though you had been a young Duke yourself and
owned half a county?'
'Just the same.'
'And what did he say?'
'He swore that it was impossible.-Of course I knew all that
before.'
'How will it be now? You will not give it up?'
'Certainly not.'
'And Lady Mary?'
'One human being can perhaps never answer for another with perfect
security.'
'But you feel sure of her.'
'I do.'
'He, I should think, be very imperious.'
'And so can she. The Pallisers are all obstinate.'
'Is Silverbridge obstinate?' she asked.
'Stiff-necked as a bull if he takes it into his head to be so.'
'I shouldn't have thought it.'
'No;--because he is so soft in his manner, and often finds it
easier to be led by others than to direct himself.'
Then she remained silent for a few seconds. They were both
thinking of the same thing, and both wishing to speak of it. But
the words came to her first. 'I wonder what he thinks of me.'
Whereupon Tregear only smiled. 'I suppose he has spoken to you
about me?'
'Why do you ask?'
'Why?'
'And why should I tell you? Suppose he should have said to me in
the confidence of friendship that he thinks you ugly and stupid.'
'I am sure he has not said that. He has eyes to see and ears to
hear. But, though I am neither ugly nor stupid, he needn't like
me.'
'Do you want him to like you?'
'Yes, I do. Oh yes; you may laugh; but if I did not think that I
could be a good wife to him I would not take his hand even to
become the Duchess of Omnium.'
'Do you mean that you love him, Mabel?'
'No; I do not mean that. But I would learn to love him. You do not
believe that?' Here he again smiled and shook his head. 'It is as
I said before, because you are not a woman, and do not understand
how woman are trammelled. Do you think ill of me because I say
this?'
'No, indeed.'
'Do not think ill of me if you can help it, because you are almost
the only friend that I trust. I almost trust dear old Cass, but
not quite. She is old-fashioned and I shock her. As for other
women, there isn't one anywhere to whom I would say a word. Only
think how a girl such as I am is placed; or indeed any girl. You,
if you see a woman that you fancy, can pursue her, can win her and
triumph, or lose her and gnaw your heart;--at any rate you can do
something. You can tell her that you love her; can tell her so
again and again even though she should scorn you. You can set
yourself about the business you have taken in hand and can work
hard at it. What can a girl do?'
'Girls work hard sometimes.'
'Of course they do;--but everybody feels that they are sinning
against their sex. Of love, such as a man's is, a woman ought to
know nothing. How can she love with passion when she should never
give her love till it has been asked, and not then unless her
friends tell her that the thing is suitable? Love such as that to
me is out of the question. But, as it is fit that I should be
married, I wish to be married well.'
'And you will love him after a fashion?'
'Yes;--after a very sterling fashion. I will make his wishes my
wishes, his ways my ways, his party my party, his home my home,
his ambition my ambition,--his honour my honour.' As she said this
she stood up with her hands clenched and head erect, and her eyes
flashing. 'Do you not know me well enough to be sure that I should
be loyal to him?'
'Yes;--I think that you would be loyal.'
'Whether I loved him or not, he should love me.'
'And you think that Silverbridge would do?'
'Yes. I think that Silverbridge would do. You, no doubt, will say
that I am flying high.'
'Not too high. Why should you not fly high? If I can justify
myself, surely I cannot accuse you.'
'It is hardly the same thing, Frank. Of course there is not a girl
in London to whom Lord Silverbridge would not be the best match
that she could make. He has the choice of us all.'
'Most girls would think twice before refusing him.'
'Very few would think twice before accepting him. Perhaps he
wishes to add to his wealth by marrying richly,--as his father
did.'
'No thought on that subject would ever trouble him. That will be
all as it happens. As soon as he takes sufficient fancy to a girl
he will ask her straight off. I do not say that he might not
change afterwards, but he would mean it at the time.'
'If he had once said the word to me, he should not change. But
then what right have I to expect it? What has he ever said about
me?'
'Very little. But had he said much I should not tell you.'
'You are my friend,--but you are his too; and he, perhaps, is more
to you than I am. As his friend it may be your duty to tell him
all that I am saying. If so, I have been wrong.'
'Do you think that I shall do that, Mabel?'
'I do not know. Men are so strong in their friendships.'
'Mine with you is the older, and the sweeter. Though we may not be
more than friends, I will say that it is the more tender. In my
heart of hearts, I do not think that Silverbridge could do
better.'
'Thanks for that, Frank.'
'I shall tell him nothing of you that can set him against you.'
'And you would be glad to see me his wife?' she said.
'As you must be somebody's wife, and not mine.'
'I cannot be yours, Frank.'
'And not mine,' he repeated. 'I will endeavour to be glad. Who can
explain his feelings in such a matter? Though I most truly love
the girl I hope to marry, yet my heart goes back to former things
and opens itself to past regrets.'
'I know it all,' she whispered.
'But you and I must be too wise to permit ourselves to be
tormented by such foolish melancholy.' As he said this he took
her hand, half with the purpose of bidding her good-bye, but
partly with the idea of giving some expression of tenderness of
his feelings. But as he did so, the door was opened, and the old
Earl shambled into the room.
'What the deuce are you doing here?' he said.
'I have been talking to Lady Mabel.'
'For about an hour.'
'Indeed I do not know for how long.'
'Papa, he is going to be married.' When she said this Frank
Tregear turned round and looked at her almost in anger.
'Going to be married, is he? And who is the fortunate woman?
'I don't think he will let me tell you.'
'Not yet, I think,' said Frank, gloomily. 'There is nothing
settled.'
The old Earl looked puzzled, but Lady Mabel's craft had been
successful. If this objectionable young second-cousin had come
there to talk about his marriage with another young woman, the
conversation must have been innocent. 'Where is Miss Cassewary?'
asked the Earl.
'I asked her not to come down with me because Frank wished to
speak to me about his own affairs. You have no objection to his
coming, papa?'
There had been objections raised to any intimacy with Frank
Tregear, but all that was now nearly two years since. He had been
assured over and over again by Miss Cassewary that he need not be
afraid of Frank Tregear, and had in a sort of way assented to the
young man's visits. 'I think he might find something better to do
with his time than hanging about here all day.' Frank, shrugging
his shoulders, and having shaken hands with both the daughter and
father, took his hat and departed. 'Who is the girl?' asked the
Earl.
'You heard him say that I was not to tell.'
'Has she got money?'
'I believe she will have a great deal.'
'Then she is a great fool for her pains,' said the Earl, shambling
off again.
Lady Mabel spent the greater part of the afternoon alone,
endeavouring to recall to her mind all that she had said to Frank
Tregear, and questioning herself as to the wisdom and truth of her
own words. She had intended to tell the truth,--but hardly perhaps
the whole truth. The life which was before her,--which it was
necessary that she should lead,--seemed to her to be so difficult!
She could not clearly see her way to be pure and good and
feminine, and at the same time wise. She had been false now,--so
far false that she had told her friend that she had never been in
love. But she was in love;--in love with him, Frank Tregear. She
knew it as thoroughly as it was possible for her to know
anything;--and had acknowledged it to herself a score of times.
But, she could not marry him. And it was expected, nay, almost
necessary that she should marry someone. To that someone, how good
she would be! How she would strive by duty and attention, and if
possible by affection, to make up for the misfortune of her early
love.
And so I hope that I have brought my cart to its appointed place
in the front, without showing too much of the horse.
CHAPTER 11
Cruel
For two or three days after the first scene between the Duke and
his daughter,--that scene in which she was forbidden either to see
or to write to her lover,--not a word was said at Matching about Mr
Tregear, nor were any steps taken towards curtailing her liberty
of action. She had said she would not write to him without telling
her father, and the Duke was too proud of the honour of his family
to believe it to be possible that she should deceive him. Nor was
it possible. Not only would her own idea of duty prevent her from
writing to her lover, although she had stipulated for the right to
do so in some possible emergency,--but, carried far beyond that in
her sense of what was right and wrong, she felt it now incumbent
on her to have no secret from her father at all. The secret, as
long as it had been a secret, had been a legacy from her mother,--
and had been kept, at her lover's instance, during that period of
mourning for her mother in which it would, she thought, have been
indecorous that there should be any question of love or of giving
in marriage. It had been a burden to her, though a necessary
burden. She had been very clear that the revelation should be made
to her father, when it was made, by her lover. That had been
done,--and now it was open to her to live without any secrecy,--as
was her nature. She meant to cling to her lover. She was quite
sure of that. Nothing could divide her from him but his death or
hers,--or falseness on his part. But as to marriage, that would not
be possible till her father had assented. And as to seeing the
man,--ah, yes if she could do so with her father's assent! She
would not be ashamed to own her great desire to see him. She would
tell her father that all her happiness depended on seeing him, she
would not be coy in speaking of her love. But she would obey her
father.
She had a strong idea that she would ultimately prevail,--and idea
also that that 'ultimately' should not be postponed to some
undefined middle-aged period in her life. As she intended to
belong to Frank Tregear, she thought it expedient that he should
have the best of her days as well as what might be supposed to be
the worst; and she therefore resolved that it would be her duty to
make her father understand that though she would certainly obey
him, she would look to be treated humanely by him, and not to be
made miserable for an indefinite term of years.
The first word spoken between them on the subject,--the first word
after that discussion, began with him and was caused by his
feeling that her present life at Matching must be sad and lonely.
Lady Cantrip had again written that she would be delighted to take
her;--but Lady Cantrip was in London and must be in London, at any
rate when Parliament would again be sitting. A London life would
perhaps, at present, hardly suit Lady Mary. Then a plan had been
prepared which might be convenient. The Duke had a house at
Richmond, on the river, called The Horns. That should be lent to
Lady Cantrip, and Mary should there be her guest. So it was
settled between the Duke and Lady Cantrip. But as yet Lady Mary
knew nothing of the arrangement.
'I think I shall go up to town tomorrow,' said the Duke to his
daughter.
'For long?'
'I shall be gone only one night. It is on your behalf that I am
going.'
'On my behalf, papa?'
'I have been writing to Lady Cantrip.'
'Not about Mr Tregear?'
'No;--not about Mr Tregear,' said the father with a mixture of
anger and solemnity in his tone. 'It is my desire to regard Mr
Tregear as though he did not exist.'
'That is not possible, papa.'
'I have alluded to the inconvenience of your position here.'
'Why is it inconvenience?'
'You are too young to be without a companion. It is not fit that
you should be much alone.'
'I do not feel it.'
'It is very melancholy for you, and cannot be good for you. They
will go down to The Horns so that you will not be absolutely in
London, and you will find Lady Cantrip a very nice person.'
'I don't care for new people just now, papa,' she said. But to
this he paid but little heed; nor was she prepared to say that she
would not do as he directed. When therefore he left Matching, she
understood that he was going to prepare a temporary home for her.
Nothing further was said about Tregear. She was too proud to ask
that no mention of his name should be made to Lady Cantrip. And he
when he left the house did not think that he would find himself
called upon to allude to the subject.
But when Lady Cantrip made some inquiry about the girl and her
habits,--asking what were her ordinary occupations, how she was
accustomed to pass her hours, to what she chiefly devoted
herself,--then at last with much difficulty the Duke did bring
himself to tell the story. 'Perhaps it is better that you should
know it all,' he said as he told it.
'Poor girl! Yes, Duke, upon the whole it is better that I should
know it all,' said Lady Cantrip. 'Of course he will not come
here.'
'Oh dear; I hope not.'
'Nor to The Horns.'
'I hope he will never see her again anywhere,' said the Duke.
'Poor girl!'
'Have I not been right? Is it not best to put an end to such a
thing at once?'
'Certainly at once, if it has to be put an end to,--and can be put
an end to.'
'It must be put an end to,' said the Duke, very decidedly. 'Do you
not see that it must be so? Who is Mr Tregear?'
'I suppose they were allowed to be together?'
'He was unfortunately intimate with Silverbridge, who took him
over to Italy. He has nothing; not even a profession.' Lady
Cantrip could not but smile when she remembered the immense wealth
of the man who was speaking to her;--and the Duke saw the smile and
understood it. 'You will understand what I mean, Lady Cantrip. If
this young man were in other respects suitable, of course I could
find an income for them. But he is nothing; just an idle seeker
for pleasure without the means of obtaining it.'
'That is very bad.'
'As for rank,' continued the Duke energetically, 'I do not think
that I am specially wedded to it. I have found myself as willing
to associate with those who are without it as with those who have
it. But for my child, I would wish her to mate with one of her own
class.'
'It would be best.'
'When a young man comes to me, though I believe him to be what is
called a gentleman, has neither rank, nor means, nor profession,
nor name, and asks for my daughter, surely I am right to say that
such a marriage shall not be thought of. Was I not right?'
demanded the Duke persistently.
'But it is a pity that it should be so. It is a pity that they
should ever have come together.'
'It is indeed, indeed to be lamented,--and I will own at once that
the fault was not hers. Though I must be firm in this, you are not
to suppose that I am angry with her. I have myself been to blame.'
This he said with a resolution that,--as he and his wife had been
one flesh,--all faults committed by her should, now that she was
dead, be accepted by him as his faults. 'It had not occurred to me
that as yet she would love any man.'
'Has it gone deep with her, Duke?'
'I fear that all things go deep with her.'
'Poor girl!'
'But they shall be kept apart! As long as your great kindness is
continued for her they shall be kept apart!'
'I do not think that I should be found good at watching a young
lady.'
'She will require no watching.'
'Then of course they will not meet. She had better know that you
have told me.'
'She shall know it.'
'And let her know also that anything I can do to make her happy
shall be done. But, Duke, there is but one cure.'
'Time you mean.'
'Yes; time; but I did not mean time.' Then she smiled as she went
on. 'You must not suppose that I am speaking against my own sex if
I say that she will not forget Mr Tregear till someone else has
made himself agreeable to her. We must wait till she can go out a
little more into society. Then she will find out that there are
others in the world besides Mr Tregear. It so often is the case
that a girl's love means her sympathy for him who has chanced to
be nearest her.'
The Duke as he went away thought very much of what Lady Cantrip
had said to him;--particularly of those last words. 'Till some one
else has made himself agreeable to her.' Was he to send his girl
into the world in order that she might find a lover? There was
something in the idea which was thoroughly distasteful to him. He
had not given his mind much to the matter, but had felt that a
woman should be sought for,--sought for and extracted, cunningly,
as it were, from some hiding-place, and not sent out into a market
to be exposed as for sale. In his own personal history there had
been a misfortune,--a misfortune, the sense of which he could
never, at any moment, have expressed to any ears, the memory of
which had been always buried deep in his own bosom,--but a
misfortune in that no such cunning extraction on his part had won
for him the woman to whose hands had been confided the strings of
his heart. His wife had undergone that process of extraction
before he had seen her, and his marriage with her had been a
matter of sagacious bargaining. He was now told that his daughter
must be sent out among young men in order that she might become
sufficiently fond of some special one to be regardless of Tregear.
There was a feeling that in doing so she must lose something of
the freshness of the bloom of her innocence. How was this transfer
of her love to be effected? Let her go here because she will meet
the heir of this wealthy house who may probably be smitten by her
charms; or there because that other young lordling would make a
fit husband for her. Let us contrive to throw her into the arms of
this man, or put her into the way of that man. Was his girl to be
exposed to this? Surely that method of bargaining to which he had
owed his own wife would be better than that. Let it be said,--only
he himself most certainly could not be the person to say it,--let
it be said to some man of rank and means and fairly good
character, 'Here is a wife for you with so many thousand pounds,
with beauty, as you can see for yourself, with rank and belongings
of the highest; very good in every respect;--only that as regards
her heart she thinks she has given it to a young man named
Tregear. No marriage there is possible; but perhaps the young lady
might suit you?' It was thus he had been married. There was an
absence in it of that romance which, though he had never
experienced it in his own life, was always present to his
imagination. His wife had often ridiculed him because he could
only live among figures and official details; but to her had not
been given the power of looking into a man's heart and feeling all
that was there. Yes;--in such bargaining for a wife, in such
bargaining for a husband, there could be nothing of the tremulous
delicacy of feminine romance; but it would be better than standing
at a stall in the market till the sufficient purchaser should
come. It never occurred to him that the delicacy, the innocence,
the romance, the bloom might all be preserved if he would give his
girl to the man whom she said she loved. Could he have modeled her
future course according to his own wishes, he would have had her
live a gentle life for the next three years, with a pencil perhaps
in her hand or a music-book before her;--and then come forth,
cleaned as it were by such quarantine from the impurity to which
she had been subjected.
When he was back at Matching he at once told his daughter what he
had arranged for her, and then there took place a prolonged
discussion both as to his view of her future life and as to her
own. 'You did tell her then about Mr Tregear?' she asked.
'As she is to have charge of you for a time I thought it best.'
'Perhaps it is. Perhaps--you were afraid.'
'No; I was not afraid, he said angrily.
'You need not be afraid. I shall do nothing elsewhere that I would
not do here, and nothing anywhere without telling you.'
'I know that I can trust you.'
'But, papa, I shall always intend to marry Mr Tregear.'
'No!' he exclaimed.
'Yes;--always. I want you to understand exactly how it is. Nothing
you can do can separate me from him.'
'Mary, that is very wicked.'
'It cannot be wicked to tell the truth, papa. I mean to try to do
all you tell me. I shall not see him, or write to him,--unless
there should be some very particular reason. And if I did see him,
or write to him I would tell you. And of course I should not think
of--of marrying without your leave. But I shall expect you to let
me marry him.'
'Never!'
'Then I shall think you are--cruel; and you will break my heart.'
'You should not call your father cruel.'
'I hope you will not be cruel.'
'I can never permit you to marry this man. It would be altogether
improper. I cannot allow you to say that I am cruel because I do
what I feel to be my duty. You will see other people.'
'A great many perhaps.'
'And will learn to,--to,--to forget him.'
'Never! I will not forget him. I should hate myself if I thought
it possible. What would love be worth if it could be forgotten in
that way?' As he heard this he reflected whether his own wife,
this girl's mother, had ever forgotten her early love for that
Burgo Fitzgerald whom in her girlhood she had wished to marry.
When she was leaving her she called him back again. 'There is one
other thing I think I ought to say, papa. If Lady Cantrip speaks
to me about Mr Tregear, I can only tell her what I have told you.
I shall never give him up.' When he heard this he turned angrily
from her, almost stamping his foot upon the ground, when she
quietly left the room.
Cruel! She had told him that he would be cruel, if he opposed her
love. He thought he knew of himself that he could not be cruel,--
even to a fly, even to a political opponent. There could be no
cruelty without dishonesty, and did he not always struggle to be
honest? Cruel to his own daughter!
CHAPTER 12
At Richmond
The pity of it! The pity of it! It was thus that Lady Cantrip
looked at it. From what the girl's father had said to her she was
disposed to believe that the malady had gone deep with her. 'All
things go deep with her,' he had said. And she too from other
sources had heard something of this girl. She was afraid that it
would go deep. It was a thousand pities! Then she asked herself
whether the marriage ought to be regarded as impossible. The Duke
had been very positive,--had declared again and again that it was
quite impossible, had so expressed himself as to make her aware
that he intended her to understand that he would not yield
whatever the sufferings of the girl might be. But Lady Cantrip
knew the world well and was aware that in such matters daughters
are apt to be stronger than their fathers. He had declared Tregear
to be a young man with very small means, and intent on such
pleasures as require great means for their enjoyment. No worse
character could be given to a gentleman who had proposed himself
as a son-in-law. But Lady Cantrip thought it possible that the
Duke might be mistaken in this. She had never seen Mr Tregear, but
she fancied that she had heard his name, and that the name was
connected with a character different from that which the Duke had
given him.
Lady Cantrip, who at this time was a young-looking woman, not much
above forty, had two daughters, both of whom were married. The
younger about a year since had become the wife of Lord Nidderdale,
a middle-aged young man who had been long about town, a cousin of
the late Duchess, the heir to a marquisate, and a Member of
Parliament. The marriage had not been considered very brilliant;
but the husband was himself good-natured and pleasant, and Lady
Cantrip was fond of him. In the first place she went to him for
information.
'Oh yes, I know him. He's one of our set at the Beargarden.'
'Not your set now, I hope,' she said laughing.
'Well;--I don't see so much of them as I used to. Tregear is not a
bad fellow at all. He's always with Silverbridge. When
Silverbridge does what Tregear tells him, he goes along pretty
straight. But unfortunately there's another man called Tifto, and
when Tifto is in the ascendant then Silverbridge is apt to go a
little astray.'
'He's not in debt, then?'
'Who?-Tregear? I should think he's the last man in the world to owe
a penny to anyone.'
'Is he a betting man?'
'Oh dear no; quite the other way up. He's a severe, sarcastic,
bookish sort of fellow,--a chap who knows everything and turns up
his nose at people who know nothing.'
'Has he got anything of his own?'
'Not much I should say. If he had had any money he would have
married Lady Mab Grex last year.'
Lady Cantrip was inclined from what she now learned to think that
the Duke must be wrong about the young man. But before Lady Mary
joined her she made further inquiry. She too knew Lady Mabel, and
knowing Lady Mabel, she knew Miss Cassewary. She contrived to find
herself alone with Miss Cassewary, and asked some further
questions about Mr Tregear. 'He's a cousin of my Lord's,' said
Miss Cass.
'So I thought. I wonder what sort of young man he is. He is a good
deal with Lord Silverbridge.'
Then Miss Cassewary spoke her opinion very plainly. 'If Lord
Silverbridge has nobody worse about him than Mr Tregear he would
not come to much harm.'
'I suppose he's not very well off?'
'No;--certainly not. He will have a property of some kind, I
believe, when his mother dies. I think very well of Mr Tregear;--
only I wish that he had a profession. But why are you asking about
him, Lady Cantrip?'
'Nidderdale was talking to me about him and saying that he was so
much with Lord Silverbridge. Lord Silverbridge is going into
Parliament now, and, as it were, beginning the world, and it would
be a thousand pities that he should get into bad hands.' It may,
however, be doubted whether Miss Cassewary was hoodwinked by this
little story.
Early in the second week of May the Duke brought his daughter up
to The Horns, and at the same time expressed his intention of
remaining in London. When he did so Lady Mary at once asked
whether she might not be with him, but he would not permit it. The
house in London would, he said, be more gloomy even than Matching.
'I am quite ashamed of giving so much trouble,' Lady Mary said to
her new friend.
'We are delighted to have you, my dear.'
'But I know you have been obliged to leave London because I am
with you.'
'There is nothing I like so much as this place, which your father
has been kind enough to lend us. As for London, there is nothing
now to make me like being there. Both my girls are married, and
therefore I regard myself as an old woman who has done her work.
Don't you think this place very much nicer than London at this
time of the year?'
'I don't know London at all. I had only just been brought out when
poor mamma want abroad.'
The life they led was very quiet, and most probably have been felt
to be dull by Lady Cantrip, in spite of her old age and desire for
retirement. But the place itself was very lovely. May of all the
months of the year is in England the most insidious, the most
dangerous, and the most inclement. A greatcoat can not be endured,
and without a greatcoat who can endure a May wind and live? But
of all months it is the prettiest. The grasses are then the
greenest, and the young foliage of the trees, while it has all the
glory and all the colour of spring vegetation, does not hide the
form of the branches as do the heavy masses of the larger leaves
which come in the advancing summer. And of all the villas near
London The Horns was the sweetest. The broad green lawn swept down
to the very margins of the Thames, which absolutely washed the
fringe of grass when the tide was high. And here, along the bank,
was a row of flowering ashes the drooping boughs of which in
places touched the water. It was one of those spots which when
they are first seen make the beholder feel that to be able to live
there and look at it always would be happiness for life.
At the end of the week there came a visitor to see Lady Mary. A
very pretty carriage was driven up to the door of The Horns, and
the servant asked for Lady Mary Palliser. The owner of the
carriage was Mrs Finn. Now it must be explained to the reader that
there had never been any friendship between Mrs Finn and Lady
Cantrip, though the ladies had met each other. The great political
intimacy which had existed between the Duke and Lord Cantrip had
created some intimacy between their wives. The Duchess and Lady
Cantrip had been friends,--after a fashion. But Mrs Finn had never
been cordially accepted by those among whom Lady Cantrip chiefly
lived. When therefore the name was announced, the servant
expressly stating that the visitor had asked for Lady Mary, Lady
Cantrip, who was with her guest, had to bethink herself what she
would do. The Duke, who was at this time very full of wrath
against Mrs Finn, had not mentioned this lady's name when
delivering up the charge of his daughter to Lady Cantrip. At this
moment it occurred to her that not improbably Mrs Finn would cease
to be included in the intimacies of the Palliser family from the
time of the death of the Duchess,---that the Duke would not care to
maintain the old relations, and that he would be as little anxious
to do it for his daughter as for himself. If so, could it be right
that Mrs Finn should come down her, to a house which was now in
the occupation of a lady with whom she was not on inviting terms,
in order that she might thus force herself on the Duke's daughter?
Mrs Finn had not left her carriage, but had sent to ask of Lady
Mary could see her. In all this there was considerable
embarrassment. She looked round at her guest, who had at once
risen from her chair. 'Would you wish to see her?' asked Lady
Cantrip.
'Oh yes, certainly.'
'Have you seen her since,--since you came home from Italy?'
'Oh dear, yes! She was down at Matching when poor mamma died. And
papa persuaded her to remain afterwards. Of course I will see
her.' Then the servant was desired to ask Mrs Finn to come in;--
and while this was being done Lady Cantrip retired.
Mrs Finn embraced her young friend, and asked after her welfare,
and after the welfare of the house in which she was staying,--a
house with which Mrs Finn had been well acquainted,--and said half-
a-dozen pretty little things in her own quiet pretty way, before
she spoke of the matter which had really brought her to The Horns
on that day.
'I have had a correspondence with your father, Mary,'
'Indeed.'
'And unfortunately one that has been far from agreeable to me.'
'I am sorry for that, Mrs Finn.'
So am I, very sorry. I may say with perfect truth that there is no
man in the world, except my own husband, for whom I feel so
perfect an esteem as I do for your father. If it were not that I
do not like to be carried away by strong language, I would speak
of more than esteem. Through your dear mother I have watched his
conduct closely, and have come to think that perhaps no other man
at the same time so just and patriotic. Now he is very angry with
me,--and most unjustly angry.'
'Is it about me?'
'Yes;--it is about you. Had it not been altogether about you I
would not have troubled you.'
'And about-?'
'Yes;--about Mr Tregear also. When I tell you that there has been a
correspondence I must explain that I have written one long letter
to the Duke, and that in answer I have received a very short one.
That his been the whole correspondence. Here is your father's
letter to me.' Then she brought out of her pocket a note, which
Lady Mary read,--covered with blushes as she did so. The note was
as follows:
'The Duke of Omnium understands from Mrs Finn's
letter that Mrs Finn, while she was the Duke's guest at
Matching, was aware of a certain circumstance affecting
the Duke's honour and happiness,--which circumstance she
certainly did not communicate to the Duke. The Duke
thinks that the trust which had been placed in Mrs Finn
should have made such a communication imperative. The
Duke feels that no further correspondence between
himself and Mrs Finn on the matter could lead to any
good result.'
'Do you understand it?' asked Mrs Finn.
'I think so.'
'It simply means this,--that when at Matching he had thought me
worthy of having for a time the charge of you and your welfare,
that he had trusted me, who was the friend of your dear mother, to
take for time in regard to you the place which had been so
unhappily left vacant by her death; and it means also that I
deceived and betrayed that trust by being privy to an engagement
on your part, of which he disapproves, and of which he was not
then aware.'
'I suppose he does mean that.'
'Yes, Lady Mary; that is what he means. And he means further to
let me know that as I did so foully betray the trust which he had
placed in me,--that as I had consented to play the part of
assistant to you in that secret engagement,--therefore he casts me
off as altogether unworthy of his esteem and acquaintance. It is
as though he had told me in so many words that among women he had
known none more vile or more false than I.'
'Not that, Mrs Finn.'
'Yes, that;--all of that. He tells me that, and then says that
there shall be no more words spoken or written about it. I can
hardly submit to so stern a judgement. You know the truth, Lady
Mary.'
'Do not call me Lady Mary. Do not quarrel with me.'
'If your father has quarrelled with me, it would not be fit that
you and I should be friends. Your duty to him would forbid it. I
should not have come to you now did I not feel that I am bound to
justify myself. The thing of which I am accused is so repugnant to
me, that I am obliged to do something and to say something, even
though the subject itself be one on which I would willing be
silent.'
'What can I do, Mrs Finn?'
'It was Mr Tregear who first told me that your father was very
angry with me. He knew what I had done and why, and he was bound
to tell me in order that I might have an opportunity of setting
myself right with the Duke. Then I wrote and explained
everything,--how you had told me of the engagement, and how I then
urged Mr Tregear that he should not keep such a matter secret from
your father. In answer to my letter I have received--that.'
'Shall I write and tell papa?'
'He should be made to understand that from the moment in which I
heard of the engagement I was urgent with you and with Mr Tregear
that he should be informed of it. You will remember what passed.'
'I remember it all.'
'I did not conceive it to my duty to tell the Duke myself, but I
did conceive it to be my duty to see that he should be told. Now
he writes to as though I had known the secret from the first, and
as though I had been concealing it from him at the very moment in
which he was asking me to remain at Matching on your behalf. That
I consider to be hard,--and unjust. I cannot deny what he says I
did know of it while I was at Matching, for it was at Matching
that you told me. But he implies that I knew it before. When you
told me your story I did feel that it was my duty to see that the
matter was not kept longer from him;--and I did my duty. Now your
father takes it upon himself to rebuke me,--and takes upon himself
at the same time to forbid me to write to him again!'
'I will tell him, Mrs Finn.'
'Let him understand this. I do not wish to write to him again.
After what has passed I cannot say I wish to see him again. But I
think he should acknowledge to me that he has been mistaken. He
need not then fear that I shall trouble him with any reply. But I
shall know that he has acquitted me of a fault of which I cannot
bear to think I should be accused.' Then she took a somewhat
formal though still an affectionate farewell to the girl.
'I want to see papa as soon as possible,' said Lady Mary when she
was again with Lady Cantrip. The reason for her wish was soon
given, and then the whole story told. 'You do not think that she
should have gone to papa at once?' Lady Mary asked. It was a point
of moral law on which the elder woman, who had girls of her own,
found it hard to give an immediate answer. It certainly is
expedient that parents should know at once of any engagement by
which their daughters may seek to contract themselves. It is
expedient that they should be able to prevent any secret
contracts. Lady Cantrip felt strongly that Mrs Finn having
accepted the confidential charge of the daughter, could not,
without gross betrayal of trust, allow herself to be the
depositary of such a secret. 'But she did not allow herself,' said
Lady Mary, pleading for her friend.
'But she left the house without telling him, my dear.'
'But it was because of what she did that he was told.'
'That is true; but I doubt whether she should have left him an
hour in ignorance.'
'But it was I who told her. She would have betrayed me.'
'She was not a fit recipient for your confidence, Mary. But I do
not wish to accuse her. She seems a high-minded woman, and I think
that your papa has been hard upon her.'
'And mamma knew it always,' said Mary. To this Lady Cantrip could
give no answer. Whatever the cause for anger the Duke might have
against Mrs Finn, there had been cause for much more against his
wife. But she had freed herself from all accusation by death.
Lady Mary wrote to her father, declaring that she was most
particularly anxious to see him and talk to him about Mrs Finn.
CHAPTER 13
The Duke's Injustice
No advantage whatever was obtained by Lady Mary's interview with
her father. He persisted that Mrs Finn had been untrue to him when
she left Matching without telling him all that she knew of his
daughter's engagement with Mr Tregear. No doubt by degrees that
idea which he at first entertained was expelled from his heat,--the
idea that she had been cognizant of the whole thing before she
came to Matching; but even this was done so slowly that there was
no moment at which he became aware of any lessened feeling of
indignation. To his thinking she had betrayed her trust, and he
could not be got by his daughter to say that he would forgive her.
He certainly could not be got to say that he would apologise for
the accusation he had made. It was nothing less that his daughter
asked; and he could hardly refrain himself from anger when she
asked it. 'There should not have been a moment,' he said, 'before
she came and told me and told me all.' Poor Lady Mary's position
was certainly uncomfortable enough. The great sin,--the sin which
was so great that to have known it for a day without revealing it
was in itself a damning sin on the part of Mrs Finn,--was Lady
Mary's sin. And she differed so entirely from her father as to
think that the sin of her own was a virtue, and that to have
spoken of it to him would have been, on the part of Mrs Finn, a
treachery so deep that no woman ought to have forgive it! When he
spoke of a matter which deeply affected his honour,--she could
hardly refrain from asserting that his honour was quite safe in
his daughter's hands. And when in his heart he declared that it
should have been Mrs Finn's first care to save him from disgrace,
Lady Mary did break out, 'Papa there could be no disgrace.' 'That
for a moment shall be laid aside,' he said, with that manner by
which even his peers in council had never been able not to be
awed, 'but if you communicate with Mrs Finn at all you must be
made to understand that I regard her conduct as inexcusable.'
Nothing had been gained, and poor Lady Mary was compelled to write
a few lines which were to her most painful in writing.
'MY DEAR MRS FINN,
'I have seen papa, and he thinks that you
ought to have told him when I told you. It occurs to me
that it would have been a cruel thing to do, and most
unfair to Mr Tregear, who was quite willing to go to
papa, and had only put off doing so because of poor
mamma's death. As I had told mamma, of course it was
right that he should tell papa. Then I told you,
because you were so kind to me! I am so sorry that I
have got you into this trouble; but what can I do?
'I told him I must write to you. I suppose it is
better that I should, although what I have to say is so
unpleasant. I hope it will all blow over in time,
because I love you dearly. You may be quite sure of one
thing,--that I shall never change.' (In this assurance
the writer was alluding not to her friendship for her
friend but her love for her lover,--and so the friend
understood her) I hope things will be settled some day,
and then we may be able to meet.
'Your very affectionate
Friend,
'MARY PALLISER'
Mrs Finn, when she received this, was alone in her house in Park
Lane. Her husband was down in the North of England. On this
subject she had not spoken to him, fearing that he would feel
himself bound to take some steps to support his wife under the
treatment she had received. Even though she must quarrel with the
Duke, she was most anxious that her husband should not be
compelled to do so. Their connection had been political rather
than personal. There were many reasons why there should be no open
cause of disruption between them. But her husband as hot-headed,
and, were al this to be told to him and that letter shown to him
which the Duke had written, there would be words between him and
the Duke which would probably make impossible any further
connection between them.
It troubled her very much. She was by no means not alive to the
honour of the Duke's friendship. Throughout her intimacy with the
Duchess she had abstained from pressing herself on him, not
because she had been indifferent about him, but that she had
perceived that she might make her way with him better by standing
aloof than by thrusting herself forward. And she had known that
she had been successful. She could tell herself with pride that he
conduct towards him had been always such as would become a lady of
high spirit and fine feeling. She knew that she had deserved well
of him, that in all her intercourse with him, with his uncle, and
with his wife, she had given much and had taken little. She was
the last woman in the world to let a word on such a matter pass
her lips; but not the less was she conscious of her merit towards
him. And she had been led to act as she had done by sincere
admiration for the man. In all their political troubles, she had
understood him better than the Duchess had done. Looking on from a
distance she had understood the man's character as it had come to
her both from his wife and from her own husband.
That he was unjust to her,--cruelly unjust, she was quite sure. He
accused her of intentional privity as to a secret which it
behooved him to know, and of being a party to that secrecy.
Whereas from the moment in which she had heard the secret she had
determined that it must be made known to him. She felt that she
had deserved his good opinion in all things, but in nothing more
than in the way in which she had acted in this matter. And yet he
had treated her with an imperious harshness which amounted to
insolence. What a letter it was that he had written to her! The
very tips of her ears tingled with heat as she read again to
herself. None of the ordinary courtesies of epistle-craft had been
preserved either in the beginning or in the end. It was worse even
than if he had called her, Madam without an epithet. 'The Duke
understands--' 'The Duke thinks--' 'The Duke feels--' feels that he
should not be troubled with either letters or conversation; the
upshot of it all being that the Duke declared her to have shown
herself unworthy of being treated like a lady! And this is after
all she had done!
She would not bear it. That at present was all that she could say
to herself. She was not angry with Lady Mary. She did not doubt
but that the girl had done the best in her power to bring her
father to reason. But because Lady Mary had failed, she, Mrs Finn,
was not going to put up with so grievous an injury. And she was
forced to bear all this alone! There was none with whom she could
communicate;--no one from whom she could ask advice. She would not
bring her husband into a quarrel which might be prejudicial to his
position as a member of his political party. There was no one else
to whom she would tell the secret of Lady Mary's love. And yet she
could not bear this injustice done to her.
Then she wrote as follows to the Duke:
'Mrs Finn presents her compliments to the Duke of
Omnium. Mrs Finn finds it to be essential to her that
she should see the Duke in reference to his letter to
her. If his Grace will let her know on what day and at
what hour he will be kind enough to call on her, Mrs
Finn will be at home to receive him.
'Park Lane. Thursday 12th May, 18-'
CHAPTER 14
The New Member for Silverbridge
Lord Silverbridge was informed that it would be right that he
should go down to Silverbridge a few days before the election, to
make himself known to the electors. As the day for the election
drew near it was understood that there would be no other
candidate. The Conservative side was the popular side among the
tradesmen of Silverbridge. Silverbridge had been proud to be
honoured by the services of the heir of the House of Omnium, even
while that heir had been a Liberal,--had regarded it as so much a
matter of course that the borough should be at his disposal that
no question as to politics had ever arisen while he retained the
seat. And had the Duke chosen to continue to send them Liberals,
one after another, when he went into the House of Lords, there
would have been no question as to the fitness of the man, or men
so sent. Silverbridge had been supposed to be a Liberal as a
matter of course;--because the Pallisers were Liberals. But when
the matter was remitted to themselves;--when the Duke declared that
he would not interfere any more, for it was thus that the borough
had obtained its freedom;--then the borough began to feel
conservative predilections. 'If his Grace really does mean us to
do just what we please ourselves which is a thing we never thought
of asking from his Grace, then we find, having turned the matter
over among ourselves, that we are upon the whole Conservative.'
In this spirit the borough had elected a certain Mr Fletcher; but
in doing so the borough had still a shade of fear that it would
offend the Duke. The House of Palliser, Gatherum Castle, the Duke
of Omnium, and this special Duke himself, were all so great in the
eyes of the borough, that the first and only strong feeling in the
borough was the one of duty. The borough did not altogether enjoy
being enfranchised. But when the Duke had spoken once, twice, and
thrice, then with a hesitating heart the borough returned Mr
Fletcher. Now Mr Fletcher was wanted elsewhere, having been
persuaded to stand for the county, and it was a comfort to the
borough that it could resettle itself beneath the warmth of the
wings of the Pallisers.
So the matter stood when Lord Silverbridge was told that his
presence in the borough for a few hours would be taken as a
compliment. Hitherto no one knew him at Silverbridge. During his
boyhood he had not been much at Gatherum Castle, and had done his
best to eschew the place since he had ceased to be a boy. All the
Pallisers took a pride in Gatherum Castle, but they all disliked
it. 'Oh yes, I'll go down,' he said to Mr Morton, who was up in
town. 'I needn't go to the great barrack I suppose.' The great
barrack was the Castle. 'I'll put up at the Inn.' Mr Morton begged
the heir to come to his own house; but Silverbridge declared that
he would prefer the Inn, and so the matter was settled. He was to
meet sundry politicians,--Mr Spurgeon and Mr Sprout and Mr Du
Boung,--who would like to be thanked for what they had been done.
But who was to go with him? He would naturally have asked Tregear,
but from Tregear he had for the last week or two been, not perhaps
estranged, but separated. He had been much taken up with racing.
He had gone down to Chester with Major Tifto, and under the
Major's auspicious influences had won a little money;--and now he
was very anxiously preparing himself for the Newmarket Second
Spring Meeting. He had therefore passed much of his time with
Major Tifto. And when this visit to Silverbridge was pressed on
him he thoughtlessly asked Tifto to go with him. Tifto was
delighted. Lord Silverbridge was to be met at Silverbridge by
various well-known politicians from the neighbourhood, and Major
Tifto was greatly elated by the prospect of such an introduction
into the political world.
But no sooner had the offer been made by Lord Silverbridge than he
saw his own indiscretion. Tifto was very well for Chester or
Newmarket, very well perhaps for the Beargarden, but not very well
for an electioneering expedition. An idea came to the young
nobleman that if it should be his fate to represent Silverbridge
in Parliament for the next twenty years, it would be well that
Silverbridge should entertain respecting him some exalted
estimation,--that Silverbridge should be taught to regard him as a
fit son of his father and a worthy specimen of the British
political nobility. Struck by serious reflection of this nature he
did open his mind to Tregear. 'I am very fond of Tifto,' he said,
'but I don't know whether he's just the sort of fellow to take
down to an election.'
'I should think not,' said Tregear very decidedly.
'He's a very good fellow, you know,' said Silverbridge. 'I don't
know an honester man than Tifto anywhere.'
'I dare say. Or rather, I don't dare say. I know nothing about the
Major's honesty, and I doubt whether you do. He rides very well.'
'What has that to do with it?'
'Nothing on earth. Therefore I advise you not to take him to
Silverbridge.'
'You needn't preach.'
'You may call it what you like. Tifto would not hold his tongue,
and there is nothing he could say there which would not be to your
prejudice.'
'Will you go?'
'If you wish it,' said Tregear.
'What will the governor say?'
'That must be your look out. In a political point of view I shall
not disgrace you. I shall hold my tongue and look like a
gentleman,--neither of which is in Tifto's power.'
And so it was settled, that on the day but one after this
conversation Lord Silverbridge and Tregear should go together to
Silverbridge. But the Major, when on that same night his noble
friend's altered plans were explained to him, did not bear the
disappointment with equanimity. 'Isn't that a little strange?' he
said, becoming very red in the face.
'What do you call strange?' said the Lord.
'Well;--I'd made all my arrangements. When a man has been asked to
do a thing like that, he doesn't like to be put off.'
'The truth is, Tifto, when I came to think of it, I saw that,
going down to these fellows about Parliament and all that sort of
thing, I ought to have a political atmosphere, and not a racing or
a betting or a hunting atmosphere.'
'There isn't a man in London who cares more about politics than I
do,--and not many perhaps who understand them better. To tell you
the truth, my Lord, I think you are throwing me over.'
'I'll make it up to you,' said Silverbridge, meaning to be kind.
'I'll go down to Newmarket with you and stick to you like wax.'
'No doubt you'll do that,' said Tifto, who, like a fool, failed to
see where his advantage lay. 'I can be useful at Newmarket, and so
you'll stick to me.'
'Look here, Major Tifto,' said Silverbridge; 'if you are
dissatisfied, you and I can easily separate ourselves.'
'I am not dissatisfied,' said the little man, almost crying.
'Then don't talk as though you were. As to Silverbridge, I shall
not want you there. When I asked you I was only thinking what
would be pleasant to both of us; but since that I have remembered
that business must be business.' Even this did not reconcile the
angry little man, who as he turned away declared himself within
his own little bosom that he would 'take it out of Silverbridge
for that.'
Lord Silverbridge and Tregear went down to the borough together,
and on the journey something was said about Lady Mary,--and
something also about Lady Mabel. 'From the first, you know,' said
Lady Mary's brother, 'I never thought it would answer.'
'Why not answer?'
'Because I knew the governor would not have it. Money and rank and
those sort of things are not particular charming to me. But still
things should go together. It is all very silly for you and me to
be pals, but of course it will be expected that Mary should marry
some--'
'Some swell?'
'Some swell if you would have it.'
'You mean to call yourself a swell.'
'Yes I do,' said Silverbridge, with considerable resolution. 'You
ought not to make yourself disagreeable, because you understand
all about it as well as anybody. Chance has me the eldest son of a
Duke and heir to an enormous fortune. Chance has made my sister
the daughter of a Duke, and an heiress also. My intimacy ought to
be proof at any rate to you that I don't on that account set
myself up above other fellows. But when you come to talk of
marriage of course it is a serious thing.'
'But you have told me more than once that you have no objection on
your own score.'
'Nor have I.'
'You are only saying what the Duke will think.'
'I am telling you that it is impossible, and I told you so before.
You and she will be kept apart, and so--'
'And so she'll forget me.'
'Something of that kind.'
'Of course I have to trust her for that. If she forgets me, well
and good.'
'She needn't forget you. Lord bless me! you talk as though the
thing were not done every day. You'll hear some morning that she
is going to marry some fellow who has a lot of money and a good
position; and what difference will it make then whether she has
forgotten you or no? It might almost have been supposed that the
young man had been acquainted with his mother's history.'
After this there was a pause, and there arose some conversation
about other things, and a cigar was smoked. Then Tregear returned
once more to the subject. 'There is one thing I wish to say about
it all.'
'What is that?'
'I want you to understand that nothing else will turn me away from
my intention but such a marriage on her part as that of which you
speak. Nothing that your father can do will turn me.'
'She can't marry without his leave.'
'Perhaps not.'
'That he'll never give,--and I don't suppose you look forward to
waiting till his death.'
'If he sees her happiness really depends on it he will give his
leave. It all depends on that. If I judge your father rightly,
he's just as soft-hearted as other people. The man who holds out
is not the man of the firmest opinion, but the man of the hardest
heart.'
'Somebody will talk Mary over.'
'If so, the thing is over. It all depends on her.' Then he went
on to tell his friend that he had spoken of his engagement with
Lady Mabel. 'I have mentioned it to no soul but to your father and
her.'
'Why to her?'
'Because we were friends together as children. I never had a
sister, but she has been more like a sister to me than anyone
else. Do you object to her knowing it?'
'Not particularly. It seems to me now that everybody knows
everything. There are no longer any secrets.'
'She is a special friend.'
'Of yours,' said Silverbridge.
'And of yours,' said Tregear.
'Well, yes;--in a sort of way. She is the jolliest girl I know.'
'Take her all round, for beauty, intellect, good sense, and fun at
the same time. I don't know anyone equal to her.'
'It's a pity you didn't fall in love with her.'
'We knew each other to early for that. And then she has not a
shilling. I should think myself dishonest if I did not tell you
that I could not afford any girl who hadn't money. A man must
live,--and a woman too.'
At the station they were met by Mr Spurgeon and Mr Sprout, who,
with many apologies for the meanness of such entertainment, took
them up to the George and Vulture, which was supposed for the
nonce to be the Conservative hotel in the town. Here they were met
by other men of importance in the borough, and among them by Mr Du
Boung. Now Mr Sprout and Mr Spurgeon were Conservatives but Mr Du
Boung was a strong Liberal.
'We are, all of us, particularly glad to see your Lordship among
us,' said Mr Du Boung.
'I have told his Lordship how perfectly satisfied you are to see
the borough in his Lordship's hands,' said Mr Spurgeon.
'I am sure it could not be in better,' said Mr Du Boung. 'For
myself I an quite willing to postpone any particular shade of
politics to the advantage of having your father's son as our
representative.' This Mr Du Boung said with much intention of
imparting both grace and dignity to the occasion. He thought that
he was doing a great thing for the House of Omnium, and that the
House of Omnium ought to know it.
'That's very kind of you,' said Lord Silverbridge, who had not
read as carefully as he should have done the letters which had
been sent to him, and did not therefore quite understand the
position.
'Mr Du Boung had intended to stand himself,' said Mr Sprout.
'But retired in your lordship's favour,' said Mr Spurgeon.
'I thought you gave it up because there was hardly a footing for
a Liberal,' said his Lordship, very imprudently.
'The borough was always liberal till the last election,' said Mr
Du Boung, drawing himself up.
'The borough wishes on this occasion to be magnanimous,' said Mr
Sprout, probably having on his mind some confusion between
magnanimity and unanimity.
'As your Lordship is coming among us, the borough is anxious to
sink politics altogether for the moment,' said Mr Spurgeon. There
had no doubt been a compact between the Spurgeon and the Sprout
party and the Du Boung party in accordance with which it had been
arranged that Mr Du Boung should be entitled to a certain amount
of glorification in the presence of Lord Silverbridge.
'And it was in compliance with that wish on the part of the
borough, my Lord,' said Mr Du Boung,--'as to which my own feelings
were quite as strong as that of any other gentleman in the
borough,--that I conceived it to be my duty to give way.'
'His Lordship is quite aware how much he owes to Mr Du Boung,'
said Tregear. Whereupon Lord Silverbridge bowed.
'And now what are we to do?' said Lord Silverbridge.
Then there was a little whispering between Mr Sprout and Mr
Spurgeon. 'Perhaps, Mr Du Boung,' said Spurgeon, 'his lordship had
better call first on Dr Tempest.'
'Perhaps,' said the injured brewer, 'as it is to be a party affair
after all I had better retire from the scene.'
'I thought all that was to be given up,' said Tregear.
'Oh, certainly,' said Sprout. 'Suppose we go to Mr Walker first?'
'I'm up to anything,' said Lord Silverbridge; 'but of course
everybody understands that I am a Conservative.'
'Oh dear, yes,' said Spurgeon.
'We are all aware of that,' said Sprout.
'And very glad we've all of us been to hear of it,' said the
landlord.
'Though there are some in the borough who could have wished, my
Lord, that you had stuck to the old Palliser politics,' said Mr Du
Boung.
'But I haven't stuck to the Palliser politics. Just at present I
think that order and all that sort of thing should be maintained.'
'Hear, hear!' said the landlord.
'And now, as I have expressed my views generally, I am willing to
go anywhere.'
'Then we'll go to Mr Walker first,' said Spurgeon. Now it was
understood that in the borough, among those who really had
opinions of their own, Mr Walker the old attorney stood first as a
Liberal, and Dr Tempest the old rector as a Conservative.
'I am glad to see your Lordship in the town which gives you its
name,' said Mr Walker, who was a hale old gentleman with silvery-
white hair, over seventy years of age. 'I proposed your father for
this borough on, I think, six or seven different occasions. They
used to go in and out then whenever they changed their offices.'
'We hope you'll propose Lord Silverbridge now,' said Mr Spurgeon.
'Oh; well;--yes. He's his father's son, and I never knew anything
but good of the family. I wish you were going to sit on the same
side, my Lord.'
'Times are changed a little, perhaps,' said his Lordship.
'The matter is not to be discussed now,' said the old attorney. '
understand that. Only I hope you'll excuse me if I say that a man
ought to get up very early in the morning if he means to see
further into politics than your father.'
'Very early indeed,' said Mr Du Boung, shaking his head.
'That's all right,' said Lord Silverbridge.
'I'll propose you, my Lord. I need not wish you success, because
there is no one to stand against you.'
Then they went to Dr Tempest, who was also an old man. 'Yes, my
Lord, I shall be proud to second you,' said the rector. 'I didn't
think that I should ever do that to one of your name of
Silverbridge.'
'I hope you think I've made a change for the better,' said the
candidate.
'You've come over to my school of course, and I suppose I am bound
to think that a change for the better. Nevertheless I have a kind
of idea that certain people ought to be Tories and that other
certain people ought to be Whigs. What does your father say about
it?'
'My father wishes me to be in the House, and that he has not
quarrelled with me you may know by the fact that had there been a
contest he would have paid my expenses.'
'A father generally has to do that whether he approves of what his
son is about or not,' said the caustic old gentleman.
There was nothing else to be done. They all went back to the
hotel, and Mr Spurgeon with Mr Sprout and the landlord clerk drank
a glass of sherry at the candidate's expense, wishing him
political long life and prosperity. There was no one else whom it
was thought necessary that the candidate should visit, and the
next day he returned to town with the understanding that on the
day appointed in the next week he should come back again to be
elected.
And on the appointed day the two young men again went to
Silverbridge, and after he had been declared duly elected, the new
Member of Parliament made his first speech. There was a meeting in
the town-hall and many were assembled anxious to hear,--not the
lad's opinions, for which the probably nobody cared much,--but the
tone of his voice and to see his manner. Of what sort was the
eldest son of the man of whom the neighbourhood had been so proud?
For the county was in truth proud of their Duke. Of this son whom
they had now made a Member of Parliament they at present only knew
that he had been sent away from Oxford,--not so very long ago,--for
painting the Dean's house scarlet. The speech was not very
brilliant. He told them that he was very much obliged to them for
the honour they had done him. Though he could not follow exactly
his father's political opinions,--he would always have before his
eyes his father's honesty and independence. He broke down two or
three times and blushed, and repeated himself, and knocked his
words a great deal too quickly one on top of another. But it was
taken very well, and was better than expected. When it was over he
wrote a line to the Duke.
'MY DEAR FATHER,
'I am Member of Parliament for Silverbridge,--as you
used to be in the days which I can first remember. I
hope you won't think that it does not make me unhappy
to have differed from you. Indeed it does. I don't
think that anybody has ever done so well in politics as
you have. But when a man does take up an opinion, I
don't see how he can help himself. Of course I could
have kept myself quiet;--but then you wished me to be in
the House. They were all very civil to me at
Silverbridge, but there was very little said.
'Your affectionate Son,
'SILVERBRIDGE.'
CHAPTER 15
The Duke Receives a Letter,--and Writes One.
The Duke, when he received Mrs Finn's note, demanding an
interview, thought much upon the matter before he replied. She had
made her demand as though the Duke had been no more than any other
gentleman, almost as though she had a right to call upon him to
wait upon her. He understood and admitted the courage of this;--but
nevertheless he would not go to her. He had trusted her with that
which of all things was the most sacred to him, and she had
deceived him! He wrote her as follows:
'The Duke of Omnium presents his compliments to
Mrs Finn. As the Duke thinks that no good could result
either to Mrs Finn or to himself from an interview, he
is obliged to say that he would rather not do as Mrs
Finn has requested.
'But for the strength of this conviction the Duke
would have waited upon Mrs Finn most willingly.'
Mrs Finn when she received this was not surprised. She had felt
sure that such would be the nature of the Duke's answer; but she
was also sure that is such an answer did come, she would not let
the matter rest. The accusation was so bitter to her that she
would spare nothing in defending herself,--nothing in labour and
nothing in time. She would make him know that she was in earnest.
As she could not succeed in getting into his presence she must do
so by letter,--and she wrote her letter, taking two days to think
of her words.
'May 18, 18-
'MY DEAR DUKE OF OMNIUM,
'As you will not come to me, I must trouble your
Grace to read what I fear will be a long letter. For it
is absolutely necessary that I should explain my
conduct to you. That you have condemned me I am sure
you will not deny;--nor that you have punished me as far
as the power of punishment was in your hands. If I can
succeed in making you see that you have judged me
wrongly, I think you will admit you error and beg my
pardon. You are not one who from your nature can be
brought easily to do this; but you are the one who will
certainly do it if you can be made to feel that by not
doing so you would be unjust. I am myself so clear as
to my own rectitude of purpose and conduct, and I am so
well aware of your perspicuity, that I venture to
believe that if you will read this letter I shall
convince you.
'Before I go any further I will confess that the
matter is one,--I was going to say almost of life and
death to me. Circumstances, not of my own seeking, have
for some years past thrown me so closely into
intercourse with your family that now to be cast off,
and to be put on one side as a disgraced person,--and
that so quickly after the death of her who loved me so
dearly, and who was dear to me,--is such an affront as I
cannot bear and hold up my head afterwards. I have come
to be known as her whom your uncle trusted and loved,
as her whom your wife trusted and loved,--obscure as I
was before;--and as her whom, may I not say, you
yourself trusted? As there was much of honour and very
much of pleasure in this, so also was their something
of misfortune. Friendships are safest when the friends
are of the same standing. I have always felt there was
a danger, and now the thing I have feared has come home
to me.
'Now I will plead my case. I fancy, that when you
first heard that I had been cognizant of your
daughter's engagement, you imagined that I was aware of
it before I went to Matching. Had I been so, I should
have been guilty of that treachery of which you accuse
me. I did know nothing of it till Lady Mary told me on
the day before I left Matching. That she should tell me
was natural enough. Her mother had known of it, and for
the moment,--if I am not assuming too much in saying
so,--I was filling her mother's place. But, in reference
to you, I could not exercise the discretion which a
mother might have used, and I told her at once, most
decidedly, that you must be made acquainted with the
fact.
'Then Lady Mary expressed to me her wish,--not
that this matter should be kept any longer from you,
for that it should be told to you by Mr Tregear. It was
not for me to raise any question as to Mr Tregear's
fitness or unfitness,--as to which indeed I could know
nothing. All I could do was to say that if Mr Tregear
would make communications at once, I should feel that I
had done my duty. The upshot was that Mr Tregear came
to me immediately on my return to London, and agreeing
with me that it was imperative for you to be informed,
went to you and did inform you. In all of that, if I
have told the story truly, where has been my offence?
I suppose you will believe me, but your daughter can
give evidence as to every word that I have written.
'I think that you have got into your mind that I
have befriended Mr Tregear' suit, and that, having
received this impression, you hold it with the tenacity
which is usual to you. There never was a greater
mistake. I went to Matching as the friend of my dear
friend;---but I stayed there at your request, as your
friend. Had I been, when you asked me to do so, a
participator in that secret I could not have honestly
remained in the position you assigned to me. Had I done
so, I should have deserved your ill opinion. As it is I
have not deserved it, and your condemnation of me has
been altogether unjust. Should I not now receive from
you a full withdrawal of all charges against me, I
shall be driven to think that after all the insight
which circumstances have given me into your character,
I have nevertheless been mistaken in the reading of it.
'I remain,
'Dear Duke of Omnium,
'Yours truly,
M. FINN'
'I find on looking over my letter that I must add
one word further. It might seem that I am asking for a
return of your friendship. Such is not my purpose.
Neither can you forget that you have accused me,--nor
can I. What I expect is that you should tell me that
you in your conduct to me have been wrong and that I in
mine to you have been right. I must be enabled to feel
that the separation between us has come from injury
done to me, and not by me.'
He did read the letter more than once, and read it with tingling
ears, and hot cheeks, and a knitted brow. As the letter went on,
and as the woman's sense of wrong grew hot from her own telling of
her own story, her words became stronger and still stronger, till
at last they were almost insolent in their strength. Were it not
that they came from one who did think herself to have been
wronged, then certainly they would be insolent. A sense of injury,
a burning conviction of wrong sustained, will justify language
which otherwise would be unbearable. The Duke felt that, though
his ears were tingling and his brow knitted, he could have
forgiven the language, if only he could have admitted the
argument. He understood every word of it. When she spoke of
tenacity she intended to charge him with obstinacy. Though she had
dwelt but lightly on her own services she had made her thoughts on
the matter clear enough. 'I, Mrs Finn, who am nobody, have done
much to succour and assist you, the Duke of Omnium; and this is
the return which I have received!' And then she told him to his
face that unless he did something which it would be impossible
that he should do, she would revoke her opinion of his honesty!
He tried to persuade himself that her opinion about his honesty
was nothing to him;--but he failed. Her opinion was very much to
him. Though in his anger he had determined to throw her off from
him, he knew her to be one whose good opinion was worth having.
Not a word of overt accusation had been made against his wife.
Every allusion to her was full of love. But yet how heavy a charge
was really made! That such a secret should be kept from him, the
father, was acknowledged to be a heinous fault;--but the wife had
known the secret and had kept it from him the father! And then
how wretched a thing it was for him that anyone should dare to
write to him about the wife that had been taken away from him! In
spite of all her faults her name was so holy to him that it had
never once passed his lips since her death, except in low whispers
to himself,--low whispers made in the perfect, double-guarded
seclusion of his own chamber. 'Cora, Cora,' he had murmured, so
that the sense of the sound and not the sound itself had come to
him from his own lips. And now this woman wrote to him about her
freely, as though there were nothing sacred, no religion in the
memory of her.
'It was not for me to raise any question as to Mr Tregear's
fitness'. Was it not palpable to all the world that he was unfit?
Unfit! How could a man be more unfit? He was asking for the hand
of one who was second only to royalty--who possessed of everything,
who was beautify, well-born, rich, who was the daughter of the
Duke of Omnium, and he had absolutely nothing of his own to offer.
But it was necessary that he should at last come to the
consideration of the actual point as to which she had written to
him so forcibly. He tried to set himself to the task of perfect
honestly. He certainly lad condemned her. He had condemned her and
had no doubt punished her to the extent of his power. And if he
could be brought to see that he had done this unjustly, then
certainly he must beg pardon. And when he considered it all, he
had to own that her intimacy with his uncle and his wife had not
been so much of her seeking as of theirs. It grieved him now that
it should have been so, but so it was. And after all this,--after
the affectionate surrender of herself to his wife's caprices which
the woman had made,--he had turned upon her and driven her away
with ignominy. That all was true. As he thought of it he became
hot, and was conscious of a quivering feeling round his heart.
These wee bonds indeed; but they were bonds of such a nature as to
be capable of being rescinded and cut away altogether by absolute
bad conduct. If he could make it good to himself that in a matter
of such magnitude as the charge of his daughter she had been
untrue to him and had leagued herself against him, with an
unworthy lover, then, then,--all bonds would be rescinded! Then
would his wrath be altogether justified! Then would it have been
impossible that he should have done aught else than cast her out!
As he thought of this he felt sure that she had betrayed him! How
great would be the ignominy to him should he be driven to own to
himself that she had not betrayed him! 'There should not have
been a moment,' he said to himself over and over again,--'not a
moment!' Yes; she certainly had betrayed him.
There might still be safety for him in that confident assertion of
'not a moment'; but had there been anything of that conspiracy of
which he had certainly at first judged her to be guilty? She had
told her story, and had then appealed to Lady Mary for evidence.
After five minutes of perfect stillness,--but five minutes of
misery, five minutes during which great beads of perspiration
broke out from him and stood upon his brow, he had to confess to
himself that he did not want any evidence. He did believe her
story. When he allowed himself to think she had been in league
with Tregear he had wronged her. He wiped away the beads from his
brow, and again repeated to himself those words which were now his
only comfort, 'There should not have been a moment;--not a moment!'
It was thus and only thus that he was enabled to assure himself
that there need be no acknowledgment of wrong done on his part.
Having settled this in his own mind he forced himself to attend a
meeting at which his assistance had been asked to a complex
question on Law Reform. The Duke endeavoured to give himself up
entirely to the matter; but through it all there was the picture
before him of Mrs Finn waiting for an answer to her letter. If he
should confirm himself in his opinion that he had been right, then
would any answer be necessary? He might just acknowledge the
letter, after the fashion which has come up in official life, than
which silence is an insult much more bearable. But he did not wish
to insult, nor to punish her further. He would willingly have
withdrawn the punishment under which she was groaning could he
have done so with self-abasement. Or he might write as she had
done,--advocating his own cause with all his strength, using that
last one strong argument,--there should not have been a 'moment'.
But there would be something repulsive to his personal dignity in
the continued correspondence which this would produce. 'The Duke
of Omnium regrets to say, in answer to Mrs Finn's letter, that he
thinks no good can be attained by a prolonged correspondence.'
Such, or of such kind, he thought must be his answer. But would
this be a fair return for the solicitude shown to her by his
uncle, for the love which had made her so patient a friend to his
wife, for the nobility of her own conduct in many things? Then
his mind reverted to certain jewels,--supposed to be of enormous
value,--which were still in his possession though they were the
property of this woman. They had been left to her by his uncle,
and she had obstinately refused to take them. Now they were lying
packed in the cellars of certain bankers,--but still they were in
his custody. What should he do now in this matter? Hitherto,
perhaps once in every six months, he had notified to her that he
was keeping them as her curator, and she had always repeated that
it was a charge from which she could not relieve him. It had
become almost a joke between them. But how could he joke with a
woman with whom he had quarrelled after this internecine fashion?
What if he were to consult Lady Cantrip? He could not do so
without a pang that would have been very bitter to him,--but any
agony would be better than arising from a fear that he had been
unjust to one who had deserved so well of him. No doubt Lady
Cantrip would see it in the same light as he had done. And then he
would be able to support himself by the assurance that that which
had judged to be right was approved of by one whom the world would
acknowledge to be a good judge on such a matter.
When he got home he found his son's letter telling him of the
election at Silverbridge. There was something in it which softened
his heart to that young man,--or perhaps it was that in the midst
of his many discomforts he wished to find something which at least
was not painful to him. That his son and heir should insist in
entering political life in opposition to him was of course a
source of pain; but, putting that aside, the thing had been done
pleasantly enough, and the young member's letter had been written
with some good feeling. So he answered the letter as pleasantly as
he knew how.
'MY DEAR SILVERBRIDGE
'I am glad you are in Parliament and am glad also
that you should have been returned by the old borough;
though I would that you could have reconciled yourself
to the politics of your family. But there is nothing
disgraceful in such a change, and I am able to
congratulate you as a father should a son and to wish
you long life and success as a legislator.
'There are one or two things I would ask you to
remember;--and firstly this, that as you have
voluntarily undertaken certain duties you are bound as
an honest man to perform them as scrupulously as though
you were paid for doing them. There was no obligation
in you to seek the post;--but having sought it and
acquired it you cannot neglect the work attached to it
without being untrue to the covenant you have made. It
is necessary that a young member of Parliament should
bear this in mind, and especially a member who has not
worked his way up to notoriety outside the House,
because to him there will be great facility for
idleness and neglect.
'And then I would have you always remember the
purpose for which there is a parliament elected in this
happy and free country. It is not that some men may
shine there, that some may acquire power, or that all
may plume themselves on being the elect of the nation.
It often appears to me that some members of Parliament
so regard their success in life,--as the fellows of our
colleges do too often, thinking that their fellowships
were awarded for their comfort and not for the
furtherance of any object such as education or
religion. I have known gentlemen who have felt that in
becoming members of Parliament they had achieved an
object for themselves instead of thinking that they had
put themselves in the way of achieving something for
others. A member of Parliament should feel himself to
be the servant of his country,--and like every other
servant, he should serve. If this be distasteful to a
man he need not go into Parliament. If the harness gall
him he need not wear it. But if he takes the trappings,
then he should draw the coach. You are there as the
guardian of your fellow-countrymen,--that they may be
safe, they may be prosperous, that they may be well
governed and lightly burdened,--above all that they may
be free. If you cannot feel this to be your duty, you
should not be there at all.
'And I would have you remember also that the work
of a member of Parliament can seldom be of that
brilliant nature which is of itself charming; and that
the young member should think of such brilliancy as
being possible to him only at a distance. It should be
your first care to sit and listen so that the forms and
methods of the House may as it were soak into you
gradually. And then you must bear in mind that speaking
in the House is but a very small part of a member's
work, perhaps that part he may lay aside altogether
with the least stain on his conscience. A good member
of Parliament will be good upstairs in the Committee
Rooms, good downstairs to make and to keep a House,
good to vote, for his party if it may be nothing
better, but for the measures also which he believes to
be for the good of the country.
'Gradually, if you will give your thoughts to it,
and above all your time, the theory of legislation will
sink into your mind, and you will find that there will
come upon you the ineffable delight of having served
your country to the best of your ability.
'It is the only pleasure in life which has been
enjoyed without alloy by your affectionate father,
'OMNIUM.'
The Duke in writing this letter was able for a few moments to
forget Mrs Finn, and to enjoy the work which he had on hand.
CHAPTER 16
Poor Boy
The new member for Silverbridge, when he entered the House to take
the oath, was supported on the right and left by two staunch old
Tories. Mr Monk had seen him a few minutes previously,--Mr Monk who
of all Liberals was the firmest and than whom no one had been more
staunch to the Duke,--and had congratulated him on his election,
expressing at the same time some gentle regrets. 'I only wish you
could have come among us on the other side,' he said.
'But I couldn't,' said the young Lord.
'I am sure nothing but a conscientious feeling would have
separated you from your father's friends,' said the old Liberal.
And then they were parted, and the member for Silverbridge was
bustled up to the table between the two staunch Tories.
Of what else was done on that occasion nothing shall be said here.
No political work was required from him, except that of helping
for an hour or two to crowd the Government benches. But we will
follow him as he left the House. There were one or two others
quite as anxious as to his political career as any staunch old
Liberal. At any rate one other. He had promised that as soon as he
could get away from the House he would go to Belgrave Square and
tell Lady Mabel Grex all about it. When he reached the square it
was past seven, but Lady Mabel and Miss Cassewary were still in
the drawing-room. 'There seemed to be a great deal of bustle, and
I didn't understand much about it, said the Member.
'But you heard speeches?' These were the speeches made on the
proposing and seconding of the address.
'Oh yes;--Lupon did it very well. Lord George didn't seem to be
quite as good. Then Sir Timothy Beeswax made a speech, and then Mr
Monk. After that I saw other fellows going away, so I bolted too.'
'If I were a member of Parliament I would never leave it while the
House was sitting,' said Miss Cassewary.
'It all were like that there wouldn't be seats for them to sit on,
said Silverbridge.
'A persistent member will always find a seat,' continued the
positive old lady.
'I am sure that Lord Silverbridge means to do his duty,' said Lady
Mabel.
'Oh yes;--I've thought a good deal about it, and I mean to try. As
long as a man isn't called upon to speak I don't see why it
shouldn't be easy enough.'
'I'm so glad to hear you say so! Of course after a little time
you will speak. I should like to hear you make your first speech.'
'If I thought you were there, I'm sure I should not make it at
all.' Just at this period Miss Cassewary, saying something as to
the necessity of dressing, and cautioning her young friend that
there was not much time to be lost, left the room.
'Dressing does not take me more than ten minutes,' said Lady
Mabel. Miss Cassewary declared this to be nonsense, but she
nevertheless left the room. Whether she would have done so if Lord
Silverbridge had not been Lord Silverbridge, but had been some
young man with whom it would not have been expedient that Lady
Mabel should fall in love, may perhaps be doubted. Lady Mabel
herself would not have remained. She had quite related the duties
of life, had had her little romance,--and had acknowledged that it
was foolish.
'I do so hope that you will do well,' she said, going back to the
parliamentary duties.
'I don't think I shall ever do much. I shall never be like my
father.'
'I don't see why not.'
'There never was anybody like him. I am always amusing myself, but
he never cared for amusement.'
'You are very young.'
'As far as I can learn he was just as he is now at my age. My
mother has told me that long before she married him he used to
spend all his time in the House. I wonder whether you would mind
reading the letter he wrote to me when he heard of my election.'
Then he took the epistle out of his pocket and handed it to Lady
Mabel.
'He means what he says.'
'He always does that.'
'And he really hopes that you will put your shoulder to the
wheel,--even though you must do so in opposition to him.'
'That makes no difference. I think my father is a very fine
fellow.'
'Shall you do as he tells you?'
'Well,--I suppose not;--except that he advises me to hold my tongue.
I think I shall do that. I mean to go down there, you know, and I
daresay I shall be much the same as others.'
'Has he talked to you much about it?'
'No;--he never talks much. Every now and then he will give me a
downright lecture, or he will write me a letter like that; but he
never talks to any of us.'
'How very odd.'
'Yes; he is odd. He seems to be fretful when we are with him. A
good many things make him unhappy.'
'Your poor mother's death.'
'That first;--and then there are other things. I suppose he didn't
like the way I came to an end in Oxford.'
'You were a boy then.'
'Of course I was very sorry for it,--though I hated Oxford. It was
neither one thing nor another. You were your own master and yet
you were not.'
'Now you must be your own master.'
'I suppose so.'
'You must marry, and become a lord of the Treasury. When I was a
child I acted as a child. You know all about that.'
'Oh yes. And now I must throw off childish things. You mean that I
mustn't paint any man's house? Eh, Lady Mab.'
'That and the rest of it. You are a legislator now.'
'So is Popplecourt, who took his seat in the House of Lords two or
three months ago. He's the biggest young fool I know out. He
couldn't even paint a house.'
'He is not an elected legislator. It makes all the difference. I
quite agree with what the Duke says. Lord Popplecourt can't help
himself. Whether he's an idle young scamp or not, he must be a
legislator. But when a man goes into if for himself, as you have
done, he should make up his mind to be useful.'
'I shall vote with my party of course.'
'More than that, much more than that. if you didn't care for
politics you couldn't have taken that line of your own.' When she
said this she knew that he had been talked into what he had done
by Tregear,--by Tregear, who had ambition, and intelligence, and
capacity for forming an opinion of his own. 'If you do not do it
for your own sake, you will for the sake of those who,--who,--who
are your friends,' she said at last, not feeling quite able to
tell him that he must do it for the sake of those that loved him.
'There are not very many I suppose who care about it.'
'Your father.'
'Oh yes,--my father.'
'And Tregear.'
'Tregear has got his own fish to fry.'
'Are there none others? Do you think we care nothing about it
here?'
'Miss Cassewary?'
'Well;--Miss Cassewary! A man might have a worse friend than Miss
Cassewary;--and my father.'
'I don't suppose Lord Grex cares a straw about me.'
'Indeed he does,--a great many straws. And so do I. Do you think I
don't care a straw about you?'
'I don't know why you should.'
'Because it is in my nature to be earnest. A girl comes out into
the world so young that she becomes serious, and steady as it
were, so much sooner than a man does.'
'I always think that nobody is so full of chaff as you are, Lady
Mab.'
'I am not chaffing now in recommending you go to work in the world
like a man.' As she said this they were sitting on the same sofa,
but with some space between them. When Miss Cassewary had left the
room Lord Silverbridge was standing, but after a little he had
fallen into the seat, at the extreme corner, and had gradually
come a little nearer to her. Now in her energy she put our her
hand, meaning perhaps to touch lightly the sleeve of his coat,
meaning perhaps not quite to touch him at all. But as she did so
he put out his hand and took hold of hers.'
She drew it away, not seeming to allow it to remain in his grasp
for a moment, but she did so, not angrily, or hurriedly, or with
any flurry. She did it as though it were natural that he should
take her hand and as natural that she should recover it. 'Indeed I
have hardly more than ten minutes left before dressing,' she said,
rising from her seat.
'If you will say that you care about it, you yourself, I will do
my best.' As he made this declaration blushes covered his cheeks
and forehead.
'I do care about it,--very much; I myself,' said Lady Mabel, not
blushing at all. Then there was a knock at the door, and Lady
Mabel's maid, putting her head in, declared that my Lord had come
in and had already been some time in the dressing-room. 'Good-bye,
Lord Silverbridge,' she said quite gaily, and rather more aloud
than would have been necessary, had she not intended that the maid
should also hear her.
'Poor boy!' she said to herself as she was dressing. 'Poor boy!'
Then, when the evening was over she spoke to herself again about
hit. 'Dear sweet boy!' And then she sat and thought. How was it
that she was so old a woman, while he was so little more than a
child? How fair he was, how far removed from conceit, how capable
of being made into man--in the process of time! What might not be
expected from him if he could be kept in good hands for the next
ten years! But in whose hands? What would she be in ten years,
she who already seemed to know the town and all its belongings so
well? And yet she was as young in years as he. He, as she knew,
had passed his twenty-second birthday,--and so had she. That was
all. It might be good for her that she should marry him. She was
ambitious. And such a marriage would satisfy her ambition. Through
her father's fault, and her brother's she was likely to be poor.
This man would certainly be rich. Many of those who were buzzing
around her from day to day, were distasteful to her. From among
them she knew that she could not take a husband, let their rank
and wealth be what it might. She was too fastidious, too proud,
too prone to think that things could be with her as she liked
them! This last was in all things pleasant to her. Though he was
but a boy, thee was a certain boyish manliness about him. The very
way in which he had grasped at her hand and had then blushed ruby-
red at his own daring, had gone far with her. How gracious he was
to look at! Dear sweet boy! Love him? No;--she did not know that
she loved him. That dream was over. She was sure however that she
liked him.
But could she love him? That a woman should not marry a man
without loving him, she partly knew. But she thought she knew also
that there must be exceptions. She would do her very best to love
him. That other man should be banished from her very thoughts. She
would be such a wife to him that he should never know that he
lacked anything. Poor boy! Sweet dear boy! He, as he went away to
his dinner, had his thoughts also about her. Of all the girls he
knew she was the jolliest,--and of all his friends she was the
pleasantest. As she was anxious that he should go to work in the
House of Commons he would go to work there. As for loving her!
Well;--of course he must marry some day, and why not Lady Mab as
well as anyone else.
CHAPTER 17
The Derby
An attendance at the Newmarket Second Spring Meeting had
unfortunately not been compatible with the Silverbridge election.
Major Tifto had therefore been obliged to look after the affair
alone. 'A very useful mare,' as Tifto had been in the habit of
calling a leggy, thoroughbred, meagre-looking brute named
Coalition, was on this occasion confided to the Major's sole care
and judgement. But Coalition failed, as coalitions always do, and
Tifto had to report to his noble patron that they had not pulled
off the event. It had been a match for four hundred pounds, made
indeed by Lord Silverbridge, but made at the suggestion of Tifto;--
and now Tifto wrote in a very bad humour about it. It had been
altogether his Lordship's fault in submitting to carry two pounds
more than Tifto had thought to be fair and equitable. The match
had been lost. Would Lord Silverbridge be so good as to pay the
money to Mr Green Griffin and debit him, Tifto, with the share of
the loss?
We must acknowledge that the unpleasant tone of the Major's letter
was due quite as much to the ill-usage he had received in
reference to that journey to Silverbridge, as to the loss of the
race. Within that little body there was a high-mounting heart, and
that heart had been greatly wounded by his Lordship's treatment.
Tifto had felt himself to have been treated like a servant. Hardly
an excuse had even been made. He had been simply told that he was
not wanted. He was apt sometimes to tell himself that he knew on
which side his bread was buttered. But perhaps he hardly knew how
best to keep the butter going. There was a little pride about him
which was antagonistic to the best interests of such a trade as
his. Perhaps it was well that he should inwardly suffer when
injured. But it could not be well that he should declare to such
men as Nidderdale, and Dolly Longstaff, and Popplecourt that he
didn't mean to put up with that sort of thing. He certainly should
not have spoken in this strain before Tregear. Of all men living
he hated and feared him the most. And he knew that no other man
loved Silverbridge as did Tregear. Had he been thinking of his
bread-and-butter, instead of giving way to the mighty anger of his
little bosom, he would have hardly declared openly at the club
that he would let Lord Silverbridge know that he did not mean to
stand any man's airs. But these extravagances were due perhaps to
whisky-and-water, and that kind of intoxication which comes to
certain men from momentary triumphs. Tifto could always be got to
make a fool of himself when surrounded by three or four men of
rank who, for the occasion, would talk to him as an equal. He
almost declared that Coalition had lost her match because he had
not been taken down at Silverbridge.
'Tifto is in a deuce of a way with you,' said Dolly Longstaff to
the young member.
'I know all about it,' said Silverbridge, who had had an interview
with his partner since the race.
'If you don't take care he'll dismiss you.'
Silverbridge did not care much about this, knowing that words of
wisdom did not ordinarily fall from the mouth of Dolly Longstaff.
But he was more moved when his friend Tregear spoke to him. 'I
wish you knew the kind of things that fellow Tifto says behind
your back.'
'As if I cared.'
'But you ought to care.'
'Do you care what every fellow says about you?'
'I care very much what those say whom I choose to live with me.
Whatever Tifto might say about me would be quite indifferent to
me, because we have nothing in common. But you and he are bound
together.'
'We have a horse or two in common; that's all.'
'But that is a great deal. The truth is he's a nasty, brawling,
boasting, ill-conditioned little reptile.'
Silverbridge of course did not acknowledge that this was true. But
he felt it, and almost repented of his trust in Tifto. But still
Prime Minister stood very well for the Derby. He was second
favourite, the odds against him being only four to one. The glory
of being part owner of a probable winner of the Derby was so much
to him that he could not bring himself to be altogether angry with
Tifto. There was no doubt that the horse's present condition was
due entirely to Tifto's care. Tifto spent in these few days just
before the race the greatest part of his time in the close
vicinity of the horse, only running up to London now and then, as
a fish comes up to the surface, for a breath of air. It is
impossible that Lord Silverbridge should separate himself from the
Major,--at any rate till after the Epsom meeting.
He had paid the money for the match without a word of reproach to
his partner, but still with a feeling that things were not quite
as they ought to be. In money matters his father had been liberal,
but not very definite. He had been told that he ought not to spend
above two thousand pounds a year, and had been reminded that there
was a house for him to use both in town and in the country. But he
had been given to understand also that any application made to Mr
Morton, if not very unreasonable, would be attended with success.
A solemn promise had been exacted from him that he would have no
dealings with money-lenders;--and then he had been set afloat.
There had been a rather frequent correspondence with Mr Morton,
who had once or twice submitted a total of the money paid on
behalf of his correspondent. Lord Silverbridge, who imagined
himself to be anything but extravagant, had wondered how the
figures could mount up so rapidly. But the money needed was always
forthcoming, and the raising of objections never seemed to be
carried back beyond Mr Morton. His promise to his father about the
money-lenders had been scrupulously kept. As long as ready money
can be made to be forthcoming without any charge for interest, a
young man must be very foolish who will prefer to borrow it at
twenty-five per cent.
Now had come the night before the Derby, and it must be
acknowledged that the young Lord was much fluttered by the
greatness of the coming struggle. Tifto, having seen his horse
conveyed to Epsom, had come up to London in order that he might
dine with his partner and hear what was being said about the race
at the Beargarden. The party dining there consisted of
Silverbridge, Dolly Longstaff, Popplecourt, and Tifto. Nidderdale
was to have joined them, but he told them on the day before, with
a sigh, that domestic duties were too strong for him. Lady
Nidderdale,--or if not Lady Nidderdale herself, then Lady
Nidderdale's mother,--was so far potent over the young nobleman as
to induce him to confine his Derby practices to the Derby-day.
Another guest had also been expected, the reason for whose non-
appearance must be explained somewhat at length. Lord Gerald
Palliser, the Duke's second son, was at this time at Cambridge,--
being almost as popular at Trinity as his brother had been at
Christ Church. It was to him quite a matter of course that he
should see his brother's horse run for the Derby. But,
unfortunately, in this very year a stand was being made by the
University pundits against a practice which they thought had
become too general. For the last year or two, it had been
considered almost as much a matter of course that a Cambridge
undergraduate should go to the Derby as that a Member of
Parliament should do so. Against this three or four rigid
disciplinarians had raised their voices,--and as a result, no young
man up at Trinity could get leave to be away on the Derby pretext.
Lord Gerald raged against the restriction very loudly. He at first
proclaimed his intention of ignoring the college authorities
altogether. Of course he would be expelled. But the order itself
was to his thinking so absurd,--the idea that he should not see his
brother's horse run was so extravagant,--that he argued that his
father could not be angry with him for incurring dismissal in so
excellent a cause. But his brother saw things in a different
light. He knew how his father had looked at him when he had been
sent away from Oxford, and he counselled moderation. Gerald should
see the Derby, but should not encounter that heaviest wrath of all
which comes from a man's not sleeping beneath his college roof.
There was a train which left Cambridge at an early hour, and would
bring him into London in time to accompany his friends to the
racecourse;--and another train, a special, which would take him
down after dinner, so that he and others should reach Cambridge
before the college gates were shut.
The dinner at the Beargarden was very joyous. Of course the state
of the betting in regard to Prime Minister was the subject
generally popular for the night. Mr Lupton came in, a gentleman
well known in all fashionable circles, parliamentary, social, and
racing, who was rather older than the company on this occasion,
but still not so much so as to be found to be an incumbrance.
Lord Glasslough too, and others joined them, and a good deal was
said about the horse. 'I never kept these things dark,' said
Tifto. 'Of course he is an uncertain horse.'
'Most horses are,' said Lupton.
'Just so, Mr Lupton. What I mean is, the Minister has got a bit of
a temper. But if he likes to do his best I don't think any three-
year-old in England can get his nose past him.'
'For half a mile he'd be nowhere with the Provence filly,' said
Glasslough.
'I'm speaking of a Derby distance, my Lord.'
'That's a kind of thing nobody really knows,' said Lupton.
'I've seen him 'ave his gallops,' said the little man, who in his
moments of excitement would sometimes fall away from that exact
pronunciation which had been one of the studies of his life,' and
have measured his stride. I think I know what pace means. Of
course I'm not going to answer for the 'orse. He's a temper, but
if things go favourably, no animal that ever showed on the Downs
was more likely to do the trick. Is there any gentleman here who
would like to be me fifteen to one in hundreds against the two
events,--the Derby and the Leger?' The desired odds were at once
offered by Mr Lupton, and the bet was booked.
This gave rise to other betting, and before the evening was over
Lord Silverbridge had taken three-and-a-half to one against his
horse to such an extent that he stood to lose twelve hundred
pounds. The champagne which he had drunk, and the news that
Quousque, the first favourite, had so gone to pieces that now
there was a question which was the first favourite, had so
inflated him, that, had he been left alone, he would almost have
wagered even money on his horse. In the midst of his excitement
there came to him a feeling that he was allowing himself to do
just that which he had intended to avoid. But then the occasion
was so peculiar! How often can it happen to a man in his life
that he shall own a favourite for the Derby! The affair was one
in which it was almost necessary that he should risk a little
money.
Tifto, when he got into his bed, was altogether happy. He had
added whisky-and-water to his champagne, and feared nothing. If
Prime Minister should win the Derby he would be able to pay all
that he owed, and to make a start with money in his pocket. And
then there would be attached to him all the infinite glory of
being the owner of the winner of the Derby. The horse was run in
his name. Thoughts as to great successes crowded themselves upon
his heated brain. What might not be open to him? Parliament! The
Jockey Club! The mastership of one of the crack shire packs! Might
it not come to pass that he should some day become the great
authority in England upon races, racehorses, and hunters? If he
could be the winner of the Derby and Leger he thought that
Glasslough and Lupton would snub him no longer, that even Tregear
would speak to him, and that his pal the Duke's son would never
throw him aside again.
Lord Silverbridge had brought a drag with all its appendages.
There was a coach, the four bay horses, the harness, and the two
regulation grooms. When making this purchase he had condescended
to say a word to his father on the subject. 'Everybody belongs to
the four-in-hand club now,' said the son.
'I never did,' said the Duke.
'Ah,--if I could be like you!'
The Duke said that he would think about it, and then had told Mr
Morton that he was to pay the bill for this new toy. He had
thought about it, and had assured himself that driving a coach and
four was at present regarded as a fitting amusement for young men
of rank and wealth. He did not understand it himself. It seemed to
him to be as unnatural as though a gentleman should turn
blacksmith and make horseshoes for his amusement. Driving four
horses was hard work. But the same might be said of rowing. There
were men, he knew, who would spend their day standing at a lathe,
making little boxes for their recreation. He did not sympathise
with it. But the fact was so, and this driving of coaches was
regarded with favour. He had been a little touched by that word
his son had spoken, 'Ah,--if I could be like you!' So he had given
the permission; the drag, horses, harness, and grooms had come
into the possession of Lord Silverbridge; and now they were put
into requisition to take their triumphant owner and his party down
to Epsom. Dolly Longstaff's team was sent down to meet them half-
way. Gerald Palliser, who had come up from Cambridge that morning,
was allowed to drive the first stage out of town to compensate him
for the cruelty done to him by the University pundits. Tifto, with
a cigar in his mouth, with a white hat and a blue veil, and a new
light-coloured coat, was by no means the least happy of the party.
How that race was run, and how both Prime Minister and Quousque
were beaten by an outsider named Fishknife, Prime Minister,
however, coming in a good second, the present writer having no
aptitude in that way, cannot describe. Such, however, were the
facts, and then Dolly Longstaff and Lord Silverbridge drove the
coach back to London. The coming back was not triumphant, though
the young fellows bore their failure well. Dolly Longstaff had
lost a 'pot of money', Silverbridge would have to draw upon the
inexhaustible Mr Morton for something over two thousand pounds,--in
regard to which he had no doubt as to the certainty with which the
money would be forthcoming, but he feared that it would give rise
to special notice from his father. Even the poor younger brother
had lost a couple of hundred pounds, for which he would have to
make his own special application to Mr Morton.
But Tifto felt it more than anyone. The horse ought to have won.
Fishknife had been favoured by such a series of accidents that the
whole affair had been a miracle. Tifto had these circumstances at
his fingers' ends, and in the course of the afternoon and evening
explained them accurately to all who would listen to him. He had
this to say on his own behalf,--that before the party had left the
course their horse stood first favourite for the Leger. But Tifto
was unhappy as he came back to town, and in spite of the lunch,
which had been very glorious, sat moody and sometimes even silent
within his gay apparel.
'It was the unfairest start I ever saw,' said Tifto, almost
getting up from his seat on the coach so as to address Dolly and
Silverbridge on the box.
'What the - is the good of that?' said Dolly from the coach-box.
'Take you licking and don't squeal.'
'That' all very well. I can take my licking as well as another
man. But one has to look to the causes of these things. I never
saw Peppermint ride so badly. Before he got round the corner I
wished I'd been on the horse myself.'
'I don't believe it was Peppermint's fault a bit,' said
Silverbridge.
'Well;--perhaps not. Only I did think I was a pretty good judge of
riding.' Then Tifto again settled down into silence.
But though much money had been lost, and a great deal of
disappointment had to be endured by our party in reference to the
Derby, the most injurious and most deplorable event in the day's
history had not occurred yet. Dinner had been ordered at the
Beargarden at seven,--an hour earlier than would have been named
had it not been that Lord Gerald must be at Eastern Counties
Railway Station at nine pm. An hour an half for dinner and a cigar
afterwards, and half an hour to get to the railway station would
not be more than time enough.
But of all men alive Dolly Longstaff was the most unpunctual. He
did not arrive till eight. The others were not there before half-
past seven, and it was nearly eight before any of them sat down.
At half-past eight Silverbridge began to be very anxious about his
brother, and told him that he ought to start without further
delay. A hansom cab was waiting at the door, but Lord Gerald still
delayed. He knew, he said, that the special would not start till
half-past nine. There were a lot of fellows who were dining about
everywhere, and they would never get to the station by the hour
fixed. It became apparent to the elder brother that Gerald would
stay altogether unless he were forced to go, and at last he did
get up and pushed the young fellow out. 'Drive like the very
devil,' he said to the cabman, explaining to him something of the
circumstances. The cabman did do his best, but a cab cannot be
made to travel from the Beargarden, which as all the world knows
is close to St James's Street, to Liverpool Street in the City in
ten minutes. When Lord Gerald reached the station the train had
started.
At twenty minutes to ten the young man reappeared at the club.
'Why on earth didn't you take a special for yourself?' exclaimed
Silverbridge.
'They wouldn't give me one.' After it was apparent to all of them
that what had just happened had done more to ruffle our hero's
temper than his failure and loss at the races.
'I wouldn't have had it to happen for any money you could name,'
said the elder brother to the younger, as he took him home to
Carlton Terrace.
'If they do send me down, what's the odds?' said the younger
brother, who was not quite as sober as he might have been.
'After what happened to me it will almost break the governor's
heart,' said the heir.
CHAPTER 18
One of the Results of the Derby
On the following morning at about eleven Silverbridge and his
brother were at breakfast at an hotel in Jermyn Street. They had
slept in Carlton Terrace, but Lord Gerald had done so without the
knowledge of the Duke. Lord Silverbridge, as he was putting
himself to bed, had made up his mind to tell the story to the Duke
at once, but when the morning came his courage failed him. The two
young men therefore slunk out of the house, and as there was no
breakfasting at the Beargarden they went to his hotel. They were
both rather gloomy, but the elder brother was the more sad of the
two. 'I'd give anything I have in the world,' he said, 'that you
hadn't come at all.'
'Things have been so unfortunate!'
'Why the deuce wouldn't you go when I told you?'
'Who on earth would have thought that they'd have been so
punctual? They never are punctual on the Great Eastern. It was an
infernal shame. I think I shall go at once to Harnage and tell him
about it.' Mr Harnage was Lord Gerald's tutor.
'But you have been in ever so many rows before.'
'Well;--I've been gated, and once when they'd gated me, I came
right upon Harnage on the bridge at King's'
'What sort of fellow is he?'
'He used to be good-natured. Now he has taken ever so many
crotchets into his head. It was he who began all this about none
of the men going to the Derby.'
'Did you ask him yourself for leave?'
'Yes; and when I told him about your owning Prime Minister he got
savage and declared that was the very reason why I shouldn't go.'
'You didn't tell me that.'
'I was determined I would go. I wasn't going to be made a child
of.'
At last it was decided that the two brothers should go down to
Cambridge together. Silverbridge would be able to come back to
London the same evening, so as to take his drag down to the Oaks
on the Friday,--a duty from which even his present misery would not
deter him. They reached Cambridge at about three, and Lord
Silverbridge at once called at the Master's lodge and sent in his
card. The Master of Trinity is so great that he cannot be supposed
to see all comers, but on this occasion Lord Silverbridge was
fortunate. With much trepidation he told his story. Such being the
circumstances, could anything be done to moderate the vials of
wrath which must doubtless be poured out over the head of his
unfortunate brother?
'Why come to me?' said the Master. 'From what you say yourself, it
is evident that you know that must rest with the College tutor.'
'I thought, sir, if you could say a word.'
'Do you think that it would be right that I should interfere for
one special man, and that a man of special rank?'
'Nobody thinks that would count for anything. But--'
'But what?' asked the Master.
'If you knew my father, sir!'
'Everybody knows your father;--every Englishman I mean. Of course I
know your father,--as a public man, and I know how much the country
owes to him.'
'Yes it does. But it is not that I mean. If you knew who this
would,--would,--break his heart.' Then came a tear into the young
man's eye,--and there was something almost like a tear in the eye
of the old man too. 'Of course it was my fault. I got him to come.
He hadn't the slightest intention of staying. I think you will
believe what I say about that, sir.'
'I believe every word you say, my Lord.'
'I got into a row at Oxford. I daresay you heard. There never was
anything so stupid. That was a great grief to my father,--a very
great grief. It is so hard upon him because he never did anything
foolish himself.'
'You should try to imitate him,' Silverbridge shook his head. 'Or
at least not to grieve him.'
'That is it. He has got over the affair about me. As I'm the
eldest son I've got into Parliament, and he thinks perhaps that
all has been forgotten. An eldest son may, I fancy, be a greater
ass than his younger brother.' The Master could not but smile as
he thought of the selection which had been made of a legislator.
'But if Gerald is sent down, I don't know how he will get over
it.' And now the tears absolutely rolled down the young man's
face, so that he was forced to wipe them from his eyes.
The Master was much moved. That a young man should pray for
himself would be nothing to him. The discipline of the college was
not in his hands, and such prayers would avail nothing with him.
Nor would a brother praying simply for a brother avail much. A
father asking for his son might be resisted. But the brother
asking pardon for the brother on behalf of the father was almost
irresistible. But this man had long been in a position in which he
knew that no such prayers should ever prevail at all. In the first
place it was not his business. If he did anything, it would only
be by asking a favour when he knew that no favour should be
granted;--and a favour which he of all men should not ask, because
to him of all men it could not be refused. And then the very
altitude of the great Statesman whom he was invited to befriend,--
the position of this Duke who had been so powerful and might be
powerful again, was against any such interference. Of himself he
might be sure that he would certainly done this as readily for any
Mr Jones as for the Duke of Omnium; but were he to do it, it would
be said of him that it had been done because the benevolence would
seem to be self-seeking. 'Your father, if he were here,' said he,
'would know that I could not interfere.'
'And will he be sent down?'
'I do not know all the circumstances. From your own showing the
case seems to be one of great insubordination. To tell the truth,
Lord Silverbridge, I ought not to have spoken to you on the
subject at all.'
'You mean that I should not have spoken to you.'
'Well; I did not say so. And if you had been indiscreet I can
pardon that. I wish I could have served you; but I fear that it is
not in my power.' Then Lord Silverbridge took his leave, and
going to his brother's rooms waited there till Lord Gerald
returned from his interview with the tutor.
'It's all up,' said he, chucking down his cap, striving to be at
his ease. 'I may pack up and go--just where I please. He says that
on no account will he have anything more to do with me. I asked
him what I was to do, and he said that the Governor had better
take my name off the books of the college. I did ask whether I
couldn't go over to Maclean.'
'Who is Maclean?'
'One of the other tutors. But the brute only smiled.'
'He thought you meant it for chaff.'
'Well;--I suppose I did mean to show him that I was not going to be
exterminated by him. He will write to the Governor today. And you
will have to talk to the Governor.'
Yes! As Lord Silverbridge went back that afternoon to London he
thought very much of that talking to the Governor! Never yet had
he been able to say anything very pleasant to 'the Governor.' He
had himself been always in disgrace at Eton, and had been sent
away from Oxford. He had introduced Tregear into the family, which
of all the troubles perhaps was the worst. He had changed his
politics. He had spent more money than he ought to have done, and
now at this very moment must ask for a large sum. And he had
brought Gerald up to see the Derby, thereby causing him to be sent
away from Cambridge! And through it all there was present to him
a feeling that by no words which he could use would he be able to
make his father understand how deeply he felt all this.
He could not bring himself to see the Duke that evening, and the
next morning he was sent for before he was out of bed. He found
his father at breakfast with the tutor's letter before him. 'Do
you know anything about this?' asked the Duke very calmly.
'Gerald ran up to see the Derby, and in the evening missed the
train.'
'Mr Harnage tells me that he had been expressly ordered not to go
to these races.'
'I suppose he was, sir.'
Then there was silence between them for some minutes. 'You might
as well sit down and eat your breakfast,' said the father. Then
Lord Silverbridge did sit down and pour himself out a cup of tea.
There was no servant in the room, and he dreaded to ring the bell.
'Is there anything you want?' asked the Duke. There was a small
dish of fried bacon on the table, and some cold mutton on the
sideboard. Silverbridge declaring that he had everything that was
necessary, got up and helped himself to the cold mutton. Then
again there was silence, during which the Duke crunched his toast
and made an attempt at reading the newspaper. But, soon pushing
that aside, he again took up Mr Harnage's letter. Silverbridge
watched every motion of his father as he slowly made his way
through the slice of cold mutton. 'It seems that Gerald is to be
sent away altogether.'
'I fear so, sir.'
'He has profited by your example at Oxford. Did you persuade him
to come to these races?'
'I am afraid I did.'
'Though you knew the orders which had been given?'
'I thought it was meant that he should not be away the night.'
'He had asked permission to go to the Derby and had been
positively refused. Did you know this?'
Silverbridge sat for some moments considering. He could not at
first quite remember what he had known and what he had not known.
Perhaps he entertained some faint hope that the question would be
allowed to go unanswered. He saw, however, from his father's eye
that that was impossible. And then he did remember it all. 'I
suppose I did know it.'
'And you were willing to imperil your brother's position in life,
and my happiness, in order that he might see a horse, of which I
believe you call yourself part owner, run a race?'
'I thought there would be no risk if he got back the same night. I
don't suppose there is any good in my saying it, but I never was
so sorry for anything in all my life. I feel as if I could go and
hang myself.'
'That is absurd,--and unmanly,' said the Duke. The expression of
sorrow, as it had been made, might be absurd and unmanly, but
nevertheless it had touched him. He was severe because he did not
know how far his severity wounded. 'It is a great blow,--another
great blow! Races! A congregation of all the worst blackguards
in the country mixed up with the greatest fools.'
'Lord Cantrip was there,' said Silverbridge; 'and I say Sir
Timothy Beeswax.'
'If the presence of Sir Timothy be an allurement to you I pity you
indeed. I have nothing further to say about it. You have ruined
your brother.' He had been driven to further anger by this
reference to one man whom he respected and to another whom he
despised.
'Don't say that, sir.'
'What am I to say?'
'Let him be an attache, or something of that sort.'
'Do you believe it possible that he should pass any examination? I
think that my children between them will bring me to my grave. You
had better go now. I suppose you will want to be--at the races
again?' Then the young man crept out of the room, and going to
his own part of the house shut himself up alone for nearly an
hour. What had he better do to give his father some comfort?
Should he abandon racing altogether, sell his share of Prime
Minister and Coalition, and go in hard and strong for committees,
debates, and divisions? Should he get rid of his drag, and resolve
to read up on Parliamentary literature? He was resolved upon one
thing at any rate. He would not go to the Oaks that day. And then
he was resolved on another thing. He would call on Lady Mab Grex
and ask her advice. He felt so disconsolate and insufficient for
himself that he wanted advice from someone whom he could trust.
He found Tifto, Dolly Longstaff, and one or two others at the
stables, from whence it was intended that the drag should start.
They were waiting, and rather angry because they had been kept
waiting. But the news, when it came, was very sad indeed. 'You
wouldn't mind taking the team down and back yourself; would you,
Dolly?' he said to Longstaff.
'You aren't going!' said Dolly, assuming a look of much heroic
horror.
'No;--I am not going today.'
'What's up?' asked Popplecourt.
'That's rather sudden, isn't it?' asked the Major.
'Well; yes. I suppose it is sudden.'
'It's throwing us over a little, isn't it?'
'Not that I see. You've got the trap and the horses.'
'Yes;--we've got the trap and the horses,' said Dolly, 'and I vote
we make a start.'
'As you are not going yourself, perhaps I'd better drive your
horses,' said Tifto.
'Dolly will take the team,' said his Lordship.
'Yes;--decidedly. I will take the team,' said Dolly. 'There isn't a
deal of driving wanted on the road to Epsom, but a man should know
how to hold his reins.' This of course gave rise to some angry
words, but Silverbridge did not stop to hear them.
The poor Duke had no one to whom he could go for advice and
consolation. When his son left him he turned to his newspaper, and
tried to read it--in vain. His mind was too ill at ease to admit of
political matters. He was greatly grieved by this new misfortune
to Gerald, and by Lord Silverbridge's propensity to racing.
But though his sorrows were heavy, there was a sorrow heavier than
these. Lady Cantrip had expressed an opinion almost in favour of
Tregear--and had certainly expressed an opinion in favour of Mrs
Finn. The whole affair in regard to Mrs Finn had been explained to
her, and she had told the Duke that, according to her thinking,
Mrs Finn had behaved well! When the Duke, with an energy which
was by no means customary with him, had asked the question, on the
answer to which so much depended, 'Should there have been a moment
lost?' Lady Cantrip had assured him that not a moment had been
lost. Mrs Finn had at once gone to work, and had arranged that the
whole affair should be told to him, the Duke, in the proper way.
'I think she did,' said Lady Cantrip, 'what I myself should have
done in the circumstances.'
If Lady Cantrip was right, then must his apology to Mrs Finn be
ample, and abject. Perhaps it was this feeling which was at the
moment most vexatious to him.
CHAPTER 19
'No; My Lord. I Do Not.'
Between two and three o'clock Lord Silverbridge, in spite of his
sorrow, found himself able to eat his lunch at his club. The place
was deserted, the Beargarden world having gone to the races. As he
sat eating cold lamb and drinking soda-and-brandy he did confirm
himself in certain modified resolutions, which might be more
probably kept than those sterner laws of absolute renunciation to
which he had thought of pledging himself in his half-starved
morning condition. His father had spoken in very strong language
against racing,--saying that those who went were either fools or
rascals. He was sure this was exaggerated. Half the House of Lords
and two-thirds of the House of Commons were to be seen at the
Derby; but no doubt there were many rascals and fools, and he
could not associate with the legislators without finding himself
among the fools and rascals. He would,--and as soon as he could,--
separate himself from the Major. And he would not bet. It was on
that side of the sport that the rascals and the fools showed
themselves. Of what service could betting be to him whom
Providence had provided with all things wanted to make life
pleasant? As to the drag, his father had in a certain measure
approved of that, and he would keep the drag, as he must have some
relaxation. But his great effort of all should be made in the
House of Commons. He would endeavour to make his father perceive
that he had appreciated that letter. He would always be in the
House soon after four, and would remain there,--or, if possible, as
long as the Speaker sat in the chair. He had already begun to feel
that there was a difficulty in keeping his seat upon those
benches. The half-hours there would be so much longer than
elsewhere! An irresistible desire of sauntering out would come
upon him. There were men the very sound of whose voices was
already odious to him. There had come upon him a feeling in regard
to certain orators, that when once they had begun there was no
reason why they should ever stop. Words of some sort were always
forthcoming, like spiders' webs. He did not think that he could
learn to take a pleasure in sitting in the House; but he hoped
that he might be man enough to do it, though it was not pleasant.
He would begin today, instead of going to the Oaks.
But before he went to the House he would see Lady Mabel Grex. And
here it may be well to state that in making his resolutions as to
a better life, he had considered much whether it would not be well
for him to take a wife. His father had once told him that when he
married, the house in Carlton Terrace should be his own. 'I will
be a lodger if you will have me,' said the Duke; 'or if your wife
should not like that, I will find a lodging elsewhere.' This had
been the sadness and tenderness which had immediately followed the
death of the Duchess. Marriage would steady him. Were he a married
man, Tifto would of course disappear. Upon the whole he thought it
would be good that should marry. And, if so, who could be so nice
as Lady Mabel? That his father would be contented with Lady Mab,
he was inclined to believe. There was no better blood in England.
And Lady Mabel was known to be clever, beautiful, and, her
peculiar circumstances, very wise.
He was aware, however, of a certain drawback. Lady Mabel as his
wife would be his superior, and in some degrees his master. Though
not older she was wiser than he,--and not only wiser but more
powerful also. And he was not quite sure but that she regarded him
as a boy. He thought that she did love him,--or would do so if he
asked her,--but that her love would be bestowed upon him as on an
inferior creature. He was already jealous of his own dignity, and
fearful lest he should miss the glory of being loved by this
lovely one for his own sake,--for his own manhood, and his own
gifts and character.
And yet his attraction to her was so great that now in the day of
his sorrow he could think of no solace but what was to be found in
her company. 'Not at the Oaks!' she said as soon as he was shown
into the drawing-room.
'No,--not at the Oaks. Lord Grex is there, I suppose?'
'Oh yes;--that is a matter of course. Why are you a recreant?'
'The House sits today.'
'How virtuous! Is it coming to that,--that when the House sits you
will never be absent?'
'That's the kind of life I'm going to lead. You haven't heard
about Gerald?'
'About your brother?'
'Yes;--you haven't heard?'
'Not a word. I hope there is not misfortune.'
'But in deed there is,--a most terrible misfortune.' Then he told
the whole story. How Gerald had been kept in London, and how he
had gone down to Cambridge,--all in vain; how his father had taken
the matter to heart, telling him that he had ruined his brother;
and how he, in consequence, had determined not to go to the races.
'Then he said,' continued Silverbridge, 'that his children between
them would bring him to his grave.'
'That was terrible.'
'Very terrible.'
'But what did he mean by that?' asked Lady Mabel, anxious to hear
something about Lady Mary and Tregear.
'Well; of course what I did at Oxford made him unhappy; and now
there is this affair of Gerald's.'
'He did not allude to your sister?'
'Yes he did. You have heard of all that. Tregear told you.'
'He told me something.'
'Of course my father does not like it.'
'Do you approve of it?'
'No,' said he--curtly and sturdily.
'Why not? You like Tregear.'
'Certainly I like Tregear. He is the friend among men, whom I like
the best. I have only two real friends.'
'Who are they?' she asked, sinking her voice very low.
'He is one;--and you are the other. You know that.'
'I hoped that I was one,' she said. 'But if you love Tregear so
dearly, why do you not approve of him for your sister?'
'I always knew that it would not do.'
'But why not?'
'Mary ought to marry a man of higher standing.'
'Of higher rank you mean. The daughter of Dukes have married
commoners before.'
'It is not exactly that. I don't like to talk of it in that way. I
knew it would make my father unhappy. In point of fact he can't
marry her. What is the good of approving of a thing that is
impossible?'
'I wish I knew your sister. Is she--firm?'
'Indeed she is.'
'I am not so sure you are.'
'No,' said he, after considering awhile; 'nor am I. But she is not
like Gerald or me. She is more obstinate.'
'Less fickle perhaps.'
'Yes, if you choose to call it fickle. I don't know that I am
fickle. If I were in love with a girl I should be true to her.'
'Are you sure of that?'
'Quite sure. If I were really in love with her I certainly should
not change. It is possible that I might be bullied out of it.'
'But she will not be bullied out of it?'
'Mary? No. That is just it. She will stick to it if he does.'
'I would if I were she. Where will you find any young man equal to
Frank Tregear?'
'Perhaps you mean to cut poor Mary out.'
'That isn't a nice thing for you to say, Lord Silverbridge. Frank
is my cousin,--as indeed you are also; but it so happens that I
have seen a great deal of him all my life. And, though I don't
want to cut your sister out, as you so prettily say, I love him
well enough to understand that any girl whom he loves ought to be
true to him.' So far what she said was very well, but she
afterwards added a word which might have been wisely omitted.
'Frank and I are almost beggars.'
'What an accursed thing money is,' he exclaimed, jumping up from
his chair.
'I don't agree with you at all. It is a very comfortable thing.'
'How is anybody who has got it to know if anybody cares for him?'
'You must find that out. There is such a thing I suppose as a real
sympathy.'
'You tell me to my face that you and Tregear would have been
lovers only that you are both poor.'
'I never said anything of the kind.'
'And that he is to be passed on to my sister because it is
supposed that she will have some money.'
'You are putting words into my mouth which I never spoke, and
ideas into my mind which I never thought.'
'And of course I feel the same about myself. How can a fellow help
it? I wish you had a lot of money, I know.'
'It is very kind of you;--but why?'
'Well;--I can't quite explain myself,' he said, blushing as was his
wont. 'I daresay it wouldn't make any difference.'
'It would make a great difference to me. As it is, having none,
and knowing as I do that papa and Percival are getting things into
a worse mess every day, I am obliged to hope that I may some day
marry a man who has got an income.'
'I suppose so,' said he, blushing, but frowning at the same time.
'You see I can be very frank with a real friend. But I am sure of
myself in this--that I shall never marry a man I do not love. A
girl needn't love a man unless she likes it, I suppose. She
doesn't tumble into love as she does into the fire. It would not
suit me to marry a poor man, and so I don't mean to fall in love
with a poor man.'
'But you do mean to fall in love with a rich one?'
'That remains to be seen, Lord Silverbridge. The rich man will at
any rate have to fall in love with me first. If you know of any
one you need not tell him to be too sure because he has a good
income.'
'There's Popplecourt. He's his own master, and fool as he is, he
knows how to keep his money.'
'I don't want a fool. You must do better for me than Lord
Popplecourt.'
'What do you say to Dolly Longstaff?'
'He would be just the man, only he never would take the trouble to
come out and be married.'
'Or Glasslough?'
'I'm afraid he's cross, and wouldn't let me have my own way.'
'I can only think of one other;--but you would not take him.'
'Then you had better not mention him. It is no good crowding the
list with impossibles.'
'I was thinking of--myself.'
'You are certainly one of the impossibles.'
'Why, Lady Mab?'
'For twenty reasons. You are too young, and you are bound to
oblige your father, and you are to be wedded to Parliament,--at any
rate for the next ten years. And altogether it wouldn't do,--for a
great many reasons.'
'I suppose you don't like me well enough?'
'What a question to ask! No, my Lord I do not. There, that's what
you may call an answer. Don't you pretend to look offended,
because if you do, I shall laugh at you. If you may have your joke
surely I may have mine.'
'I don't see any joke in it.'
'But I do. Suppose I were to say the other thing. Oh, Lord
Silverbridge, you do me so much honour! And now I come to think
about it, there is no one in the world I am so fond of as you.
Would that suit you?'
'Exactly.'
'But it wouldn't suit me. There's papa. Don't run away.'
'It's ever so much past five,' said the legislator, 'and I had
intended to be in the House more than an hour ago. Good-bye. Give
my love to Miss Cassewary.'
'Certainly. Miss Cassewary is your most devoted friend. Won't you
bring your sister to see me some day?'
'When she is in town I will.'
'I should like to know her. Good-bye.'
As he hurried down to the House in a hansom, he thought over it
all, and told himself that he feared it would not do. She might
perhaps accept him, but if so, she would do it simply in order
that she might become Duchess of Omnium. She might, he thought,
have accepted him then, had she chosen. He had spoken plainly
enough. But she had laughed at him. He felt that if she loved him,
there ought to have been something of that feminine tremor, of
that doubting, hesitating half-avowal of which he had perhaps read
in novels, and which his own instincts taught him to desire. But
there had been no tremor nor hesitating. 'No; my Lord, I do not,'
she had said when he asked her to her face whether she liked him
well enough to be his wife. 'No; my Lord I do not.' It was not
the refusal conveyed in these words which annoyed him. He did
believe that if he were to press his suit with the usual forms she
would accept him. But it was that there should be such a total
absence of trepidation in her words and manner. Before her he
blushed and hesitated and felt that he did not know how to express
himself. If she would only have done the same, then there would
have been an equality. Then he could have seized her in his arms
and sworn that never, never, never would he care for any one but
her.
In truth he saw everything as it was only too truly. Though she
might choose to marry him if he pressed his request, she would
never subject herself to him as he would have the girl do whom he
loved. She was his superior, and in every word uttered between
them showed that it was so. But yet how beautiful she was;--how
much more beautiful than any other thing he had ever seen!
He sat on one of the high seats behind Sir Timothy Beeswax and Sir
Orlando Drought, listening, or pretending to listen, to the
speeches of three or four gentlemen respecting sugar, thinking of
all this till half-past seven;--and then he went to dine with the
proud consciousness of having done his duty. The forms and methods
of the House were, he flattered himself, soaking into him
gradually,--as his father had desired. The theory of legislation
was sinking into his mind. The welfare of the nation depended
chiefly on sugar. But he thought that, after all, his own welfare
must depend on the possession of Mab Grex.
CHAPTER 20
Then He Will Come Again
Lady Mabel, when her young lover left her, was for a time freed
from the necessity of thinking about him by her father. He had
returned from the Oaks in a very bad humour. Lord Grex had been
very badly treated by his son, whom he hated worse than any one
else in the world. On the Derby-day he had won a large sum of
money, which had been to him at the time a matter of intense
delight,--for he was in great want of money. But on this day he had
discovered that his son and heir had lost more than he had won,
and an arrangement had been suggested to him that his winnings
should go to pay Percival's losings. This was a mode of settling
affairs to which the Earl would not listen for a moment, had he
possessed the power of putting a veto upon it. But there had been
a transaction lately between him and his son with reference to the
cutting off a certain entail under which money was to be paid to
Lord Percival. This money had not yet been forthcoming, and
therefore the Earl was constrained to assent. This was very
distasteful to the Earl, and he came home therefore in a bad
humour, and said a great many disagreeable things to his daughter.
'You know, papa, if I could do anything I would.' This she said
in answer to a threat, which he had made often before and now
repeated, of getting rid altogether of the house in Belgrave
Square. Whenever he made this threat he did not scruple to tell
her that the house had to be kept up solely for her welfare. 'I
don't see why the deuce you don't get married. You'll have to
sooner or later.' That was not a pleasant speech for a daughter
to hear from her father. 'As to that,' she said, 'it must come or
not as chance will have it. If you want me to sign anything I will
sign it;'--for she had been asked to sign papers, or in other words
to surrender rights;--'but for that other matter it must be left to
myself.' Then he had been very disagreeable indeed.
They dined together,--of course with all the luxury that wealth can
give. There was a well-appointed carriage to take them backwards
and forwards to the next square, such as an Earl should have. She
was splendidly dressed, as became an Earl's daughter, and he was
brilliant with some star which had been accorded to him by his
sovereign's grateful minister in return for staunch parliamentary
support. No one looking at them could have imagined that such a
father could have told such a daughter that she must marry herself
out of the way, because as an unmarried girl she was a burden.
During the dinner she was very gay. To be gay was a habit,--we may
almost say the work,--of her life. It so chanced that she sat
between Sir Timothy Beeswax, who in these days was a very great
man indeed, and that very Dolly Longstaff, whom Silverbridge in
his irony had proposed to her as a fitting suitor for her hand.
'Isn't Lord Silverbridge a cousin of yours?' asked Sir Timothy.
'A very distant one.'
'He has come over to us, you know. It is such a triumph.'
'I was so sorry to hear it.' This, however, as the reader knows,
was a fib.
'Sorry!' said Sir Timothy. 'Surely Lord Grex's daughter must be a
Conservative.'
'Oh yes;--I am a Conservative because I was born one. I think that
people in politics should remain as they are born,--unless they are
very wise indeed. When men come to be statesmen, and all that kind
of thing, of course they can change backwards and forwards.'
'I hope that is not intended for me, Lady Mabel.'
'Certainly not. I don't knew enough about it to be personal.'
That, however, was again not quite true. 'But I have the greatest
possible respect for the Duke, and I think it a pity that he
should be made unhappy by his son. Don't you like the Duke?'
'Well;--yes;--yes in a way. He is a most respectable man; and has
been a good public servant.'
'All our lot are ruined, you know,' said Dolly, talking of the
races.
'Who are your lot, Mr Longstaff?'
'I'm one myself.'
'I suppose so.'
'I'm utterly smashed. Then there's Percival.'
'I hope he has not lost much. Of course you know he is my
brother.'
'Oh laws;--so he is. I always put my foot in it. Well;--he has lost
a lot. And so have Silverbridge and Tifto. Perhaps you don't know
Tifto.'
'I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr Tifto.'
'He is a major. I think you'd like Major Tifto. He's a sort of
racing coach to Silverbridge. You ought to know Tifto. And Tregear
is pretty nearly cleared out.'
'Mr Tregear! Mr Frank Tregear!'
'I'm told he has been hit very heavy. I hope he's not a friend of
yours, Lady Mabel.'
'Indeed he is;--a very dear friend and cousin.'
'That's what I hear. He's very much with Silverbridge you know.'
'I cannot think that Mr Tregear has lost money.'
'I hope he hasn't. I know I have. I wish someone would stick up
for me and say it was impossible.'
'But that is not Mr Tregear's way of living. I can understand that
Lord Silverbridge or Percival should lose money.'
'Or me?'
'Or you, if you like to say so.'
'Or Tifto?'
'I don't know anything about Mr Tifto.'
'Major Tifto.'
'Or Major Tifto;--what does it signify?'
'No;--of course. We inferior people may lose our money just as we
please. But a man who can look clever as Mr Tregear ought to win
always.'
'I told you just know that he was a friend of mine.'
'But don't you think that he does look clever?' There could be no
question but that Tregear, when he disliked his company, could
show his dislike by his countenance; and it was not improbable
that he had done so in the presence of Mr Adolphus Longstaff. 'Now
tell the truth, Lady Mabel; does he not look conceited sometimes?'
'He generally looks as if he knew what he was talking about, which
is more than some other people do.'
'Of course he is a great deal more clever than I am. I know that.
But I don't think even he can be so clever as he looks, "Or you so
stupid", that's what you ought to say now.'
'Sometimes, Mr Longstaff, I deny myself the pleasure of saying
what I think.'
When all this was over she was very angry with herself for the
anxiety she had expressed about Tregear. This Mr Longstaff was,
she thought, exactly the man to report all she had said in the
public-room at the club. But she had been annoyed by what she had
heard as to her friend. She knew that he of all men should keep
himself free from such follies. Those others had, as it were, a
right to make fools of themselves. It had seemed so natural that
the young men of her own class should dissipate their fortunes and
their reputations by every kind of extravagance! Her father had
done so, and she had never even ventured to hope that her brother
would not follow her father's example. But Tregear, if he gave way
to such follies as these, would soon fall headlong into a pit from
which there would be no escape. And if he did fall, she knew
herself well enough to be aware that she could not stifle, nor
even conceal the misery which this would occasion her. As long as
he stood well before the world she would be well able to assume
indifference. But were he to be precipitated into some bottomless
misfortunes then she could only throw herself after him. She could
see him marry, and smile,--and perhaps even like his wife. And
while he was doing so, she could also marry, and resolve that the
husband whom she took should be made to think he had a loving
wife. But were Frank to die,--then must she fall upon his body as
though he had been known by all the world to be her lover.
Something of this feeling came upon her now, when she heard that
he had been betting and had been unfortunate. She had been unable
so to subdue herself as to seem to be perfectly careless about it.
She had begun by saying that she had not believed it;--but she had
believed it. It was so natural that Tregear should have done as
the others did with whom he lived! But then the misfortune would
be to him so terrible,--so irremediable! The reader, however, may
as well know at once there was a not a word of truth in the
assertion.
After dinner she went home alone. There were other festivities to
be attended, had she pleased to attend them; and poor Miss
Cassewary was dressed ready to go with her as chaperone;--but Miss
Cassewary was quite satisfied to be allowed to go to bed in lieu
of Mrs Montacute Jones's great ball. And she had gone to her
bedroom when Lady Mabel went to her. 'I am glad you are alone,'
she said, 'because I want to speak to you.'
'Is anything wrong?'
'Everything is wrong. Papa says he must give up this house.'
'He says that almost always when he comes back from the races, and
very often when he comes back from the club.'
'Percival has lost ever so much.'
'I don't think my Lord will hamper himself for your brother.'
'I can't explain it, but there is some horrible money
complication. It is hard upon you and me.'
'Who am I?' said Miss Cassewary.
'About the dearest friend that ever a poor girl had. It is hard
upon you,--and upon me. I have given up everything,--and what good
have I done?'
'It is hard, my dear.'
'But after all I do not care much for all that. The thing has been
going on for so long that one is used to it.'
'What is it then?'
'Ah;--yes;--what is it? How am I to tell you?'
'Surely you can tell me,' said the old woman, putting out her hand
so as to caress the arm of the younger one.
'I could tell no one else; I am sure of that. Frank Tregear has
taken to gambling,--like the rest of them.'
'Who says so?'
'He has lost a lot of money at these races. A man who sat next to
me at dinner,--one of those stupid do-nothing fools that one meets
everywhere,--told me so. He is one of the Beargarden set, and of
course he knows all about it.'
'Did he say how much?'
'How is he to pay anything? Of all things men do this is the
worst. A man who would think himself disgraced for ever if he
accepted a present of money will not scruple to use all his wits
to rob his friend of everything that he has by studying the run of
the cards or by watching the paces of some brutes of horses! And
they consider themselves to be fine gentlemen! A real gentleman
should never want the money out of another man's pocket;--should
never think of money at all.'
'I don't know how that is to be helped, my dear. You have got to
think of money.'
'Yes; I have to think of it, and do think of it, and because I do
so I am not what I call a gentleman.'
'No;--my dear, you're a lady.'
'Psha! you know what I mean. I might have had the feelings of a
gentleman as well as the best man that was ever born. I haven't;
but I have never done anything so mean as gambling. Now I have got
something else to tell you.'
'What is it? You do frighten me so when you look like that.'
'You may well be frightened,--for if this all comes round I shall
very soon be able to dispense with you altogether. His Royal
Highness Lord Silverbridge--'
'What do you mean, Mabel?'
'He's next door to a Royal Highness at any rate, and a much more
topping man than most of them. Well then;--His Serene Highness the
heir of the Duke of Omnium has done me the inexpressible honour of
asking me--to marry him.'
'No!'
'You may well say No. and to tell the exact truth, he didn't.'
'Then why do you say he did?'
'I don't think he did quite ask me, but he gave me to understand
that he would do so if I gave him any encouragement.'
'Did he mean it?'
'Yes;--poor boy! He meant it. With a word;--with a look, he would
have been down there kneeling. He asked me whether I liked him
well enough. What do you think I did?'
'What did you do?'
'I spared him;--out of sheer downright Christian charity! I said
to myself, "Love your neighbours." "Don't be selfish." "Do unto
him as you would he should do unto you,"-that is, I think of his
welfare. Though I had him in my net, I let him go. Shall I go to
heaven for doing that?'
'I don't know,' said Miss Cassewarey, who was much perturbed by
the news she had just heard as to be unable to come to any opinion
on the point just raised.
'Or mayn't I rather go to the other place? From how much
embarrassment should I have relieved my father! What a friend I
should have made for Percival! How much I might have been able to
do for Frank! And then what a wife I should have made him!'
'I think you would.'
'He'll never get another half so good; and he'll be sure to get
one before long. It is a sort of tenderness that is quite
inefficacious. He will become a prey, as I should have made him a
prey. But where is there another who will treat him so well?'
'I cannot bear to hear you speak of yourself in that way.'
'But it is true. I know the sort of girl he should marry. In the
first place she should be two years younger, and four years
fresher. She should be able not only to like him and love him, but
to worship him. How well I can see her! She should have fair
hair, and bright green-grey eyes, with the sweetest complexion,
and the prettiest little dimples;--two inches shorter than me, and
the delight of her life should be to hang with two hands on his
arm. She should have a feeling that her Silverbridge is an Apollo
upon earth. To me he is a rather foolish, but very, very sweet-
tempered young man;--anything rather than a god. If I thought that
he would get the fresh young girl with the dimples then I ought to
abstain.'
'If he was in earnest,' said Miss Cassewary, throwing aside all
this badinage and thinking of the main point, 'if he was in
earnest he will come again.'
'He was quite in earnest.'
'Then he will come again.'
'I don't think he will,' said Lady Mabel. 'I told him that I was
too old for him, and I tried to laugh him out of it. He does not
like being laughed at. He was been saved, and he will know it.'
'But if he should come again?'
'I shall not spare him again. No;--not twice. I felt it to be hard
to do so once, because I so nearly love him! There are so many of
them who are odious to me, as to whom the idea of marrying them
seems to be mixed somehow with an idea of suicide.'
'Oh, Mabel!'
'But he is as sweet as a rose. If I were his sister, or his
servant, or his dog, I could be devoted to him. I can fancy that
his comfort and his success and his name should be everything to
me.'
'That is what a wife ought to feel.'
'But I could never feel him to be my superior. That is what a wife
ought to feel. Think of those two young men and the difference
between them! Well;--don't look like that at me. I don't often
give way, and I dare say after all I shall live to be the Duchess
of Omnium.' Then she kissed her friend and went away to her own
room.
CHAPTER 21
Sir Timothy Beeswax
There had lately been a great Conservative reaction in the
country, brought about in part by the industry and good management
of gentlemen who were strong on that side;--but due also in part to
the blunders and quarrels of their opponents. That these opponents
should have blundered and quarrelled, being men active and in
earnest, was to have been expected. Such blunderings and
quarrellings have been a matter of course since politics have been
politics, and since religion has been religion. When men combine
to do nothing, how should there be disagreement? When men combine
to do much, how should there not be disagreement? Thirty men can
sit still, each as like the other as peas. But put your thirty men
up to run a race, and they will soon assume different forms. And
in doing nothing, you can hardly do amiss. Let the does of nothing
have something of action forced upon them, and they, too, will
blunder and quarrel.
The wonder is that there should ever be in a reforming party
enough of consentaneous action to carry any reform. The reforming
or Liberal party in British politics had thus stumbled,--and
stumbled till it fell. And now there had been a great Conservative
reaction! Many of the most Liberal constituencies in the country
had been untrue to their old political convictions. And, as the
result, Lord Drummond was Prime Minister in the House of Lords,--
with Sir Timothy Beeswax acting as first man in the House of
Commons.
It cannot be denied that Sir Timothy had his good points as a
politician. He was industrious, patient, clear-sighted,
intelligent, courageous, and determined. Long before he had had a
seat in the House, when he was simply making his way up to the
probability of a seat by making a reputation as an advocate, he
had resolved that he would be more than an Attorney-General, more
than a judge,--more, as he thought it, than a Chief Justice; but at
any rate something different. This plan he had all but gained,--and
it must be acknowledged that he had been moved by a grand and
manly ambition. But there were drawbacks to the utility and beauty
of Sir Timothy's character as a statesman. He had no idea as to
the necessity or non-necessity of any measure whatever in
reference to the well-being of the country. It may, indeed, be
said that all such ideas were to him absurd, and the fact that
they should be held by his friends and supporters was an
inconvenience. He was not in accord with those who declare that a
Parliament is a collection of windbags which puff, and blow, and
crack to the annoyance of honest men. But to him Parliament was a
debating place, by having a majority in which, And by no other
means, he,--or another,--might become the great man of the day. By
no other than parliamentary means could such a one as he come to
be the chief man. And this use of Parliament, either on his own
behalf or on behalf of others, had been for so many years present
to his mind, that there seemed to be nothing absurd in an
institution supported for such a purpose. Parliament was a club so
eligible in its nature that all Englishmen wished to belong to it.
They who succeeded were acknowledged to be the cream of the land.
They who dominated in it were the cream of the cream. Those two
who were elected to be the chiefs of the two parties had more of
cream in their composition than any others. But he who could be
the chief of the strongest party, and who therefore, in accordance
with the prevailing arrangements of the country, should have the
power of making dukes, and bestowing garters and appointing
bishops, he who by attaining the first seat should achieve the
right of snubbing all before him, whether friends or foes, he,
according to the feelings of Sir Timothy, would have gained an
Elysium of creaminess not to be found in any other position on the
earth's surface. No man was more warmly attached to parliamentary
government than Sir Timothy Beeswax; but I do not think that he
ever cared much for legislation.
Parliamentary management was his forte. There have been various
rocks on which men have shattered their barks in their attempts to
sail successfully into the harbours of parliamentary management.
There is the great Senator who declared to himself that personally
he will have neither friend or foe. There is his country before
him and its welfare. Within his bosom is the fire of patriotism,
and within his mind the examples of all past time. He knows that
he can be just, he teaches himself to be eloquent, and he strives
to be wise. But he will not bend;--and at last, in some great
solitude, though closely surrounded by those whose love he has
neglected to acquire,--he breaks his heart.
Then there is he who is seeing the misfortune of that great one,
tells himself that patriotism, judgement, industry, and eloquence
will not suffice for him unless he himself can be loved. To do
great things a man must have a great following, and to achieve
that he must be popular. So he smiles and learns the necessary
wiles. He is all for his country and his friends,--but for his
friends first. He too must be eloquent and well instructed in the
ways of Parliament, must be wise and diligent; but in all that he
does and all that he says, he says he must first study his party.
It is well with him for a time;--but he has closed the door of his
Elysium too rigidly. Those without gradually become stronger than
his friends within, and so he falls.
But may not the door be occasionally opened to an outsider, so
that the exterior force be diminished? We know how great is the
pressure of water, and how the peril of an overwhelming weight of
it may be removed by opening the way for a small current. There
comes therefore the Statesman who acknowledges to himself that he
will be pregnable. That, as a Statesman, he should have enemies is
a matter of course. Against moderate enemies he will hold his own.
But when there comes one immoderately forcible, violently
inimical, then to that man he will open his bosom. He will tempt
him into his camp with an offer of high command any foe that may
be worth his purchase. The loyalty of officers so procured must be
open to suspicion. The man who has said bitter things against you
will never sit at your feet in contented submission, nor will your
friend of any standing long endure to be superseded by such
converts.
All these dangers Sir Timothy had seen and studied, and for each
of them he had hoped to be able to provide an antidote. Love
cannot do all. Fear acknowledges a superior. Love desires an
equal. Love is to be created by benefits done, and means
gratitude, which we all know to be weak. But hope, which refers
itself to benefits to come, is of all our feelings the strongest.
And Sir Timothy had parliamentary doctrines concealed in the
depths of his own bosom more important even than these. The
Statesman who falls is he who does much, and thus injures many.
The Statesman who stands the longest is he who does nothing and
injures no one. He soon knew that the work which he had taken in
hand required all the art of the great conjurer. He must be
possessed of tricks so marvellous that not even they who sat
nearest to him might know how there were performed.
For the executive or legislative business of the country he cared
little. The one should be left in the hands of men who liked
work;--of the other there should be little, or, if possible, none.
But Parliament must be managed,--and his party. Of patriotism he
did not know the meaning;--few, perhaps, do, beyond the feeling
that they would like to lick the Russians, or to get the better of
the Americans in a matter of fisheries or frontiers. But he
invented a pseudo-patriotic conjuring phraseology which no one
understood but which many admired. He was ambitious that it should
be said of him that he was far-and-away the cleverest of his
party. He knew himself to be clever. But he could only be far-and-
away the cleverest by saying and doing that which no one could
understand. It he could become master of some great hocus-pocus
system which could be made to be graceful to the ears and eyes of
many, which might for awhile seem to have within it some semi-
divine attribute, which should have all but divine power of
mastering the loaves and fishes, then would they who followed him
believe in him more firmly than other followers who had believed
in their leaders. When you see a young woman read a closed book
placed on her dorsal vertebrae,--if you do believe that she so
reads it, you think that she is endowed with a wonderful faculty!
And should you also be made to believe that the same young woman
had direct communication with Abraham, by means of some invisible
wire, you would be apt to do a great many things as that young
woman might tell you. Conjuring, when not knowing to be conjuring,
is very effective.
Much, no doubt, of Sir Timothy's power had come from his
praiseworthy industry. Though he cared nothing for the making of
laws, though he knew nothing of finance, though he had abandoned
his legal studies, still he worked hard. And because he had worked
harder in a special direction than others around him, therefore he
was enabled to lead them. The management of a party is a very
great work in itself; and when to that is added the management of
the House of Commons, a man has enough upon his hands even he
neglects altogether the ordinary pursuits of a Statesman. Those
around Sir Timothy were fond of their party; but they were for the
most part men who had not condescended to put their shoulders to
the wheel as he had done. Had there been any great light among
them, had there been a Pitt or a Peel, Sir Timothy would probably
have become Attorney-General and have made his way to the bench;--
but there had been no Pitt or a Peel, and he had seen his opening.
He had studied the ways of Members. Parliamentary practice had
become familiar to him. He had shown himself to be ready at all
hours to fight the battle of the party he had joined. And no man
knew so well as did Sir Timothy how to elevate a simple
legislative attempt into a good faction fight. He had so mastered
his tricks of conjuring that no one could get to the bottom of
them, and had assumed a look of preternatural gravity which made
many young Members think that Sir Timothy was born to be a king of
men.
There was no doubt some among his older supporters who felt their
thraldom previously. There were some lords in the Upper House and
some of the sons of lords in the Lower,--with pedigrees going back
far enough for pride,--who found it irksome to recognise Sir
Timothy as a master. No doubt he had worked very hard, and had
worked for them. No doubt he knew how to do the work and they did
not. There was no other man among them to whom the lead could be
conveniently transferred. But yet they were uncomfortable,--and
perhaps a little ashamed.
It had arisen partly from this cause, that there had been
something of a counter reaction at the last general election. When
the Houses met the Ministers had indeed a majority, but a much
lessened majority. The old Liberal constituencies had returned to
an expression of their real feeling. This reassertion of the
progress of the tide, this recovery from the partial ebb which
checks the violence of every flow, is common enough in politics,
but at the present moment there were many who said that all this
had been accelerated by a feeling in the country that Sir Timothy
was hardly all that the country required as the leader of the
county party.
CHAPTER 22
The Duke in his Study
It was natural that at such a time, when success great than had
been expected had attended the efforts of the Liberals, when some
dozen unexpected votes had been acquired, the leading politicians
of that party should have found themselves compelled to look about
them and see how these good things might be utilised. In February
they certainly had not expected to be called to power in the
course of the existing session. Perhaps they did not expect it
yet. There was still a Conservative majority,--though but a small
majority. But the strength of the minority consisted, not in the
fact that the majority against them was small, but that it was
decreasing. How quickly does the snowball grow into hugeness as it
is rolled on;--but when the change comes in the weather how quickly
does it melt, and before it is gone become a thing ugly, weak and
formless! Where is the individual who does not assert to himself
that he would be more loyal to a falling than to a rising friend?
Such is perhaps the nature of each one of us. But when any large
number of men act together, the falling friend is apt to be
deserted. There was a general feeling among politicians that Lord
Drummond's ministry,--or Sir Timothy's--was failing, and the
Liberals, though they could not yet count the votes by which they
might hope to be supported in power, nevertheless felt that they
ought to be looking to their arms.
There had been a coalition. They who are well read in the
political literature of their country will remember all about
that. It had perhaps succeeded in doing that for which it had been
intended. The Queen's government had been carried on for two or
three years. The Duke of Omnium had been the head of that
Ministry; but, during those years had suffered so much as to have
become utterly ashamed of the coalition,--so much as to have said
often to himself that under no circumstances would he again join
any Ministry. At this time there was no idea of another coalition.
That is a state of things which cannot come about frequently,--
which can only be reproduced by men who have never hitherto felt
the mean insipidity of such a condition. But they who had served
on the Liberal side in that coalition must again put their
shoulders to the wheel. Of course it was in every man's mouth that
the Duke must be induced to forget his miseries and once more to
take upon himself the duties of an active servant of the State.
But they who were most anxious on the subject, such men as Lord
Cantrip, Mr Monk, our old friend Phineas Finn, and a few others,
were almost afraid to approach him. At the moment when the
coalition was broken up he had been very bitter in spirit,
apparently almost arrogant, holding himself aloof from his late
colleagues,--and since that, troubles had come to him, which had
aggravated the soreness of his heart. His wife had died, and he
had suffered much through his children. What Lord Silverbridge had
done at Oxford was a matter of general conversation, and also what
he had not done.
That the heir of the family should have become a renegade in
politics was supposed to have greatly affected the father. Now
Lord Gerald had been expelled from Cambridge, and Silverbridge was
on the turf in conjunction with Major Tifto! Something, too, had
oozed out into general ears about Lady Mary,--something which
should have been kept secret as the grave. It had therefore come
to pass that it was difficult even to address the Duke.
There was but one man, and but one, who could do this with ease to
himself;--and that man was at last put into motion at the instance
of the leaders of the party. The old Duke of St Bungay wrote the
following letter to the Duke of Omnium. The letter purported to be
an excuse for the writer's own defalcations. But the chief object
of the writer was to induce the younger Duke once more to submit
to harness.
'Longroyston, 3 June, 187-
'DEAR DUKE OF OMNIUM,
'How quickly the things come round! I had thought that I should
never again have been called upon even to think of the formation
of another Liberal Ministry; and now, though it was but yesterday
that were all telling ourselves that we were thoroughly manumitted
from our labours by the altered opinions of the country, sundry of
our old friends have again been putting their heads together.
'Did they not do so they would neglect a manifest duty. Nothing is
more essential to the political well-being of the country than
that the leaders on both sides in politics should be prepared for
their duties. But for myself, I am bound at last to put in the old
plea with a determination that it shall be respected. "Solve
senescentem." It is now, if I calculate rightly, exactly fifty
years since I first entered public life in obedience to the advice
of Lord Grey. I had then already sat five years in the House of
Commons. I had assisted humbly in the emancipation of the Roman
Catholics, and have learned by the legislative troubles of just
half a century that those whom we then invited to sit with us in
Parliament have been in all things our worst enemies. But what
then? had we benefited only those who love us, would not the
sinners also,--or even the Tories,--have done as much as that?
'But such memories are of no avail now. I write to say that after
so much of active political life, I will at last retire. My
friends when they see me inspecting a pigsty or picking a peach
are apt to remind me that I can still stand on my legs, and with
more of compliment than of kindness will argue therefore that I
ought still to undertake active duties in Parliament. I can select
my own hours for pigs and peaches, and should I, through the
dotage of age, make mistakes as to the breeding of one or the
flavour of the other, the harm done will not go far. In politics I
have done my work. What you and others in the arena do will
interest me more than all other things in this world, I think and
hope, to my dying day. But I will not trouble the workers with the
querulousness of old age.
'So much for myself. And let me, as I go, say a parting word to
him with whom in politics I have been for many years more in
accord than with any other leading man. As nothing but age or
infirmity would to my own mind have justified me in retiring, so
do I think that you, who can plead neither age nor infirmity, will
find yourself at last to want self-justification, if you permit
yourself to be driven from the task either by pride or
indifference.
'I should express my feelings better if were I to say by pride and
diffidence. I look to our friendship, to the authority given me by
my age, and to the thorough goodness of your heart for pardon in
thus accusing you. That little men should have ventured to ill-use
you, has hurt your pride. That these little men should have been
able to do so has created your diffidence. Put you to a piece of
work that a man may do, you have less false pride as to the way in
which you may do it than any man I have known; and, let the way be
open to you, as little diffidence as any. But in this political
mill of ours in England, a man cannot always find the way open to
do things. It does not often happen that an English statesman can
go in and make a great score off his own bat. But not the less is
he bound to play the game and to go to the wicket when he finds
that his time has come.
'There are, I think, two things for you to consider in this
matter, and two only. The first is your capacity, and the other is
your duty. A man may have found by experience that he is unfitted
for public life. You and I have known men in regard to whom we
have thoroughly wished that such experience had been reached. But
this is a matter in which a man who doubts himself is bound to
take the evidence of those around him. The whole party is most
anxious for your co-operation. If this be so,--and I make you the
assurance from most conclusive evidence,--you are bound to accept
the common consent of your political friends on that matter. You
perhaps think that a certain period of your life you failed. They
all agree with me that you did not fail. It is a matter on which
you should be bound by our opinion rather than by your own.
'As to that matter of duty, I shall have less difficulty in
carrying you with me. Though this renewed task may be personally
disagreeable to you, even though your tastes should lead you to
some other life,--which I think is not the case,--still if your
country wants you, you should serve your country. It is a work as
to which such a one as you has no option. Of most of those who
choose public life,--it may be said that were they not there, there
would be others as serviceable. But when a man such as you, has
shown himself to be necessary, as long as health and age permit,
he cannot recede without breach of manifest duty. The work to be
done is so important, the numbers to be benefited are so great,
that he cannot be justified in even remembering that he has a
self.
'As I have said before, I trust that my own age and your goodness
will induce you to pardon this great interference. But whether
pardoned or not I shall always be
'Your most affectionate friend,
'ST BUNGAY.'
The Duke,--our Duke,--on reading this letter was by no means pleased
by its contents. He could ill bear to be reminded either of his
pride or of his diffidence. And yet the accusations which others
made against him were as nothing to those which he charged
himself. He would do this till at last he was forced to defend
himself against himself by asking himself whether he could be
other than as God had made him. It is the last and poorest
makeshift of a defence to which a man can be brought in his own
court! Was it his fault that he was so thin-skinned that all
things hurt him? When some coarse man said to him that which ought
not to have been said, was it his fault that at every word a
penknife had stabbed him? Other men had borne these buffets
without shrinking, and had shown themselves thereby to be more
useful, much more efficacious; but he could no more imitate them
than he could procure for himself the skin of a rhinoceros, or the
tusk of an elephant. And this shrinking was what man called
pride,--was the pride of which his old friend wrote! 'Have I ever
been haughty, unless in my own defence?' he asked himself,
remembering certain passages of humility in his life,--and certain
passages of haughtiness also.
And the Duke told him also that he was diffident. Of course he was
diffident. Was it not one and the same thing? The very pride of
which he was accused was no more than a shrinking which comes from
the want of trust in oneself. He was a shy man. All his friends
and all his enemies knew that;--it was thus that he still
discoursed with himself;--a shy, self-conscious, timid, shrinking,
thin-skinned man! Of course he was diffident. Then why urge him
on to tasks for which he was by nature unfitted?
And yet there was much in his old friend's letter which moved him.
There were certain words which he kept on repeating to himself.
'He cannot be justified in even remembering that he has a self'.
It was a hard thing to say of any man, but yet a true thing of
such a man as his correspondent had described. His correspondent
had spoken of a man who should know himself to be capable of
serving the State. If a man were capable, and was sure within his
own bosom of his own capacity, it would be his duty. But what if
he were not so satisfied? What if he felt that any labours of his
would be vain, and all self-abnegation useless? His friend had
told him that on that matter he was bound to take the opinion of
others. Perhaps so. But if so, had not that opinion been given to
him very plainly when he was told that he was both proud and
diffident? That he was called upon to serve his country, by good
service, if such were within his power, he did acknowledge freely;
but not that he should allow himself to be stuck up as a ninepin
only to be knocked down! There are politicians for whom such
occupation seems to be proper,--and who like it too. A little
office, a little power, a little rank, a little pay, a little
niche in the ephemeral history of the year will reward many men
adequately for being knocked down.
And yet he loved power, and even when thinking of all this allowed
his mind from time to time to run away into a dreamland of
prosperous political labours. He thought what it would be to be an
all-beneficent Prime Minister, with a loyal majority, with a well-
conditioned unanimous cabinet, with a grateful people, and an
appreciative Sovereign. How well might a man spend himself night
and day, even to death, in the midst of such labours as these.
Half an hour after receiving the Duke's letter he suddenly jumped
up and sat himself down at his desk. He felt it to be necessary
that he should at once write to his old friend;--and the more
necessary that he should do so at once, because he had resolved
that he would do so before he had made up his mind on the chief
subject of that letter. It did not suit him to say either that he
would or that he would not do as his friend had advised him. The
reply was made in a very few words. 'As to myself,' he said, after
expressing his regret that the Duke should find it necessary to
retire from public life--'as to myself, pray understand that
whatever I may do I shall never cease to be grateful for your
affectionate and high-spirited counsels.'
Then his mind recurred to a more immediate and, for the moment, a
heavier trouble. He had as yet given no answer to that letter from
Mrs Finn, which the reader will perhaps remember. It might indeed
be passed over without an answer; but that was impossible. She had
accused him in the very strongest language of injustice, and had
made him understand that if he were unjust to her, then would he
be most ungrateful. He, looking at the matter with his own lights,
had thought that he had been right, but had resolved to submit the
question to another person. As judge in the matter he had chosen
Lady Cantrip, and Lady Cantrip had given judgement against him.
He had pressed Lady Cantrip for a decided opinion, and she had
told him that she, in the same position, would have done just as
Mrs Finn had done. He had constituted Lady Cantrip his judge, and
had resolved that her judgement should be final. He declared to
himself that he did not understand it. If a man's house be on
fire, do you think of certain rules of etiquette before you bid
him send for the engines? If a wild beast be loose, do you go
through some ceremony before you caution the wanderers abroad?
There should not have been a moment! But, nevertheless, it was
now necessary that he should conform himself to the opinion of
Lady Cantrip, and in doing so he must apologise for the bitter
scorn with which he allowed himself to treat his wife's most loyal
and loving friend.
The few words to the Duke had not been difficult, but this letter
seemed to be an Herculean task. It was made infinitely more
difficult by the fact that Lady Cantrip had not seemed to think
that the marriage was impossible. 'Young people when they have set
their minds upon it do so generally prevail at last!' These had
been her words, and they discomforted him greatly. She had thought
the marriage to be possible. Had she not almost expressed an
opinion that they ought to be allowed to marry? And if so, would
it not be his duty to take his girl away from Lady Cantrip? As to
the idea that young people, because they have declared themselves
to be in love, were to have just what they wanted,--with that he
did not agree at all. Lady Cantrip had told him that young people
generally prevail at last. He knew the story of one young person,
whose position in her youth had been very much the same as that of
his daughter now, and she had not prevailed. And in her case had
not the opposition which had been made to her wishes been most
fortunate? That young person had become his wife, his Glencora,
his Duchess. Had she been allowed to have her own way when she was
a child, what would have been her fate? Ah what! Then he had to
think of it all. Might she not have been alive now, and perhaps
happier than she had ever been with him? And had he remained
always unmarried, devoted simply to politics, would not the
troubles of the world have been lighter on him? But what had that
to do with it? In these matters it was not the happiness of this
or that individual which should be considered. There is a
propriety in things;--and only by an adherence to that propriety on
the part of individuals can the general welfare be maintained. A
King in his country, or the heir or the possible heir to the
throne, is debarred from what might possibly be a happy marriage
by regard to the good of his subjects. To the Duke's thinking the
maintenance of the aristocracy of the country was second only in
importance to the maintenance of the Crown. How should the
aristocracy be maintained if its wealth were allowed to fall into
the hands of an adventurer!
Such were the opinions with regard to his own order of one who was
as truly Liberal in his ideas as any man in England, and who had
argued out these ideas to their consequences. As by the spread of
education and increase of the general well-being every proletaire
was brought nearer to a Duke, so by such action would the Duke be
brought nearer to a proletaire. Such drawing-nearer of the classes
was the object to which all this man's political action tended.
And yet it was a dreadful thing to him that his own daughter
should desire to marry a man so much beneath her own rank and
fortunes as Frank Tregear.
He would not allow himself to believe that the young people could
ever prevail; but nevertheless, as the idea of the thing had not
alarmed Lady Cantrip as it had him, it was necessary that he
should make some apology to Mrs Finn. Each moment of
procrastination was a prick to his conscience. He now therefore
dragged out from the secrecy of some close drawer Mrs Finn's
letter and read it through to himself once again. Yet--it was true
that he had condemned her, and that he had punished her. Though he
had done nothing to her, said nothing, and written but very
little, still he had punished her most severely.
She had written as though the matter was almost one of life and
death to her. He could understand that too. His uncle's conduct to
this woman, and his wife's, had created the intimacy which had
existed. Through their efforts she had become almost as one of the
family. And now to be dismissed, like a servant who had misbehaved
herself! And then her arguments in her own defence were all so
good,--if only that which Lady Cantrip had laid down as law was to
be held as law. He was aware now that she had had no knowledge of
the matter till his daughter had told her of her engagement at
Matching. Then it was evident also that she had sent this Tregear
to him immediately on her return to London. And at the end of the
letter she had accused him of what she had been pleased to call
his usual tenacity in believing ill of her! He had been
obstinate,--too obstinate in this respect; but he did not love her
the better for having told him of it.
At last he did put his apology into words.
'MY DEAR MRS FINN,
'I believe I had better acknowledge to you at once that I
have been wrong in my judgement as to your conduct in a certain
matter. You tell me that I owe it to you to make this
acknowledgement,--and I make it. The subject is, as you may
imagine, so painful that I will spare myself if possible, any
further allusion to it. I believe I did you a wrong, and therefore
I ask your pardon.
'I should perhaps apologise also for delay in my reply. I have had
much to think of in this matter, and have many others also on my
mind.
'Believe me to be,
Yours faithfully,
OMNIUM.'
It was very short, and as being short was infinitely less
troublesome at the moment than a fuller epistle; but he was very
angry with himself, knowing that it was too short, feeling that it
was ungracious. He should have expressed a hope that he might soon
see her again,--only he had no such wish. There had been times at
which he had liked her, but he knew that he did not like her now.
And yet he was bound to be her friend! If he could only do some
great thing for her, and thus satisfy his feeling of indebtedness
towards her! But all the favours had been from her to him and
his.
CHAPTER 23
Frank Tregear Wants a Friend
Six or seven weeks had passed since Tregear had made his
communication to the Duke, and during that time he had heard not a
word about the girl he loved. He knew, indeed, that she was at the
Horns, and probably had reason to suppose that she was being
guarded there, as it were, out of his reach. This did not surprise
him; nor did he regard it as a hardship. It was to be expected
that she should be kept out of his sight. But this was a state of
things to which, as he thought, there should not be more than a
moderate amount of submission. Six weeks was not a very long
period, but it was perhaps long enough for evincing that respect
which he owed to the young lady's father. Something must be done
some day. How could he expect her to be true to him unless he took
some means of showing himself to be true to her?
In these days he did not live very much with her brother. He not
only disliked, but distrusted Major Tifto, and had so expressed
himself as to give rise to angry words. Silverbridge had said that
he knew how to take care of himself. Tregear had replied that he
had his doubts on that matter. Then the Member of Parliament had
declared that at any rate he did not intend to be taken care of by
Frank Tregear! In such a state of things it was not possible that
there should be any close confidence as to Lady Mary. Nor does it
often come to pass that the brother is the confidant of his
sister's lover. Brothers hardly like their sisters to have lovers,
though they are often well satisfied that their sisters should
find husbands. Tregear's want of rank and wealth added something
to this feeling in the mind this brother, so that Silverbridge,
though he felt himself to be deterred by friendship from any open
opposition, still was almost inimical. 'It won't do, you know,' he
had said to his brother Gerald, shaking his head.
Tregear, however, was determined to be active in the matter, to
make some effort, to speak to somebody. But how to make an
effort,--and to whom should he speak? Thinking of all this he
remembered that Mrs Finn had sent for him and had told him to go
with his love story to the Duke. She had been almost severe with
him;--but after the interview was over, he had felt that she had
acted well and wisely. He therefore determined that he would go to
Mrs Finn.
She had as yet received no answer from the Duke, though nearly a
fortnight had elapsed since she had written her letter. During
that time she had become very angry. She felt that he was not
treating her as a gentleman should treat a lady, and certainly not
as the husband of her late friend should have treated the friend
of his late wife. She had a proud consciousness of having behaved
well to the Pallisers, and now this head of the Pallisers was
rewarding her by evil treatment. She had been generous; he was
ungenerous. She had been honest; he was deficient even in that
honesty for which she had given him credit. And she had been
unable to obtain any of that consolation which could have come to
her from talking of her wrongs. She could not complain to her
husband because there were reasons that made it essential that her
husband should not quarrel with the Duke. She was hot with
indignation at the very moment that Tregear was announced.
He began by apologising for his intrusion, and she of course
assured him that he was welcome. 'After the liberty which I took
with you, Mr Tregear, I am only too well pleased that you should
come to see me.'
'I am afraid,' he said, 'that I was a little rough.'
'A little warm;--but that was to be expected. A gentleman never
likes to be interfered with on such a matter.'
'The position was and is difficult, Mrs Finn.'
'And I am bound to acknowledge the very ready way in which you did
what I asked you to do.'
'And now, Mrs Finn, what is to come next?'
'Ah!'
'Something must be done! You know of course that the Duke did not
receive me with any great favour.'
'I did not suppose he would.'
'Nor did I. Of course he would object to such a marriage. But a
man in these days cannot dictate to his daughter what husband she
should marry.'
'Perhaps he can dictate to her what husband she shall not marry.'
'Hardly that. He may put impediments in the way; and the Duke will
do so. But if I am happy enough to have won the affection of his
daughter,--so as to make it essential to her happiness that she
should become my wife,--he will give way.'
'What am I to say, Mr Tregear?'
'Just what you think.'
'Why should I be made to say what I think on so delicate a matter?
Or of what use would by my thoughts? Remember how far I am
removed from her.'
'You are his friend.'
'Not at all! No one less so!' As she said this she could not
hinder the colour from coming into her face. 'I was her friend,--
lady Glencora's; but with the death of my friend there was an end
of all that.'
'You were staying with him,--at his request. You told me so
yourself.'
'I shall never stay with him again. But all that, Mr Tregear, is
of no matter. I do not mean to say a word against him;--not a word.
But if you wish to interest any one as being the Duke's friend,
then I can assure you that I am the last person in London to whom
you should come. I know no one to whom the Duke is likely to
entertain any feelings so little kind towards me.' This she said
in a peculiarly solemn way that startled Tregear. But before he
could answer her a servant entered the room with a letter. She
recognised at once the Duke's handwriting. Here was the answer for
which she had been so long waiting in silent expectation! She
could not keep it unread till he was gone. 'Will you allow me a
moment,' she whispered, and then she opened the envelope. As she
read the few words her eyes became laden with tears. They quite
sufficed to relieve the injured pride which had sat so heavy at
her heart. 'I believe I did you a wrong, and therefore I ask you
your pardon!' It was so like what she had believed the man to be!
She could not be longer angry with him. And yet the very last
words she had spoken were words complaining of his conduct. 'This
is from the Duke,' she said, putting the letter back into its
envelope.
'Oh, indeed.'
'It is odd that it should have come while you were here.'
'Is it,--is it,--about Lady Mary?'
'No;--at least,--not directly. I perhaps spoke more harshly about
him than I should have done. The truth is I had expected a line
from him, and it had not come. Now it is here; but I do not
suppose I shall ever see much of him. My intimacy was with her.
But I would not wish you to remember what I said just now, if--if--'
'If what, Mrs Finn? You mean perhaps, if I should ever be allowed
to call myself his son-in-law. It may seem to you to be arrogant,
but it is an honour which I expect to win.'
'Faint heart,--you know, Mr Tregear.'
'Exactly. One has to tell oneself that very often. You will help
me?'
'Certainly not,' she said, as though she were much startled. 'How
can I help you?'
'By telling me what I should do. I suppose if I were to go down to
Richmond I should not be admitted.'
'If you ask me, I think not;--not to see Lady Mary. Lady Cantrip
would perhaps see you.'
'She is acting the part of-Duenna.'
'As I should do so, if Lady Mary were staying with me. You don't
suppose that if she were here I would let her see you in my house
without her father's leave?'
'I suppose not.'
'Certainly not; and therefore I conceive that Lady Cantrip will
not do so either.'
'I wish she were here.'
'It would be of no use. I should be a dragon in guarding her.'
'I wish you would let me feel that you were like a sister to me in
this matter.'
'But I am not your sister, nor yet your aunt, nor yet your
grandmother. What I mean is that I cannot be on your side.'
'Can you not?'
'No, Mr Tregear. Think how long I have known these other people.'
'But just now you said that he was your enemy.'
'I did say so; but as I have unsaid it since, you as a gentleman
will not remember my words. At any rate I cannot help you in
this.'
'I shall write to her.'
'It can be nothing to me. If you write she will show your letter
either to her father or to Lady Cantrip.'
'But she will read it first.'
'I cannot tell you how that may be. In fact I am the very last
person in the world to whom you should come for assistance in this
matter. If I gave any assistance to anybody I should be bound to
give it to the Duke.'
'I cannot understand that, Mrs Finn.'
'Nor can I explain it, but it would be so. I shall always be very
glad to see you, and I do feel that we ought to be friends,--
because I took such a liberty with you. But in this matter I
cannot help you.'
When she said this he had to take his leave. It was impossible
that he should further press his case upon her, though he would
have been very glad to extract from her some kindly word. It is
such a help in a difficulty to have somebody who will express even
a hope that the difficulty is perhaps not invincible! He had no
one to comfort him in this matter. There was one dear friend,--as a
friend dearer than any other,--to whom he might go, and who would
after some fashion bid him prosper. Mabel would encourage him. She
ha said that she would do so. But in making that promise she had
told him that Romeo would not have spoken of his love for Juliet
to Rosaline, whom he had loved before he saw Juliet. No doubt she
had gone on to tell him that he might come to her and talk freely
of his love for Lady Mary,--but after what had been said before he
felt that he could not do so without leaving a sting behind. When
a man's heart goes well with him,--so well as to be in some degree
oppressive to him even by its prosperity,--when the young lady has
jumped into his arms, and the father and the mother have been
quite willing, then he wants no confidant. He does not care to
speak very much off the matter which among his friends is apt to
become a subject for raillery. When you call a man Benedict he
does not come to you with ecstatic descriptions of the beauty and
the wit of his Beatrice. But no one was likely to call him
Benedict in reference to Lady Mary.
In spite of his manner, in spite of his apparent self-sufficiency,
this man was very soft within. Less than two years back he had
been willing to sacrifice all the world for his cousin Mabel, and
his cousin Mabel had told him that he was wrong. 'It does not pay
to sacrifice the world for love.' So cousin Mabel had said, and
had added something as to its being necessary that she should
marry a rich man, and expedient that he should marry a rich woman.
He had thought much about it, and had declared to himself that on
no account would he marry a woman for her money. Then he had
encountered Lady Mary Palliser. There had been no doubt, no
resolution after that, no thinking about it,--but downright love.
There was nothing left of real regret for his cousin in his bosom.
She had been right. That love had been impossible. But this would
be possible,--ah, so deliciously possible,--if only her father and
mother would assist! The mother, imprudent in this as in all
things, had assented. The reader knows the rest.
It was in every way possible. 'She will have money enough,' the
Duchess had said, 'if only her father can be brought to give it to
you.' So Tregear had set his heart upon it, and had said to
himself that the thing was to be done. Then his friend the Duchess
had died, and the real difficulties had commenced. From that day
he had not seen his love, or heard from her. How was he to know
whether she would be true to him? And where was he to seek for
that sympathy which he felt to be so necessary to him? A wild
idea had come into his head that Mrs Finn would be his friend;--but
she had repudiated him.
He went straight home and at once wrote to the girl. The letter
was a simple love-letter, and as such need not be given here. In
what sweetest language he could find he assured her that even
though he should never be allowed to see her or to hear from her,
that still he should cling to her. And then he added this passage:
'If your love for me be what I think it is to be, no one can have
a right to keep us apart. Pray be sure that I shall not change. If
you change let me know it;--but I shall as soon expect the heavens
to fall.'
CHAPTER 24
She Must Be Made to Obey
Lady Mary Palliser down at the Horns had as much liberty allowed
to as is usually given to young ladies in these very free days.
There was indeed no restriction placed upon her at all. Had
Tregear gone down to Richmond and asked for the young lady, and
had Lady Cantrip at the time been out and the young lady at home,
it would have depended altogether upon the young lady whether she
would have seen her lover or not. Nevertheless Lady Cantrip kept
her eyes open, and when the letter came from Tregear she was aware
that the letter had come. But the letter found its way into Lady
Mary's hands and was read in the seclusion of her own bedroom. 'I
wonder whether you would mind reading that,' she said very shortly
afterwards to Lady Cantrip. 'What answer ought I to make?'
'Do you think any answer ought to be made, my dear?'
'Oh yes; I must answer him.'
'Would your papa wish it?'
'I told papa that I would not promise not to write to him. I think
I told him that he should see any letters that there were. But if
I show them to you, I suppose that will do as well.'
'You had better keep your word to him absolutely.'
'I am not afraid of doing so, if you mean that. I cannot bear to
give him pain, but this is a matter in which I mean to have my own
way.'
'Mean to have your own way!' said Lady Cantrip, much surprised by
the determined tone of the young lady.
'Certainly I do. I want you to understand so much! I suppose papa
can keep us from marrying for ever and ever if he pleases, but he
never will make me say that I will give up Mr Tregear. And if he
does not yield I shall think him cruel. Why should he wish to make
me unhappy all my life?'
'He certainly does not wish that, my dear.'
'But he will do it.'
'I cannot go against your father, Mary.'
'No, I suppose not. I shall write to Mr Tregear, and then I will
show you what I have written. Papa shall see it to if he pleases.
I will do nothing secret, but I will never give up Mr Tregear.'
Lord Cantrip came down to Richmond that evening, and his wife told
him that in her opinion it would be best that the Duke should
allow the young people to marry, and should give them money enough
to live upon. 'Is not that a strong order?' asked the Earl. The
Countess acknowledged that it was a 'strong order', but suggested
that for the happiness of them all it might as well be done at
first as last.
The next morning Lady Mary showed her a copy of the reply which
she had already sent to her lover.
'DEAR FRANK,
'You may be quite sure that I shall never give you up. I will
not write more at present because papa does not wish me to do so.
I shall show papa your letter and my answer.
'Your own most affectionate
MARY.'
'Has it gone?' asked the Countess.
'I put it myself into the pillar letter-box.' Then Lady Cantrip
felt that she had to deal with a very self-willed young lady
indeed.
That afternoon Lady Cantrip asked Lady Mary whether she might be
allowed to take the two letters up to town with the express
purpose of showing them to the Duke. 'Oh yes,' said Mary. 'I think
it would be so much the best. Give papa my kindest love, and tell
him from me that if he wants to make his poor little girl happy he
will forgive her and be kind to her in all this.' Then the
Countess made some attempts to argue the matter. There were
proprieties! High rank might be a blessing or might be the
reverse--as people thought of it;--but all men acknowledged that
much was due to it. 'Noblesse oblige.' It was often the case in
life that women were called upon by circumstances to sacrifice
their inclinations! What right had a gentleman to talk of
marriage who had no means? These things she said and very many
more, but it was to no purpose. The young lady asserted that as
the gentleman was a gentleman there need be no question as to
rank, and that in regard to money there need be no difficulty if
one of them had sufficient. 'But you have none but what your
father gives you,' said Lady Cantrip. 'Papa can give it us without
any trouble,' said Lady Mary. This child had a clear idea of what
she thought to be her own rights. Being the child of rich parents
she had the right to money. Being a woman she had a right to a
husband. Having been born free she had a right to choose one for
herself. Having had a man's love given to her she had a right to
keep it. 'One doesn't know which she is most like, her father or
her mother,' Lady Cantrip said afterwards to her husband. 'She has
his cool determination, and her hot-headed obstinacy.'
She did show the letters to the Duke, and in answer to a word or
two from him explained that she could not take upon herself to
debar her guest from the use of the post. 'But she will write
nothing without letting you know it.'
'She ought to write nothing at all.'
'What she feels is much worse than what she writes.'
'If there were no intercourse she would forget him.'
'Ah; I don't know,' said the Countess sorrowfully, 'I thought so
once.'
'All children are determined as long as they are allowed to have
their own way.'
'I mean to say that it is the nature of her character to be
obstinate. Most girls are prone to yield. They have not character
enough to stand against opposition. I am not speaking now only of
affairs like this. It would be the same with her in any thing.
Have you not always found it so?'
Then he had to acknowledge to himself that he had never found out
anything in reference to his daughter's character. She had been
properly sweet, affectionate, always obedient to him;--the most
charming plaything in the world on the few occasions in which he
had allowed himself to play. But as to her actual disposition, he
had never taken any trouble to inform himself. She had been left
to her mother,--as other girls are left. And his sons had been left
to their tutors. And now he had no control over any of them. 'She
must be made to obey like others,' he said at last, speaking
through his teeth.
There was something in this which almost frightened Lady Cantrip.
She could not bear to hear him say that the girl must be made to
yield with that spirit of despotic power under which women were
restrained in years now passed. If she could have spoken her own
mind it would have been to this effect: 'Let us do what we can to
lead her away from this desire of hers; and in order that we may
do so, let us tell her that her marriage with Mr Tregear is out of
the question. But if we do not succeed,--let us give way. Let us
make it a matter of joy that the young man himself is so
acceptable and well-behaved.' That was her idea, and with that
she would have indoctrinated the Duke had she been able. But his
was different. 'She must be made to obey,' he said. And, as he
said it, he seemed to be indifferent to the sorrow which such
enforced obedience might bring upon his child. In answer to this
she could only shake her head. 'What do you mean?' he asked. 'Do
you think we ought to yield?'
'Not at once, certainly.'
'But at last?'
'What can you do, Duke? If she be as firm as you, can you bear to
see her pine away in misery?'
'Girls do not do like that,' he said.
'Girls and men are very different. They gradually will yield to
external influences. English girls, though they become the most
loving wives in the world, do not generally become so riven by an
attachment as to become deep sufferers when it is disallowed. But
here, I fear, we have to deal with one who will suffer after this
fashion.'
'Why should she not be like others?'
'It may be so. We will try. But you see what she says in her
letter to him. She writes as though your authority were to be
nothing in that matter of giving up. In all that she says to me
there is the same spirit. If she is firm, Duke, you must yield.'
'Never! She shall never marry him with my sanction.'
There was nothing more to be said, and Lady Cantrip went her way.
But the Duke, though he could say nothing more, continued to think
of it hour after hour. He went down to the House of Lords to
listen to a debate in which it was intended to cover the ministers
with heavy disgrace. But the Duke could not listen even to his own
friends. He could listen to nothing as he thought of the condition
of his children.
He had been asked whether he could bear to see his girl suffer, as
though he were indifferent to the sufferings of his child. Did he
not know of himself that there was no father who would do more for
the welfare of his daughter? Was he not sure of the tenderness of
his own heart? In all that he was doing was he governed by
anything but a sense of duty? Was it personal pride or love of
personal aggrandisement? He thought that he could assure himself
that he was open to no such charge. Would he not die for her,--or
for them,--if he could so serve them? Surely this woman had
accused him most wrongfully when she had intimated that he could
see his girl suffer without caring for it. In his indignation he
determined--for a while--that he would remove her from the custody
of Lady Cantrip. But then, where should he place her? He was aware
that his own house would be like a grave to a girl just fit to
come into this world. In this coming autumn she must go
somewhere,--with some one. He himself, in his present state of
mind, would be but a sorry travelling companion.
Lady Cantrip had said that the best hope of escape would lie in
the prospect of another lover. The prescription was disagreeable,
but it had availed in the case of his own wife. Before he had ever
seen her as Lady Glencora McCloskie she had been desirous of
giving herself and all her wealth to one Burgo Fitzgerald, who had
been altogether unworthy. The Duke could remember well how a
certain old Lady Midlothian had first to him that Lady Glencora's
property was very large, and had then added that the young lady
herself was very beautiful. And he could remember how his uncle,
the last duke, who had seldom taken much trouble in merely human
affairs, had said a word or two--'I have heard a whisper about you
and Lady Glencora McCloskie, nothing could be better.' The result
had been undoubtedly good. His Cora and all her money had been
saved from a worthless spendthrift. He had found a wife who he now
thought had made him happy. And she had found at any rate a
respectable husband. The idea when picked to pieces is not a nice
idea. 'Let us look out for a husband for this girl, so that we may
get her married--out of the way of her lover.' It is not nice. But
it had succeeded in one case, and why should it not succeed in
another?
But how was it to be done? Who should do it? Whom should he select
to play the part which he had undertaken in that other
arrangement? No worse person could be found then himself in
managing such an affair. When the idea had at first been raised he
had thought that Lady Cantrip would do it all; but now he was
angry with Lady Cantrip.
How was it to be done? How should it be commenced? How had it been
commenced in his own case? He did not in the least know how he had
been chosen. Was it possible that his uncle, who was the proudest
man in England, should have condescended to make a bargain with an
old dowager whom everybody had despised? And in what way had he
been selected? No doubt he had been known to be the heir-apparent
to a dukedom and ducal reverence. In his case old Lady Midlothian
had begun the matter with him. It occurred to him that in royal
marriages such beginnings are quite common.
But who should be the happy man? Then he began to count up the
requisite attributes. He must be of high rank, and an eldest son,
and the possessor of, or the heir to a good estate. He did despise
himself when he found that he put these things first,--as a matter
of course. Nevertheless he did put them first. He was ejecting
this other man because he possessed none of these attributes. He
hurried himself on to add that the man must be of good character,
and such as a young girl might learn to love. But yet he was aware
that he added these things for his conscience's sake. Tregear's
character was good, and certainly the girl loved him. But was it
not clear to all who knew anything of such matters that Mr Francis
Tregear should not have dared even to think of marrying the
daughter of the Duke of Omnium?
Who should be the happy man? There were so many who evidently
were unfit. Young Lord Percival was heir to a ruined estate and
beggared peerage. Lord Glasslough was odious to all men. There
were three or four others of whom he thought that he knew some
fatal objection. But when he remembered Lord Popplecourt there
seemed to be no objection which need be fatal.
Lord Popplecourt was a young peer whose father had died two years
since and whose estates were large and unembarrassed. The late
lord, who had been a Whig of the old fashion, had been the Duke's
friend. They had been at Oxford and in the House of Commons
together, and Lord Popplecourt had always been true to his party.
As to the son, the Duke remembered to have heard lately that he
was not given to waste his money. He drove about London a good
deal, but had as yet not done anything very foolish. He had taken
his degree at Oxford, taken his seat in the House of Lords and had
once opened his mouth. He had not indeed appeared often again; but
at Lord Popplecourt's age much legislation is not to be expected
from a young peer. Then he thought of the man's appearance.
Popplecourt was not specially attractive, whereas Tregear was a
very handsome man. But so also had been Burgo Fitzgerald,--almost
abnormally beautiful, while he, Plantagenet Palliser, as he was
then, had been quite insignificant in appearance as Lord
Popplecourt.
Lord Popplecourt might possibly do. But then how should the matter
be spoken of to the young man? After all, would it not be best
that he should trust Lady Cantrip?
CHAPTER 25
A Family Breakfast-Table
Lord Silverbridge had paid all his Derby losses without any
difficulty. They had not been very heavy for a man in his
position, and the money had come without remonstrance. When asking
for it he was half-ashamed of himself, but could still find
consolation in remembering how much worse had plunged many young
men whom he knew. He had never 'plunged'. In fact he had made the
most prudent book in the world; and had so managed his affairs
that even now the horse which had been beaten was worth more than
all he had lost and paid. 'This is getting serious,' he had said
to his partner when, on making out a rough account, he had brought
in the Major in a debtor to him of more than a thousand pounds.
The Major remarked that as he was half-owner of the horses his
partner had good security for the money. Then something of an
unwritten arrangement was made. The 'Prime Minister' was now one
of the favourites for the Leger. If the horse won that race there
would be money enough for everything. If that race were lost, then
there should be a settlement by the transfer of the stud to the
younger partner. 'He's safe to pull it off,' said the Major.
At this time both his sons were living with the Duke in London. It
had been found impracticable to send Lord Gerald back to
Cambridge. The doors of Trinity were closed against him. But some
interest had been made in his favour, and he was to be transferred
to Oxford. All the truth had been told, and there had been a
feeling that the lad should be allowed another chance. He could
not however go to his new Alma Mater till after the long vacation.
In the meantime he was to be taken by a tutor down to a Cottage on
Dartmoor and there be made to read,--with such amusement in the
meantime as might be got from fishing, and playing cricket with
the West Devon county club. 'It isn't very bright look-out for the
summer,' his brother had said to him, 'but it's better then
breaking out on the loose altogether. You be a credit to the
family and all that sort of thing. Then I'll give up the borough
to you. But mind you stick to the Liberals. I've mad an ass of
myself.' However in these early days of June Lord Gerald had not
yet got his tutor.
Though the father and the two young men were living together they
did not see very much of each other. The Duke breakfasted at nine
and the repast was a very simple one. When the failed to appear,
he did not scold,--but would simply be disappointed. At dinner they
never met. It was supposed that Lord Gerald passed his mornings at
reading, and some little attempts were made in that direction. It
is to be feared they did not come to much. Silverbridge was very
kind to Gerald, feeling an increased tenderness for him on account
of that Cambridge mishap. Now they were much together, and
occasionally, by a strong effort, would grace their father's
breakfast-table with their company.
It was not often that he either reproached them or preached to
them. Though he could not live with them on almost equal terms, as
some fathers can live with their sons, though he could not laugh
at their fun or make them laugh at his wit, he knew that it would
have been better both for him and them if he had possessed this
capacity. Though the life which they lived was distasteful to
him,--though racehorses were an abomination to him, and the driving
of coaches a folly, and club-life a manifest waste of time, still
he recognised these things as being, if not necessary, yet
unavoidable evils. To Gerald he would talk about Oxford, avoiding
all allusion to past Cambridge misfortunes; but in the presence of
Silverbridge, whose Oxford career had been so peculiarly
unfortunate, he would make no allusion to either of the
universities. To his eldest son he would talk of Parliament which
of all subjects would have been the most congenial had they agreed
in politics. As it was he could speak more freely to him on that
than any other matter.
One Thursday night as the two brothers went to bed on returning
from the Beargarden, at a not very late hour, they agreed that
they would 'give the governor a turn' the next morning,--by which
they meant that they would drag themselves out of bed in time to
breakfast with him. The worst of it is that he will never let them
get anything to eat, said Gerald. But Silverbridge explained that
he had taken the matter into his own hands, and had specially
ordered broiled salmon and stewed kidneys. 'He won't like it, you
know,' said Gerald. 'I'm sure he thinks it wicked to eat anything
but toasted bacon before lunch.'
At a very little after nine Silverbridge was in the breakfast-
room, and there found his father. 'I suppose Gerald is not up
yet,' said the Duke almost crossly.
'Oh yes he is, sir. He'll be here directly.'
'Have you seen him this morning?'
'No; I haven't seen him. But I know he'll be here. He said he
would, last night.'
'You speak of it as if it were an undertaking.'
'No, not that, sir. But we are not always quite up to time.'
'No; indeed you are not. Perhaps you sit late at the House.'
'Sometimes I do,' said the young member, with a feeling almost
akin to shame as he remembered all the hours spent at the
Beargarden. 'I have had Gerald there in the Gallery sometimes. It
is just as well he should know what is being done.'
'Quite as well.'
'I shouldn't wonder if he gets a seat some day.'
'I don't know how that may be.'
'He won't change as I have done. He'll stick to your side. Indeed
I think he'd do better in the House than I shall. He has more gift
of the gab.'
'That is not the first requisite.'
'I know all that, sir. I've read your letter more than once, and I
showed it to him.'
There was something sweet and pleasant in the young man's manner
by which the father could hardly not be captivated. They had now
sat down, and the servant had brought in the unusual accessories
for a morning feast. 'What is all that?' asked the Duke.
'Gerald and I are so awfully hungry of a morning,' said the son
apologising.
'Well;--it's a very good thing to be hungry;--that is if you can get
plenty to eat. Salmon is it? I don't think I'll have any myself.
Kidneys! Not for me. I think I'll take a bit of fried bacon. I
also am hungry, but now awfully hungry.'
'You never seem to me to eat anything, sir.'
'Eating is an occupation from which I think a man takes the more
pleasure the less he considers it. A rural labourer who sits on
the ditch-side with his bread and cheese and an onion has more
enjoyment out of it than any Lucullus.'
'But he likes a good deal of it.'
'I do not think he ever over-eats himself,--which Lucullus does. I
have envied the ploughman his power,--his dura ilia,--but never an
epicure the appreciative skill of his palate. If Gerald does not
make haste he will have to exercise neither the one nor the other
upon that fish.'
'I will leave a bit for him, sir,--and here he is. You are twenty
minutes late, Gerald. My father says that bread and cheese and
onions would be better for you than salmon and stewed kidneys.'
'No, Silverbridge;--I said no such thing; but that if he were a
hedger and ditcher the bread and cheese would be as good.'
'I should not mind trying them all,' said Gerald. 'Only one never
does have such things for breakfast. Last winter a lot of us
skated to Ely, and we ate two or three loaves of bread and a whole
cheese, at a pot-house! And as for beer, we drank the public
dry.'
'It was because for the time you had been a hedger and ditcher.'
'Proby was a ditcher I know, when he went right through into one
of the dykes. Just push on that dish Silverbridge. It's no good
you having the trouble of helping me half-a-dozen times. I don't
think things are a bit the nicer because they cost a lot of money.
I suppose that is what you mean, sir.'
'Something of that kind, Gerald. Not to have money for your
wants;--that must be troublesome.'
'Very bad indeed,' said Silverbridge, shaking his head wisely, as
a Member of Parliament might do who felt that something should be
done to put down such a lamentable state of things.
'I don't complain,' said Gerald. 'No fellow ever had less right to
complain. But I never felt that I had quite enough. Of course it
was my own fault.'
'I should say so, my boy. But then there are a great many like
you. Let their means be what they may, they never have quite
enough. To be in any difficulty with regard to money,--to owe what
you cannot pay, or even to have to abstain from things which you
have told yourself are necessary to yourself or to those who
depend on you,--creates a feeling of meanness.'
'That is what I have always felt,' said Silverbridge. 'I cannot
bear to think that I should like to have a thing and that I cannot
afford it.'
'You do not quite understand me, I fear. The only case in which
you can be justified in desiring that which you cannot afford is
when the thing is necessary;--as bread may be, or clothes.'
'As when a fellow wants a lot of new breeches before he has paid
his tailor's bill.'
'As when a poor man,' said the Duke impressively, 'may long to
give his wife a new gown, or his children boots to keep their feet
from the mud and snow.' Then he paused a moment, but the serious
tone of his voice and the energy of his words had sent Gerald
headlong among his kidneys. 'I say that in such cases money must
be regarded as a blessing.'
'A ten-pound note will do so much,' said Silverbridge.
'But beyond that it ought to have no power of conferring
happiness, and certainly cannot drive away sorrow. Not though you
build palaces out into the deep, can that help you. You read your
Horace I hope. "Scandunt eodum quo dominus minae."'
'I recollect that,' said Gerald. 'Black care sits behind the
horseman.'
'Even though he have groom riding after him beautiful with
exquisite boots. As far as I have been able to look into the
world--'
'I suppose you know it as well as anybody,' said Silverbridge,--who
was simply desirous of making himself pleasant to the 'dear old
governor'.
'As far as my experience goes, the happiest man is he who, being
above the troubles which money brings, has his hands the fullest
of work. If I were to name the class of men whose lives are spent
with the most thorough enjoyment, I think I should name that of
barristers who are in large practice and also in Parliament.'
'Isn't it a great grind, sir?' asked Silverbridge.
'A very great grind, as you call it. And there may be the grind
and not the success. But--' He had now got up from his seat at the
table and was standing with his back against the chimney-piece,
and as he went on with his lecture,--as the word 'But' came from
his lips--he struck the fingers of one hand lightly on the palm of
the other as he had been known to do at some happy flight of
oratory in the House of Commons. 'But it is the grind that makes
the happiness. To feel that your hours are filled to overflowing,
that you can hardly barely steal minutes enough for sleep, that
the welfare of many is entrusted to you, that the world looks on
and approves, that some good is always being done to others,--above
all things some good to your country;--that is happiness. For
myself I can conceive none other.'
'Books,' suggested Gerald, as he put the last morsel of the last
kidney into his mouth.
'Yes, books! Cicero and Ovid have told us that to literature only
could they look for consolation in their banishment. But then they
speak of a remedy for sorrow, not of a source for joy. No young
man should dare to neglect literature. At some period of his life
he will surely need consolation. And he may be certain that should
he live to be an old man, there will be none other,--except
religion. But for that feeling of self-contentment, which creates
happiness--hard work, and hard work alone, can give it to you.'
'Books are hard work themselves sometimes,' said Gerald.
'As for money,' continued the father, not caring to note this
interruption, 'if it be regarded in any other light than an as a
shield against want, as a rampart under the protection of which
you may carry on your battle, it will fail you. I was born a rich
man.'
'Few people have cared so little about it as you,' said the elder
son.
'And you, both of you, have been born to be rich.' This assertion
did not take the elder son by surprise. It was a matter of course.
But Lord Gerald, who had never as yet heard anything as to his
future destiny from his father, was interested by the statement.
'When I think of all this,--of what constitutes happiness,--I am
almost tempted to grieve that it should be so.'
'If a large fortune were really a bad thing,' said Gerald, 'a man
could I suppose get rid of it.'
'No;--it is a thing of which a man cannot get rid,--unless by
shameful means. It is a burden which he must carry to the end.'
'Does anybody wish to get rid of it, as Sinbad did of the Old
Man?' asked Gerald pertinaciously. 'At any rate I have enjoyed the
kidneys.'
'You assured us just now that the bread and cheese at Ely were
just as good.' The Duke as he said this looked as though he knew
that he had taken all the wind out of his adversary's sails.
'Though you add carriage to carriage, you will not be carried more
comfortably.'
'A second horse out hunting is a comfort,' said Silverbridge.
'Then at any rate don't desire a third for show. But such comforts
will cease to be joys when they become matters of course. That a
boy who does not see a pudding once a year should enjoy a pudding
when it comes I can understand; but the daily pudding, or the
pudding twice a day, is soon no more than a simple daily bread,--
which will or will not be sweet as it shall or shall not have been
earned.' Then he went slowly to the door, but, as he stood with
the handle of it in his hand, he turned round and spoke another
word. 'When, hereafter, Gerald, you may chance to think of that
bread and cheese at Ely, always remember that you had skated from
Cambridge.'
The two brothers then took themselves to some remote part of the
house where arrangements had been made for smoking, and there they
finished the conversation. 'I was very glad to hear what he said
about you, old boy.' This of course came from Silverbridge.
'I didn't quite understand him.'
'He meant you to understand that you wouldn't be like other
younger brothers.'
'Then what I have will be taken from you.'
'There is lots for three or four of us. I do agree that a fellow
has as much as he can spend he ought not to want anything more.
Morton was telling me the other day something about the settled
estates. I sat in that office with him all one morning. I could
not understand it all, but I observed that he said nothing about
the Scotch property. You'll be a laird, and I wish you joy with
all my heart. The governor will tell you all about it before long.
He's going to have two eldest sons.'
'What an unnatural piece of cruelty to me;--and so unnecessary!'
'Why?'
'He says that a property is no better than a burden. But I'll try
and bear it.'
CHAPTER 26
Dinner at the Beargarden
The Duke was in the gallery of the House of Commons which is
devoted to the use of peers, and Silverbridge having heard that
his father was there, had come up to him. It was then about half-
past five, and the House had settled down to business. Prayers had
been read, petitions had been presented, and Ministers had gone
through their course of baiting with that equanimity and air of
superiority which always belongs to a well-trained occupant of the
Treasury bench.
The Duke was very anxious that his son should attend to his
parliamentary duties, but he was too proud a man and too generous
to come to the House as a spy. It was his present habit always to
be in his own place when the Lords were sitting, and to remain
there while the Lords sat. it was not, for many reasons, an
altogether satisfactory occupation, but it was the best which his
life afforded him. He would never, however, come across into the
other House, without letting his son know of his coming, and Lord
Silverbridge had on this occasion been on the look out, and had
come up to his father at once. 'Don't' let me take you away,' said
the Duke, 'if you are particularly interested in your Chief's
defence,' for Sir Timothy Beeswax was defending some measure of
legal reform in which he was said to have fallen into trouble.
'I can hear it up here you know, sir.'
'Hardly if you are talking to me.'
'To tell the truth it's a matter I don't much care about. They've
got into some mess as to the number of Judges and what they ought
to do. Finn was saying that they had so arranged that there was
one Judge who never could possibly do anything.'
'If Mr Finn said so it would probably be so, with some allowance
for Irish exaggeration. He is a clever man, with less of his
country's hyperbole than others;--but still not without his share.'
'You know him well, I suppose.'
'Yes;--as one man does know another in the political world.'
'But he is a friend of yours? I don't mean an "honourable friend",
which is great bosh; but you know him at home.'
'Oh yes;--certainly. He has been staying with me at Matching. In
public life such intimacies come from politics.'
'You don't care much about him then.'
The Duke paused a moment before he answered. 'Yes I do;--and in
what I said just now perhaps I wronged him. I have been under
obligations to Mr Finn,--in a matter as to which he behaved very
well. I have found him to be a gentleman. If you come across him
in the House I would wish you to be courteous to him. I have not
seen him since we came from abroad. I have been able to see
nobody. But if ever again I should entertain my friends at my
table, Mr Finn would be one who would always be welcome there.'
This he said with a sadly serious air as though wishing that his
words should be noted. At the present moment he was remembering
that he owed recompense to Mrs Finn, and was making an effort to
pay the debt. 'But your leader is striking out into unwonted
eloquence. Surely we ought to listen to him.'
Sir Timothy was a fluent speaker, and when there was nothing to be
said was possessed of a great plenty of words. And he was gifted
with that peculiar power which enables a man to have the last word
in every encounter,--a power which we are apt to call repartee,
with is in truth the readiness which come from continual practice.
You shall meet two men of whom you shall know the one to be
endowed with the brilliancy of true genius, and the other to be
possessed of but moderate parts, and shall find the former never
able to hold his awn against the latter. In a debate, the man of
moderate parts will seem to be greater than the man of genius. But
this skill of tongue, this glibness of speech is hardly an affair
of intellect at all. It is--as is style to the writer,--not the
wares which he has to take to market, but the vehicle in which
they may be carried. Of what avail to you is it to have filled
granaries with corn if you cannot get your corn to the consumer?
Now Sir Timothy was a great vehicle, but he had not in truth much
corn to send. He could turn a laugh against an adversary;--no man
better. He could seize, at the moment, every advantage which the
opportunity might give him. The Treasury Bench on which he sat and
the big box on the table before him were to him fortifications of
which he knew how to use every stone. The cheers and jeers of the
House had been so measured by him that he knew the value and force
of every sound. Politics had never been to him a study; but to
parliamentary strategy he had devoted all his faculties. No one
knew so well as Sir Timothy how to make arrangements for business,
so that every detail should be troublesome to his opponents. He
could foresee a month beforehand that on a certain day a Royal
concert would make the House empty, and would generously give that
day to a less observant adversary. He knew how to blind the eyes
of members to the truth. Those on the opposite side of the House
would find themselves checkmated by his astuteness,--when with all
their pieces on the board, there should be none which they could
move. And this to him was Government! It was to these purposes
that he conceived that a great Statesman should devote himself!
Parliamentary management! That in his mind, was under the
Constitution of ours the one act essential for Government.
In all this he was very great; but when it might fall to his duty
either to suggest or defend any real piece of proposed legislation
he was less happy. On this occasion he had been driven to take the
matter in hand because he had previously been concerned in it as a
lawyer. He had allowed himself to wax angry as he endeavoured to
answer certain personal criticisms. Now Sir Timothy was never
stronger then when he simulated anger. His mock indignation was
perhaps his most powerful weapon. But real anger is a passion
which few men can use with judgement. And now Sir Timothy was
really angry, and condescended to speak of our old friend Phineas
who had made the onslaught as a bellicose Irishman. There was an
over-true story as to our friend having once been seduced into
fighting a duel, and those who wished to decry him sometimes
alluded to the adventure. Sir Timothy had been called to order,
but the Speaker had ruled 'bellicose Irishman' was not beyond the
latitude of parliamentary animadversion. Then Sir Timothy had
repeated the phrase with emphasis, and the Duke hearing it in the
gallery had made his remark as to the unwonted eloquence of his
son's parliamentary chief.
'Surely we ought to listen to him,' said the Duke. And for a short
time they did listen. 'Sir Timothy is not a man I like, you know,'
said the son, feeling himself obliged to apologise for his
subjection to such a chief.
'I never particularly loved him myself.'
'They say he is a sort of necessity.'
'A Conservative Fate,' said the Duke.
'Well, yes; he is so,--so awfully clever! We all feel that we could
not get on without him. When you were in, he was one of your
party.'
'Oh yes;--he was one of us. I have no right to complain of you for
using him. But when you say you could not get on without him, does
it not occur to you that should he,--let us say be taken to
heaven,--you would have to get on without him.'
'Then he would be,--out of the way, sir.'
'What you mean perhaps is that you do not know how to get rid of
him.'
'Of course I don't pretend to know much about it; but they all
think that he does know how to keep the party together. I don't
think we are proud of him.'
'Hardly that.'
'He is awfully useful. A man has to look out so sharp to be always
ready for those other fellows! I beg your pardon, sir, but I mean
your side.'
'I understand who the other fellows are.'
'And it isn't everybody who will go through such a grind. A man to
do it must be always ready. He has so many little things to think
of. As far as I can see we all feel that we could not get along
very well without him.' Upon the whole the Duke was pleased with
what he heard from his son. The young man's ideas about politics
were boyish, but they were the ideas of a clear-headed boy.
Silverbridge had picked up some of the ways of the place, though
he had not yet formed any sound political opinions.
Then Sir Timothy finished a long speech with a flowery peroration,
in which he declared that if Parliament were desirous of keeping
the realms of Her Majesty free from the invasions of foreigners it
must be done by maintaining the dignity of the Judicial bench.
There were some clamours at this, and although it was now dinner-
time Phineas Finn, who had been called a bellicose Irishman, was
able to say a word or two. 'The Right Honourable gentleman no
doubt means,' said Phineas, 'that we must carry ourselves with
some increased external dignity. The world is bewigging itself,
and we must buy a bigger wig than any we have got, in order to
confront the world with proper self-respect. Turveydrop and
deportment will suffice for us against odds.'
About half-past seven the House became very empty. 'Where are
going to dine, sir?' asked Silverbridge. The Duke, with something
like a sigh, said he supposed he should dine at home.
'You never were at the Beargarden;--were you, sir?' asked
Silverbridge suddenly.
'Never,' said the Duke.
'Come and dine with me.'
'I am not a member of the club.'
'We don't care at all about that. Anybody can take anybody.'
'Does not that make it promiscuous?'
'Well;--no; I don't know that it does. It seems to go no very well.
I daresay there are some cads there sometimes. But I don't know
where one doesn't meet cads. There are plenty in the House of
Commons.'
'There is something in that, Silverbridge, which makes me think
that you have not realised the difference between private and
public life. In the former you choose your own associates and are
responsible for your choice. In the latter you are concerned with
others for the good of the State; and though even for the State's
sake, you would not willingly be closely allied with those whom
you think dishonest, the outward manners and fashions of life need
create no barriers. I should not turn up my nose at the House of
Commons because some constituency might send them an illiterate
shoemaker; but I might probably find the illiterate shoemaker an
unprofitable companion for my private hours.'
'I don't think there will be any shoemakers at the Beargarden.'
'Even if there were I would go an dine with you. I shall be glad
to see the place where you, I suppose, pass many hours.'
'I find it a very good shop to dine at. The place at the House is
so stuffy and nasty. Besides, one likes to get away for a time.'
'Certainly. I never was an advocate for living in the House. One
should always change the atmosphere.' Then they got into a cab
and went to the club. Silverbridge was a little afraid of what he
was doing. The invitation had come from him on the spur of the
moment, and he hardly ventured to think that his father would
accept it. And now he did not quite know how the Duke would go
through the ceremony. 'The other fellows' would come and stare at
a man whom they had all been taught to regard as the most un-
Beargardenish of men. But he was especially anxious to make things
pleasant for his father.
'What shall I order?' said the son as he took the Duke into a
dressing-room to wash his hands. The Duke suggested that anything
sufficient for his son would certainly be sufficient for him.
Nothing especial occurred during the dinner, which the Duke
appeared to enjoy very much. 'Yes; I think it is a very good
soup,' he said. 'I don't think they ever give me any soup at
home.' Then the son expressed his opinion that unless his father
looked about rather more sharply, 'they' very soon would provide
no dinner at all, remarking that experience had taught him that
the less people demanded the more they were 'sat upon'. The Duke
did like his dinner,--or rather he liked the feeling that he was
dining with his son. A report that the Duke of Omnium was with
Lord Silverbridge soon went round the room, and they who were
justified by some previous acquaintance came up to greet him. To
all who did so he was very gracious, and was specially so to Lord
Popplecourt, who happened to pass close by the table.
'I think he is a fool,' whispered Silverbridge as soon as
Popplecourt had passed.
'What makes you thinks so?'
'We thought him an ass at Eton.'
'He has done pretty well however.'
'Oh yes, in a way.'
'Somebody has told me that he is careful about his property.'
'I believe he is all that,' said Silverbridge.
'Then I don't see why you should think him a fool.'
To this Silverbridge made no reply; partly because he had nothing
to say,--but hindered also by the coming in of Tregear. This was an
accident, the possibility of which had not crossed him.
Unfortunately too the Duke's back was turned, so that Tregear, as
he walked up the room, could not see who was sitting at his
friend's table. Tregear coming up stood close to the Duke's elbow
before he recognised the man, and spoke some word or two to
Silverbridge. 'How do you do, Mr Tregear,' said the Duke, turning
round.
'Oh, my Lord. I did not know that it was you.'
'You hardly would. I am quite a stranger here. Silverbridge and I
came up from the House together, and he has been hospitable enough
to give me a dinner. I will tell you an odd thing for a London
man, Mr Tregear. I have not dined at a London club for fifteen
years before this.'
'I hope you like it, sir,' said Silverbridge.
'Very much indeed. Good-evening, Mr Tregear. I suppose you have to
go to dinner now.'
Then they went into one of the rooms upstairs to have coffee, the
son declining to go into the smoking-room, and assuring his father
that he did not in the least care about a cigar after dinner. 'You
would be smothered, sir.' The Duke did as he was bidden and went
upstairs. There was in truth a strong reason for avoiding the
publicity of the smoking-room. When bringing his father to the
club he had thought nothing about Tregear but he had thought about
Tifto. As he entered he had seen Tifto at a table dining alone,
and had bobbed his head at him. Then he had taken the Duke to the
further end of the room, and had trusted that fear would keep the
major in his place. Fear had kept the Major in his place. When the
Major learned who the stranger was, he had become silent and
reserved. Before the father and son had finished their dinner,
Tifto had gone to his cigar; and so the danger was over.
'By George, there's Silverbridge has got his governor to dinner,'
said Tifto, standing in the middle of the room, and looking round
as though he were announcing some confusion of the heavens and
earth.
'Why shouldn't Silverbridge have his father to dine with him?'
asked Mr Lupton.
'I believe I know Silverbridge as well as any man, and by George
it is the very last thing of the kind that I should have expected.
There have been no end of quarrels.'
'There has been no quarrel at all,' said Tregear, who had just
then entered the room. 'Nothing on earth would make Silverbridge
quarrel with his father, and I think it would break the Duke's
heart to quarrel with his son.' Tifto endeavoured to argue the
matter out, but Tregear having made the assertion on behalf of his
friend would not allow himself to be enticed into further speech.
Nevertheless there was a good deal said by others during which
the Major drank two glasses of whisky-and-water. In the dining-
room he had been struck with awe by the Duke's presence, and had
certainly no idea of presenting himself personally to the great
man. But Bacchus lent him aid, and when the discussion was over
and the whisky had been swallowed, it occurred to him that he
would go upstairs and ask to be introduced.
In the meantime the Duke and his son were seated in close
conversation on one of the upstairs sofas. It was a rule at the
Beargarden that men might smoke all over the house except in the
dining-room;--but there was one small chamber called the library,
in which the practice was not often followed. The room was
generally deserted, and at this moment the father and son were the
only occupants. 'A club,' said the Duke, as he sipped his coffee,
'is a comfortable and economical residence. A man gets what he
wants well-served, and gets it cheap. But it has its drawbacks.'
'You always see the same fellows,' said Silverbridge.
'A man who lives much at a club is apt to fall into a selfish mode
of life. He is taught to think that his own comfort should always
be the first object. A man can never be happy unless his first
objects are outside himself. Personal self-indulgence begets a
sense of meanness which sticks to a man even when he has got
beyond all hope of rescue. It is for that reason;--among others,--
that marriage is so desirable.'
'A man should marry, I suppose.'
'Unless a man has on his shoulders the burden of a wife and
children he should, I think, feel that he has shirked out of
school. He is not doing his share of the work of the
Commonwealth.'
'Pitt was not married, sir.'
'No;--and a great many other good men have remained unmarried. Do
you mean to be another Pitt?'
'I don't intend to be Prime Minister.'
'I would not recommend you to entertain that ambition. Pitt
perhaps hardly had time for marriage. You may be more lucky.'
'I suppose I shall marry some day.'
'I should be glad to see you marry early,' said the Duke, speaking
in a low voice, almost solemnly, but in his quietest, sweetest ton
of voice. 'You are peculiarly situated. Though as yet you are only
the heir to the property and honours of our family, still, were
you married, almost everything would be at your disposal. There is
so much I should only be ready to give up to you!'
'I can't bear to hear you talking of giving up anything,' said
Silverbridge energetically.
Then the father looked round the room furtively, and seeing that
the door was shut, and that they were assuredly alone, he put out
his hand and gently stroked the young man's hair. It was almost a
caress,--as though he would have said to himself, 'Were he my
daughter, I would kiss him.' 'There is much I would fain give up,'
he said. 'If you were a married man the house in Carlton Terrace
would be fitter for you than for me. I have disqualified myself
for taking that part in society which should be filled by the head
of our family. You who have inherited so much from your mother
would, if you married pleasantly, do all that right well.' He
paused for a moment and then asked a straightforward question,
very quickly--'You have never thought of anyone yet, I suppose?'
Silverbridge had thought very much of somebody. He was quite aware
that he had almost made an offer to Lady Mabel. She certainly had
not given him any encouragement; but the very fact that she had
not done so allured him all the more. He did believe that he was
thoroughly in love with Lady Mabel. She had told him that he was
too young,--but he was older than Lady Mab herself by a week. She
was beautiful;--that was certain. It was acknowledged by all that
she was clever. As for blood, of which he believed his father
thought much, there was perhaps none better in England. He had
heard it said of her,--as he now well remembered, in his father's
presence,--that she had behaved remarkably well in trying
circumstances. She had no fortune;--everybody knew that; but then
he did not want fortune. Would not this be a good opportunity for
breaking the matter to his father? 'You have never thought of any
one?' asked the Duke,--again very sweetly, very softly.
'But I have!' Lord Silverbridge as he made the announcement
blushed up to the eyes.
Then there came over the father something almost of fear. If he
was to be told, how would it be if he could not approve? 'Yes I
have,' said Silverbridge, recovering himself. 'If you wish it, I
will tell you who it is.'
'Nay, my boy;--as to that consult your own feelings. Are you sure
of yourself?'
'Oh, yes.'
'Have you spoken to her?'
'Well;--yes in part. She has not accepted me, if you mean that.
Rather the contrary.'
Now the Duke would have been very unwilling to say that his son
would certainly be accepted by any girl in England to whom he
might choose to offer his hand. But when the idea of a doubt was
suggested to him, it did seem odd that his son should ask in vain.
What other young man was there who could offer so much, and who
was at the same time so likely to be loved for his own sake? He
smiled however and was silent. 'I suppose I may as well out with
it,' said Silverbridge. 'You know Lady Mabel Grex?'
'Lady Mabel Grex. Yes,--I know her.'
'Is there any objection?'
'Is she not your senior?'
'No, sir; she is younger than I am.'
'Her father is not a man I esteem.'
'But she has always been so good!' Then the Duke was again
silent. 'Have you not heard that, sir?'
'I think I have.'
'Is not that a great deal?'
'A very great deal. To be good must of all qualities be the best.
She is very beautiful.'
'I think so, sir. Of course she has no money.'
'It is not needed. It is not needed. I have no objection to make.
If you are sure of your own mind--'
'I am quite sure of that, sir.'
'Then I will raise no objection. Lady Mabel Grex! Her father, I
fear, is not a worthy man. I hear that he is a gambler.'
'He is so poor!'
'That makes it worse, Silverbridge. A man who gambles because he
has money that he can afford to lose is, to my thinking, a fool.
But he who gambles because he has none, is--well, let us hope the
best of him. You may give her my love.'
'She has not accepted me.'
'But should she do so, you may.'
'She almost rejected me. But I am not sure that she was in
earnest, and I mean to try again.' Just at that moment the door
was opened and Major Tifto walked into the room.
CHAPTER 27
Major Tifto and the Duke
'I beg your pardon, Silverbridge,' said the Major, entering the
room, 'but I was looking for Longstaff.'
'He isn't here,' said Silverbridge, who did not wish to be
interrupted by his racing friend.
'Your father, I believe?' said Tifto. He was red in the face but
was in other respects perhaps improved in appearance by his
liquor. In his more sober moments he was not always able to assume
that appearance of equality with his companions which it was the
ambition of his soul to achieve. But a second glass of whisky-and-
water would always enable him to cock his tail and bark before the
company with all the courage of my lady's pug. 'Would you do me
the great honour to introduce me to his Grace?'
Silverbridge was not prone to turn his back upon a friend because
he was low in the world. He had begun to understand that he had
made a mistake by connecting himself with the Major, but at the
club he always defended his partner. Though he not infrequently
found himself obliged to snub the Major himself, he always
countenanced the little Master of the Hounds, and was true to his
own idea of 'standing to a fellow'. Nevertheless he did not wish
to introduce his friend to his father. The Duke saw it all at a
glance, and felt that the introduction should be made. 'Perhaps,'
said he, getting up from his chair, 'this is Major Tifto.'
'Yes;--my Lord Duke. I am Major Tifto.'
The Duke bowed graciously. 'My father and I were engaged about
private matters.'
'I beg ten thousand pardons,' exclaimed the Major. 'I did not
intend to intrude.'
'I think we had done,' said the Duke. 'Pray sit down, Major
Tifto.' The Major sat down. 'Though now I bethink myself, I have
to beg your pardon;--that I a stranger should ask you to sit down
in your own club.'
'Don't mention it, my Lord Duke.'
'I am so unused to clubs, that I forgot where I was.'
'Quite so, my Lord Duke. I hope you think that Silverbridge is
looking well?'
'Yes;--yes. I think so.' Silverbridge bit his lips, and turned his
face away to the door.
'We didn't make a very good thing of our Derby nag the other day.
Perhaps your Grace has heard all that?'
'I did hear that the horse in which you are both interested had
failed to win the race.'
'Yes, he did. The Prime Minister, we call him, your Grace,--out of
compliment to a certain Ministry which I wish was going on today
instead of the seedy lot we've got in. I think, my Lord Duke, that
any one you ask may tell you that I know what running is. Well;--I
can assure you,--your Grace, that is,--that since I've seen 'orses
I've never seen a 'orse fitter than him. When he got his canter
that morning, it was nearly even betting. Not that I or
Silverbridge were fools enough to put on anything at any rate. But
I never saw a 'orse so bad ridden. I don't mean to say anything,
my Lord Duke, against the man. But if that fellow hadn't been
squared, or else wasn't drunk, or else off his head, that 'orse
must have won,--my Lord Duke.'
'I do not know anything about racing, Major Tifto.'
'I suppose not, your Grace. But as I and Silverbridge are together
in this matter I thought I'd just let your Grace know that we
ought to have had a very good thing. I thought that perhaps your
Grace might like to know that.'
'Tifto, you are making an ass of yourself,' said Silverbridge.
'Making an ass of myself!' exclaimed the Major.
'Yes;--considerably.'
'I think you are a little hard upon your friend,' said the Duke,
with an attempt at a laugh. 'It is not to be supposed that he
should know how utterly indifferent I am to everything connected
with the turf.'
'I thought, my Lord Duke, you might care about learning how
Silverbridge was going on.' This the poor little man said almost
with a whine. His partner's roughness had knocked out of him
nearly all the courage which Bacchus had given him.
'So I do; anything that interests him, interests me. But perhaps
of all his pursuits racing is the one to which I am least able to
lend an attentive ear. That every horse has a head, and that all
did have tails till they were ill-used, is the extent of my stable
knowledge.'
'Very good indeed, my Lord Duke, very good indeed! Ha, ha, ha!-all
horses have heads, and all have tails! Heads and tails. Upon my
word that is the best thing I have heard for a long time. I will
do myself the honour of wishing your Grace good-night. By-bye,
Silverbridge.' Then he left the room, having been made supremely
happy by what he considered to have been the Duke's joke.
Nevertheless he would remember the snubbing and would be even with
Silverbridge some day. Did Lord Silverbridge think that he was
going to look after his Lordship's 'orses, and do this always on
the square, and then be snubbed for doing it!
'I am very sorry that he should have come in to trouble you,' said
the son.
'He has not troubled me much. I do not know whether he has
troubled you. If you are coming down to the House again I will
walk with you.' Silverbridge of course had to go down to the
House again, and they started together. 'That man did not trouble
me Silverbridge; but the question is whether such an acquaintance
must not be troublesome to you.'
'I'm not very proud of him, sir.'
'But I think one ought to be proud of one's friends.'
'He isn't my friend in that way at all.'
'In what way then?'
'He understands racing.'
'He is the partner of your pleasure then;--the man whose society
you love to enjoy the recreation of the racecourse.'
'It is, sir, because he understands it.'
'I thought that a gentleman on the turf would have a trainer for
that purpose;--not a companion. You mean to imply that you can save
money by leaguing yourself with Major Tifto.'
'No, sir,--indeed.'
'If you associate with him, not for pleasure, then it must surely
be for profit. That you should do the former would be to me
surprising that I must regard it as impossible. That you should do
the latter--is, I think, a reproach.' This, he said, with no tone
of anger in his voice,--so gently that Silverbridge at first hardly
understood it. But gradually all that was meant came in upon him,
and he felt himself to be ashamed of himself.
'He is bad,' he said at last.
'Whether he is bad I will not say; but I am sure that you can gain
nothing by his companionship.'
'I will get rid of him,' said Silverbridge, after a considerable
pause. 'I cannot do so at once, but I will do it.'
'It will be better, I think.'
'Tregear has been telling me the same thing.'
'Is he objectionable to Mr Tregear?' asked the Duke.
'Oh yes. Tregear cannot bear him. You treated him a great deal
better than Tregear ever does.'
'I do not deny that he is entitled to be treated well;--but so also
is your groom. Let us say no more about him. And so it is to be
Mabel Grex?'
'I did not say so, sir. How can I answer for her? Only it was so
pleasant for me to know that you would approve if it should come
off.'
'Yes;--I will approve. When she has accepted you--'
'But I don't think she will.'
'If she should, tell her that I will go to her at once. It will be
much to have a new daughter;--very much that you should have a
wife. Where would she like to live?'
'Oh, sir, we haven't got as far as that.'
'I dare say not; I dare say not,' said the Duke. 'Gatherum is
always thought to be dull.'
'She wouldn't like Gatherum, I'm sure.'
'Have you asked her?'
'No, sir. But nobody likes Gatherum.'
'I suppose not. And yet, Silverbridge, what a sum of money it
cost!'
'I believe it did.'
'All vanity; and vexation of spirit!'
The Duke no doubt thinking of certain scenes passed at the great
house in question, which scenes had not been delightful to him.
'No, I don't suppose she would wish to live at Gatherum. The Horns
was given expressly by my uncle to your dear mother, and I should
like Mary to have the place.'
'Certainly.'
'You should live among your tenantry. I don't care so very much
for Matching.'
'It is the one place you do like, sir.'
'However, we can manage all that. Carlton Terrace I do not
particularly like; but it is a good house, and there you should
hang up your hat when in London. When it is settled, let me know
at once.'
'But if it should never be settled?'
'I will ask no questions; but if it be settled tell me.' Then in
Palace Yard he was turning to go, but before he did so, he said
another word leaning on his son's shoulder. 'I do not think that
Mabel Grex and Major Tifto would do well together at all.'
'There shall be an end to that, sir.'
'God bless you my boy!' said the Duke.
Lord Silverbridge sat in the House,--or to speak more accurately,
in the smoking-room of the House--for about an hour thinking over
all that had passed between him and his father. He certainly had
not intended to say anything about Lady Mab, but on the spur of
the moment it had all come out. Now at any rate it was decided for
him that he must, in set terms, ask her to be his wife. The scene
which had just occurred had made him thoroughly sick of Major
Tifto. He must get rid of the Major, and there could be no way of
doing this at once so easy and so little open to observation as
marriage. If he were but once engaged to Mabel Grex the dismissal
of Tifto would be quite a matter of course. He would see Lady
Mabel again on the morrow and ask her in direct language to be his
wife.
CHAPTER 28
Mrs Montacute Jones's Garden-Party
It was known to all the world that Mrs Montacute Jones's first
great garden-party was to come off on Wednesday, the sixteenth of
June, at Roehampton. Mrs Montacute Jones, who lived in Grosvenor
Place and had a country house in Gloucestershire, and a place for
young men to shoot at in Scotland, also kept a suburban elysium in
Roehampton, in order that she might give two garden-parties every
year. When it is said that all these costly luxuries appertained
to Mrs Montacute Jones, it is to be understood that they did in
truth belong to Mr Jones, of whom nobody heard much. But of Mrs
Jones,--that is, Mrs Montacute Jones,--everybody heard a great deal.
She was an old lady who devoted her life to the amusement of--not
only her friends, but very many who were not her friends. No doubt
she was fond of Lords and Countesses, and worked very hard to get
round her all the rank and fashion of the day. It must be
acknowledged that she was a worldly old woman. But no more good-
natured old woman lived in London, and everybody liked to be asked
to her garden-parties. On this occasion there was to be a
considerable infusion of royal blood,--German, Belgian, French,
Spanish, and of native growth. Everybody, who was asked would go,
and everybody had been asked,--who was anybody. Lord Silverbridge
had been asked, and Lord Silverbridge intended to be there. Lady
Mary his sister, could even be asked, because her mother was
hardly more than three months dead; but it is understood in the
world that women mourn longer than men.
Silverbridge had mounted a private hansom cab in which he could be
taken about rapidly,--and, as he said himself, without being shut
up in a coffin. In this vehicle he had himself taken to
Roehampton, purporting to kill two birds with one stone. He had
not as yet seen his sister since she had been with Lady Cantrip.
He would on this day come back by the Horns.
He was well aware that Lady Mab would be at the garden-party. What
place could be better for putting the question he had to ask! He
was by no means so confident as the heir to so many good things
might perhaps have been without overdue self-confidence.
Entering through the house into the lawn he encountered Mrs
Montacute Jones, who, with a seat behind her on the terrace,
surrounded by flowers, was going through the immense labour of
receiving her guests.
'How very good of you to come all this way, Lord Silverbridge, to
eat my strawberries.'
'How very good of you to ask me! I did not come to eat your
strawberries but to see your friends.'
'You ought to have said you came to see me, you know. Have you met
Miss Boncassen yet?'
'The American beauty? No. Is she here?'
'Yes; and she particularly wants to be introduced to you; you
won't betray me, will you?'
'Certainly not; I am true as steel.'
'She wanted, she said, to see if the eldest son of the Duke of
Omnium really did look like any other man.'
'Then I don't want to see her,' said Silverbridge, with a look of
vexation.
'There you are wrong, for there was a real downright fun in the
way she said it. There they are, and I shall introduce you.' Then
Mrs Montacute Jones absolutely left her post for a minute or two,
and taking the young lord down the steps of the terrace did
introduce him to Mr Boncassen, who was standing there amidst a
crowd, and to Miss Boncassen.
Mr Boncassen was an American who had lately arrived in England
with the object of carrying out certain literary pursuits in which
he was engaged within the British Museum. He was an American who
had nothing to do with politics and nothing to do with trade. He
was a man of wealth and a man of letters. And he had a daughter
who was said to be the prettiest young woman either in Europe or
America at the present time.
Isabel Boncassen was certainly a very pretty girl. I wish that my
reader would believe my simple assurance. But no such simple
assurance was ever believed, and I doubt even whether any
description will procure for me from the reader that amount of
faith which I desire to achieve. But I must make the attempt.
General opinion generally considered Miss Boncassen to be small,
but she was in truth something above the average height of English
women. She was slight, without that look of slimness which is
common to girls, and especially to American girls. That her figure
was perfect the reader may believe my word, as any detailed
description of her arms, feet, bust, and waist, would be
altogether ineffective. Her hair was dark brown and plentiful; but
it added but little to her charms, which depended on other
matters. Perhaps what struck the beholder first was the excessive
brilliancy of her complexion. No pink was every pinker, no
alabaster whiteness was ever more like alabaster; but under and
around and through it all there was a constant changing hue which
gave a vitality to her countenance which no fixed colours can
produce. Her eyes, too, were full of life and brilliancy, and even
when she was silent her mouth would speak. Nor was there a fault
within the oval of her face upon which the hypercritics of mature
age could set a finger. Her teeth were excellent both in form and
colour, but were seen seldom. Who does not know that look of
ubiquitous ivory produced by teeth which are too perfect in a face
which is otherwise poor? Her nose at the base spread a little,--so
that it was not purely Grecian. But who has ever seen a nose to be
eloquent and expressive, which did not spread? It was, I think,
the vitality of her countenance,--they way in which she could speak
with every feature, the command which she had of pathos, of
humour, of sympathy, of satire, the assurance which she gave by
every glance of her eye, every elevation of her brow, every curl
of her lip, that she was alive to all that was going on,--it was
all this rather than those feminine charms which can be catalogued
and labelled that made all acknowledge that she was beautiful.
'Lord Silverbridge,' said Mr Boncassen, speaking a little through
his nose, 'I am proud to make your acquaintance, sir. Your father
is a man for whom we in our country have a great respect. I think,
sir, you must be proud of such a father.'
'Oh yes,--no doubt,' said Silverbridge awkwardly. Then Mr Boncassen
continued his discourse with the gentlemen around him. Upon this
our friend turned to the young lady. 'Have you been long in
England, Miss Boncassen?'
'Long enough to have heard about you and your father,' she said,
speaking with no slightest twang.
'I hope you have not heard evil of me.'
'Well!'
'I'm sure you can't have heard much good.'
'I know you didn't win the Derby.'
'You've been long enough to hear that.'
'Do you suppose we don't interest ourselves about the Derby in New
York? Why, when we arrived at Queenstown I was leaning over the
taffrail so that I might ask the first man on board the tender
whether the Prime Minister had won.'
'And he said he hadn't.'
'I can't conceive why you of all men should call your horse by
such a name. If my father had been President of the United States,
I don't think I'd call a horse President.'
'I didn't name the horse.'
'I'd have changed it. But is it not very impudent of me to be
finding fault with you the first time I have ever met you? Shall
you have a horse at Ascot?'
'There will be something going, I suppose. Nothing that I care
about.' Lord Silverbridge had made up his mind that he would not
go to the races with Tifto before the Leger. The Leger would be an
affair of such moment as to demand his presence. After that should
come the complete rupture between him and Tifto.
Then there was movement among the elders, and Lord Silverbridge
soon found himself walking alone with Miss Boncassen. It seemed to
her to be quite natural to do so, and there certainly was no
reason why he should decline anything so pleasant. It was thus
that he had intended to walk with Mabel Grex;--only as yet he had
not found her. 'Oh, yes,' said Miss Boncassen, when they had been
together about twenty minutes; 'we shall be here all the summer,
and the fall, and all the winter. Indeed father means to read
every book in the British Museum before he goes back.'
'He'll have something to do.'
'He reads by steam, and he has two or three young men with him to
take it all down and make other books out of it;--just as you'll
see a lady take a lace shawl and turn it all about till she has
trimmed a petticoat with it. It is the same lace all through,--and
so I tell father it's the same knowledge.'
'But he puts it where more people will find it.'
'The lady endeavours to do the same with the lace. That depends on
whether people look up or down. Father however is a very learned
man. You mustn't suppose that I am laughing at him. He is going to
write a very learned book. Only everybody will be dead before it
can be half finished.' They still went on together, and then he
gave her his arm and took her into the place where the
strawberries and cream were prepared. As he was going in he say
Mabel Grex walking with Tregear, and she bowed to him pleasantly
and playfully. 'Is that lady a great friend of yours?' asked Miss
Boncassen.
'A very great friend indeed.'
'She is very beautiful.'
'And clever as well,--and good as gold.'
'Dear me! Do tell me who it is that owns all these qualities.'
'Lady Mabel Grex. She is daughter of Lord Grex. That man with her
is my particular friend. His name is Frank Tregear, and they are
cousins.'
'I am so glad they are cousins.'
'Why glad?'
'Because his being with her won't make you unhappy.'
'Supposing I was in love with her,--which I am not,--do you suppose
it would make me jealous to see her with another man?'
'In our country it would not. A young lady may walk about with a
young gentleman just as she might with another young lady; but I
thought it was different here. Do you know, by judging English
ways, I believe I am behaving very improperly in walking about
with you so long. Ought I not to tell you to go away?'
'Pray do not.'
'As I am going to stay here so long I wish to behave well in
English eyes.'
'People know who you are, and discount all that.'
'If the difference be very marked they do. For instance, I needn't
wear a hideous long bit of cloth over my face in Constantinople
because I am a woman. But when the discrepancies are small, then
they have to be attended to. So I shan't walk about with you any
more.'
'Oh yes you will,' said Silverbridge, who began to think that he
liked walking about with Miss Boncassen.
'Certainly not. There is Mr Sprottle. He is father's Secretary. He
will take me back.'
'Can not I take you back as well as Mr Sprottle?'
'Indeed no;--I am not going to monopolise such a man as you. Do you
think that I don't understand that everybody will be making
remarks upon that American girl who won't leave the son of the
Duke of Omnium alone? There is your particular friend Lady Mabel,
and here is my particular friend Mr Sprottle.'
'May I come and call?'
'Certainly. Father will only be too proud,--and I shall be prouder.
Mother will be the proudest of all. Mother very seldom goes out.
Till we get a house we at The Langham. Thank you, Mr Sprottle. I
think we'll go and find father.'
Lord Silverbridge found himself close to Lady Mabel and Tregear,
and also to Miss Cassewary, who had now joined Lady Mabel. He had
been much struck with the American beauty, but was not on that
account the less anxious to carry out his great plan. It was
essentially necessary that he should do so at once, because the
matter had been settled between him and his father. He was anxious
to assure her that if she would consent, then the Duke would be
ready to pour out all kinds of paternal blessings on their heads.
'Come and take a turn among the haycocks,' he said.
'Frank declares,' said Lady Mabel, 'that the hay is hired for the
occasion. I wonder whether that is true?'
'Anybody can see,' said Tregear, 'that it has not been cut off the
grass it stands upon.'
'If I could find Mrs Montacute Jones I'd ask her where she got
it,' said Lady Mabel.
'Are you coming?' asked Silverbridge impatiently.
'I don't think I am. I have been walking round the haycocks till I
am tired of them.'
'Anywhere else then?'
'There isn't anywhere else. What have you done with your American
beauty? The truth is, Lord Silverbridge, you ask me for my company
when she won't give you hers any longer. Doesn't it look like it,
Miss Cassewary?'
'I don't think Lord Silverbridge is the man to forget an old
friend for a new one.'
'Not though the new friend be as lovely as Miss Boncassen?'
'I don't know that I ever saw a prettier girl,' said Tregear.
'I quite admit it,' said Lady Mabel. 'But that is no salve for my
injured feelings. I have heard so much talk about Miss Boncassen's
beauty for the last week, that I mean to get up a company of
British females, limited, for the express purpose of putting her
down. Who is Miss Boncassen that we are all to be put on one side
for her?'
Of course he knew that she was joking, but he hardly knew how to
take her joke. There is a manner of joking which carries with it
much serious intention. He did feel that Lady Mabel was not
gracious to him because he had spent half an hour with this new
beauty, and he was half inclined to be angry with her. Was it
fitting that she should be cross with him, seeing that he was
resolved to throw at her feet all the good things that he had in
the world? 'Bother Miss Boncassen,' he said; 'you might as well
come and take a turn with a fellow.'
'Come along, Miss Cassewary,' said she. 'We will go around the
haycocks yet once again.' So they turned and the two ladies
accompanied Lord Silverbridge.
But this was not what he wanted. He could not say what he had to
say in the presence of Miss Cassewary,--nor could he ask her to
take herself off in another direction. Nor could he take himself
off. Now that he had joined himself to these two ladies he must
make with them the tour of the gardens. All this made him cross.
'These kind of things are a great bore,' he said.
'I dare say you would rather be in the House of Commons;--or,
better still, at the Beargarden.'
'You mean to be ill-natured when you say that, Lady Mab.'
'You ask me to come and walk with you, and then you tell us that
we are bores!'
'I did nothing of the kind.'
'I should have thought that you would be particularly pleased with
yourself for coming here today, seeing that you have made Miss
Boncassen's acquaintance. To be allowed to walk half and hour
alone with the acknowledged beauty of the two hemispheres ought to
be enough even for Lord Silverbridge.'
'That is nonsense, Lady Mab.'
'Nothing give so much zest to admiration as novelty. A republican
charmer must be exciting after all the blasees habituees of the
London drawing-room.'
'How can you talk such nonsense, Mabel?' said Miss Cassewary.
'But it is so. I feel that people must be sick of seeing me. I
know I am very often sick of seeing them. Here is something
fresh,--and not only unlike, but so much more lovely. I quite
acknowledge that I may be jealous, but no one can say that I am
spiteful. I wish that some republican Adonis or Apollo would crop
up,--so that we might have our turn. But I don't think the
republican gentlemen are equal to the republican ladies. Do you,
Lord Silverbridge?
'I haven't thought about it.'
'Mr Sprottle for instance.'
'I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr Sprottle.'
'Now we've been around the haycocks, and really, Lord
Silverbridge, I don't think we have gained much by it. Those
forced marches never do any good.' And so they parted.
He was thinking with a bitter spirit of the ill-result of the
morning's work when he again found himself close to Miss barbarian
in the crowd of departing people on the terrace. 'Mind you keep
your word,' she said. And then she turned to her father, 'Lord
Silverbridge has promised to call.'
'Mrs Boncassen will be delighted to make his acquaintance.'
He got into his cab and was driven off before Richmond. As he went
he began to think of the two young women with whom he had passed
his morning. Mabel had certainly behaved badly to him. Even if she
suspected nothing of his object, did she not owe it to their
friendship to be more courteous to him than she had been? And if
she suspected that object, should she not at any rate given him
that opportunity?
Or could it be that she was really jealous of the American girl?
No;--that idea he rejected instantly. It was not compatible with
the innate modesty of his disposition. But no doubt the American
girl was very lovely. Merely as a thing to be looked at she was
superior to Mabel. He did feel that as to mere personal beauty she
was in truth superior to anything he had ever seen before. And she
was clever too;--and good-humoured;--whereas Mabel had been both
ill-natured and unpleasant.
CHAPTER 29
The Lovers Meet
Lord Silverbridge found his sister alone. 'I particularly want
you,' said he, 'to come and call upon Lady Mabel Grex. She wishes
to know you, and I am sure you would like her.'
'But I haven't been out anywhere yet,' she said. 'I don't feel as
though I wanted to go anywhere.'
Nevertheless she was very anxious to know Lady Mabel Grex, of whom
she had heard much. A girl if she has had a former love passage
says nothing of it to her new lover; but a man is not so reticent.
Frank Tregear had perhaps not told her everything, but he had told
her something. 'I was very fond of her,--very fond of her,' he had
said. 'And so I am still,' he had added. 'As you are my love of
loves, she is my friend of friends.' Lady Mary had been satisfied
by the assurance, but had become anxious to see the friend of
friends. She resisted at first her brother's entreaties. She felt
that her father in delivering her over to the seclusions of The
Horns had intended to preclude her from showing herself in London.
She was conscious that she was being treated with cruelty, and had
a certain pride in her martyrdom. She would obey her father to the
letter; she would give him no right to call her conduct in
question; but he and any other to whom he might entrust the care
of her, should be made to know that she thought him cruel. He had
his power to which she must submit. But she also had hers,--to
which it was possible he might be made to submit. 'I do not know
that papa would wish me to go,' she said.
'But it is just what he would wish. He thinks a good deal about
Mabel.'
'Why should he think of her at all?'
'I can't exactly explain,' said Silverbridge, 'but he does.'
'If you mean to tell me that Mabel Grex is anything particular to
you, and that papa approves of it, I will go round the world to
see her.' But he had not meant to tell his this. The request had
been made at Lady Mabel's instance. When his sister had spoken of
her father's possible objection, then he had become eager in
explaining the Duke's feeling, not remembering that such anxiety
might betray himself. At that moment Lady Cantrip came in, and the
question was referred to her. She did not see any objection to
such a visit, and expressed her opinion that it would be a good
thing that Mary should be taken out. 'She should begin to go
somewhere,' said Lady Cantrip. And so it was decided. On the next
Friday he would come down early in his hansom and drive her up to
Belgrave Square. Then he would take her to Carlton Terrace, and
Lady Cantrip's carriage should pick her up there and bring her
home. He would arrange it all.
'What did you think of the American beauty?' asked Lady Cantrip
when that was settled.
'I thought she was a beauty.'
'So I perceived. You had eyes for nobody else,' said Lady Cantrip,
who had been at the garden-party.
'Somebody introduced her to me, and then I had to walk about the
grounds with her. That's the kind of thing one always does in
these places.'
'Just so. That is what "those places" are meant for, I suppose.
But it was not apparently a great infliction.' Lord Silverbridge
had to explain that it was not an infliction;--that it was a
privilege, seeing that Miss Boncassen was both clever and lovely;
but that it did not mean anything in particular.
When he took his leave he asked his sister to go out into the
grounds with him for a moment. This she did almost unwillingly,
fearing that he was about to speak to her of Tregear. But he had
no such purpose on his mind. 'Of course you know,' he began, 'all
that was nonsense you were saying about Mabel.'
'I did not know.'
'I was afraid you might blurt out something before her.'
'I should not be so imprudent.'
'Girls do make such fools of themselves sometimes. They are always
thinking about people being in love. But it is the truth that my
father said to me the other day how very much he liked what he had
heard of her, and that he would like you to know her.'
On that same evening Silverbridge wrote from the Beargarden the
shortest possible note to Lady Mabel, telling her what he had
arranged. 'I and Mary propose to call in B. Square on Friday at
two. I must be early because of the House. You will give us lunch.
S.' There was no word of endearment,--none of those ordinary words
which people who hate each other use to one another. But he
received the next day at home a much more kindly-written note from
her:
'DEAR LORD SILVERBRIDGE,
'You are so good! You always do just what you think people
will like best. Nothing could please me so much as seeing your
sister, of whom of course I have heard very very much. There shall
be nobody here but Miss Cass.
'Yours most sincerely,
M.G.'
'How I do wish I were a man!' his sister said to him when they
were in the hansom together.
'You'd have a great deal more trouble.'
'But I'd have a hansom of my own, and go where I pleased. How
would you like to be shut up in a place like The Horn?'
'You can go out if you like.'
'Not like you. Papa thinks it's the proper place for me to live
in, and so I must live there. I don't think a woman ever chooses
how or where she shall live herself.'
'You are not going to take up woman's rights, I hope.'
'I think I shall if I stay at The Horns much longer. What would
papa say if he heard that I was going to give a lecture at the
Institute?'
'The governor has had so many things to bear that a trifle such as
that would make but little difference.'
'Poor papa!'
'He was dreadfully cut up about Gerald. And then he is so good! He
said more to me about Gerald than he ever did about my own little
misfortune at Oxford; but to Gerald himself he said almost
nothing. Now he has forgiven me because he thinks I am constant at
the House.'
'And are you?'
'Not so much as he thinks. I do go there,--for his sake. He has
been so good about my changing sides.'
'I think you were quite right there.'
'I am beginning to think I was quite wrong. What did it matter to
me?'
'I suppose it did make papa unhappy.'
'Of course it did;--and then this affair of yours.' As soon as
this was said Lady Mary at once hardened her heart against her
father. Whether Silverbridge was or was not entitled to his own
political opinions,--seeing that the Pallisers had for ages been
known as staunch Whigs and Liberals,--might be a matter for
question. But that she had a right to her own lover she thought
there could be no question. As they were sitting in the cab he
could hardly see her face, but he was aware that she was in some
fashion arming herself against opposition. 'I am sure that this
makes him very unhappy,' continued Silverbridge.
'It cannot be altered,' she said.
'It will have to be altered.'
'Nothing can alter it. He might die, indeed;--or so might I.'
'Or he might see that it is no good,--and change his mind,'
suggested Silverbridge.
'Of course that is possible,' said Lady Mary very curtly,--showing
plainly by her manner that the subject was one which she did not
choose to discuss any further.
'It is very good of you to come to me,' said Lady Mabel, kissing
her new acquaintance. 'I have heard so much about you.'
'And I also of you.'
'I, you know, am one of your brother's stern Mentors. There are
three or four of us determined to make him a pattern young
legislator. Miss Cassewary is another. Only she is not quite so
stern as I am.'
'He ought to be very much obliged.'
'But he is not;--not a bit. Are you, Lord Silverbridge?'
'Not so much as I ought to be, perhaps.'
'Of course there is an opposing force. There are the race-horses,
and the drag, and Major Tifto. No doubt you have heard of Major
Tifto. The Major is the Mr Worldly-Wise-man who won't let
Christian go to the Straight Gate. I am afraid he hasn't read his
Pilgrim's Progress. But we shall prevail, Lady Mary, and he will
get to the beautiful city at last.'
'What is the beautiful city?' he asked.
'A seat in the Cabinet, I suppose;--or that general respect which a
young nobleman achieves when he shows himself able to sit on a
bench for six consecutive hours without appearing to go to sleep.'
Then they went to lunch, and Lady Mary found herself to be happy
with her new acquaintance. Her life since her mother's death had
been so sad, that this short escape from it was a relief to her.
Now for awhile she found herself almost gay. There was an easy
liveliness about Lady Mabel,--a grain of humour and playfulness
conjoined,--which made her feel at home at once. And it seemed to
her as though her brother was at home. He called the girl Lady
Mab, and Queen Mab, and once plain Mabel, and the old woman he
called Miss Cass. It surely, she thought, must be the case that
Lady Mabel and her brother were engaged.
'Come upstairs into my own room,--it is nicer than this,' said Lady
Mabel, and they went from the dining-room into a pretty little
sitting-room with which Silverbridge was very well acquainted.
'Have you heard of Miss Boncassen?' Mary said she had heard
something of Miss Boncassen's great beauty. 'Everybody is talking
about her. Your brother met at Mrs Montacute Jones's garden-party,
and was made a conquest of instantly.'
'I wasn't made a conquest of at all,' said Silverbridge.
'Then he ought to have been made a conquest of. I should be if I
were a man. I think she is the loveliest person to look at and the
nicest person to listen to that I ever came across. We all feel
that, as far as this season is concerned, we are cut out. But we
don't mind it so much because she is a foreigner.' Then just as
she said this the door was opened and Frank Tregear was announced.
Everybody present there knew as well as does the reader, what was
the connection between Tregear and Lady Mary Palliser. And each
knew that the other knew it. It was therefore impossible for them
not to feel themselves guilty among themselves. The two lovers had
not seen each other since they had been together in Italy. Now
they were brought face to face in this unexpected manner! And
nobody except Tregear was at first quite sure whether somebody had
done something to arrange the meeting. Mary might naturally
suspect that Lady Mabel had done this in the interest of her
friend Tregear, and Silverbridge could not but suspect that it was
so. Lady Mabel, who had never before met the other girl, could
hardly refrain from thinking that there had been some underhand
communication,--and Miss Cassewary was clearly of the opinion that
there had been some understanding.
Silverbridge was the first to speak. 'Halloo, Tregear, I didn't
know that we were to see you.'
'Nor I, that I should see you,' said he. Then of course there was
a shaking of hands all round, in the course of which ceremony he
came to Mary the last. She gave him her hand, but had not a word
to say to him. 'If I had known that you were here,' he said, 'I
should not have come; but I need hardly say how glad I am to see
you,--even in this way.' Then the two girls were convinced that
the meeting was accidental; but Miss Cass still had her doubts.
Conversation became at once very difficult. Tregear seated himself
near, but not very near, to Lady Mary, and made some attempt to
talk to both the girls at once. Lady Mabel plainly showed that she
was not at her ease;--whereas Mary seemed to be stricken dumb by
the presence of her lover. Silverbridge was so much annoyed by a
feeling that this interview was a treason to his father, that he
sat cudgelling his brain to think how he should bring it to an
end. Miss Cassewary was dumb-founded by the occasion. She was the
one elder in the company who ought to see that no wrong was
committed. She was not directly responsible to the Duke of Omnium,
but she was thoroughly permeated by a feeling that it was her duty
to take care that there should be no clandestine love meetings in
Lord Grex's house. At last Silverbridge jumped up from his chair.
'Upon my word, Tregear, I think you had better go,' said he.
'So do I,' said Miss Cassewary. 'If it is an accident--'
'Of course it is an accident,' said Tregear angrily,--looking round
at Mary, who blushed up to her eyes.
'I did not mean to doubt it,' said the old lady. 'But as it has
occurred, Mabel, don't you think that he had better go?'
'He won't bite anybody, Miss Cass.'
'Certainly not,' said Mary, speaking for the first time. 'But now
he is here--' Then she stopped herself, rose from the sofa, sat
down, and then rising again, stepped up to her lover,--who rose at
the same moment,--and threw herself into his arms and put up her
lips to be kissed.
'This won't do at all,' said Silverbridge. Miss Cassewary clasped
her hands together and looked up to heaven. She probably had never
seen such a thing done before. Lady Mabel's eyes were filled with
tears, and though in all this there was much to cause her anguish,
still in her heart of hearts, she admired the brave girl who could
thus show her truth to her lover.
'Now go,' said Mary, through her sobs.
'Now own one,' ejaculated Tregear.
'Yes, yes, yes; always your own. Go,--go, go.' She was weeping and
sobbing as she said this, and hiding her face with her
handkerchief. He stood for a moment irresolute, and then left the
room without a word of adieu to anyone.
'You have behaved very badly,' said the brother.
'She has behaved like an angel,' said Mabel, throwing her arms
round Mary, as she spoke, 'like an angel. If there had been a girl
whom you loved and who loved you, would you have not wished it?
Would you not have worshipped her for showing that she was not
ashamed of her love?'
'I am not a bit ashamed,' said Mary.
'And I say you have no cause. No one knows him like I do. How good
he is, and how worthy!' Immediately after that Silverbridge took
his sister away, and Lady Mabel, escaping from Miss Cass was
alone. 'She loves him almost as I have loved him,' she said to
herself. 'I wonder whether he can love her as he did me?'
CHAPTER 30
What Came of the Meeting
Not a word was said in the cab as Lord Silverbridge took his
sister to Carlton Terrace, and he leaving her without any
reference to the scene which had taken place, when an idea struck
him that this would be cruel. 'Mary,' he said, 'I was very sorry
for all that.'
'It was not my doing.'
'I suppose it was nobody's doing. But I am very sorry that it
occurred. I think you should have controlled yourself.'
'No!' she almost shouted.
'I think so.'
'No;--if you mean by controlling myself, holding my tongue. He is
the man I love,--whom I have promised to marry.'
'But, Mary,--do ladies generally embrace their lovers in public?'
'No;--nor should I. I never did such a thing in my life before. But
as he was there I had to show that I was not ashamed of him! Do
you think I should have done it if you all had not been there?'
Then again she burst into tears.
He did not know quite what to make of it. Mabel Grex had declared
that she had behaved like an angel. But yet, as he thought of what
he had seen, he shuddered with vexation. 'I was thinking of the
governor.'
'He shall be told everything.'
'That you met Tregear?'
'Certainly; and that I--kissed him. I will do nothing that I
ashamed to tell everybody.'
'He will be very angry.'
'I cannot help it. He should not treat me as he is doing. Mr
Tregear is a gentleman. Why did he let him come? Why you bring
him? But it is of no use. The thing is settled. Papa can break my
heart, but he cannot make me say that I am not engaged to Mr
Tregear.'
On that night Mary told the whole of her story to Lady Cantrip.
There was nothing she tried to conceal. 'I got up,' she said, 'and
threw my arms round him. Is he not all the world to me?'
'Had it been planned?' asked Lady Cantrip.
'No;--no! Nothing had been planned. They are cousins and very
intimate, and he goes there constantly. Now I want you to tell
papa all about it.'
Lady Cantrip began to think that it had been an evil day for her
when she had agreed to take charge of this very determined young
lady, but she consented to write to the Duke. As the girl was in
her hands she must take care not to lay herself open to
reproaches. As this objectionable lover had either contrived a
meeting, or had met her without contriving, it was necessary that
the Duke should be informed. 'I would rather you wrote the
letter,' said Lady Mary. 'But pray tell him that all along I have
meant him to know about it.'
Till Lady Cantrip seated herself at her writing-table she did not
know how great the difficulty would be. It cannot in any
circumstance be easy to write to a father of his daughter's love
for an objectionable lover; but the Duke's character added much to
the severity of the task. And then that embrace! She knew that
the Duke would be struck with horror as he read of such a tale,
and she found herself almost struck with horror as she attempted
to write it. When she came to the point she found that she could
not write it. 'I fear there was a good deal of warmth shown on
both sides,' she said, feeling that she was calumniating the man,
as to whose warmth she had heard nothing. 'It is quite clear,' she
added, 'that this is not a passing fancy on her part.'
It was impossible that the Duke should be made to understand
exactly what had occurred. That Silverbridge had taken Mary he did
understand, and that they had together gone to Lord Grex's house.
He understood also that the meeting had taken place in the
presence of Silverbridge and Lady Mabel. 'No doubt it was all an
accident,' Lady Cantrip wrote. How could it be an accident?
'You had Mary up in town on Friday?' he said to his son on the
following Sunday morning.
'Yes, sir.'
'And that friend of yours came in?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Do you not know what my wishes are?'
'Certainly I do;--but I could not help his coming. You do not
suppose that anybody had planned it?'
'I hope not.'
'It was simply an accident. Such an accident as must occur over
and over again,--unless Mary is to be locked up.'
'Who talks of locking anybody up? What right have you to speak in
that way?'
'I only meant that of course they will stumble across each other
in London.'
'I think I will go abroad,' said the Duke. He was silent for
awhile, and then repeated his words. 'I think I will go abroad.'
'Not for long I hope, sir.'
'Yes;--to live there. Why should I stay here? What good can I do
here? Everything I see and everything I hear is a pain to me.'
The young man of course could not but go back in his mind to the
last interview which he had had with his father, when the Duke had
been so gracious and apparently so well pleased.
'Is there anything else wrong,--except about Mary?' Silverbridge
asked.
'I am told Gerald owes about fifteen hundred pounds at Cambridge.'
'So much as that! I knew that he had a few horses there.'
'It is not the money, but the absence of principle,--that a young
man should have no feeling that he ought to live within certain
prescribed means! Do you know what you have had from Mr Morton?'
'Not exactly, sir.'
'It is different with you. But a man, let him be who he may,
should live within certain means. As for your sister, I think she
will break my heart.' Silverbridge found it impossible to say
anything in answer to this. 'Are you going to church?' asked the
Duke.
'I was not thinking of doing so particularly.'
'Do you not ever go?'
'Yes;--sometimes. I will go with you now, if you like it, sir.'
'I had thought of going, but my mind is too much harassed. I do
not see why you should not go.'
But Silverbridge, though he had been willing to sacrifice his
morning to his father,--for it was, I fear, in that way that he
looked at it,--did not see any reason for performing a duty which
his father himself omitted. And there were various matters also
which harassed him. On the previous evening, after dinner, he had
allowed himself to back the Prime Minister for the Leger to a very
serious amount. In fact he had plunged, and now stood to lose some
twenty thousand pounds on the doings of the last night. And he had
made these bets under the influence of Major Tifto. It was the
remembrance of this, after the promise he had made to his father,
that annoyed him the most. He was imbued with a feeling that it
behoved him as a man to 'pull himself together' as he would have
said himself, and to live in accordance with certain rules. He
could make the rules easily enough, but he had never yet succeeded
in keeping any one of them. He had determined to sever himself
from Tifto, and, in doing that, had intended to sever himself from
the affairs of the turf generally. This resolution was not yet a
week old. It was on that evening that he had resolved that Tifto
should no longer be his companion; and now he had to confess to
himself that because he had drunk three or four glasses of
champagne he had been induced by Tifto to make those wretched
bets.
And he had told his father that he intended to ask Mabel Grex to
be his wife. He had so committed himself that the offer must now
be made. He did not specially regret that, though he wished that
he had been more reticent. 'What a fool a man is to blurt out
everything!' he said to himself. A wife would be a good thing for
him; and where could he possibly find a better wife than Mabel
Grex? In beauty she was no doubt inferior to Miss Boncassen. There
was something about Miss Boncassen which made it impossible to
forget her. But Miss Boncassen was an American, and on many
accounts out of the question. It did not occur to him that he
would fall in love with Miss Boncassen for a few weeks. No doubt
there were objections to marriage. It clipped a fellow's wings.
But then, if he were married, he might be sure that Tifto would be
laid aside. It was a great thing to have got his father's assured
consent to a marriage. It meant complete independence in money
matters.
Then his mind ran away to a review of his father's affairs. It was
a genuine trouble to him that his father should be so unhappy. Of
all the griefs which weighed upon the Duke's mind, that in
reference to his sister was the heaviest. The money which Gerald
owed at Cambridge would be nothing if that sorrow could be
conquered. Nor had Tifto and his own extravagances caused the Duke
any incurable wounds. If Tregear could be got out of the way his
father, he thought, might be reconciled to other things. He felt
very tender-hearted about his father; but he had no remorse in
regard to his sister as he made up his mind that he would speak
very seriously to Tregear.
He had wandered into St James's Park, and had lighted by this time
half-a-dozen cigarettes one after another, as he sat on one of the
benches. He was a handsome youth, all but six feet high, with
light hair, with round blue eyes, and with all that aristocratic
look, which had belonged so peculiarly to the late Duke but which
was less conspicuous in the present head of the family. He was a
young man whom you would hardly pass in a crowd without
observing,--but of whom you would say, after due observation, that
he had not as yet put off all his childish ways. He now sat with
his legs stretched out, with his cane in his hands, looking down
upon the water. He was trying to think. He worked hard at
thinking. But the bench was hard, and, upon the whole, he was not
satisfied with his position. He had just made up his mind that he
would look up Tregear, when Tregear himself appeared on the path
before him.
'Tregear!' exclaimed Silverbridge.
'Silverbridge!' exclaimed Tregear.
'What on earth makes you walk about here on a Sunday morning?'
'What on earth makes you sit there? That I should walk here, which
I often do, does not seem to me odd. But that I should find you is
marvellous. Do you often come?'
'Never was here in my life before. I strolled because I had things
to think of.'
'Questions to be asked in Parliament? Notices of motions,
Amendments in Committee, and that kind of thing?'
'Go on, old fellow.'
'Or perhaps Major Tifto has made important revelations.'
'D- Major Tifto.'
'With all my heart,' said Tregear.
'Sit down here,' said Silverbridge. 'As it happened, at the moment
when you came up I was thinking of you.'
'That was kind.'
'And I was determined to go to you. All this about my sister must
be given up.'
'Must be given up!'
'It can never lead to any good. I meant that there can never be a
marriage.' Then he paused, but Tregear was determined to hear him
out. 'It is making my father so miserable that you would pity him
if you could see him.'
'I dare say I should. When I see people unhappy I always pity
them. What I would ask you to think of is this. If I were to
commission you to tell your sister that everything between us
should be given up, would not she be so unhappy that you would
have to pity her?'
'She would get over it.'
'And so will your father.'
'He has a right to have his own opinion on such a matter.'
'And so have I. And so has she. His rights in the matter are very
clear and very potential. I am quite ready to admit that we cannot
marry for many years to come, unless he will provide the money.
You are quite at liberty to tell him that I say so. I have no
right to ask your father for a penny, and I will never do so. The
power is all in his hands. As far as I know my own purposes, I
shall not make any immediate attempt even to see her. We did meet,
as you saw, the other day, by the merest chance. After that, do
you think that your sister wishes me to give her up?'
'As for supposing that girls are to have what they wish, that is
nonsense.'
'For young men I suppose equally so. Life ought to be a life of
self-denial no doubt. Perhaps it might be my duty to retire from
this affair, if by doing so I should sacrifice only myself. The
one person of whom I am bound to think in this matter is the girl
I love.'
'That is just what she says about you.'
'I hope so.'
'In that way you support each other. If it were any other man
circumstanced just like you are, and any other girl placed like
Mary, you would be the first to say that the man was behaving
badly. I don't like to use hard language to you, but in such a
case you would be the first to say of another man--that he was
looking after the girl's money.'
Silverbridge as he said this looked forward steadfastly on to the
water, regretting much that cause for quarrel should have arisen,
but thinking that Tregear would find himself obliged to quarrel.
But Tregear, after a few moments' silence, having thought it out,
determined that he would not quarrel. 'I think I probably might,'
he said laying his hand on Silverbridge's arm. 'I think I perhaps
might express such an opinion.'
'Well then!'
'I have to examine myself, and find whether I am guilty of the
meanness which I might perhaps be too ready to impute to another.
I have done so, and I am quite sure that I am not drawn to your
sister by any desire for her money. I did not seek her because she
was a rich man's daughter, nor,--because she is a rich man's
daughter will I give her up. Nothing but a word from her shall
induce me to leave her;--but a word from her, if it comes from her
own lips,--shall do so.' Then he took his friend's hand in his,
and having grasped it, walked away without saying another word.
CHAPTER 31
Miss Boncassen's River-Party No. 1
Thrice within the next three weeks did Lord Silverbridge go forth
to ask Mabel to be his wife, but thrice in vain. On one occasion
she would talk on other things. On the second Miss Cassewary would
not leave her. On the third the conversation turned in a very
disagreeable way on Miss Boncassen, as to whom Lord Silverbridge
could not but think that Lady Mabel said some very ill-natured
things. It was no doubt true that he, during the last three weeks,
had often been in Miss Boncassen's company, that he had danced
with her, ridden with her, taken her to the House of Lords and the
House of Commons, and was now engaged to attend upon her at a
river-party up above Maidenhead. But Mabel had certainly no right
to complain. Had he not thrice during the same period come there
to lay the coronet at her feet;--and now, at this very moment, was
it not her fault that he was not going through the ceremony?
'I suppose,' she said, laughing, 'that it is all settled.'
'What is all settled?'
'About you and the American beauty.'
'I am not aware that anything in particular has been settled.'
'Then it ought to be,--oughtn't it? For her sake, I mean.'
'That is so like an English woman,' said Lord Silverbridge.
'Because you cannot understand a manner of life a little different
from your own you will impute evil.'
'I have imputed no evil, Lord Silverbridge, and you have no right
to say so.'
'If you mean to assert,' said Miss Cass, 'that the manners of
American young ladies are freer than those of English young
ladies, it is you that are taking away their characters.'
'I don't say it would be at all bad,' continued Lady Mabel. 'She
is a beautiful girl, and very clever, and would make a charming
Duchess. And then it would be such a delicious change to have an
American Duchess.'
'She wouldn't be a Duchess.'
'Well, Countess, with Duchessship before her in the remote future.
Wouldn't it be a change, Miss Cass?'
'Oh decidedly!' said Miss Cass.
'And very much for the better. Quite a case of new blood, you
know. Pray don't suppose that I mean to object. Everybody who
talks about it approves. I haven't heard a single dissentient
voice. Only as it has gone so far, and English people are too
stupid you know to understand all these new ways,--don't you think
perhaps-?'
'No, I don't think. I don't think anything except that you are
very ill-natured.' Then he got up and, after making formal adieux
to both the ladies, left the house.
As soon as he was gone Lady Mabel began to laugh, but the least
apprehensive ears would have perceived that the laughter was
affected. Miss Cassewary did not laugh at all, but sat bolt
upright and looked very serious. 'Upon my honour,' said the
younger lady, 'he is the most beautifully simple-minded human
being I ever knew in my life.'
'Then I wouldn't laugh at him.'
'How can one help it? But of course I do it with a purpose.'
'What purpose?'
'I think he is making a fool of himself. If somebody does not
interfere he will go so far that he will not be able to draw back
without misbehaving.'
'I thought,' said Miss Cassewary, in a very low voice, almost
whispering. 'I thought that he was looking for a wife elsewhere.'
'You need not think of it again,' said Lady Mab, jumping up from
her seat. 'I had thought of it too. But as I told you before, I
spared him. He did not really mean it with me;--nor does he mean it
with this American girl. Such young men seldom mean. They drift
into matrimony. But she will not spare him. It would be a national
triumph. All the States would sing a paean of glory. Fancy a New
York belle having compassed a Duke!'
'I don't think it possible. It would be too horrid.'
'I think it is quite possible. As for me, I could teach myself to
think it best as it as, were I not so sure that I should be better
for him than to many others. But I shouldn't love him.'
'Why not love him?'
'He is such a boy. I should always treat him like a boy,--spoiling
him and petting him, but never respecting him. Don't run away with
any idea that I should refuse him from conscientious motives, if
he were really to ask me. I too should like to be a Duchess. I
should like to bring all this misery at home to an end.'
'But you did refuse him.'
'Not exactly;--because he never asked me. For the moment I was
weak, and so I let have another chance. I shall not have been a
good friend to him if it ends in his marrying this Yankee.'
Lord Silverbridge went out of the house in a very ill humour,--
which however left him when in the course of the afternoon he
found himself up at Maidenhead with Miss Boncassen. Miss Boncassen
at any rate did not laugh at him. And then she was so pleasant, so
full of common sense, and so completely intelligent! 'I like
you,' she said, 'because I feel that you will not think that you
ought to make love to me. There is nothing I hate so much as the
idea that a young man and a young woman can't be acquainted with
each other without some tomfoolery as that.' This had exactly
expressed his own feeling. Nothing could be so pleasant as his
intimacy with Isabel Boncassen.
Mrs Boncassen seemed to be a homely person, with no desire either
to speak, or to be spoken to. She went out but seldom, and on
those rare occasions did not in any way interfere with her
daughter. Mr Boncassen filled a prouder situation. Everybody knew
that Miss Boncassen was in England because it suited Mr Boncassen
to spend many hours in the British Museum. But still the daughter
hardly seemed to be under control from her father. She went alone
where she liked; talked to those she liked; and did what she
liked. Some of the young ladies of the day thought that there was
a good deal to be said in favour of the freedom which she enjoyed.
There is however a good deal to be said against it. All young
ladies cannot be Miss Boncassens, with such an assurance of
admirers as to be free from all fear of loneliness. There is
comfort for a young lady in having a pied-a-terre to which she may
retreat in case of need. In American circles, where girls
congregate without their mothers, there is a danger felt by young
men that if a lady be once taken in hand, there will be no
possibility of getting rid of her,--no mamma to whom she may be
taken and under whose wings she may be dropped. 'My dear,' said an
old gentleman the other day walking through an American ball-room,
and addressing himself to a girl whom he knew well,--'My dear--' But
the girl bowed and passed on, still clinging to the arm of the
young man who accompanied her. But the old gentleman was cruel,
and possessed of a determined purpose. 'My dear,' he said again,
catching the young man tightly by the collar and holding him fast.
'Don't be afraid; I've got him; he shan't desert you; I'll hold
him here till you have told me how your father does.' The young
lady looked as if she didn't like it, and the sight of her misery
gave rise to a feeling that, after all, mammas perhaps may be a
comfort.
But in her present phase of life Miss Boncassen suffered no
misfortune of this kind. It had become a privilege to be allowed
to attend upon Miss Boncassen, and the feeling of this privilege
had been enhanced by the manner in which Lord Silverbridge had
devoted himself to her. Fashion of course makes fashion. Had not
Lord Silverbridge been so very much struck by the charm of the
young lady, Lords Glasslough and Popplecourt would not perhaps
have found it necessary to run after her. As it was, even that
most unenergetic of young men, Dolly Longstaff, was moved to
profound admiration.
On this occasion they were all up the river at Maidenhead. Mr
Boncassen had looked about for some means of returning the
civilities offered to him, and had been instigated by Mrs
Montacute Jones to do it after this fashion. There was a
magnificent banquet spread in a summer-house on the river bank.
There were boats, and there was a band, and there was a sward for
dancing. There was lawn-tennis, and fishing-rods,--which nobody
used,--and better still, long shady secluded walks in which
gentlemen might stroll,--and ladies too, if they were kind enough.
The whole thing had been arranged by Mrs Montacute Jones. As the
day was fine, as many of the old people had abstained from coming,
as there were plenty of young men of the best sort, and as nothing
had been spared in reference to external comforts, the party
promised to be a success. Every most lovely girl in London of
course was there,--except Lady Mabel Grex. Lady Mabel was in the
habit of going everywhere, but on this occasion, she had refused
Mrs Boncassen's invitation. 'I don't want to see her triumphs,'
she had said to Miss Cass.
Everybody went down by railway of course, and innumerable flies
and carriages had been provided to take them to the scene of
action. Some immediately got into boats and rowed themselves up
from the bridge,--which, as the thermometer was standing at eighty
in the shade, was an inconsiderate proceeding. 'I don't think I am
quite up to that,' said Dolly Longstaff, when it was proposed to
him to take an oar. 'Miss Amazon will do it. She rows so well, and
is strong.' Whereupon Miss Amazon, not at all abashed, did take
the oar; and as Lord Silverbridge was on the seat behind her with
the other oar she probably enjoyed the task.
'What a very nice sort of person Lady Cantrip is.' This was said
to Silverbridge by that generally silent young nobleman Lord
Popplecourt. The remark was the more singular because Lady Cantrip
was not at the party,--and the more so again because, as
Silverbridge thought, there could be but little in common between
the Countess who had his sister in charge and the young lord
beside him, who was not fast only because he did not like to risk
his money.
'Well;--I dare say she is.'
'I thought so, peculiarly. Because I was at that place at Richmond
yesterday.'
'The devil you were! What were you doing at the Horns?'
'Lady Cantrip's grandmother was,--I don't quite know what she was,
but something to us. I know I've got a picture of her at
Popplecourt. Lady Cantrip wanted to ask me something about it, and
so I went down. I was so glad to make acquaintance with your
sister.'
'You saw Mary, did you?'
'Oh yes; I lunched there. I'm to go down and meet the Duke some
day.'
'Meet the Duke!'
'Why not?'
'No reason on earth,--only I can't imagine the governor going to
Richmond for his dinner. Well! I am very glad to hear it. I hope
you'll get on well with him.'
'I was so much struck by your sister.'
'Yes I dare say,' said Silverbridge, turning away into the path
where he saw Miss Boncassen standing with some other ladies. It
certainly did not occur to him that Popplecourt was to be brought
forward as a suitor for his sister's hand.
'I believe this is the most lovely place in the world,' Miss
Boncassen said to him.
'We are so much the more obliged to you for bringing us here.'
'We don't bring you. You allow us to come with you and see all
that is pretty and lovely.'
'Is it not your party?'
'Father will pay the bill, I suppose,--as far as that goes. And
mother's name was put on the cards. But of course we know what
that means. It is because you and a few others like you have been
so kind to us, that we are able to be here at all.'
'Everybody, I should think, must be kind to you.'
'I do have a good time pretty much; but nowhere so good as here. I
fear that when I get back I shall not like New York.'
'I have heard you say, Miss Boncassen, that Americans were more
likeable than the English.'
'Have you? Well, yes; I think I have said so. And I think it is
so. I'd sooner have to dance with a bank clerk in New York, than
with a bank clerk here.'
'Do you ever dance with bank clerks?'
'Oh dear yes. At least I suppose so. I dance with whoever comes
up. We haven't got lords in America, you know!'
'You have got gentlemen.'
'Plenty of them.-but they are not so easily defined as lords. I do
like lords.'
'Do you?'
'Oh yes,--and ladies;--Countesses I mean and women of that sort.
Your Lady Mabel Grex is not here. Why wouldn't she come?'
'Perhaps you didn't ask her.'
'Oh yes I did;--especially for your sake.'
'She is not my Lady Mabel Grex.,' said Lord Silverbridge with
unnecessary energy.
'But she will be.'
'What makes you think that?'
'You are devoted to her.'
'Much more to you, Miss Boncassen.'
'That is nonsense, Lord Silverbridge.'
'Not at all.'
'It is also--untrue.'
'Surely I must be the best judge of that myself.'
'Not a doubt; a judge not only whether it be true, but if true
whether expedient,--or even possible. What did I say to you when we
first began to know each other?'
'What did you say?'
'That I liked knowing you;--that was frank enough;--not that I liked
knowing you because I knew that there would be no tomfoolery of
lovemaking.' Then she paused; but he did not quite know how to go
on with the conversation at once, and she continued her speech.
'When you condescend to tell me that you are devoted to me, as
though that were the kind of thing that I expect to have said when
I take a walk with a young man in a wood, is not that the
tomfoolery of love-making?' She stopped and looked at him, so
that he was obliged to answer.
'Then why do you ask me if I am devoted to Lady Mabel Grex? Would
not that be tomfoolery too?'
'No. If I thought so, I would not have asked the question. I did
specially invite her to come her because I thought you would like
it. You have got to marry somebody.'
'Some day, perhaps.'
'And why not her?'
'If you come to that, why not you?' He felt himself to be getting
into deep waters as he said this,--but he had a meaning to express
if only he could find the words to express it. 'I don't say
whether it is tomfoolery, as you call it, or not; but whatever it
is, you began it.'
'Yes;--yes. I see. You punish me for my unpremeditated impertinence
in suggesting that you are devoted to Lady Mabel by the
premeditated impertinence of pretending to be devoted to me.'
'Stop a moment. I cannot follow that.' Then she laughed. 'I will
swear that I did not intend to be impertinent.'
'I hope not.'
'I am devoted to you.'
'Lord Silverbridge!'
'I think you are--'
'Stop, stop. Do not say it.'
'Well I won't;--not now. But there has been no tomfoolery.'
'May I ask a question, Lord Silverbridge? You will not be angry?
I would not have you angry with me.'
'I will not be angry,' he said.
'Are you not engaged to marry Lady Mabel Grex?'
'No.'
'Then I beg your pardon. I was told that you were engaged to her.
And I thought your choice was so fortunate, so happy! I have seen
no girl here that I admire half so much. She almost comes up to my
idea of what a young woman should be.'
'Almost!'
'Now I am sure that if you are not engaged to her you must be in
love with her, or my praise would have sufficed.'
'Though one knows a Lady Mabel Grex, one may become acquainted
with a Miss Boncassen.'
There are moments in which stupid people say clever things, obtuse
people say sharp things, and good-natured people say ill-natured
things. 'Lord Silverbridge,' she said, 'I did not expect that from
you.'
'Expect what? I meant it simply.'
'I have no doubt you meant it simply. We Americans think ourselves
sharp, but I have long since found out that we may meet more than
our matches here. I think we will go back. Mother means to try to
get up a quadrille.'
'You will dance with me?'
'I think not. I have been walking with you, and I had better dance
with someone else.'
'You can let me have one dance.'
'I think not. There will not be many.'
'Are you angry with me?'
'Yes, I am; there.' But as she said this she smiled. 'The truth
is, I thought I was getting the better of you, and you turned
round and gave me a pat on the head to show me that you could be
master when it pleased you. You have defended your intelligence at
the expense of your good-nature.'
'I'll be shot if I know what it all means,' he said, just as he
was parting with her.
CHAPTER 32
Miss Boncassen's River-Party No.2
Lord Silverbridge made up his mind that as he could not dance with
Miss Boncassen he would not dance at all. He was not angry at
being rejected, and when he saw her stand up with Dolly Longstaff
he felt no jealousy. She had refused to dance with him not because
she did not like him, but because she did not wish to show that
she did like him. He could understand that, though he had not
quite followed all the ins and outs of her little accusations
against him. She had flattered him--without any intention of
flattery on her part. She had spoken of his intelligence and had
complained that he had been too sharp to her. Mabel Grex when most
sweet to him, when most loving, always made him feel that he was
her inferior. She took no trouble to hide her conviction of his
youthfulness. This was anything but flattering. Miss Boncassen, on
the other hand, professed herself almost to be afraid of him.
'There shall be no tomfoolery of love-making,' she had said. But
what if it were not tomfoolery at all? What if it were good,
genuine, earnest love-making? He certainly was not pledged to Lady
Mabel. As regarded his father there would be a difficulty. In the
first place he had been fool enough to tell his father that he was
going to make an offer to Mabel Grex. And then his father would
surely refuse his consent to a marriage with an American stranger.
In such case there would be no unlimited income, no immediate
pleasantness of magnificent life such as he knew would be poured
out upon him if he were to marry Mabel Grex. As he thought of
this, however, he told himself that he would not sell himself for
money and magnificence. He could afford to be independent, and
gratify his own taste. Just at this moment he was of the opinion
that Isabel Boncassen would be the sweeter companion of the two.
He had sauntered down to the place where they were dancing and
stood by, saying a few words to Mrs Boncassen. 'Why are you not
dancing, my Lord?' she asked.
'There are enough without me.'
'I guess you young aristocrats are never overfond of doing much
with your own arms and legs.'
'I don't know about that; polo, you know, for the legs, and lawn-
tennis for the arms, is hard work enough.'
'But it must always be something new-fangled; and after all it
isn't of much account. Our young men like to have quite a time at
dancing.'
It all came through her nose! And she looked so common! What
would the Duke say to her, or Mary, or even Gerald? The father was
by no means so objectionable. He was a tall, straight, ungainly
man, who always word black clothes. He had dark, stiff, short
hair, a long nose, and a forehead that was both high and broad.
Ezekiel Boncassen was the very man,--from his appearance,--- for a
President of the United States; and there were men who talked of
him for that high office. That he had never attended to politics
was supposed to be in his favour. He had the reputation of being
the most learned man in the States, and reputation itself often
suffices to give a man a dignity of manner. He, too, spoke through
his nose, but the peculiar twang coming from a man would be
supposed to be virile and incisive. From a woman, Lord
Silverbridge thought it to be unbearable. But as to Isabel, had
she been born within the confines of some lordly park in
Hertfordshire, she could not have been more completely free from
the abomination.
'I am sorry that you should not be enjoying yourself,' said Mr
Boncassen, coming to his wife's rescue.
'Nothing could have been nicer. To tell the truth, I am standing
idle by way of showing my anger against your daughter, who would
not dance with me.'
'I am sure she would have felt herself honoured,' said Mr
Boncassen.
'Who is the gentleman with her?' asked the mother.
'A particular friend of mine--Dolly Longstaff.'
'Dolly!' ejaculated Mrs Boncassen.
'Everybody calls him so. His real name I believe to be Adolphus.'
'Is he,--is he--just anybody?' asked the anxious mother.
'He is a very great deal,--as people go here. Everybody knows him.
He is asked everywhere, but he goes nowhere. The greatest
compliment paid to you here is his presence.'
'Nay, my Lord, there are the Countess Montague, and the
Marchioness of Capulet, and Lord Tybalt, and--'
'They go everywhere. They are nobodies. It is a charity to even
invited them. But to have Dolly Longstaff once is a triumph for
life.'
'Laws!,' said Mrs Boncassen, looking at the young man who was
dancing. 'What has he done?'
'He never did anything in his life.'
'I suppose he's very rich.'
'I don't know. I should think not. I don't know anything about his
riches, but I can assure you that having him down here will quite
give a character to the day.'
In the meantime Dolly Longstaff was in a state of great
excitement. Some part of the character assigned to him by Lord
Silverbridge was true. He very rarely did go anywhere, and yet was
asked to a great many places. He was a young man,--though not a
very young man,--with a fortune of his own and the expectation of
future fortune. Few men living could have done less for the world
than Dolly Longstaff,--and yet he had a position of his own. Now he
had taken into his head to fall in love with Miss Boncassen. This
was an accident which had probably never happened to him before,
and which had disturbed him much. He had known Miss Boncassen a
week or two before Lord Silverbridge had seen her, having by some
chance dined out and sat next to her. From that moment he had
become changed, and had gone hither and thither in pursuit of the
American beauty. His passion having become suspected by his
companions had excited their ridicule. Nevertheless he had
persevered;--and now he was absolutely dancing with the lady out in
the open air. 'If this goes on, your friends will have to look
after you and put you somewhere,' Mr Lupton had said to him in one
of the intervals of the dance. Dolly had turned round and scowled,
and suggested that if Mr Lupton would mind his own affairs it
would be as well for the world at large.
At the present crisis Dolly was very much excited. When the dance
was over, as a matter of course, he offered the lady his arm, and
as a matter of course she accepted it. 'You'll take a turn; won't
you?' he said.
'It must be a very short turn,' she said,--'as I am expected to
make myself busy.'
'Oh, bother that.'
'It bothers me; but it has to be done.'
'You have set everything going now. They'll begin dancing again
without your telling them.'
'I hope so.'
'And I've got something I want to say.'
'Dear me;--what is it?'
They were now on a path close to the riverside, in which there
were many loungers. 'Would you mind coming up to the temple?' he
said.
'What temple?'
'Oh such a beautiful place. The Temple of the Wind, I think they
call it; or Venus;--or--or--Mrs Arthur de Bever.'
'Was she a goddess?'
'It was something built to her memory. Such a view of the river!
I was here once before and they took me up. Everybody who comes
here goes and see Mrs Arthur de Bever. They ought to have told
you.'
'Let us go then,' said Miss Boncassen. 'Only it must not be long.'
'Five minutes will do it all.' Then he walked rather quickly up a
flight of rural steps. 'Loverly spot, isn't it?'
'Yes, indeed.'
'That's Maidenhead Bridge;--that's somebody's place;--and now, I've
got something to say to you.'
'You're not going to murder me now you've got me up here alone,'
said Miss Boncassen, laughing.
'Murder you!' said Dolly, throwing himself into an attitude that
was intended to express devoted affection. 'Oh no!'
'I am glad of that.'
'Miss Boncassen!'
'Mr Longstaff! If you sigh like that you'll burst yourself.'
'I'll--what?'
'Burst yourself!' and she nodded her head at him.
Then he clasped his hands together, and turned his head away from
her towards the little temple. 'I wonder whether she knows what
love is,' he said, as though he were addressing himself to Mrs
Arthur de Bever.
'No, she don't,' said Miss Boncassen.
'But I do,' he shouted, turning back towards her. 'I do. If any man
were ever absolutely, actually, really in love, I am the man.'
'Are you indeed, Mr Longstaff? Isn't this pleasant?'
'Pleasant;--pleasant? Oh, it could be so pleasant.'
'But who is the lady? Perhaps you don't mean to tell me that.'
'You mean to say you don't know?'
'Haven't the least idea in life.'
'Let me tell you then that it could only be one person. It never
was but one person. It never could have been but one person. It is
you.'
'Me!' said Miss Boncassen, choosing to be ungrammatical in order
that he might be more absurd.
'Of course it is you. Do you think that I should have brought you
all the way up here to tell that I was in love with anybody else?'
'I thought I was brought up here to see Mrs de Somebody, and the
view.'
'Not at all,' said Dolly emphatically.
'Then you have deceived me.'
'I will never deceive you. Only say that you will love me, and I
will be as true to you as the North Pole.'
'Is that true to me?'
'You know what I mean.'
'But if I don't love you?'
'Yes, you do!'
'Do I?'
'I beg your pardon,' said Dolly. 'I didn't mean to say that. Of
course a man shouldn't make sure of a thing.'
'Not in this case, Mr Longstaff; because really I entertain no
such feeling.'
'But you can if you please. Just let me tell you who I am.'
'That will do no good whatever, Mr Longstaff.'
'Let me tell you at any rate. I have a very good income of my own
as it is.'
'Money can have nothing to do with it.'
'But I want you to know that I can afford it. You might perhaps
have thought that I wanted your money.'
'I will attribute nothing evil to you, Mr Longstaff. Only it is
quite out of the question that I should--respond as I suppose you
wish me to; and therefore, pray, do not say anything further.'
She went to the head of the little steps but her interrupted her.
'You ought to hear me,' he said.
'I have heard you.'
'I can give you as good a position as any man without a title in
England.'
'Mr Longstaff, I rather fancy that wherever I may be I can make a
position for myself. At any rate I shall not marry with a view of
getting one. If my husband were an English Duke I should think
myself nothing, unless I was something as Isabel Boncassen.'
When she said that she did not bethink herself that Lord
Silverbridge would be in the course of nature an English Duke. But
the allusion to an English Duke told intensely on Dolly, who had
suspected that he had a noble rival. 'English Dukes aren't so
easily got,' he said.
'Very likely not. I might have expressed my meaning better had I
said an English Prince.'
'That's quite out of the question,' said Dolly. 'They can't do
it,--by Act of Parliament,--except in some hugger-mugger left-handed
way, that wouldn't suit you at all.'
'Mr Longstaff,--you must forgive me,--if I say--that of all the
gentlemen--I have ever met in this country or in any other--you
are the--most obtuse.' This she brought out in little disjointed
sentences, not with any hesitation, but in a way to make every
word she uttered more clear to an intelligence which she did not
believe to be bright. But in this belief she did some injustice to
Dolly. He was quite alive to the disgrace of being called obtuse,
and quick enough to avenge himself at the moment.
'Am I?' said he. 'How humble-minded you must be when you think me
a fool because I have fallen in love with such a one as yourself.'
'I like you for that,' she replied laughing, 'and withdraw the
epithet as not being applicable. Now we are quits and can forget
and forgive;--only let there be the forgetting.'
'Never!' said Dolly, with his hand again on his heart.
'Then let it be a little dream of your youth,--that you once met a
pretty American girl who was foolish enough to refuse all that you
would have given her.'
'So pretty! So awfully pretty!' Thereupon she curtsied. 'I have
seen all the handsome woman in England going for the last ten
years, and there has not been one who has made me think that it
would be worth me while to get off my perch for her.'
'And now you would desert your perch for me?'
'I have already.'
'But you can get up again. Let it be all a dream. I know men like
to have had such dreams. And in order that the dream may be
pleasant the last word between us shall be kind. Such admiration
from such a one as you is an honour,--and I will reckon it among my
honours. But it can be no more than a dream.' Then she gave him
her hand. 'It shall be so;--shall it not?' Then she paused. 'It
must be so, Mr Longstaff.'
'Must it?'
'That and no more. Now I wish to go down. Will you come with me?
It will be better. Don't you think it is going to rain?'
Dolly looked up at the clouds. 'I wish it would with all my
heart.'
'I know you are not so ill-natured. It would spoil it all.'
'You have spoiled all.'
'No, no. I have spoiled nothing. It will only be a little dream
about "that strange American girl, who really did make me feel
queer for half an hour". Look at that. A great big drop--and the
cloud has come over us as black as Erebus. Do hurry down.' He was
leading the way. 'What shall we do for carriages to get us to the
inn?'
'There's the summer-house.'
'It will hold about half of us. And think what it will be to be in
there waiting till the rain shall be over! Everybody has been so
good-humoured and now they will be so cross!'
The rain was falling in big heavy drops, slow and far between, but
almost black with their size. And the heaviness of the cloud which
had gathered over them made everything black.
'Will you have my arm?' said Silverbridge, who saw Miss Boncassen
scudding along, with Dolly Longstaff following as fast as he
could.
'Oh dear no. I have got to mind my dress. There;--I have gone
right into a puddle. Oh dear!' So she ran on, and Silverbridge
followed close behind her, leaving Dolly Longstaff in the
distance.
It was not only Miss Boncassen who got her feet into a puddle and
splashed her stockings. Many did so who were not obliged by their
position to maintain good-humour under misfortunes. The storm had
come on with such unexpected quickness that there had been a
general stampede to the summer-house. As Isabel had said, there
was comfortable room for not more than half of them. In a few
minutes people were crushed who never ought to be crushed. A
Countess for whom treble-piled sofas were hardly good enough was
seated on the corner of a table till some younger and less
gorgeous lady could be made to give way. And the Marchioness was
declaring she was as wet through as though she had been dragged in
a river. Mrs Boncassen was so absolutely quelled as to have
retired into the kitchen attached to the summer-house. Mr
Boncassen, with all his country's pluck and pride, was proving to
a knot of gentlemen round him on the verandah, that such treachery
in the weather was a thing unknown in his happier country. Miss
Boncassen had to do her best to console the splashed ladies. 'Oh
Mrs Jones, is it not a pity! What can I do for you?'
'We must bear it, my dear. It often does rain, but why on this
special day should it come down in buckets?'
'I never was so wet in all my life,' said Dolly Longstaff, poking
in his head.
'There's somebody smoking,' said the Countess angrily. There was a
crowd of men smoking out on the verandah. 'I never knew anything
so nasty,' the Countess continued, leaving it in doubt whether she
spoke of the rain, or the smoke, or the party generally.
Damp gauzes, splashed stockings, trampled muslins, and features
which have perhaps known something of rouge and certainly
encountered something of rain may be made, but can only, by
supreme high breeding, be made compatible with good-humour. To be
moist, muddy, rumpled and smeared, when by the very nature of your
position it is your duty to be clear-starched up to the
pellucidity of crystal, to be spotless as the lily, to be crisp as
the ivy-leaf, and as clear in complexion as a rose,--is it not, O
gentle readers, felt to be a disgrace? It came to pass, therefore,
that many were now very cross. Carriages were ordered under the
idea that some improvement might be made at the inn which was
nearly a mile distant. Very few, however, had their own carriages,
and there was jockeying for the vehicles. In the midst of all this
Silverbridge remained near to Miss Boncassen as circumstances
would admit. 'You are not waiting for me,' she said.
'Yes I am. We might as well go up to town together.'
'Leave me with father and mother. Like the captain of a ship, I
must be the last to leave the wreck.'
'But I'll be the gallant sailor of the day, who always at the risk
of his life sticks to the skipper to the last moment.'
'Not at all;--just because there will be no gallantry. But come and
see us tomorrow and find out whether we have got through it alive.
CHAPTER 33
The Langham Hotel
'What an abominable climate,' Mrs Boncassen had said when they
were quite alone at Maidenhead.
'My dear, you didn't think you were going to bring New York along
with you when you came here,' replied her husband.
'I wish I was going back tomorrow.'
'That's a foolish thing to say. People here are very kind, and you
are seeing a great deal more of the world than you would ever see
at home. I am having a very good time. What do you say, Bell?'
'I wish I could have kept my stockings clean.'
'But what about the young men?'
'Young men are pretty much the same everywhere, I guess. They
never have their wits about them. They never mean what they say,
because they don't understand the use of words. They are generally
half impudent and half timid. When in love they do not at all
understand what has befallen them. What they want they try to
compass as a cow does when it stands stretching out its head
towards a stack of hay which it cannot reach. Indeed there is no
such thing as a young man, for a man is not really a man till he
is middle-aged. But take them at their worst they are a deal too
good for us, for the become men some day, whereas we must only be
women to the end.'
'My word, Bella!' exclaimed the mother.
'You have managed to be tolerably heavy upon God's creatures,
taking them in a lump,' said the father. 'Boys, girls, and cows!
Something has gone wrong with you besides the rain.'
Nothing on earth, sir,--except the boredom.'
'Some young man has been talking to you, Bella.'
'One or two, mother; and I got to thinking if any one of them
should ask me to marry him, and if moved by some evil destiny I
were to take him, whether I should murder him, or myself, or run
away with one of the others.'
'Couldn't you bear with him till, according to your own theory, he
would grow out of his folly?' said the father.
'Being a woman,--no. The present moment is always everything to me.
When that horrid old harridan halloed out that somebody was
smoking, I thought I should have died. It was very bad just then.'
'Awful!' said Mrs Boncassen, shaking her head.
'I didn't seem to feel it much,' said the father. 'One doesn't
look to have everything just what one wants always. If I did I
should go nowhere;--but my total of life would be less enjoyable.
If ever you do get married, Bell, you should remember that.'
'I mean to get married some day, so that I shouldn't be made love
to any longer.'
'I hope it will have that effect,' said the father.
'Mr Boncassen!' ejaculated the mother.
'What I say is true. I hope it will have that effect. It had with
you, my dear.'
'I don't know that people didn't think of me as much as of anybody
else, even though I was married.'
'Then, my dear, I never knew it.'
Miss Boncassen, though she had behaved serenely and with good
temper during the process of Dolly's proposal, had not liked it.
She had a very high opinion of herself, and was certainly entitled
to have it by the undisguised admiration of all that came near
her. She was not more indifferent to the admiration of young men
than are other young ladies. But she was not proud of the
admiration of Dolly Longstaff. She was here among strangers whose
ways were unknown to her, and wonderful in their dimness. She knew
that she was associating with men very different from those at
home where young men were supposed to be under the necessity of
earning their bread. At New York she would dance, as she had said,
with bank clerks. She was not prepared to admit that a young
London lord was better than a New York bank clerk. Judging the men
on their own individual merits she might find the bank clerk to be
the better of the two. But a certain sweetness of the aroma of
rank was beginning to permeate her republican senses. The softness
of life in which no occupation was compulsory had its charms for
her. Though she had complained of the insufficient intelligence of
young men she was alive to the delight of having nothings said to
her pleasantly. All this had affected her so strongly that she had
almost felt that a life among these English luxuries would be a
pleasant life. Like most Americans who do not as yet know the
country, she had come with an inward feeling that as an American
and a republican she might probably be despised.
There is not uncommonly a savageness of assertion about Americans
which arises from a too great anxiety to be admitted to fellowship
with Britons. She had felt this, and conscious of reputation
already made by herself in the social life of New York, she had
half trusted that she would be well received in London, and had
half convinced herself that she would be rejected. She had not
been rejected. She must have become quite aware of that. She had
dropped very quickly the idea that she would be scorned. Ignorant
as she had been of English life, she perceived that she had at
once become popular. And this had been so in spite of her mother's
homeliness and her father's awkwardness. By herself and by her own
gifts she had done it. She had found out concerning herself that
she had that which would commend her to other society than that of
the Fifth Avenue. Those lords of whom she had heard were as plenty
with her as blackberries. Young Lord Silverbridge, of whom she was
told that of all the young lords of the day he stood first in rank
and wealth, was peculiarly her friend. Her brain was firmer than
that of most girls, but even her brain was a little turned. She
never told herself that it would be well for her to become the
wife of such a one. In her more thoughtful moments she told
herself that it would not be well. But still the allurement was
strong upon her. Park Lane was sweeter than the Fifth Avenue. Lord
Silverbridge was nicer than the bank clerk.
But Dolly Longstaff was not. She would certainly prefer the bank
clerk to Dolly Longstaff. And yet Dolly Longstaff was the one
among her English admirers who had come forward and spoken out.
She did not desire that anyone should come forward and speak out.
But it was an annoyance to her that this special man should have
done so.
The waiter at the Langham understood American ways perfectly, and
when a young man called between three and four o'clock, asking for
Mrs Boncassen, said that Miss Boncassen was at home. The young man
took off his hat, brushed up his hair, and followed the waiter up
to the sitting-room. The door was opened and the young man was
announced. 'Mr Longstaff.'
Miss Boncassen was rather disgusted. She had had enough of this
English lover. Why should he have come here after what had
occurred yesterday? He ought to have felt that he was absolved
from the necessity of making personal inquiries. 'I am glad to see
that you got home safe,' she said as she gave him her hand.
'And you too, I hope?'
'Well;--so, so; with my clothes a good deal damaged and my temper
rather worse.
'I am so sorry.'
'It should not rain on such days. Mother has gone to church.'
'Oh;--indeed. I like going to church myself sometimes.'
'Do you know?'
'I know what would make me like to go to church.'
'And father is at the Athenaeum. He goes there to do a little
light reading in the library on Sunday afternoon.'
'I shall never forget yesterday, Miss Boncassen.'
'You wouldn't if your clothes had been spoilt as mine were.'
'Money will repair that.'
'Well; yes; but when I've had a petticoat flounced particularly to
order I don't like to see it ill-used. There are emotions of the
heart which money can't touch.'
'Just so;--emotions of the heart. That's the very phrase.'
She was determined if possible to prevent a repetition of the
scene which had taken place up at Mrs de Bever's temple. 'All my
emotions are about my dress.'
'All?'
'Well; yes; all. I guess I don't care much for eating and
drinking.' In saying this she actually contrived to produce
something of a nasal twang.'
'Eating and drinking!' said Dolly. 'Of course they are
necessities;--and so are clothes.'
'But new things are such ducks!'
'Trousers may be,' said Dolly.
Then she took a prolonged gaze at him, wondering whether he was or
was not such a fool as he looked. 'How funny you are,' she said.
'A man does not generally feel funny after going through what I
suffered yesterday, Miss Boncassen.'
'Would you mind ringing the bell?'
'Must it be done, quite at once?'
'Quite,--quite,' she said. 'I can do it myself for the matter of
that.' and she rang the bell somewhat violently. Dolly sank back
again into his seat, remarking in his usual apathetic way that he
had intended to obey her behest but had not understood that she
was in so great a hurry. 'I am always in a hurry,' she said. 'I
like things to be done--sharp.' And she hit the table with a
crack. 'Please bring me some iced water,' this of course was
addressed to the waiter. 'And a glass for Mr Longstaff.'
'None for me, thank you.'
'Perhaps you'd like a soda and brandy?'
'Oh dear no;--nothing of the kind. But I am much obliged to you all
the same.' As the water-bottle was in fact standing in the room,
and as the waiter had only to hand the glass all this created by
little obstacle. Still it had its effect, and Dolly, when the man
retired, felt that there was a difficulty in proceeding. 'I have
called today--' he began.
'That has been very kind of you. But mother has gone to church.'
'I am very glad she has gone to church, because I wish to--'
'Oh laws! There's a horse tumbled down in the street. I heard
it.'
'He has got up again,' said Dolly, looking leisurely out of the
window. 'But as I was saying--'
'I don't think the water we Americans drink can be good. It makes
the women become ugly so young.'
'You will never become ugly.'
She got up and curtsied him, and then, still standing, make him a
speech. 'Mr Longstaff, it would be absurd of me to pretend not to
understand what you mean. But I won't have any more of it. Whether
you are making fun of me, or whether you are in earnest, it is
just the same.'
'Making fun of you!'
'It does not signify. I don't care which it is. But I won't have
it. There!'
'A gentleman should be allowed to express his feelings and to
explain his position.'
'You have expressed and explained more than enough, and I won't
have any more. If you will sit down and talk about something else,
or else go away, there shall be an end of it;--but if you go on, I
will ring the bell again. What can a man gain by going on when a
girl has spoken as I have done?' They were both at this time
standing up, and he was now as angry as she was.
'I've paid you the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman,' he
began.
'Very well. If I remember rightly I thanked you for it yesterday.
If you wish it, I will thank you again today. But it is a
compliment which becomes very much the reverse if it be repeated
too often. You are sharp enough to understand that I have done
everything in my power to save us both from this trouble.'
'What makes you so fierce, Miss Boncassen?'
'What makes you so foolish?'
'I suppose it must be something peculiar to American ladies.'
'Just that;--something peculiar to American ladies. They don't
like;--well; I don't want to say anything more that can be called
fierce.'
At this moment the door was again opened and Lord Silverbridge was
announced. 'Halloa, Dolly, are you here?'
'It seems that I am.'
'And I am here too,' said Miss Boncassen, smiling her prettiest.
'None the worse for yesterday's troubles, I hope?'
'A good deal the worse. I have been explaining all that to Mr
Longstaff who has been quite sympathetic with me about my things.'
'A terrible pity that shower,' said Dolly.
'For you,' said Silverbridge, 'because if I remember right, Miss
Boncassen was walking with you;--but I was rather glad of it.'
'Lord Silverbridge!'
'I regarded it as a direct interposition of Providence, because
you would not dance with me.'
'Any news today, Silverbridge?' asked Dolly.
'Nothing particular. They say that Coalheaver can't run for the
Leger.'
'What's the matter?' asked Dolly vigorously.
'Broke down at Ascot. But I daresay it's a lie.'
'Sure to be a lie,' said Dolly. 'What do you think of Madame
Scholzdam, Miss Boncassen?'
'I am not a good judge.'
'Never heard anything equal to it yet in this world,' said Dolly.
'I wonder whether that's true about Coalheaver.'
'Tifto says so.'
'Which at the present moment,' asked Miss Boncassen, 'is the
greater favourite with the public, Madame Scholzdam or
Coalheaver?'
'Coalheaver is a horse.'
'Oh--a horse!'
'Perhaps I ought to say a colt.'
'Do you suppose, Dolly, that Miss Boncassen doesn't know all
that?' asked Silverbridge.
'He supposes that my American ferocity has never been sufficiently
softened for the reception of polite erudition.
'You two have been quarrelling, I fear.'
'I never quarrel with a woman,' said Dolly.
'Nor with a man in my presence, I hope, said Miss Boncassen.
'Somebody seems to have got out of bed at the wrong side,' said
Silverbridge.
'I did,' said Miss Boncassen. 'I got out of bed at the wrong side.
I am cross. I can't get over the spoiling of my flounces. I think
you had better both go away and leave me. If I could walk about
the room for half an hour and stamp my feet, I should get better.'
Silverbridge thought that as he had come last, he certainly ought
to be left last. Miss Boncassen felt that, at any rate, Mr
Longstaff should go. Dolly felt that his manhood required him to
remain. After what had taken place he was not going to leave the
field vacant for another. Therefore he made no effort to move.
'That seems rather hard upon me,' said Silverbridge. 'You told me
to come.'
'I told you to come and ask after us all. You have come and asked
after us, and have been informed that we are very bad. What more
can I say? you accuse me of getting out of bed the wrong side, and
I own that I did.'
'I meant to say that Dolly Longstaff had done so.'
'And I say it was Silverbridge,' said Dolly.
'We are aren't very agreeable together, are we? Upon my word I
think you'd better both go.' Silverbridge immediately got up from
his chair; upon which Dolly also moved.
'What the mischief is up?' asked Silverbridge, when they were
under the porch together.
'The truth is, you never can tell what you are to do with those
American girls.'
'I suppose you have been making up to her.'
'Nothing in earnest. She seemed to me to like admiration, so I
told her I admired her.'
'What did she say then?'
'Upon my word, you seem to be very great at cross-examining.
Perhaps you had better go back and ask her.'
'I will next time I see her.' Then he stepped into his cab, and
in a loud voice ordered the man to drive him to the Zoo. But when
he had gone a little way up Portland Place, he stopped the driver
and desired that he might be taken back again to the hotel. As he
left the vehicle he looked round for Dolly, but Dolly had
certainly gone. Then he told the waiter to take his card to Miss
Boncassen, and explain that he had something to say which he had
forgotten.
'So you have come back again?' said Miss Boncassen, laughing.
'Of course I have. You didn't suppose I was going to let that
fellow get the better of me. Why should I be turned out because he
made an ass of himself?'
'Who said he made an ass of himself?'
'But he had; hadn't he?'
'No;--by no means,' said she after a little pause.
'Tell me what he had been saying.'
'Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind. If I told you all he said,
then I should have to tell the next man all that you may say.
Would that be fair?'
'I should not mind,' said Silverbridge.
'I dare say not, because you have nothing particular to say. But
the principle is the same. Lawyers and doctors and parsons talk of
privileged communications. Why should not a young lady have her
privileged communications?'
'But I have something particular to say.'
'I hope not.'
'Why should you hope not?'
'I hate having things said particularly. Nobody likes conversation
so well as I do; but it should never be particular.'
'I was going to tell you that I came back to London yesterday in
the same carriage with old Lady Clanfiddle, and that she swore
that no consideration on earth would ever induce her to go to
Maidenhead again.'
'That isn't particular.'
'She went on to say;--you won't tell of me, will you?'
'It shall be privileged.'
'She went on to say that Americans couldn't be expected to
understand English manners.'
'Perhaps they may all be the better for that.'
'Then I spoke up. I swore that I was awfully in love with you.'
'You didn't.'
'I did;--that you were, out and away, the finest girl I ever saw in
my life. Of course you understand that her two daughters were
there. And that as for manners,--unless the rain could be
attributed to American manners,--I did not think anything had gone
wrong.'
'What about the smoking?'
'I told her they were all Englishmen, and that if she had been
giving the party herself they would have smoked just as much. You
must understand that she never does give parties.'
'How could you be so ill-natured?'
'There was ever so much more of it. And it ended by her telling me
that I was a schoolboy. I found out the cause of it all. A great
spout of rain had come upon her daughter's hat, and that had
produced a most melancholy catastrophe.'
'I would have given her mine willingly.'
'An American hat;--to be worn by Lady Violet Clanfiddle!'
'It came from Paris last week, sir.'
'But must have been contaminated by American contact.'
'Now, Lord Silverbridge,' said she, getting up, 'if I had a stick
I'd whip you.'
'It was such fun.'
'And you come here and tell it all to me.'
'Of course I do. It was a deal too good to keep to myself.
"American manners"!' As he said this he almost succeeded in
looking like Lady Clanfiddle.
At that moment Mr Boncassen entered the room, and was immediately
appealed to his by his daughter. 'Father, you must turn Lord
Silverbridge out of the room.'
'Dear me! If I must,--of course I must. But why?'
'He is saying everything horrid he can about Americans.'
After this they settled down for a few minutes to general
conversation, and then Lord Silverbridge again took his leave.
When he was gone Isabel Boncassen almost regretted that the
'something particular' which he had threatened to say had not been
less comic in its nature.
CHAPTER 34
Lord Popplecourt
When the reader was told that Lord Popplecourt had found Lady
Cantrip very agreeable it is to be hoped that the reader was
disgusted. Lord Popplecourt would certainly not have given a
second thought to Lady Cantrip unless he had been specifically
flattered. And why should such a man have been flattered by a
woman who was in all respects his superior? The reader will
understand. It had been settled by the wisdom of the elders that
it would be a good thing that Lord Popplecourt should marry Lady
Mary Palliser.
The mutual assent which leads to marriage should no doubt be
spontaneous. Who does not feel that? Young love should speak from
its first doubtful unconscious spark,--a spark which any breath of
air may quench or cherish,--till it becomes a flame which nothing
can satisfy but the union of two lovers. No one should be told to
love, or bidden to marry this man or that woman. The theory of
this is plain to us all, and till we have sons or daughters whom
we feel imperatively obliged to control, the theory is
unassailable. But the duty is so imperative! The Duke taught
himself to believe that as his wife would have been thrown away on
the world had she been allowed to marry Burgo Fitzgerald, so would
his daughter be thrown away were she allowed to marry Mr Tregear.
Therefore the theory of spontaneous love must in this case be set
aside. Therefore the spark,--would that it had been no more,--must
be quenched. Therefore there could be no union of two lovers;--but
simply a prudent and perhaps a splendid marriage.
Lord Popplecourt was a man in possession of a large estate which
was unencumbered. His rank in the peerage was not high, but his
barony was of an old date,--and, if things went well with him,
something higher in rank might be open to him. He had good looks
of that sort which recommend themselves to pastors and masters, to
elders and betters. He had regular features. He looked as though
he were steady. He was not impatient or rollicking. Silverbridge
was also good-looking;--but his good looks were such as would give
a pang to the hearts of anxious mothers of daughters. Tregear was
the handsomest man of the three;--but then he looked as though he
had not betters and did not care for his elders. Lord Popplecourt,
though a very young man, had once stammered through half-a-dozen
words in the House of Lords, and had been known to dine with the
'Benevolent Funds'. Lord Silverbridge had declared him to be a
fool. No one thought him to be bright. But in the eyes of the
Duke,--and of Lady Cantrip,--he had his good qualities.
But the work was very disagreeable. It was the more hard upon Lady
Cantrip because she did not believe in it. If it could be done, it
would be expedient. But she felt very strongly that it could not
be done. No doubt that Lady Glencora had been turned from her evil
destiny; but Lady Glencora had been younger than her daughter was
now, and possessed of less character. Nor was Lady Cantrip blind
to the difference between a poor man with bad character, such as
that Burgo had been, and a poor man with good character, such as
was Tregear. Nevertheless she undertook to aid the work, and
condescended to pretend to be so interested in the portrait of
some common ancestor as to persuade the young man to have it
photographed, in order that the bringing down of the photograph
might lead to something.
He took the photograph, and Lady Cantrip said very much to him
about his grandmother, who was the old lady in question. She
could, she said, just remember the features of the dear old woman.
She was not habitually a hypocrite, and she hated herself for what
she was doing, and yet her object was simply good,--to bring
together two young people who might advantageously marry each
other. The mere talking about the old woman would be of no
service. She longed to bring out the offer plainly, and say,
'There is Lady Mary Palliser. Don't you think she'd make a good
wife for you?' But she could not, as yet, bring herself to be so
indelicately plain. 'You haven't seen the Duke since?' she asked.
'He spoke to me only yesterday in the House. I like the Duke.'
'If I may be allowed to say so, it would be to your advantage that
he should like you;--that is, if you mean to take a part in
politics.'
'I suppose I shall,' said Popplecourt. 'There isn't much else to
do.'
'You don't go to races.' He shook his head. 'I am glad of that,'
said Lady Cantrip. 'Nothing so bad as the turf. I fear Lord
Silverbridge is devoting himself to the turf.'
'I don't think it can be good for any man to have much to do with
Major Tifto. I suppose Silverbridge knows what he is about.'
Here was an opportunity which might have been used. It would have
been so easy for her to glide from the imperfections of the
brother to the perfections of the sister. But she could not bring
herself to do it quite at once. She approached the matter however
as nearly as she could without making her grand proposition. She
shook her head sadly in reference to Silverbridge, and then spoke
of the Duke. 'His father is so anxious about him.'
'I dare say.'
'I don't know any man who is more painfully anxious about his
children. He feels the responsibility so much since his wife's
death. There is Lady Mary.'
'She's all right, I should say.'
'All right! Oh yes. But when a girl is possessed of so many
things,--rank, beauty, intelligence, large fortune,--'
'Will Lady Mary have much?'
'A large portion of her mother's money, I should say. When all
these things are joined together, a father of course feels most
anxious as to their disposal.'
'I suppose she is clever.'
'Very clever,' said Lady Cantrip.
'I think a girl may be too clever, you know,' said Lord
Popplecourt.
'Perhaps she may. But I know more who are too foolish. I am so
much obliged to you for the photograph.'
'Don't mention it.'
'I really did mean that you should send a man down.'
On that occasion the two young people did not see each other. Lady
Mary did not come down, and Lady Cantrip lacked the courage to
send for her. As it was, might it not be possible that the young
man should be induced to make himself agreeable to the young lady
without any further explanation? But love-making between young
people cannot well take place unless they be brought together.
There was a difficulty in bringing them together at Richmond. The
Duke had indeed spoken of meeting Lord Popplecourt at dinner
there;--but this was to have followed the proposition which Lady
Cantrip should make to him. She could not yet make the
proposition, and therefore she hardly knew how to arrange the
dinner. She was obliged at last to let the wished-for lover go
away without arranging anything. When the Duke should have settled
his autumn plans, then an attempt must be made to induce Lord
Popplecourt to travel in the same direction.
That evening Lady Cantrip said a few words to Mary respecting the
proposed suitor. 'There is nothing I have such a horror of as
gambling.'
'It is dreadful.'
'I am very glad to think that Nidderdale does not do anything of
that sort.' It was perhaps on the cards that Nidderdale should do
things of which she knew nothing. 'I hope Silverbridge does not
bet.'
'I don't think he does.'
'There's Lord Popplecout,--quite a young man,--with everything at
his own disposal, and a very large estate. Think of the evil he
might do if he given that way.'
'Does he gamble?'
'Not at all. It must be such a comfort to his mother.'
'He looks to me as though he never would do anything,' said Lady
Mary. Then the subject was dropped.
It was a week after this, towards the end of July, that the Duke
wrote a line to Lady Cantrip, apologising for what he had done,
but explaining that he had asked Lord Popplecourt to dine at The
Horns on a certain Sunday. He had, he said, been assured by Lord
Cantrip that such an arrangement would be quite convenient. It was
clear from his letter that he was much in earnest. Of course there
was no reason why the dinner should not be eaten. Only the
specialty of the invitation to Lord Popplecourt must not be so
glaring that he himself should be struck by the strangeness of it.
There must be a little party made up. Lord Nidderdale and his wife
were therefore bidden to come down, and Silverbridge, who at first
consented rather unwillingly,--and Lady Mabel Grex, as to whom the
Duke had made a special request that she might be asked. This last
invitation was sent express from Lady Mary, and included Miss
Cass. So the party was made up. The careful reader will perceive
that there were to be ten of them.
'Isn't it odd papa wanting to have Lady Mabel,' Mary said to Lady
Cantrip.
'Does he not know her, my dear?'
'He hardly ever spoke to her. I'll tell you what; I expect
Silverbridge is going to marry her.'
'Why shouldn't he?'
'I don't know why he shouldn't. She is very beautiful, and very
clever. But if so, papa must know all about it. It does seem odd
that papa of all people should turn match-maker, or even that he
should think of it.'
'So much is thrown upon him now,' said Lady Cantrip.
Lady Mabel was surprised by the invitation, but she was not slow
to accept it. 'Papa will be here and will be so glad to meet you.'
Lady Mary had said. Why should the Duke of Omnium wish to meet
her? 'Silverbridge will be there too.' Mary had gone on to say.
'It is just a family party. Papa, you know, is not going anywhere;
nor am I.' By all this Lady Mabel's thoughts were much stirred,
and her bosom somewhat moved. And Silverbridge was also moved by
it. Of course he could not but remember that he had pledged
himself to his father to ask Lady Mabel to be his wife. He had
faltered since. She had been, he thought, unkind to him, or at any
rate indifferent. He had surely said enough to her to make her
know what he meant; and yet she had taken no trouble to meet him
half way. And then Isabel Boncassen had intervened. Now he was
asked to dinner in a most unusual manner!
Of all the guests invited Lord Popplecourt was perhaps the least
disturbed. He was quite alive to the honour of being noticed by
the Duke of Omnium, and alive also to the flattering courtesy
shown to him by Lady Cantrip. But justice would not be done him
unless it were acknowledged that he had as yet flattered himself
with no hopes in regard to Lady Mary Palliser. He, when he
prepared himself for his journey down to Richmond, thought much
more of the Duke than of the Duke's daughter.
'Oh yes, I can drive you down if you like that kind of thing,'
Silverbridge said to him on the Saturday evening.
'And bring me back?'
'If you will come when I am coming. I hate waiting for a fellow.'
'Suppose we leave at half-past ten.'
'I won't fix any time; but if we can't make it suit there'll be
the governor's carriage.'
'Will the Duke go down in his own carriage?'
'I suppose so. it's quicker and less trouble than the railway.'
Then Lord Popplecourt reflected that he would certainly come back
with the Duke if he could so manage it, and there floated before
his eyes visions of under-secretaryships, all which might own
their origin to this proposed drive from Richmond.
At six o'clock on the Sunday evening Silverbridge called for Lord
Popplecourt. 'Upon my word,' said he, 'I didn't ever expect to see
you in my cab.'
'Why not me especially?'
'Because you're not one of our lot.'
'You'd sooner have Tifto.'
'No, I wouldn't. Tifto is not all a pleasant companion, though he
understands horses. You're going in for heavy politics, I
suppose.'
'Not particularly heavy.'
'If not, why on earth does the governor take you up? You won't
mind my smoking I dare say.' After this there was no conversation
between them.
CHAPTER 35
'Don't You Think-?'
It was pretty to see the Duke's reception of Lady Mabel. 'I knew
your mother many years ago,' he said, 'when I was young myself.
Her mother and my mother were first cousins and dear friends.' He
held her hand as he spoke and looked at her as though he meant to
love her. Lady Mabel saw that it was so. could it be possible that
the Duke had heard anything;--that he should wish to receive her?
She had told herself and had told Miss Cassewary that though she
had spared Silverbridge, yet she knew that she would make him a
good wife. If the Duke thought so also, then surely she need not
doubt.
'I knew we were cousins,' she said, 'and have been so proud of the
connection! Lord Silverbridge does come and see us sometimes.'
Soon after that Silverbridge and Popplecourt came in. If the story
of the old woman in the portrait may be taken as evidence of a
family connection between Lady Cantrip and Lord Popplecourt,
everybody there was more or less connected with everybody else.
Nidderdale had been a first cousin of Lady Glencora, and he had
married a daughter of Lady Cantrip. They were manifestly a family
party,--thanks to the old woman in the picture.
It is a point of conscience among the--perhaps not ten thousand,
but say one thousand of bluest blood,--that everybody should know
who everybody is. Our Duke, though he had not given his mind much
to the pursuit, had nevertheless learned his lesson. It is a
knowledge which the possession of the blue blood itself produces.
There are countries with bluer blood than our own in which to be
without such knowledge is a crime.
When the old lady in the portrait had been discussed, Popplecourt
was close to Lady Mary. They two had no idea why such vicinity had
been planned. The Duke knew of course, and Lady Cantrip. Lady
Cantrip had whispered to her daughter that such a marriage would
be suitable, and the daughter had hinted it to her husband. Lord
Cantrip of course was not in the dark. Lady Mabel had expressed a
hint on the matter to Miss Cass, who had not repudiated it. Even
Silverbridge had suggested to himself that something of the kind
might be in the wind, thinking that, if so, none of them knew very
much about his sister Mary. But Popplecourt himself was divinely
innocent. His ideas of marriage had as yet gone no farther than a
conviction that girls generally were things which would be pressed
on him, and against which he must arm himself with some shield.
Marriage would have to come, no doubt, but not the less was it his
duty to live as though it were a pit towards which he would be
tempted by female allurements. But that a net should be spread
over him here he was much too humble-minded to imagine.
'Very hot,' he said to Lady Mary.
'We found it warm in church today.'
'I dare say. I came down here with your brother in his hansom cab.
What a very odd thing to have a hansom cab!'
'I should like one.'
'Should you indeed?'
'Particularly if I could drive it myself. Silverbridge does, at
night, when he thinks people won't see him.'
'Drive the cab in the streets! What does he do with his man?'
'Puts him inside. He was out once without the man and took up a
fare,--an old woman, he said. And when she was going to pay him he
touched his hat and said he never took money from ladies.'
'Do you believe that?'
'Oh yes. I call that good fun, because it did no harm. He had his
lark. The lady was taken where she wanted to go, and she saved her
money.'
'Suppose he had upset her,' said Lord Popplecourt, looking as an
old philosopher might have looked when he had found something
clenching answer to another philosopher's argument.
'The real cabman might have upset her worse,' said Lady Mary.
'Don't you feel it odd that we should meet here?' said Lord
Silverbridge to his neighbour Lady Mabel.
'Anything unexpected is odd,' said Lady Mabel. It seemed to her to
be very odd,--unless certain people had made up their minds as to
the expediency of a certain event.
'That is what you call logic;--isn't it? Anything unexpected is
odd?'
'Lord Silverbridge, I won't be laughed at. You have been at Oxford
and ought to know what logic is.'
'That at any rate is ill-natured,' he replied, turning very red in
the face.
'You don't think I meant it. Oh, Lord Silverbridge, say that you
don't think I meant it. You cannot think I would willingly wound
you. Indeed, indeed, I was not thinking.' It had, in truth been
an accident. She could speak aloud because they were closely
surrounded by others, but she looked up in his face to see whether
he were angry with her. 'Say that you do not think I meant it.'
'I do not think you meant it.'
'I would not say a word to hurt you,--oh for more than I can tell
you.'
'It is all bosh of course,' said he laughing, 'but I do not like
to hear the old place named. I have always made a fool of myself,
some men do it and don't care about it. But I do it, and yet it
makes me miserable.'
'If that be so you will soon give over making--what you call a fool
of yourself, for my self I like the idea of wild oats. I look upon
them like measles. Only you should have a doctor ready when the
disease shows itself.'
'What sort of doctor should I have?'
'Ah;--you must find that out for yourself. That sort of feeling
which makes you feel miserable;--that is a doctor itself.'
'Or a wife?'
'Or a wife,--if you can find a good one. There are wives, you know,
who aggravate the disease. If I had a fast husband I should make
him faster by being fast myself. There is nothing I envy so much
as the power of doing half-mad things.'
'Woman can do that too.'
'But they go to the dogs. We are dreadfully restricted. If you
like champagne you can have a bucketful. I am obliged to pretend
that I only want a very little. You can bet thousands. I must
confine myself to gloves. You can flirt with any woman you please.
I must wait till somebody comes,--and put up with it if nobody does
come.'
'Plenty come no doubt.'
'But I want to pick and choose. A man turns the girls over one
after another as one does the papers when one if fitting up a
room, or rolls them out as one rolls out the carpets. A very
careful young man like Lord Popplecourt might reject a young woman
because her hair didn't suit the colour of his furniture.'
'I don't think that I shall choose my wife as I would papers and
carpets.'
The Duke, who sat between Lady Cantrip and her daughter, did his
best to make himself agreeable. The conversation had been semi-
political,--political to the usual feminine extent, and had
consisted chiefly of sarcasms from Lady Cantrip against Sir
Timothy Beeswax. 'That England should put up with such a man,'
Lady Cantrip had said, 'is to me shocking! There used to be a
feeling in favour of gentlemen.' To this the Duke had responded
by asserting that Sir Timothy had displayed great aptitudes for
parliamentary life, and knew the House of Commons better than most
men. He said nothing against his foe, and very much in his foe's
praise. But Lady Cantrip perceived that she had succeeded in
pleasing him.
When the ladies were gone the politics became more serious. 'That
unfortunate quarrel is to go on the same as ever I suppose,' said
the Duke, addressing himself to the two young men who had seats in
the House of Commons. They were both on the Conservative side in
politics. The three peers were all Liberals.
'Till next session, I think, sir,' said Silverbridge.
'Sir Timothy, though he did lose his temper, has managed it well,'
said Lord Cantrip.
'Phineas Finn lost his temper worse than Sir Timothy,' said Lord
Nidderdale.
'But yet I think he had the feeling of the House with him,' said
the Duke. 'I happened to be present in the gallery at the time.'
'Yes,' said Nidderdale, 'because he "owned up". The fact is if you
"own up" in a genial sort of way the House will forgive anything.
If I were to murder my grandmother, and when questioned about it
were to acknowledge that I had done it--' Then Lord Nidderdale
stood up and made his speech as he might have made it in the House
of Commons. 'I regret to say, sir, that the old woman did get in
my way when I was in a passion. Unfortunately I had a heavy stick
in my hand and I did strike her over the head. Nobody can regret
it so much as I do! Nobody can feel so acutely the position in
which I am placed! I have sat in this House for many years, and
many gentlemen know me well. I think, sir, that they will
acknowledge that I am a man not deficient in filial piety or
general humanity. Sir, I am sorry for what I did in a moment of
heat. I have now spoken the truth, and I shall leave myself in the
hands of the House. My belief is that I should get such a round of
applause as I certainly shall never achieve in any other way. It
is not only that a popular man may do it,--like Phineas Finn,--but
the most unpopular man in the House may make himself liked by
owning freely that he has done something that he ought to be
ashamed of.' Nidderdale's unwonted eloquence was received in good
part by the assembled legislators.
'Taking it altogether,' said the Duke, 'I know of no assembly in
any country in which good-humour prevails so generally, in which
the members behave to each other so well, in which the rules are
so universally followed, or in which the president is so
thoroughly sustained by the feeling of the members.
'I hear men say that it isn't quite what it used to be,' said
Silverbridge.
'Nothing will ever be quite what it used to be.'
'Changes for the worse, I mean. Men are doing all kinds of things,
just because the rules of the House allow them.'
'If they be within the rule,' said the Duke, 'I don't know who is
to blame them. In my time, if any man stretched a rule too far the
House would not put up with it.'
'That's just it,' said Nidderdale. 'The House puts up with
anything now. There is a great deal of good feeling no doubt, but
there's no earnestness about anything. I think you are more
earnest than we; but then you are such horrid bores. And each
earnest man is in earnest about something that nobody else cares
for.'
When they were again in the drawing-room, Lord Popplecourt was
seated next to Lady Mary. 'Where are you going this autumn?' he
asked.
'I don't know in the least. Papa said something about going
abroad.'
'You won't be at Custins?' Custins was Lord Cantrip's country seat
in Dorsetshire.
'I know nothing about myself as yet. But I don't think I shall go
anywhere unless papa goes too.'
'Lady Cantrip has asked me to be at Custins in the middle of
October. They say it is about the best pheasant shooting in
England.'
'Do you shoot much?'
'A great deal. I shall be in Scotland on the Twelfth. I and
Reginald Dobbs have a place together. I shall get to my own
partridges on the first of September. I always manage that.
Popplecourt is in Suffolk, and I don't think any man in England
can beat me for partridges.'
'What do you do with all you slay?'
'Leadenhall Market. I make it pay,--or very nearly. Then I shall
run back to Scotland for the end of the stalking, and I can easily
manage to be at Custins by the middle of October. I never touch my
own pheasants till November.'
'Why are you so abstemious?'
'The birds are heavier and it answer better. But if I thought you
would be at Custins it would be much nicer.' Lady Mary again told
him that as yet she knew nothing of her father's autumn
movements.'
But at the same time the Duke was arranging his autumn movements,
or at any rate those of his daughter. Lady Cantrip had told him
that the desirable son-in-law had promised to go to Custins, and
suggested that he and Mary should also be there. In his daughter's
name he promised, but he would not bind himself. Would it not be
better that he should be absent? Now that the doing of the thing
was brought nearer to him so that he could see and feel its
details, hew was disgusted by it. And yet it had answered so well
with his wife!
'Is Lord Popplecourt intimate with her?' Lady Mabel asked her
friend, Lord Silverbridge.
'I don't know. I am not.'
'Lady Cantrip seems to think a great deal about him.'
'I daresay. I don't.'
'Your father seems to like him.'
'That's possible too. They're going back to London together in the
governor's carriage. My father will talk high politics all the
way, and Popplecourt will agree with everything.'
'He isn't intended to--to--? You know what I mean.'
'I can't say that I do.'
'To cut out poor Frank.'
'It is quite possible.'
'Poor Frank!'
'You had a great deal better say poor Popplecourt!-or poor
governor, or poor Lady Cantrip.'
'But a hundred countesses can't make your sister marry a man she
doesn't like.'
'Just that. They don't go the right way about it.'
'What would you do?'
'Leave her alone. Let her find out gradually that what she wants
can't be done.'
'And so linger on for years,' said Lady Mabel reproachfully.
'I say nothing about that. The man is my friend.'
'And you ought to be proud of him.'
'I never knew anybody yet who was proud of his friends. I like him
well enough, but I can quite understand that the governor should
object.'
'Yes, we all know that,' said she sadly.
'What would your father say if you wanted to marry someone who
hadn't a shilling?'
'I should object myself,--without waiting for my father. But then,--
neither have I a shilling. If I had money, do you think I wouldn't
like to give it to the man I loved?'
'But this is a case of giving somebody else's money. They won't
make her give it up by bringing such a young ass as that down
here. If my father has persistency enough to let her cry her eyes
out, he'll succeed.'
'And break her heart. Could you do that?'
'Certainly not. But then I'm soft. I can't refuse.'
'Can't you?'
'Not if the person who asks me is in my good books. You try me.'
'What shall I ask for?'
'Anything.'
'Give me the ring off your finger,' she said. He at once took it
off his hand. 'Of course you know I am in joke. You don't imagine
that I would take it from you.' He still held it towards her.
'Lord Silverbridge, I expect that with you I may say a foolish
thing without being brought to sorrow by it. I know that that ring
belonged to your great uncle,--and to fifty Pallisers before.'
'What would it matter?'
'And it would be wholly useless to me, as I would not wear it.'
'Of course it would be too big,' said he, replacing the ring on
his own finger. 'But when I talk of anyone being in my good books,
I don't mean a thing like that. Don't you know there is nobody on
earth I--' there he paused and blushed, and she sat motionless,
looking at him, expecting, with her colour too somewhat raised,--
'whom I like so well as I do you?' It was a lame conclusion. She
felt it to be lame. But as regarded him, the lameness of the
moment had come from a timidity which forbade him to say the word
'love' even though he had meant to say it.
She recovered herself instantly. 'I do believe it,' she said. 'I
do think that we are real friends.'
'Not that ring;--nor a ring at all after I had asked for it in
joke. You understand it all. But to go back to what we were
talking about,--if you can do anything for Frank, pray do. You know
it will break his heart. A man of course bears it better, but he
does not perhaps suffer the less. It is all his life to him. He
can do nothing while this is going on. Are you not true enough to
your friendship to exert yourself for him?' Silverbridge put his
hand up and rubbed his head as though he were vexed. 'Your aid
would turn everything in his favour.'
'You do not know my father.'
'Is he so inexorable?'
'It is not that, Mabel. But he is so unhappy. I cannot add to his
unhappiness by taking part against him.'
In another part of the room Lady Cantrip was busy with Lord
Popplecourt. She had talked about pheasants, and had talked about
grouse, had talked about moving the address in the House of Lords
in some coming session, and the great value of political alliances
early in life, till the young Peer began to think that Lady
Cantrip was the nicest of women. Then after a short pause she
changed the subject. 'Don't you think Lady Mary very beautiful?'
'Uncommon,' said his lordship.
'And her manners so perfect. She has all her mother's ease without
any of that--You know what I mean.'
'Quite so,' said his lordship.
'And then she has got so much in her.'
'Has she though?'
'I don't know of any girl her age so thoroughly well educated. The
Duke seems to take to you.'
'Well yes;--the Duke is very kind.'
'Don't you think-?'
'Eh!'
'You have heard of her mother's fortune?'
'Tremendous!'
'She will have, I take it, quite a third of it. Whatever I say I'm
sure you will take in confidence; but she is a dear girl; and I am
anxious for her happiness almost as though she belonged to me.'
Lord Popplecourt went back into town in the Duke's carriage, but
was unable to say a word about politics. His mind was altogether
filled with the wonderful words that had been spoken to him. Could
it be that Lady Mary had fallen violently in love with him? He
would not at once give himself up to the pleasing idea, having so
thoroughly grounded himself in the belief that female nets were to
be avoided. But when he got home he did think favourably of it.
The daughter of a Duke,--and such a Duke! So lovely a girl, and
with such gifts! And then a fortune which would make a material
addition to his own large property!
CHAPTER 36
Tally-ho Lodge
We all know that very clever distich concerning the great fleas
and the little fleas which tell us that no animal is too humble to
have its parasite. Even Major Tifto had his inferior friend. This
was a certain Captain Green,--for the friend also affected military
honours. Tifto, of whose antecedents no one was supposed to know
anything. It was presumed of him that he lived by betting, and it
was boasted by those who wished to defend his character that when
he lost he paid his money like a gentleman. Tifto during the last
year or two had been anxious to support Captain Green, and had
always made use of this argument; 'Where the D- he gets his money
I don't know;--but when he loses it, there it is.'
Major Tifto had a little 'box' of his own in the neighbourhood of
Egham, at which he had a set of stables a little bigger than his
house, and a set of kennels a little bigger than his stables. It
was here he kept his horses and hounds, and himself too when
business connected with his sporting life did not take him to
town. It was now the middle of August and he had come to Tally-ho
Lodge, there to look after his establishments, to make
arrangements for cub-hunting, and to prepare for the autumn racing
campaign. On this occasion Captain Green was enjoying his
hospitality and assisting him by sage counsels. Behind the little
box was a little garden,--a garden that was very little; but,
still, thus close to the parlour window, there was room for a
small table to be put on the grass-plat, and for a couple of
armchairs. Here the Major and the Captain were seated about eight
o'clock one evening, with convivial good things within their
reach. The good things were gin-and-water and pipes. The two
gentlemen had not dressed strictly for dinner. They had spent a
great part of the day handling the hounds and the horses, dressing
wounds, curing sores, and ministering to canine ailments, and had
been detained over their work too long to think of their toilet.
As it was they had an eye to business. The stables at one corner
and the kennels at the other were close to the little garden, and
the doings of a man and a boy who were still at their work could
be directed from the armchairs on which the two sportsmen were
sitting.
It must be explained that ever since the Silverbridge election
there had been a growing feeling in Tifto's mind that he had been
ill-treated by his partner. The feeling was strengthened by the
admirable condition of Prime Minister. Surely more consideration
had been due to a man who had produced such a state of things?
'I wouldn't quarrel with him, but I'd make him pay his way,' said
the prudent Captain.
'As for that, of course he does pay,--his share.'
'Who does all the work?'
'That's true.'
'The fact is, Tifto, you don't make enough out of it. When a small
man like you has to deal with a big man like that, he may take it
out of him in one of two ways. But he mist be deuced clever if he
can get it both ways.'
'What are you driving at?' asked Tifto, who did not like being
called a small man, feeling himself to be every inch a master of
foxhounds.
'Why, this!-Look at d- fellow fretting that 'orse with a switch.
If you can't strap a 'orse without a stick in your hand, don't you
strap him at all, you--' Then there came volley of abuse out of the
Captain's mouth, in the middle of which the man threw down the
rubber he was using and walked away.
'You come back,' halloed Tifto, jumping up from his seat with his
pipe in his mouth. Then there was a general quarrel between the
man and his two masters, in which the man was at last victorious.
And the horse was taken into the stable in an unfinished
condition. 'It's all very well to say "Get rid of him", but where
am I to get anybody better? It has come to such a pass that now if
you speak to a fellow he walks out of the yard.'
They then returned to the state of affairs, as it was between
Tifto and Lord Silverbridge. 'What I was saying is this,'
continued the Captain. 'If you choose to put yourself up to live
with a fellow like that on equal terms--'
'One gentleman with another, you mean?'
'Put it so. it don't quite hit it off, but put it so. why then you
get your wages when you take his arm and call him Silverbridge.'
'I don't want wages from any man,' said the indignant Major.
'That comes from not knowing what wages is. I do want wages. If I
do a thing I like to be paid for it. You are paid for it after one
fashion, I prefer the other.'
'Do you mean he should give me--a salary?'
'I'd have it out of him someway. What's the good of young chaps of
that sort if they aren't made to pay? You've got this young swell
in tow. He's going to be about the richest man in England;--and
what the deuce better are you for it?' Tifto sat meditating,
thinking of the wisdom of the wisdom which was being spoken. The
same ideas had occurred to him. The happy chance which had made in
intimate with Lord Silverbridge had not yet enriched him. 'What is
the good of chaps of that sort if they are not made to pay?' The
words were wise words. But yet how glorious he had been when he
was elected at the Beargarden, and had entered the club as the
special friend of the heir of the Duke of Omnium.
After a short pause, Captain Green pursued his discourse. 'You
said salary.'
'I did mention the word.'
'Salary and wages is one. A salary is a nice thing if it's paid
regular. I had a salary once myself for looking after a stud of
'orses at Newmarket, only the gentleman broke up and it never went
very far.'
'Was that Marley Bullock?'
'Yes; that was Marley Bullock. He's abroad somewhere now with
nothing a year paid quarterly to live on. I think he does a little
at cards. He'd had a good bit of money once, but most of it was
gone when he came my way.'
'You didn't make by him?'
'I didn't lose nothing. I didn't have a lot of 'orses under me
without getting something out of it.'
'What am I to do?' asked Tifto. 'I can sell him a horse now and
again. But if I give him anything good there isn't much to come
out of that.'
'Very little I should say. Don't he put his money on his 'orses?'
'Not very free. I think he's coming out freer now.'
'What did he stand to win on the Derby?'
'A thousand or two perhaps.'
'There may be something got handsome out of that,' said the
Captain, not venturing to allow his voice above a whisper. Major
Tifto looked hard at him but said nothing. 'Of course you must see
your way.'
'I don't quite understand.'
'Race 'orses are expensive animals,--and races generally
expensive.'
'That's true.'
'When so much is dropped, somebody has to pick it up. That's what
I've always said to myself. I'm as honest as another man.'
'That's of course, said the Major civilly.
'But if I don't keep my mouth shut, somebody'll have my teeth out
of my head. Every one for himself and God for us all. I suppose
there's a deal of money flying about. He'll put a lot of money on
this 'orse of yours for the Leger if he's managed right. There's
more to be got out of that than calling him Silverbridge and
walking arm-in-arm. Business is business. I don't know whether I
make myself understood.'
The gentleman did not quite make himself understood; but Tifto
endeavoured to read the riddle. He must in some way make money out
of his friend Lord Silverbridge. Hitherto he had contented himself
with the brilliancy of the connection; but now his brilliant
friend had taken to snubbing him, and had on more than one
occasion made himself disagreeable. It seemed to him that Captain
Green counselled him to put up with that, but counselled him at
the same time to--pick up some of his friend's money. He didn't
think he could ask Lord Silverbridge for a salary. He who was
Master of Foxhounds, and a member of the Beargarden. Then his
friend had suggested something about the young Lord's bets. He was
endeavouring to unriddle all this with a brain that was already
somewhat muddled with alcohol, when Captain Green got up from his
chair and standing over the Major spoke his last words for that
night as an oracle. 'Square is all very well, as long as others
are square with you;--but when they aren't, then I say square be
d-. Square! what comes of it? Work your heart out, and then it's
no good.'
The Major thought about it much that night, and was thinking about
it still when he awoke on the next morning. He would like to make
Lord Silverbridge pay for his late insolence. It would answer his
purpose to make a little money,--as he told himself,--in any honest
way. At the present moment he was in want of money, and on looking
into his affairs declared to himself that he certainly
impoverished himself by his devotion to Lord Silverbridge's
interests. At breakfast on the following morning he endeavoured to
bring his friend back on to the subject. But the Captain was
cross, rather than oracular. 'Everybody,' he said, 'ought to know
his own business.' He wasn't going to meddle or make. What he had
said had been taken amiss. This was hard upon Tifto, who had taken
nothing amiss.
'Square be d-!' There was a great deal in the lesson there
enunciated which demanded consideration. Hitherto the Major had
fought his battles with a certain adherence to squareness. If his
angles had not all been perfect angles, still there had always
been an attempt at geometrical accuracy. He might now and then
have told a lie about a horse--but who that deals in horses has not
done that? He had been alive to the value of underhand information
from racing-stables, but who won't use a tip if he can get it? He
had lied about the expense of his hounds, in order to enhance the
subscription of his members. Those were things which everybody did
in his line. But Green had meant something beyond this.
As far as he could see out in the world at large, nobody was
square. You had to keep your mouth shut, or your teeth would be
stolen out of it. He didn't look into a paper without seeing that
on all sides of him men had abandoned the idea of squareness.
Chairmen, directors, members of Parliament, ambassadors,--all the
world, as he told himself,--were trying to get on by their wits. He
didn't see why he should be more square than anybody else. Why
hadn't Silverbridge taken him down to Scotland for the grouse?
CHAPTER 37
Grex
Far away from all known places, in the northern limit of the Craven
district, on the borders of Westmoreland but in Yorkshire, there
stands a large rambling most picturesque old house called Grex.
The people around call it the Castle, but it is not a castle. It
is an old brick building supposed to have been erected in the days
of James the First, having oriel windows, twisted chimneys, long
galleries, gable ends, a quadrangle of which the house surrounds
three sides, terraces, sundials, and fish-ponds. But it is sadly
out of repair as to be altogether unfit for the residence of a
gentleman and his family. It stands not in a park, for the land
about it is divided into paddocks by low stone walls, but in the
midst of lovely scenery, the ground rising all round it in low
irregular hills or fells, and close to it, a quarter of a mile
from the back of the house, there is a small dark lake, not
serenely lovely as are some of the lakes in Westmoreland, but
attractive by the darkness of its waters and the gloom of the
woods around it.
This is the country seat of Earl Grex,--which however he had not
visited for some years. Gradually the place had got into such a
condition in his absence was not surprising. An owner of Grex,
with large means at his disposal and with a taste for the
picturesque to gratify,--one who could afford to pay for memories
and who was willing to pay dearly for such luxuries, might no
doubt restore Grex, but the Earl had neither the money nor the
taste.
Lord Grex had latterly never gone near the place, nor was his son
Lord Percival fond of looking upon the ruin of his property. But
Lady Mabel loved it with a fond love. With all her lightness of
spirit she was prone to memories, prone to melancholy, prone at
times almost to seek the gratification of sorrow. Year after year
when the London season was over she would come down to Grex and
spend a week or two amidst its desolation. She was now going to a
seat in Scotland belonging to Mrs Montacute Jones called
Killancodlem; but she was now passing a desolate fortnight in
company with Miss Cassewary. The gardens were let,--and being let
of course were not kept in further order than as profit might
require. The man who rented it lived in the big house with his
wife, and they on occasions as this would cook and wait upon Lady
Mabel.
Lady Mabel was at the home of her ancestors, and the faithful Miss
Cass was with her. But at the moment and at the spot at which the
reader shall see her, Miss Cass was not with her. She was sitting
on a rock about twelve feet above the lake looking upon the black
water; and on another rock a few feet from her sat Frank Tregear.
'No,' she said, 'you should not have come. Nothing can justify it.
Of course, as you are here I could not refuse to come out with
you. To make a fuss about it would be the worst of all. But you
should not have come.'
'Why not? Whom does it hurt? It is a pleasure to me. If it be the
reverse to you, I will go.'
'Men are so unmanly. They take such mean advantages. You know it
is a pleasure to me to see you.'
'I had hoped so.'
'But it is a pleasure I ought not to have,--at least not here.'
'That is what I do not understand,' said he. 'In London, where the
Earl could bark at me if he happened to find me, I could see the
inconvenience of it. But here, where there is nobody but Miss
Cass--'
'There are a great many others. There are the rooks and stones and
old women;---all of which have ears.'
'But of what is there to be ashamed? There is nothing in the world
to me so pleasant as the companionship of old friends.'
'Then go after Silverbridge.'
'I mean to do so;--but I am taking you by the way.'
'It is all unmanly,' she said, rising from her stone; 'you know
that it is so. Friends! Do you mean to say that it would make no
difference whether you were here with me or Miss Cass?'
'The greatest difference in the world.'
'Because she is an old woman and I am a young one, and because in
intercourse between young men and young women there is something
dangerous to the woman and therefore pleasant to the man.'
'I never heard anything more unjust. You cannot think I desire
anything injurious to you.'
'I do think so.' She was still standing and spoke now with great
vehemence. 'I do think so. You force me to throw aside the
reticence I ought to keep. Would it help me in my purpose if your
friend Lord Silverbridge knew that I was here?'
'How should he know?'
'But if he did? Do you suppose that I want to have visits paid to
me of which I am afraid to speak? Would you dare tell Lady Mary
that you had been sitting alone with me on the rocks at Grex?'
'Certainly I would.'
'Then it would be because you have not dared to tell her certain
other things which have gone before. You have sworn to her no
doubt that you love her better than all the world.'
'I have.'
'And you have taken the trouble to come her to tell me that,--to
wound me to the core by saying so; to show me that though I may
still be sick, you have recovered,--that is if you ever suffered!
Go your way and let me go mine. I do not want you.'
'Mabel!'
'I do not want you. I know you will not help me, but you need not
destroy me.'
'You know that you are wronging me.'
'No! You understand it all though you look so calm. I hate your
Lady Mary Palliser. There! But if by anything I could do I could
secure her to you I would do it,--because you want it.'
'She will be your sister-in-law,--probably.'
'Never. It will never be so.'
'Why do you hate me?'
'There again! You are so little of a man that you can ask me
why!' Then she turned away as though she intended to go down to
the marge of the lake.
But he rose up and stopped her. 'Let us have this out, Mabel,
before we go,' he said. 'Unmanly is a heavy word to hear from you,
and you have used it a dozen times.'
'It is because I have thought it a thousand times. Go and get her
if you can,--but why tell me about it?'
'You said you would help me.'
'So I would, as I would help you do anything you might want; but
you can hardly think that after what has passed I can wish to hear
about her.'
'It was you spoke of her.'
'I told you you should not be here,--because of her and because of
me. And I tell you again. I hate her. Do you think I can hear you
speak of her as though she were the only woman you had ever seen
without feeling it? Did you ever swear that you loved anyone
else?'
'Certainly, I have so sworn.'
'Have you ever said that nothing could alter that love?'
'Indeed I have.'
'But it is altered. It has all gone. It has been transferred to
one who has more advantages of beauty, youth, wealth, and
position.'
'Oh Mabel, Mabel!'
'But it is so.'
'When you say this do you think of yourself?'
'Yes. But I have never been false to anyone. You are false to me.'
'Have I not offered to face all the world with you?'
'You would not offer it now?'
'No,' he said, after a pause,--'not now. Were I to do so, I should
be false. You bade me take my love elsewhere, and I did so.'
'With the greatest care.'
'We agreed it should be so; and you have done the same.'
'That is false. Look me in the face and tell me whether you do not
know it to be false?'
'And yet I am told that I am injuring you with Silverbridge.'
'Oh,--so unmanly again! Of course I have to marry. Who does not
know it? Do you want to see me begging my bread about the
streets? You have bread; or if not, you might earn it. If you
marry for money--'
'The accusation is altogether unjustifiable.'
'Allow me to finish what I have to say. If you marry for money you
will do that which is in itself bad, and which is also
unnecessary. What other course would you recommend me to take? No
one goes into the gutter while there is a clean path open. If
there be no escape but through the gutter, one has to take it.'
'You mean that my duty to you should have kept me from marrying
all my life.'
'Not that;--but a little while, Frank; just a little while. Your
bloom is not fading; your charms are not running from you. Have
you not a strength which I cannot have? Do you not feel that you
are a tree, standing firm in the ground, while I am a bit of ivy
that will be trodden in the dirt unless it can be made to cling to
something? You should not liken yourself to me, Frank.'
'If I could do you any good!'
'Good! What is the meaning of good? If you love, it is good to
be loved again. It is good not to have your heart torn to pieces.
You know that I love you.' He was standing close to her, and put
out his hand as though he would twine his arm round her waist.
'Not for worlds,' she said. 'It belongs to the Palliser girl. And
as I have taught myself to think that what there is left of me may
perhaps belong to some other one, worthless as it is, I will keep
it for him. I love you,--but there can be none of that softness of
love between us.'
Then there was a pause, but as he did not speak she went on. 'But
remember, Frank,--our position is not equal. You have got over your
little complaint. It probably did not go deep with you, and you
have found a cure. Perhaps there is a satisfaction in finding that
two young women love you.'
'You are trying to be cruel to me.'
'Why else should you be here? You know I love you,--with all my
heart, with all my strength, and that I would give the world to
cure myself. Knowing this, you come and talk to me of your passion
for this other girl.'
'I had hoped we might both talk rationally as friends.'
'Friends! Frank Tregear, I have been bold enough to tell you I
love you; but you are not my friend, and cannot be my friend. If I
have before asked you to help me in this mean catastrophe of mine,
in my attack upon that poor boy, I withdraw my request. I think I
will go back to the house now.'
'I will walk back to Ledburgh if you wish it without going to the
house again.'
'No; I will have nothing that looks like being ashamed. You ought
not to have come, but you need not run away.' Then they walked
back to the house together and found Miss Casseawary on the
terrace. 'We have been to the lake,' said Mabel, 'and have been
talking of old days. I have but one ambition now in the world.'
Of course Miss Cassewary asked what the remaining ambition was.
'To get money enough to purchase this place from the ruins of the
Grex property. If I could own the house and the lake, and the
paddocks about, and had enough income to keep one servant and
bread for us to eat--of course including you, Miss Cass--'
'Thank'ee, my dear; but I am not sure I should like it.'
'Yes; you would. Frank would come and see us perhaps once a year.
I don't suppose anybody else cares about the place, but to me it
is the dearest spot in the world.' So she went on in almost high
spirits, though alluding to the general decadence of the Grex
family, till Tregear took his leave.
'I wish he had not come,' said Miss Cassewary when he was gone.
'Why should you wish that? There is not so much here to amuse me
that you should begrudge me a stray visitor.'
'I don't think I grudge you anything in the way of pleasure, my
dear, but still he should not have come. My Lord, if he knew it,
would be angry.'
'Then let him be angry. Papa does not do much for me that I am
bound to think of him at every turn.'
'But I am,--or rather I am bound to think of myself, if I take his
bread.'
'Bread!'
'Well;--I do take his bread, and I take it on the understanding
that I will be to you what a mother might be,--or an aunt.'
'Well,--and if so! Had I a mother living would not Frank Tregear
have come to visit her, and in visiting her, would he not have
seen me,--and should not we have walked out together?'
'Not after all that has come and gone.'
'But you are not a mother nor yet an aunt, and you have to do just
what I tell you. And don't I know that you trust me in all things?
And am I not trustworthy?'
'I think you are trustworthy.'
'I know what my duty is and I mean to do it. No one shall ever
have to say of me that I have given way to self-indulgence. I
couldn't help his coming here, you know.'
That same night, after Miss Cassewary had gone to bed, when the
moon was high in the heavens and the world round her was all
asleep, Lady Mabel again wandered out to the lake, and again
seated herself on the same rock, and there sat thinking of her
past life and trying to think of that before her. It is so much
easier to think of the past than of the future,--to remember what
has been than to resolve what shall be! She had reminded him of
the offer which he had made and repeated to her more than once,--to
share with her all his chances in life. There would have been
almost no income for them. All the world would have been against
her. She would have caused his ruin. Her light on the matter had
been so clear that it had not taken her very long to decide that
such a thing must not be thought of. She had at last been quite
stern in her decision.
Now she was broken-hearted because she found that he had left her
in very truth. Oh yes;--she would marry the boy, if she could so
arrange. Since that meeting at Richmond he had sent her the ring
reset. She was to meet him down in Scotland within a week or two
from the present time. Mrs Montacute Jones had managed that. He
had all but offered to her a second time at Richmond. But all that
would not serve to make her happy. She declared to herself that
she did not wish to see Frank Tregear again; but still it was a
misery to her that his heart should in truth be given to another
woman.
CHAPTER 38
Crummie-Toddie
Almost at the last moment Silverbridge and his brother Gerald were
induced to join Lord Popplecourt's shooting-party in Scotland.
The party perhaps might more properly be called the party of
Reginald Dobbes, who as a man knowing in such matters. It was he
who made the party up. Popplecourt and Silverbridge were to share
the expense between them, each bringing three guns. Silverbridge
brought his brother and Frank Tregear,--having refused a most
piteous petition on the subject from Major Tifto. With Popplecourt
of course came Reginald Dobbes, who was, in truth, to manage
everything, and Lord Nidderdale, whose wife had generously
permitted him this recreation. The shooting was in the west of
Perthshire, known as Crummie-Toddie, and comprised an enormous
acreage of so-called forest and moor. Mr Dobbes declared that
nothing like it had as yet been produced in Scotland. Everything
had been made to give way to deer and grouse. The thing had been
managed so well that the tourist nuisance had been considerably
abated. There was hardly a potato patch left in the district, nor
a head of cattle to be seen. There were no inhabitants remaining,
or so few that they could be absorbed in game-preserving or
cognate duties. Reginald Dobbes, who was very great at grouse, and
supposed to be capable of outwitting deer by venatical wiles more
perfectly than any other sportsman in Great Britain, regarded
Crummie-Toddie as the nearest thing there was to a Paradise on
Earth. Could he have been allowed to pass one or two special laws
for his own protection, there might still have been improvements.
He would like the right to have all intruders thrashed by the
gillies within an inch of their lives; and he would have had a
clause in his lease against the making of any new roads, opening
of footpaths, or building of bridges. He had seen somewhere in
print a plan for running a railway from Callender to Fort Augustus
right through Crummie-Toddie! If this were done in his time the
beauty of the world would be over. Reginald Dobbes was a man of
about forty, strong, active, well-made, about five feet ten in
height, with broad shoulders and greatly-developed legs. He was
not a handsome man, having a protrusive nose, high cheek-bones,
and long upper lip; but there was a manliness about his face which
redeemed it. Sport was the business of his life, and he thoroughly
despised all who were not sportsmen. He fished and shot and hunted
during nine or ten months of the year, filling up his time as best
he might with coaching polo, and pigeon-shooting. He regarded it
as a great duty to keep his body in the firmest possible
condition. All his eating and all his drinking was done upon a
system, and he would consider himself to be guilty of weak self-
indulgence were he to allow himself to break through sanitary
rules. But it never occurred to him that his whole life was one of
self-indulgence. He could walk his thirty miles with his gun on
his shoulder as well now as he could ten years ago; and being sure
of this, was thoroughly contented with himself. He had a patrimony
amounting to perhaps 1000 pounds a year, which he husbanded so as
to enjoy all his amusements to perfection. No one had ever heard
of his sponging on his friends. Of money he rarely spoke, sport
being in his estimation the only subject worthy of a man's words.
Such was Reginald Dobbes, who was now to be the master of the
shooting at Crummie-Toddie.
Crummie-Toddie was but twelve miles from Killancodlem, Mrs
Montacute Jones's highland seat; and it was this vicinity which
first induced Lord Silverbridge to join the party. Mabel Grex was
to be at Killancodlem, and, determined as he still was to ask her
to be his wife, he would make this opportunity. Of real
opportunity there had been none at Richmond. Since he had had his
ring altered and had sent it to her there had come but a word or
two of answer. 'What am I to say? You unkindest of men! To keep
it or to send it back would make me equally miserable. I shall
keep it till you are married, and then give it to your wife.'
This affair of the ring had made him more intent than ever. After
that he heard that Isabel Boncassen would also be at Killancodlem,
having been induced to join Mrs Montacute Jones's swarm of
visitors. Though he was dangerously devoid of experience, still he
felt that this was unfortunate. He intended to marry Mabel Grex.
And he could assure himself that he thoroughly loved her.
Nevertheless he liked making love to Isabel Boncassen. He was
quite willing to marry and settle down, and looked forward with
satisfaction to having Mabel Grex for his wife. But it would be
pleasant to have a six-month run of flirting and love-making
before this settlement, and he had certainly never seen anyone
with whom this would be so delightful as with Miss Boncassen. But
that the two ladies should be at the same house was unfortunate.
He and Gerald reached Crummie-Toddie late on the evening of August
the eleventh, and found Reginald Dobbes alone. That was on
Wednesday. Popplecourt and Niddledale ought to have made their
appearance on that morning, but had telegraphed to say that they
would be detained two days on their route. Tregear, whom hitherto
Dobbes had never seen, had left his arrival uncertain. This
carelessness on such matters was very offensive to Mr Dobbes, who
loved discipline and exactitude. He ought to have received the two
young men with open arms because they were punctual; but he had
been somewhat angered by what he considered the extreme youth of
Lord Gerald. Boys who could not shoot were, he thought, putting
themselves forward before their time. And Silverbridge himself was
by no means a first-rate shot. Such a one as Silverbridge had to
be endured because from his position and wealth he could
facilitate such arrangements as these. It was much to have to do
with a man who could not complain if an extra fifty pounds were
wanted. But he ought to have understood that he was bound in
honour to bring down competent friends. Of Tregear's shooting
Dobbes had been able to learn nothing. Lord Gerald was a lad from
the Universities; and Dobbes hated University lads. Popplecourt
and Niddledale were known to be efficient. They were men who could
work hard and do their part of the required slaughter. Dobbes
proudly knew that he could make up for some deficiency by his own
prowess; but he could not struggle against three bad guns. What
was the use of so perfecting Crummie-Toddie as to make it the best
bit of ground for grouse and deer in Scotland, if the men who came
there failed by their own incapacity to bring up the grand total
of killed to a figure which would render Dobbes and Crummie-Toddie
famous throughout the whole shooting world? He had been hard at
work on other matters. Dogs had gone amiss;--or guns, and he had
been made angry by the champagne which Popplecourt had caused to
be sent down. He knew what champagne meant. Whisky-and-water, and
not much of it, was the liquor which Reginald Dobbes loved in the
mountains.
'Don't you call this a very ugly country?' Silverbridge asked as
soon as he arrived. Now it is the case that the traveller who
travels into Argyleshire, Perthshire, and Inverness, expects to
find lovely scenery; and it was also true that the country through
which they had passed for the last twenty miles had been not only
bleak and barren, but uninteresting and ugly. It was all rough
open moorland, never rising into mountains, and graced by no
running streams, by no forest scenery, almost by no foliage. The
lodge itself did indeed stand close upon a little river, and was
reached by a bridge that crossed it; but there was nothing pretty
either in the river or the bridge. It was a placid black little
streamlet, which in that portion of its course was hurried by no
steepness, had not broken rocks in its bed, no trees on its low
banks, and played none of those gambols which make running water
beautiful. The bridge was a simple low construction with a low
parapet, carrying an ordinary roadway up to the hall door. The
lodge itself was as ugly a house could be, white, of two stories,
with the door in the middle and windows on each side, with a slate
roof, and without a tree near it. It was in the middle of the
shooting, and did not create a town round itself as do sumptuous
mansions, to the great detriment of that seclusion which is
favourable to game. 'Look at Killancodlem,' Dobbes had been heard
to say--'a very fine house for ladies to flirt in; but if you find
a deer within six miles of it I will eat him first and shoot him
afterwards.' There was a Spartan simplicity about Crummie-Toddie
which pleased the Spartan mind of Reginald Dobbes.
'Ugly do you call it?'
'Infernally ugly,' said Lord Gerald.
'What did you expect to find? A big hotel, and a lot of cockneys.
If you come after grouse, you must come to what the grouse think
pretty.'
'Nevertheless, it is ugly,' said Silverbridge, who did not choose
to be 'sat upon'. 'I have been at shootings in Scotland before,
and sometimes they are not ugly. This I call beastly.' Whereupon
Reginald Dobbes turned upon his heel and walked away.
'Can you shoot?' he said afterwards to Lord Gerald.
'I can fire off a gun, if you mean that,' said Gerald.
'You have never shot much?'
'Not what you call very much. I'm not so old as you are, you know.
Everything must have a beginning.' Mr Dobbes wished 'the
beginning' might have taken place elsewhere; but there had been
some truth in the remark.
'What on earth made you tell him crammers like that?' asked
Silverbridge, as the brothers sat together afterwards smoking on
the wall of the bridge.
'Because he made an ass of himself; asking me whether I could
shoot.'
On the next morning they started at seven. Dobbes had determined
to be cross, because, as he thought, the young men would certainly
keep him waiting; and was cross because by their punctuality they
robbed him of any just cause for offence. During the morning on
the moor they were hardly near enough each other for much
conversation, and very little was said. According to the
arrangement made they returned to the house for lunch, it being
their purpose not to go far from home till their numbers were
complete. As they came over the bridge and put down their guns
near the door, Mr Dobbes spoke the first good-humoured word they
had heard from his lips. 'Why did you tell me such an infernal-, I
would say lie, only perhaps you mightn't like it.'
'I told you no lie,' said Gerald.
'You've only missed two birds all the morning, and you have shot
forty-two. That's uncommonly good sport.'
'What have you done?'
'Only forty,' and Mr Dobbes seemed for the moment to be gratified
by his own inferiority. 'You are a deuced sight better than your
brother.'
'Gerald's about the best shot I know,' said Silverbridge.
'Why didn't he tell?'
'Because you were angry when we said the place was ugly.'
'I see all about it,' said Dobbes. 'Nevertheless when a fellow
comes to shoot he shouldn't complain because a place isn't pretty.
What you want is a decent house as near as you can have it to your
ground. If there is anything in Scotland to beat Crummie-Toddie I
don't know where to find it. Shooting is shooting you know, and
touring is touring.'
Upon that he took very kindly to Lord Gerald, who, even after the
arrival of the other men, was second only in skill to Dobbes
himself. With Nidderdale, who was an old companion, he got on very
well. Nidderdale drank and ate too much, and refused to be driven
beyond a certain amount of labour, but was in other respects
obedient and knew what he was about. Popplecourt was disagreeable,
but he was a fairly good shot and understood what was expected of
him. Silverbridge was so good-humoured, that even his manifest
faults,--shooting carelessly, lying in bed, and wanting his
dinner,--were, if not forgiven at least endured. But Tregear was an
abomination. He could shoot well enough and was active, and when
he was at the work seemed to like it;--but he would stay away whole
days by himself, and when spoken to would answer in a manner which
seemed to Dobbes to flat mutiny. 'We are not doing it for our
bread,' said Tregear.
'I don't know what you mean.'
'There's not a duty in killing a certain number of these animals.'
They had been driving deer on the day before and were to continue
the work on the day in question. 'I'm not paid fifteen shillings a
week for doing it.'
'I suppose if you undertake to do a thing you mean to do it. Of
course you're not wanted. We can make the double party without
you.'
'Then why the mischief should you growl at me?'
'Because I think a man should do what he undertakes to do. A man
who gets tired after three days' work of this kind would become
tired if he were earning his bread.'
'Who says I am tired? I came here to amuse myself.'
'Amuse yourself!'
'And as long as it amuses me, I shall shoot, and when it does not
I shall give it up.'
This vexed the governor of Crummie-Toddie much. He had learned to
regard himself as the arbiter of the fate of men while they were
sojourning under the same autumnal roof as himself. But a
defalcation which occurred immediately afterwards was worse.
Silverbridge declared his intention of going over one morning to
Killancodlem. Reginald Dobbes muttered a curse between his teeth,
which was visible by the anger of his brow, to all the party. 'I
shall be back tonight, you know,' said Silverbridge.
'A lot of men and women who pretend to come here for shooting,'
said Dobbes angrily, 'but do all the mischief they can.'
'One must go and see one's friends you know.'
'Some girl!' said Dobbes.
But worse happened than the evil so lightly mentioned.
Silverbridge did go over to Killancodlem; and presently there came
back a man with a cart, who was to return with a certain not small
proportion of his luggage.
'It's hardly honest, you know,' said Reginald Dobbes.
CHAPTER 39
Killancodlem
Mr Dobbes was probably right in his opinion that hotels, tourists,
and congregations of men are detrimental to shooting. Crummie-
Toddie was in all respects suited for sport. Killancodlem, though
it had the name of a shooting-place, certainly was not so. Men
going there took their guns. Gamekeepers were provided with
gillies,--and, in a moderate quantity, game. On certain grand days
a deer or two might be shot,--and would be very much talked about
afterwards. But a glance at the place would suffice to show that
Killancodlem was not intended for sport. It was a fine castellated
mansion, with beautiful though narrow grounds, standing in the
valley of the Archay River, with a mountain behind and the river
in front. Between the gates and the river there was a public road
on which a stage-coach ran, with loud-blown horns and the noise of
many tourists. A mile beyond the Castle was the famous
Killancodlem hotel which made up a hundred and twenty beds, and at
which half as many more guests would sleep on occasions under the
tables. And there was the Killancodlem post-office halfway between
the two. At Crummie-Toddie they had to send nine miles for their
letters and newspapers. At Killancodlem there was lawn-tennis and
a billiard-room and dancing every night. The costumes of the
ladies were lovely, and those of the gentlemen, who were wonderful
in knickerbockers, picturesque hats and variegated stockings,
hardly less so. and then there were carriages and saddle-horses,
and paths had been made hither and thither through the rocks and
hills for the sake of the scenery. Scenery! To hear Mr Dobbes
utter the single word was as good as a play. Was it for such
cockney purposes as those that Scotland had been created, fit
mother for grouse and deer?
Silverbridge arrived just before lunch, and was soon made to
understand that it was impossible that he should go back that day.
Mrs Jones was very great on that occasion. 'You are afraid of
Reginald Dobbes,' she said severely.
'I think I am rather.'
'Of course you are. How came it to pass that you of all men should
submit yourself to such a tyrant?'
'Good shooting, you know,' said Silverbridge.
'But you dare not call an hour your own,--or your soul. Mr Dobbes
and I are sworn enemies. We both like Scotland, and unfortunately
we have fallen into the same neighbourhood. He looks upon me as
the genius of sloth. I regard him as the incarnation of tyranny.
He once said there should be no women in Scotland,--just an old one
here and there, who would know how to cook grouse. I offered to go
and cook his grouse!
'Any friend of mine,' continued Mrs Jones, 'who comes down to
Crummie-Toddie without staying a day or two with me,--will never be
my friend any more. I do not hesitate to tell you, Lord
Silverbridge, that I call for your surrender, in order that I may
show my power over Reginald Dobbes. Are you a Dobbite?'
'Not thorough-going,' said Silverbridge.
'Then be a Montacute Jones-ite, or a Bocassen-ite, if, as
possible, you prefer a young woman to an old one.' At this moment
Isabel Boncassen was standing close to them.
'Killancodlem against Crummie-Toddie forever,' said Miss
barbarian, waving her handkerchief. As a matter of course a
messenger was sent back to Crummie-Toddie for the young lord's
evening apparel.
The whole of that afternoon was spent playing lawn-tennis with
Miss Boncassen. Lady Mabel was asked to join the party, but she
refused, having promised to take a walk to a distant waterfall
where the Codlem falls into the Archay. A gentleman in
knickerbockers was to have gone with her, and two other young
ladies, but when the time came she was weary, she said,--and she
sat almost the entire afternoon looking at the game from a
distance. Silverbridge played well, but so well as the pretty
American. With them were joined two others, somewhat inferior, so
that Silverbridge and Miss Boncassen were on different sides. They
played game after game, and Miss Boncassen's side always won.
Very little was said between Silverbridge and Miss Boncassen which
did not refer to the game. But Lady Mabel, looking on, told
herself that they were making love to each other before her eyes.
And why shouldn't they? She asked herself that question in perfect
good faith. Why should they not be lovers? Was ever anything
prettier than the girl in her country dress, active as a fawn and
as graceful? Or could anything be more handsome, more attractive
to a girl, more good-humoured, or better bred in his playful
emulation than Silverbridge?
'When youth and pleasure meet. To chase the glowing hours with
flying feet!' she said to herself over and over again.
But why had he sent her the ring? She would certainly give him
back the ring and bid him bestow it at once upon Miss Boncassen.
Inconstant boy! Then she would get up and wander away for a time
and rebuke herself. What right had she even to think of
inconstancy? Could she be so irrational, so unjust, as to be sick
for his love, as to be angry with him because he seemed to prefer
another? Was she not well aware that she herself did not love
him,--but that she did love another man? She had made up her mind
to marry him in order that she might be a duchess, and because she
would give herself to him without any of that horror which would
be her fate in submitting to matrimony with one or another of the
young men around her. There might be disappointment. If he escaped
her there would be bitter disappointment. But seeing how it was,
had she any further ground for hope? She certainly had no ground
for anger!
It was thus, within her own bosom, she put questions to herself.
And yet all this before her was simply a game of play in which the
girl and the young man were as eager for victory as though they
were children. They were thinking neither of love nor love-making.
That the girl should be so lovely was not doubt a pleasure to
him;--and perhaps to her also that she should be joyous to look at
and sweet of voice. But he, could he have been made to tell all
the truth within him, would have still owned that it was his
purpose to make Mabel his wife.
When the game was over and the propositions made for further
matches and the like,--Miss Boncassen said that she would betake
herself to her own room. 'I never worked so hard in my life
before,' she said. 'And I feel like a navvie. I could drink beer
out of a jug and eat bread and cheese. I won't play with you any
more, Lord Silverbridge, because I am beginning to think it is
unladylike to exert myself.'
'Are you not glad you came over?' said Lady Mabel to him as he was
going off the ground without seeing her.
'Pretty well,' he said.
'Is it not better than stalking?'
'Lawn-tennis?'
'Yes;--lawn-tennis--with Miss Boncassen.'
'She plays uncommonly well.'
'And so do you.'
'Ah, she has such an eye for distances.'
'And you,--what have you an eye for? Will you answer me a
question?'
'Well,--yes; I think so.'
'Truly.'
'Certainly; if I do answer it.'
'Do you not think her the most beautiful creature you ever saw in
your life?' He pushed back his cap and looked at her without
making any immediate answer. 'I do. Now tell me what you think.'
'I think that perhaps she is.'
'I knew you would say so. You are so honest that you could not
bring yourself to tell a fib,--even to me about that. Come here
and sit down for a moment.' Of course he sat down by her. 'You
know that Frank came to see me at Grex?'
'He never mentioned it.'
'Dear me;--how odd!'
'It was odd,' said he in a voice which showed that he was angry.
She could hardly explain it to herself why she told him at the
present moment. It came partly from jealousy, as though she had
said to herself, 'Though he may neglect me, he shall know that
there is someone else who does not;'--and partly from an eager
half-angry feeling that she would have nothing concealed. There
were moments with her in which she thought that she could arrange
her future life in accordance with certain wise rules over which
her heart should have no influence. There were others, many
others, in which her feelings completely got the better of her.
And now she told herself that she would be afraid of nothing.
There should be no deceit, no lies!
'He went to see you at Grex?' said Silverbridge.
'Why should he not have come to me at Grex?'
'Only it is so odd that he did not mention it. It seems to me that
he is always having secrets with you of some kind.'
'Poor Frank! There is no one else who would come to see me at
that tumble-down old place. But I have another thing to say to
you. You have behaved badly to me.'
'Have I?'
'Yes, sir. After my folly about that ring you should have known
better than to send it to me. You must take it back again.'
'You shall do exactly what you said you would. You shall give it
to me wife,--when I have one.'
'That did very well for me to say it in a note. I did not want to
send my anger to you over a distance of two or three hundred miles
by the postman. But now that we are together you must take it
back.'
'I will do no such thing,' said he sturdily.
'You speak as though this were a matter in which you can have your
own way.'
'I mean to have my own about that.'
'Any lady then must be forced to take any present that a gentleman
may send her! Allow me to assure you that the usages of society
do not run in that direction. Here is the ring. I knew that you
would come over to see,--well, to see someone here, and I have kept
it ready in my pocket.'
'I came over to see you.'
'Lord Silverbridge! But we know that in certain employments all
things are fair.' He looked at her not knowing what were the
employments to which she alluded. 'At any rate you will oblige me
by--by--by not being troublesome, and putting this little trinket
into your pocket.'
'Never! Nothing on earth shall make me do it.'
At Killancodlem they did not dine till half-past eight. Twilight
was now stealing on these two, who were still out in the garden,
all the others having gone in to dress. She looked round to see
that no other eyes were watching them as she still held the ring.
'It is there,' she said, putting it on the bench between them.
Then she prepared to rise from the seat so that she might leave it
with him.
But he was too quick for her, and was away at a distance before
she had collected her dress. And from a distance he spoke again.
'If you choose that it shall be lost, so be it.'
'You had better take it,' said she, following him slowly. But he
would not turn back;--nor would she. They met again in the hall for
a moment. 'I should be sorry it should be lost,' said he, 'because
it belonged to my great uncle. And I had hoped that I might live
to see it very often.'
'You can fetch it,' she said, as she went to her room. He however
would not fetch it. She had accepted it, and he would not take it
back again, let the fate of the gem be what it might.
But to the feminine and more cautious mind the very value of the
trinket made its position out there on the bench, within the grasp
of any dishonest gardener, a burden to her. She could not
reconcile it to her conscience that it should be so left. The
diamond was a large one, and she had heard it spoken of as a stone
of great value,--so much so, that Silverbridge had been blamed for
wearing it ordinarily. She had asked for it in a joke, regarding
it as a thing which could not be given away. She could not go down
herself and take it up again; but neither could she allow it to
remain. As she went to her room she met Mrs Jones already coming
from hers. 'You will keep us waiting,' said the hostess.
'Oh, no;--nobody ever dressed so quickly. But, Mrs Jones, will you
do me a favour?'
'Certainly.'
'Any will you let me explain something?'
'Anything you like;--from a hopeless engagement down to a broken
garter.'
'I am suffering neither from one or the other. But there is a most
valuable ring lying out in the garden. Will you send for it?'
Then of course the story had to be told. 'You will, I hope,
understand how I came to ask for it foolishly. It was because it
was the one thing which I was sure he would not give away.'
'Why not take it?'
'Can't you understand? I wouldn't for the world. But you will be
good enough,--won't you, to see that there is nothing else in it?'
'Nothing of love?'
'Nothing in the least. He and I are excellent friends. We are
cousins, and intimate, and all that. I thought I might have had my
joke, and now I am punished for it. As for love, don't you see
that he is head and ears in love with Miss Boncassen?'
This was very imprudent on the part of Lady Mabel, who, had she
been capable of clinging to her policy, would not now in a moment
of strong feeling have done so much to raise obstacles in her own
way. 'But you will send for it, won't you, and have it put on his
dressing-table tonight?' When he went to bed Lord Silverbridge
found it on his table.
But before that time came he had twice danced with Miss Boncassen.
Lady Mabel having refused to dance with him. 'No;' she said. 'I am
angry with you. You ought to have felt that it did not become you
as gentleman to subject me to inconvenience by throwing upon me
the charge of that diamond. You may be foolish enough to be
indifferent about its value, but as you have mixed me up with it I
cannot afford to have it lost.'
'It is yours.'
'No, sir; it is not mine, nor will it ever be mine. But I wish you
to understand that you have offended me.'
This made him so unhappy for the time that he almost told the
story to Miss Boncassen. 'If I were to give you a ring,' he said,
'would not you accept it?'
'What a question!'
'What I mean is, don't you think all those conventional rules
about men and women are absurd?'
'As a progressive American, of course I am bound to think all
conventional rules are an abomination.'
'If you had a brother and I gave him a stick he'd take it.'
'Not across his back, I hope.'
'Or if I gave your father a book?'
'He'd take books to any extent, I should say.'
'And why not you a ring?'
'Who said I wouldn't? But after all this you mustn't try me.'
'I was not thinking of it.'
'I'm so glad of that! Well;--if you'll promise me that you'll
never offer me one, I'll promise that I'll take it when it comes.
But what does all this mean?'
'It is not worth talking about.'
'You have offered someone somebody a ring, and somebody hasn't
taken it. May I guess?'
'I had rather you did not.'
'I could, you know.'
'Never mind about that. Now come and have a turn. I am bound not
to give you a ring; but you are bound to accept anything else I
may offer.'
'No, Lord Silverbridge;--not at all. Nevertheless we'll have a
turn.'
That night before he went up to his room he had told Isabel
Boncassen that he loved her. And when he spoke he was telling her
the truth. It had seemed to him that Mabel had become hard to him,
and had over and over again rejected the approaches to tenderness
which he had attempted to make in his intercourse with her. Even
though she were to accept him, what would that be worth to him if
she did not love him? So many things had been added together! Why
had Tregear gone to Grex, and having gone there why had he kept
his journey a secret? Tregear he knew was engaged to his sister;--
but for all that, there was a closer intimacy between Mabel and
Tregear than between Mabel and himself. And surely she might have
taken his ring!
And then Isabel Boncassen was so perfect! Since he had first met
her he had heard her loveliness talked of on all sides. It seemed
to be admitted that so beautiful a creature had never before been
seen in London. There is even a certain dignity attached to that
which is praised by all lips. Miss Boncassen as an American girl,
had she been judged to be beautiful only by his own eyes,--might
perhaps have seemed to him to be beneath his serious notice. In
such a case he might have felt himself unable to justify so
extraordinary a choice. But there was an acclamation of assent as
to this girl! Then came the dancing,--the one dance after another;
the pressure of the hand, the entreaty that she would not, just on
this occasion, dance with any other man, the attendance on her
when she took her glass of wine, the whispered encouragement of
Mrs Montacute Jones, the half-resisting and yet half-yielding
conduct of the girl. 'I shall not dance at all again,' she said
when he asked to stand up for another. 'Think of all the lawn-
tennis this morning.'
'But you will play tomorrow?'
'I thought you were going.'
'Of course I shall stay now,' he said, and as he said it he put
his hand on her hand, which was on his arm. She drew it away at
once. 'I love you so dearly,' he whispered to her, 'so dearly.'
'Lord Silverbridge!'
'I do. I do. Can you say that you will love me in return?'
'I cannot,' she said slowly. 'I have never dreamed of such a
thing. I hardly know now whether you are in earnest.'
'Indeed, indeed I am.'
'Then I will say good-night, and think about it. Everybody is
going. We shall have our game tomorrow at any rate.'
When he went to his room he found the ring on his dressing-table.
And Then!
On the next morning Miss Boncassen did not appear at breakfast.
Word came that she had been so fatigued by the lawn-tennis as not
to be able to leave her bed. 'I have been to see her,' said Mrs
Montacute Jones, whispering to Lord Silverbridge, as though he
were particularly interested. 'There's nothing really the matter.
She will be down to lunch.'
'I was afraid she might be ill,' said Silverbridge, who was now
hardly anxious to hide his admiration.
'Oh, no;--nothing of that sort, but she will not be able to play
again today. It was your fault. You should not have made her dance
last night.' After that Mrs Jones said a word about it all to
Lady Mabel. 'I hope the Duke will not be angry with me.'
'Why should he be angry with you?'
'I don't suppose he will approve of it, and perhaps he'll say I
brought them together on purpose.'
Soon afterwards Mabel asked Silverbridge to walk with her to the
waterfall. She had worked herself into such a state of mind that
she hardly knew what to do, what to wish, or how to act. At one
moment she would tell herself that it was better in every respect
that she should cease to think of being the Duchess of Omnium. It
was not fit that she should think of it. She herself cared but
little for the young man, and he,--she would now tell herself,--now
appeared to care as little for her. And yet to be Duchess of
Omnium! But was it not clear that he was absolutely in love with
this other girl? She had played her cards so badly that the game
was now beyond her powers. Then other thoughts would come. Was it
beyond her powers? Had he not told her in London that he loved
her? Had he not given her the ring which she well knew he valued?
Ah;--if she could but have been aware of all that had passed
between Silverbridge and the Duke, how different would have been
her feelings! And then would it be not so much better for him
that he should marry her, one of his own class, than this American
girl, of whom nobody knew anything? And then,--to be the daughter
of the Duke of Omnium, to be the future Duchess, to escape from
all the cares which her father's vices and follies had brought
upon her, to have to come an end all of her troubles! Would it not
be sweet?
She had made her mind up to nothing when she asked him to walk up
to the waterfall. There was present to her only the glimmer of an
idea that she ought to caution him not to play with the American
girl's feelings. She knew herself to be aware that when the time
for her own action came her feminine feelings would get the better
of her purpose. She could not craftily bring him to the necessity
of bestowing himself upon her. Had that been within the compass of
her powers, opportunities had not been lacking to her. On such
occasions she had always 'spared him'. And should the opportunity
come again, again she would spare him. But she might perhaps do
some good,--not to herself, that was now out of the question,--but
to him by showing him how wrong he was in trifling with this
girl's feelings.
And so they started for their walk. He of course would have
avoided it had it been possible. When men in such matters have two
strings to their bow, much inconvenience is felt when the two
become entangled. Silverbridge no doubt had come over to
Killancodlem for the sake of making love to Mabel Grex, and
instead of doing so, he had made love to Isabel Boncassen. And
during the wakes of the night, and as he had dressed himself in
the morning, and while Mrs Jones had been whispering to him her
little bulletin as to the state of the young lady's health, he had
not repented himself of the change. Mabel had been, he thought, so
little gracious to him that he would have given up that notion
earlier, but for his indiscreet declaration to his father. On the
other hand, making love to Isabel Boncassen seemed to him to
possess some divine afflatus of joy which made it of all
imaginable occupations the sweetest and most charming. She had
admitted of no embrace. Indeed he had attempted none unless that
touch of the hand might be so called, from which she had
immediately withdrawn. Her conduct had been such that he had felt
it to be incumbent on him, at the very moment, to justify the
touch by a declaration of love. Then she had told him that she
would not promise to love him in return. And yet it had been so
sweet, so heavenly sweet!
During the morning he had almost forgotten Mabel. When Mrs Jones
told him that Isabel would keep her room, he longed to ask for
leave to go and make some inquiry at the door. She would not play
lawn-tennis with him. Well;--he did not now care much for that.
After what he had said to her she must at any rate give him some
answer. She had been so gracious to him that his hopes ran very
high. It never occurred to him to fancy that she might be gracious
to him because he was heir to the Dukedom of Omnium. She herself
was so infinitely superior to all wealth, to all rank, to all
sublunary arrangements, conventions, and considerations, that
there was no room for confidence of that nature. But he was
confident because he smile had been sweet, her eyes bright,--and
because he was conscious, though unconsciously conscious of
something of the sympathy of love.
But he had to go to the waterfall with Mabel. Lady Mabel was
always dressed perfectly,--having great gifts of her own in that
direction. There was a freshness about her which made her morning
costume more charming than that of evening, and never did she look
so well as when arrayed for a walk. On this occasion she had
certainly done her best. But he, poor blind idiot, saw nothing of
this. The white gauzy fabric which had covered Isabel's satin
petticoat on the previous evening still filled his eyes. Those
perfect boots, the little glimpses of party-coloured stockings
above them, the looped-up skirt, the jacket fitting but never
binding that lovely body and waist, the jaunty hat with its small
fresh feathers, all were nothing to him. Nor was the bright honest
face beneath the hat anything to him now;--for it was an honest
face, though misfortunes which had come had somewhat marred the
honesty of the heart.
At first the conversation was about indifferent things,--
Killancodlem and Mrs Jones, Crummie-Toddie and Reginald Dobbs.
They had gone along the high-road as far as the post-office, and
had turned through the wood and reached a seat whence there was a
beautiful view down upon the Archay before a word was said
affecting either Miss Boncassen or the ring. 'You got the ring
safe,' she said.
'Oh yes.'
'How could you be so foolish as to risk it?'
'I did not regard it as mine. You had accepted it,--I thought.'
'But if I had, and then repented of my fault in doing so, should
you not have been willing to help me in setting myself right with
myself? Of course after what had passed, it was a trouble to me
when it came. what was I to do? for a day or two I thought I would
take it, not as liking to take it, but as getting rid of the
trouble in that way. Then I remembered its value, its history, the
fact that all who knew you would want to know what had become of
it,--and I felt that it should be given back. There is only one
person to whom we must give it.'
'Who is that?' he said quickly.
'Your wife;--or to her who is to become your wife. No other woman
can be justified in accepting such a present.'
'There has been a great deal more said about it than it's worth,'
said he, not anxious at the present moment to discuss any
matrimonial projects with her. 'Shall we go to the Fall?' Then
she got up and led the way till they came to the little bridge
from which they could see the Falls of the Codlem below them. 'I
call that very pretty,' he said.
'I thought you would like it.'
'I never saw anything of that kind more jolly. Do you care for
scenery, Mabel?'
'Very much. I know no pleasure equal to it. You have never seen
Grex?'
'Is it like this?'
'Not in the least. It is wilder than this, and there are not so
many trees; but to my eye it is very beautiful. I wish you had
seen it.'
'Perhaps I may some day.'
'That is not likely now,' she said. 'The house is in ruins. If I
had just money enough to keep it for myself, I think I could live
alone there and be happy.'
'You;--alone. Of course you mean to marry?'
'Mean to marry! Do persons marry because they mean it? With
nineteen men out of twenty the idea of marrying them would convey
the idea of hating them. No doubt you do mean it.'
'I suppose I shall,--some day. How very well the house looks from
here.' It was incumbent upon him at the present moment to turn
the conversation.
But when she had a project in her head it was not easy to turn her
away. 'Yes indeed,' she said, 'very well. But as I was saying,--you
can mean to marry.'
'Anybody can mean it.'
'But you can carry out a purpose. What are you thinking of doing
now?'
'Upon my honour, Mabel, that is unfair.'
'Are we not friends?'
'I think so.'
'Dear friends?'
'I hope so.'
'Then may I not tell you what I think? If you do not mean to marry
that American young lady you should not raise false hopes.'
'False hopes!' He had hopes, but he had never thought that Isabel
could have any.
'False hopes;--certainly. Do you not know that everyone was looking
at you last night?'
'Certainly not.'
'And that old woman is going about talking of it as her doing,
pretending to be afraid of your father, whereas nothing would
please her better than to humble a family so high as yours.'
'Humble!' exclaimed Lord Silverbridge.
'Do you think your father would like it? Would you think that
another man would be doing well for himself by marrying Miss
Boncassen?'
'I do,' said he energetically.
'Then you must be very much in love with her.'
'I say nothing about that.'
'If you are so much in love with her that you mean to face the
displeasure of your friends--'
'I do not say what I mean. I could talk more freely to you than to
anyone else, but I won't talk about that even to you. As regards
Miss Boncassen, I think that any man might marry her, without
discredit. I won't have it said that she can be inferior to me,--or
to anybody.'
There was a steady manliness in this which took Lady Mabel by
surprise. She was convinced that he intended to offer his hand to
the girl, and now was actuated chiefly by a feeling that his doing
so would be an outrage to all English propriety. If a word might
have an effect it would be her duty to speak the word. 'I think
you are wrong there, Lord Silverbridge.'
'I am sure I am right.'
'What have you yourself felt about your sister and Mr Tregear?'
'It is altogether different;--altogether. Frank's wife will be
simply his wife. Mine, should I outlive my father, will be the
Duchess of Omnium.'
'But your father? I have heard you speak with better regret of
this affair of Lady Mary's because it vexes him. Would your
marriage with an American lady vex him less?'
'Why should it vex him at all? Is she vulgar, or ill to look at,
or stupid?'
'Think of her mother.'
'I am not going to marry her mother. Or for that matter am I going
to marry her. You are taking all that for granted in most unfair
way.'
'How can I help it after what I say yesterday?'
'I will not talk any more about it. We had better go down or we
shall get no lunch.' Lady Mabel, as she followed him, tried to
make herself believe that all her sorrow came from regret that so
fine a scion of the British nobility should throw himself away
upon an American adventuress.
The guests were still at lunch when they entered the dining-room,
and Isabel was seated close to Mrs Jones. Silverbridge at once
went up to her,--and place was made for him as though he had almost
a right to be next to her. Miss Boncassen herself bore the honours
well, seeming to regard the little change at table as though it
was of no moment. 'I became so eager about that game,' she said,
'that I went on too long.'
'I hope you are now none the worse.'
'At six o'clock this morning I thought I should never use my legs
again.'
'Were you awake at six?' said Silverbridge, with pitying voice.
'That was it. I could not sleep. Now I begin to hope that sooner
or later I shall unstiffen.'
During every moment, at every word that he uttered, he was
thinking of the declaration of love which he had made to her. But
it seemed to him as though the matter had not dwelt on her mind.
When they drew their chairs away from the table he thought that
not a moment was to be lost before some further explanation of
their feelings for each other should be made. Was not the matter
which had been so far discussed of vital importance for both of
them? And, glorious as she was above all other women, the offer
which he had made must have some weight with her. He did not think
that he proposed to give more than she deserved, but still that
which he was so willing to give was not a little. Or was it
possible that she had not understood his meaning? If so, he would
not willingly lose a moment before he made it plain to her. But
she seemed content to hang about with the other women, and when
she sauntered about the grounds seated herself on a garden-chair
with Lady Mabel, and discussed with great eloquence the general
beauty of Scottish scenery. An hour went on in this way. Could it
be that she knew that he had offered to make her his wife? During
this time he went and returned more than once, but still she was
there, on the same garden-seat, talking to those who came in her
way.
Then on a sudden she got up and put her hand on his arm. 'Come and
take a turn with me,' she said. 'Lord Silverbridge, do you
remember anything of last night?'
'Remember!'
'I thought for a while this morning that I would let it all pass
as though it had been a mere trifling!'
'It would have wanted two to let it pass in that way,' he said,
almost indignantly.
On hearing this she looked up at him, and there came over her face
that brilliant smile, which to him was perhaps the most potent of
her spells. 'What do you mean by wanting two?'
'I must have voice in it as well as you.'
'And what is your voice?'
'My voice is this. I told you last night that I loved you. This
morning I ask you to be my wife.'
'It is a very clear voice,' she said,--almost in a whisper; but in
a tone so serious that it startled him.
'It ought to be clear,' he said doggedly.
'Do you think I don't know that? Do you think that if I liked you
well last night I don't like you better now?'
'But do you like me?'
'That is just the thing I am going to say nothing about.'
'Isabel!'
'Just the one thing I will not allude to. Now you must listen to
me.'
'Certainly.'
'I know a great deal about you. We Americans are an inquiring
people, and I have found out pretty much everything.' His mind
misgave him as he felt she had ascertained his former purpose
respecting Mabel. 'You,' she said, 'among young men in England are
about the foremost, and therefore,--as I think,--about the foremost
in the world. And you have all personal gifts;--youth and spirits--
Well, I will not go on and name the others. You are, no doubt,
supposed to be entitled to the best and sweetest of God's feminine
creatures.'
'You are she.'
'Whether you be entitled to me or not I cannot yet say. Now I will
tell you something of myself. My father's father came to New York
as a labourer from Holland, and worked upon the quays in that
city. Then he built houses, and became rich, and was almost a
miser;--with the good sense, however, to educate his only son. What
my father is you see. To me he is sterling gold, but he is not
like your people. My dear mother is not at all like your ladies.
She is not a lady in your sense,--though with her unselfish
devotion to others she is something infinitely better. For myself
I am,--well, meaning to speak honestly, I will call myself pretty
and smart. I think I know how to be true.'
'I am sure you do.'
'But what right have you to suppose I shall know how to be a
Duchess?'
'I am sure you will.'
'Now listen to me. Go to your friends and ask them. Ask that Lady
Mabel;--ask your father,--ask that Lady Cantrip. And above all, ask
yourself. And allow me to require you to take three months to do
this. Do not come to see me for three months.'
'And then?'
'What may happen then I cannot tell, for I want three months also
to think of it myself. Till then, good-bye.' She gave him her
hand and left it in his for a few seconds. He tried to draw her to
him, but she resisted him, still smiling. Then she left him.
CHAPTER 41
Ischl
It was custom with Mrs Finn almost every autumn to go off to
Vienna, where she possessed considerable property, and there to
inspect the circumstances of her estate. Sometimes her husband
would accompany her, and he did so in this year of which we are
now speaking. One morning in September they were together at an
hotel at Ischi, whither they had come from Vienna, when as they
went through the hall into the courtyard, they came, in the very
doorway, upon the Duke of Omnium and his daughter. The Duke and
Lady Mary had just arrived, having passed through the mountains
from the salt-mine district, and were about to take up their
residence in the hotel for a few days. They had travelled very
slowly, for Lady Mary had been ill, and the Duke had expressed his
determination to see a doctor at Ischi.
There is no greater mistake than in supposing that only the young
blush. But the blushes of middle-life are luckily not seen through
the tan which has come from the sun and the gas and the work and
wiles of the world. Both the Duke and Phineas blushed; and though
their blushes were hidden, that peculiar glance of the eye which
always accompanies a blush was visible enough from the one to the
other. The elder lady kept her countenance admirably, and the
younger one had no occasion for blushing. She at once ran forward
and kissed her friend. The Duke stood with his hat off waiting to
give his hand to the lady, and then took that of his late
colleague. 'How odd that we should meet here,' he said, turning to
Mrs Finn.
'Odd enough to us that your Grace should be here,' she said,
'because we had heard nothing of your intended coming.'
'It is so nice to find you,' said Lady Mary. 'We are this moment
come. Don't say that you are this moment going.'
'At this moment we are only going as far as Halstadt.'
'And are coming back to dinner? Of course they will dine with us.
Will they not, papa?' The Duke said that he hoped they would. To
declare that you are engaged at an hotel, unless there be some
real engagement is almost an impossibility. There was no escape,
and before they were allowed to get into their carriage they had
promised that they would dine with the Duke and his daughter.
'I don't know that it is especially a bore,' Mrs Finn said to her
husband in the carriage. 'You may be quite sure that of whatever
trouble there may be in it, he has much more than his share.'
'His share would be the whole,' said the husband. 'No one else has
done anything wrong.'
When the Duke's apology had reached her, so that there was no
longer any ground for absolute hostility, then she had told the
whole story to her husband. He at first was very indignant. What
right had the Duke to expect that any ordinary friend should act
duenna over his daughter in accordance with his caprices? This was
said and much more of this kind. But any humour towards
quarrelling which Phineas Finn might have felt for a day or so was
quieted by his wife's prudence. 'A man,' she said, 'can do no more
than apologise. After that there is not room for reproach.'
At dinner the conversation turned at first on British politics, in
which Mrs Finn was quite able to take her part. Phineas was
decidedly of the opinion that Sir Timothy Beeswax and Lord
Drummond could not live another session. And on this subject a
good deal was said. Later in the evening the Duke found himself
sitting with Mrs Finn in the broad verandah over the hotel garden,
while Lady Mary was playing to Phineas within. 'How do you think
she is looking?' asked the father.
'Of course I see that she has been ill. She tells me that she was
far from well at Salzburg.'
'Yes;--indeed for three or four days she frightened me much. She
suffered terribly from headaches.'
'Nervous headache?'
'So they said there. I feel quite angry with myself because I did
not bring a doctor with us. The trouble and ceremony of such an
accompaniment is no doubt disagreeable.'
'And I suppose seemed when you started to be unnecessary.'
'Quite unnecessary.'
'Does she complain again now?'
'She did today;--a little.'
The next morning Lady Mary could not leave her bed, and the Duke
in his sorrow was obliged to apply to Mrs Finn. After what had
passed on the previous day Mrs Finn of course called, and was
shown at once up to her young friend's room. There she found the
girl in great pain, lying with her two thin hands up to her head,
and hardly able to utter more than a word. Shortly after that Mrs
Finn was alone with the Duke, and then there took place a
conversation between them which the lady thought to be very
remarkable.
'Had I better send for a doctor from England?' he asked. In answer
to this Mrs Finn expressed her opinion that such a measure was
hardly necessary, that the gentleman from the town who had been
called in seemed to know what he was about, and that the illness,
lamentable as it was, did not seem to be in any way dangerous.
'One cannot tell what it comes from,' said the Duke dubiously.
'Young people, I fancy, are often subject to such maladies.'
'It must come from something wrong.'
'That may be said of all sickness.'
'And therefore one tries to find out the cause. She says that she
is unhappy.' These last words he spoke slowly and in a low voice.
To this Mrs Finn could make no reply. She did not doubt but that
the girl was unhappy, and she knew well why; but the source of
Lady Mary's misery was one to which she could not very well
allude. 'You know all the misery about that young man.'
'That is a trouble that requires time to cure it,' she said,--not
meaning to imply that time would cure it by enabling the girl to
forget her lover; but because in truth she had not known what else
to say.
'If time will cure it.'
'Time, they say, cures all sorrows.'
'But what should I do to help time? There is no sacrifice I would
not make,--no sacrifice! Of myself I mean. I would devote myself
to her,--leave everything else on one side. We purpose being back
in England in October; but I would remain here if I thought it
better for her comfort.'
'I cannot tell, Duke.'
'Neither can I. But you are a woman and might know better than I
do. It is so hard that a man should be left with the charge of
which from its very nature he cannot understand the duties.' Then
he paused, but she could find no words which would suit the
moment. It was almost incredible to her that after what had passed
he should speak to her at all as to the condition of his daughter.
'I cannot, you know,' he said very seriously, 'encourage a hope
that she should be allowed to marry that man.'
'I do not know.'
'You yourself, Mrs Finn, felt that when she told about it at
Matching.'
'I felt that you would disapprove of it.'
'Disapprove of it! How could it be otherwise? Of course you felt
that. There are ranks in life in which the first comer that suits
a maiden's eye may be accepted as a flirting lover. I will not say
but that they who are born to such a life may be the happier. They
are, I am sure, free from troubles to which they are incident whom
fate has called to a different sphere. But duty is duty;--and
whatever pang it may cost, duty should be performed.'
'Certainly.'
'Certainly;--certainly; certainly,' he said, re-echoing her word.
'But then, Duke, one has to be so sure what duty requires. In many
matters this is easy enough, and the only difficulty comes from
temptation. There are cases in which it is hard to know.'
'Is this one of them?'
'I think so.'
'Then the maiden should--in any class of life--be allowed to take
the man that just suits her eye?' As he said this his mind was
intent on his Glencora and on Burgo Fitzgerald.
'I have not said so. A man may be bad, vicious, a spendthrift,--
eaten up by bad habits.' Then he frowned, thinking that she also
had her mind intent on his Glencora and on that Burgo Fitzgerald,
and being most unwilling to have the difference between Burgo and
Frank Tregear pointed out to him. 'Nor have I said,' she
continued, 'that even were none of these faults apparent in the
character of a suitor, the lady should in all cases be advised to
accept a young man because he has made himself agreeable to her.
There may be discrepancies.'
'There are,' said he, still with a low voice, but with infinite
energy,--'insurmountable discrepancies.'
'I only said that this was a case in which it might be difficult
for you to see your duty plainly.'
'Why should it be?'
'You would not have her--break her heart?' Then he was silent for
awhile, turning over in his mind the proposition which now seemed
to have been made to him. If the question came to that,--should she
be allowed to break her heart and die, or should he save her from
that fate by sanctioning her marriage with Tregear? If the choice
could be put to him plainly by some supernal power, what then
would he choose? If duty required him to prevent this marriage,
his duty could not be altered by the fact that his girl would
avenge herself upon him by dying! If such a marriage were in
itself wrong, that wrong could not be made right by the fear of
such a catastrophe. Was it not often the case that duty required
that someone should die? And yet as he thought of it,--though that
the someone whom his mind had suggested was the one female
creature now left belonging to him,--he put his hand up to his brow
and trembled with agony. If he knew, if in truth he believed that
such would be the result of firmness on his part,--then he would be
infirm, then must he yield. Sooner than that, he must welcome this
Tregear to his house. But why should he think that she would die?
This woman had now asked him whether he would be willing to break
his girl's heart. It was a frightful question; but he could see
that it had come naturally in the sequence of the conversation
which he had forced upon her. Did girls break their hearts in
such emergencies? Was it not all romance? 'Men have died and
worms have eaten them,--but not for love.' He remembered it all
and carried on the argument in his mind, though the pause was but
for a minute. There might be suffering no doubt. The higher the
duties the keener the pangs! But would it become him to be
deterred from doing right because she for a time might find that
she had made the world bitter for herself? And were there not
feminine wiles,--tricks by which women learn how to have their way
in opposition to the judgement of their lords and masters? He did
not think that his Mary was wilfully guilty of any scheme. The
suffering he knew was true suffering. But not the less did it
become him to be on his guard against any attacks of this nature.
'No,' he said at last. 'I would not have her break her heart,--if I
understand what such words mean. They are generally, I think, used
fantastically.'
'You would not wish to see her overwhelmed by sorrow.'
'Wish it! What a question to ask a father!'
'I must be more plain in my language, Duke. Though such a marriage
be distasteful to you, it might perhaps be preferable to see her
sorrowing always.'
'Why should it? I have to sorrow always. We are told that man is
born to sorrow as surely as the sparks fly upwards.'
'Then I can say nothing further.'
'You think I am cruel.'
'If I am to say what I really think I shall offend you.'
'No;--not unless you mean offence.'
'I shall never do that to you, Duke. When you talk as you do now
you hardly know yourself. You think you could see her suffering
and not be moved by it. But were it to be continued long you would
give way. Though we know that there is an infinity of grief in
this life, still we struggle to save those we love from grieving.
If she be steadfast enough to cling to her affection for this man,
then at last you will have to yield.' He looked at her frowning,
but did not say a word. 'Then it will perhaps be a comfort for you
to know that the man himself is trustworthy and honest.'
There was a terrible rebuke in this; but still, as he had called
it down upon himself, he would not resent it, even in his heart.
'Thank you,' he said, rising from his chair. 'Perhaps you will see
her again this afternoon.' Of course she assented, and as the
interview had taken place in his rooms she took her leave.
This which Mrs Finn had said to him was all to the same effect as
that which had come from Lady Cantrip; only it was said with a
higher spirit. Both the women saw the matter in the same light.
There must be a fight between him and his girl; but she, if she
could hold out for a certain time, would be the conqueror. He
might take her away and try what absence would do, or he might
have recourse to that specific which had answered so well in
reference to his own wife; but if she continued to sorrow during
absence, and if she would have nothing to do with the other
lever,--then he must at last give way! He had declared that he was
willing to sacrifice himself,--meaning thereby that if a lengthened
visit to the cities of China, or a prolonged sojourn in the
Western States of America would wean her from her love, he would
go to China or to the Western States. At present his self-
banishment had been carried no farther than Vienna. During their
travels hitherto Tregear's name had not once been mentioned. The
Duke had come away from home resolved not to mention it,--and she
was minded to keep it in reserve till some seeming catastrophe
should justify a declaration of her purpose. But from first to
last she had been sad, and latterly she had been ill. When asked
as to her complaint she would simply say that she was not happy.
To go on with this through the Chinese cities could hardly be good
for either of them. She could not wake herself to any enthusiasm
in regard to scenery, costume, pictures, or even discomforts.
Wherever she was taken it was barren to her.
As their plans stood at present they were to return to England so
as to enable her to be at Custins by the middle of October. Had he
taught himself to hope that any good could be done by prolonged
travelling he would readily have thrown over Custins and Lord
Popplecourt. He could not bring himself to trust much to the
Popplecourt scheme. But the same contrivance had answered on that
former occasion. When he spoke to her about their plans, she
expressed herself quite ready to go back to England. When he
suggested those Chinese cities, her face became very long and she
was immediately attacked by paroxysms of headaches.
'I think I should take her to some place on the seashores of
England,' said Mrs Finn.
'Custins is close to the sea,' he replied. 'It is Lord Cantrip's
place in Dorsetshire. It was partly settled that she was to go
there.'
'I suppose she likes Lady Cantrip.'
'Why should she not?'
'She has not said a word to me to the contrary. I only fear that
she would feel that she was being sent there,--as to a convent.'
'What ought I to do then?'
'How can I venture to answer that? What she would like best, I
think, would be to return to Matching with you, and settle down in
a quiet way for the winter.' The Duke shook his head. That would
be worse than travelling. She would still have headaches and still
tell him that she was unhappy. 'Of course I do not know what your
plans are, and pray believe me that I should not obtrude my advice
if you did not ask me.'
'I know it,' he said. 'I know how good you are and how reasonable.
I know how much you have to forgive.'
'Oh no.'
'And if I have not said so as I should have done it has not been
from want of feeling. I do believe you did what you thought best
when Mary told you that story at Matching.'
'Why should your Grace go back to that?'
'Only that I may acknowledge my indebtedness to you, and say to
you somewhat fuller than I could do in my letter that I am sorry
for the pain which I gave you.'
'All that is over now;--and shall be forgiven.'
Then he spoke of his immediate plans. He would at once go back to
England by slow stages,--by very slow stages,--staying a day or two
at Salzburg, at Ratisbon, at Nuremberg, at Frankfurt, and so on.
In this way he would reach England about the tenth of October, and
Mary would then be ready to go to Custins by the time appointed.
In a day or two Lady Mary was better. 'It is terrible while it
lasts,' she said, speaking to Mrs Finn of her headache, 'but when
it has gone then I am quite well. Only'--she added after a pause,--
'only I can never be happy again while papa thinks as he does now.'
Then there was a party made up before they separated for an
excursion to the Hintersee and the Obersee. On this occasion Lady
Mary seemed to enjoy herself, as she liked the companionship of
Mrs Finn. Against Lady Cantrip she never said a word. But Lady
Cantrip was always a duenna to her, whereas Mrs Finn was a friend.
While the Duke and Phineas were discussing politics together,
thoroughly enjoying the weakness of Lord Drummond and the iniquity
of Sir Timothy, which they did with augmented vehemence from their
ponies' backs, the two women in lower voices talked over their own
affairs. 'I dare say you will be happy at Custins,' said Mrs Finn.
'No; I shall not. There will be people there whom I don't know,
and I don't want to know. Have you heard anything about him, Mrs
Finn?'
Mrs Finn turned round and looked at her,--for a moment almost
angrily. Then her heart relented, 'Do you mean--Mr Tregear?'
'Yes, Mr Tregear.'
'I think I heard that he was shooting with Lord Silverbridge.'
'I am glad of that,' said Mary.
'It will be pleasant for both of them.'
'I am very glad they should be together. While I know that, I feel
that we are not altogether separated. I will never give it up, Mrs
Finn,--never, never. It is not use taking me to China.' In that
Mrs Finn quite agreed with her.
CHAPTER 42
Again at Killancodlem
Silverbridge remained at Crummie-Toddie under the dominion of
Reginald Dobbes till the second week of September. Popplecourt,
Nidderdale and Gerald Palliser were there also, very obedient and
upon the whole efficient. Tregear was intractable, occasional, and
untrustworthy. He was the cause of much trouble to Mr Dobbes. He
would entertain a most heterodox and injurious idea that he had
come to Crummie-Toddie for amusement, and he was not bound to do
anything that did not amuse him. He would not understand that in
sport as in other matters there was an ambition, driving man on to
excel always and be ahead of others. In spite of this Mr Dobbes
had cause for much triumph. It was going to be the greatest thing
ever done by six guns in Scotland. As for Gerald, whom he had
regarded as a boy; and who had offended him by saying that
Crummie-Toddie was ugly,--he was ready to go round the world for
him. He had indoctrinated Gerald with all his ideas of a
sportsman,--even to a contempt for champagne and a conviction that
tobacco should be moderated. The three lords too had proved
themselves efficient, and the thing was going to be a success. But
just when a day was of vital importance, when it was essential
that there should be a strong party for a drive, Silverbridge
found it absolutely necessary that he should go over to
Killancodlem.
'She has gone,' said Nidderdale.
'Who the - is she?' asked Silverbridge almost angrily.
'Everybody know who she is,' said Popplecourt.
'It will be a good thing when some she has got hold of you, my
boy, so as to keep you in your proper place.'
'If you cannot withstand that sort of attraction you ought not to
go in for shooting at all,' said Dobbes.
'I shouldn't wonder at his going,' continued Nidderdale, 'if we
didn't all know that the American is no longer there. She has gone
to--Bath, I think they say.'
'I suppose it Mrs Jones herself,' said Popplecourt.
'My dear boy,' said Silverbridge, 'you may be quite sure that when
I say that I am going to Killancodlem I mean to go to
Killancodlem, and that no chaff about young ladies,--which I think
very disgusting,--will stop me. I shall be sorry if Dobbes's roll
of the killed should be lessened by a single hand; seeing that his
ambition sets that way. Considering the amount of slaughter we
have perpetrated, I really think that we need not be over
anxious.' After this nothing further was said. Tregear, who knew
that Mabel Grex was still at Killancodlem, had not spoken.
In truth Mabel had sent for Lord Silverbridge, and this had been
her letter.
'MY DEAR LORD SILVERBRIDGE,
'Mrs Montacute Jones is cut to the heart because you have not been
over to see her again, and she says that it is lamentable to think
that such a man as Reginald Dobbes should have so much power over
you. 'Only twelve miles,' she says, 'and he knows that we are
here!' I told that you knew Miss Boncassen was gone.
'But though Miss Boncassen has left us we are a very pleasant
party, and surely you must be tired of such a place as Crummie-
Toddie. If only for the sake of getting a good dinner once in a
way do come over again. I shall be here for ten days. As they will
not let me go back to Grex I don't know where I could be more
happy. I have been asked to go to Custins, and suppose I shall
turn up some time in the autumn.
'And now shall I tell you what I expect? I do expect that you will
come over to--see me. "I did see her the other day," you will say,
"and she did not make herself pleasant." I know that. How was I
to make myself pleasant when I found myself so completely snuffed
out by your American beauty? Now she is away, and Richard will be
himself. Do come, because in truth I want to see you.
'Yours always sincerely.
'MABEL GREX.'
On receiving this he at once made up his mind to go to
Killancodlem, but he could not make up his mind why it was that
she had asked him. He was sure of two things; sure in the first
place that she had intended to let him know that she did not care
about him; and then sure that she was aware of his intention in
regard to Miss Boncassen. Everybody at Killancodlem had seen it,--
to his disgust; but still that it was so had been manifest. And he
had consoled himself, feeling that it would matter nothing should
he be accepted. She had made an attempt to talk him out of his
purpose. Could it be that she thought it possible a second attempt
might be successful? If so, she did not know him.
She had in truth thought not only that this, but that something
further than this might be possible. Of course the prize loomed
larger before her eyes as the prospect of obtaining it became
less. She could not doubt that he had intended to offer her his
hand when he had spoken to her of his love in London. Then she had
stopped him;--had 'spared him', as she had told her friend.
Certainly she had then by swayed by some feeling that it would be
ungenerous in her to seize greedily the first opportunity he had
given her. But he had again made an effort. He surely would not
have sent her the ring had he not intended her to regard him as
her lover. When she received the ring her heart had beat very
high. Then she had sent that little note, saying that she would
keep it till she could give it to his wife. When she wrote that
she had intended that the ring should be her own. And other things
pressed upon her mind. Why had she been invited to Custins? Little
hints had reached her of the Duke's goodwill towards her. If on
that side marriage were approved, why should she destroy her own
hopes?
Then she had seen him with Miss Boncassen, and in her pique had
forced the ring back upon him. During that long game on the lawn
her feelings had been very bitter. Of course the girl was the
lovelier of the two. All the world was raving of her beauty. And
there was no doubt as to the charm of her wit and manner. And then
she had no touch of that blase used-up way of life of which Lady
Mabel was conscious herself. It was natural that it should be so.
and was she, Mabel Grex, the girl to stand in his way, and to
force herself upon him, if he loved another? Certainly not,--though
there might be a triple coronet to be had.
But were there not other considerations? Could it be well that the
heir of the House of Omnium should marry an American girl, as to
whose humble birth whispers were already afloat? As his friend,
would it not be right that she should tell him what the world
would say? as his friend, therefore, she had given him her
counsel.
When he was gone the whole thing weighed heavily on her mind. Why
should she lose the prize if it might still be her own? To be
Duchess of Omnium! She had read of many of the other sex and of
one or two of her own who by settled resolution had achieved
greatness in opposition to all obstacles. Was this thing beyond
her reach? To hunt him and catch him, and marry him to his own
injury,--that would be impossible to her. She was sure of herself
there. But how infinitely better would this be for him! Would she
not have all his family with her,--and all the world of England?
In how short a time would he not repent his marriage with Miss
Boncassen? Whereas, were she his wife, she would stir herself for
his joys, for his good, for his honour, that there should be no
possibility of repentance. And he certainly had loved her. Why
else had he followed her, and spoken such words to her? Of course
he had loved her! But then there had come this blaze of beauty
and had carried off,--not his heart, but his imagination. Because
he had yielded to such fascination, was she to desert him, and
also to desert herself? From day to day she thought of it, and
then she wrote that letter. She hardly knew what she would do,
what she might say; but she would trust to the opportunity to do
and say something.
'If you have no room for me,' he said to Mrs Jones, 'you must
scold Lady Mab. She has told me that you told her to invite me.'
'Of course I did. Do you think I would not sleep in the stables,
and give you up my own bed if there were no other? It is so good
of you to come!'
'So good of you, Mrs Jones, to ask me.'
'So very kind to come when all the attraction has gone!' Then he
blushed and stammered, and was just able to say that his only
object in life was to pour out his adoration at the feet of Mrs
Montacute Jones herself.
There was a certain Lady Fawn,--a pretty mincing married woman of
about twenty-five, with a husband much older, who liked mild
flirtations with mild young men. 'I am afraid we've lost your
great attraction,' she whispered to him.
'Certainly not as long as Lady Fawn is here,' he said, seating
himself close to her on a garden bench, and seizing suddenly hold
of her hand. She gave a little scream and a jerk, and so relieved
herself from him. 'You see,' said he, 'people do make such
mistakes about a man's feelings.'
'Lord Silverbridge!'
'It's quite true, but I'll tell you about it another time,' and so
he left her. All these little troubles, his experience in the
'House', the necessity of snubbing Tifto, the choice of a wife,
and his battle with Reginald Dobbes, were giving him by degrees
age and flavour.
Lady Mabel had fluttered about him on his first coming, and had
been very gracious, doing the part of an old friend. 'There is to
be a big shooting tomorrow,' she said, in the presence of Mrs
Jones.
'If it is to come to that,' he said, 'I might as well go back to
Dobbydom.'
'You may shoot if you like,' said Mabel.
'I haven't even brought a gun with me.'
'Then we'll have a walk,--a whole lot of us,' she said.
In the evening about an hour before dinner Silverbridge and Lady
Mabel were seated together on the bank of a little stream which
ran on the other side of the road, but on a spot not more than a
furlong from the hall-door. She had brought him there, but she had
done so without any definite scheme. She had made no plan of
campaign for the evening, having felt relieved when she found
herself able to postpone the project of her attack till the
morrow. Of course there must be an attack, but how it should be
made she had never the courage to tell herself. The great women of
the world, the Semiramises, the Pocohontas, the Ida Pfeiffers, and
the Charlotte Cordays, had never been wanting to themselves when
the moment for action came. Now she was pleased to have this
opportunity added to her; this pleasant minute in which some soft
preparatory word might be spoken; but the great effort should be
made on the morrow.
'Is not this nicer than shooting with Mr Dobbes?' she asked.
'A great deal nicer. Of course I am bound to say so.'
'But in truth, I want to find out what you really like. Men are so
different. You need not pay me any compliment; you know that well
enough.'
'I like you better than Dobbes,--if you mean that.'
'Even so much is something.'
'But I am fond of shooting.'
'Only a man may have enough of it.'
'Too much, if he is subject to Dobbes, as Dobbes likes them to be.
Gerald likes it.'
'Did you think it odd,' she said after a pause, 'that I should ask
you to come over again?'
'Was it odd?' he replied.
'That is as you may take it. There is certainly no other man in
the world to whom I would have done it.'
'Not to Tregear?'
'Yes,' she said; 'yes,--to Tregear, could I have been as sure of a
welcome for him as I am for you. Frank is in all respects the same
as a brother to me. That would not have seemed odd;--I mean to
myself.'
'And has this been--odd,--to yourself?'
'Yes. Not that anybody has felt it. Only I,--and perhaps you. You
felt it so?'
'Not especially. I thought you were a good fellow. I have always
thought that;--except when you made me take back the ring.'
'Does that still fret you?'
'No man likes to take back a thing. It makes him seem to have been
awkward and stupid in giving it.'
'It was the value--'
'You should have left me to judge of that.'
'If I have offended you I will beg your pardon. Give me anything
but that, and I will take it.'
'But why not that?' said he.
'Now that you have fitted it for a lady's finger it should go to
your wife. No one else should have it.' Upon this he brought the
ring once more out of his pocket and again offered it to her. 'No;
anything but that. That your wife must have.' Then he put the
ring back again. 'It would have been nicer for you had Miss
Boncassen been here.' In saying this she followed no plan. It
came rather from pique. It was almost as though she had asked him
whether Miss Boncassen was to have the ring.
'What makes you say that?'
'But it would.'
'Yes it would,' he replied stoutly, turning round as he lay on the
ground and facing her.
'Has it come to that?'
'Come to what? You ask me a question and I will answer it truly.'
'You cannot be happy without her?'
'I did not say so. You ask me whether I should like to have her
here,--and I say Yes. What would you think of me if I said No?'
'My being here is not enough?' This should not have been said, of
course; but the little speech came from the exquisite pain of the
moment. She had meant to have said hardly anything. She had
intended to be happy with him, just touching lightly on things
which might lead to that attack which must be made on the morrow.
But words will often lead whither the speaker has not intended. So
it was now, and in the soreness of her heart she spoke, 'My being
here is not enough?'
'It would be enough,' he said jumping to his feet, 'if you would
understand all and be kind to me.'
'I will at any rate be kind to you,' she replied, as she sat upon
the bank looking at the running water.
'I have asked Miss Boncassen to be my wife.'
'And she has accepted?'
'No; not as yet. She is to take three months to think of it. Of
course I love her best of all. If you will sympathise with me in
that, then I will be as happy with you as the day is long.'
'No,' said she, 'I cannot. I will not.'
'Very well.'
'There should be no such marriage. If you have told me this in
confidence--'
'Of course I have told you in confidence.'
'It will go no farther; but there can be no sympathy between us.
It--it--it is not,--is not--' Then she burst into tears.
'Mabel!'
'No, sir, no; no! What did you mean? But never mind. I have no
question to ask, not a word to say. Why should I? Only this,--that
such a marriage will disgrace your family. To me it is no more
than to anybody else. But it will disgrace your family.'
How she got back to the house she hardly knew; nor did he. That
evening they did not again speak to each other, and on the
following morning there was no walk to the mountains. Before
dinner he drove himself back to Crummie-Toddie, and when he was
taking his leave she shook hands with him with her usual pleasant
smile.
CHAPTER 43
What Happened at Doncaster
The Leger this year was to be run on the fourteenth of September,
and while Lord Silverbridge was amusing himself with the dear at
Crummie-Toddie and at Killancodlem with the more easily pursued
young ladies, the indefatigable Major was hard at work in the
stables. This came a little hard on him. There was the cub-hunting
to be looked after, which made his presence at Runnymede
necessary, and then that 'pig-headed fellow, Silverbridge', would
not have the horse trained anywhere but at Newmarket. How was he
to be in two places at once? Yet he was in two places, almost at
once, cub-hunting in the morning at Egham and Bagshot, and sitting
on the same evening at the stable-door at Newmarket, with his eyes
fixed upon Prime Minister.
Gradually had he and Captain Green come to understand each other,
and though they did at last understand each other, Tifto would
talk as though there were no such correct intelligence;--when for
instance he would abuse Lord Silverbridge for being pig-headed. On
such occasions the Captain's remark would generally be short.
'That be blowed!' he would say, implying that that state of things
between the two partners in which such complaints might be
natural, had now been brought to an end. But on one occasion,
about a week before the race, he spoke out a little plainer.
'What's the use of going on with all that, before me? It's settled
what you've got to do.'
'I don't know that anything is settled,' said the Major.
'Ain't it? I thought it was. if it aren't you'll find yourself in
the wrong box. You've as straight a tip as a man need wish for,
but if you back out you'll come to grief. Your money's all on the
other way already.'
On the Friday before the race Silverbridge dined with Tifto at the
Beargarden. On the next morning they went down to Newmarket to see
the horse get a gallop, and came back the same evening. During all
this time, Tifto was more than ordinarily pleasant to his patron.
The horse and the certainty of the horse's success were the only
subjects mooted. 'It isn't what I say,' repeated Tifto, 'but look
at the betting. You can't get five to four against him. They tell
me that if you want to do anything on the Sunday the pull will be
the other way.'
'I stand to lose twenty thousand pounds already,' said
Silverbridge, almost frightened by the amount.
'But how much are you to win?' said Tifto. 'I suppose you could
sell your bets for five thousand pounds down.'
'I wish I knew how to do it,' said Silverbridge. But this was an
arrangement, which, if made just now, would not suit the Major's
views.
They went to Newmarket, and there they met Captain Green. 'Tifto,'
said the young lord, 'I won't have that fellow with us when that
horse is galloping.'
'There isn't an honester man, or a man who understands a horse's
pace better in all England,' said Tifto.
'I won't have him standing alongside of me on the Heath,' said his
lordship.
'I don't know how I'm to help it.'
'If he's there I'll send the horse in;--that's all.' Then Tifto
found it best to say a few words to Captain Green. But the Captain
also said a few words to himself. 'D- young fool; he don't know
what he's dropping into.' Which assertion, if you lay aside the
unnecessary expletive, was true to the letter. Lord Silverbridge
was a young fool, and did not at all know into what a mess he was
being dropped by the united experience, perspicuity, and energy of
the man whose company on the Heath he had declined.
The horse was quite a 'picture to look at. Mr Pook the trainer
assured his Lordship that for health and condition he had never
seen anything better. 'Stout all over,' said Mr Pook, 'and not an
ounce of what you may call flesh. And bright! just feel his coat,
my Lord! That's 'ealth,--that is; not dressing, nor yet macassar!'
And then there were various evidences produced of his pace,--how he
had beaten that horse, giving him two pounds, how he had been
beated by that, but only a mile course; the Leger distance was
just the thing for Prime Minister; how by a lucky chance that
marvellous quick rat of a thing that had won the Derby had not
been entered for the autumn race; how Coalheaver was known to have
bad feet. 'He's a stout 'orse, no doubt,--is the 'Eaver,' said Mr
Pook, 'and that's why the betting-men have stuck to him. But he'll
be nowhere on Wednesday. They're beginning to see it now, my Lord.
I wish they wasn't so sharp-sighted.'
In the course of the day, however, they met a gentleman who was of
a different opinion. He said loudly that he looked on the Heaver
as the best three-year-old in England. Of course as matters stood
he wasn't going to back the Heaver with even money;--but he'd take
twenty-five to thirty in hundreds between the two. All this ended
in the bet being accepted and duly booked by Lord Silverbridge.
And in this way Silverbridge added two thousand four hundred
pounds to his responsibilities.
But there was worse than this coming. On the Sunday afternoon he
went down to Doncaster, of course in the company with the Major.
He was alive to the necessity of ridding himself of the Major; but
it had been acknowledged that the duty could not be performed till
after this race had been run. As he sat opposite to his friend on
their journey to Doncaster, he thought of this in the train. It
should be done immediately on their return to London after the
race. But the horse, his Prime Minister, was by this time so dear
to him that he intended if possible to keep possession of the
animal.
When they reached Doncaster the racing-men were all occupied with
Prime Minister. The horse and Mr Pook had arrived that day from
Newmarket, via Cambridge and Peterborough. Tifto, Silverbridge,
and Mr Pook visited him together three times that afternoon and
evening;--and the Captain also visited the horse, though not in
company with Lord Silverbridge. To do Mr Pook justice, no one
could be more careful. When the Captain came round with the Major
Mr Pook was there. But Captain Green did not enter the box,--had no
wise to do so, was of the opinion that on such occasions no one
whose business did not carry him there should go near a horse. His
only object seemed to be to compliment Mr Pook as to his care,
skill, and good fortune.
It was on the Tuesday evening that the chief mischief was done.
There was a club at which many of the racing-men dined, and there
Lord Silverbridge spent his evening. He was the hero of the hour,
and everybody flattered him. It must be acknowledged that his head
was turned. They dined at eight and much wine was drunk. No one
was tipsy, but many were elated; and much confidence in their
favourite animals was imparted to men who had been sufficiently
cautious before dinner. Then cigars and soda-and-brandy became
common, and our young friend was not more abstemious than others.
Large sums were named, and at last in three successive bets Lord
Silverbridge backed his horse for more than forty thousand pounds.
As he was making the second bet Mr Lupton came across to him and
begged him to hold his hand. 'It will be a nasty sum for you to
lose, and winning it will be nothing to you,' he said.
Silverbridge took it good-humouredly, but said that he knew what
he was about. 'These men will pay,' whispered Lupton; 'but you
can't be sure what they're at.' The young man's brow was covered
with perspiration. He was smoking quick and had already smoked
more than was good for him. 'All right,' he said. 'I'll mind what
I'm about.' Mr Lupton could do no more, and retired. Before the
night was over bets had been booked to the amount stated, and the
Duke's son, who had promised that he would never plunge, stood to
lose about seventy thousand pounds upon the race.
While this was going on Tifto sat not far from his patron, but
completely silent. During the day and early in the evening a few
sparks of the glory which scintillated from the favourite horse
flew in his direction. But he was on this occasion unlike himself,
and though the horse was to be run in his name had very little to
say in the matter. Not a boast came out of his mouth during dinner
or after dinner. He was so moody that his partner, who was
generally anxious to keep him quiet, more than once endeavoured to
encourage him. But he was unable to rouse himself. It was still
within his power to run straight; to be on the square, if not with
Captain Green, at any rate with Lord Silverbridge. But to do so he
must make a clean breast with his Lordship and confess the
intended sin. As he heard all that was being done, his conscience
troubled him sorely. With pitch of this sort he had never soiled
himself before. He was to have three thousand pounds from Green,
and then there would be the bets he himself had laid against the
horse,--by Green's assistance! It would be the making of him. Of
what use had been all his 'square' work to him? And then
Silverbridge had behaved so badly to him! But still, as he sat
there during the evening, he would have given a hand to have been
free from the attempt. He had no conception before that he could
become subject to such misery from such a cause. He would make it
straight with Silverbridge this very night,--but that Silverbridge
was ever lighting fresh cigars and ever having his glass refilled.
It was clear to him that on this night Silverbridge could not be
made to understand anything about it. And the deed in which he
himself was to be the chief actor was to be done very early in the
following morning. At last he slunk away to bed.
On the following morning, the morning of the day on which the race
was to be run, the Major tapped on his patron's door about seven
o'clock. Of course there was no answer though the knock was
repeated. When young men overnight drink as much brandy-and-water
as Silverbridge had done, and smoke as many cigars, they are apt
not to hear knocks at their door made at seven o'clock. But there
was no time, not a minute, to be lost. Now, within this minute
that was pressing on him, Tifto must choose his course. He opened
the door and was standing at the young man's head.
'What the d- does this mean?' said his Lordship angrily, as soon
as his visitor had succeeded in waking him. Tifto muttered
something about the horse which Silverbridge failed to understand.
The young man's condition was by no means pleasant. His mouth was
furred by the fumes of tobacco. His head was aching. He was heavy
with sleep, and this intrusion seemed to him to be a final
indignity offered to him by the man whom he now hated. 'What
business have you to come in here?' he said, leaning on his elbow.
'I don't care a straw for the horse. If you have anything to say
send my servant. Get out!'
'Oh;--very well,' said Tifto;--and Tifto got out.
It was about an hour afterwards that Tifto returned, and on this
occasion a groom from the stables, and the young Lord's own
servant, and two or three other men were with him. Tifto had been
made to understand that the news was about to be communicated,
must be communicated by himself, whether his Lordship were angry
or not. Indeed, after what had been done his Lordship's anger was
not of much moment. In his present visit he was only carrying out
the pleasant little plan which had been arranged for him by
Captain Green. 'What the mischief is up?' said Silverbridge,
rising in his bed.
Then Tifto told his story, sullenly, doggedly, but still in a
perspicuous manner, and with words which admitted of no doubt. But
before he told the story he had excluded all but himself and the
groom. He and the groom had taken the horse out of the stable, it
being the animal's nature to eat his corn better after a slight
exercise, and while doing so a nail had been picked up.
'Is it much?' asked Silverbridge, jumping still higher in his bed.
Then he was told that it was very much,--that the iron had driven
itself into the horse's frog, and that there was actually no
possibility that the horse should be run that day.
'He can't walk, my Lord,' said the groom in that authoritative
voice which grooms use when they desire to have their own way, and
to make their masters understand that they at any rate are not to
have theirs.
'Where is Pook?' asked Silverbridge. But Mr Pook was also still in
bed.
It was soon known to Lord Silverbridge as a fact that in very
truth the horse could not run. Then sick with headache, with a
stomach suffering unutterable things, he had, as he dressed
himself, to think of his seventy thousand pounds. Of course the
money would be forthcoming. But how would his father look at him?
How would it be between him and his father now? after such a
misfortune how would he be able to break that other matter to the
Duke, and say that he had changed his mind about his marriage,--
that he was going to abandon Lady Mabel Grex and give his hand and
a future Duchess's coronet to an American girl whose grandfather
had been a porter.
A nail in his foot! He had heard of such things before. He knew
that such accidents had happened. What an ass must he have been to
risk such a sum on the well-being and safety of an animal who
might any day pick up a nail in is foot? Then he thought of the
caution which Lupton had given him. What good would the money have
done him had he won it? What more could he have than he now
enjoyed? But to lose such a sum of money! With all his advantages
of wealth he felt himself to be as forlorn and wretched as though
he had nothing left in the world before him.
CHAPTER 44
How It was Done
The story was soon about the town, and was the one matter for
discussion in all racing quarters. About the town! It was about
England, about all Europe. It had travelled to America and the
Indies, to Australia and the Chinese cities before two hours were
over. Before the race was run the accident was discussed and
something like the truth surmised in Cairo, Calcutta, Melbourne,
and San Francisco. But at Doncaster it was so all-pervading a
matter that down to the tradesmen's daughters and the boys at the
free-school the town was divided into two parties, one party
believing it to have been a 'plant', and the other holding that
the cause had been natural. It is hardly necessary to say that the
ring, as a rule, belonged to the former party. The ring always
suspects. It did not behove even those who would win by the
transaction to stand up for its honesty.
The intention had been to take the horse round a portion of the
outside of the course near to which his stable stood. A boy rode
him and the groom and Tifto went with him. At a certain spot on
their return Tifto had exclaimed that the horse was going lame in
his off fore-foot. As to this exclamation the boy and two men were
agreed. The boy was then made to dismount and run for Mr Pook; and
as he started Tifto commenced to examine the horse's foot. The boy
saw him raise the off fore-leg. He himself had not found the horse
lame under him, but had been so hustled and hurried out of the
saddle by Tifto and the groom that he had not thought on that
matter till he was questioned. So far the story told by Tifto and
the groom was corroborated by the boy,--except as to the horse's
actual lameness. So far the story was believed by all men,--except
in regard to the actual lameness. And so far it was true. Then,
according to Tifto and the groom, the other foot was looked at,
but nothing was seen. This other foot, the near fore-foot, was
examined by the groom, who declared himself to be so flurried by
the lameness of such a horse at such a time, that he hardly knew
what he saw or what he did not see. At any rate then in his
confusion he found no cause of lameness; but the horse was led
into the stable as lame as at tree. Here Tifto found the nail
inserted into the very cleft of the frog of the near fore-foot,
and so inserted that he could not extract it till the farrier
came. That the farrier had extracted the nail from the part of
the foot indicated was certainly a fact.
Then there was the nail. Only those who were most peculiarly
privileged were allowed to see the nail. But it was buzzed about
the racing quarters that the head of the nail,--and old rusty,
straight, and well-pointed nail,--bore on it the mark of a recent
hammer. In answer to this it was alleged that the blacksmith in
extracting the nail with his pincers, had of course operated on
its head, had removed certain particles of ruse, and might easily
have given it the appearance of having been struck. But in answer
to this the farrier, who was a sharp fellow, and quite beyond
suspicion in the matter, declared that he had very particularly
looked at the nail before he extracted it,--had looked at it with
the feeling that something base might too probably have been
done,--and that he was ready to swear that the clear mark on the
head of the nail was there before he touched it. And then not in
the stable, but lying under the little dung-heap away from the
stable-door, there was found a small piece of broken iron bar,
about a foot long, which might have answered for a hammer,--a rusty
bit of iron; and amidst the rust of this there was found such
traces as might have been left had it been used in striking such a
nail. There were some who declared that neither on the nail nor on
the iron could they see anything. And among these was the Major.
But Mr Lupton brought a strong magnifying-glass to bear, and the
world of examiners was satisfied that the marks were there.
It seem however to be agreed that nothing could be done.
Silverbridge would not lend himself at all to those who suspected
mischief. He was miserable enough, but in this great trouble he
would not separate himself from Tifto. 'I don't believe a word of
all that,' he said to Mr Lupton.
'It ought to be investigated at any rate.'
'Mr Pook may do as he likes, but I will have nothing to do with
it.'
Then Tifto came to him swaggering. Tifto had to go through a
considerable amount of acting, for which he was not very well
adapted. The Captain would have done it better. He would have
endeavoured to put himself altogether into the same boat with his
partner, and would have imagined neither suspicion or enmity on
his partner's part till suspicion or enmity had been shown. But
Tifto, who had not expected that the matter should be allowed to
pass over without some inquiry, began by assuming that
Silverbridge would think of evil of him. Tifto, who at this moment
would have given all that he had in the world not to have done the
deed, who now hated the instigator of the deed, and felt something
almost akin to love for Silverbridge, found himself to be forced
by circumstances to defend himself by swaggering. 'I don't
understand all this that's going on, my Lord,' he said.
'Neither do I,' replied Silverbridge.
'Any horse is subject to an accident. I am, I suppose, as great a
sufferer as you are, and deuced sight less able to bear it.'
'Who said anything to the contrary? As for bearing it, we must
take it as it comes,--both of us. You may as well know now as later
that I have done with racing--for ever.'
'What do you do you tell me that for? You can do as you like and I
can do as I like about that. If I had my way about the horse this
never would have happened. Taking a horse out at that time in the
morning,--before a race!'
'Why, you went out with him yourself.'
'Yes;---by Pook's orders. You allowed Pook to do just as he
pleased. I should like to know what money Pook had got on it, and
which way he laid it.' This disgusted Silverbridge so much that
he turned away and would have no more to say to Tifto.
Before one o'clock, at which hour it was stated nominally that the
races would commence, general opinion had formed itself,--and
general opinion had nearly hit the truth. General opinion declared
that the nail had been driven in wilfully,--that it had been done
by Tifto himself, and that Tifto had been instigated by Captain
Green. Captain Green perhaps overacted his part a little. His
intimacy with the Major was well known, and yet, in all this
turmoil, he kept himself apart as though he had no interest in the
matter. 'I have got my little money on, and what little I have I
lose,' he said in answer to inquiries. But everyone knew that he
could not but have a great interest in a race, as to which the
half owner of the favourite was a peculiarly intimate friend of
his own. Had he come down to the stables and been seen about the
place with Tifto it might have been better. As it was, though he
was very quiet, his name was soon mixed up in the matter. There
was one man who asserted it as a fact known to himself that Green
and Villiers,--one Gilbert Villiers,--were in partnership together.
It was very well known that Gilbert Villiers would win two
thousand five hundred pounds from Lord Silverbridge.
Then minute investigations was made into the betting of certain
individuals. Of course there would be great plunder, and where
would the plunder go? Who would get the money which poor
Silverbridge would lose? It was said that one at least of the
large bets made on that Tuesday evening could be traced to the
same Villiers though not actually made by him. More would be
learned when the settling-day should come. But there was quite
enough already to show that there were many men determined to get
to the bottom of it if possible.
There came upon Silverbridge in his trouble a keen sense of his
position and a feeling of the dignity which he ought to support.
He clung during great part of the morning to Mr Lupton. Mr Lupton
was much his senior and they had never been intimate; but now
there was comfort in his society. 'I am afraid you are hit
heavily,' said Mr Lupton.
'Something over seventy thousand pounds.'
'Looking at what will be your property it is of course nothing.
But if--'
'If what?'
'If you go to the Jews for it then it will become a great deal.'
'I shall certainly not do that.'
'Then you may regard it as a trifle,' said Lupton.
'No, I can't. It is not a trifle. I must tell my father. He'll
find the money.'
'There is no doubt about that.'
'He will. But I feel at present that I would rather change places
with the poorest gentleman I know than have to tell him. I have
done with races, Lupton.'
'If so, this will have been a happy day for you. A man in your
position can hardly make money by it, but he may lose so much! If
a man really likes the amusement,--as I do,--and risks no more that
what he has in his pocket, that may be very well.'
'At any rate I have done with it.'
Nevertheless he went to see the race run, and everybody seemed to
be touched with pity for him. He carried himself well, saying as
little as he could of his own horse, and taking, or affecting to
take, great interest in the race. After the race he managed to see
all those to whom he has lost heavy stakes,--having to own to
himself as he did so that not one of them was a gentleman to whom
who should like to give his hand. To them he explained that his
father was abroad,--that probably his liabilities could not be
settled till after his father's return. He however would consult
his father's agent and would then appear on settling-day. They
were all full of their blandest courtesies. There was not one of
them who had any doubt as to getting his money,--unless the whole
thing might be disputed on the score of Tifto's villainy. Even
then payment could not be disputed unless it was proved that he
who demanded the money had been one of the actual conspirators.
After having seen his creditors he went away up alone to London.
When in London he went to Carlton Terrace and spent the night in
absolute solitude. It had been his plan to join Gerald for some
partridge-shooting at Matching, and then to go yachting till such
time as he should be enabled to renew his suit to Miss Boncassen.
Early in November he would again ask her to be his wife. These had
been his plans. But now it seemed that everything was changed.
Partridge-shooting and yachting must be out of the question till
this terrible load was taken off his shoulders. Soon after his
arrival at the house two telegrams followed him from Doncaster.
One was from Gerald. 'What is all this about Prime Minister? Is it
a sell? I am so unhappy.' The other was from Lady Mabel,--for
among other luxuries Mrs Montacute Jones had own telegraph-wire at
Killancodlem. 'Can this be true? We are all so miserable. I do
hope it is not much.' From which he learned that his misfortune
was already known to all his friends.
And now what was he to do? He ate his supper, and then without
hesitating for a moment--feeling that if he did hesitate the task
would not be done on that night,--he sat down and wrote the
following letter.
'Carlton Terrace, Sept. 14, 18-.
'MY DEAR MR MORETON,
'I have just come up from Doncaster. You have probably heard what
has been Prime Minister's fate. I don't know whether any horse has
been such a favourite for the Leger. Early in the morning he was
taken out and picked up a nail. The consequence was he could not
run.
'Now I must come to the bad part of my story. I have lost seventy
thousand pounds! It is no use beating about the bush. The sum is
something over that. What am I to do? If I tell you that I shall
give up racing altogether I dare say you will not believe me. It
is a sort of thing a man always says when he wants money; but I
feel now I cannot help saying it.
'But what shall I do? Perhaps, if it be not too much trouble, you
will come up to town and see me. You can send me a word by the
wires.
'You may be sure of this. I shall make no attempt to raise the
money elsewhere, unless I find that my father will not help me.
You will understand that of course it must be paid. You will
understand also what I must feel about telling my father, but I
shall do so at once. I only wait till I can hear from you.
'Yours faithfully,
'SILVERBRIDGE.'
During the next day two despatches reached Lord Silverbridge, both
of them coming as he sat down to his solitary dinner. The first
consisted of a short but very civil note.
'Messrs Comfort and Criball present their compliments to the Earl
of Silverbridge.
'Messrs C and C beg to offer their apologies for interfering, but
desire to inform his Lordship that should cash be wanting to any
amount in consequence of the late races, they will be happy to
accommodate his Lordship on most reasonable terms at a moment's
notice, upon his Lordship's simple bond.
'Lord Silverbridge may be sure of absolute secrecy.
'Crasham Court, Crutched Friars, Sept 15, 18-.'
The other despatch was a telegram from Mr Moreton, saying that he
would be in Carlton Terrace by noon on the following day.
CHAPTER 45
There Shall Not be Another Word About It.
Early in October the Duke was at Matching with his daughter, and
Phineas Finn and his wife were both with them. On the day after
they parted at Ischl the first news respecting Prime Minister had
reached him,--namely, that his son's horse had lost the race. This
would not have annoyed him at all, but that the papers which he
read contained some vague charge of swindling against somebody,
and hinted that Lord Silverbridge had been a victim. Even this
would not have troubled him,--might in some sort have comforted
him,--were it made evident to him that his son had been closely
associated with swindlers in these transactions. If it were a mere
question of money, that might be settled without difficulty. Even
though the sum lost might have grown out of what he might have
expected into some few thousands, still he would bear it without a
word, if only he could separate his boy from bad companions. Then
came Mr Moreton's letter telling him the whole.
At the meeting which took place between Silverbridge and his
father's agent at Carlton Terrace it was settled that Mr Moreton
should write the letter. Silverbridge tried and found that he
could not do it. He did not know how to humiliate himself
sufficiently, and yet could not keep himself from making attempts
to prove that according to all recognised chances his bets had
been good bets.
Mr Moreton was better able to accomplish the task. He knew the
Duke's mind. A very large discretion had been left in Mr Moreton's
hands in regard to moneys which might be needed on behalf of that
dangerous heir!-so large that he had been able to tell Lord
Silverbridge that if the money was in truth lost according to
Jockey Club rules, it should be all forthcoming on the settling-
day,--certainly without assistance from Messrs Comfort and Criball.
The Duke had been nervously afraid of such men of business as
Comfort and Criball, and from the earliest days of his son's semi-
manhood had been on his guard against them. Let any sacrifice be
made so that his son might be kept clear from Comforts and
Criballs. To Mr Moreton he had been very explicit. His own
pecuniary resources were so great that they could bear some
ravaging without serious detriment. It was for his son's character
and standing in the world, for his future respectability and
dignity that his fears were so keen, and not for his own money. By
one so excitable, so fond of pleasure as Lord Silverbridge, some
ravaging would probably be made. Let it be met by ready money.
Such had been the Duke's instructions to his own trusted man of
business, and, acting on these instructions, Mr Moreton was able
to tell the heir that the money should be forthcoming.
Mr Moreton, after detailing the extent and nature of the loss, and
the steps which he had decided upon taking, went on to explain the
circumstances as best he could. He had made some inquiry, and felt
no doubt that a gigantic swindle had been perpetrated by Major
Tifto and others. The swindle had been successful. Mr Moreton had
consulted certain gentlemen of high character versed in the
affairs of the turf. He mentioned Mr Lupton among others,--and had
been assured that though the swindle was undoubted, the money had
better be paid. It was thought to be impossible to connect the men
who had made the bets with the perpetrators of the fraud;--and if
Lord Silverbridge were to abstain from paying his bets because his
own partner had ruined the animal which belonged to them jointly,
the feeling would be against him rather than in his favour. In
fact the Jockey Club could not sustain him in such refusal.
Therefore the money would be paid. Mr Moreton, with some
expression of doubt, trusted that he might be thought to have
exercised a wise discretion. Then he went on to express his own
opinion in regard to the lasting effect which the matter would
have upon the young man. 'I think,' said he, 'that his Lordship is
heartily sickened of racing, and that he will never return to it.'
The Duke of course was very wretched when these tidings first
reached him. Though he was a rich man, and of all men the least
careful of his riches, still he felt that seventy thousand pounds
was a large sum of money to throw away amongst a nest of
swindlers. And then it was excessively grievous to him that his
son should have been mixed up with such men. Wishing to screen his
son, even from his own anger, he was careful to remember the
promise made that Tifto should be dismissed, was not to take
effect till after this race had been run. There had been no deceit
in that. But then Silverbridge had promised that he would not
'plunge'. There are, however, promises which from their very
nature may be broken without falsehood. Plunging is a doubtful
word, and the path down to it, like all doubtful paths,--is
slippery and easy! If that assurance with which Mr Moreton ended
his letter could only be made true, he could bring himself to
forgive even this offence. The boy must be made to settle himself
in life. The Duke resolved that his only revenge should be to
press on that marriage with Mabel Grex.
At Coblenz, on their way home, the Duke and his daughter were
caught up by Mr and Mrs Finn, and the matter of the young man's
losses was discussed. Phineas had heard all about it, and was loud
in denunciations against Tifto, Captain Green, Gilbert Villiers,
and others whose names had reached him. The money he thought
should never have been paid. The Duke however declared that the
money would not cause a moment's regret, if only the whole thing
could be got rid of at that cost. It had reached Finn's ears that
Tifto was already at loggerheads with his associates. There was
some hope that the whole thing might be brought to light by this
means. For all that the Duke cared nothing. If only Silverbridge
and Tifto could for the future be kept apart, as far as he and his
were concerned, good would have been done rather than harm. While
they were in this way away together on the Rhine it was decided
that very soon after their return to England Phineas and Mrs Finn
should go down to Matching.
When the Duke arrived in London his sons were not there. Gerald
had gone back to Oxford, and Silverbridge had merely left an
address. Then his sister wrote him a very short letter. 'Papa will
be so glad if you will come to Matching. Do come.' Of course he
came, and presented himself some few days after the Duke's
arrival.
But he dreaded this meeting with his father which, however, let it
be postponed for ever so long, must come at last. In reference to
this he made a great resolution,--that he would go instantly as
soon as he might be sent for. When the summons came he started;
but, though he was by courtesy an Earl, and by fact was not only a
man but a Member of Parliament, though he was half engaged to
marry one young lady and ought to have been engaged to marry
another, though he had come to an age at which Pitt was a great
minister and Pope a great poet, still his heart was in his boots,
as a schoolboy's might be, when he was driven up to the house at
Matching.
In two minutes before he had washed the dust from his face, and
hands, he was with his father. 'I am glad to see you,
Silverbridge's aid the Duke, putting out his hand.
'I hope to see you well, sir.'
'Fairly well. Thank you. Travelling I think agrees with me. I
miss, not my comforts, but a certain knowledge of how things are
going on, which comes to us I think through our skins when we are
at home. A feeling of absence pervades me. Otherwise I like it.
And you,--what have you been doing?'
'Shooting a little,' said Silverbridge, in a mooncalf tone.
'Shooting a great deal, if what I see in the newspapers be true
about Mr Reginald Dobbes and his party. I presume it is a religion
to offer up hecatombs to the autumnal gods,--who must surely take a
keener delight in blood and slaughter than those bloodthirsty gods
of old.'
'You should talk to Gerald about that, sir.'
'Has Gerald been so great at his sacrifices? How will that suit
with Plato? What does Mr Simcox say?'
'Of course they were all to have a holiday just at that time. But
Gerald is reading. I fancy that Gerald is clever.'
'And he is a great Nimrod?'
'As to hunting.'
'Nimrod I fancy got his game in any way that he could compass it.
I do not doubt but that he trapped foxes.'
'With a rifle at deer, say for four hundred yards, I would back
Gerald against any man of his age in England or Scotland.'
'As to backing, Silverbridge, do not you think we had better have
done with that?' This was hardly in a tone of reproach, with
something even of banter in it; and as the question was asked the
Duke was smiling. But in a moment all that sense of joyousness
which the young man had felt in singing his brother's praises was
expelled. His face fell, and he stood before his father almost
like a culprit. 'We might as well have it out about his racing,'
said the Duke. 'Something has to be said about it. You have lost
an enormous sum of money.' The Duke's tone in saying this became
terribly severe. Such at least was its sound in his son's ears. He
did not mean to be severe.
But when he did speak of that which displeased him his voice
naturally assumed that tone of indignation with which in days of
yore he had been wont to denounce the public extravagance of his
opponents in the House of Commons. The father paused, but the son
could not speak at the moment. 'And worse than that,' continued
the Duke; 'you have lost it in as bad company as you could have
found had you picked all England through.'
'Mr Lupton, and Sir Henry Playfair, and Lord Stirling were in the
room when the bets were made.'
'Were the gentlemen you name concerned with Major Tifto?'
'No, sir.'
'Who can tell with whom he may be in a room? Though rooms of that
kind are, I think, best avoided.' Then the Duke paused again, but
Silverbridge was now sobbing so that he could hardly speak. 'I am
sorry that you should be so grieved,' continued the father, 'but
such delights cannot, I think, lead to much real joy.'
'It is for you, sir,' said the son, rubbing his eyes with the hand
which supported his head.
'My grief in the matter might soon be cured.'
'How shall I cure it? I will do anything to cure it.'
'Let Major Tifto and the horses go.'
'They are gone,' said Silverbridge energetically, jumping from his
chair as he spoke. 'I will never own a horse again, or a part of a
horse. I will have nothing more to do with races. You will believe
me?'
'I will believe anything that you tell me.'
'I won't say I will not go to another race, because--'
'No; no. I would not have you hamper yourself. Nor shall you bind
yourself by any further promises. You have done with racing.'
'Indeed, indeed I have, sir.'
Then the father came up to the son and put his arm round the young
man's shoulders and embraced him. 'Of course it made me unhappy.'
'I knew it would.'
'But if you are cured of this evil, the money is nothing. What is
all for but for you and your brother and sister? It was a large
sum, but that shall not grieve me. The thing itself is so
dangerous that if with that much of a loss we can escape, I will
think that we have made not a bad market. Who owns the horse now?'
'The horse shall be sold.'
'For anything they may fetch so that we may get clear of this
dirt. And the Major?'
'I know nothing of him. I have not seen him since that day.'
'Has he claims on you?'
'Not a shilling. It is all the other way.'
'Let it go then. Be quit of him, however it may be. Send a
messenger so that he may understand that you have abandoned racing
altogether. Mr Moreton might perhaps see him.'
That his father should forgive so readily and yet himself suffer
so deeply, affected the son's feelings so strongly that for a time
he could hardly repress his sobs. 'And now there shall not be a
word more said about it,' said the Duke suddenly.
Silverbridge in his confusion could make no answer.
'There shall not be another word said about it,' said the Duke
again. 'And now what do you mean to do with yourself immediately?'
'I'll stay here, sir, as long as you do. Finn and Warburton, and I
have still a few covers to shoot.'
'That's a good reason for staying anywhere.'
'I meant that I would remain while you remained, sir.'
'That at any rate is a good reason, as far as I am concerned. But
we go to Custins next week.'
'There's a deal of shooting to be done at Gatherum,' said the
heir.
'You speak of it as the business of your life,--on which your bread
depended.'
'One can't expect game to be kept up if nobody goes to shoot it.'
'Can't one? I didn't know. I should have thought that the less was
shot the more there would be to shoot; but I am ignorant in such
matters.' Silverbridge then broke forth into a long explanation
as to coverts, gamekeepers, poachers, breeding, and the
expectations of the neighbourhood at large, in the middle of which
he was interrupted by the Duke. 'I am afraid, my dear boy, that I
am too old to learn. But as it is so manifestly a duty, go and
perform it like a man. Who will go with you?'
'I will ask Mr Finn to be one.'
'He will be very hard on you in the way of politics.'
'I can answer him better than I can you, sir. Mr Lupton said he
would come for a day or two. He'll stand to me.'
After that his father stopped him as he was about to leave the
room. 'One more word, Silverbridge. Do you remember what you were
saying when you walked down to the House with me from your club
that night?' Silverbridge remembered very well what he had said.
He had undertaken to ask Mabel Grex to be his wife, and had
received his father's ready approval to the proposition. But at
this moment he was unwilling to refer to the matter. 'I have
thought about it very much since that,' said the Duke. 'I may say
that I have been thinking of it every day. If there were anything
to tell me, you would let me know;--would you not?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Then there is nothing to be told? I hope you have not changed
your mind.'
Silverbridge paused a moment, trusting that he might be able to
escape the making of an answer;--but the Duke evidently intended to
have an answer. 'It appeared to me, sir, that it did not seem to
suit her,' said the hardly-driven young man. He could not now say
that Mabel had shown a disposition to reject his offer, because as
they had been sitting by the brookside at Killancodlem, even he,
with all his self-diffidence, had been forced to see what were her
wishes. Her confusion, and too evident despair when she heard of
the offer to the American girl, had plainly told her tale. He
could not now plead to his father that Mabel Grex would refuse his
offer. But his self-defence, when first he found that he had lost
himself in love for the American, had been based on that idea. He
had done his best to make Mabel understand him. If he had not
actually offered to her, he had done the next thing to it. And he
had run after her, till he was ashamed of such running. She had
given him no encouragement;--and therefore he had been justified.
No doubt he must have been mistaken; that he now perceived; but
still he felt himself to be justified. It was impossible that he
should explain all this to his father. One thing he certainly
could not say,--just at present. After his folly with regard to
those heavy debts he could not at once risk his father's renewed
anger by proposing to him an American daughter-in-law. That must
stand over, at any rate till the girl had accepted him positively.
'I am afraid it won't come off, sir,' he said at last.
'Then I am to presume that you have changed your mind?'
'I told you when we were speaking that I was not confident.'
'She has not--'
'I can't explain it all, sir,--but I fear it won't come off.'
Then the Duke, who had been sitting, got up from his chair and
with his back to the fire made a final little speech. 'We decided
just now, Silverbridge, that nothing more should be said about
that unpleasant racing business, and nothing more shall be said by
me. But you must not be surprised if I am anxious to see you
settled in life. No young man could be more bound by duty to marry
early than you are. In the first place you have to repair the
injury done by my inaptitude for society. You have explained to me
that it is your duty to have the Barsetshire coverts properly
shot, and I have acceded to your views. Surely it must be equally
your duty to see your Barsetshire neighbours. And you are a young
man every feature of whose character would be improved by
matrimony. As far as means are concerned you are almost as free to
make arrangements as though you were already head of the family.'
'No, sir.'
'I could never bring myself to dictate to a son in regard to his
choice of a wife. But I will own that when you told me that you
had chosen I was much gratified. Try and think again when you are
pausing amidst your sacrifices at Gatherum, whether that be
possible. If it be not, still I would wish you to bear in mind
what is my idea as to your duty.' Silverbridge said that he would
bear this in mind, and then escaped from the room.
CHAPTER 46
Lady Mary's Dream
When the Duke and his daughter reached Custins they found a large
party assembled, and were somewhat surprised at the crowd. Lord
and Lady Nidderdale were there, which might have been expected as
they were part of the family. With Lord Popplecourt had come his
recent friend Adolphus Longstaff. That too might have been
natural. Mr and Miss Boncassen were there also, who at this moment
were quite strangers to the Duke; and Mr Lupton. The Duke also
found Lady Chiltern, whose father-in-law had more than once sat in
the same Cabinet with himself, and Mr Monk, who was generally
spoken of as the head of the coming Liberal Government, and the
Ladies Adelaide and Flora FitzHoward, the still unmarried but not
very juvenile daughters of the Duke of St Bungay. These with a few
others made a large party, and rather confused the Duke, who had
hardly reflected that discreet and profitable love-making was more
likely to go on among numbers, than if the two young people were
thrown together with no other companions.
Lord Popplecourt had been made to understand what was expected of
him, and after some hesitation had submitted himself to the
conspiracy. There would not be less at any rate than two hundred
thousand pounds,--and the connection would be made with one of the
highest families in Great Britain. Though Lady Cantrip had said
very few words, those words had been expressive; and the young
bachelor peer had given in his adhesion. Some vague half-defined
tale had been told him,--not about Tregear, as Tregear's name had
not been mentioned,--but respecting some dream of a young man who
had flitted across the girl's path during her mother's lifetime.
'All girls have such dreams,' Lady Cantrip had suggested.
Whereupon Lord Popplecourt said that he supposed it was so. 'But a
softer, purer, more unsullied flower never waited upon its stalk
till the proper fingers should choose to come and pluck it,' said
Lady Cantrip, rising to unaccustomed poetry on behalf of her
friend the Duke. Lord Popplecourt accepted the poetry and was
ready to do his best to pluck the flower.
Soon after the Duke's arrival Lord Popplecourt found himself in
one of the drawing-rooms with Lady Cantrip and his propose father-
in-law. A hint had been given him that he might as well be home
early from shooting, so as to be in the way. As the hour in which
he was to make himself specially agreeable, both to the father and
to the daughter, had drawn nigh, he became somewhat nervous, and
now, at this moment, was not altogether comfortable. Though he had
been concerned in no such matter before, he had an idea that love
was a soft kind of thing which ought to steal on one unawares and
come and go without trouble. In his case it came upon him with a
rough demand for immediate hard work. He had not previously
thought that he was to be subjected to such labours, and at this
moment almost resented the interference with his ease. He was
already a little angry with Lady Cantrip, but at the same time
felt himself to be so much in subjection to her that he could not
rebel.
The Duke himself when he saw the young man was hardly more
comfortable. He had brought his daughter to Custins, feeling that
it was his duty to be with her; but he would have preferred to
leave the whole operation to the care of Lady Cantrip. He hardly
liked to look at the fish whom he wished to catch for his
daughter. Whenever this aspect of affairs presented itself to him,
he would endeavour to console himself by remembering the past
success of a similar transaction. He thought of his own first
interview with his wife. 'You have heard,' he said, 'what our
friends wish.' She had pouted her lips, and when gently pressed
had at last muttered, with her shoulder turned to him, that she
supposed it was to be so. very much coercion had been used to her
than either himself or Lady Cantrip had dared to apply to his
daughter. He did not think that his girl in her present condition
of mind would signify to Lord Popplecourt that she 'supposed it
was to be so'. Now that the time for the transaction was present
he felt almost sure that it would never be transacted. But still
he must go on with it. Were he now to abandon his scheme, would it
not be tantamount to abandoning everything? So he wreathed his
face in smiles,--or made some attempt at it,--as he greeted the
young man.
'I hope you and Lady Mary had a pleasant journey abroad,' said
Lord Popplecourt. Lord Popplecourt being aware that he had been
chosen as a son-in-law felt himself called upon to be familiar as
well as pleasant. 'I often thought of you and Lady Mary, and
wondered what you were about.'
'We were visiting lakes and mountains, churches and picture
galleries, cities, and salt mines,' said the Duke.
'Does Lady Mary like that sort of thing?'
'I think she was pleased with what she saw.
'She has been abroad a great deal before, I believe. It depends so
much on whom you meet when abroad.'
This was unfortunate because it recalled Tregear to the Duke's
mind. 'We saw very few people whom we knew,' he said.
'I've been shooting in Scotland with Silverbridge, and Gerald, and
Reginald Dobbes, and Nidderdale,--and that fellow Tregear, who is
so thick with Silverbridge.'
'Indeed!'
'I'm told that Lord Gerald is going to be the great shot of the
day,' said Lady Cantrip.
'It is a distinction,' said the Duke bitterly.
'He did not beat me by so much,' continued Popplecourt. 'I think
Tregear did the best with his rifle. One morning he potted three.
Dobbes was disgusted. He hated Tregear.'
'Isn't it stupid,--half-a-dozen men getting together in that way?'
asked Lady Cantrip.
'Nidderdale is always jolly.'
'I am glad to hear that,' said the mother-in-law.
'And Gerald is a regular brick.' the Duke bowed. 'Silverbridge
used always to be going off to Killancodlem, where there were a
lot of ladies. He is very sweet, you know, on this American girl
whom you have here.' Again the Duke winced. 'Dobbes is awfully
good as to making out the shooting, but then he his a tyrant.
Nevertheless I agree with him, if you mean to do a thing you
should do it.'
'Certainly,' said the Duke. 'But you should make up your mind
first whether the thing is worth doing.'
'Just so,' said Popplecourt. 'And as grouse and deer together are
about the best things out, most of us made up our minds that it
was worth doing. But that fellow Tregear would argue it out. He
said a gentleman oughtn't to play billiards as well as a marker.'
'I think he was right,' said the Duke.
'Do you know Mr Tregear, Duke?'
'I have met him--with my son.'
'Do you like him?'
'I have seen very little of him.'
'I cannot say I do. He thinks so much of himself. Of course he is
very intimate with Silverbridge, and that is all that anyone knows
of him.' The Duke bowed almost haughtily, though why he bowed he
could hardly have explained to himself. Lady Cantrip bit her lips
in disgust. 'He's just the fellow,' continued Popplecourt, 'to
think that some princess has fallen in love with him.' Then the
Duke left the room.
'You had better not talk to him about Mr Tregear,' said Lady
Cantrip.
'Why not?'
'I don't know whether he approves of the intimacy between him and
Lord Silverbridge.'
'I should think not;--a man without any position or a shilling in
the world.'
'The Duke is peculiar. If a subject is distasteful to him he does
not like it to be mentioned. You had better not mention Mr
Tregear,' Lady Cantrip as she said this blushed inwardly at her
own hypocrisy.
It was of course contrived at dinner that Lord Popplecourt should
take out Lady Mary. It is impossible to discover how such things
get wind, but there was already an idea prevalent at Custins that
Lord Popplecourt had matrimonial views, and that these views were
looked upon favourably. 'You may be quite sure of it, Mr Lupton,'
Lady Adelaide FitzHoward had said. 'I'll make a bet they're
married before this time next year.'
'It will be a terrible case of Beauty and the Beast,' said Lupton.
Lady Chiltern had whispered a suspicion of the same kind, and had
expressed a hope that the lover would be worthy of the girl. And
Dolly Longstaff had chaffed his friend Popplecourt on the subject,
Popplecourt having laid himself open by indiscreet allusions to
Dolly's love for Miss Boncassen. 'Everybody can't have it as
easily arranged for him as you,--a Duke's daughter and a pot of
money without so much as the trouble of asking for it!'
'What do you know about the Duke's children?'
'That's what it is to be a lord and not to have a father.'
Popplecourt tried to show that he was disgusted; but he felt
himself all the more strongly bound to go on with the project.
It was therefore a matter of course that these should-be lovers
would be sent out of the room together. 'You'll give your arm to
Mary,' Lady Cantrip said, dropping the ceremonial prefix. Lady
Mary of course went out as she was bidden. Though everybody else
knew it, no idea of what was intended had yet come across her
mind.
The should-be lover immediately reverted to the Austrian tour,
expressing a hope that his neighbour enjoyed herself. 'There's
nothing I like so much myself,' said he, remembering some of the
Duke's words, 'as mountains, cities, salt mines, and all that kind
of thing. There's such a lot of interest about it.'
'Did you ever see a salt mine?'
'Well;--not exactly a salt mine; but I have coal mines on my
property in Staffordshire. I'm very fond of coal. I hope you like
coal.'
'I like salt a great deal better--to look at.'
'But which do you think pays best? I don't mind telling you,--
though it's a kind of thing I never talk about to strangers,--the
royalties from the Blogownie and Toodlem mines go up regularly two
thousand pounds every year.'
'I thought we were talking about what was pretty to look at.'
'So we were. I'm as fond of pretty things as anybody. Do you know
Reginald Dobbes?'
'No, I don't. Is he pretty?'
'He used to be so angry with Silverbridge, because Silverbridge
would say Crummie-Toddie was ugly.'
'Was Crummie-Toddie ugly?'
'Just a plain house on a moor.'
'That sound ugly.'
'I suppose your family likes pretty things.'
'I hope so.'
'I do, I know.' Lord Popplecourt endeavoured to look as though he
intended to understand that she was the pretty thing which he most
particularly liked. She partly conceived his meaning, and was
disgusted accordingly. On the other side of her sat Mr Boncassen,
to whom she had been introduced in the drawing-room,--and who had
said a few words to her about some Norwegian poet. She turned
round to him, and asked him some questions about Skald, and so,
getting into conversation with him, managed to turn her shoulder
to her suitor. On the other side of him sat Lady Rosina De Courcy,
to whom, as being an old woman and an old maid, he felt very
little inclined to be courteous. She said a word, asking him
whether he did not think the weather was treacherous. He answered
her very curtly, and sat bolt upright, looking forward on the
table, and taking his dinner as it came to him. He had been put
there in order that Lady Mary Palliser might talk to him, and he
regarded interference on the part of that old American as being
ungentlemanlike. But the old American disregarded him, and went on
with his quotations from the Scandinavian bard. But Mr Boncassen
sat next to Lady Cantrip, and when at last he was called upon to
give his ear to the countess, Lady Mary was again vacant for
Popplecourt's attentions. 'Are you very fond of poetry?' he asked.
'Very fond.'
'So am I. Which do you like best, Tennyson or Shakespeare?'
'They are very unlike.'
'Yes;--they are unlike. Or Moore's Melodies. I am very fond of
"When in death I shall calm recline". I think this equal to
anything. I think Reginald Dobbes would have it as all bosh.'
'Then I think that Mr Reginald Dobbes must be all bosh himself.'
'There was a man there named Tregear who had brought some books.'
Then there was a pause. Lady Mary had not a word to say. 'Dobbes
used to declare that he was always pretending to read poetry.'
'Mr Tregear never pretends anything.'
'Do you know him?' asked the rival.
'He's my brother's most particular friend.'
'Ah! yes. I dare say Silverbridge has talked to you about him. I
think he's a stuck-up sort of fellow.' To this there was not a
word of reply. 'Where did your brother pick him up?'
'They were at Oxford together.'
'I must say I think he gives himself airs;--because, you know, he's
nobody.'
'I don't know anything of the kind,' said Lady Mary, becoming very
red. 'And as he is my brother's most particular friend,--his very
friend of friends,--I think you had better not abuse him to me.'
'I don't think the Duke is very fond of him.'
'I don't care who is fond of him. I am very fond of Silverbridge,
and I won't hear his friend ill spoken of. I dare say he had some
books with him. He is not at all the sort of man to go to a place
and satisfy himself with doing nothing but killing animals.'
'Do you know him, Lady Mary?'
'I have seen him, and of course I have heard a great deal of him
from Silverbridge. I would rather not talk any more about him.'
'You seem to be very fond of Mr Tregear,' he said angrily.
'It is no business of yours, Lord Popplecourt, whether I am fond
of anybody or not. I have told you that Mr Tregear is my brother's
friend, and that ought to be enough.'
Lord Popplecourt was a young man possessed of a certain amount of
ingenuity. It was said of him that he knew on which side his bread
was buttered, and that if you wished to take him in you must get
up early. After dinner, and during the night he pondered a good
deal on what he had heard. Lady Cantrip had told him there had
been a--dream. What was he to believe about that dream? Had he not
better avoid the error of putting too fine a point upon it, and
tell himself at once that a dream in this instance meant a--lover!
Lady Mary had already been troubled by a lover! He was disposed
to believe that young ladies often do have objectionable lovers,
and that things get themselves right afterwards. Young ladies can
be made to understand the beauty of coal mines almost as readily
as young gentlemen. There would be the two hundred thousand
pounds; and there was the girl, beautiful and well-born, and
thoroughly well-mannered. But what if this Tregear and the dream
were one and the same? If so, had he not received plenty of
evidence that the dream had not yet passed away? A remnant of
affection for the dream would not have been a fatal barrier, had
not the girl been so fierce with him in her defence of her dream.
He remembered too, what the Duke had said about Tregear, and Lady
Cantrip's advice to him to be silent in respect to this man. And
then do girls generally defend their brother's friends as she had
defended Tregear? He thought not. Putting all these things
together on the following morning he came to an uncomfortable
belief that Tregear was the dream.
Soon after that he found himself near to Dolly Longstaff as they
were shooting. 'You know that fellow Tregear, don't you?'
'Oh Lord yes. He is Silverbridge's pal.'
'Did you ever hear anything about him?'
'What sort of thing?'
'Was he ever--in love with anyone?'
'I fancy he used to be awfully spooney on Mab Grex. I remember
hearing that they were to have been married, only that neither of
them had sixpence.'
'Oh--Lady Mabel Grex! That's a horse of another colour.'
'And which is the horse of your colour?'
'I haven't got a horse,' said Popplecourt, going away to his own
corner.
CHAPTER 47
Miss Boncassen's Idea of Heaven
It was generally known that Dolly Longstaff had been heavily
smitten by the charms of Miss Boncassen; but the world hardly gave
him credit for the earnestness of his affection. Dolly had never
been known to be in earnest in anything;--but now he was in very
truth in love. He had agreed to be Popplecourt's companion at
Custins because he had heard that Miss Boncassen would be there.
He had thought over the matter with more consideration than he had
ever before given to any subject. He had gone so far as to see his
own man of business, with a view of ascertaining what settlements
he could make and what income he might be able to spend. He had
told himself over and over again that he was not the 'sort of
fellow' that ought to marry; but it was all of no avail. He
confessed to himself that he was completely 'bowled over',--
'knocked off his pins'!
'Is a fellow to have no chance?' he said to Miss Boncassen at
Custins/
'If I understand what a fellow means, I am afraid not.'
'No man alive was ever more earnest than I am.'
'Well, Mr Longstaff; I do not suppose that you have been trying to
take me in all this time.'
'I hope you do not think ill of me.'
'I may think well of a great many gentlemen without wishing to
marry them.'
'But does love go for nothing?' said Dolly, putting his hand upon
his heart. 'Perhaps there are so many that love you.'
'Not above half-a-dozen or so.'
'You can make a joke of it, when I-. But I don't think, Miss
Boncassen, you at all realise what I feel. As to settlements and
all that, your father could do what he likes with me.'
'My father has nothing to do with it, and I don't know what
settlements mean. We never think anything of settlements in our
country. If two young people love each other they go and get
married.'
'Let us do the same here.'
'But the two young people don't love each other. Look here, Mr
Longstaff, it's my opinion that a young woman ought not to be
pestered.'
'Pestered!'
'You force me to speak in that way. I've given you an answer ever
so many times. I will not be made to do it over and over again.'
'It's that d- fellow, Silverbridge,' he exclaimed almost angrily.
On hearing this Miss Boncassen left the room without speaking
another word, and Dolly Longstaff found himself alone. He saw what
he had done as soon as she was gone. After that he could hardly
venture to persevere again--here at Custins. He weighed it over in
his mind for a long time, almost coming to a resolution in favour
of hard drink. He had never felt anything like this before. He was
so uncomfortable that he couldn't eat his luncheon, though in
accordance with his usual habit he had breakfasted off soda-and-
brandy and a morsel of devilled toast. He did not know himself in
his changed character. 'I wonder whether she understands that I
have four thousand pounds a year of my own, and shall have twelve
thousand pounds more when my governor goes! She was so headstrong
that it was impossible to explain anything to her.'
'I'm off to London,' he said to Popplecourt that afternoon.
'Nonsense! You said you'd stay for ten days.'
'All the same, I'm going at once. I've sent to Bridport for a
trap, and I shall sleep tonight at Dorchester.'
'What's the meaning of it all?'
'I've had some words with somebody. Don't mind asking any more.'
'Not with the Duke?'
'The Duke? No; I haven't spoken to him.'
'Or Lord Cantrip?'
'I wish you wouldn't ask questions.'
'If you've quarrelled with anybody you ought to consult a friend.'
'It's nothing of that kind.'
'Then it's a lady. It's the American girl!'
'Don't I tell you. I don't want to talk about it? I'm going. I've
told Lady Cantrip that my mother wasn't well and wants to see me.
You'll stop your time out, I suppose?'
'I don't know.'
'You've got it all square, no doubt. I wish I'd a handle to my
name. I never cared for it before.'
'I'm sorry you're so down in the mouth. Why don't you try again?
The thing is to stick to 'em like wax. If ten times of asking
won't do, go in twenty times.'
Dolly shook his head despondently. 'What can you do when a girl
walks out of a room and slams the door in your face? She'll get it
hot and heavy before she's done. I know what she's after. She
might as well cry for the moon.' And so Dolly got into the trap
and went to Bridport and slept the night at the hotel at
Dorchester.
Lord Popplecourt, though he could give such excellent advice to
his friend, had been able as yet to do very little in his own
case. He had been a week at Custins, and had said not a word to
denote his passion. Day after day he had prepared himself for the
encounter, but the lady had never given him the opportunity. When
he sat next to her at dinner she would be very silent. If he
stayed at home on a morning she was not visible. During the short
evenings he could never get her attention. And he made no progress
with the Duke. The Duke had been very courteous to him at
Richmond, but here he was monosyllabic and almost sullen.
Once or twice Lord Popplecourt had a little conversation with Lady
Cantrip. 'Dear girl!' said her ladyship. 'She is so little given
to seeing admiration.'
'I dare say.'
'Girls are so different, Lord Popplecourt. With some of them it
seems that a gentleman need have no trouble in explaining what it
is that he wishes.'
'I don't think Lady Mary is like that at all.'
'Not in the least. Anyone who addresses her must be prepared to
explain himself fully. Nor ought he to hope to get much
encouragement at first. I do not think that Lady Mary will bestow
her heart till she is sure she can give it with safety.' There
was an amount of falsehood in this which was proof at any rate of
very strong friendship on the part of Lady Cantrip.
After a few days Lady Mary became more intimate with the American
and his daughter than with any others of the party. Perhaps she
liked to talk about Scandinavian poets, of whom, Mr Boncassen was
so fond. Perhaps she felt sure that her transatlantic friend would
not make love to her. Perhaps it was that she yielded to the
various allurements of Miss Boncassen. Miss Boncassen saw the Duke
of Omnium for the first time at Custins, and there had the first
opportunity of asking herself how such a man as that would receive
from his son and heir such an announcement as Lord Silverbridge
would have to make him should she at the end of three months
accept his offer. She was quite aware that Lord Silverbridge need
not repeat his offer unless he were so pleased. But she thought
that he would come again. He had so spoken that she was sure of
his love; and had so spoken as to obtain hers. Yes;--she was sure
that she loved him. She had never seen anything like him before;--
so glorious in his beauty, so gentle in his manhood, so powerful
and yet so little imperious, so great in condition, and yet so
little confident in his own greatness, so bolstered up with
external advantages, and so little apt to trust anything but his
own heart and his own voice. She was glad he was what he was. She
counted at their full value all his natural advantages. To be an
English Duchess! Oh--yes; her ambition understood it all! But she
loved him, because in the expression of his love no hint had
fallen from him of the greatness of the benefits which he could
confer upon her. Yes, she would like to be a Duchess; but not to
be a Duchess would she become the wife of a man who should begin
his courtship by assuming a superiority.
Now the chances of society had brought her into the company of his
nearest friends. She was in the house with his father and with his
sister. Now and again the Duke spoke a few words to her, and
always did so with a polite courtesy. But she was sure that the
Duke had heard nothing of his son's courtship. And she was equally
sure that the matter had not reached Lady Mary's ears. She
perceived that the Duke and her father would often converse
together. Mr Boncassen would discuss republicanism generally, and
the Duke would explain that theory of monarchy as it prevails in
England, which but very few Americans had been made to understand.
All this Miss Boncassen watched with pleasure. She was still of
opinion that it would not become her to force her way into a
family which would endeavour to repudiate her. She would not
become this young man's wife if all connected with the young man
were resolved to reject the contact. But if she could conquer
them,--then,--then she thought that she could put her little hand
into that young man's grasp with a happy heart.
It was in this frame of mind that she laid herself out not
unsuccessfully to win the esteem of Lady Mary Palliser. 'I do not
know whether you approve it,' said Lady Cantrip to the Duke; 'but
Mary has become very intimate with our new American friend.' At
this time Lady Cantrip had become very nervous,--so as almost to
wish that Lady Mary's difficulties might be unravelled elsewhere
than at Custins.
'They seem to be sensible people,' said the Duke. 'I don't know
when I have met a man with higher ideals on politics than Mr
Boncassen.'
'His daughter is popular with everybody.'
'A nice ladylike girl,' said the Duke, 'and appears to have been
well educated.'
It was now near the end of October, and the weather was peculiarly
fine. Perhaps in our climate, October would of all months be the
most delightful if something of its charms were not detracted from
by the feeling that with it depart the last relics of delight of
summer. The leaves are still there with their gorgeous colouring,
but they are going. The last rose still lingers on the bush, but
it is the last. The woodland walks are still pleasant to the feet,
but caution is heard on every side by the coming winter.
The park at Custins, which was spacious, had many woodland walks
attached to it, from which, through vistas of the timber, distant
glimpses of the sea were caught. Within half a mile of the house
the woods were reached, and within a mile the open sea was in
sight,--and yet the wanderers might walk for miles without going
over the same ground. Here, without other companions, Lady Mary
and Miss Boncassen found themselves one afternoon, and here the
latter told her story to her lover's sister. 'I long to tell you
something,' she said.
'Is it a secret?' asked Lady Mary.
'Well; yes it is,--if you will keep it so. I would rather you
should keep it a secret. But I will tell you.' Then she stood
still looking into the other's face. 'I wonder how you will take
it.'
'What can it be?'
'Your brother has asked me to be his wife.'
'Silverbridge!'
'Yes;--Lord Silverbridge. You are astonished.'
Lady Mary was much astonished,--so much astonished that words
escaped from her, which she regretted afterwards. 'I thought there
was someone else.'
'Who else?'
'Lady Mabel Grex. But I know nothing.'
'I think not,' said Miss Boncassen slowly. 'I have seen them
together and I think not. There might be somebody, though I think
not her. But why do I say that? Why do I malign him, and make so
little of myself. There is no one else, Lady Mary. Is he not
true?'
'I think he is true.'
'I am sure he is true. And he has asked me to be his wife.'
'What did you say?'
'Well;--what do you think? What is it probable that such a girl as
I would say when such a man as your brother asks her to be his
wife? Is he not such a man as a girl would love?'
'Oh yes.'
'Is he not handsome as a god?' Mary stared at her with all her
eyes. 'And sweeter than any god those pagan races knew? And is he
not good-tempered, and loving; and has he not that perfection of
manly dash without which I do not think I do not think I could
give my heart to any man?'
'Then you have accepted him?'
'And his rank and wealth! The highest position in all the world
in my eyes.'
'I do not think you should take him for that.'
'Does it not all help? Can you put yourself in my place? Why
should I refuse him? No, not for that. I would not take him for
that. But if I love him,--because he is all that my imagination
tells me that a man ought to be;--if to be his wife seems to be the
greatest bliss that could happen to a woman; if I feel that I
could die to serve him, that I would live to worship him, that his
touch would be sweet to me, his voice music, his strength the only
supports in the world on which I would care to lean,--what then?'
'Is it so?'
'Yes it is so. it is after that fashion that I love him. He is my
hero;--and not the less so because there is none higher than he
among the nobles of the greatest land under the sun. Would you
have me for a sister?' Lady Mary could not answer all at once.
She had to think of her father,--and then she thought of her own
lover. Why should not Silverbridge be as well entitled to his
choice as she considered herself to be? And yet how would it be
with her father? Silverbridge would in process of time be the head
of the family. Would it be proper that he should marry an
American?
'You would not like me for a sister?'
'I was thinking of my father. For myself I like you.'
'Shall I tell you what I said to him?'
'If you will.'
'I told him that he must ask his friends;--that I would not be his
wife to be rejected by them all. Nor will I. Though it be heaven I
will not creep there through a hole. If I cannot go with my head
upright, I will not go even there.' The she turned round as
though she were prepared in her emotion to walk back to the house
alone. But Lady mare ran after her, and having caught her put her
arm round her waist and kissed her.
'I at any rate will love you,' said Lady Mary.
'I will do as I said,' continued Miss Boncassen. 'I will do as I
have said. Though I love your brother down to the ground he shall
not marry me without his father's consent.' Then they returned
arm-in-arm close together; but very little was said between them.
When Lady Mary entered the house she was told that Lady Cantrip
wished to see her in her own room.
CHAPTER 48
The Party at Custins is Broken Up
The message was given to Lady Mary after so solemn a fashion that
she was sure that some important communication was to be made to
her. Her mind at that moment had been filled with her new friend's
story. She felt that she required some time to meditate before she
could determine what she herself would wish; but when she was
going to her own room, in order that she might think it over, she
was summoned to Lady Cantrip. 'My dear,' said the Countess, 'I
wish you to do something to oblige me.'
'Of course I will.'
'Lord Popplecourt wants to speak to you.'
'Who?'
'Lord Popplecourt.'
'What can Lord Popplecourt have to say to me?'
'Can you not guess? Lord Popplecourt is a young nobleman,
standing very high in the world, possessed of ample means, just in
that position in which it behoves such a man to look about for a
wife.' Lady Mary pressed her lips together, and clenched her two
hands. 'Can you not imagine what such a gentleman may have to
say?' Then there was a pause, but she made no immediate answer.
'I am to tell you, my dear, that your father would approve of it.'
'Approve of what?'
'He approves of Lord Popplecourt as a suitor for your hand.'
'How can he?'
'Why not, Mary? Of course he has made it his business to ascertain
all particulars as to Lord Popplecourt's character and property.'
'Papa knows that I love somebody else.'
'My dear Mary, that is all vanity.'
'I don't think that papa can want to see me married to a man when
he knows that with all my heart and soul--'
'Oh, Mary!'
'When he knows,' continued Mary, who would not be put down, 'that
I love another man with all my heart. What will Lord Popplecourt
say if I tell him that? If he says anything to me, I shall tell
him. Lord Popplecourt! He cares for nothing but his coal mines.
Of course, if you bid me to see him I will; but it can do no good.
I despise him, and if he troubles me I shall hate him. As for
marrying him,--I would sooner die this minute.'
After this Lady Cantrip did not insist on the interview. She
expressed her regret that things should be as they were,--explained
in sweetly innocent phrases that in a certain rank of life young
ladies could not always marry the gentlemen to whom their fancies
might attach them, but must, not infrequently, postpone their
youthful inclinations to the will of their elders,--or in less
delicate language, that though they might love in one direction
the must marry in another; and then expressed a hope that her dear
Mary would think over these things and try to please her father.
'Why does he not try to please me?' said Mary. Then Lady Cantrip
was obliged to see Lord Popplecourt, a necessity which was a great
nuisance to her. 'Yes;--she understands what you mean. But she is
not prepared for it yet. You must wait awhile.'
'I don't see why I am to wait.'
'She is very young,--and so are you, indeed. There is plenty of
time.'
'There is somebody else I suppose.'
'Is it that Tregear?'
'I am not prepared to mention names,' said Lady Cantrip,
astonished that he should know so much. 'But indeed you must
wait.'
'I don't see it, Lady Cantrip.'
'What can I say more? If you think that such a girl as Lady Mary
Palliser, the daughter of the Duke of Omnium, possessed of
fortune, beauty, and every good gift, is to come like a bird to
your call, you will find yourself mistaken. All that her friends
can do for you will be done. The rest must remain with yourself.'
During that evening Lord Popplecourt endeavoured to make himself
pleasant to one of the FitzHoward young ladies, and on the next
morning he took his leave of Custins.
'I will never interfere again in reference to anybody else's child
as long as I live,' Lady Cantrip said to her husband that night.
Lady Mary was very much tempted to open her heart to Miss
Boncassen. It would be delightful to have a friend; but were she
to engage Miss Boncassen's sympathies on her behalf, she must of
course sympathise with Miss Boncassen in return. And what if,
after all, Silverbridge were not devoted to the American beauty!
What if it should turn out that he was going to marry Lady Mabel
Grex? 'I wish you would call me Isabel,' her friend said to her.
'It is so odd,--since I have left New York I have never heard my
name from any lips except father's and mother's.'
'Has not Silverbridge ever called you by your christian-name?'
'I think not. I am sure he never has.' But he had, though it had
passed by her at the moment without attention. 'It all came from
him so suddenly. And yet I expected it. But it was too sudden for
christian-names and pretty talk. I do not even know what his name
is.'
'Plantagenet,--but we always call him Silverbridge.'
'Plantagenet is much prettier. I shall always call him
Plantagenet. But I recall that. You will not remember that against
me?'
'I will remember nothing that you do not wish.'
'I mean that if,--if all the grandeurs of the Pallisers could
consent to put up with poor me, if heaven were opened to me with a
straight gate, so that I could walk out of our republic into your
aristocracy with my head erect, with the stars and stripes waving
proudly will I had been accepted into the shelter of the Omnium
griffins,--then I would call him--'
'There's one Palliser would welcome you.'
'Would you dear? The I will love you dearly. May I call you Mary?'
'Of course you may.'
'Mary is the prettiest name under the sun. But Plantagenet is so
grand! Which of the kings did you branch off from?'
'I know nothing about it. From none of them I should think. There
is some story about a Sir Guy, who was a king's friend. I never
trouble myself about it. I hate aristocracy.'
'Do you, dear?'
'Yes,' said Mary, full of her own grievances. 'It is an abominable
bondage, and I do not see that it does any good at all.'
'I think it is so glorious,' said the American. 'There is no such
mischievous nonsense in the world as equality. That is what father
says. What men ought to want is liberty.'
'It is terrible to be tied up in a small circle,' said the Duke's
daughter.
'What do you mean, Lady Mary?'
'I thought you were to call me Mary. What I mean is this. Suppose
that Silverbridge loves you better than all the world.'
'I hope he does. I think he does.'
'And suppose he cannot marry you, because of his--aristocracy?'
'But he can.'
'I thought you were saying yourself--'
'Saying what? That he could not marry me! No indeed! But that
under certain circumstances I would not marry him. You don't
suppose that I think he would be disgraced? If so I would go away
at once, and he should never again see my face or hear my voice. I
think myself good enough for the best man God every made. But if
others think differently, and those others are closely concerned
with him and would be so closely concerned with me, as to trouble
our joint lives;--then will I neither subject him to such sorrow
nor will I encounter it myself.'
'It all comes from what you call aristocracy.'
'No, dear;--but from the prejudices of an aristocracy. To tell the
truth, Mary, the most difficult a place is to get into, the more
right of going in is valued. If everybody could be a Duchess and a
Palliser, I should not perhaps think so much about it.'
'I thought it was because you loved him.'
'So I do. I love him entirely. I have said not a word of that to
him;--but I do, if I know at all what love is. But if you love a
star, the pride you have in your star will enhance your love.
Though you know that you must die of your love, still you must
love your star.'
And yet Mary could not tell her tale in return. She could not show
the reverse picture:--that she being a star was anxious to dispose
of herself after the fashion of poor human rushlights. It was not
that she was ashamed of her love, but that she could not bring
herself to yield altogether in reference to the great descent
which Silverbridge would have to make.
On the day after this,--the last day of the Duke's sojourn at
Custins, the last also of the Boncassen's visit,--it came to pass
that the Duke and Mr Boncassen with Lady Mary and Isabel, were all
walking in the woods together. And it so happened when they were
at a little distance from the house, each of the girls was waling
with the other girl's father. Isabel had calculated what she would
say to the Duke should a time for speaking come to her. She could
not tell him of his son's love. She could not ask his permission.
She could not explain to him all her feelings, or tell him what
she thought of her proper way of getting into heaven. That must
come afterwards if it should ever come at all. But there was
something that she could tell. 'We are different from you,' she
said, speaking of her own country.
'And yet so like,' said the Duke, smiling;--'your language, your
laws, your habits!'
'But still there is such a difference! I do not think there is a
man in the whole union more respected that father.'
'I dare say not.'
'Many people think that if he would only allow himself to be put
in nomination, he might be the next president.'
'The choice, I am sure, would to your country honour.'
'And yet his father was a poor labourer who earned his bread among
the shipping at New York. That kind of thing would be impossible
here.'
'My dear young lady, there you wrong us.'
'Do I?'
'Certainly! A Prime Minister with us might as easily come from
the same class.'
'Here you think so much of rank. You are--a Duke.'
'But a Prime Minister can make a Duke, and if a man can raise
himself by his own intellect to that position, no one will think
of his father or his grandfather. The sons of merchants have with
us been Prime Ministers more than once, and no Englishman ever
were more honoured among their countrymen. Our peerage is being
continually recruited from the ranks of the people, and hence it
gets its strength.'
'Is it so?'
'There is no greater mistake than to suppose that inferiority of
birth is a barrier to success in this country.' She listened to
this and to much more on the same subject with attentive ears--not
shaken in her ideas as to the English aristocracy in general, but
thinking that she was perhaps learning something of his own
individual opinion. If he were more liberal than others, on that
liberality might perhaps be based her own happiness and fortune.
He in all this was quite unconscious of the working of her mind.
Nor in discussing such matters generally did he ever mingle his
own private feelings, his own pride of race and name, his own
ideas of what was due to his ancient rank with the political creed
by which his conduct was governed. The peer who sat next to him
in the House of Lords, whose grandmother had been a washerwoman
and whose father an innkeeper, was to him every whit as good a
peer as himself. And he would as soon sit in counsel with Mr Monk,
whose father had risen from a mechanic to be a merchant, as with
any nobleman who could count ancestors against himself. But there
was an inner feeling in his bosom as to his own family, his own
name, his own children, and his own personal self, which was kept
altogether apart from his grand political theories. It was a
subject on which he never spoke; but the feeling had come to him
as a part of his birthright. And he conceived that it would pass
through him to his children after the same fashion. It was this
which made the idea of a marriage between his daughter and Tregear
intolerable to him, and which would operate as strongly in regard
to any marriage which his son might contemplate. Lord Grex was not
a man with whom he would wish to form any intimacy. He was, we may
say, a wretched unprincipled old man, bad all round; and such the
Duke knew him to be. But the blue blood and the rank were there,
and as the girl was good herself he would have been quite
contented that his son should marry the daughter of Lord Grex.
That one and the same man should have been in one part of himself
so unlike the other part,--that he should have one set of opinions
so contrary to another set,--poor Isabel Boncassen did not
understand.
CHAPTER 49
The Major's Fate
The affair of Prime Minister and the nail was not allowed to fade
away into obscurity. Through September and October it was made
matter for pungent inquiry. The Jockey Club was alive. Mr Pook was
very instant,--with many Pookites anxious to free themselves from
suspicion. Sporting men declared that the honour of the turf
required that every detail of the case should be laid open. But by
the end of October, though every detail had been surmised, nothing
had in truth been discovered. Nobody doubted but that Tifto had
driven the nail into the horse's foot, and that Green and Gilbert
Villiers had shared the bulk of the plunder. They had gone off on
their travels together, and the fact that each of them had been in
possession of about twenty thousand pounds was proved. But then
there is no law against two gentlemen having such a sum of money.
It was notorious that Captain Green and Mr Gilbert Villiers had
enriched themselves to this extent by the failure of Prime
Minister. But yet nothing was proved!
That the Major had either himself driven the nail or seen it done,
all racing men were agreed. He had been out with the horse in the
morning and had been the first to declare that the animal was
lame. And he had been with the horse till the farrier had come.
But he had concocted a story for himself. He did not dispute that
the horse had been lamed by the machinations of Green and
Villiers,--with the assistance of the groom. No doubt he said,
these men, who had been afraid to face an inquiry, had contrived
and had carried out the iniquity. How the lameness had been caused
he could not pretend to say. The groom who was at the horse's
head, and who evidently knew how these things were done, might
have struck a nerve in the horse's foot with his boot. But when
the horse was got into the stable, he, Tifto,--so he declared,--at
once ran out to send for the farrier. During the minutes so
occupied, the operation must have been made with the nail. That
was Tifto's story,--and as he kept his ground, there were some few
who believed it.
But though the story was so far good, he had at moments been
imprudent, and had talked when he should have been silent. The
whole matter had been a torment to him. In the first place his
conscience made him miserable. As long as it had been possible to
prevent the evil he had hoped to make a clean breast of it to Lord
Silverbridge. Up to this period of his life everything had been
'square' with him. He had betted 'square', and had ridden
'square', and had run horses 'square'. He had taken a pride in
this, as though it had been a great virtue. It was not without
great inward grief that he had deprived himself of the
consolations of those reflections! But when he had approached his
noble partner, his noble partner snubbed him at every turn,--and he
did the deed.
His reward was to be three thousand pounds,--and he got his money.
The money was very much to him,--would perhaps have been almost
enough to comfort him in his misery, had not those other rascals
got so much more. When he heard that the groom's fee was higher
than his own, it almost broke his heart. Green and Villiers, men
of infinitely lower standing,--men at whom the Beargarden would not
have looked,--had absolutely netted fortunes on which they could
live in comfort. No doubt they had run away while Tifto still
stood his ground,--but he soon began to doubt whether to have run
away with twenty thousand pounds was not better than to remain
with such small plunder as had fallen to his lot, among such faces
as those which now looked upon him! Then when he had drunk a few
glasses of whisky-and-water, he said something very foolish as to
his power of punishing that swindler Green.
An attempt had been made to induce Silverbridge to delay the
payment of his bets;--but he had been very eager that they should
be paid. Under the joint auspices of Mr Lupton and Mr Moreton the
horses were sold, and the establishment was annihilated,--with
considerable loss, but with great despatch. The Duke had been
urgent. The Jockey Club, and the racing world, and the horsey
fraternity generally, might do what seemed to them good,--so that
Silverbridge was extricated from the matter. Silverbridge was
extricated,--and the Duke cared nothing for the rest.
But Silverbridge could not get out of the mess quite so easily as
his father wished. Two questions arose about Major Tifto, outside
the racing world, but within the domain of the world of sport and
pleasure generally, as to one of which it was impossible that
Silverbridge should not express an opinion. The first question had
reference to the mastership of the Runnymede hounds. In this our
young friend was not bound to concern himself. The other affected
the Beargarden Club; and as Lord Silverbridge had introduced the
Major, he could hardly forbear from the expression of an opinion.
There was a meeting of the subscribers to the hunt in the last
week of October. At that meeting Major Tifto told his story. There
he was, to answer any charge which might be brought against him.
If he had made money by losing the race,--where was it and whence
had it come? Was it not clear that a conspiracy might have been
made without his knowledge;--and clear also that the real
conspirators had levanted? He had not levanted! The hounds were
his own. He had undertaken to hunt the country for this season,
and they had undertaken to pay him a certain sum of money. He
should expect and demand that sum of money. If they chose to make
any other arrangement for the year following they could do so.
then he sat down and the meeting was adjourned,--the secretary
having declared that he would not act in that capacity any longer,
nor collect the funds. A farmer had also asserted that he and his
friends had resolved that Major Tifto should not ride over their
fields. On the next day the Major had his hounds out, and some of
the London men, with a few of the neighbours, joined him. Gates
were locked, but the hounds ran, and those who chose to ride
managed to follow them. There are men who will stick to their
sport though Apollyon himself should carry the horn. Who cares
whether the lady who fills a theatre be or be not a moral young
woman, or whether the bandmaster who keeps such excellent time in
a ball has or has not paid is debts? There were men of this sort
who supported Major Tifto;--but then there was a general opinion
that the Runnymede hunt would come to an end unless a new master
could be found.
Then in the first week of November a special meeting was called at
the Beargarden, at which Lord Silverbridge was asked to attend.
'It is impossible that he should be allowed to remain in the
club.' This was said to Lord Silverbridge by Mr Lupton. 'Either
he must go or the club must be broken up.'
Silverbridge was very unhappy on the occasion. He had at last been
reasoned into believing that the horse had been the victim of foul
play; but he persisted in saying that there was no conclusive
evidence against Tifto. The matter was argued with him. Tifto had
laid bets against the horse; Tifto had been hand and glove with
Green; Tifto could not have been absent from the horse above two
minutes; the thing could not have been arranged without Tifto. As
he had brought Tifto into the club, and had been his partner on
the turf, it was his business to look into the matter. 'But for
all that,' said he, 'I'm not going to jump on a man when he's
down, unless I feel sure that he is guilty.'
Then the meeting was held, and Tifto himself appeared. When the
accusation was made by Mr Lupton, who proposed that he should be
expelled, he burst into tears. The whole story was repeated,--the
nail, the hammer, and the lameness; and the moments were counted
up, and poor Tifto's bets and friendship with Green were made
apparent,--and the case was submitted to the club. An old gentleman
who had been connected with the turf all his life, and who would
not have scrupled, by square betting, to rob his dearest friend of
his last shilling, seconded the proposition,--telling all the story
over again. Then Major Tifto was asked whether he wished to say
anything.
'I've got to say that I'm here,' said Tifto, still crying, 'and if
I'd done anything of that kind, of course I'd have gone with the
rest of 'em. I put it to Lord Silverbridge to say whether I'm that
sort of fellow.' Then he sat down.
Upon this there was a pause, and the club was manifestly of the
opinion that Lord Silverbridge ought to say something. 'I think
that Major Tifto should not have betted against the horse,' said
Silverbridge.
'I can explain that,' said the Major. 'Let me explain that.
Everybody knows that I'm a man of small means. I wanted to 'edge,
I only wanted to 'edge.'
Mr Lupton shook his head. 'Why have you not shown me your book?'
'I told you before that it was stolen. Green got hold of it. I did
win a little. I never said I didn't. But what has that to do with
hammering a nail into a horse's foot? I have always been true to
you Lord Silverbridge, and you ought to stick up for me now.'
'I will have nothing further to do with the matter,' said
Silverbridge, 'one way or the other,' and he walked out of the
room,--and out of the club. The affair was ended by a magnanimous
declaration on the part of declaration on the part of the Major
that he would not remain in a club in which he was suspected, and
by a consent on the part of the meeting to receive the Major's
instant resignation.
CHAPTER 50
The Duke's Arguments
The Duke before he left Custins had an interview with Lady
Cantrip, at which that lady found herself called upon to speak her
mind freely. 'I don't think she cares about Lord Popplecourt,'
Lady Cantrip said.
'I am sure I don't know why she should,' said the Duke, who was
often very aggravating even to his friend.
'But as we had thought--'
'She ought to do as she is told,' said the Duke, remembering how
obedient Glencora had been. 'Has he spoken to her?'
'I think not.'
'Then how can we tell?'
'I asked her to see him, but she expressed so much dislike that I
could not press it. I am afraid, Duke, that you will find it
difficult to deal with her.'
'I have found it very difficult!'
'As you have trusted me so much--'
'Yes;--I have trusted you, and do trust you. I hope you understand
that I appreciate your kindness.'
'Perhaps then you will let me say what I think.'
'Certainly, Lady Cantrip.'
'Mary is a very peculiar girl,--with great gifts,--but--'
'But what?'
'She is obstinate. Perhaps it would be fairer to say that she has
great firmness of character. It is within your power to separate
her from Mr Tregear. It would be foreign to her character to--to--
leave you, except with your approbation.'
'You mean, she will not run away.'
'She will do nothing without your permission. But she will remain
unmarried unless she be allowed to marry Mr Tregear.'
'What do you advise then?'
'That you should yield. As regards money, you could give them what
they want. Let him go into public life. You could manage that for
him.'
'He is Conservative!'
'What does that matter when the question is one of your daughter's
happiness? Everybody tells me that he is clever and well
conducted.'
He betrayed nothing by his face as this was said to him. But as he
got into the carriage he was a miserable man. It is very well to
tell a man that he should yield, but there is nothing so wretched
to a man as yielding. Young people and women have to yield,--bur
for such a man as this, to yield is in itself a misery. In this
matter the Duke was quite certain of the propriety of his
judgement. To yield would be not only to mortify himself; but to
do wrong at the same time. He had convinced himself that the
Popplecourt arrangement would come to nothing. Nor had he or Lady
Cantrip combined been able to exercise over her the sort of power
to which Lady Glencora had been subjected. If he had persevered,--
and he was still sure, almost sure, that he would persevere,--his
object must be achieved after a different fashion. There must be
infinite suffering,--suffering both to him and to her. Could she
have been made to consent to marry someone else, terrible as the
rupture might have been, she would have reconciled herself at last
to her new life. So it had been with Glencora,--after a time. Now
the misery must go on from day to day beneath his eyes, with the
knowledge on his part that he was crushing all the joy out of her
young life, and the conviction on her part that she was being
treated with continued cruelty by her father! It was a terrible
prospect! But if it was manifestly his duty to act after this
fashion, must he not do his duty?
If he were to find that by persevering in this course he would
doom her to death, or perchance to madness,--what then? If it were
right, he must still do it. He must still do it, if the weakness
incident to his human nature did not rob him of the necessary
firmness. If every foolish girl were indulged, all restraint would
be lost, and there would be an end to those rules as to birth and
position by which he thought his world was kept straight. And
then, mixed with all this, was his feeling of the young man's
arrogance in looking for such a match. Here was a man without a
shilling, whose manifest duty was to go to work so that he might
earn his bread, who instead of doing so, he hoped to raise himself
to wealth and position by entrapping the heart of an unwary girl!
There was something to the Duke's thinking base in this, and much
more base because the unwary girl was his own daughter. That such
a man as Tregear should make an attack upon him and select his
rank, his wealth, and his child as the stepping-stones by which he
intended to rise! What could be so mean as that a man should seek
to live by looking out for a wife with money? But what so
impudent, so arrogant, so unblushingly disregardful of propriety,
as that he should endeavour to select his victim from such a
family as the Pallisers, and that he should lay his impious hand
on the very daughter of the Duke of Omnium?
But together with all this came upon him his moments of ineffable
tenderness. He felt as though he longed to take her in his arms
and tell her, that if she were unhappy, so would he be unhappy
too,--to make her understand that a hard necessity had made his
sorrow common to them both. He thought that, if she would only
allow it, he could speak of her love as a calamity which had
befallen them, as from the hand of fate, and not as a fault. If he
could make a partnership in misery with her, so that each might
believe that each was acting for the best, then he could endure
all that might come. But, as he was well aware, she regarded him
as being simply cruel to her. She did not understand that he was
performing an imperative duty. She had set her heart upon a
certain object, and having taught herself that in that way
happiness might be reached, had no conception that there should be
something in the world, some idea of personal dignity, more
valuable to her than the fruition of her own desires! And yet
every word he spoke to her was affectionate. He knew that she was
bruised, and if it might be possible he would pour oil into her
wounds,--even though she would not recognise the hand which
relieved her.
They slept one night in town--where they encountered Silverbridge
soon after his retreat from the Beargarden. 'I cannot quite make
up my mind, sir, about that fellow Tifto,' he said to his father.
'I hope you have made up your mind that he is not fit companion
for yourself.'
'That's over. Everybody understands that, sir.'
'Is anything more necessary?'
'I don't like feeling that he has been ill-used. They have made
him resign the club, and I fancy they won't have him at the hunt.'
'He has lost no money by you!'
'Oh no.'
'Then I think you may be indifferent. From all that I hear I think
he must have won money,--which will probably be a consolation to
him.'
'I think they have been hard upon him,' continued Silverbridge.
'Of course he is not a good man, nor a gentleman, nor possessed of
very high feelings. But a man is not to be sacrificed altogether
for that. There are so many men who are not gentlemen, and so many
gentlemen who are bad fellows.'
'I have no doubt Mr Lupton knew what he was about,' replied the
Duke.
On the next morning the Duke and Lady Mary went down to Matching,
and as they sat together in the carriage after leaving the railway
the father endeavoured to make himself pleasant to his daughter.
'I suppose we shall stay at Matching till Christmas,' he said.
'I hope so.'
'Whom would you like to have here?'
'I don't want anyone, papa.'
'You will be very sad without somebody. Would you like the Finns?'
'If you please, papa. I like her. He never talks anything but
politics.'
'He is none the worse for that, Mary. I wonder whether Lady Mabel
Grex would come.'
'Lady Mabel Grex!'
'Do you not like her?'
'Oh yes;--but what made you think of her, papa?'
'Perhaps Silverbridge would come to us then.'
Lady Mary thought that she knew a great deal more about that than
her father did. 'Is he fond of Lady Mabel, papa?'
'Well,--I don't know. There are secrets which should not be told. I
think they are very good friends. I would not have her asked
unless it would please you.'
'I like her very much, papa.'
'And perhaps we might get the Boncassens to come to us. I did say
a word to him about it.' Now, as Mary felt, difficulty was
heaping itself upon difficulty. 'I have seldom met a man in whose
company I could take more pleasure than in that Mr Boncassen; and
the young lady seems to be worthy of her father.' Mary was
silent, feeling the complication of the difficulties. 'Do you not
like her?' asked the Duke.
'Very much indeed,' said Mary.
'Then let us fix a day and ask them. If you will come to me after
dinner with an almanac we will arrange it. Of course you will
invite Miss Cassewary too?'
The complication seemed to be very bad indeed. In the first place
was it not clear that she, Lady Mary, ought not to be a party to
asking Miss Boncassen to meet her brother at Matching? Would it
not be imperative on her part to tell her father the whole story?
And yet how could she do that? It had been told to her in
confidence, and she remembered what her own feelings had been when
Mrs Finn had suggested the propriety of telling the story which
had been told to her! And how would it be possible to ask Lady
Mabel to come to Matching to meet Miss Boncassen in the presence
of Silverbridge! If the party could be made up without
Silverbridge things might run smoothly.
As she was thinking of this in her own room, thinking also how
happy she could be if one other name could be added to the list of
guests, the Duke had gone alone into his library. There a pile of
letters reached him, among which he found one marked 'Private',
and addressed in a hand which he did not recognise. This he opened
suddenly,--with a conviction that it would contain a thorn,--and,
turning over the page found the signature to be 'Francis Tregear'.
The man's name was wormwood to him. He at once felt that he would
wish to have his dinner, his fragment brought to him in that
solitary room, and that he might remain secluded for the rest of
the evening. But still he must read the letter,--and he read it.
'MY DEAR LORD DUKE,
'If my mode of addressing your Grace be too familiar I hope you
will excuse it. It seems to me that if I were to use one more
distant, I should myself be detracting something from my right to
make the claim which I intend to put forward. You know what my
feelings are in reference to your daughter. I do not pretend to
suppose that they should have the least weight with you. But you
know also what her feelings are for me. A man seems to be vain
when he expresses his conviction of a woman's love for himself.
But this matter is so important to her as well as to me that I am
compelled to lay aside all pretence. If she do not love me as I
love her, then the whole thing drops to the ground. Then it will
be for me to take myself off from out of your notice,--and from
hers, and to keep to myself whatever heart-breaking I may have to
undergo. But if she be as steadfast in this matter as I am,--if her
happiness be fixed on marrying me as mine to marrying her,--then, I
think, I am entitled to ask you whether you are justified in
keeping us apart.
'I know well what are the discrepancies. Speaking from my own
feeling I regard very little those of rank. I believe myself to be
as good a gentleman as though my father's forefathers had sat for
centuries past in the House of Lords. I believe that you would
have thought so also had you and I been brought in contact on any
other subject. The discrepancy with regard to money is, I own, a
great trouble to me. Having no wealth of my own I wish that your
daughter were so circumstanced that I could go out into the world
and earn bread for her. I know myself so well that I dare say
positively that her money,--if it be that she will have money,--had
no attractions for me when I first became acquainted with her and
adds nothing now to the persistency with which I claim her hand.
'But I venture to ask whether you can dare to keep us apart if her
happiness depends on her lover for me? It is now more than six
months since I called upon you in London and explained my wishes.
You will understand me when I say that I cannot be contented to
sit idle, trusting simply to the assurance I have of her
affection. Did I doubt it, my way would be more clear. I should
feel in that case that she would yield to your wishes, and I
should then, as I have said before, just take myself out of the
way. But if it be not so, then I am bound to do something,--on her
behalf as well as my own. What am I to do? Any endeavours to meet
her clandestinely is against my instincts, and would certainly be
rejected by her. A secret correspondence would be equally
distasteful to both of us. Whatever I do in this matter, I wish
you to know that I do it.
'Yours always,
'Most faithfully, and with the deepest respect,'
'FRANCIS TREGEAR.'
He read the letter very carefully, and was at first simply
astonished by what he considered to be the unparalleled arrogance
of the young man. In regard to rank this young gentleman thought
himself to be as good as anybody else! In regard to money he did
acknowledge some inferiority. But that was a misfortune, and could
not be helped! Not only was the letter arrogant,--but the fact
that he should dare to write any letter on such a subject was
proof of most unpardonable arrogance. The Duke walked about the
room thinking of it till he was almost in a passion. Then he read
the letter again and was gradually pervaded by a feeling of
manliness. Its arrogance remained, but with its arrogance there
was a certain boldness which induced respect. Whether I am such a
son-in-law as you would like or not, it is your duty to accept me,
if by refusing to do so you will render your daughter miserable.
That was Mr Tregear's argument. He himself might be prepared to
argue in answer that it was his duty to reject such a son-in-law,
even though by rejecting him he might make his daughter miserable.
He was not shaken; but with his condemnation of the young man
there was mingled something of respect.
He continued to digest the letter before the hour of dinner, and
when the almanac was brought to him he fixed on certain days. The
Boncassens he knew would be free from engagements in ten days'
time. As to Lady Mabel, he seemed to think it almost certain that
she would come. 'I believe she is always going about from one
house to another at this time of the year,' said Mary.
'I think she will come to us if it be possible,' said the Duke.
'And you must write to Silverbridge.'
'And what about Mr and Mrs Finn?'
'She promised she would come again, you know. They are at their
own place in Surrey. They will come unless they have friends with
them. They have no shooting, and nothing brings people together
now except shooting. I suppose there are better things here to be
shot. And be sure you write to Silverbridge.'
CHAPTER 51
The Duke's Guests
'The Duke of Omnium presents his compliments to Mr Francis
Tregear, and begs to acknowledge the receipt of Mr Tregear's
letter of-. The Duke has no other communication to make to Mr
Tregear, and must beg to decline any further correspondence.'
This was the reply which the Duke wrote to the applicant for his
daughter's hand. And he wrote it at once. He had acknowledged to
himself that Tregear had shown a certain manliness in his appeal;
but not on that account was such a man to have all that he
demanded! It seemed to the Duke that there was no alternative
between such a note as that given above and a total surrender.
But the post did not go out during the night, and the note lay
hidden in the Duke's private drawer till the morning. There was
still that 'locus poenitentiae' which should be accorded to all
letters written in anger. During the day he thought over it all
constantly, not in any spirit of yielding, not descending a single
step from that attitude of conviction which made him feel that it
might be his duty absolutely to sacrifice his daughter,--but asking
himself whether it might not be better to explain the whole matter
at length to the young man. He thought that he could put the
matter strongly. It was not by his own doing that he belonged to
an aristocracy which, if all exclusiveness were banished from it,
must cease to exist. But being what he was, having been born to
such privileges and such limitations, was he not bound in duty to
maintain a certain exclusiveness? He would appeal to the young man
himself to say whether marriage ought to be free between all
classes of the community. And if not between all, who was to
maintain the limits but they to whom authority in such matters is
given? So much in regard to rank! And then he would ask this
young man whether he thought it fitting that a young man whose
duty according to all known principles it must be to earn bread,
should avoid that manifest duty by taking a wife who could
maintain him. As he roamed about his park alone he felt that he
could write such a letter as would make an impression even upon a
lover. But when he had come back to his study, other reflections
came to his aid. Though he might write the most appropriate letter
in the world, would there not certainly be a reply? As to
conviction, had he ever known an instance of a man who had been
convinced by an adversary? Of course there would be a reply,--and
replies. And to such a correspondence there would no visible end.
Words when once written, remain, or may remain, in testimony for
ever. So at last when the moment came he sent off those three
lines, with his uncourteous compliments and his demand that there
should be no further correspondence.
At dinner he endeavoured to make up for his harshness by increased
tenderness to his daughter, who was altogether ignorant of the
correspondence. 'Have you written your letters, dear?' She said
she had written them. 'Have you written your letters, dear?' She
said she had written them.
'I hope the people will come.'
'If it will make you comfortable, papa!'
'It is for your sake I wish them to be here. I think that Lady
Mabel and Miss Boncassen are just such girls as you would like.'
'I do like them; only--'
'Only what?'
'Miss Boncassen is an American.'
'Is that an objection? According to my ideas it is desirable to
become acquainted with persons of various nations. I have heard,
no doubt, many stories of the awkward manners displayed by
American ladies. If you look for them you may probably find
American women who are not polished. I do not think I shall
calumniate my own country if I say the same of English women. It
should be our object to select for our own acquaintance the best
we can find of all countries. It seems to me that Miss Boncassen
is a young lady with whom any other young lady might be glad to
form an acquaintance.'
This was a little sermon which Mary was quite contented to endure
in silence. She was, in truth, fond of the young American beauty,
and had felt a pleasure in the intimacy which the girl had
proposed to her. But she thought it inexpedient that Miss
Boncassen, Lady Mabel, and Silverbridge, should be at Matching
together. Therefore she made a reply to her father's sermon which
hardly seemed to go to the point at issue. 'She is so beautiful!'
she said.
'Very beautiful,' said the Duke. 'But what has that to do with it?
My girl need not be jealous of any girl's beauty.' Mary laughed
and shook her head. 'What is it then?'
'Perhaps Silverbridge might admire her.'
'I have no doubt he would,--or does, for I am aware that they have
met. But why should he not admire her?'
'I don't know,' said Lady Mary sheepishly.
'I fancy there is no danger in that direction. I think
Silverbridge understands what is expected from him.' Had not
Silverbridge plainly shown that he had understood what was
expected from him when he selected Lady Mabel? Nothing could have
been more proper, and the Duke had been altogether satisfied. That
in such a matter there should have been a change in so short a
time did not occur to him. Poor Mary was now completely silenced.
She had been told that Silverbridge understood what was expected
from him; and of course could not fail to carry home to herself an
accusation that she failed to understand what was expected from
her.
She had written her letters, but had not yet sent them. Those to
Mrs Finn and the two younger ladies had been easy enough. Could Mr
and Mrs Finn come to Matching on the twentieth of November? 'Papa
says that you promised to return, and thinks this time will
perhaps suit you.' And then to Lady Mabel: 'Do come if you can;
and papa particularly says that he hopes Miss Cassewary will come
also.' To Miss Boncassen she had written a long letter, but that
too had been written very easily. 'I write to you instead of your
mamma because I know you. You must tell her that, and then she
will not be angry. I am only papa's messenger, and I am to say how
much he hopes that you will come on the twentieth. Mr Boncassen is
to bring the whole British Museum if he wishes.' Then there was a
little postscript which showed that there was already considerable
intimacy between the two young ladies: 'We won't have either Mr L
or Lord P.' Not a word was said about Lord Silverbridge. There
was not even an initial to indicate his name.
But the letter to her brother was more difficult. In her epistles
to those others she had so framed her words as if possible to
bring them to Matching. But in writing to her brother, she was
anxious to write as to deter him from coming. She was bound to
obey her father's commands. He had desired that Silverbridge
should be asked to come,--and he was asked to come. But she
craftily endeavoured to word the invitation that he should be
induced to remain away. 'It is all papa's doing,' she said; 'and I
am glad that he should like to have people here. I have asked the
Finns with whom papa seems to have made up everything. Mr
Warburton will be here of course, and I think Mr Moreton is
coming. He seems to think that a certain amount of shooting ought
to be done. Then I have invited Lady Mabel Grex and Miss
Cassewary,--all of course of papa's choosing, and the Boncassens.
Now you will know whether the set will suit you. Papa particularly
begged that you will come,--apparently because of Lady Mabel. I
don't know what all that means. Perhaps you do. As I like Lady
Mabel, I hope she will come.' Surely Silverbridge would not run
himself into the jaws of the lion. When he heard that he was
specially expected by his father to come to Matching in order that
he might make himself agreeable to one young lady, he would hardly
venture to come, seeing that he would be bound to make love to
another young lady!
To Mary's great horror, all the invitations were accepted. Mr and
Mrs Finn were quite at the Duke's disposal. That she had expected.
The Boncassens would all come. This was signified by a note from
Isabel, which covered four sides of the paper and was full of fun.
But under her signature had been written a few words,--not in fun,--
words which Lady Mary perfectly understood. 'I wonder, I wonder, I
wonder!' Did the Duke when inviting her know anything of his
son's inclinations? Would he be made to know them now, during
this visit? And what would he say when he did know them?'
That the Boncassens would come as a matter of course; but Mary had
thought that Lady Mabel would refuse. She had told Lady Mabel that
the Boncassens had been asked, and to her thinking it had not been
improbable that the young lady would be unwilling to meet her
rival at Matching. But the invitation was accepted.
But it was her brother's ready acquiescence which trouble Mary
chiefly. He wrote as though there was no doubt about the matter.
'Of course there is s deal of shooting to be done,' he said, 'and
I consider myself bound to look after it. There ought not to be
less than four guns,--particularly if Warburton is to be one of
them. I like Warburton very much, but I think he shoots badly to
ingratiate himself with the governor. I wonder whether the
governor would get leave for Gerald for a week. He has been
sticking to his work like a brick. If not, would he mind my
bringing someone? You ask the governor and let me know. I'll be
there on the twentieth. I wonder whether they'll let me hear what
goes on among them about politics? I'm sure there is not one of
them hates Sir Timothy worse than I do. Lady Mab is a brick, and
I'm glad you have asked her. I don't think she'll come, as she
likes shutting herself up at Grex. Miss Boncassen is another
brick. And if you can manage about Gerald I will say you are a
third.'
This would have been all very well had she not know that secret.
Could it be that Miss Boncassen had been mistaken? She was forced
to write again to say that her father did not think it right that
Gerald should be brought away from his studies for the sake of
shooting, and that the necessary fourth gun would be there in the
person of Barrington Erle. Then she added: 'Lady Mabel Grex is
coming, and so is Miss Boncassen.' But to this she received no
reply.
Though Silverbridge had written to his sister in his usual
careless style, he had considered the matter much. The three
months were over. He had no idea of any hesitation on his part. He
had asked her to be his wife, and he was determined to go on with
his suit. Had he ever been enabled to make the same request to
Mabel Grex, or had she answered him when he did half make it in a
serious manner, he would have been true to her. He had not told
his father, or his sister, or his friends, as Isabel had
suggested. He would not do so till he should have received some
more certain answer from her. But in respect to his love he was
prepared to be as quite as obstinate as his sister. It was a
matter for his own consideration, and he would choose for himself.
The three months were over, and it was now his business to present
himself to the lady again.
That Lady Mabel should also be at Matching, would certainly be a
misfortune. He thought it probable that she, knowing that Isabel
Boncassen and he would be there together, would refuse the
invitation. Surely she ought to do so. That was his opinion when
he wrote to his sister. When he heard afterwards that she intended
to be there, he could only suppose that she was prepared to accept
the circumstances as they stood.
CHAPTER 52
Miss Boncassen Tells the Truth
On the twentieth of the month all the guests came rattling in at
Matching one after the another. The Boncassens were the first, but
Lady Mabel with Miss Cassewary followed them quickly. Then came
the Finns, and with them Barrington Erle. Lord Silverbridge was
the last. He arrived by a train which reached the station at 7pm,
and only entered the house as his father was asking Miss Boncassen
into the dining-room. He dressed himself in ten minutes, and
joined the party as the had finished their fish. I am awfully
sorry,' he said, rushing up to his father, 'but I thought that I
should just hit it.'
'There is no occasion for awe,' said the Duke,' as sufficiency of
dinner is left. But how you should have hit it, as you say,--seeing
that the train is not due at Bridstock till 7.5 I do not know.'
'I've often done it, sir,' said Silverbridge, taking the seat left
vacant for him next to Lady Mabel. 'We've had a political caucus
of the party,--all the members who could be got together in
London,--at Sir Timothy's, and I was bound to attend.'
'We've all heard of that,' said Phineas Finn.
'And we pretty well know all the points of Sir Timothy's
eloquence,' said Barrington Erle.
'I am not going to tell any of the secrets. I have no doubt that
there were reporters present, and you will see the whole of it in
the papers tomorrow.' Then Silverbridge turned to his neighbour.
'Well, Lady Mab, and how are you this long time?'
'But how are you? Think what you have gone through since we were
at Killancodlem!'
'Don't talk of it.'
'I suppose it is not to be talked of.'
'Though upon the whole it has happened very luckily, I have got
rid of the accursed horses, and my governor has shown what a brick
he can be. I don't think there is another man in England who would
have done as he did.'
'There are not many who could.'
'There are fewer who would. When they came into my bedroom that
morning and told me that the horse could not run, I thought I
should have broken my heart. Seventy thousand pounds gone!'
'Seventy thousand pounds!'
'And the honour and glory of winning the race! And then the
feeling that one had been so awfully swindled! Of course I had to
look as though I did not care a straw about it, and to go and see
the race, with a jaunty air and a cigar in my mouth. That is what
I call hard work.'
'But you did it!'
'I tried. I wish I could explain to you my state of mind that day.
In the first place the money had got to be got. Though it was to
go into the hands of swindlers, still it had to be paid. I don't
know how your father and Percival get on together,--but I felt like
the prodigal son.'
'It is very different with papa.'
'I suppose so. I felt very like hanging myself when I was alone
that evening. And now everything is right again.'
'I am glad that everything is right,' she said, with a strong
emphasis on everything.
'I have done with racing at any rate. The feeling of being in the
power of a lot of low blackguards is so terrible! I did love the
poor brute so dearly. And now what have you been doing?'
'Just nothing;--and have seen nobody. I went back to Grex after
leaving Killancodlem, and shut myself up in misery.'
'Why misery?'
'Why misery! What a question for you to ask! Though I love Grex, I
am not altogether fond of living alone, and though Grex has its
charms, they are of a melancholy kind. And when I think of the
state of our family affairs, that is not reassuring. You father
has just paid seventy thousand pounds for you. My father has been
good enough to take something of less than a quarter of that sum
from me;--but still it was all that I was ever to have.'
'Girls don't want money.'
'Don't they? When I look forward it seems to me that a time will
come when I shall want it very much.'
'You will marry,' he said. She turned round for a moment and
looked at him, full in the face, after a fashion that he did not
dare to promise her future comfort in that direction. 'Things
always do come right, somehow.'
'Let us hope so. Only nothing has ever come right for me yet.
What is Frank doing?'
'I haven't seen him since he left Crummie-Toddle.'
'And your sister?' she whispered.
'I know nothing about it at all.'
'And you? I have told you everything about myself.'
'As for me, I think of nothing but politics now. I have told you
about my racing experiences. Just at present shooting is up.
Before Christmas I shall go into Chiltern's country for a little
hunting.'
'You can hunt here?'
'I shan't stay long enough to make it worth while to have my
horses down. If Tregear will go with me to the Brake, I can mount
him for a day or two. But I daresay you know more of his plans
that I do. He went to see you at Grex.'
'And you did not.'
'I was not asked.'
'Nor was he.'
'Then all I can say is,' replied Silverbridge, speaking in a low
voice, but with considerable energy, 'that he can use a freedom
with Lady Mabel Grex which I cannot venture.'
'I believe you begrudge me his friendship. If you had no one else
belonging to you with whom you could have sympathy, would not you
find comfort in a relation who could be almost as near to you as a
brother?'
'I do not grudge him to you.'
'Yes; you do. And what business have to you interfere?'
'None at all;--certainly. I will never do it again.'
'Don't say that, Lord Silverbridge. You ought to have more mercy
on me. You ought to put up with anything from me,--knowing how much
I suffer.'
'I will put up with anything,' said he.
'Do, do. And now I will try to talk to Mr Erle.'
Miss Boncassen was sitting on the other side of the table, between
Mr Monk and Phineas Finn, and throughout the dinner talked mock
politics with the greatest liveliness. Silverbridge when he
entered the room had gone round the table and shaken hands with
everyone. But there had no other greeting between him and Isabel,
nor had any sign passed from one to the other. No such greeting or
sign had been possible. Nothing had been left undone which she had
expected, or hoped. But, though she was lively, nevertheless she
kept her eye upon her lover and Lady Mabel. Lady Mary had said
that she thought her brother was in love with Lady Mabel. Could it
be possible? In her own land she had heard absurd stories,
stories which had seemed to her to be absurd,--of the treachery of
Lords and Countesses, of the baseness of aristocrats, of the
iniquities of high life in London. But her father had told her to
go where she might, she would find people in the main to be very
like each other. It had seemed that nothing could be more
ingenuous than this young man had been in his declaration of his
love. No simplest republican could have spoken more plainly. But
now, at this moment, she could doubt but that her lover was very
intimate with this other girl. Of course he was free. When she had
refused to say a word to him of her own love or want of love, she
had necessarily left him at liberty. When she had put him off for
three months, of course he was to be his own master. But what must
she think of him if it were so? And how could he have the courage
to face her in her father's house if he intended to treat her in
such a fashion? But of all this she showed nothing, nor was there
a tone in her voice which betrayed her. She said her last word to
Mr Monk with so sweet a smile that that old bachelor wished he
were younger for her sake.
In the evening after dinner there was music. It was discovered
that Miss Boncassen sung divinely, and both Lady Mabel and Lady
Mary accompanied her. Mr Erle, and Mr Warburton, and Mr Monk, all
of whom were unmarried, stood by enraptured. But Lord Silverbridge
kept himself apart, and interested himself in a description which
Mrs Boncassen gave him of their young men and their young ladies
in the States. He had hardly spoken to Miss Boncassen,--till he
offered her sherry or soda-water before she retired for the night.
She refused his courtesy with her usual smile, but showed no more
emotion than though they two had now met for the first time in
their lives.
He had quite made up his mind as to what he would do. When the
opportunity should come his way he would simply remind her that
the three months were passed. But he was shy of talking to her in
the presence of Lady Mabel and his father. He was quite determined
that the thing should be done at once, but he certainly wished
that Lady Mabel had not been there. In what she had said to him at
the dinner-table she had made him quite understand that she would
be a trouble to him. He remembered her look when he had told her
that she would marry. It was as though she had declared to him
that it was he who ought to be her husband. It referred back to
that proffer of love which he had once made to her. Of course all
this was disagreeable. Of course it made things difficult for him.
But not the less was it a thing quite assured that he would press
his suit to Miss Boncassen. When he was talking to Mrs Boncassen
he was thinking of nothing else. When he was offering Isabel the
glass of sherry he was telling himself that he would find his
opportunity on the morrow,--though, now, at this moment, it was
impossible that he should make a sign. She, as she went to bed,
asked herself whether it was possible that there should be such
treachery;--whether it were possible that he should pass it all by
as though he had never said a word to her!
During the whole of the next day, which was Sunday, he was equally
silent. Immediately after breakfast, on the Monday, shooting
commenced, and he could not find a moment in which to speak. It
seemed to him that she purposely kept out of his way. With Mabel
he did find himself for a few moments alone, and was then
interrupted by his sister and Isabel. 'I hope you have killed a
lot of things,' said Miss Boncassen.
'Pretty well, among us all.'
'What an odd amusement it seems, going out to commit wholesale
slaughter. However it is the proper thing no doubt.'
'Quite the proper thing,' said Lord Silverbridge, and that was
all.
On the next morning he dressed himself for shooting,--and then sent
out the party without him. He had heard, he said, of a young horse
for sale in the neighbourhood, and had sent to desire that it
might be brought to him. And now he found his occasion.
'Come and play a game of billiards,' he said to Isabel, as the
three girls with the other ladies were together in the drawing-
room. She got up very slowly from her seat, and very slowly crept
away to the door. Then she looked round as though expecting the
others to follow her. None of them did follow her. Mary felt that
she ought to do so; but, knowing all that she knew, did not dare.
And what good could she have done by one such interruption? Lady
Mabel would fain have gone too;--but neither did she quite dare.
Had there been no special reason why she should or should not have
gone with them, the thing would have been easy enough. When two
people go to play billiards, a third may surely accompany them.
But now, Lady Mabel found that she could not stir. Mrs Finn, Mrs
Boncassen, and Miss Cassewary were all in the room, but none of
them moved. Silverbridge led the way quickly across the hall, and
Isabel Boncassen followed him very slowly. When she entered the
room she found him standing with a cue in his hand. He at once
shut the door, and walking up to her dropped the butt of the cue
on the floor and spoke one word. 'Well!' he said.
'What does "Well" mean?'
'The three months are over.'
'Certainly the are "over".'
'And I have been a model of patience.'
'Perhaps your patience is more remarkable than your constancy. Is
not Lady Mabel Grex in the ascendant just now?'
'What do you mean by that? Why do you ask that? You told me to
wait for three months. I have waited, and her I am.'
'How very--very--downright you are.'
'Is not the proper thing?'
'I thought I was downright,--but you beat me hollow. Yes, the three
months are over. And now what have you got to say?' He put down
his cue, stretched out his arms as though he were going to take
her and hold her to his heart. 'No;--no, not that,' she said
laughing. 'But if you will speak, I will hear you.'
'You know what I said before. Will you love me, Isabel?'
'And you know what I said before. Do they know you love me? Does
your father know it, and your sister? Why did they ask me to come
here?'
'Nobody knows it. But say that you love me, and everyone shall
know it at once. Yes, one person knows it. Why did you mention
Lady Mabel's name? She knows it.'
'Did you tell her?'
'Yes, I went again to Killancodlem after you were gone, and then I
told her.'
'But why her? Come, Lord Silverbridge. You are straightforward
with me, and I will be the same with you. You have told Lady
Mabel. I have told Lady Mary.'
'My sister!'
'Yes;--your sister. And I am sure she disapproves it. She did not
say so; but I am sure it is so. and then she told me something.'
'What did she tell you?'
'Has there ever been reason to think that you intended to offer
your hand to Lady Mabel Grex?'
'Did she tell you so?'
'You should answer my question, Lord Silverbridge. It is surely
one which I have a right to ask.' Then she stood waiting for his
reply, keeping herself at some little distance from him as though
she were afraid that he would fly upon her. And indeed there
seemed to be cause for such fear from frequent gestures of his
hands. 'Why do you not answer me? Has there been some reason for
such expectations?'
'Yes;--there has.'
'There has!'
'I thought of it,--not knowing myself before I had seen you. You
shall know it all if you will only say that you love me.'
'I should like to know it first.'
'You do know it all;--almost. I have told you that she knows what I
said to you at Killancodlem. Is not that enough?'
'And she approves!'
'What has it to do with her? Lady Mabel is my friend, but not my
guardian.'
'Has she a right to expect that she should be your wife?'
'No;--certainly not. Why should you ask all this? Do you love me?
Come, Isabel; say that you love me. Will you call me vain if I say
that I almost think you do. You cannot doubt my love;--not now.'
'No;--not now.'
'You needn't. Why won't you be as honest to me? If you hate me,
say so;--but if you love me-!'
'I do not hate you, Lord Silverbridge.'
'And is that all?'
'You asked me the question.'
'But you do love me? By George, I thought you would be more honest
and straightforward.'
Then she dropped her badinage and answered him seriously. 'I
thought I had been more honest and straightforward. When I found
that you were in earnest at Killancodlem--'
'Why did you ever doubt me?'
'When I felt that you were in earnest, then I had to be in earnest
too. And I thought so much about it that I lay awake nearly all
that night. Shall I tell you what I thought?'
'Tell me something I would like to hear.'
'I will tell you the truth. "Is it possible," I said to myself,
"that such a man as that can want me to be his wife; he an
Englishman, of the highest rank and the greatest wealth, and one
that any girl in the world would love?"'
'Psha!' he exclaimed.
'That is what I said to myself.' Then she paused, and looking
into his face he saw that there was a glimmer of a tear in each
eye. 'One that any girl must love when asked for her love;--because
he is so sweet, so good, and so pleasant.'
'I know that you are chaffing.'
'Then I went on asking myself questions. And is it possible that
I, who by all his friends will be regarded as a nobody, who am an
American,--with merely human work-a-day blood in her veins,--that
such a one as I should become his wife? Then I told myself that
it was not possible. It was not in accordance with the fitness of
things. All the dukes in England would rise up against it, and
especially that duke whose good will would be imperative.'
'Why should he rise up against it?'
'You know he will. But I will go on with my story of myself. When
I had settled that in my mind, I just cried myself to sleep. It
had been a dream. I had come across one who in his own self seemed
to combine all that I had ever thought of as being lovable in a
man--'
'Isabel!'
'And in his outward circumstances soared as much above my thoughts
as the heaven is above the earth. And he had whispered to me soft
loving, heavenly words. No;--no, you shall not touch me. But you
shall listen to me. In my sleep I could be happy again and not see
the barriers. But when I woke I made up my mind. "If he comes to
me again," I said-"if it should be that he should come to me
again, I will tell him that he shall be my heaven on earth,--if,--
if--if the ill will of his friends would not make that heaven a
hell to both of us." I did not tell you quite all that.'
'You told me nothing but that I was to come back again in three
months.'
'I said more than that. I bade you ask your father. Now you have
come again. You cannot understand a girl's fears and doubts. How
should you? I thought perhaps you would not come. When I saw you
whispering to that highly-born well-bred beauty, and remembered
what I was myself, I thought that--you would not come.'
'Then you must love me.'
'Love you! Oh, my darling!-No, no, no,' she said, as she
retreated from him round the corner of the billiard-table, and
stood guarding herself from him with her little hands. 'You ask if
I love you. You are entitled to know the truth. From the sole of
your foot to the crown of you head I love you as I think a man
would wish to be loved by the girl he loves. You have come across
my life, and have swallowed me up, and made me all your own. But I
will not marry you to be rejected by your people. No; nor shall
there be a kiss between us till I know that it will not be so.'
'May I speak to your father?'
'For what good? I have not spoken to father or mother because I
have known that it must depend upon your father. Lord
Silverbridge, if he will tell me that I shall be his daughter, I
will become your wife,--oh with such perfect joy, with such perfect
truth! If it can never be so, then let us be torn apart,--with
whatever struggle, still at once. In that case I will get myself
back to my own country as best I may, and will pray to God that
all this may be forgotten.' Then she made her way round to the
door, leaving him fixed on the spot in which she had been
standing. But as she went she made a little prayer to him. 'Do not
delay my fate. It is all in all to me.' And so he was left alone
in the billiard-room.
CHAPTER 53
Then I am as Proud as a Queen
During the next day or two the shooting went on without much
interruption from love-making. The love-making was not prosperous
all round. Poor Lady Mary had nothing to comfort her. Could she
have been allowed to see the letter which her lover had written to
her father, the comfort would have been, if not ample, still very
great. Mary told herself again and again that she was quite sure
of Tregear;--but it was hard upon her that she could not be made
certain that her certainty was well grounded. Had she known that
Tregear had written, though she had not seen a word of the letter,
it would have comforted her. But she heard nothing of the letter.
In June last she had seen him, by chance, for a few minutes, in
Lady Mabel's drawing-room. Since that she had not heard from him
or of him. That was now more than five months since. How could
love serve her,--how could her very life serve her, if things were
to go on like that? How was she to bear it? Thinking of this she
resolved, she almost resolved, that she would go boldly to her
father and desire that she might be given up to her lover.
Her brother, although more triumphant,--for how could he fail to
triumph after such words as Isabel had spoken to him,--still felt
his difficulties very seriously. She had imbued him with a strong
sense of her own firmness, and she had declared that she would go
away and leave him altogether if the Duke should be unwilling to
receive her. He knew that the Duke would be unwilling. The Duke,
who certainly was not handy in those duties of match-making which
seemed to have fallen upon him at the death of his wife, showed by
a hundred little signs his anxiety that his son and heir should
arrange his affairs with Lady Mabel. These signs were manifest to
Mary,--were disagreeably manifest to Silverbridge,--and were
unfortunately manifest to Lady Mabel herself. They were manifest
to Mrs Finn, who was clever enough to perceive that the
inclinations of the young heir were turned in another direction.
And gradually they became manifest to Isabel Boncassen. The host
himself, as host, was courteous to all his guests. They had been
of his own selection, and he did his best to make himself pleasant
to them all. But he selected two for his peculiar notice,--and
those two were Miss Boncassen and Lady Mabel. While he would
himself walk, and talk, and argue after his own particular fashion
with the American beauty,--explaining to her matters political and
social, till he persuaded her to promise to read his pamphlet upon
decimal coinage,--he was always making efforts to throw
Silverbridge and Lady Mabel together. The two girls saw it and
knew how the matter was,--knew that they were rivals, and knew each
the ground on which she herself and on which the other stood. But
neither was satisfied with her advantage, or nearly satisfied.
Isabel would not take the prize without the Duke's consent;---and
Mabel could not have it without that other consent. 'If you want
to marry an English Duke,' she once said to Isabel in that anger
which she was unable to restrain, 'there is the Duke himself. I
never saw a man so absolutely in love.' 'But I do not want to
marry an English Duke,' said Isabel, 'and I pity any girl who has
any idea of marriage except that which comes from a wish to give
back love for love.'
Through it all the father never suspected the real state of his
son's mind. He was too simple to think it possible that the
purpose which Silverbridge had declared to him as they walked
together from the Beargarden had already been thrown to the winds.
He did not like to ask why the thing was not settled. Young men,
he thought, were sometimes shy, and young ladies not always ready
to give immediate encouragement. But when he saw them together he
concluded that matters were going in the right direction. It was,
however, an opinion which he had all to himself.
During the next three or four days which followed the scene in the
billiard-room Isabel kept herself out of her lover's way. She had
explained to him that which she wished him to do, and she left him
to do it. Day by day she watched the circumstances of the life
around her, and knew that it had not been done. She was sure that
it could not have been done while the Duke was explaining to her
the beauty of quints, and expiating on the horrors of twelve
pennies, and twelve inches, and twelve ounces,--variegated in some
matters by sixteen and fourteen! He could not know that she was
ambitious of becoming his daughter-in-law, while he was opening
out to her the mysteries of the House of Lords, and explaining how
it came to pass that while he was a member of one House of
Parliament, his son should be sitting as a member of another;--how
it was that a nobleman could be a commoner, and how a peer of one
part of the Empire could sit as the representative of a borough in
another part. She was an apt scholar. Had there been a question of
any other young man marrying her, he would probably have thought
that no other young man could have done better.
Silverbridge was discontented with himself. The greater misfortune
was that Lady Mabel should be there. While she was present to his
father's eyes he did not know how to declare his altered wishes.
Every now and then she would say to him some little word
indicating her feelings of the absurdity of his passion. 'I
declare I don't know whether it is you or your father that Miss
Boncassen most affects,' she said. But to this and to other
similar speeches he would make no answer. She had extracted his
secret from him at Killancodlem, and might use it against him if
she pleased. In his present frame of mind he was not disposed to
joke with her on the subject.
On that second Sunday,--the Boncassens were to return to London on
the following Tuesday,--he found himself alone with Isabel's
father. The American had been brought out at his own request to
see the stables, and had been accompanied round the premises by
Silverbridge, Mr Wharton, by Isabel, and by Lady Mary. As they got
out into the park the party were divided, and Silverbridge found
himself with Mr Boncassen. Then it occurred to him that the proper
thing for a young man in love was to go, not to his own father,
but to the lady's father. Why should not he do as others always
did? Isabel no doubt had suggested a different course. But that
which Isobel suggested was at the present moment impossible to
him. Now at this instant, without a moment's forethought, he
determined to tell his story to Isabel's father,--as any other
young lover might tell it to any other father.
'I am very glad to find ourselves alone, Mr Boncassen,' he said.
Mr Boncassen bowed and showed himself prepared to listen. Though
so many at Matching had seen the whole play, Mr Boncassen had seen
nothing of it.
'I don't know whether you are aware of what I have got to say.'
'I cannot quite say that I am, my lord. But whatever it is, I am
sure I shall be delighted to hear it.'
'I want to marry your daughter,' said Silverbridge. Isabel had
told him that he was downright, and in such a matter he had hardly
as yet learned how to express himself with those paraphrases in
which the world delights. Mr Boncassen stood stock still, and in
the excitement of the moment pulled off his hat. 'The proper thing
is to ask your permission to go on with it.'
'You want to marry my daughter!'
'Yes. That is what I have got to say.'
'Is she aware of your--intention?'
'Quite aware. I believe I may say that if other things go
straight, she will consent.'
'And your father--the Duke?'
'He knows nothing about it,--as yet.'
'Really this takes me by surprise. I am afraid you have not given
enough thought to the matter.'
'I have been thinking about it for the last three months,' said
Lord Silverbridge.
'Marriage is a very serious thing.'
'Of course it is.'
'And men generally like to marry their equals.'
'I don't know about that. I don't think that counts for much.
People don't always know who are their equals.'
'That is quite true. If I were speaking to you or to your father
theoretically I should perhaps be unwilling to admit superiority
on your side because of your rank and wealth. I could make an
argument in favour of any equality with the best Briton that ever
lived,--as would become a true-born Republican.'
'That is just what I mean.'
'But when the question becomes one of practising,--a question for
our lives, for our happiness, for our own conduct, then, knowing
what must be the feelings of an aristocracy in such a country as
this, I am prepared to admit that your father would be as well
justified in objecting to a marriage between a child of his and a
child of mine, as I should be in objecting to one between my child
and the son of some mechanic in our native city.'
'He wouldn't be a gentleman,' said Silverbridge.
'That is a word of which I don't quite know the meaning.'
'I do,' said Silverbridge confidently.
'But you could not define it. If a man be well educated, and can
keep a good house over his head, perhaps you may call him a
gentleman. But there are many such with whom your father would not
wish to be so closely connected to as you propose.'
'But I may have your sanction?' Mr Boncassen again took off his
hat and walked along thoughtfully. 'I hope you don't object to me
personally.'
'My dear young lord, your father has gone out of his way to be
civil to me. Am I to return his courtesy by bringing a great
trouble upon him?'
'He seems to be very fond of Miss Boncassen.'
'Will he continue to be fond of her when he has heard this? What
does Isabel say?'
'She says the same as you, of course.'
'Why of course;--except that it is evident to you as it is to me
that she could not with propriety say anything else.'
'I think she would,--would like it, you know.'
'She would like to be your wife!'
'Well;--yes. If it were all serene, I think she would consent.'
'I daresay she would consent,--if it were all serene. Why should
she not? do not try her too hard, Lord Silverbridge. You say you
love her?'
'I do indeed.'
'Then think of the position in which you are placing her. You are
struggling to win her heart.' Silverbridge as he heard this
assured himself that there was no need for any further struggling
in that direction. 'Perhaps you have won it. Yet she may feel that
she cannot become your wife. She may well say to herself that this
which is offered to her is so great, that she does not know how to
refuse it; and may yet have to say, at the same time, that she
cannot accept it without disgrace. You would not put one that you
love into such a position?'
'As for disgrace,--that is nonsense. I beg your pardon, Mr
Boncassen.'
'Would it be no disgrace that she should be known here, in
England, to be your wife, and that none of those of your rank,--of
what would then be her own rank,--should welcome her into the new
world?'
'That would be out of the question.'
'If your own father refused to welcome her, would not others
follow suit?'
'You don't know my father.'
'You seem to know him well enough to fear that he would object.'
'Yes;--that is true.'
'What more do I want to know?'
'If she were once my wife he would not reject her. Of all human
beings he is in truth the kindest and most affectionate.'
'And therefore you would try him after this fashion? No, my lord,
I cannot see my way through these difficulties. You can say what
you please to him as to your own wishes. But you must not tell him
that you have any sanction from me.'
That evening the story was told to Mrs Boncassen, and the matter
was discussed among the family. Isabel in talking to them made no
scruple of declaring her own feelings; and though in speaking to
Lord Silverbridge she had spoken very much as her father had done
afterwards, yet in this family conclave she took her lover's part.
'That is all very well, father,' she said, 'I told him the same
thing myself. But if he is man enough to be firm I shall not throw
him over,--not for all the dukes in Europe. I shall not stay here
to be pointed at. I will go back home. If he follows me to show
that he is in earnest, I shall not disappoint him for the sake of
pleasing his father.' To this neither Mr nor Mrs Boncassen were
able to make any efficient answer. Mrs Boncassen, dear good woman,
could see no reason why two young people who loved each other
should not be married at once. Dukes and duchesses were nothing to
her. If they couldn't be happy in England then let them come and
live in New York. She didn't understand that anybody could be too
good for her daughter. Was there not an idea that Mr Boncassen
would be the next President? And was not the President of the
United States as good as the Queen of England?
Lord Silverbridge when he left Mr Boncassen wandered about the
park by himself. King Cophetua married the beggar's daughter. He
was sure of that. King Cophetua probably had not a father, and the
beggar, probably, was not high-minded. But the discrepancy in that
case was much greater. He intended to persevere, trusting much to
a belief that when once he was married his father would 'come
round'. His father always did come round. But the more he thought
of it, the more impossible it seemed to him that he should ask his
father's consent at the present moment. Lady Mabel's presence in
the house was an insuperable obstacle. He thought that he could do
it if he and his father were alone together, or comparatively
alone. He must be prepared for an opposition, at any rate of some
days, which opposition would make his father quite unable to
entertain his guests while it lasted.
But as he could not declare his wishes to his father, and was thus
disobeying Isabel's behests, he must explain the difficulty to
her. He felt already that she would despise him for his
cowardice,--that she would not perceive the difficulties in his
way, or understand that he might injure his cause by
precipitation. Then he considered whether he might not possibly
make some bargain with his father. How would it be if he should
consent to go back to the Liberal party on being allowed to marry
the girl he loved? As far as his political feelings were
concerned he did not think that he would much object to make the
change. There was only one thing certain,--that he must explain his
condition to Miss Boncassen before she went.
He found no difficulty now in getting the opportunity. She was
equally anxious, and as well disposed to acknowledge her anxiety.
After what had passed between them she was not desirous of
pretending that the matter was of small moment to herself. She had
told him that it was all the world to her, and had begged him to
let her know her fate as quickly as possible. On that last Monday
morning they were in the grounds together, and Lady Mabel, who was
walking with Mrs Finn, saw them pass through a little gate which
led from the gardens into the Priory ruins. 'It all means
nothing,' Mabel said with a little laugh to her companion.
'If so, I am sorry for the young lady,' said Mrs Finn.
'Don't you think that one always has to be sorry for the young
ladies? Young ladies generally have a bad time of it. Did you
ever hear of a gentleman who always had to roll a stone to the top
of a hill, but it would always come back on him?'
'That gentleman I believe never succeeded,' said Mrs Finn. 'The
young ladies sometimes do, I suppose.'
In the meantime Isabel and Silverbridge were among the ruins
together. 'This is where the old Pallisers used to be buried,' he
said.
'Oh, indeed. And married, I suppose.'
'I daresay. They had a priest of their own, no doubt, which must
have been convenient. This block of a fellow without any legs is
supposed to represent Sir Guy. He ran away with half-a-dozen
heiresses, they say. I wish things were as easily done now.'
'Nobody should have to run away with me. I have no idea of going
on such a journey except on terms of equality,--just step and step
alike.' Then she took hold of his arm and put out one foot. 'Are
you ready?'
'I am very willing.'
'But are you ready,--for a straightforward walk off to the church
before all the world? None of your private chaplains, such as Sir
Guy had at his command. Just the registrar, if there is nothing
better,--so that it be public before all the world.'
'I wish we could start this instant.'
'But we can't,--can we?'
'No, dear. So many things have to be settled.'
'And what have you settled on since you last spoke to me?'
'I have told your father everything.'
'Yes;--I know that. What good does that do? Father is not a Duke
of Omnium. No one supposed that he would object.'
'But he did,' said Silverbridge.
'Yes;--as I do,--for the same reason; because he would not have his
daughter creep in at a hole. But to your own father you have not
ventured to speak.' Then he told his story, as best he knew how.
It was not that he feared his father, but that he felt that the
present moment was not fit. 'He wishes you to marry that Lady
Mabel Grex,' she said. He nodded his head. 'And you will marry
her?'
'Never! I might have done so, had I not seen you. I should have
done so, if she had been willing. But now I never can,--never,
never.' Her hand had dropped from his arm, but now she put it up
again for a moment, so that he might feel the pressure of her
fingers. 'Say that you believe me.'
'I think I do.'
'You know I love you.'
'I think you do. I am sure I hope you do. If you don't, then I
am,--a miserable wretch.'
'With all my heart I do.'
'Then I am as proud as a queen. You will tell him soon.'
'As soon as you are gone. As soon as we are alone together. I
will;--and then I will follow you to London. Now shall we not say,
Good-bye?'
'Good-bye, my own,' she whispered.
'You will let me have one kiss.'
Her hand was in his, and she looked as though to see that no eyes
were watching them. But then, as thoughts came rushing to her
mind, she changed her purpose. 'No,' she said. 'What is it but a
trifle! It is nothing in itself. But I have bound myself to
myself by certain promises, and you must not ask me to break them.
You are as sweet to me as I can be to you, but there shall be no
kissing till I know that I shall be your wife. Now take me back.'
CHAPTER 54
I Don't Think She is a Snake
On the following day, Tuesday, the Boncassens went, and then there
were none of the guests left but Mrs Finn and Lady Mabel Grex,--
with of course Miss Cassewary. The Duke had especially asked both
Mrs Finn and Lady Mabel to remain, the former, through his anxiety
to show his repentance for the injustice he had formerly done her,
and the latter in the hope that something might be settled as soon
as the crowd of visitors should have gone. He had so spoken as to
make Lady Mabel quite aware of his wish. He would not have told
her how sure he was that Silverbridge would keep no more
racehorses, how he trusted that Silverbridge had done with
betting, how he believed that the young member would take a real
interest in the House of Commons, had he not intended that she
should take a special interest in the young man. And then he had
spoken about the house in London. It was to be made over to
Silverbridge as soon as Silverbridge should marry. And then there
was Gatherum Castle. Gatherum was rather a trouble than otherwise.
He had ever felt it to be so, but had nevertheless always kept it
open perhaps for a month in the year. His uncle had always resided
there for a fortnight at Christmas. When Silverbridge was married
it would become the young man's duty to do something of the same
kind. Gatherum was the White Elephant of the family, and
Silverbridge must enter it upon his share of the trouble. He did
not know that in saying all this he was offering his son as a
husband to Lady Mabel, but she understood it as thoroughly as
though he had spoken the words.
But she knew the son's mind also. He had indeed himself told her
all his mind. 'Of course I love her best of all,' he had said.
When he told her of it she had been so overcome that she had wept
in her despair;--had wept in his presence. She had declared to him
her secret,--that it had been her intention to become his wife, and
then he had rejected her! It had all been shame, and sorrow, and
disappointment to her. And she could not but remember that there
had been a moment when she might have secured him by a word. A
look would have done it; a touch of her finger on that morning.
She had known then that he had intended to be in earnest,--that he
only waited for encouragement. She had not given it because she
had not wish to grasp too eagerly for the prize,--and now the prize
was gone! She had said that she had spared him;--but then she
could afford to joke, thinking that he would surely come back to
her.
She had begun her world with so fatal a mistake! When she was
quite young, when she was little more than a child but still not a
child, she had given all her love to a man whom she soon found
that it would be impossible she should ever marry. He had offered
to face the world with her, promising to do the best to smooth the
rough places, and to soften the stones for her feet. But she,
young as she was, had felt that both he and she belonged to a
class which could hardly endure poverty with contentment. The
grinding need for money, the absolute necessity of luxurious
living, had been pressed upon her from her childhood. She had seen
it and acknowledged it, and had told him with precocious wisdom,
that that which he offered to do for her sake would be a folly for
them both. She had not stinted the assurance of her love, but had
told him that they must both turn aside and learn to love
elsewhere. He had done so, with too complete a readiness! She
had dreamed of a second love, which should obliterate the first,--
which might still leave to her the memory of the romance of her
earlier passion. Then this boy had come her way! With him all her
ambition might have been satisfied. She desired high rank and
great wealth. With him she might have had it all. And then, too,
though there would always be the memory of that early passion, yet
she could in another fashion love this youth. He was pleasant to
her, and gracious;--and she had told herself that if it should be
so that this great fortune might be hers, she would atone to him
fully for that past romance by the wife-like devotion of her life.
The cup had come within the reach of her fingers, but she had not
grasped it. Her happiness, her triumphs, her great success had
been there, present to her, and she had dallied with her fortune.
There had been a day on which he had been all but at her feet, and
on the next he had been prostrate at the feet of another. He had
even dared to tell her so,--saying of that American that 'of course
he loved her the best'!
Over and over again since that she had asked herself whether there
was no chance. Though he had loved that other one best she would
take him if it were possible. When the invitation came from the
Duke she would not lose a chance. She had told him that it was
impossible that he, the heir of the Duke of Omnium, should marry
an American. All his family, all his friends, all his world would
be against him. And then he was so young,--and, as she thought, so
easily led. He was lovable and prone to love,--but surely his love
could not be very strong, or he would not have changed so easily.
She did not hesitate to own to herself that this American was very
lovely. She too, herself, was beautiful. She too had a reputation
for grace, loveliness, and feminine high-bred charm. She knew all
that, but she knew also that her attractions were not so bright as
those of her rival. She could not smile or laugh or throw sparks
of brilliance around her as did the American girl. Miss Boncassen
could be graceful as a nymph in doing the awkwardest thing! When
she had pretended to walk stiffly along, to some imaginary
marriage ceremony, with he foot stuck before her, with her chin in
the air, and one arm akimbo, Silverbridge had been all afire with
admiration. Lady Mabel understood it all. The American girl must
be taken away,--from out of the reach of the young man's senses,--
and then the struggle must be made.
Lady Mabel had not been long at Matching before she learned that
she had much in her favour. She perceived that the Duke himself
had not suspicion of what was going on, and that he was strongly
disposed in her favour. She unravelled it all in her own mind.
There must have been some agreement, between the father and the
son, when the son had all but made his offer to her. More than
once she was half-minded to speak openly to the Duke, to tell him
all that Silverbridge had said to her and all that he had not
said, and to ask the father's help in scheming against that rival.
But she could not find the words with which to begin. And then,
might he not despise her, and despising reject her, were she to
declare her desire to marry a man who had given his heart to
another woman? And so, when the Duke asked her to remain after
the departure of the other guests, she decided that it would be
best to bide her time. The Duke, as she assented, kissed her hand,
and she knew that this sign of grace was given to his intended
daughter-in-law.
In all this she half-confided her thoughts and her prospects to
her old friend Miss Cassewary. 'That girl has gone at last,' she
said to Miss Cassewary.
'I fear she has left her spells behind her, my dear.'
'Of course she has. The venom out of the snake's tooth will poison
all the blood; but still the poor bitten wretch does not always
die.'
'I don't think she is a snake.'
'Don't be moral, Cass. She is a snake in my sense. She has got her
weapons, and of course it is natural enough that she should use
them. If I want to be the Duchess of Omnium, why shouldn't she?'
'I hate to hear you talk of yourself in that way.'
'Because you have enough of the old school about you to like
conventional falsehood. This young man did in fact ask me to be
his wife. Of course I meant to accept him,--but I didn't. Then
comes this convict's granddaughter.'
'Not a convict's!'
'You know what I mean. Had he been a convict it would have been
all the same. I take upon myself to say that, had the world been
informed that an alliance had been arranged between the eldest son
of the Duke of Omnium and the daughter of Earl Grex,--the world
would have been satisfied. Every unmarried daughter of every peer
in England would have envied me,--but it would have been comme il
faut.'
'Certainly, my dear.'
'But what would be the feeling as to the convict's granddaughter?'
'You don't suppose that I would approve it;--but it seems to me
that in these days young men do just as they please.'
'He shall do what he pleases, but he must be made to be pleased
with me.' So much she said to Miss Cassewary; but she did not
divulge any plan. The Boncassens had just gone off to the station,
and Silverbridge was out shooting. If anything could be done here
at Matching, it must be done quickly, as Silverbridge would soon
take his departure. She did not know it, but, in truth, he was
remaining in order that he might, as he said, 'have all this out
with the governor'.
She tried to realise for herself some plan, but when the evening
came nothing was fixed. For a quarter of an hour, just as the sun
was setting, the Duke joined her in the gardens,--and spoke to her
more plainly than he had ever spoken before. 'Has Silverbridge
come home?' he asked.
'I have not seen him.'
'I hope you and Mary get on well together.'
'I think so, Duke. I am sure we should if we saw more of each
other.'
'I sincerely hope you may. There is nothing I wish for Mary so
much as that she should have a sister. And there is no one whom I
would be so glad to hear her call by that name as yourself.' How
could he have spoken plainer?
The ladies were all together in the drawing-room when Silverbridge
came bursting in rather late. 'Where's the governor?' he asked,
turning to his sister.
'Dressing I should think; but what is the matter?'
'I want to see him. I must be off to Cornwall tomorrow morning.'
'To Cornwall!' said Miss Cassewary. 'Why to Cornwall?' asked Lady
Mabel. But Mary, connecting Cornwall with Frank Tregear, held her
peace.
'I can't explain it all now, but I must start very early
tomorrow.' Then he went off to his father's study, and finding
the Duke still there explained the cause of his intended journey.
The member for Polpenno had died, and Frank Tregear had been
invited to stand for the borough. He had written to his friend to
ask him to come and assist in the struggle. 'Years ago there used
to be always a Tregear in for Polpenno,' said Silverbridge.
'But he is a younger son.'
'I don't know anything about it,' said Silverbridge,' but as he
has asked me to go I think I ought to do it.' The Duke, who was
by no means the man to make light of the political obligations of
friendship, raised no objection.'
'I wish that something could have been arranged between you and
Mabel before you went.' The young man stood in the gloom of the
dark room aghast. This was certainly not the moment for
explaining everything to his father. 'I have set my heart very
much upon it, and you ought to be gratified by knowing that I
quite approve your choice.'
All that had been years ago,--in last June,--before Mrs Montacute
Jones's garden-party, before that day in the rain at Maidenhead,
before the brightness of Killancodlem, before the glories of Miss
Boncassen had been revealed to him. 'There's no time for that
kind of thing now,' he said weakly.
'I thought that when you were here together--'
'I must dress now, sir; but I will tell you about it when I get
back from Cornwall. I will come back direct to Matching, and will
explain everything.' So he escaped.
It was clear to Lady Mabel that there was no opportunity now for
any scheme. Whatever might be possible must be postponed till
after this Cornish business had been completed. Perhaps it might
be better so. she had thought that she would appeal to himself,
that she would tell him of his father's wishes, of her love for
him,--of the authority which he had once given her for loving him,--
and of the absolute impossibility of his marriage with the
American. She thought that she could do it, if not efficiently at
any rate effectively. But it could not be done on the very day on
which the American had gone.
It came out in the course of the evening that he was going to
assist Frank Tregear in his canvass. The matter was not spoken of
openly, as Tregear's name could hardly be mentioned. But everybody
knew it, and it gave occasion to Mabel for a few words apart to
Silverbridge. 'I am so glad you are going to him,' she said in a
little whisper.
'Of course I go when he wishes me. I don't know whether I can do
him any good.'
'The greatest good in the world. Your name will go so far! It
will be everything to him to be in Parliament. And when are we to
meet again?'
'I shall turn up somewhere,' he replied as he gave her his hand to
wish her good-bye.
On the following morning to Lady Mabel that she would stay at
Matching for yet another fortnight,--or even for a month if it
might be possible. Lady Mabel, whose father was still abroad, was
not sorry to accept the invitation.
CHAPTER 55
Polpenno
Polwenning, the seat of Mr Tregear, Frank's father, was close to
the borough of Polpenno,--so close that the gates of the grounds
opened into the town. As Silverbridge had told his father, may of
the Tregear family had sat for the borough. Then there had come
changes, and strangers had made themselves welcome by their money.
When the vacancy had occurred a deputation waited upon Squire
Tregear and asked him to stand. The deputation would guarantee
that the expense should not exceed--a certain limited sum. Mr
Tregear for himself had no such ambition. His eldest son was
abroad and was not at all such a man as one would choose to make
into a Member of Parliament. After much consideration in the
family, Frank was invited to present himself to the constituency.
Frank's aspirations in regard to Lady Mary Palliser were known at
Polwenning, and it was thought that they would have a better
chance of success if he could write the letters M.P. after his
name. Frank acceded, and as he was starting wrote to ask the
assistance of his friend Lord Silverbridge. At that time there
were only nine days more before the election, and Mr Carbottle,
the Liberal candidate, was already living in great style at the
Camborne Arms.
Mr and Mrs Tregear and an elder sister of Frank's, who quite
acknowledged herself to be an old maid, were very glad to welcome
Frank's friend. On the first morning of course they discussed the
candidate's prospects. 'My best chance of success,' said Frank,
'arises from that fact that Mr Carbottle is fatter than the people
here seem to approve.'
'If his purse be fat,' said old Mr Tregear, 'that will carry off
any personal defect.' Lord Silverbridge asked whether the
candidate was not too fat to make speeches. Miss Tregear declared
that he had made three speeches daily last week, and that Mr
Williams the rector who had heard him, declared him to be a
godless dissident. Mrs Tregear thought that it would be much
better that the place should be disfranchised altogether than that
such a horrid man should be brought into the neighbourhood. A
godless dissenter!' she said, holding up her hands in dismay.
Frank thought that they had better abstain from allusion to their
opponent's religion. Then Mr Tregear made a little speech. 'We
used,' he said, 'to endeavour to get someone to represent us in
Parliament, who would agree with us on vital subjects, such as the
Church of England and the necessity of religion. Now it seems to
be considered ill-mannered to make any allusion to such subjects!'
From which it may be seen that this old Tregear was very
conservative indeed.
When the old people were gone to bed the two young men discussed
the matter. 'I hope you'll get in,' said Silverbridge. 'And if I
can do anything for you of course I will.'
'It is always good to have a real member along with one,' said
Tregear.
'But I begin to think I am a very shaky Conservative myself.'
'I am sorry for that.'
'Sir Timothy is such a beast,' said Silverbridge.
'Is that your notion of a political opinion? Are you to be this
or that in accordance with your own liking or disliking for some
particular man? One is supposed to have opinions of one's own.'
'Your father would be down on a man because he is a dissenter.'
'Of course my father is old-fashioned.'
'It does seem so hard to me,' said Silverbridge, 'to find any
difference between the two sets. You who are a true Conservative
are much more like to my father who is a Liberal than to your own
who is on the same side as yourself.'
'It may be so, and still I may be a good Conservative.'
'It seems to me in the house to mean nothing more than choosing
one set of companions or choosing another. There are some awful
cads who sit along with Mr Monk;--fellows that make you sick to
hear them, and whom I couldn't be civil to. But I don't think
there is anybody I hate so much as old Beeswax. He has a
contemptuous way with his nose which makes me long to pull it.'
'And you mean to go over in order that you may be justified in
doing so. I think I soar a little higher,' said Tregear.
'Oh, of course. You're a clever fellow,' said Silverbridge, not
without a touch of sarcasm.
'A man may soar higher than that without being very clever. If the
party that calls itself liberal were to have all its own way who
is there that doesn't believe that the church would go at once,
then all distinction between boroughs, the House of Lords
immediately afterwards, and after that the Crown.'
'Those are not my governor's ideas.'
'You governor couldn't help himself. A liberal party, with
plenipotentiary power, must go on right away to the logical
conclusion of its arguments. It is only the conservative feeling
of the country which saves such men as your father from being
carried headlong to ruin by their own machinery. You have read
Carlyle's French Revolution?'
'Yes, I have read that.'
'Wasn't it so there? There were a lot of honest men who thought
they could do a deal of good by making everybody equal. A good
many were made equal be having their heads cut off. That's why I
mean to be member of Polpenno and to send Mr Carbottle back to
London. Carbottle probably doesn't want to cut anybody's head
off.'
'I daresay he's as conservative as anybody.'
'But he wants to be a member for Parliament; and, as he hasn't
thought much about anything he is quite willing to lend a hand to
communism, radicalism, socialism, chopping people's heads off, or
anything else.'
'That's all very well,' said Silverbridge, 'but where should we
have been if there had been no Liberals? Robespierre and his pals
cut off a lot of heads, but Louis XIV and Louis XV locked up more
in prison. And so he had the last word in the argument.
The whole of the next morning was spent in canvassing, and the
whole of the afternoon. In the evening there was a great meeting
at the Polwenning Assembly Room, which at the present moment was
in the hands of the Conservative Party. Here Frank Tregear made an
oration, in which he declared his political convictions. The
whole speech was said at the time to be very good; but the portion
of it which was apparently esteemed the most, had direct reference
to Mr Carbottle. Who was Mr Carbottle? Why had he come to
Polpenno? Who had sent for him? Why Mr Carbottle rather than
anybody else? Did not the people of Polpenno think that it might
be as well to send Mr Carbottle from the place from whence he had
come? These questions, which seemed to Silverbridge to be as easy
as they were attractive, almost made him desirous of making a
speech himself.
Then Mr Williams, the rector, followed, a gentleman who had many
staunch friends and many bitter enemies in the town. He addressed
himself chiefly to that bane of the whole country--as he conceived
them,--the godless dissenters; and was felt by Tregear to be
injuring the cause by every word he spoke. It was necessary that
Mr Williams should liberate his own mind, and therefore he
persevered with the godless dissenters at great length,--not
explaining, however, how a man who thought enough about his
religion to be a dissenter could be godless, or how a godless man
should care enough about religion to be a dissenter.
Mr Williams was heard with impatience, and then there was a
clamour for the young lord. He was the son of an ex-Prime
Minister, and therefore of course should speak. He was himself a
member of Parliament, and therefore should speak. He had boldly
severed himself from the faulty political tenets of the family,
and therefore on such an occasion as this was peculiarly entitled
to speak. When a man goes electioneering, he must speak. At a
dinner-table to refuse is possible:--or in any assembly convened
for any private purpose, a gentleman may declare that he is not
prepared for the occasion. But in such an emergency as this, a
man,--and a member of Parliament,--cannot plead that he is not
prepared. A son of a former Prime Minister who had already taken
so strong a part in politics as to have severed himself from his
father, not prepared to address the voters of a borough whom he
had come to canvass! The plea was so absurd, that he was thrust
on to his feet before he knew what he was about.
It was in truth his first public speech. At Silverbridge he had
attempted to repeat a few words, and in his failure had been
covered by the Sprugeons and the Sprouts. But now he was on his
legs in a great room, in an unknown town, with all the aristocracy
of the place before him! His eyes at first swam a little, and
there was a moment in which he thought he would run away. But, on
that morning, as he was dressing, there had come to his mind the
idea of the possibility of such a moment as this, and a few words
had occurred to him. 'My friend Frank Tregear,' he began, rushing
at once at his subject, 'is a very good fellow, and I hope you
will elect him.' Then he paused, not remembering what was to come
next; but the sentiment which he had uttered appeared to his
auditors to be so good in itself and so well delivered, that they
filled up a long pause with continued clappings and exclamations.
'Yes,' continued the young member of Parliament, encouraged by the
kindness of the crowd, 'I have known Frank Tregear ever so long,
and I don't think you will find a better member of Parliament
anywhere.' There were many ladies present and they thought that
the Duke's son was just the person who ought to come
electioneering among them. His voice was much pleasanter to their
ears than that of old Mr Williams. The women waved their
handkerchiefs and the men stamped their feet. Here was an orator
come among them. 'You all know all about it just as well as I do,'
continued the orator, 'and I am sure you feel that he ought to be
member for Polpenno.' There could be no doubt about that as far
as the opinion of the audience went. 'There can't be a better
fellow than Frank Tregear, and I ask you all to give three cheers
for the new member.' Ten times three cheers were given, and the
Carbottleites outside the door who had come to report what was
going on at the Tregear meeting were quite of the opinion that
this eldest son of the former Prime Minister was a tower of
strength. 'I don't know anything about Mr Carbottle,' continued
Silverbridge, who was almost getting to like the sound of his own
voice. 'Perhaps he's a good fellow too.' 'No; no, no. A very bad
fellow indeed,' was heard from different parts of the room. 'I
don't know anything about him. I wasn't at school with Carbottle.'
This was taken as a stroke of the keenest wit, and was received
with infinite cheering. Silverbridge was in the pride of his
youth, and Carbottle was sixty at the least. Nothing could have
been funnier. 'He seems to be a stout old party, but I don't think
he's the man for Polpenno. I think you'll return Frank Tregear. I
was at school with him;--and I tell you that you can't find a
better fellow anywhere than Frank Tregear.' Then he sat down, and
I am afraid he felt that he had made the speech of the evening.
'We are so much obliged to you, Lord Silverbridge,' Miss Tregear
said as they were walking home together. 'That's just the sort of
thing that the people like. So reassuring, you know. What Mr
Williams says about the dissenters is of course true; but it isn't
reassuring.'
'I hope I didn't make a fool of myself tonight,' Silverbridge said
when he was alone with Tregear,--probably with some little pride in
his heart.
'I ought to say that you did, seeing that you praised me so
violently. But, whatever it was, it was well taken. I don't know
whether they will elect me; but had you come down as a candidate,
I am quite sure they would have elected you.' Silverbridge was
hardly satisfied with this. He wished to have been told that he
had spoken well. He did not, however, resent his friend's
coldness. 'Perhaps, after all, I did make a fool of myself,' he
said to himself as he went to bed.
On the next day, after breakfast, it was found to be raining
heavily. Canvassing was of course the business of the hour, and
canvassing is a business which cannot be done indoors. It was soon
decided that the rain should go for nothing. Could an agreement
have been come to with the Carbottles it might have been decided
that both parties should abstain, but as that was impossible the
Tregear party could not afford to lose the day. As Mr Carbottle,
by reason of his fatness and natural slowness, would perhaps be
specially averse to walking about in the slush and mud, it might
be that they would gain something; so after breakfast they started
with umbrellas,--Tregear, Silverbridge, Mr Newcomb the curate, Mr
Pinebott the conservative attorney, with four or five followers
who were armed with books and pencils, and who ticked off on the
list of the voters the names of the friendly, the doubtful, and
the inimical.
Parliamentary canvassing is not a pleasant occupation. Perhaps
nothing more disagreeable, more squalid, more revolting to the
senses, more opposed to personal dignity, can be conceived. The
same words have to be repeated over and over again in the
cottages, hovels, and lodgings of poor men and women who only
understand that the time has come round in which they are to be
flattered instead of being the flatterers. 'I think I am right in
supposing that your husband's principles are conservative, Mrs
Bubbs.' 'I don't know nothing about it. You'd better call again
and see Bubbs hissel.' 'Certainly I will do so. I shouldn't at
like to leave the borough without seeing Mr Bubbs. I hope we shall
have your influence Mrs Bubbs.' 'I don't known nothing about it.
My folk at home allays vote buff; and I think Bubbs ought to go
buff too. Only mind this, Bubbs don't never come home to his
dinner. You must come arter six, and I hope he's to have some'at
for his trouble. He won't have my word to vote unless he have
some'at.' Such is the conversation in which the candidate takes a
part, while his cortege at the door is criticising his very
imperfect mode of securing Mrs Bubb's good wishes. Then he goes on
to the next house, and the same thing with some variation is
endured again. Some guide, some philosopher, and friend, who
accompanies him, and who is the chief of the cortege, has
calculated on his behalf that he ought to make twenty such
visitations an hour, and to call on two hundred constituents in
the course of the day. As he is always falling behind in his
number, he is always being driven on by his philosopher, till he
comes to hate the poor creatures to whom he is forced to address
himself, with a most cordial hatred.
It is a nuisance to which no man should subject himself in any
weather. But when it rains there is superadded a squalor and an
ill humour to all the party which makes it almost impossible for
them not to quarrel before the day is over. To talk politics to
Mrs Bubbs under any circumstances is bad, but to do so with the
conviction that the moisture is penetrating from your greatcoat
through your shirt to your bones, and that while so employed you
are breathing the steam from those seven other wet men, at the
door, is abominable. To have to go through this is enough to take
away all the pride which a man might otherwise take from becoming
a member of Parliament. But to go through it and then not become a
member is base indeed! To go through it and to feel that you are
probably paying the rate of a hundred pounds a day for the
privilege is mot disheartening. Silverbridge as he backed up
Tregear in the uncomfortable work, congratulated himself on the
comfort of having a Mr Sprugeon and Mr Sprout who could manage his
borough for him without a contest.
They worked on that day all the morning till one, when they took
luncheon, all reeking with wet, at the King's Head,--so that a
little money might be legitimately spent in the cause. Then, at
two, they sallied out again, vainly endeavouring to make their
twenty calls within the hour. About four, when it was beginning to
be dusk, they were very tired, and Silverbridge had ventured to
suggest that as they were all wet through, and as there was to be
another meeting in the Assembly Room that night, and as nobody in
that part of town seemed to be at home, they might perhaps be
allowed to adjourn for the present. He was thinking how nice it
would be to have a glass of brandy-and-water and then lounge till
dinner-time. But the philosophers received the proposition with
stern disdain. Was his Lordship aware that Mr Carbottle had been
out all day from eight in the morning, and was still at work; that
the Carbottleites had already sent for lanterns and were
determined to go on till eight o'clock among the artisans who
would then have returned from their work? When a man had put his
hand to the plough, the philosophers thought that a man should
complete the furrows!
The philosophers' view had just carried the day, the discussion
having been held under seven or eight wet umbrellas at the corner
of a dirty little lane leading into the High Street, when
suddenly, on the other side of the way, Mr Carbottles cortege made
its appearance. The philosophers at once informed them that on
such occasions it was customary that the rival candidates should
be introduced. 'It will take ten minutes,' said the philosophers;
'but then it will take them ten minutes too.' Upon this Tregear,
as being the younger of the two, crossed over the road, and the
introduction was made.
There was something comfortable in it to the Tregear party, as no
imagination could conceive anything more wretched than the
appearance of Mr Carbottle. He was a very stout man of sixty, and
seemed to be almost carried along by his companions. He had pulled
his coat-collar up and his hat down till very little of his face
was visible, and in attempting to look at Tregear and Silverbridge
he had to lift up his chin till the rain ran off his hat on to his
nose. He had an umbrella in one hand and a stick in the other, and
was wet through to his very skin. What were his own feelings
cannot be told, but his philosophers, guides, and friends would
allow him no rest. Very hard work, Mr Tregear,' he said, shaking
his head.
'Very hard indeed, Mr Carbottle.' Then the two parties went on,
each their own way, without another word.
CHAPTER 56
The News is Sent to Matching
There were nine days of this work, during which Lord Silverbridge
became very popular and made many speeches. Tregear did not win
half so many hearts, or recommend himself so thoroughly to the
political predilections of the borough;--but nevertheless he was
returned. It would probably be unjust to attribute his success
chiefly to the young Lord's eloquence. It certainly was not due to
the strong religious feelings of the rector. It is to be feared
that even the thoughtful political convictions of the candidate
did not altogether produce the result. It was that chief man among
the candidates, guides, and friends, that leading philosopher who
would not allow anybody to go home from the rain, and who kept his
eyes so sharply open to the pecuniary doings of the Carbottleites,
that Mr Carbotttle's guides and friends had hardly dared to spend
a shilling;--it was he who had in truth been efficacious. In every
attempt they had made to spend their money they had been looked
into and circumvented. As Mr Carbottle had been brought down to
Polpenno on purpose that he might spend money,--as he had nothing
but his money to recommend him, and as he had not spent it,--the
free and independent electors of the borough had not seen their
way to vote for him. Therefore the Conservatives were very elate
with their triumph. There was a great conservative reaction. But
the electioneering guide, philosopher, and friend, in the humble
retirement of his own home,--he was a tailor in the town, whose
assistance at such periods had long been in requisition,--he knew
very well how the seat had been secured. Ten shillings a head
would have sent three hundred Liberals to the ballot-boxes! The
mode of distributing the money had been arranged; but the
conservative tailor had been to acute, and not a half-sovereign
could be passed. The tailor got twenty-five pounds for his work,
and that was smuggled in among the bills for printing.
Mr Williams, however, was sure that he had so opened out the
iniquities of the dissenters as to have convinced the borough.
Yes, every Salem and Zion and Ebenezer in his large parish would
be closed. 'It is a great thing for the country,' said Mr
Williams.
'He'll make a capital member,' said Silverbridge, clapping his
friend on the back.
'I hope he'll never forget,' said Mr Williams, 'that he owes his
seat to the protestant and Church-of-England principles which have
sunk so deeply into the minds of the thoughtful portion of the
inhabitants of this borough.'
'Whom should they elect but Tregear?' said the mother, feeling
that her rector took too much of the praise himself.
'I think you have done more for us than anyone else,' whispered
Miss Tregear to the young Lord. 'What you said was so reassuring!'
The father before he went to bed expressed to his son, with some
trepidation, a hope that all this would lead to no great permanent
increase of expenditure.
That evening before he went to bed Lord Silverbridge wrote to his
father an account of what had taken place at Polpenno.
'Polwenning, 15 December
'MY DEAR FATHER,
'Among us all we have managed to return Tregear. I am afraid you
will not be quite pleased because it will be a vote lost to your
party. But I really think that he is just the fellow to be in
Parliament. If he were on your side I'm sure he's just the kind of
man you'd like to bring into office. He is always thinking about
those sort of things. He says that, if there were no
Conservatives, such Liberals as you and Mr Monk would be destroyed
by the Jacobins. There is something in that. Whether a man is
Conservative or not himself, I suppose there ought to be
Conservatives.'
The Duke as he read this made a memorandum in his own mind that he
would explain to his son that every carriage should have a drag to
its wheels, but that an ambitious soul would choose to be the
coachman rather than the drag.
'It was beastly work!' The Duke made another memorandum to
instruct his son that no gentleman above the age of schoolboy
should allow himself to use such a word in such a sense. 'We had
to go about in the rain up to our knees in mud for eight or nine
days, always saying the same thing. And of course all that we said
was bosh.' Another memorandum--or rather two, one as to the slang,
and another as to the expediency of teaching something to the poor
voters on such occasions. 'Our only comfort was that the Carbottle
people were as quite badly off as us.' Another memorandum as to
the grammar. The absence of Christian charity did not at the
moment affect the Duke. 'I made ever so many speeches, till at
last it seemed quite easy.' Here there was a very grave
memorandum. Speeches easy to young speakers are generally very
difficult to old listeners. 'But of course it was all bosh.' This
required no separate memorandum.
'I have promised to go up to town with Tregear for a day or two.
After that I will stick to my purpose of going to Matching again.
I will be there about the twenty-second, and then will stay over
Christmas. After that I am going to the Brake country for some
hunting. It is such a shame to have a lot of horses and never to
ride them!
'Your most affectionate Son,
'SILVERBRIDGE.'
The last sentence gave rise in the Duke's mind to the necessity of
a very elaborate memorandum on the subject of amusements
generally.
By the same post another letter went from Polpenno to Matching
which also gave rise to some mental memoranda. It was as follows;
'MY DEAR MABEL,
I am a Member of the British House of Commons! I have sometimes
regarded myself as being one of the most peculiarly unfortunate
men in the world, and yet now I have achieved that which all
commoners in England think to be the greatest honour within their
reach, and have done so at an age at which very few achieve it but
the sons of the wealthy and the powerful.
'I now come to my misfortunes. I know that as a poor man I ought
not to be a Member of Parliament. I ought to be earning my bread
as a lawyer or a doctor. I have no business to be what I am, and
when I am forty I shall find that I have eaten up all my good
things instead of having them to eat.
'I have once chance before me. You know very well what it is. Tell
her that my pride in being a Member of Parliament is much more on
her behalf than on my own. The man who dares to love her ought at
any rate to be something in the world. If it might be,--if ever it
may be,--I should wish to be something for her sake. I am sure you
will be glad of my success yourself, for my own sake.
'Your affectionate Friend and Cousin,
'FRANCIS TREGEAR.'
The first mental memorandum in regard to this came from the
writer's assertion that he at forty would have eaten up all his
good things. No! He being a man might make his way to good things
though he was not born to them. But what good things were in store
for her? What chance of success was there for her? But the
reflection on which the most bitter to her of all came from her
assurance that his love for that other girl was so genuine. Even
when he was writing to her there was no spark left of the old
romance! Some hint of a recollection of past feelings, some half-
concealed reference to the former passion might have been allowed
to him! She as a woman,--as a woman all whose fortune must depend
on marriage,--could indulge in so such allusion; but surely he need
not have been so hard!
But still there was another memorandum. At the present moment she
would do all that he desired as far as it was in her power. She
was anxious that he should marry Lady Mary Palliser, though so
anxious also that something of his love should remain with
herself! She was quite willing to convey that message,--if it
might be done without offence to the Duke. She was there with the
object of ingratiating herself with the Duke. She must not impede
her favour with the Duke by making herself the medium of any
secret communications between Mary and her lover.
But how should she serve Tregear without risk of offending the
Duke? She read the letter again and again, and thinking it to be
a good letter she determined to show it to the Duke.
'Mr Tregear has got in at Polpenno,' she said on the day on which
she and the Duke had received the letters.
'So I hear from Silverbridge.'
'It will be a good thing for him I suppose.'
'I do not know,' said the Duke coldly.
'He is my cousin, and I have always been interested in his
welfare.'
'That is natural.'
'And a seat in Parliament will give him something to do.'
'Certainly it ought,' said the Duke.
'I do not think he is an idle man.' To this the Duke made no
answer. He did not wish to be made to talk about Tregear. 'May I
tell you why I say all this?' she asked softly, pressing her hand
on the Duke's arm every so gently. To this the Duke assented, but
still coldly. 'Because I want to know what I ought to do. Would
you mind reading that letter? Of course you will remember that
Frank and I have been brought up almost as brother and sister.'
The Duke took the letter in his hand and read it, very slowly.
'What he says about young men without means going into Parliament
is true enough.' This was not encouraging, but as the Duke went
on reading, Mabel did not think it necessary to argue the matter.
He had to read the last paragraph twice before he understood it.
He did read it twice, and then folding the letter very slowly gave
it back to his companion.
'What ought I to do?' asked Lady Mabel.
'As you and I, my dear, are friends, I think that any carrying of
a message to Mary would be breaking confidence. I think that you
should not speak to Mary about Mr Tregear.' Then he changed the
subject. Lady Mabel of course understood that after that she could
not say a word to Mary about the election at Polpenno.
CHAPTER 57
The Meeting at The Bobtailed Fox
It was now the middle of December, and matters were not
comfortable in the Runnymede country. The Major with much pluck
had carried on his operations in opposition to the wishes of the
resident members of the hunt. The owners of coverts had protested,
and farmers had sworn that he should not ride over their lands.
There had even been some talk among the younger men of thrashing
him if he persevered. But he did persevere, and had managed to
have one or two good runs. Now it was the fortune of the Runnymede
hunt that many of those who rode with the hounds were strangers to
the country,--men who came down by train from London, gentlemen
perhaps of no great distinction, who could ride hard, but as to
whom it was thought that as they did not provide the land to ride
over, or the fences to be destroyed, or the coverts for the foxes,
or the greater part of the subscription, they ought not to oppose
those by whom all these things were supplied. But the Major,
knowing where his strength lay, had managed to get a party to
support him. The contract to hunt the country had been made with
him in last March, and was good for one year. Having the kennels
and the hounds under his command he did hunt the country; but he
did so amidst a storm of contumely and ill will.
At last it was decided that a general meeting of the members of
the hunt should be called together with the express object of
getting rid of the Major. The gentlemen of the neighbourhood felt
that the Major was not to be borne, and the farmers were very much
stronger against him than the gentlemen. It had now become a
settled belief among sporting men in England that the Major had
with his own hands driven the nail into the horse's foot. Was it
to be endured that the Runnymede farmers should ride to hounds
under a master who had been guilty of such an iniquity as that?
The Staines and Egham Gazette, which had always supported the
Runnymede hunt, declared in very plain terms that all who rose with
the Major were enjoying their sport out of the plunder which had
been extracted from Lord Silverbridge. Then a meeting was called
for Saturday, the eighteenth of December, to be held at that well-
known sporting little inn the Bobtailed Fox. The members of the
hunt were earnestly called upon to attend. It was,--so said the
printed document which was issued,--the only means by which the
hunt could be preserved. If gentlemen who were interested did not
put their shoulders to the wheel the Runnymede hunt must be
regarded as a thing of the past. One of the documents was sent to
the Major with an intimation that if he wished to attend no
objection would be made to his presence. The chair would be taken
at half-past twelve punctually at that popular and well-known old
sportsman Mr Mahogany Topps.
Was ever the master of a hunt treated in such a way! His presence
not objected to! As a rule the master of a hunt does not attend
hunt meetings, because the matter to be discussed is generally
that of the money to be subscribed for him, as to which it was as
well that he should not hear the pros and cons. But it is
presumed that he is to be the hero of the hour, and that he is to
be treated to his face, and spoken of behind his back, with love,
admiration, and respect. But now this matter was told his presence
would be allowed! And then this fox-hunting meeting was summoned
for half-past twelve on a hunting day;--when, as all the world
knew, the hounds were to meet at eleven, twelve miles off! Was
ever anything so base? said the Major to himself. But he resolved
that he would be equal to the occasion. He immediately issued
cards to all the members, stating that on that day the meet had
been changed from Croppingham Bushes, which was ever so much on
the other side of Bagshot, to the Bobtailed Fox,--for the benefit
of the hunt at large, said the card,--and that the hounds would be
there at half-past one.
Whatever might happen, he must show a spirit. In all this there
were one of two of the London brigade who stood fast to him. 'Cock
your tail, Tifto,' said one hard-riding supporter, 'and show 'em
you aren't afraid of nothing.' So Tifto cocked his tail and went
to the meeting in his best new scarlet coat, and with his whitest
breeches, his pinkest boots, and his neatest little bows at his
knees. He entered the room with his horn in his hand, as a symbol
of authority, and took off his hunting-cap to salute the assembly
with a jaunty air. He had taken two glasses of sherry brandy, and
as long as the stimulant lasted would no doubt be able to support
himself with audacity.
Old Mr Topps, in rising from his chair, did not say very much. He
had been hunting in the Runnymede country for nearly fifty years,
and had never seen anything so sad as this before. It made him, he
knew, very unhappy. As for foxes, there were always plenty of
foxes in his coverts. His friend Mr Jawstock, on the right, would
explain what all this was about. All he wanted was to see the
Runnymede hunt properly kept up. Then he sat down, and Mr Jawstock
rose to his legs.
Mr Jawstock was a gentleman well known in the Runnymede country,
who had himself been instrumental in bringing the Major into these
parts. There is often someone in a hunting country who never
becomes a master of hounds himself, but who has almost as much to
say about the business as the master himself. Sometimes at hunt
meetings he is rather unpopular, as he is always inclined to talk.
But there are occasions on which his services are felt to be
valuable,--as were Mr Jawstock's at present. He was about forty-
five years of age, and was not much given to riding, owned no
coverts himself, and was not a man of wealth; but he understood
the nature of hunting, knew all its laws, and was a judge of
horses, of hounds,--and of men; and could say a thing when he had
to say it.
Mr Jawstock sat on the right hand of Mr Topps, and a place was
left for the master opposite. The task to be performed was neither
easy nor pleasant. It was necessary that the orator should accuse
the gentleman opposite to him,--a man with whom he himself had been
very intimate,--of iniquity so gross and so mean, that nothing
worse can be conceived. 'You are a swindler, a cheat, a rascal of
the very deepest dye;--a rogue so mean that it is revolting to be
in the same room with you!' That was what Mr Jawstock had to say.
And he said it. Looking round the room, occasionally appealing to
Mr Topps, who on these occasions would lift up his hands in
horror, but never letting his eye fall for a moment on the Major.
Mr Jawstock told his story. 'I did not see it done,' said he. 'I
know nothing about it. I never was at Doncaster in my life. But
you have evidence of what the Jockey Club thinks. The Master of
our Hunt has been banished from racecourses.' Here there was
considerable opposition, and a few short but excited little
dialogues were maintained;--throughout all which Tifto restrained
himself like a Spartan. 'At any rate he has been thoroughly
disgraced,' continued Mr Jawstock, 'as a sporting man. He has been
driven out of the Beargarden Club.' 'He resigned in disgust at
their treatment,' said a friend of the Major's. 'Then let him
resign in disgust at ours,' said Mr Jawstock, 'for we won't have
him here. Caesar wouldn't keep a wife who was suspected of
infidelity, nor will the Runnymede country endure a Master of
Hounds who is supposed to have driven a nail into a horse's foot.'
Two or three other gentlemen had something to say before the Major
was allowed to speak,--the upshot of the discourse of all of them
being the same. The Major must go.
Then the Major got up, and certainly as far as attention went he
had full justice done him. However clamorous they might intend to
be afterwards that amount of fair play they were all determined to
afford him. The Major was not excellent at speaking, but he did
perhaps better than might have been expected. 'This is a very
disagreeable position,' he said, 'very disagreeable indeed. As for
the nail in the horse's foot I know no more about it than the babe
unborn. But I've got two things to say, and I'll say what aren't
the most consequence first. These hounds belong to me.' Here he
paused, and a loud contradiction came from many parts of the room.
Mr Jawstock, however, proposed that the Major should be heard to
the end. 'I say they belong to me,' repeated the Major. 'If
anybody tries his hand at anything else the law will soon set that
to rights. But that aren't of much consequence. What I've got to
say is this. Let the matter be referred. If that 'orse had a nail
in run into his foot,--and I don't say he hadn't,--who was the man
most injured? Why, Lord Silverbridge. Everybody knows that. I
suppose he dropped well on to eighty thousand pounds! I propose
to leave it to him. Let him say. He ought to know more about it
than anyone. He and I were partners in the horse. His Lordship
aren't very sweet upon me at the just at present. Nobody need fear
that he'll do me a good turn. I say leave it to him.'
In the matter the Major had certainly been well advised. A rumour
had come become prevalent among sporting circles that Silverbridge
had refused to condemn the Major. It was known that he had paid
his bets without delay, and that he had, to some extent, declined
to take advice from the leaders of the Jockey Club. The Major's
friends were informed that the young lord had refused to vote
against him at the club. Was it not more than probable that if
this matter were referred to him he would refuse to give a verdict
against his late partner?
The Major sat down, put on his cap, and folded his arms akimbo,
with his horn sticking out from his left hand. For a time there
was a general silence, broken, however, by murmurs in different
parts of the room. Then Mr Jawstock whispered something into the
ear of the Chairman, and Mr Topps, rising from his seat, suggested
to Tifto that he should retire. 'I think so,' said Jawstock. 'The
proposition that you have made can only be discussed only in your
absence.' Then the Major held a consultation with one of his
friends, and after that did retire.
When he was gone the real hubbub of the meeting commenced. There
were some there who understood the nature of Lord Silverbridge's
feelings in the matter. 'He would be the last man in England to
declare him guilty,' said Mr Jawstock. 'Whatever my lord says, he
shan't ride across my land,' said a farmer in the background. 'I
don't think any gentleman ever made a fairer proposition,--since
anything was anything,' said a friend of the Major's, a gentleman
who kept livery stables in Long Acre. 'We won't have him here,'
said another farmer,--whereupon Mr Topps shook his head sadly. 'I
don't think any gentleman ought to be condemned without a
'earing,' said one of Tifto's admirers, 'and where you're to get
anyone to hunt in the country like him, I don't know as anybody is
prepared to say.' 'We'll manage that,' said a young gentleman from
the neighbourhood of Bagshot, who thought that he could hunt the
country himself quite as well as Major Tifto. 'He must go from
here; that's the long and short of it,' said Mr Jawstock. 'Put it
to the vote, Mr Jawstock,' said the livery-stable keeper. Mr Topps,
who had had great experience in public meetings, hereupon
expressed an opinion that they might as well go to a vote. No
doubt he was right if the matter was one which must sooner or
later be determined in that manner.
Mr Jawstock looked round the room trying to calculate what might
be the effect of a show of hands. The majority was with him; but
he was well aware that of this majority some few would be drawn
away by the apparent justice of Tifto's proposition. And what was
the use of voting? Let them vote as they might, it was out of the
question that Tifto should remain master of the hunt. But the
chairman had acceded, and on such occasions it is difficult to go
against the chairman.
Then there came a show of hands,--first for those who desired to
refer the matter to Lord Silverbridge, and afterwards for Tifto's
direct enemies,--for those who were anxious to banish Tifto out of
hand, without reference to anyone. At last the matter was settled.
To the great annoyance of Mr Jawstock and the farmers the meeting
voted that Lord Silverbridge should be invited to give his opinion
as to the innocence or guilt of his late partner.
The Major's friends carried the discussion out to him as he sat on
horseback, as though he had altogether gained the battle and was
secure in his position as Master of the Runnymede Hunt for the
next dozen years. But at the same time there came a message from
Mr Mahogany Topps. It was now half-past two, and Mr Topps
expressed a hope that Major Tifto would not draw the country on
the present occasion. The Major, thinking that it might be as well
to conciliate his enemies, road slowly and solemnly home to Tally-
ho Lodge in the middle of his hounds.
CHAPTER 58
The Major is Deposed
When Silverbridge undertook to return with Tregear to London
instead of going direct to Matching, it is to be feared that he
was simply actuated by a desire to postpone his further visit to
his father's house. He had thought that Lady Mabel would surely be
gone before his task at Polpenno was completed. As soon as he
should again find himself in his father's presence he would at
once declare his intention of marrying Isabel Boncassen. But he
could not see his way to doing this while Lady Mabel should be in
the house.
'I think you will find Mabel still at Matching,' said Tregear on
their way up. 'She will wait for you I fancy.'
'I don't know why she should wait for me,' said Silverbridge
almost angrily.
'I thought that you and she were fast friends.'
'I suppose we are--after a fashion. She might wait for you
perhaps.'
'I think she would,--if I could go there.'
'You are much thicker with her than ever I was. You went to see
her at Grex,--when nobody else was there.'
'Is Miss Cassewary nobody?'
'Next door to it,' said Silverbridge, half jealous of the favours
shown to Tregear.
'I thought,' said Tregear, 'that there should be a closer intimacy
between you and her.'
'I don't know why you should think so.'
'Had you ever had any such idea yourself?
'I haven't any now,--so there may be an end of it, I don't think a
fellow ought to be cross-questioned on such a subject.'
'Then I am very sorry for Mabel,' said Tregear. This was uttered
solemnly, so that Silverbridge found himself debarred from making
any flippant answer. He could not altogether defend himself. He
had been quite justified, he thought, in changing his mind, but he
did not like to awn that he had changed it so quickly.
'I think we had better not talk any more about it,' he said, after
pausing for a few moments. After that nothing more was said
between them on the subject.
Up in town Silverbridge spent two or three days pleasantly enough,
while a thunderbolt was being prepared for him, or rather, in
truth, two thunderbolts. During these days he was much with
Tregear, and though he could not speak freely of his own
matrimonial projects, still he was brought round to give some sort
of assent to the engagement between Tregear and his sister. This
new position which his friend had won for himself did in some
degree operate on his judgement. It was not perhaps that he
himself imagined that Tregear as a Member of Parliament would be
worthier, but that he fancied that such would be the Duke's
feelings. The Duke had declared that Tregear was nobody. That
could hardly be said of a man who had a seat in the House of
Commons;--certainly could not be said by so staunch a politician as
the Duke.
But had he known of those two thunderbolts he would not have
enjoyed his time at the Beargarden. The thunderbolts fell upon him
in the shape of two letters which reached his hands at the same
time, and were as follows:
'The Bobtailed Fox, 18 December.
'MY LORD,
'At a meeting held in this house today in reference to the hunting
of the Runnymede country, it was proposed that the management of
the hounds should be taken out of the hands of Major Tifto, in
consequence of certain conduct of which it is alleged he was
guilty at the last Doncaster races.
'Major Tifto was present and requested your Lordship's opinion
should he be asked as to his guilt. I do not know myself that we
are warranted in troubling your Lordship on the subject. I am,
however, commissioned by the majority of the gentlemen who were
present to ask you whether you think that Major Tifto's conduct on
that occasion was of such a nature as to make him unfit to be the
depositary of that influence, authority and intimacy which ought
to be at the command of a Master of Hounds.
'I feel myself bound to inform your Lordship that the hunt
generally will be inclined to place great weight upon your
opinion, but that it does not undertake to reinstate Major Tifto,
even should your opinion be in his favour.
'I have the honour to be,
My Lord,
Your Lordship's most obedient Servant,
'JEREMIAH JAWSTOCK
'Juniper Lodge, Staines.'
Mr Jawstock, when he had written this letter, was proud of his own
language, but still felt that the application was a very lame one.
Why ask any man for an opinion, and tell him at the same time that
his opinion might probably not be taken! And yet no other
alternative had been left to him. The meeting had decided that the
application should be made; but Mr Jawstock was well aware that
let the young Lord's answer be what it might, the Major would not
be endured as master in the Runnymede country. Mr Jawstock felt
that the passage in which he explained that a Master of Hounds
should be a depositary of influence and intimacy, was good;--but
yet the application was lame, very lame.
Lord Silverbridge as he read it thought it was very unfair. It was
a most disagreeable thunderbolt. Then he opened the second letter,
of which he well knew the handwriting. It was from the Major.
Tifto's letters were very legible, but the writing was cramped,
showing that the operation had been performed with difficulty.
Silverbridge had hoped that he might never receive another epistle
from his late partner! The letter, as follows, had been drawn out
for Tifto in rough by the livery-stable keeper in Long Acre.
'MY DEAR LORD SILVERBRIDGE,
'I venture respectfully to appeal to your Lordship for an act of
justice. Nobody has more of a true-born Englishman's feeling of
fair play between man and man than your Lordship; and as you and
me have been a good deal together, and your Lordship ought to know
me pretty well, I venture to appeal to your Lordship for a good
word.
'All that story from Doncaster has got down into the country where
I am M.F.H. Nobody could have been more sorry than me that your
Lordship dropped your money. Would not I have been prouder than
anything to have had a horse in my name win the race! Was it
likely I should lame him? Anyways I didn't, and I don't think
your Lordship thinks it was me. Of course your Lordship and me is
two now,--but that don't alter facts.
'What I want is your Lordship to s\end me a line, just stating
your Lordship's opinion that I didn't do it, and didn't have
nothing to do with it;--which I didn't. There was a meeting at The
Bobtailed Fox yesterday, and gentlemen was all of one mind to go
by what your Lordship would say. I couldn't desire nothing fairer.
So I hope your Lordship will stand to me now, and write something
that will pull me through.
'With all respects I beg to remain,
Your Lordship's most dutiful Servant,
T. TIFTO.'
There was something in this letter which the Major himself did not
quite approve. There was an absence of familiarity about it which
annoyed him. He would have liked to call upon his late partner to
declare that a more honourable man than Major Tifto had never been
known on the turf. But he felt himself to be so far down in the
world that it was not safe for him to hold an opinion of his own,
even against the livery-stable keeper!
Silverbridge was for a time in doubt whether he should answer the
letters at all, and if so how he should answer them. In regard to
Mr Jawstock and the meeting at large, he regarded the application
as an impertinence. But as to Tifto himself, he vacillated between
pity, contempt, and absolute condemnation. Everybody had assured
him that the man had certainly been guilty. The fact that he had
made bets against their joint horse,--bets as to which he had said
nothing till after the race was over,--had been admitted by
himself. And yet it was possible that the man might not be such a
rascal as to be unfit to manage the Runnymede hounds. Having
himself got rid of Tifto, he would have been glad that the poor
wretch should have been left with his hunting honours. But he did
not think that he could write to his late partner any letter that
would preserve those honours to him.
At Tregear's advice he referred the matter to Mr Lupton. Mr Lupton
was of opinion that both the letters should be answered, but that
the answer to each should be very short. 'There is a prejudice
about the world just at present,' said Mr Lupton, 'in favour of
answering letters. I don't see why I am to be subjected to an
annoyance because another man has taken a liberty. But it is
better to submit to public opinion. Public opinion thinks that
letter should be answered.' Then Mr Lupton dictated the answers.
'Lord Silverbridge presents his compliments to Mr Jawstock, and
begs to say that he does not feel himself called upon to express
any opinion as to Major Tifto's conduct at Doncaster.'
That was the first. The second was rather less simple, but not
much longer.
'SIR,
'I do not feel myself called upon to express any opinion either to
you or to others as to your conduct at Doncaster. Having received
a letter on the subject from Mr Jawstock I have written to him to
this effect.
'Your obedient Servant,
SILVERBRIDGE.'
Poor Tifto, when he got this very curt epistle, was broken-
hearted. He did not dare to show it. Day after day he told the
livery-stable keeper that he had received no reply, and at last
asserted that his appeal had remained altogether unanswered. Even
this he thought was better than acknowledging the rebuff which had
reached him. As regarded the meeting which had been held,--any
further meetings which might be held,--at The Bobtailed Fox, he did
not see the necessity, as he explained it to the livery-stable
keeper, of acknowledging that he had written any letter to Lord
Silverbridge.
The letter to Mr Jawstock was of course brought forward. Another
meeting at The Bobtailed Fox was convened. But in the meantime
hunting had been discontinued in the Runnymede country. The Major
with all his pluck, with infinite cherry brandy, could not do it.
Men who had a few weeks since been on very friendly terms, and who
had called each other Dick and Harry when the squabble first
began, were now talking of 'punching' each other's heads. Special
whips had been procured by men who intended to ride, and special
bludgeons by the young farmers who intended that nobody should
ride as long as Major Tifto kept the hounds. It was said that the
police would interfere. It was whispered that the hounds would be
shot,--though Mr Topps, Mr Jawstock, and others declared that no
crime so heinous as that had ever been contemplated in the
Runnymede country.
The difficulties were too many for poor Tifto, and the hounds were
not brought out again under his influence.
A second meeting was summoned, and an invitation was sent to the
Major similar to that which he had before received;--but on this
occasion he did not appear. Nor were there any gentlemen down from
London. The second meeting might almost have been called select.
Mr Mahogany Topps was there of course, in the chair, and Mr
Jawstock took the place of honour and of difficulty on his right
hand. There was the young gentleman from Bagshot, who considered
himself quite fit to take Tifto's place if somebody else would pay
the bills and settle the money, and there was the sporting old
parson from Croppingham. Three or four other members of the hunt
were present, and perhaps half-a-dozen farmers, ready to declare
that Major Tifto should never be allowed to cross their fields
again.
But there was no opposition. Mr Jawstock read the young lord's
note, and declared that it was quite as much as he expected. He
considered that the note, short as it was, must be decisive. Major
Tifto in appealing to Lord Silverbridge, had agreed to abide by
his Lordship's answer, and that answer was now before them. Mr
Jawstock ventured to propose that Major Tifto should be declared
to be no longer Master of the Runnymede Hounds. The parson from
Croppingham seconded the proposition, and Major Tifto was formally
deposed.
CHAPTER 59
No One Can Tell What May Come to Pass
Then Lord Silverbridge necessarily went down to Matching, knowing
that he must meet Mabel Grex. Why should she have prolonged her
visit? No doubt it might have been very pleasant for her to be
his father's guest at Matching, but she had been there above a
month! He could understand that his father should ask her to
remain. His father was still brooding over that foolish
communication which had been made to him on the night of the
dinner at the Beargarden. His father was still intending to take
Mabel to his arms as a daughter-in-law. But Lady Mabel herself
knew that it could not be so! The whole truth had been told to
her. Why should she remain at Matching for the sake of being mixed
up in a scene the acting of which could not fail to be
disagreeable to her?
He found the house very quiet and nearly empty. Mrs Finn was there
with the two girls, and Mr Warburton had come back. Miss Cassewary
had gone to a brother's house. Other guests to make Christmas
merry there were none. As he looked round at the large rooms he
reflected that he himself was there only for a special purpose. It
was his duty to break the news of his intended marriage to his
father. As he stood before the fire, thinking how best he might do
this, it occurred to him that a letter from a distance would have
been the ready and simple way. But then it had occurred to him
also, when at a distance, that a declaration of his purpose face
to face was the simplest and readiest way. If you have to go
headlong into the water you should take your plunge without
hesitating. So he told himself, making up his mind that he would
have it all out that evening.
At dinner Lady Mabel sat next to his father, and he could watch
the special courtesy with which the Duke treated the girl who he
was so desirous of introducing to his house. Silverbridge could
not talk about the election of Polpenno because all conversation
about Tregear was interdicted by the presence of his sister. He
could say nothing as to the Runnymede hunt and the two
thunderbolts which had fallen on him, as Major Tifto was not a
subject on which he could expatiate in the presence of his father.
He asked a few questions about the shooting, and referred with
great regret to his absence from the Brake country.
'I am sure Mr Cassewary could spare you for another fortnight,'
the Duke said to his neighbour, alluding to a visit which she now
intended to make.
'If so he would have to spare me altogether,' said Mabel, 'for I
must meet my father in London in the middle of January.'
'Could you not put it off for another year?'
'You would think I had taken root and was growing at Matching.'
'Of all our products you would be the most delightful, and the
most charming,--and we would hope the most permanent,' said the
courteous Duke.
'After being here so long I need hardly say that I like Matching
better than any place in the world. I suppose it is the contrast
to Grex.'
'Grex was a palace,' said the Duke, 'before a wall of this house
had been built.'
'Grex is very old and very wild,--and very uncomfortable. But I
love it dearly. Matching is the very reverse of Grex.'
'Not I hope in your affections.'
'I did not mean that. I think one likes a contrast. But I must go,
say on the first of January, to pick up Miss Cassewary.'
It was certain, therefore, that she was going on the first of
January. How would it be if he put off the telling of his story
for yet another week, till she should be gone? Then he looked
around and bethought himself that the time would hang very heavy
with him. And his father would daily expect from him a declaration
exactly opposed to that which he had to make. He had no horses to
ride. As he went on listening he almost convinced himself that the
proper thing to do would be to go back to London and thence write
to his father. He made no confession to his father on that night.
On the next morning there was a heavy fall of snow, but
nevertheless everybody managed to go to church. The Duke, as he
looked at Lady Mabel tripping along the swept paths in her furs
and short petticoats and well-made boots, though that his son was
a lucky fellow to have the chance of winning the love of such a
girl. No remembrance of Miss Boncassen came across his mind as he
saw them close together. It was so important that Silverbridge
should marry and thus he kept from further follies! And it was so
momentous to the fortunes of the Palliser family generally that he
should marry well! In thinking so it did not occur to him that
the granddaughter of an American labourer might be offered to him.
A young lady fit to be the Duchess of Omnium was not to be found
everywhere. But this girl, he thought as he saw her walking
briskly and strongly through the snow, with every mark of health
about her, with every sign of high breeding, very beautiful,
exquisite in manner, gracious as a goddess, was fit to be a
Duchess! Silverbridge at this moment was walking close to her
side,--in good looks, in gracious manner, in high breeding her
equal,--in worldly gifts infinitely her superior. Surely she would
not despise him! Silverbridge at the moment was expressing a hope
that the sermon would not be very long.
After lunch Mabel came suddenly behind the chair on which
Silverbridge was sitting and asked him to take a walk with her.
Was she not afraid of the snow? 'Perhaps you are,' she said
laughing. 'I do not mind it in the least.' When they were but a
few yards from the front door, she put her hand upon his arm, and
spoke to him as though she had arranged the walk with reference to
that special question. 'And now tell me all about Frank.'
She had arranged everything. She had a plan before hew now, and
had determined in accordance with that plan she would say nothing
to disturb him on this occasion. If she could succeed in bringing
him into good humour with herself, that should be sufficient for
today. 'Now tell me everything about Frank.'
'Frank is member of Parliament for Polpenno. That is all.'
'That is so like a man, and so unlike a woman. What did he say?
What did he do? How did he look? What did you say? What did you
do? How did you look?'
'We looked very miserable, when we got wet through, walking about
all day in the rain.'
'Was that necessary?'
'Quite necessary. We looked so mean and draggled that nobody would
have voted for us, only that poor Mr Carbotttle looked meaner and
more draggled.'
'The Duke says you made every so many speeches.'
'I should think I did. It is very easy to make speeches down at a
place like that. Tregear spoke like a book.'
'He spoke well?'
'Awfully well. He told them that all the good things that had
every been done in Parliament had been done by the Tories. He went
back to Pitt's time, and had it all at his fingers' ends.'
'And quite true.'
'That's just what it was not. It was all a crammer. But it did
well.'
'I am glad he is a member. Don't you think the Duke will come
around a little now?'
When Tregear and the election had been sufficiently discussed,
they came by degrees to Major Tifto and the two thunderbolts.
Silverbridge, when he perceived that nothing was to be said about
Isabel Boncassen, or his own freedom in the matter of love-making,
was not sorry to have a friend from whom he could find sympathy
for himself in his own troubles. With some encouragement from
Mabel the whole story was told. 'Was it not a great impertinence?'
she asked.
'It was an awful bore. What could I say? I was not going to
pronounce judgement against the poor devil, I daresay he was good
enough for Mr Jawstock.'
'But I suppose he did cheat horribly.'
'I daresay he did. A great many of them do cheat. But what of
that? I was not bound to give him a character, bad or good.'
'Certainly not.'
'He had not been my servant. It was such a letter. I'll show it to
you when we get in!-asking whether Tifto was fit to be the
depository of the intimacy of the Runnymeded hunt! And then Tif's
letter;--I almost wept over that.'
'How could he have had the audacity to write at all?'
'He said that "him and me had been a good deal together".
Unfortunately that was true. Even now I am not quite sure that he
lamed the horse himself.'
'Everybody thinks he did. Percival says there is no doubt about
it.'
'Percival knows nothing about it. Three of the gang ran away, and
he stood his ground. That's about all we do know.'
'What did you say to him?'
'I had to address him as Sir, and beg him not to write to me any
more. Of course hey mean to get rid of him, and I couldn't do him
any good. Poor Tifto! Upon the whole I think I hate Jawstock
worse than Tifto.'
Lady Mabel was content with her afternoon's work. When they had
been at Matching before the Polpenno election, there had
apparently been no friendship between them;--at any rate no
confidential friendship. Miss Boncassen had been there, and he had
neither ears nor eyes for anyone else. But now something like the
feeling of old days had been restored. She had not done much
towards her great object,--but then she had known that nothing
could be done till he should again be in good humour with her.
On the Sunday, the Monday, and the Tuesday they were again
together. In some of these interviews Silverbridge described the
Polpenno people, and told her how Miss Tregear had been reassured
by his eloquence. He also read to her the Jawstock and Tifto
correspondence, and was complimented by her as to his prudence and
foresight. 'To tell the truth I consulted Mr Lupton,' he said, not
liking to take credit for wisdom which had not been his own. Then
they talked about Grex, and Killancodlem, about Gerald and the
shooting, about Mary's love for Tregear, and about the work for
the coming session. On all these subjects they were comfortable
and confidential,--Miss Boncassen's name never having been as yet
so much as mentioned.
But still the real work was before her. She had not hoped to bring
him round to kneel once more at her feet by such gentle measures
as these. She had not dared to dream that he could in this way be
taught to forget the past autumn and all its charms. She knew well
that there was something very difficult before her. But, if that
difficult thing might be done at all, these were the preparations
which must be made for the doing of it.
It was arranged that she should leave Matching on Saturday, the
first day of the new year. Things had gone on in the manner
described till the Thursday had come. The Duke had been impatient
but had restrained himself. He had seen that they were much
together and that they were apparently friends. He had told
himself that there were two more days, and that before the end of
those days everything might be pleasantly settled!
It had become a matter of course that Silverbridge and Mabel
should walk together in the afternoon. He himself had felt that
there was danger in this,--not danger that he should be untrue to
Isabel, but that he should make others think that he was true to
Mabel. But he excused himself on the plea that he and Mabel had
been intimate friends,--were still intimate friends, and that she
was going away in a day or two. Mary, who watched it all, was sure
that misery was being prepared for someone. She was aware that by
this time her father was anxious to welcome Mabel as his daughter-
in-law. She strongly suspected that something had been said
between her father and her brother on the subject. But then she
had Isabel Boncassen's direct assurance that Silverbridge was
engaged to her! Now when Isabel's back was turned, Silverbridge
and Mabel were always together.
On the Thursday after lunch they were again together. It had
become so much a habit that the walk repeated itself without an
effort. It had been part of Mabel's scheme that it should be so.
During all this morning she had been thinking of her scheme. It
was all hopeless. So much she had declared to herself. But
forlorn hopes do sometimes end in splendid triumphs. That which
she might gain was so much! And what could she lose? The sweet
bloom of her maiden shame? That, she told herself, with bitterest
inward tears, was already gone from her. Frank Tregear at any rate
knew where her heart had been given. Frank Tregear knew that
having lost her heart to one man she was anxious to marry another.
He knew that she was willing to accept the coronet of a duchess as
her consolation. That bloom of her maiden shame, of which she
quite understood the sweetness of the charm, the value--was gone
when she had brought herself to such a state that any human being
should know that, loving one man, she should be willing to marry
another. The sweet treasure was gone from her. Its aroma was fled.
It behoved her now to be ambitious, cautious,--and if possible
successful.
When first she had so resolved, success seemed to be easily within
her reach. Of all the golden youths that crossed her path no one
was so pleasant to her eye, to her ear, to her feelings generally
as this Duke's young heir. There was a coming manliness about him
which she liked,---and she liked even the slight want of present
manliness. Putting aside Frank Tregear she could go nearer to
loving him than any other man she had ever seen. With him she
would not be turned from her duties by disgust, by dislike, or
dismay. She could even think that the time would come when she
might really love him. Then she had all but succeeded, and she
might have succeeded altogether had she been a little more
prudent. But she had allowed her great prize to escape from her
fingers.
But the prize was not yet utterly beyond her grasp. To recover
it,--to recover even the smallest chance of recovering it, there
would be need of great exertion. She must be bold, sudden,
unwomanlike,--and yet with such display of woman's charms that he
at least should discover no want. She must be false, but false
with such perfect deceit, that he must regard her as a pearl of
truth. If anything could lure him back it must be his conviction
of her passionate love. And she must be strong;--so strong as to
overcome not only his weakness, but all that was strong in him.
She knew that he did love that other girl,--and she must overcome
even that. And to do this she must prostrate herself at his feet,--
as, since the world began, it has been the man's province to
prostrate himself at the feet of the woman he loves.
To do this she must indeed bid adieu to the sweet bloom of her
maiden shame! But had she not done so already when, by the side
of the brook at Killancodlem, she had declared to him plainly
enough her despair at hearing that he loved that other girl?
Though she were to grovel at his feet she could not speak more
plainly than she had done then; but--though the chances were
small,--perchance she might tell it more effectually.
'Perhaps this will be our last walk,' she said. 'Come down to the
seat over the river.'
'Why should it be the last? You'll be her tomorrow.'
'There are so many slips in such things,' she said laughing. 'You
may get a letter from your constituents that will want all day to
answer. Or your father may have a political communication to make
to me. But at any rate come.' So they went to the seat.
It was a spot in the park from whence there was a distant view
over many lands, and low beneath the bench, which stood at the
edge of a steep bank, ran a stream which made a sweeping bend in
this place, so that a reach of the little river might be seen both
to the right and to the left. Though the sun was shining, the snow
under their feet was hard with frost. It was an air such as one
sometimes finds in England, and often in America. Though the cold
was very perceptible, though water in the shade was freezing at
this moment, there was no feeling of damp, no sense of bitter
wind. It was a sweet and jocund air, such as would make young
people prone to run and skip. 'You are not going to sit down with
all the snow on the bench,' said Silverbridge.
On their way thither she had not said a word that would disturb
him. She had spoken to him of the coming session, and had managed
to display to him the interest which she took in his parliamentary
career. In doing this she had flattered him to the top of his
bent. If he would return to his father's politics, then would she
too become a renegade. Would he speak in the next session? She
hoped he would speak. And if he did, might she be there to hear
him? She was cautious not to say a word of Frank Tregear,
understanding something of that strange jealousy which could exist
even when he who was jealous did not love the woman who caused it.
'No,' she said, 'I do not think we can sit. But still I like to be
here with you. All that some day will be your own.' Then she
stretched her hands out to the far view.
'Some of it, I suppose. I don't think it is all ours. As for that,
if we cared for extent of acres, one ought to go to Barsetshire.'
'Is that larger?'
'Twice as large, I believe, and yet none of the family like being
there. The rental is very well.'
'And the borough,' she said, leaning on his arm and looking up
into his face. 'What a happy fellow you ought to be.'
'Bar Tifto,--and Mr Jawstock.'
'You have got rid of Tifto and all those troubles very easily.'
'Thanks to the governor.'
'Yes, indeed. I do love your father so dearly.'
'So do I--rather.'
'May I tell you something about him?' As she asked the question
she was standing very close to him, leaning upon his arm, with her
left hand crossed upon her right. Had others been there, of course
she would not have stood in such a guise. She knew that,--and he
knew it too. Of course there was something in it of declared
affection,--of that kind of love which most of us have been happy
enough to give and receive, without intending to show more than
true friendship will allow at special moments.
'Don't tell me anything about him I shan't like to hear.'
'Ah;--that is so hard to know. I wish you would like to hear it.'
'What can it be?'
'I cannot tell you now.'
'Why not? And why did you offer?'
'Because,--Oh, Silverbridge.'
He certainly as yet did not understand it. It had never occurred
to him that she would know what were his father's wishes. Perhaps
he was slow of comprehension as he urged her to tell him what this
was about his father. 'What can you tell me about him, that I
should not like to hear?'
'You do not know? Oh, Silverbridge, I think you know.' Then there
came upon him a glimmering of the truth. 'You do know.' And she
stood apart looking him full in the face.
'I do not know what you can have to tell me.'
'No;--no. It is not that I should tell you. But yet it is so,
Silverbridge, what did you say to me that morning when you came to
me that morning in the Square?'
'What did I say?'
'Was I not entitled to think that you--loved me?' To this he had
nothing to reply, but stood before her silent and frowning. 'Think
of it, Silverbridge. Was it not so? And because I did not at once
tell you all the truth, because I did not there say that my heart
was all yours, were you right to leave?'
'You only laughed at me.'
'No;--no; no; I never laughed at you. How could I laugh when you
were all the world to me? Ask Frank; he knew. Ask Miss Cass;--she
knew. And can you say that you did not know; you, you, yourself?
Can any girl suppose that such words as these are to mean nothing
when they have been spoken? You knew I loved you.'
'No;--no.'
'You must have known it. I will never believe but that you knew
it. Why should your father be so sure of it?'
'He never was sure of it.'
'Yes, Silverbridge, yes. There is not one in the house who does
not see that he treats me as though he expected me to be his son's
wife. Do you not know that he wishes it?' He fain would not have
answered this; but she paused for his answer and then repeated her
question. 'Do you not know that he wishes it?'
'I think he does,' said Silverbridge; 'but it can never be so.'
'Oh, Silverbridge;--oh my loved one. Do not say that to me! Do not
kill me at once!' Now she placed her hands one on each arm as she
stood opposite to him and looked up into his face. 'You said that
you loved me once. Why do you desert me now? Have you a right to
treat me like that;--when I tell you that you have all my heart?'
The tears were now streaming down her face, and they were not
counterfeit tears.
'You know,' he said, submitting to her hands, but not lifting his
arm to embrace her.
'What do I know?'
'That I have given all I have to another.' As he said this he
looked away sternly, over her shoulder, to the distance.
'That American girl!' she exclaimed starting back, with some show
of sternness on her brow.
'Yes;--that American girl' said Silverbridge.
Then she recovered herself immediately. Indignation natural
indignation, would not serve her turn in the present emergency.
'You know that cannot be. You ought to know it. What will your
father say? You have not dared to tell him. That is so natural,'
she added, trying to appease his frown. 'How possibly can it be
told to him? I will not say a word against her.'
'No; do not do that.'
'But there are fitnesses of things which such a one as you cannot
disregard without preparing yourself for a whole life of
repentance.'
'Look here, Mabel.'
'Well.'
'I will tell you the truth.'
'I would sooner lose all;--the rank I have, the rank that I am to
have, all these lands that you have been looking on; my father's
wealth, would give them all up, sooner than lose her.' Now at any
rate he was a man. She was sure of that now. This was more, very
much more, not only than she had expected from him, but more than
she had thought it possible that his character should have
produced.
His strength reduced her to weakness. 'And I am nothing,' she
said.
'Yes, indeed; you are Lady Grex,--whom all women envy, and whom all
men honour.'
'The poorest wretch this day under the sun.'
'Do not say that. You should take shame to say that.'
'I do take shame;--and I do say it. Sir, do you feel what you owe
me? Do you not know that you have made me the wretch I am? How
did you dare to talk to me s you did talk when you were in London?
You tell me that I am Lady Mabel Grex;--and yet you come to me
with a lie on your lips;--with such a lie as that! You must have
taken me for some nursemaid on whom you had condescended to cast
your eye! It cannot be that even you should have dared to treat
Lady Mabel Grex after such a fashion as that! And now you have
cast your eye at this other girl. You can never marry her!'
'I shall endeavour to do so.'
'You can never marry her,' she said, stamping her foot. She had
now lost all the caution which she had taught herself for the
prosecution of her scheme,--all the care with which she had
burdened herself. Now she was natural enough. 'No,--you can never
marry her. You could not show yourself after it in your clubs, or
in Parliament, or in the world. Come home, do you say? No, I will
not go to your home. It is not my home. Cold;--of course I am
cold;--cold through to the heart.'
'I cannot leave you alone here,' he said, for she had now turned
from him, and was walking with hurried steps and short turns on
the edge of the bank, which at this place was almost a precipice.
'You have left me,--utterly to the cold--more desolate than I am
here even though I should spend the night among the trees. But I
will go back, and will tell your father everything. If my father
were other than he is,--if my brother were better to me, you would
not have done this.'
'If you had a legion of brothers it would have been the same,' he
said, turning sharp upon her.
They walked on together, but without a word till the house was in
sight. Then she looked round on him, and stopped him on the path
as she caught his eye.' Silverbridge!' she said.
'Lady Mabel.'
'Call me Mabel. At any rate call me Mabel. If I have said anything
to offend you--I beg your pardon.'
'I am not offended--but unhappy.'
'If you are unhappy, what must I be? What have I to look forward
to? Give me your hand, and say that we are friends.'
'Certainly we are friends,' he said, and gave her his hand.
'Who can tell what may come to pass?' To this he would make no
answer, as it seemed to imply that some division between himself
and Isabel Boncassen might possibly come to pass. 'You will not
tell anyone that I love you.'
'I tell such a thing as that!'
'But never forget it yourself. No one can tell what may come to
pass.'
Lady Mabel at once went up to her room. She had played her scene,
but was well aware that she had played it altogether
unsuccessfully.
CHAPTER 60
Lord Gerald in Further Trouble
When Silverbridge got back to the house he was by no means well
pleased with himself. In the first place he was unhappy to think
that Mabel was unhappy, and that he had made he so. And then she
had told him that he would not have dared to have acted as he had
done, but that her father and brother were careless to defend her.
He had replied fiercely that a legion of brothers ready to act on
her behalf would not have altered his conduct; but not the less
did he feel that he had behaved badly to her. It could not now be
altered. He could not now be untrue to Isabel. But certainly he
had said a word or two to Mabel which he could not remember
without regret. He had not though that a word from him could have
been so powerful. Now, when that word was recalled to his memory
by the girl to whom it had been spoken he could not acquit
himself.
And Mabel had declared to him that she would at once appeal to his
father. There was an absurdity in this at which he could not but
smile,--that the girl should complain to his father because he
would not marry her! But even in doing this she might cause him
great vexation. He could not bring himself to ask her not to tell
her story to the Duke. He must take all that as it might come.
While he was thinking of all this in his own room a servant
brought him two letters. From the first which he opened he
perceived that it contained an account of more troubles. It was
from his brother Gerald, and was written from Auld Reikie, the
name of a house in Scotland belonging to Lord Nidderdale's people.
'DEAR SILVER,
'I have got into a most awful scrape. That fellow Percival is
here, and Dolly Longstaff, and Nidderdale, and Popplecourt, and
Jack Hindes and Perry who is in the Coldstreams, and one or two
more, and there has been a lot of cards, and I have lost ever so
much money. I wouldn't mind so much but Percival has won it all,--a
fellow I hate; and now I owe him--three thousand four hundred
pounds! He has just told me he is hard up and that he wants the
money before the week is over. He can't be hard up because he has
won from everybody;--but of course I had to tell him that I would
pay him.
'Can you help me? Of course I know that I have been a fool.
Percival knows what he is about and plays regularly for money.
When I began I didn't think that I would lose above twenty or
thirty pounds. But it got on from one thing to another, and when I
woke this morning I felt I didn't know what to do with myself. You
can't think how the luck went against me. Everybody says they
never saw such cards.
'And now do tell me how I am to get out of it. Could you manage it
with Mr Morton? Of course I will make it all right with you some
day. Morton always lets you have whatever you want. But perhaps
you couldn't do this without letting the governor know. I would
rather anything than that. There is some money owing at Oxford
also which of course he must know.
'I was thinking that perhaps I might get it from some of those
fellows in London. There are people called Comfort and Criball,
who let men have money constantly. I know two or three up at
Oxford, who have had money from them. Of course I couldn't go to
them as you could do, for, in spite of what the governor said to
us up in London one day, there is nothing that must come to me.
But you could do anything in that way, and of course I would stand
to it.
'I know you won't throw me over, because you have always been such
a brick. But above all things don't tell the governor. Percival is
such a nasty fellow, otherwise I shouldn't mind it. He spoke this
morning as though I was treating him badly,--though the money was
only lost last night; and he looked at me in a way that made me
long to kick him. I told him not to flurry himself, and that he
should have his money. If he speaks to me like that again I will
kick him.
'I will be at Matching as soon as possible, but I cannot go till
this is settled. Nid'--meaning Lord Nidderdale,--'is a brick.
'Your affectionate Brother,
GERALD.'
The other was from Nidderdale, and referred to the same subject.
'DEAR SILVERBRIDGE,
'Here has been a terrible nuisance. Last night some of the men got
to playing cards, and Gerald lost a terribly large sum to
Percival. I did all that I could to stop it, because I saw that
Percival was going in for a big thing. I fancy he got as much from
Dolly Longstaff as he did from Gerald;--but it won't matter much to
Dolly; or if it does, nobody cares. Gerald told me he was writing
to you about it, so I am not betraying him.
'What is to be done? Of course Percival is behaving badly. He
always does. I can't turn him out of the house, and he seems to
intend to stick to Gerald till he has got the money. He has taken
a cheque from Dolly dated two months hence. I am in an awful funk
for fear Gerald should pitch into him. He will in a minute if
anything rough is said to him. I suppose the straightest thing
would be to go to the Duke at once, but Gerald won't hear of it. I
hope you won't think me wrong to tell you. If I could help him I
would. You know what a bad doctor I am for that sort of complaint.
'Yours always,
NIDDERDALE.'
The dinner-bell had rung before Silverbridge had come to an end of
thinking of this new vexation, and he had not as yet made up his
mind what he had better do for his brother. There was one thing as
to which he was determined,--that it should not be done by him,
nor, if he could prevent it, by Gerald. There should be no
dealings with Comfort and Criball. The Duke had succeeded, at any
rate, in filling his son's mind with a horror of aid of that sort.
Nidderdale had suggested that the 'straightest' thing would be to
go direct to the Duke. That no doubt would be straight,--and
efficacious. The Duke would not have allowed a boy of his to be a
debtor to Lord Percival for a day, let the debt have been
contracted how it might. But Gerald had declared against this
course,--and Silverbridge himself would have been most unwilling to
adopt it. How could he have told that story to the Duke, while
there was that other infinitely more important story of his own,
which must be told at once?
In the midst of all these troubles he went down to dinner. 'Lady
Mabel,' said the Duke, 'tells me that you two have been to see Sir
Guy's look-out.'
She was standing close to the Duke and whispered a word into his
ear. 'You said you would call me Mabel.'
'Yes sir,' said Silverbridge, 'and I have made up my mind that Sir
Guy never stayed there very long in winter. It was awfully cold.'
'I had furs on,' said Mabel. 'What a lovely spot it is, even in
this weather.' Then dinner was announced. She had not been cold.
She could still feel the tingling of her blood as she had implored
him to love her.
Silverbridge felt that he must write to his brother by the first
post. The communication was of a nature that would bear no delay.
If his hands had been free he would himself have gone off to Auld
Reikie. At last he made up his mind. The first letter he wrote was
neither to Nidderdale nor to Gerald, but to Lord Percival himself.
'DEAR PERCIVAL,
'Gerald writes me word that he has lost to you at cards 3,400
pounds, and he wants me to get the money. It is a terrible
nuisance, and he has been an ass. But of course I shall stand to
him for anything he wants. I haven't got 3,400 pounds in my
pocket, and I don't know anyone who has,--that is among our set.
But I send you my I O U for the amount, and will promise to get
you the money in two months. I suppose that will be sufficient and
that you will not bother Gerald any more about it.
'Yours truly,
SILVERBRIDGE.'
Then he copied this letter and enclosed the copy in another which
he wrote to his brother.
'DEAR GERALD,
'What an ass you have been! But I don't suppose you are worse
than I was at Doncaster. I will have nothing to do with such
people as Comfort and Criball. That is the sure way to the D-! As
for telling Morton, that is only a polite and roundabout way of
telling the governor. He would immediately ask the governor what
was to be done. You will see what I have done. Of course I must
tell the governor before the end of February, as I cannot get the
money in any other way. But that I will do. It does seem hard upon
him. Not that the money will hurt him much; but that he would like
to have a steady-going son.
'I suppose Percival won't make any bother about the I O U. He'll
be a fool if he does. I wouldn't kick him if I were you,--unless he
says anything very bad. You would be sure to come to grief
somehow. He is a beast.
'Your affectionate Brother,
SILVERBRIDGE.'
With these letters that special grief was removed from his mind
for awhile. Looking over the dark river of possible trouble which
seemed to run between the present moment and the time at which the
money must be procured, he thought that he had driven off this
calamity of Gerald's to infinite distance. But into that dark
river he must now plunge almost at once. On the next day, he
managed so that there should be no walk with Mabel. In the evening
he could see that the Duke was uneasy;--but not a word was said to
him. On the following morning Lady Mabel took her departure. When
she went from the door, both the Duke and Silverbridge were there
to bid her farewell. She smiled and was as gracious as though
everything had gone according to her heart's delight. 'Dear Duke,
I am so obliged to you for your kindness,' she said, as she put up
her cheek for him to kiss. Then she gave her hand to Silverbridge.
'Of course you will come and see me in town.' And she smiled upon
them all;--having courage enough to keep down all her sufferings.
'Come in here a moment, Silverbridge,' said the father as they
returned into the house together. 'How is it now between you and
her?'
CHAPTER 61
'Bone of my Bone'
'How is it between you and her?' That was the question which the
Duke put to his son as soon as he had closed the door of the
study. Lady Mabel had been dismissed from the front door on her
journey, and there could be no doubt as to the 'her' intended. No
such question would have been asked had not Silverbridge himself
declared to his father his purpose of making Lady Mabel his wife.
On that subject the Duke, without such authority, would not have
interfered. But he had been consulted, had acceded, and had
encouraged the idea by excessive liberality on his part. He had
never dropped it out of his mind for a moment. But when he found
that the girl was leaving his house without any explanation, then
he became restless and inquisitive.
They say that perfect love casteth out fear. If it be so the love
of children to their parents is seldom altogether perfect,--and
perhaps had better not be quite perfect. With this young man it
was not that he feared anything which his father could do to him,
that he believed that in consequence of his declaration which he
had to make his comforts and pleasures would be curtailed, or his
independence diminished. But he feared that he would make his
father unhappy, and he was conscious that he had so often sinned
in that way. He had stumbled so frequently! Though in action he
would so often be thoughtless,--yet he understood perfectly the
effect which had been produced on his father's mind by his
conduct. He had it at heart 'to be good to the governor', to
gratify that most loving of all possible friends, who, as he well
knew, was always thinking of his welfare. And yet he never had
been 'good to the governor';--nor had Gerald;--and to all this was
added his sister's determined perversity. It was thus he feared
his father.
He paused for a moment, while the Duke stood with his back to the
fire looking at him. 'I'm afraid that it is all over, sir,' he
said.
'All over!'
'I am afraid so, sir.'
'Why is it all over? Has she refused you?'
'Well, sir;--it isn't quite that.' Then he paused again. It was so
difficult to begin about Isabel Boncassen.
'I am sorry for that,' said the Duke, almost hesitating; 'very
sorry. You will understand, I hope, that I should make no inquiry
into the matter, unless I felt myself warranted in doing so by
what you had yourself told me in London.'
'I understand all that.'
'I have been very anxious about it, and have even gone so far as
to make some preparations for what I had hoped would be your early
marriage.'
'Preparations!' exclaimed Silverbridge, thinking of church bells,
bride cake, and wedding presents.
'As to the property. I am anxious that you should enjoy all the
settled independence which can belong to an English gentleman. I
never plough or sow. I know no more of sheep and bulls than of the
extinct animals of earlier ages. I would not have it so with you.
I would fain see you surrounded by those things which ought to
interest a nobleman in this country. Why is it all over with Lady
Mabel Grex?'
The young man looked imploringly at his father, as though
earnestly begging that nothing more might be said about Mabel. 'I
had changed my mind before I found out that she was really in love
with me!' He could not say that. He could not hint that he might
still have Mabel if he would. The only thing for him was to tell
everything about Isabel Boncassen. He felt that in doing this he
must begin with himself. 'I have rather changed my mind, sir,' he
said, 'since we were walking together in London that night.'
'Have you quarrelled with Lady Mabel?'
'Oh dear no. I am very fond of Mabel;--only not just like that.'
'Not just like what?'
'I had better tell the whole truth at once.'
'Certainly tell the truth, Silverbridge. I cannot say that you are
bound in duty to tell the whole truth even to your father in such
a matter.'
'But I mean to tell you everything. Mabel did not seem to care for
me much--in London. And then I saw someone,--someone I liked
better.' Then he stopped, but as the Duke did not ask any
questions he plunged on. 'It was Miss Boncassen.'
'Miss Boncassen!'
'Yes sir,' said Silverbridge, with a little access of decision.
'The American young lady?'
'Yes sir.'
'Do you know anything of her family?'
'I think I know all about her family. It is not much in the way
of--family.'
'You have not spoken to her about it?'
'Yes sir;--I have settled it all with her, on condition--'
'Settled it with her that she is to be your wife.'
'Yes, sir,--on condition that you will approve.'
'Did you go to her, Silverbridge, with such a stipulation as
that?'
'It was not like that.'
'How was it then?'
'She stipulated. She will marry me if you consent.'
'It was she then who thought of my wishes and feeling;--not you?'
'I knew that I loved her. What is a man to do when he feels like
that? Of course I meant to tell you.' The Duke was looking very
black. 'I thought you liked her, sir.'
'Liked her! I did like her. I do like her. What has that to do
with it? Do you think I like none but those with whom I should
think it fitting to ally myself in marriage? Is there to be no
duty in such matters, no restraint, no feeling of what is due to
your own name, and to others who bear it? The lad who is out there
sweeping the walks can marry the first girl that pleases his eye
if she will take him. Perhaps his lot is the happier because he
owns such liberty. Have you the same freedom?'
'I suppose I have,--by law.'
'Do you recognise no duty but what the law imposes upon you?
Should you be disposed to eat in drink in bestial excess, because
the laws would not hinder you? Should you lie and sleep all the
day, the law would say nothing! Should you neglect every duty
which your position imposes on you, the law could not interfere!
To such a one as you the law can be no guide. You should so live
as not to come near the law,--or to have the law come near to you.
From all evil against which the law bars you, you should be
barred, at an infinite distance, by honour, by conscience, and
nobility. Does the law require patriotism, philanthropy, self-
abnegation, public service, purity of purpose, devotion to the
needs of others who have been placed in the world below you? The
law is a great thing,--because men are poor and weak, and bad. And
it is great, because where it exists in strength, no tyrant can be
above it. But between you and me there should be no mention of law
as the guide of conduct. Speak to me of honour, of duty, and of
nobility; and tell me what they require of you.'
Silverbridge listened in silence and with something of admiration
in his heart. But he felt the strong necessity of declaring his
own convictions on the special point here, at once, in this new
crisis of the conversation. That accident in regard to the colour
of the Dean's lodge had stood in the way of his logical studies,--
so that he was unable to put his argument into proper shape; but
there belonged to him a certain natural astuteness which told him
that he must put his rejoinder at this particular point. 'I think
I am bound in honour and in duty to marry Miss Boncassen,' he
said. 'And if I understand what you mean, by nobility just as
much.'
'Because you have promised.'
'Not only for that. I have promised and therefore I am bound. She
has;--well, she has said that she loves me, and therefore of course
I am bound. But it not only that.'
'What do you mean?'
'I suppose a man ought to marry the woman he loves;--if he can get
her.'
'No; no; no; not always so. Do you think that love is a passion
that cannot be withstood?'
'But here we are of one mind, sir. When I say how you seemed to
take to her--'
'Take to her! Can I not interest myself in human beings without
wishing to make them flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone? What am
I to think of you? It was but the other day that all that you are
now telling me of Miss Boncassen, you were telling me of Lady
Mabel Grex.' Here poor Silverbridge bit his lips and shook his
head, and looked down upon the ground. This was the weak part of
his case. He could not tell his father the whole story about
Mabel,--that she had coyed his love, so that he had been justified
in thinking himself free from any claim in that direction when he
had encountered the infinitely sweeter charms of Isabel Boncassen.
'You are as weak as water,' said the unhappy father.
'I am not weak in this.'
'Did you not say exactly the same about Lady Mabel?'
There was a pause, so that he was driven to reply. 'I found her as
I thought indifferent, and then,---I changed my mind.'
'Indifferent! What does she think about it now? Does she know of
this? How does it stand between you two at the present moment?'
'She knows that I am engaged to--Miss Boncassen.'
'Does she approve of it?'
'Why should I ask her? I have not asked her.'
'Then why did you tell her? She could not but have spoken her mind
when you told her. There must have been much between you when she
was talked of.'
The unfortunate young man was obliged to take some time before he
could answer this appeal. He had to own that his father had some
justice on his side, but at the same time he could reveal nothing
of Mabel's secret. 'I told her because we were friends. I did not
ask her approval; but she did not disapprove. She thought that you
son should not marry an American girl without a family.'
'Of course she would feel that.'
'Now I have told you what she said, and I hope you will ask me no
further questions about her. I cannot make Lady Mabel my wife;---
though, for the matter of that I ought not to presume that she
would take me if I wished it. I had intended to ask you today to
consent to my marriage with Miss Boncassen.'
'I cannot give you my consent.'
'Then I am very unhappy.'
'How can I believe as to your unhappiness when you would have said
the same about Lady Mabel Grex a few weeks ago?'
'Nearly eight months,' said Silverbridge.
'What is the difference? It is not the time, but the disposition
of the man! I cannot give you my consent. The young lady sees it
in the right light, and that will make your escape easy.'
'I do not want to escape.'
'She has indicated the cause which will separate you.'
'I will not be separated from her,' said Silverbridge, who was
beginning to feel that he was subjugated to tyranny. If he chose
to marry Isabel, no one could have a right to hinder him.
'I can only hope that you will think the better of it, and that
when next you speak to me on that or on any other subject you will
answer me with less arrogance.'
This rebuke was terrible to the son, whose mind at the present
moment was filled with two ideas, that of constancy to Isabel
Boncassen, and then of respect and affection for his father.
'Indeed, sir,' he said, 'I am not arrogant, and if I have answered
improperly I beg your pardon. But my mind is made up about this,
and I thought you had better know how it is.'
'I do not see that I can say anything else to you.'
'I think of going to Harrington this afternoon.' Then the Duke
with further very visible annoyance, asked where Harrington was.
it was explained that Harrington was Lord Chiltern's seat, Lord
Chiltern being the Master of the Brake hounds;--that it was his
son's purpose to remain six weeks among the Brake hounds, but that
he should stay only a day of two with Lord Chiltern. Then it
appeared that Silverbridge intended to put himself up at a hunting
inn in the neighbourhood, and the Duke did not at all like the
plan. That his son should choose to live at an inn, when the
comforts of an English country house were open to him, was
distasteful and almost offensive to the Duke. And the matter was
not improved when he was made to understand that all this was to
be done for the sake of hunting. There had been the shooting in
Scotland; then the racing;--ah alas yes;--the racing, and the
betting at Doncaster! Then the shooting at Matching had been made
to appear to be the chief reason why he himself had been living in
his own house! And now his son was going away to live at an inn
in order that more time might be devoted to hunting! 'Why can't
you live here at home, if you must hunt?'
'It is all woodland,' said Silverbridge.
'I thought you wanted woods. Lord Chiltern is always troubling me
about Trumpington Wood.'
This breeze about the hunting enabled the son to escape without
any further allusion to Miss Boncassen. He did escape, and
proceeded to turn over in his mind all that had been said. His
tale had been told. A great burden was thus taken off his
shoulders. He could tell Isabel so much, and thus free himself
from the suspicion of having been afraid to declare his purpose.
She should know what he had done, and should be made to understand
that he had been firm. He had, he thought, been very firm and gave
himself some credit on that head. His father, no doubt, had been
firm too, but that he had expected. His father had said much. All
that about honour and duty had been very good; but this was
certain;--that when a young man had promised a young woman he ought
to keep his word. And he thought that there were certain changes
going on in the management of the world which his father did not
quite understand. Fathers never do quite understand changes which
are manifest to their sons. Some years ago it might have been
improper that an American girl should be elevated to the rank of
an English Duchess, but now all that was altered.
The Duke spent the rest of the day alone, and was not happy in his
solitude. All that Silverbridge had told him was sad to him. He
had taught himself to think that he could love Lady Mabel as an
affectionate father wishes to love his son's wife. He had set
himself to wish to like her, and had been successful. Being most
anxious that his son should marry he had prepared himself to be
more than ordinarily liberal,--to be in every way gracious. His
children were now everything to him, and among his children his
son and heir was the chief. From the moment in which he had heard
from Silverbridge that Lady Mabel was chosen he had given himself
up to considering how he might best promote their interests,--how
he might best enable them to live, with that dignity and splendour
which he himself had unwisely despised. That the son who was to
come after him should be worthy of the place assigned to his name
had been, of personal objects, the nearest to his heart. There had
been failures, but still there had been left room for hope. The
boy had been immature at Eton;--but how many unfortunate boys had
become great men! He had disgraced himself by his folly at
college,--but although some lads will be men at twenty, others are
then little more than children. The fruit that ripens the soonest
is seldom the best. Then had come Tifto and the racing mania.
Nothing could be worse than Tifto and racehorses. But from that
evil Silverbridge had seemed to be made free by the very disgust
which the vileness of the circumstance had produced. Perhaps Tifto
driving a nail into his horse's foot had on the whole been
serviceable. That apostasy from the political creed of the
Pallisers had been a blow,--much more felt than the loss of the
seventy thousand pounds;--but even under that blow he had consoled
himself by thinking that a conservative patriotic nobleman may
serve his country,--even as a Conservative. In the midst of this he
had felt that the surest resource for his son against evil would
be in an early marriage. If he would marry becomingly, then might
everything still be made pleasant. If his son should marry
becomingly nothing which a father could do should be wanting to
add splendour and dignity to his son's life.
In thinking of all this he had by no means regarded his own mode
of life with favour. He knew how jejune his life had been,--now
devoid of other interests than that of the public service to which
he had devoted himself. He was thinking of this when he told his
son that he had neither ploughed and sowed or been the owner of
sheep or oxen. He often thought of this, when he heard those round
him talking of the sports, which, though he condemned them as the
employment of a life, he now regarded wistfully, hopelessly as far
as he himself was concerned, as proper recreations for a man of
wealth. Silverbridge should have it all, if he could arrange it.
The one thing necessary was a fitting wife,--and the fitting wife
had been absolutely chosen by Silverbridge himself.
It may be conceived, therefore, that he was again unhappy. He had
already been driven to acknowledge that these children of his,--
thoughtless, restless, though they seemed to be,--still had a will
of their own. In all which how like they were to their mother!
With her, however, his word, though it might be resisted, had
never lost its authority. When he had declared that a thing should
not be done, she had never persisted in saying that she would do
it. But with his children it was otherwise. What power he had over
Silverbridge,--or for the matter of that, even his daughter? They
had only to be firm and he knew that he must be conquered.
'I thought that you liked her,' Silverbridge had said to him. How
utterly unconscious, thought the Duke, must the young man have
been of all that his position required of him when he used such an
argument! Liked her. He did like her. She was clever,
accomplished, beautiful, well-mannered,--as far as he knew endowed
with all good qualities! Would not many an old Roman have said as
much for some favourite Greek slave,--for some freedmen whom he
would admit to his very heart? But what old Roman ever dreamed of
giving his daughter to the son of a Greek bondsman! Had he done
so, what would have become of the name of a Roman citizen? And was
it not his duty to fortify and maintain that higher, smaller, more
precious pinnacle of rank on which Fortune had placed him and his
children?
Like her! Yes! he liked her certainly. He had by no means always
found that he best liked the companionship of his own order. He
had liked to feel around him the free battle of the House of
Commons. He liked the power of attack and defence in carrying on
which an English politician cares nothing for rank. He liked to
remember that the son of any tradesman might, by his own merits,
become a peer of Parliament. He would have liked to think that his
son should share all these tastes with him. Yes;--he liked Isabel
Boncassen. But how different was that liking from a desire that
she should be bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh!
CHAPTER 62
The Brake Country
'What does your father mean to do about Trumpington Wood?' That
was the first word from Lord Chiltern after he had shaken hands
with his guest.
'Isn't it all right yet?'
'All right? No! How can a wood like that be all right without a
man about the place who knows anything of the nature of a fox? In
your grandfather's time--'
'My great-uncle you mean.'
'Well--your great-uncle!--they used to trap the foxes there. There
was a fellow named Fothergill who used to come there for shooting.
Now it is worse than ever. Nobody shoots there because there is
nothing to shoot. There isn't a keeper. Every scamp is allowed to
go where he pleases, and of course there isn't a fox in the whole
place. My huntsman laughs at me when I ask him to draw it.' As
the indignant Master of the Brake Hounds said this the very fire
flashed from his eyes.
'My dear,' said Lady Chiltern expostulating, 'Lord Silverbridge
hasn't been in the house above half an hour.'
'What does that matter? When a thing has to be said it had better
be said at once.'
Phineas Finn was staying at Harrington with his intimate friends
the Chilterns, as were a certain Mr and Mrs Maule, both of whom
were addicted to hunting,--the lady whose maiden name was Palliser,
being a cousin of Lord Silverbridge. On that day also a certain Mr
and Mrs Spooner dined at Harrington. Mr and Mrs Spooner were both
very much given to hunting, as seemed to be necessarily the case
with everybody admitted to the house. Mr Spooner was a gentleman
who might be on the wrong side of fifty, with a red nose, very
vigorous, and submissive in regard to all things but port-wine.
His wife was perhaps something more than half his age, a stout,
hard-riding, handsome woman. She had been the penniless daughter
of a retired officer,--but yet had managed to ride on whatever
animal anyone would lend her. Then Mr Spooner, who had for many
years been part and parcel of the Brake hunt, and who was much in
want of a wife, had, luckily for her, cast his eyes upon Miss
Leatherside. It was thought that upon the whole she made him a
good wife. She hunted four days a week, and he could afford to
keep horses for her. She never flirted, and wanted no one to open
gates. Tom Spooner himself was not always so forward as he used to
be; but his wife was always there and would tell him all that he
did not see himself. And she was a good housewife, taking care
that nothing should be spent lavishly, except upon the stable. Of
him, too, and of his health, she was careful, never scrupling to
say a word in season when he was likely to hurt himself, either
among the fences, or among the decanters. 'You ain't so young as
you were, Tom. Don't think of doing it.' This she would say to
him with a loud voice when she would find him pausing at a fence.
Then she would hop over herself and he would go round. She as
'quite a providence to him', as her mother, old Mrs Leatherside,
would say.
She was hardly the woman that one would have expected to meet as a
friend in the drawing-room of Lady Chiltern. Lord Chiltern was
perhaps a little rough, but Lady Chiltern was all that a mother, a
wife, and a lady ought to be. She probably felt that some little
apology ought to be made for Mrs Spooner. 'I hope you like
hunting,' she said to Silverbridge.
'Best of all things,' he said enthusiastically.
'Because you know this is Castle Nimrod, in which nothing is
allowed to interfere with the one great business in life.'
'It's like that, is it?'
'Quite like that. Lord Chiltern has taken up hunting as his duty
in life, and he does it with his might and main. Not to have a
good day is a misery to him;--not for himself but because he feels
that he is responsible. We had one blank day last year, and I
thought he never would recover it. It was that unfortunate
Trumpington Wood.'
'How he will hate me.'
'Not if you praise the hounds judiciously. And then there is a Mr
Spooner coming here tonight. He is the first-lieutenant. He
understands all about the foxes, and all about the farmers. He has
got a wife.'
'Does she understand anything?'
'She understands him. She is coming too. They have not been
married long, and he never goes anywhere without her.'
'Does she ride?'
'Well; yes. I never go myself now because I have so much of it all
at home. But I fancy she does ride a good deal. She will talk
hunting too. If Chiltern were to leave the country I think they
ought to make her master. Perhaps you'll think her rather odd; but
really she is a very good woman.'
'I am sure I will like her.'
'I hope you will. You know Mr Finn. He is here. He and my husband
are very old friends. And Adelaide Maule is your cousin. She hunts
too. And so does Mr Maule,--only not quite so energetically. I
think that is all we shall have.'
Immediately after that all the guests came in at once, and a
discussion was heard as they were passing through the hall. 'No;--
that wasn't it,' said Mrs Spooner loudly. 'I don't care what Dick
said.' Dick Rabbit was the first whip, and seemed to have been
much exercised with the matter now under dispute. 'The fox never
went into Grobby Gorse at all. I was there and saw Sappho give him
a line down the bank.'
'I think he must have gone into the gorse, my dear,' said her
husband. 'The earth was open, you know.'
'I tell you she didn't. You weren't there, and you can't know. I'm
sure it was a vixen by her running. We ought to have killed that
fox, my Lord.' Then Mrs Spooner made her obeisance to her
hostess. Perhaps she was rather slow in doing this, but the
greatness of the subject had been the cause. These are matters so
important, that the ordinary civilities of the world should not
stand in their way.
'What do you say, Chiltern?' asked the husband.
'I say that Mrs Spooner isn't very often wrong, and the Dick
Rabbit isn't very often right about a fox.'
'It was a pretty run,' said Phineas.'
'Just thirty-four minutes,' said Mr Spooner.
'Thirty-two up to Grobby Gorse,' asserted Mrs Spooner. 'The hounds
never hunted a yard after that. Dick hurried them into the gorse,
and the old hound wouldn't stick to her line when she found that
no one believed her.'
This was on Monday evening, and the Brake hounds went out
generally five days a week. 'You'll hunt tomorrow, I suppose,'
Lady Chiltern said to Silverbridge.
'I hope so.'
'You must hunt tomorrow. Indeed there is nothing else to do.
Chiltern has taken such a dislike to shooting-men, that he won't
shoot pheasants himself. We don't hunt on Wednesdays or Sundays,
and then everybody lies in bed. Here is Mr Maule, he lies in bed
on other mornings as well, and spend the rest of his day riding
about the country looking for the hounds.
'Does he ever find them?'
'What did become of you all today?' said Mr Maule, as he took his
place at the dinner-table. 'You can't have drawn any of the
coverts regularly.'
'Then we found our foxes without drawing them,' said the master.
'We chopped one at Bromley's,' said Mr Spooner.
'I went there.'
'Then you ought to have known better,' said Mrs Spooner. 'When a
man loses the hounds in that country, he ought to go direct to
Brackett's Wood. If you had come on to Brackett's Wood, you'd have
seen as good a thirty-two minutes as ever you wished to ride.'
When the ladies went out of the room Mrs Spooner gave a parting
word of advice to her husband, and to the host. 'Now, Tom, don't
you drink port-wine. Lord Chiltern, look after him, and don't let
him have port-wine.'
Then there began an altogether different phase of hunting
conversation. As long as the ladies were there it was all very
well to talk of hunting as an amusement, good sport, a thirty
minutes or so, the delight of having a friend in a ditch, or the
glory of a still-built rail were fitting subjects for a higher
hour. But now the business of the night was to begin. The
difficulties, the enmities, the precautions, the resolutions, the
resources of the Brake hunt were to be discussed. And from thence
the conversation of these devotees strayed away to the perils at
large to which hunting in these modern days is subjected;--not the
perils of broken necks and crushed ribs, which can be reduced to
an average, and so an end made of that small matter; but the
perils from outsiders, the perils of newfangled prejudices, the
perils from more modern sports, the perils from over-cultivation,
the perils from extended population, the perils from intruding
cads, the perils from indifferent magistrates,--the Duke of Omnium
for instance,--and that peril of perils, the peril of decrease of
funds and increase of expenditure! The jaunty gentleman who puts
on his dainty breeches and his pair of boots, and his single horse
rides out on a pleasant morning to some neighbouring meet,
thinking himself a sportsman, has but a faint idea of the troubles
which a few staunch workmen endure in order that he may not be
made to think that his boots, and his breeches, and his horse,
have not been in vain.
A word or two further was at first said about that unfortunate
wood for which Silverbridge at the present felt himself
responsible. Finn said that he was sure the Duke would look to it,
if Silverbridge would mention it. Chiltern simply groaned.
Silverbridge said nothing, remembering how many troubles he had on
hand at this moment. Then by degrees their solicitude worked
itself round to the cares of a neighbouring hunt. The A.R.U. had
lost their master. One Captain Glomax was going, and the county
had been driven to the necessity of advertising for a successor.
'When hunting comes to that,' said Lord Chiltern, 'one begins to
think that it is in a bad way.' It may always be observed that
when hunting-men speak seriously of their sport, they speak
despondingly. Everything is going wrong. Perhaps the same thing
may be remarked in other pursuits. Farmers are generally on the
verge of ruin. Trade is always bad. The church is in danger. The
House of Lords isn't worth a dozen years' purchase. The throne
totters.
'An itinerant master with a carpet-bag never can carry on a
country,' said Mr Spooner.
'You ought really to have a gentleman of property in the country,'
said Lord Chiltern, in a self-deprecating tone. His father's acres
lay elsewhere.
'It should be someone who has a real stake in the country,'
replied Mr Spooner,--'whom the farmers can respect. Glomax
understood hunting no doubt, but the farmers didn't care for him.
If you don't have the farmers with you, you can't have hunting.'
Then he filled a glass of port.
'If you don't approve of Glomax, what do you think of a man like
Major Tifto?' asked Mr Maule.
'That was in the Runnymede,' said Spooner contemptuously.
'Who is Major Tifto?' asked Lord Chiltern.
'He is the man,' said Silverbridge boldly, 'who owned Prime
Minister with me, when he didn't win the Leger last September.'
'There was a deuce of a row,' said Maule. Then Mr Spooner, who read
his 'Bell's Life' and 'Field' very religiously, and who never
missed an article in 'Bayley's', proceeded to give them an account
of everything that had taken place in the Runnymede Hunt. It
mattered but little that he was wrong in all his details.
Narrations always are. The result to which he nearly came right
when he declared that the Major had been turned off, that a
committed had been appointed, and that Messrs Topps and Jawstock
had been threatened with a lawsuit.
'That comes,' said Lord Chiltern solemnly, 'of employing men like
Major Tifto in places for which they are radically unfit. I
daresay Major Tifto knew how to handle a pack of hounds,--perhaps
almost as well as my huntsman. But I don't think a county would
get on very well which appointed Fowler as Master of Hounds. He is
an honest man, and therefore would be better than Tifto. But--it
would not do. It is a position in which a man should at any rate
be a gentleman. If he be not, all those who should be concerned in
maintaining the hunt will turn their backs on him. When I take my
hounds over this man's ground, and that man's ground, certainly
without doing him any good, I have to think of a great many
things. I have to understand that those whom I cannot compensate
by money, I have to compensate by courtesy. When I shake hands
with a farmer and express my obligation to him because he does not
lock his gates, he is gratified. I don't think any decent farmer
would care much for shaking hands with Major Tifto. If we fall
into that kind of thing there must soon be an end of hunting.
Major Tiftos are cheap no doubt; but in hunting, as in most other
things, cheap and nasty go together. If men don't choose to put
their hands in their pockets they had better say so, and give the
thing up altogether. If you won't take any more wine, we'll go to
the ladies. Silverbridge, the trap will start from the door
tomorrow morning precisely at 9.30 am. Grantingham Cross is
fourteen miles.' Then they all left their chairs,--but as they did
so Mr Spooner finished the bottle of port-wine.
'I never heard Chiltern speak so much like a book before,' said
Spooner to his wife as she drove him home that night.
The next morning everybody was ready for a start at half-past
nine, except Mr Maule,--as to whom his wife declared that she had
left him in bed when she came down to breakfast. 'He can never get
there if we don't take him,' said Lord Chiltern, who was in truth
the most good-natured man in the world. Five minutes were allowed
him, and then he came down with a large sandwich in one hand and a
button-hook in the other, with which he was prepared to complete
his toilet. 'What the deuce makes you always in such a hurry?'
were the first words he spoke as Lord Chiltern got on the box. The
Master knew him too well to argue the point. 'Well;--he always is
in a hurry,' said the sinner, when his wife accused him of
ingratitude.
'Where's Spooner?' asked the Master when he saw Mrs Spooner
without her husband at the meet.
'I knew how it would be when I saw the port-wine,' she said in a
whisper that could be heard all round. 'He has got it this time
sharp,--in his great toe. We shan't find at Grantingham. They were
cutting wood there last week. If I were you, my Lord, I'd go away
to the Spinnies at once.'
'I must draw the country regularly,' muttered the Master.
The country was drawn regularly, but in vain till about two
o'clock. Not only was there no fox at Grantingham Wood, but none
even at the Spinnies. And at two, Fowler, with an anxious face,
held a consultation with his more anxious master. Trumpington Wood
lay on their right, and that no doubt would have been the proper
draw. 'I suppose we must try it,' said Lord Chiltern.
Old Fowler looked very sour. 'You might as well look for a fox
under my wife's bed, my Lord.'
'I daresay we should find one there,' said one of the wags of the
hunt. Fowler shook his head, feeling that this was no time for
joking.
'It ought to be drawn,' said Chiltern.
'Of course you know best, my Lord. I wouldn't touch it,--never no
more. Let 'em all know what the Duke's Wood is.'
'This is Lord Silverbridge, the Duke's son,' said Chiltern
laughing.
'I beg his Lordship's pardon,' said Fowler, taking off his cap.
'We shall have a good time coming some day. Let me trot 'em off to
Michaelmas Daisies, my Lord. I'll be there in thirty minutes.' In
the neighbouring parish of St Michael de Dezier there was a
favourite little gorse which among hunting-men had acquired this
unreasonable name. After a little consideration the Master
yielded, and away they trotted.
'You'll cross the ford, Fowler?' asked Mrs Spooner.
'Oh yes, ma'am; we couldn't draw the Daisies this afternoon if we
didn't.'
'It'll be up to the horses' bellies.'
'Those who don't like it can go round.'
'They'd never be there in time, Fowler.'
'There's many a man, ma'am, as don't mind that. You won't be one
to stay behind.' The water was up to the horses' bellies, but,
nevertheless, Mrs Spooner was at the gorse side when the Daisies
were drawn.
They found and were away in a minute. It was all done so quickly
that Fowler, who had along gone into the gorse, had hardly time to
get out with his hounds. The fox ran right back, as though he were
making for the Duke's pernicious wood. In the first field or two
there was a succession of gates, and there was not much to do in
the way of jumping. Then the fox, keeping straight ahead, deviated
from the line by which they had come, making for the brook by a
more direct course. The ruck of the horsemen, understanding the
matter very well, left the hounds, and went to the right, riding
for the ford. The ford was of such a nature that but one horse
could pass it at a time, and that one had to scramble through deep
mud. 'There'll be the devil to pay here,' said Lord Chiltern,
going straight with his hounds. Phineas Finn and Dick Rabbit were
close after him. Old Fowler had craftily gone to the ford; but Mrs
Spooner, who did not intend to be shaken off, followed the Master,
and close with her was Lord Silverbridge. 'Lord Chiltern hasn't
got it right,' she said. 'He can't do it among these bushes.' As
she spoke the Master put his horse at the bushes and then--
disappeared. The lady had been right. There was no ground at that
spot to take off from, and the bushes had impeded him. Lord
Chiltern had got over, but his horse was in the water. Dick Rabbit
and poor Phineas Finn were stopped in their course by the
necessity of helping the Master in his trouble.
But Mrs Spooner, the judicious Mrs Spooner, rode at the stream
where it was, indeed, a little wider, but at a place in which the
horse could see what he was about, and where he could jump from
and to firm ground. Lord Silverbridge followed her gallantly. They
both jumped the brook well, and then were together. 'You'll beat
me in pace,' said the lady as he rode up alongside of her. 'Take
the fence ahead straight, and then turn sharp to your right.'
With all her faults, Mrs Spooner was a thorough sporstman.
He did take the fence ahead,--or rather tried to do so. It was a
bank and a double ditch,--not very great in itself, but requiring a
horse to land on the top and go off with a second spring. Our
young friend's nag, not quite understanding the nature of the
impediment, endeavoured to 'swallow it whole', as hard-riding men
say, and came down in the further ditch. Silverbridge came down on
his head, but the horse pursued his course,--across a heavily-
ploughed field.
This was very disagreeable. He was not in the least hurt, but it
became his duty to run after his horse. A very few furrows of that
work suffice to make a man think that hunting was a 'beastly sort
of thing'. Mrs Spooner's horse, who had shown himself to be a
little less quick of foot than his own, had known all about the
bank and the double ditch, and had, apparently of his own accord,
turned down to the right, either seeing or hearing the hounds, and
knowing that the ploughed ground was to be avoided. But his rider
changed his course. She went straight after the riderless horse,
and when Silverbridge had reduced himself to utter speechlessness
by his exertions, brought him back his steed.
'I am,--I am, I am--so sorry,' he struggled to say,--and then as she
held his horse for him he struggled up into his saddle.
'Keep down this furrow,' said Mrs Spooner, 'and we shall be with
them in the second field. There's nobody near them yet.'
CHAPTER 63
'I've Seen 'em Like That Before'
On this occasion Silverbridge stayed only a few days at
Harrington, having promised Tregear to entertain him at The
Baldfaced Stag. It was here that his horses were standing, and he
now intended, by limiting himself to one horse a day, to mount his
friend for a couple of weeks. It was settled at last that Tregear
should ride his friend's horse one day, hire the next, and so on.
'I wonder what you'll think of Mrs Spooner?' he said.
'Why should I think anything of her?'
'Because I doubt whether you ever saw such a woman before. She
does nothing but hunt.'
'Then I certainly shan't want to see her again.'
'And she talks as never I heard a lady talk before.'
'Then I don't care if I don't see her at all.'
'But she is the most plucky and most good-natured human being I
ever saw in my life. After all, hunting is good fun.'
'Very; if you don't do it so often as to be sick of it.'
'Long as I have known you I don't think I ever saw you ride yet.'
'We used to have hunting down in Cornwall, and thought we did it
pretty well. And I have ridden in South Wales, which I can assure
you isn't an easy thing to do. But you mustn't expect much from
me.'
They were both out the Monday and Tuesday in that week, and then
again on the Thursday without anything special in the way of
sport. Lord Chiltern, who had found Silverbridge to be a young man
after his own heart, was anxious that he should come back to
Harrington and bring Tregear with him. But to this Tregear would
not assent, alleging that he should feel himself to be a burden
both to Lord and Lady Chiltern. On the Friday Tregear did not go
out, saying that he would avoid the expense, and on that day there
was a good run. 'It is always the way,' said Silverbridge. 'If you
miss a day, it is sure to be the best thing of the season. An hour
and a quarter with hardly anything you could call a check! It is
the only very good thing I have seen since I have been here. Mrs
Spooner was with them all through.'
'And I suppose you were with Mrs Spooner.'
'I wasn't far off. I wish you had been there.'
On the next day the meet was at the kennels, close to Harrington,
and Silverbridge drove his friend over in a gig. The Master and
Lady Chiltern, Spooner and Mrs Spooner, Maule, and Mrs Maule,
Phineas Finn, and host of others condoled with the unfortunate
young man because he had not seen the good thing yesterday. 'We've
had it a little faster once or twice,' said Mrs Spooner with
deliberation, 'but never for so long. Then it was straight as a
line, and a real open kill. No changing you know. We did go
through the Daisies, but I'll swear to its being the same fox.'
All of which set Tregear wondering. How could she swear to her
fox? And if they had changed, what did it matter? And if it had
been a little crooked, why would it have been less enjoyable? And
was she really so exact a judge of pace as she pretended to be?
'I'm afraid we shan't have anything like that today,' she
continued. 'The wind's in the west, and I never do like a westerly
wind.'
'A little to the north,' said her husband, looking round the
compass.
'My dear,' said the lady, 'you never know where the wind comes
from. Now don't you think of taking off your comforter, I won't
have it.'
Tregear was riding his friend's favourite hunter, a thoroughbred
bay horse, very much more than up to his rider's weight, and
supposed to be peculiarly good at timber, water, or any well-
defined kind of fence, however high or broad. They found a covert
near the kennels, and killed their fox after a burst of a few
minutes. They found again, and having lost their fox, all declared
that there was not a yard of scent. 'I always know what a west
wind means,' said Mrs Spooner.
Then they lunched, and smoked, and trotted about with an apparent
acknowledgement that there wasn't much to be done. It was not
right that they should expect much after so good a thing as they
had had yesterday. At half-past two Mr Spooner had been sent home
by his Providence, and Mrs Spooner was calculating that she would
be able to ride her horse again on the Tuesday. When on a sudden
the hounds were on a fox. It turned out afterwards that Dick
Rabbit had absolutely ridden him up among the stubble, and that
the hounds had nearly killed him before he had gone a yard. But
the astute animal making the best use of his legs till he could
get the advantage of the first ditch, ran, and crept, and jumped
absolutely through the pack. Then there was shouting, and yelling,
and riding. The men who were idly smoking threw away their cigars.
Those who were loitering at a distance lost their chance. But the
real sportsmen, always on the alert, always thinking of the
business in hand, always mindful that there may be at any moment a
fox just before the hounds, had a glorious opportunity of getting
'well away'. Among these no one was more intent, or, when the
moment came, 'better away' than Mrs Spooner.
Silverbridge had been talking to her and had the full advantage of
her care. Tregear was riding behind with Lord Chiltern, who had
been pressing him to come with his friend to Harrington. As soon
as the shouting was heard Chiltern was off like a rocket. It was
not only that he was anxious to 'get well away', but that a sense
of duty compelled him to see how the thing was being done. Old
Fowler was certainly a little slow, and Dick Rabbit, with the true
bloody-minded instinct of a whip, was a little apt to bustle a fox
back into the covert. And then, when a run commences with a fast
rush, riders are apt to over-ride the hounds, and then the hounds
will over-run the fox. All of which has to be seen to by a Master
who knows his business.
Tregear followed, and being mounted on a fast horse was soon as
forward as a judicious rider would desire. 'Now, Runks, don't you
press on and spoil it all,' said Mrs Spooner to the hard-riding
objectionable son of old Runks the vet from Rufford. But young
Runks did press on till the Master spoke a word. The word shall
not be repeated, but it was efficacious.
At that moment there had been a check,--as there is generally after
a short spurt, when fox, hounds, and horsemen get off together,
and not always in the order in which they have been placed there.
There is too much bustle, and the pack becomes disconcerted. But
it enable Fowler to get up, and by dint of growling at the men and
conciliating his hounds, he soon picked up the scent. 'If they'd
all stand still for two minutes and be d-d to them,' he muttered
aloud to himself, 'they'd 'ave some'at to ride arter. They might
go then, and there's some of 'em'd soon be nowhere.'
But in spite of Fowler's denunciations there was, of course,
another rush. Runks had slunk away, but by making a little
distance was now again ahead of the hounds. And unfortunately
there was half-a-dozen with him. Lord Chiltern was very wrath.
'When he's like that,' said Mrs Spooner to Tregear, 'it's always
well to give him a wide berth.' But as the hounds were now
running fast it was necessary, that even in taking this precaution
due regard should be had to the fox's line. 'He's back for
Harrington bushes,' said Mrs Spooner. And as she said so, she rode
at a bank, with a rail at the top of it perhaps a foot-and-a-half
high, with a deep drop in the field beyond. It was not a very nice
place, but it was apparently the only available spot in the fence.
She seemed to know it well, for as she got close to it she brought
her horse almost to a stand and so took it. The horse cleared the
rail, seemed just to touch the bank on the other side, while she
threw herself back almost on to his crupper, and so came down with
perfect case. But she, knowing that it would not be easy to all
horses, paused a moment to see what would happen.
Tregear was next to her and was intending to 'fly' the fence. But
when he saw Mrs Spooner pull her horse and pause, he also had to
pull his horse. This he did so to enable her to take her leap
without danger or encumbrance from him, but hardly so as to bring
his horse to the bank in the same way. It may be doubted whether
the animal he was riding would have known enough and been quiet
enough to have performed the acrobatic manoeuvre which had carried
Mrs Spooner so pleasantly over the peril. He had some idea of
this, for the thought occurred to him that he would turn and ride
fast at the jump. But before he could turn he saw that
Silverbridge was pressing on him. It was thus his only resource to
do as Mrs Spooner had done. He was too close to the rail, but
still he tried it. The horse attempted to jump, caught his foot
against the bar, and of course went over head-foremost. This
probably would have been nothing, had not Silverbridge with his
rushing beast been immediately after them. When the young lord saw
that his friend was down it was too late for him to stop his
course. His horse was determined to have the fence,--and did have
it. He touched nothing, and would have skimmed in glory over the
next field had he not come right down on Tregear and Tregear's
steed. There they were, four of them, two men and two horses in
one confused heap.
The first person with them was Mrs Spooner, who was off her horse
in a minute. And Silverbridge too was very soon on his legs. He at
any rate was unhurt, and the two horses were up before Mrs Spooner
was out of her saddle. But Tregear did not move. 'What are we to
do?' said Lord Silverbridge, kneeling down over his friend. 'Oh,
Mrs Spooner, what are we to do?'
The hunt had passed on and no one else was immediately with them.
But at this moment Dick Rabbit, who had been left behind to bring
up his hounds, appeared above the bank. 'Leave your horse and come
down,' said Mrs Spooner. 'Here is a gentleman who has hurt
himself.' Dick wouldn't leave his horse, but was soon on the
scene, having found his way through another part of the fence.
'No; he ain't dead,' said Dick--'I've seen 'em like that before,
and they wurn't dead. But he's had a hawful squeege.' Then he
passed his hand over the man's neck and chest. 'There's a lot of
'em is broke,' said he. 'We must get him to farmer Tooby's.'
After awhile he was got into farmer Tooby's, when that surgeon
came who is always in attendance on a hunting-field. The surgeon
declared that he had broken his collar-bone, two of his ribs, and
his left arm. And then one of the animals had struck him on the
chest as he raised himself. A little brandy was poured down his
throat, but even under that operation he gave no sign of life.
'No, missis, he aren't dead,' said Dick Rabbit to Mrs Tooby; 'no
more he won't die this bout; but he's got it very nasty.'
That night Silverbridge was sitting by his friend's bedside at ten
o'clock in Lord Chiltern's house. Tregear had spoken a few words,
and the bones had been set. But the doctor had not felt himself
justified in speaking with that assurance which Dick had
expressed. The man's whole body had been bruised by the horse
which had fallen on him. The agony of Silverbridge was extreme,
for he knew that it had been his doing. 'You were a little too
close,' Mrs Spooner had said to him, 'but nobody saw it, and we'll
hold our tongues.' Silverbridge however would not hold his
tongue. He told everybody how it had happened, how he had been
unable to stop his horse, how had jumped upon his friend, and
perhaps had killed him. 'I don't know what I am to do. I am so
miserable,' he said to Lady Chiltern with the tears running down
his face.
The two remained at Harrington and the luggage was brought over
from The Baldfaced Stag. The accident happened on a Saturday. On
the Sunday there was no comfort. On the Monday the patient's
recollection and mind were re-established, and the doctor thought
that perhaps, with great care, his constitution would pull him
through. On that day the consternation at Harrington was so great
that Mrs Spooner would not go to the meet. She came over from
Spoon Hall, and spent a considerable part of the day in the sick
man's room. 'It's sure to come right if it's above the vitals,'
she said expressing an opinion which had come from much
experience. 'That is,' she added, 'unless the neck's broke. When
poor old Jack Stubbs drove his head into his cap and dislocated
his wertebury, of course it was all up with him.' The patient
heard this and was seen to smile.
On the Tuesday there arose the question of family communication.
As the accident would make its way into the papers a message had
been sent to Polwenning to say that various bones had been broken,
but that the patient was upon the whole doing well. Then there had
been different messages backwards and forwards, in all of which
there had been an attempt to comfort old Mr Tregear. But on the
Tuesday letters were written. Silverbridge, sitting in his
friend's room, sent a long account of the accident to Mrs Tregear,
giving a list of the injuries done.
'Your sister,' whispered the poor fellow from the pillow.
'Yes,--yes;--yes, I will.'
'And Mabel Grex.' Silverbridge nodded assent and again went to the
writing-table. He did write to his sister, and in plain words told
her everything. 'The doctor says he is not now in danger.' Then
he added a postscript. 'As long as I am here I will let you know
how he is.'
CHAPTER 64
'I Believe Him to be a Worthy Young Man'
Lady Mary and Mrs Finn were alone when the tidings came from
Silverbridge. The Duke had been absent, having gone to spend an
unpleasant week in Barsetshire. Mary had taken the opportunity of
his absence to discuss her own prospects at full length. 'My
dear,' said Mrs Finn, 'I will not express an opinion. Now can I
after all that has passed? I have told the Duke the same. I
cannot be heart and hand with either without being false to the
other.' But still Lady Mary continued to talk about Tregear.
'I don't think papa has a right to treat me in this way,' she
said. 'He wouldn't be allowed to kill me, and this is killing me.'
'While there is life there is hope,' said Mrs Finn.
'Yes; while there is life there is hope. But one doesn't want to
grow old first.'
'There is no danger of that, Mary.'
'I feel very old. What is the use of life without something to
make it sweet? I am not even allowed to hear anything that he is
doing. If he were to ask me, I think I would go away with him
tomorrow.'
'He would not be foolish enough for that.'
'Because he does not suffer as I do. He has his borough, and his
public life, and a hundred things to think of. I have got nothing
but him. I know he is true;--quite as true as I am. But it is I
that have the suffering in all this. A man can never be like a
girl. Papa ought not to make me suffer like this.'
That took place on the Monday. On the Tuesday Mrs Finn received a
letter from her husband giving an account of the accident. 'As far
as I can learn,' he said, 'Silverbridge will write about it
tomorrow.' Then he went on to give a by no means good account of
the state of the patient. The doctor had declared him to be out of
immediate danger, and had set the broken bones. As tidings would
be sent on the next day she had better say nothing about the
accident to Lady Mary. This letter reached Matching on Tuesday and
made the position of Mrs Finn very disagreeable. She was bound to
carry herself as though nothing was amiss, knowing as she did so,
the condition of Mary's lover.
On the evening of the next day Lady Mary was more lively than
usual, though her liveliness was hardly of a happy nature. 'I
don't know what papa can expect. I've heard him say a hundred
times that to be in Parliament is the highest place a gentleman
can fill, and now Frank is in Parliament.' Mrs Finn looked at her
with beseeching eyes, as though begging her not to speak of
Tregear. 'And then think of their having that Lord Popplecourt
there! I shall always hate Lady Cantrip, for it was her place.
That she should have thought it possible! Lord Popplecourt! Such
a creature. Hyperion to a satyr. Isn't it true? Oh that papa
should have thought it possible!' Then she got up, and walked
about the room, beating her hands together. All this time Mrs Finn
knew that Tregear was lying at Harrington with half his bones
broken, and in danger of his life!
On the next morning Lady Mary received her letters. There were two
lying before her plate when she came into breakfast, one from her
father and the other from Silverbridge. She read that from the
Duke first while Mrs Finn was watching her. 'Papa will be home on
Saturday,' she said. 'He declares that the people in the borough
are quite delighted with Silverbridge for a member. And he is
quite jocose. "They used to be delighted with me once," he says,
"but I suppose everybody changes."' Then she began to pour out
the tea before she opened her brother's letter. Mrs Finn's eyes
were still on her anxiously. 'I wonder what Silverbridge has got
to say about the Brake Hunt.' Then she opened her letter.
'Oh;--oh!' she exclaimed,--'Frank has killed himself.'
'Killed himself! Not that. It is not so bad as that.'
'You had heard it before?'
'How is he, Mary?'
'Oh, heavens! I cannot read it. Do you read it. Tell me all. Tell
me the truth. What am I to do? Where shall I go?' Then she threw
up her hands, and with a loud scream fell on her knees with her
head upon the chair. In the next moment Mrs Finn was down beside
her on the floor. 'Read it; why do you not read it? If you will
not read it, give it to me.'
Mrs Finn did read the letter, which was very short, but still
giving by no means an unfavourable account of the patient. 'I am
sorry to say he has broken ever so many bones, and we were very
much frightened about him.' Then the writer went into details,
from which the reader who did not read the whole words carefully
might well imagine that the man's life was still in danger.
Mrs Finn did read it all, and did her best to comfort her friend.
'It has been a bad accident,' she said, 'but it is clear that he
id getting better. Men do so often break their bones, and then
seem to think nothing of it afterwards.'
'Silverbridge says it was his fault. What does he mean?'
'I suppose he was riding too close to Mr Tregear, and that they
came down together. Of course it is distressing, but I do not
think you need make yourself positively unhappy about it.'
'Would you not be unhappy if it were Mr Finn?' said Mary, jumping
up from her knees. 'I shall go to him. I should go mad if I were
to remain here and know nothing about it but what Silverbridge
will tell me.'
'I will telegraph Mr Finn.'
'Mr Finn won't care. Men are so heartless. They write about each
other just as though it did not signify in the least whether
anybody were dead or alive. I shall go to him.'
'You cannot do that.'
'I don't care now what anybody may think. I choose to be
considered as belonging to him, and if papa were here I would do
the same.' It was of course not difficult to make her understand
that she could not go to Harrington, but it was by no means easy
to keep her tranquil. She would send a telegram herself. This was
debated for a long time, till at last Lady Mary insisted that she
was not subject to Mrs Finn's authority. 'If papa were here, even
then I would send it.' And she did send it, in her own name,
regardless of the fact pointed out to her by Mrs Finn, that the
people at the post-office would thus know her secret. 'It is no
secret,' she said. 'I don't want it to be a secret.' The telegram
went in the following words. 'I have heard it. I am so wretched.
Send me one word to say how you are.' She got an answer back,
with Tregear's own name to it, on that afternoon. 'Do not be
unhappy. I am doing well. Silverbridge is with me.'
On the Thursday Gerald came home from Scotland. He had arranged
his little affair with Lord Percival, not however without some
difficulty. Lord Percival had declared that he did not understand
I.O.U.s in an affair of that kind. He had always thought that
gentlemen did not play for stakes for which they could not pay at
once. This was not said to Gerald himself;--or the result would
have been calamitous. Nidderdale was the go-between, and at last
arranged it,--not however till he had pointed out that Percival
having won so large a sum of money from a lad under twenty-one
years was very lucky in receiving substantial security for its
payment.
Gerald has chosen the period of his father's absence for his
return. It was necessary that the story of the gambling debt
should be told the Duke in February! Silverbridge had explained
that to him, and he had quite understood it. He, indeed, would be
up at Oxford in February, and, in that case, the first horror of
the thing would be left to poor Silverbridge! Thinking of this,
Gerald felt that he was bound to tell his father himself. He
resolved that he would do so, but he was anxious to postpone the
evil day. He lingered therefore in Scotland till he knew that his
father was in Barsetshire.
On his arrival he was told of Tregear's accident. 'Oh Gerald, have
you heard?' said his sister. He had not as yet heard, and then the
history was repeated to him. Mary did not attempt to conceal her
own feelings. She was as open with her brother as she had been
with Mrs Finn.
'I suppose he'll get over it,' said Gerald.
'Is that all you say?' she asked.
'What can I say better? I suppose he will. Fellows always do get
over that kind of thing. Herbert de Burgh smashed both his thighs,
and now he can move about again,--of course with crutches.'
'Gerald. How can you be so unfeeling!'
'I don't know what you mean. I always liked Tregear, and I am very
sorry for him. If you would take it a little quieter, I think it
would be better.'
'I could not take it quietly. How can I take it quietly when he is
more than the world to me?'
'You should keep that to yourself.'
'Yes,--and so let people think that I didn't care, till I broke my
heart! I shall say just the same to papa when he comes home.'
After than the brother and sister were not on very good terms with
each other for the remainder of the day.
On the Saturday there was a letter from Silverbridge to Mrs Finn.
Tregear was better; but was unhappy because it had been decided
that he could not be moved for the next month. This entailed two
misfortunes on him;--first that of being enforced guest of persons
who were not,--or, hitherto had not been his own friends,--and then
his absence from the first meeting of Parliament. When a gentleman
has been in Parliament some years he may be able to reconcile
himself to an obligatory vacation with a calm mind. But when the
honours and glory are new, and the tedium of the benches has not
yet been experienced, then such an accident is felt to be a
grievance. But the young member was out of danger, and was, as
Silverbridge declared in the very best quarters which could be
provided for a man in his position.
Phineas Finn told him all the politics; Mrs Spooner related to
him, on Sundays and Wednesdays, all the hunting details; while
Lady Chiltern read to him light literature, because he was not
allowed to hold a book in his hand. 'I wish it were me,' said
Gerald. 'I wish I were there to read to him,' said Mary.
Then the Duke came home. 'Mary,' said he, 'I have been distressed
to hear of this accident.' This seemed to her to be the kindest
word she had heard from him for a long time. 'I believe him to be
a worthy young man. I am sorry that he should be the cause of so
much sorrow to you--and to me.'
'Of course I was sorry for his accident,' she replied, after
pausing awhile; 'but now that he is better I will not cause him a
cause of sorrow--to me.' Then the Duke said nothing further about
Tregear; nor did she.
'So you have come at last,' he said to Gerald. That was the first
greeting,--to which the son responded by an awkward smile. But in
the course of the evening he walked straight up to his father--'I
have something to tell you, sir,' said he.
'Something to tell me?'
'Something that will make you very angry.'
CHAPTER 65
'Do You Ever Think What Money Is?'
Gerald told his story, standing bolt upright, and looking his
father full in the face as he told it. 'You lost three thousand
four hundred pounds at one sitting to Lord Percival--at cards!'
'Yes, sir.'
'In Lord Nidderdale's house.'
'Yes, sir. Nidderdale wasn't playing. It wasn't his fault.'
'Who were playing?'
'Percival, and Dolly Longstaff, and Jack Hinde,--and I. Popplecourt
was playing at first.'
'Lord Popplecourt!'
'Yes, sir. But he went away when he began to lose.'
'Three thousand four hundred pounds! How old are you?'
'I am just twenty-one.'
'You are beginning the world well, Gerald! What is the engagement
which Silverbridge has made with Lord Percival?'
'To pay him the money at the end of next month.'
'What had Silverbridge to do with it?'
'Nothing, sir. I wrote to Silverbridge because I didn't know what
to do. I knew he would stand me.'
'Who is to stand either of you if you go on thus I do not know.'
To this Gerald of course made no reply, but an idea came across
his mind that he knew who would stand both himself and his
brother. 'How did Silverbridge mean to get the money?'
'He said he would ask you. But I thought that I ought to tell
you.'
'Is that all?'
'All what, sir?'
'Are there other debts?' To this Gerald made no reply. 'Other
gambling debts?'
'No, sir;--not a shilling of that kind. I have never played
before.'
'Does it ever occur to you that going on at that rate you may very
soon lose all the fortune that will ever come to you? You were
not yet of age and you lost three thousand four hundred pounds at
cards to a man whom you probably knew to be a professed gambler!'
Then the Duke seemed to wait for a reply, but poor Gerald had not
a word to say. 'Can you explain to me what benefit you proposed to
yourself when you played for such stakes as that?'
'I hoped to win back what I had lost.'
'Facilis descensus Averni!' said the Duke, shaking his head.
'Noctes atque dies patet atri jauna Ditis.' No doubt, he thought,
that as his son was at Oxford, admonitions in Latin would serve
him better than in his native tongue. But Gerald, when he heard
the grand hexameter rolled out in his father's grandest tone,
entertained a comfortable feeling that the worst of the interview
was over. 'Win back what you had lost! Do you think that that is
the common fortune of young gamblers when they fall among those
who are more experienced than themselves?'
'One goes on, sir, without reflecting.'
'Go on without reflecting! Yes, and where to? where to? Oh,
Gerald, where to? Whither will such progress without reflection
take you?' 'He means--to the devil,' said the lad inwardly to
himself, without moving his lips. 'There is but one goal for such
going on as that. I can pay three thousand four hundred pounds to
you certainly. I think it hard that I should have to do so; but I
can do it,--and I will do it.'
'Thank you, sir,' murmured Gerald.
'But how can I wash your young mind clean from the foul stain
which has already defiled it? Why did you sit down to play? Was
it to win the money which these men had in their pockets?'
'Not particularly.'
'It cannot be that a rational being should consent to risk the
money he has himself,--to risk even the money which he has not
himself,--without a desire to win that which as yet belongs to his
opponents. You desired to win.'
'I suppose I did hope to win.'
'And why? Why did you want to extract their property from their
pockets, and to put it into your own? That the footpad on the
road should have such desire when, with his pistol, he stops the
traveller on his journey we all understand. And we know what to
think of the footpad,--and what we must do to him. He is a poor
creature, who from his youth upwards has had no good thing done
for him, uneducated, an outcast, whom we should pity more than we
despise him. We take him as a pest which we cannot endure, and
lock him up where he can harm us no more. On my word, Gerald, I
think that the so-called gentleman who sits down with the
deliberate intention of extracting money from the pockets of his
antagonists, who lays out for himself that way of repairing the
shortcomings of fortune, who looks to that resource as an aid to
his means,---is worse, much worse, than the public robber! He is
meaner, more cowardly, and has I think in his bosom less of the
feeling of an honest man. And he probably has been educated,--as
you have been. He calls himself a gentleman. He should know black
from whit. It is considered terrible to cheat at cards.'
'There was nothing of that, sir.'
'The man who plays and cheats has fallen low indeed.
'I understand that, sir.'
'He who plays that he may make an income, but does not cheat, has
fallen nearly as low. Do you ever think what money is?'
The Duke paused so long, collecting his own thoughts and thinking
of his own words, that Gerald found himself obliged to answer.
'Cheques, and sovereigns, and bank-notes,' he replied with much
hesitation.
'Money is the reward of labour,' said the Duke, 'or rather, in the
shape it reaches you, it is your representation of that reward.
You may earn it yourself, or, as is, I am afraid, more likely to
be the case with you, you may possess it honestly as prepared for
you by the labour of others who have stored it up for you. But it
is a commodity of which you are bound to see that the source is
not only clean but noble. You would not let Lord Percival give you
money.'
'He wouldn't do that, sir, I am sure.'
'Nor would you take it. There is nothing so comfortable as money,--
but nothing so defiling if it be come by unworthily; nothing so
comfortable, but nothing so noxious if the mind be allowed to
dwell upon it constantly. If a man have enough, let him spend it
freely. If he wants it, let him earn it honestly. Let him do
something for it, so that the man who pays it to him may get its
value. But to think that it may be got by gambling, to hope to
live after that fashion, to sit down with your fingers almost in
your neighbours' pockets, with your eye on his purse, trusting
that you may know better than he some studied calculations as to
the pips' concealed in your hands, praying to the only god you
worship that some special card may be vouchsafed to you,--that I
say is to have left far, far behind you, all nobility, all
gentleness, all manhood! Write me down Lord Percival's address
and I will send him the money.
Then the Duke wrote a cheque for the money claimed and sent it
with a note as follows:
'The Duke of Omnium presents his compliments to Lord Percival. The
Duke has been informed by Lord Gerald Palliser that Lord Percival
has won at cards from him the sum of three thousand four hundred
pounds. The Duke now encloses a cheque for that amount, and
requests that the document which Lord Percival holds from Lord
Silverbridge as security for that amount, may be returned to Lord
Gerald.'
Let the noble gambler have his prey. He was little solicitous
about that. If he could only operate on the mind of this son,--so
operate on the minds of both his sons, as to make them see the
foolishness of folly, the ugliness of what is mean, the squalor
and dirt of ignoble pursuits, then he could easily pardon past
faults. If it were half his wealth what would it signify if he
could teach his children to accept those lessons without which no
man can live as a gentleman, let his rank be the highest known,
let his wealth be as the sands, his fashion unrivalled?
The word or two which his daughter had said to him, declaring that
she still took pride in her lover's love, and then this new
misfortune on Gerald's part, upset him greatly. He almost
sickened of politics when he thought of his domestic bereavement
and his domestic misfortunes. How completely had he failed to
indoctrinate his children with the ideas by which his own mind was
fortified and controlled! Nothing was so base to him as a
gambler, and they had both commenced their career by gambling.
From their young boyhood nothing had seemed so desirable to him as
that they should be accustomed by early training to devote
themselves to the service of their country. He saw other young
noblemen around him who at eighteen were known as debaters at
their colleges, or at twenty-five were already deep in politics,
social science, and educational projects. What good would all his
wealth or all his position do for his children if their minds
could rise to nothing beyond the shooting of deer and the hunting
of foxes? There was young Lord Buttercup, the son of the Earl of
Woolantallow, only a few months older than Silverbridge,--who was
already a junior lord, and as constant at his office, or during
the Session on the Treasury Bench, as though there were not a pack
of hounds or a card-table in Great Britain! Lord Buttercup, too,
had already written an article in 'The Fortnightly' on the subject
of Turkish finance. How long would it be before Silverbridge would
write an article, or Gerald sign his name in the service of the
public?
And then those proposed marriages,--as to which he was beginning to
know that his children would be too strong for him! Anxious as he
was that both his sons should be permeated by liberal politics,
studious as he had ever been to teach them that the highest duty
of those high in rank was to use their authority to elevate those
beneath them, still he was hardly less anxious to make them
understand that their second duty required them to maintain their
own position. It was by feeling this, second duty,--by feeling it
and performing it,--that they would be enabled to perform the first.
And now both Silverbridge and his girl were bent upon marriages by
which they would depart out of their own order! Let Silverbridge
marry whom he might, he could not be other than the heir to the
honours of the family. But by his marriage he might either support
or derogate from these honours. And now, having at first made a
choice that was good, he had altered his mind from simple freak,
captivated by a pair of bright eyes and an arch smile, and without
a feeling in regard to his family, was anxious to take to his
bosom the granddaughter of an American day-labourer!
And then his girl,--of whose beauty he was so proud, from whose
manners, and tastes, and modes of life he had expected to reap
those good things, in a feminine degree, which his sons as young
men seemed so little fitted to give him! By slow degrees he had
been brought round to acknowledge that the young man was worthy.
Tregear's conduct had been felt by the Duke to be manly. The
letter he had written was a good letter. And then he had won for
himself a seat in the House of Commons. When forced to speak of
him to his girl he had been driven by justice to call him worthy.
But how could he serve to support and strengthen the nobility, the
endurance and perpetuation of which should be the peculiar care of
every Palliser?
And yet as the Duke walked about his room he felt that his
opposition either to the one marriage or to the other was vain. Of
course they would marry according to their wills.
That same night Gerald wrote to his brother before he went to bed,
as follows:
'DEAR SILVER,--I was awfully obliged to you for sending me the I O
U for that brute Percival. He only sneered when he took it, and
would have said something disagreeable, but that he saw that I was
in earnest. I know he did say something to Nid, only I can't find
out what. Nid is an easy-going fellow, and, as I saw, didn't want
to have a rumpus.
'But now what do you think I've done? Directly I got home I told
the governor all about it! As I was in the train I made up my
mind that I would. I went slap at it. If there is anything that
never does any good, it is craning. I did it all at one rush,
just as though I was swallowing a dose of physic. I wish I could
tell you all that the governor said, because it was really tip-
top. What is a fellow to get by playing high,--a fellow like you
and me? I didn't want any of that beast's money. I don't suppose
he had any. But one's dander gets up, and one doesn't like to be
done, and so it goes on. I shall cut that kind of thing
altogether. You should have heard the governor spouting Latin!
And then the way he sat upon Percival, without mentioning the
fellow's name! I do think it mean to set yourself to work to win
money at cards,--and it is awfully mean to lose more than you have
got to pay.
'Then at the end the governor said he'd send the beast a cheque
for the amount. You know his way of finishing up, just like two
fellows fighting,--when one has awfully punished the other he goes
up and shakes hands with him. He did pitch it into me,--not abusing
me, nor even saying a word about the money, which he at once
promised to pay, but laying it on to gambling with a regular cat-
o'-ninetails. And then there was an end of it. He just asked the
fellow's address and said that he would send him the money. I will
say this;--I don't think there's a greater brick than the governor
anywhere.
'I am awfully sorry about Tregear. I can't make out how it
happened. I suppose you were too near him, and Melrose always does
rush at his fences. One fellow shouldn't be too near another
fellow,--only it so often happens that it can't be helped. It's
just like anything else, if nothing comes of it then it's all
right. But if anybody comes to grief then he's got to be pitched
into. Do you remember when I nearly cut over old Sir Simon
Slowbody? Didn't I hear about it!
'I am awfully glad you didn't smash up Tregear altogether because
of Mary. I am quite sure it is no good anybody setting up his back
against that. It's one of the things that have got to be. You
always have said that he is a good fellow. If so, what's the harm?
At any rate it has got to be.
'Your affectionate Brother,
GERALD.'
'I go up in about a week.'
CHAPTER 66
The Three Attacks
During the following week the communication between Harrington and
Matching were very frequent. There were no further direct messages
between Tregear and Lady Mary, but she heard daily of his
progress. The Duke was conscious of the special interest which
existed in his house as to the condition of the young man, but,
after his arrival not a word had been spoken for some days between
him and his daughter on the subject. Then Gerald went back to his
college, and the Duke made his preparations for going up to town
and making some attempt at parliamentary activity.
It was by no concert that an attack was made upon him from three
quarters at once as he was preparing to leave Matching. On the
Sunday morning during church time, for on that day Lady Mary went
to her devotions alone,--Mrs Finn was closeted an hour with the
Duke in his study. 'I think you ought to be aware,' she said to
the Duke, 'that though I trust Mary implicitly and know her to be
thoroughly high principled, I cannot be responsible for her, if I
remain here.'
'I do not quite follow your meaning.'
'Of course there is but one matter on which there can, probably,
be any difference between us. If she should choose to write to Mr
Tregear, or to send him any message, or even to go to him, I could
not prevent it.'
'Go to him!' exclaimed the horrified Duke.
'I merely suggest such a thing in order to make you understand
that I have absolutely no control over her.'
'What control have I?'
'Nay; I cannot define that. You are her father, and she
acknowledges your authority. She regards me as a friend,--and as
such treats me with the sweetest affection. Nothing can be more
gratifying than her manner to me personally.'
'It ought to be so.'
'She has thoroughly won my heart. But still I know that if there
were a difference between us she would not obey me. Why should
she?'
'Because you hold my deputed authority.'
'Oh, Duke, that goes for very little anywhere. No one can depute
authority. It comes too much from personal accidents, and too
little from reason or law to be handed over to others. Besides, I
fear, that on one matter concerning her you and I are not agreed.'
'I shall be sorry if it be so.'
'I feel that I am bound to tell you my opinion.'
'Oh yes.'
'You think that in the end Lady Mary will allow herself to be
separated from Tregear. I think that in the end they will become
man and wife.'
This seemed to the Duke to be not quite so bad as it might have
been. Any speculation as to results were very different from an
expressed opinion as to propriety. Were he to tell the truth as to
his own mind, he might perhaps have said the same thing. But one
is not to relax in one's endeavours to prevent that which is
wrong, because one fears that the wrong may be ultimately
perpetuated. 'Let that be as it may,' he said, 'it cannot alter my
duty.'
'Nor mine, Duke, if I may presume to think that I have a duty in
this matter.'
'That you should encounter the burden of the duty binds me to you
for ever.'
'If it be that they will certainly be married one day--'
'Who has said that? Who has admitted that?'
'If it be so; if it seems to me that it must be so,--then how can I
be anxious to prolong her sufferings? She does suffer terribly.'
Upon this the Duke frowned, but there was more of tenderness in
his frown than in the hard smile which he had hitherto worn. 'I do
not know whether you see it all.' He well remembered all that he
had seen when he and Mary were travelling together. 'I see it, and
I do not pass half an hour with her without sorrowing for her.'
On hearing this he sighed and turned his face away. 'Girls are so
different! There are many who though they be genuinely in love,
though their natures are sweet and affectionate, are not strong
enough to support their own feelings in resistance to the will of
those who have authority over them.' Had it been so with his
wife? At this moment all the former history passed through his
mind. 'They yield to that which seems to be inevitable, and allow
themselves to be fashioned by the purposes of others. It is well
for them often that they are so plastic. Whether it would be
better for her that she should be so I will not say.'
'It would be better,' said the Duke doggedly.
'But such is not her nature. She is as determined as ever.'
'I may be determined too.'
'But if at last it will be of no use,--if it be her fate either to
be married to this man or to die of a broken heart,--'
'What justifies you in saying that? How can you torture me by such
a threat?'
'If I think so, Duke, I am justified. Of late I have been with her
daily,--almost hourly. I do not say that this will kill her now,--in
her youth. It is not often, I fancy, that women die after that
fashion. But a broken heart may bring the sufferer to the grave
after a lapse of many years. How will it be with you if she should
live like a ghost beside you for the next twenty years, and you
should then see her die, faded and withered before her time,--all
her life gone without a joy,--because she had loved a man whose
position in life was displeasing to you? Would the ground on
which the sacrifices had been made then justify itself to you? In
that performing your duty to your order would you feel satisfied
that you had performed that to your child?'
She had come there determined to say it all,--to liberate her own
soul as it were,--but had much doubted the spirit in which the Duke
would listen to her. That he would listen to her she was sure,--and
then if he chose to cast her out, she would endure his wrath. It
would not be to her now as it had been when he accused her of
treachery. But, nevertheless, bold as she was and independent, he
had imbued her, as he did all those around him, with so strong a
sense of his personal dignity, that when she had finished she
almost trembled as she looked in his face. Since he had asked how
she could justify to herself the threats which she was using he
had sat still with his eyes fixed upon her. Now, when she had
done, he was in no hurry to speak. He rose slowly and walking
towards the fireplace stood with his back towards her, looking
down upon the fire. She was the first to speak again. 'Shall I
leave you now?' she said in a low voice.
'Perhaps it will be better,' he answered. His voice, too was very
low. In truth he was so moved that he hardly knew how to speak at
all. Then she rose and was already on her way on to the door when
he followed her. 'One moment if you please,' he said almost
sternly. 'I am under a debt of gratitude to you of which I cannot
express my sense in words. How far I may agree with you, and where
I may disagree I will not attempt to point out to you now.'
'Oh no.'
'But all that you have troubled yourself to think and to feel in
this matter, and all that true friendship has compelled you to say
to me, shall be written down in the tablets of my memory.'
'Duke!'
'My child has at any rate been fortunate in securing the
friendship of such a friend.' Then he turned back to the
fireplace, and she was constrained to leave the room without
another word.
She had determined to make the best plea in her power for Mary;
and while she was making the plea had been almost surprised by her
own vehemence; but the greater had been her vehemence, the
stronger, she thought, would have been the Duke's anger. And as
she had watched the workings of his face she had felt for the
moment, that the vials of his wrath were about to be poured upon
her. Even when she left the room she almost believed that had he
not taken those moments for consideration at the fireplace his
parting words would have been different. But, as it was, there
could be no question now of her departure. No power was left to
her of separating herself from Lady Mary. Though the Duke had not
as yet acknowledged himself to be conquered, there was no doubt to
her now but that he would be conquered. And she, either here or in
London, must be the girl's nearest friend up to the day when she
should be given over to Mr Tregear. That was one of the three
attacks which were made upon the Duke before he went up to his
parliamentary duties.
The second was as follows. Among the letters on the following
morning one was brought to him from Tregear. It is hoped that the
reader will remember the lover's former letter and the very
unsatisfactory answer which had been sent to it. Nothing could
have been colder, less propitious, or more inveterately hostile
than the reply. As he lay in bed with his broken bones at
Harrington he had ample time for thinking over all this. He knew
every word of the Duke's distressing note by heart, and had often
lashed himself to rage as he had repeated it. But he could effect
nothing by showing his anger. He must go on an still do something.
Since the writing of that letter he had done something. He had got
his seat in Parliament. And he had secured the interest of his
friend Silverbridge. This had been partially done at Polwenning,
but the accident in the Brake country had completed the work. The
brother had at last declared himself in his friend's favour. 'Of
course I should be glad to see it,' he had said while sitting by
Tregear's bedside. 'The worst is that everything does seem to go
against the poor governor.'
Then Tregear made up his mind that he would write another letter.
Personally he was not in the best condition for doing this as he
was lying in bed with his left arm tied up, and with straps and
bandages all round his body. But he could sit up in bed, and his
right hand and arm were free. So he declared to Lady Chiltern his
purpose of writing a letter. She tried to dissuade him gently and
offered to be his secretary. But when he assured her that no
secretary could write his letter for him she understood pretty
well what would be the subject of the letter. With considerable
difficulty Tregear wrote his letter.
'MY LORD DUKE,'--On this occasion he left out the epithet which he
had before used--
'Your Grace's reply to my last letter was not encouraging, but in
spite of your prohibition I venture to write to you again. If I
had the slightest reason for thinking that your daughter was
estranged from me, I would not persecute either you or her. But if
it be true that she is as devoted to me as I am to her, can I be
wrong in pleading my case? Is it not evident to you that she is
made of such stuff that she will not be controlled in her choice,--
even by your will?
'I have had an accident in the hunting-field and an now writing
from Lord Chiltern's house, where I am confined to bed. But I
think you will understand me when I say that even in this helpless
condition I feel myself constrained to do something. Of course I
ask for nothing from you on my own behalf,--but on her behalf may I
not add my prayers to hers?
'I have the honour to be,
'Your Grace's faithful Servant,
'FRANCIS TREGEAR.'
This coming alone would perhaps have had no effect. The Duke had
desired the young man not to address him again; and the young man
had disobeyed him. No mere courtesy would now have constrained him
to send any reply further to this letter. But coming as it did
while his heart was still throbbing with the effects of Mrs Finn's
words, it was allowed to have a certain force. The argument was a
true argument. His girl was devoted to the man who sought her
hand. Mrs Finn had told him that sooner or later he must yield,--
unless he was prepared to see his child wither and fade at his
side. He had once thought that he would be prepared even for that.
He had endeavoured to strengthen his own will by arguing with
himself that when he saw a duty plainly before him, he should
cleave to that let the results be what they might. But that
picture of her face withered and wan after twenty years of
sorrowing had had its effect upon his heart. He even made excuses
within his own breast in the young man's favour. He was in
Parliament now, and what may not be done for a young man in
Parliament? Altogether the young man appeared to him in a
different light from that through which he had viewed the
presumptuous, arrogant young suitor who had come to him, now
nearly a year since, in Carlton Terrace.
He went to breakfast with Tregear's letter in his pocket, and was
then gracious to Mrs Finn, and tender to his daughter. 'When do
you go, papa?' Mary asked.
'I shall take the 11.45 train. I have ordered the carriage at a
quarter before eleven.'
'May I go to the train, papa?'
'Certainly; I shall be delighted.'
'Papa!' Mary said as soon as she found herself seated beside her
father in the carriage.
'My dear.'
'Oh, papa!' and she threw herself on to his breast. He put his arm
round her and kissed her,--as he would have had so much delight in
doing, as he would have done so often before, had there not been
this ground of discord. She was very sweet to him. It had never
seemed to him that she had disgraced herself by loving Tregear--but
that a great misfortune had fallen upon her. Silverbridge when he
had gone into a racing partnership with Tifto, and Gerald when he
had played for money which he did not possess, had--degraded
themselves in his estimation. He would not have used such a word;
but it was his feeling. They were less noble, less pure than they
might have been, had the kept themselves free from such stain. But
this girl,--whether she should live and fade by his side, or
whether she should give her hand to some fitting noble suitor,--or
even though she might at last become the wife of this man who
loved her, would always have been pure. It was sweet to him to
have something to caress. Now in the solitude of his life, as
years were coming on him, he felt how necessary it was that he
should have someone who would love him. Since his wife had left
him he had been debarred from these caresses, by the necessity of
showing his antagonism to her dearest wishes. It had been his duty
to be stern. In all his words to his daughter he had been governed
by a conviction that he never ought to allow the duty of
separating her from her lover to be absent from his mind. He was
not prepared to acknowledge that that duty had ceased;--but yet
there had crept over him a feeling that as he was half conquered,
why should he not seek some recompense in his daughter's love.
'Papa,' she said, 'you do not hate me?'
'Hate you, my darling!'
'Because I am disobedient. Oh, papa, I cannot help it. He should
not have come. He should not have been let to come.' He had not a
word to say to her. He could not as yet bring himself to tell
her,--that it should be as she desired. Much less could he now
argue with her as to the impossibility of such a marriage as he
had done on former occasions when the matter had been discussed.
He could only press his arm tightly round her waist, and be
silent. 'It cannot be altered now, papa. Look at me. Tell me that
you love me.'
'Have you doubted my love?'
'No, papa,--but I would do anything to make you happy; anything
that I could do. Papa, you do not want me to marry Lord
Popplecourt?'
'I would not have you marry any man without loving him.'
'I never can love anybody else. That is what I wanted you to know,
papa.'
To this he made no reply, nor was there anything else said upon
the subject before the carriage drove up to the railway station.
'Do not get out, dear,' he said, seeing that her eyes had been
filled with tears. 'It is not worth while. God bless you my child!
You will be up in London I hope in a fortnight, and we must try
to make the house a little less dull for you.'
And so he encountered the third attack.
Lady Mary, as she was driven home, recovered her spirits
wonderfully. Not a word had fallen from her father which she could
use hereafter as a refuge from her embarrassments. He had made her
no promise. He had assented to nothing. But there had been
something in his manner, in his gait, in his eye, in the pressure
of his arm, which made her feel that her troubles would soon be at
an end.
'I do love you so much,' she said to Mrs Finn late on that
afternoon.
'I am glad of that, dear.'
'I shall always love you,--because you have been on my side all
through.'
'No, Mary;--that is not so.'
'I know it is so. Of course you have to be wise because you are
older. And papa would not have you here with me if you were not
wise. But I know you are on my side,--and papa knows it too. And
someone else shall know it some day.'
CHAPTER 67
'He is Such a Beast'
Lord Silverbridge remained in the Brake country till a few days
before the meeting of Parliament, and had he been left to himself
he would have had another week in the country and might probably
have overstayed the opening day; but he had not been left to
himself. In the last week in January an important despatch reached
his hands, from no less important person than Sir Timothy Beeswax,
suggesting to him that he should undertake the duty of seconding
the address in the House of Commons. When the proposition first
reached him it made his hair stand on end. He had never yet risen
to his feet in the House. He had spoken at those election meetings
in Cornwall, and had found it easy enough. After the first or
second time he had thought it good fun. But he knew that standing
up in the House of Commons would be different from that. Then
there would be the dress! 'I should so hate to fig myself out and
look like a guy,' he said to Tregear, to whom of course he
confided the offer that was made to him. Tregear was very anxious
that he should accept it. 'A man should never refuse anything of
that kind which comes his way,' Tregear said.
'It is only because I am the governor's son,' Silverbridge
pleaded.
'Partly so perhaps. But if it be altogether so, what of that? Take
the goods the gods provide you. Of course all these things which
our ambition coverts are easier to Duke's sons than to others. But
not on that account should a Duke's son refuse them. A man when he
sees a rung vacant on the ladder should always put his foot
there.'
'I'll tell you what,' said Silverbridge. 'If I thought this was
all fair sailing I'd do it. I should feel certain that I should
come a cropper, but still I'd try it. As you say, a fellow should
try. But it's all meant as a blow at the governor. Old Beeswax
thinks that if he can get me up to swear that he and his crew are
real first-chop hands, that will hit the governor hard. It's as
much as saying to the governor,--"This chap belongs to me, not to
you." That's a thing I won't go in for.' Then Tregear counselled
him to write to his father for advice, and at the same time ask
Sir Timothy to allow him a day or two for consideration. This
counsel he took. His letter reached his father two days before he
left Matching. In answer to it there came first a telegram begging
Silverbridge to be in London on the Monday, and then a letter, in
which the Duke expressed himself as being anxious to see his son
before giving a final answer to the question. Thus it was that
Silverbridge had been taken away from his hunting.
Isabel Boncassen, however, was now in London, and from her it was
possible that he might find consolation. He had written to her
soon after reaching Harrington, telling her that he had had it all
out with the governor. 'There is a good deal that I can only tell
you when I see you,' he said. Then he assured her with many
lover's protestations that he was and always would be till death
altogether her own most loving S. To this he had received an
answer by return of post. She would be delighted to see him up in
town,--as would her father and mother. They had now got a
comfortable house in Brook Street. And then she signed herself his
sincere friend, Isabel. Silverbridge thought that it was cold, and
remembered certain scraps of another feminine handwriting in which
more passion was expressed. Perhaps this was the way with American
young ladies when they were in love.
'Yes,' said the Duke, 'I am glad that you have come up at once, as
Sir Timothy should have his answer without further delay.'
'But what shall I say?'
The Duke, though he had already considered the matter very
seriously, nevertheless took a few minutes to consider it again.
'The offer,' said he, 'must be acknowledged as very flattering.'
'But the circumstances are not usual.'
'It cannot often be the case that a minister should ask the son of
his keenest political opponent to render him such a service. But,
however, we will put that aside.'
'Not quite, sir.'
'For the present we will put that on one side. Not looking at the
party which you may be called upon to support, having for the
moment no regard to this or that line in politics, there is no
opening to the real duties of parliamentary life which I would
sooner see accorded to you than this.'
'But if I were to break down?' Talking to his father he could not
quite venture to ask what might happen if he were to 'come a
cropper'.
'None but the brave deserve the fair,' said the Duke slapping his
hands upon the table. 'Why, if "We fail, we fail! But screw your
courage to the sticking place, And we'll not fail." What high
point would ever be reached if caution such as that were allowed
to prevail? What young men have done before cannot you do? I
have no doubt of your capacity. None.'
'Haven't you, sir,' said Silverbridge, considerably gratified,--and
also surprised.
'None in the least. But, perhaps, some of your diligence.'
'I could learn it by heart, sir,--if you mean that.'
'But I don't mean that; or rather I mean much more than that. You
have first to realise in your mind the thing to be said, and then
the words in which you should say it, before you come to learning
by heart.'
'Some of them I suppose would tell me what to say.'
'No doubt with your inexperience it would be unfit that you should
be left entirely to yourself. But I would wish you to know,--
perhaps I should say to feel, that the sentiments expressed by you
were just.'
'I should have to praise Sir Timothy.'
'Not that necessarily. But you would have to advocate that course
in Parliament which Sir Timothy and his friends have taken and
propose to take.'
'But I hate him like poison.'
'There need be no personal feeling in the matter. I remember that
when I moved the address in your house Mr Mildmay was Prime
Minister,--a man for whom my regard and esteem was unbounded,--who
had been in political matters the preceptor of my youth, whom as a
patriotic statesman I almost worshipped, whom I now remember as a
man whose departure from the arena of politics left the country
very destitute. No one has sprung up since like him,--or hardly
second to him. But in speaking on so large a subject as the policy
of a party, I thought it beneath me to eulogise a man. The same
policy reversed may keep you silent respecting Sir Timothy.'
'I needn't of course say what I think about him.'
'I suppose you do agree with Sir Timothy as to his general policy?
On no other condition can you undertake such a duty.'
'Of course I have voted with him.'
'So I have observed,--not so regularly perhaps as Mr Roby would
have desired.' Mr Roby was the Conservative whip.
'And I suppose the people at Silverbridge expect me to support
him.'
'I hardly know how that may be. They used to be contented with
more poor services. No doubt they feel they have changed for the
better.'
'You shouldn't say that, sir.'
'I am bound to suppose that they think so, because when the matter
was left in their own hands they at once elected a Conservative.
You need not fear that you will offend them by seconding the
address. They will probably feel proud to see their young member
brought forward on such an occasion; as I shall be proud to see my
son.'
'You would if it were on the other side, sir.'
'Yes, Silverbridge, yes; I should be very proud if it were on the
other side. But there is a useful old adage which bids us not cry
for spilt milk. You have a right to your opinions, though perhaps
I may think that in adopting what I must call new opinions you
were a little precipitate. We cannot act together in politics. But
not on the less on that account do I wish to see you take an
active and useful part on that side to which you have attached
yourself.' As he said this he rose from his seat and spoke with
emphasis, as though he were addressing some imaginary Speaker or a
house of legislators around. 'I shall be proud to hear you second
the address. If you do it as gracefully and fitly as I am sure you
may if you will give yourself the trouble, I shall hear you do it
with infinite satisfaction, even though I shall feel at the same
time anxious to answer all your arguments and to disprove your
assertions. I should be listening no doubt to my opponent;--but I
should be proud to feel that I was listening to my son. My advice
to you is to do as Sir Timothy has asked you.'
'He is such a beast, sir,' said Silverbridge.
'Pray do not speak in that way on matters so serious.'
'I do not think you understand it, sir.'
'Perhaps not. Can you enlighten me?'
'I believe he has done this only to annoy you.' The Duke, who had
again seated himself, and was leaning back in his chair, raised
himself up, placed his hands on the table before him, and looked
his son hard in the face. The idea which Silverbridge had just
expressed had certainly occurred to himself. He remembered well
all the circumstances of the time when he and Sir Timothy Beeswax
had been members of the same government,--and he remembered how
animosities had grown, and how treacherous he had thought the man.
From the moment in which he had read the minister's letter to the
young member, he had felt that the offer had too probably come
from a desire to make the political separation between himself and
his son complete. But he had thought that in counselling his son
he was bound to ignore such a feeling; and it certainly had not
occurred to him that Silverbridge would have been astute enough to
perceive the same thing.
'What makes you fancy that?' said the Duke, striving to conceal by
his manner, but not altogether successful in concealing, the
gratification he certainly felt.
'Well, sir, I am not sure that I can explain it. Of course it is
putting you in a different boat from me.'
'You have already chosen your boat.'
'Perhaps he thinks I may get out again. I dislike the skipper so
much, that I am not sure that I shall not.'
'Oh, Silverbridge,--that is such a fault! So much is included in
that which is unstatesmanlike, unpatriotic, almost dishonest! Do
you mean to say that you would be this or that in politics
according to your personal liking for an individual?'
'When you don't trust the leader, you can't believe very firmly in
the followers,' said Silverbridge doggedly. 'I won't say, sir,
what I may do. Though I daresay that what I think is not of much
account, I do think a good deal about it.'
'I am glad of that.'
'And as I think it not at all improbable that I may go back again,
if you don't mind it, I will refuse.' Of course after that the
Duke had no further arguments to use in favour of Sir Timothy's
proposition.
CHAPTER 68
Brook Street
Silverbridge had now a week on his hands which he felt he might
devote to the lady of his love. It was a comfort to him that he
need having nothing to do with the address. To have to go, day
after day, to the Treasury in order that he might learn his
lesson, would have been disagreeable to him. He did not quite know
how the lesson would have been communicated, but fancied it would
have come from 'Old Roby', whom he did not love much better than
Sir Timothy. Then the speech must have been composed, and
afterwards submitted to someone,--probably to old Roby again, by
whom no doubt it would be cut and slashed, and made quite a
different speech than he had intended. If he had not praised Sir
Timothy himself, Roby,--or whatever other tutor might have been
assigned to him,--would have put the praise in. And then how many
hours it would have taken to learn 'the horrid thing' by heart. He
proudly felt that he had not been prompted by idleness to decline
the task; but not the less was he glad to have shuffled the burden
from off his shoulders.
Early the next morning he was in Brook Street, having sent a note
to say he would call, and having named the hour. And yet when he
knocked at the door, he was told with the utmost indifference by a
London footman, that Miss Boncassen was not at home,--also that Mrs
Boncassen was not at home,--also that Mr Boncassen was not at home.
When he asked at what hour Miss Boncassen was expected home, the
man answered him, just as though he had been anyone else, that he
knew nothing about it. He turned away in disgust, and had himself
driven to the Beargarden. In his misery he had recourse to game-
pie and a pint of champagne for his lunch. 'Halloa, old fellow,
what is this I hear about you?' said Nidderdale, coming in, and
sitting opposite to him.
'I don't know what you have heard.'
'You are going to second the address. What made them pick you out
from the lot of us?'
'It is just what I am not going to do.'
'I saw it all in the papers.'
'I daresay;--and yet it isn't true. I shouldn't wonder if they ask
you.'
At this moment a waiter handed a large official letter to Lord
Nidderdable, saying that the messenger who had brought it was
waiting for an answer in the hall. The letter bore the important
signature of T. Beeswax on the corner of the envelope, and so
disturbed Lord Nidderdale that he called at once for a glass of
soda-and-brandy. When opened it was found to be very nearly a
counterpart of that which Silverbridge had received down in the
country. There was, however, added a little prayer that Lord
Nidderdale would at once come down to the Treasury Chambers.
'They must be very hard up,' said Lord Nidderdale. 'But I shall do
it. Cantrip is always at me to do something, and you see if I
don't butter them up properly.' Then having fortified himself
with game-pie and a glass of brown sherry he went away at once to
the Treasury Chambers.
Silverbridge felt himself a little better after his lunch,--better
still when he had smoked a couple of cigarettes walking about the
empty smoking-room. And as he walked he collected his thoughts.
She could hardly have meant to slight him. No doubt her letter
down to him at Harrington had been very cold. No doubt he had been
ill-treated in being sent away so unceremoniously from the door.
But yet she could hardly intend that everything between them
should be over. Even an American girl could not be so unreasonable
as that. He remembered the passionate way in which she had assured
him of her love. All that could not have been forgotten! He had
done nothing by which he could have forfeited her esteem. She had
desired him to tell the whole affair to her father, and he had
done so. Mr Boncassen might perhaps objected. It might be that
this American was so prejudiced against the English aristocrats as
to desire no commerce with them. There were not many Englishmen
who would not have welcomed him as a son-in-law, but Americans
might be different. Still,--still Isabel would hardly have shown
her obedience to her father in this way. She was too independent
to obey her father in a matter concerning her own heart. And if he
had not been the possessor of her heart at that last interview,
then she must have been false indeed! So he got once more into
his hansom and had himself taken back to Brook Street.
Mrs Boncassen was in the drawing-room alone.
'I am so sorry,' said the lady,' but Mr Boncassen has, I think,
just gone out.'
'Indeed! and where is Isabel?'
'Isabel is downstairs,--that is if she hasn't gone out too. She did
talk of going with her father to the Museum. She is getting quite
bookish. She has got a ticket, and goes there, and has all the
things brought to her just like the other learned folk.'
'I am anxious to see her, Mrs Boncassen.'
'My! If she has gone out it will be a pity. She was only saying
yesterday she wouldn't wonder if you shouldn't turn up.'
'Of course I've turned up, Mrs Boncassen. I was here an hour ago.'
'Was it you who called and asked all them questions? My! We
couldn't make out who it was. The man said it was a flurried
young gentleman who wouldn't leave a card,--but who wanted to see
Mr Boncassen most special.'
'It was Isabel I wanted to see. Didn't I leave a card? No; I don't
think I did. I felt so--almost at home, that I didn't think of a
card.'
'That's very kind of you, Lord Silverbridge.'
'I hope you are going to be my friend, Mrs Boncassen.'
'I am sure I don't know, Lord Silverbridge. Isabel is most used to
having her own way I guess. I think when hearts are joined almost
nothing ought to stand between them. But Mr Boncassen does have
doubts. He don't wish Isabel should force herself anywhere. But
here she is, and now she can speak for herself.' Whereupon not
only did Isabel enter the room, but at the same time Mrs Boncassen
most discreetly left it. It must be confessed that American
mothers are not afraid of their daughters.'
Silverbridge, when the door was closed, stood looking at the girl
for a moment and thought that she was more lovely than ever. She
was dressed for walking. She still had on her fur jacket, but had
taken off her hat. 'I was in the parlour downstairs,' she said,
'when you came in, with papa; and we were going out together; but
when I heard who was here, I made him go alone. Was I not good?'
He had not thought of a word to say, or a thing to do;--but he felt
as he looked at her that the only thing in the world worth living
for, was to have her for his own. For a moment he was half-
abashed. Then in the next she was close in his arms with his lips
pressed to hers. He had been so sudden that she had been unable,
at any rate thought that she had been unable to repress him. 'Lord
Silverbridge,' she said, 'I told you I would not have it. You have
offended me.'
'Isabel!'
'Yes; Isabel! Isabel is offended with you. Why did you do it?'
Why did he do it? It seemed to him to be the most unnecessary
question. 'I want you to know how I love you.'
'Will that tell me? That only tells me how little you think of
me.'
'Then it tells you a falsehood;--for I am thinking of you always.
And I always think of you as being the best and dearest and
sweetest thing in the world. And now I think you dearer and
sweeter than ever.' Upon this she tried to frown; but her frown
at once broke out into a smile. 'When I wrote to say that I was
coming why did you not stay at home for me this morning?'
'I got no letter, Lord Silverbridge.'
'Why didn't you get it?'
'That I cannot say, Lord Silverbridge.'
'Isabel, if you are so formal, you will kill me.'
'Lord Silverbridge, if you are so forward, you will offend me.'
Then it turned out that no letter from him had reached the house;
and as the letter had been addressed to Bruton Street instead of
Brook Street, the failure on the part of the post-office was not
surprising.
Whether or no she was offended or he killed remained with her the
whole afternoon. 'Of course I love you,' she said. 'Do you suppose
I should be here with you if I did not, or that you could have
remained in the house after what you did just now? I am not given
to run into rhapsodies quite so much as you are,--and being a woman
perhaps it is as well that I don't. But I think I can be quite as
true to you as you are to me.'
'I am so much obliged to you for that,' he said, grasping at her
hand.
'But I am sure that rhapsodies won't do any good. Now I'll tell
you my mind.'
'You know mine,' said Silverbridge.
'I will take it for granted that I do. Your mind is to marry me
will ye nil ye, as the people say.' He answered this by merely
nodding his head and getting a little nearer to her. 'That is all
very well in its way, and I am not going to say but what I am
gratified.' Then he did grasp her hand. 'If it pleases you to
hear me say so, Lord Silverbridge--'
'Not Lord!'
'Then I shall call you Plantagenet;--only it sounds so horribly
historical. Why are you not Thomas or Abraham? But if it will
please you to hear me say so, I am ready to acknowledge that
nothing in all my life ever came near to the delight I have in
your love.' Hereupon he almost succeeded in getting his arm round
her waist. But she was strong, and seized his hand and held it.
'And I speak no rhapsodies. I tell you a truth which I want you to
know and to keep to your heart,--so that you may be always, always
sure to.
'I will never doubt it.'
'But that marrying will ye nill ye, will not suit me. There is so
much wanted for happiness in life.'
'I will do all that I can.'
'Yes. Even though it be hazardous, I am willing to trust you. If
you were as other men are, if you could do as you please as lower
men may do, I would leave father and mother and my own country,--
that I might be your wife. I would do that because I love you. But
what will my life be here, if they who are your friends turn their
backs upon me? What will your life be, if, through all that, you
continued to love me?'
'That will all come right.'
'And what will your life be, or mine,' she said, going on with her
own thoughts without seeming to have heard his last words, 'if in
such a condition as that you did not continue to love me?'
'I should always love you.'
'It might be very hard:--and if once felt to be hard, then
impossible. You have not looked at it as I have done. Why should
you? Even with a wife that was a trouble to you--'
'Oh, Isabel!'
His arm was now round her waist, but she continued speaking as
though she were not aware of the embrace. 'Yes, a trouble! I
shall not be always just what I am now. Now I can be bright and
pretty and hold my own with others because I am so. But are you
sure,--I am not,--that I am such stuff as an English lady should be
made of? If in ten years' time you found that others did not
think so,--that, worse again, you did not think so yourself, would
you be true to me then?'
'I will always be true to you.'
She gently extricated herself, as though she had done so that she
might better turn round and look into his face. 'Oh, my own one,
who can say of himself that it would be so? How could it be so,
when you would have all the world against you? You would be still
what you are,--with a clog round your leg while at home. In
Parliament, among your friends, at your clubs, you would be just
what you are. You would be that Lord Silverbridge who had all the
good things at his disposal,--except that he had been unfortunate
in his marriage! But what should I be?' Though she paused he
could not answer her,--not yet. There was a solemnity in her speech
which made it necessary that he should hear her to the end. 'I,
too, have my friends in my own country. It is not disgrace to me
there that my grandfather worked on the quays. No one holds her
head higher than I do, or is more sure of being able to hold it. I
have there that assurance of esteem and honour which you have
here. I would lose it all to do you a good. But I will not lose it
all to do you an injury.'
'I don't know about injuries,' he said, getting up and walking
about the room. 'But I am sure of this. You will have to be my
wife.'
'If your father will take me by the hand and say that I shall be
his daughter, I will risk the rest. Even then it might not be
wise; but we love each other too well not run some peril. Do you
think I want anything better than to preside in your home, to
soften you cares, to welcome your joys, to be mother perhaps of
your children, and to know that you are proud that I should be so?
No, my darling. I can see a Paradise;--only, only, I may not be
fit to enter it. I must use some judgement better that my own,
sounder, dear, than yours. Tell the Duke what I say;--tell him that
with what language a son may use to his father. And remember that
all you ask for yourself you will ask doubly for me.'
'I will ask him so that he cannot refuse me.'
'If you do I shall be contented. And now go. I have said ever so
much, and I am tired.'
'Isabel! Oh, my love.'
'Yes; Isabel;--your love! I am that at any rate for the present,--
and proud to be so as a queen. Well, if it must be, this once,--as
I have been so hard to you.' Then she gave him her cheek to kiss,
but of course he took much more than she gave.
When he got into the street it was dark, and there was sill
standing the faithful cab. But he felt that at the present moment
it would be impossible to sit still, and he dismissed the
equipage. He walked rapidly along Brook Street into Park Lane, and
from thence to the park, hardly knowing whither he went in the
enthusiasm of the moment. He walked back to the Marble Arch, and
thence round by the drive to the Guard House and the bridge over
the Serpentine, by the Knightsbridge Barracks to Hyde Park Corner.
Though he should give up everything and go and live in her own
country with her, he would marry her. His politics, his hunting,
this address to the Queen, his horses, his guns, his father's
wealth, and his own rank,--what were they all to Isabel Boncassen?
In meeting her he had net the one human being in all the world
who could really be anything to him either in friendship or in
love. When she had told him what she would do for him to make his
home happy, it had seemed to him that all other delights must fade
away from him for ever. How odious were Tifto and his racehorses,
how unmeaning the noise of his club, how terrible the tedium of
those parliamentary benches! He could not tell his love as she
had told hers! He acknowledged to himself that his words could
not be as her words,--nor his intellect as hers. But his heart
could be as true. She had spoken to him of his name, his rank, and
all his outside world around him. He would make her understand at
last that there were nothing to him in comparison with her. When
he had got round to Hyde Park Corner, he felt that he was almost
compelled to go back again to Brook Street. In no other place
could there be anything to interest him;--nowhere else could there
be light, or warmth, or joy! But what would she think of him? To
go back hot, and soiled with mud, in order that he might say one
more adieu,--that possibly he might ravish one more kiss,--would
hardly be manly. He must postpone all that for the morrow. On the
morrow of course he would be there.
But his word was before him! That prayer had to be made to his
father, or rather some wonderful effort of eloquence must be made
by which his father might be convinced that this girl was so
infinitely superior to anything of feminine creation that had ever
hitherto been seen or heard of, that all ideas as to birth,
country, rank, or name ought in this instance to count for
nothing. He did believe himself that he had found such a pearl,
that no question of seeing need be taken into consideration. If
the Duke would not see it the fault would be in the Duke's eyes,
or perhaps in his own words,--but certainly not in the pearl.
Then he compared her to poor Lady Mabel, and in doing so did
arrive at something near the truth in his inward delineation of
the two characters. Lady Mabel with all her grace, with all her
beauty, with all her talent, was a creature of efforts, or, as it
might be called, a manufactured article. She strove to be
graceful, to be lovely, to be agreeable and clever. Isabel was all
this and infinitely more without any struggle. When he was most
fond of Mabel, most anxious to make her his wife, there had always
been present to him a feeling that she was old. Though he knew her
age to a day,--and knew her to be younger than himself, yet she was
old. Something had gone of her native bloom, something had been
scratched and chipped from the first fair surface, and this had
been repaired by varnish and veneering. Though he had love her he
had never been altogether satisfied with her. But Isabel was as
young as Hebe. He knew nothing of her actual years, but he did
know that to have seemed younger, or to have seemed older,--to have
seemed in any way different from what she was,--would have been to
be less perfect.
CHAPTER 69
Pert Poppet
On a Sunday morning,--while Lord Silverbridge was alone in a
certain apartment in the house at Carlton Terrace which was called
his own sitting-room, the name was brought to him of a gentleman
who was anxious to see him. He had seen his father and had used
all the eloquence of which he was master,--but not quite with the
effect which he had desired. His father had been very kind to him,
but he, too, had been eloquent;--and had, as is often the case with
orators, been apparently more moved by his own words than by those
of his adversary. If he had not absolutely declared himself as
irrevocably hostile to Miss Boncassen he had not said a word that
might be supposed to give a token of assent.
Silverbridge, therefore, was moody, contemplative, and desirous of
solitude. Nothing that the Duke had said had shaken him. He was
still sure of his pearl, and quite determined that he would wear
it. Various thoughts were running through his brain. What if he
were to abdicate the title and become a republican? He was
inclined to think that he could not abdicate, but he was quite
sure that no one could prevent him from going to America and
calling himself Mr Palliser. That his father would forgive him and
accept his daughter-in-law brought to him, were he in the first
place to marry without sanction, he felt quite sure. What was
there that his father would not forgive? But then Isabel would
not assent to this. He was turning all this in his head and ever
and anon trying to relieve his mind by 'Clarissa', which he was
reading in conformity with his father's advice, when the
gentleman's card was put into his hand. 'Whatever does he want
here?' he said to himself; and then ordered that the gentleman
might be shown up. The gentleman in question was our old friend
Dolly Longstaff. Dolly Longstaff and Silverbridge had been
intimate as young men are. But they were not friends, nor, as far
as Silverbridge knew, had Dolly ever set foot in that house
before. 'Well, Dolly,' said he, 'what's the matter now?'
'I suppose you are surprised to see me?'
'I didn't think that you were ever up so early.' It was at this
time almost noon.
'Oh, come now, that's nonsense. I can get up as early as anybody
else. I have changed all that for the last four months. I was at
breakfast this morning very soon after ten.'
'What a miracle! Is there anything I can do for you?'
'Well yes,--there is. Of course you are surprised to see me?'
'You never were here before; and therefore it is odd.'
'It is odd. I felt that myself. And when I tell you what I have
come about you will think it more odd. I know I can trust you with
a secret.'
'That depends, Dolly.'
'What I mean is, I know you are good-natured. There are ever so
many fellows that are one's most intimate friends that would say
anything on earth they could that was ill-natured.'
'I hope they are not my friends.'
'Oh yes they are. Think of Glasslough, or Popplecourt, or Hindes!
If they knew anything about you that you didn't want to have
known,--about a young lady or anything of that kind,--don't you
think they'd tell everybody?'
'A man can't tell anything he doesn't know.'
'That's true. I had thought of that myself. But then there's a
particular reason for my telling you this. It is about a young
lady! You won't tell; will you?'
'No, I won't. But I can't see why on earth you should come to me.
You are ever so many years older than I am.'
'I had thought of that too. But you are just the person I must
tell. I want you to help me.'
These last words were said almost in a whisper, and Dolly as he
said them had drawn nearer to his friend. Silverbridge remained in
suspense, saying nothing by way of encouragement. Dolly, either in
love with his own mystery or doubtful of his own purpose, sat
still, looking eagerly at his companion. 'What the mischief is
it?' asked Silverbridge impatiently.
'I have quite made up my own mind.'
'That's a good thing at any rate.'
'I am not what you would have called a marrying sort of man.'
'I should have said,--no. But I suppose most men do marry sooner or
later.'
'That's just what I said to myself. It has to be done, you know.
There are three different properties coming to me. At least one
has come already.'
'You're a lucky fellow.'
'I've made up my mind; and when I say a thing I mean to do it.'
'But what can I do?'
'That's just what I'm coming to. If a man does marry I think he
ought to be attached to her.' To this, a broad proposition,
Silverbridge was ready to accede. But, regarding Dolly, a middle-
aged sort of fellow, one of those men who marry because it is
convenient to have a house kept for them, he simply nodded his
head. 'I am awfully attached to her,' Dolly went on to say.
'That's all right.'
'Of course there are fellows who marry girls for their money. I've
known men who had married their grandmothers.'
'Not really!'
'That kind of thing. When a woman is old it does not much matter
who she is. But my one! She's not old!'
'Nor rich?'
'Well;--I don't know about that. But I'm not after her money. Pray
understand that. It's because I'm downright fond of her. She's an
American.'
'A what!' said Silverbridge, startled.
'You know her. That's the reason I've come to you. It's Miss
Boncassen.' A dark frown came across the young man's face. That
all this should be said to him was disgusting. That an owl like
that should dare to talk of loving Miss Boncassen was offensive to
him.
'It's because you know her that I've come to you. She thinks that
you're after her.' Dolly as he said this lifted himself quickly
up in his seat, and nodded his head mysteriously as he looked into
his companion's face. It was as much as though he should say, 'I
see you are surprised, but so it is.' Then he went on. 'She does,
pert poppet!' This was almost too much for Silverbridge; but
still he contained himself. 'She won't look at me because she has
got it into her head that perhaps some day she may become Duchess
of Omnium! That of course is out of the question.'
'Upon my word all this seems to me to be so very--very,--distasteful
that I think you had better say nothing more about it.'
'It is distasteful,' said Dolly; 'but in truth I am so downright,--
what you may call enamoured--'
'Don't talk such stuff as that here,' said Silverbridge, jumping
up. 'I won't have it.'
'But I am. There is nothing I wouldn't do to get her. Of course
it's a good match for her. I've got three separate properties; and
when the governor goes off I shall have a clear fifteen thousand a
year.'
'Oh, bother!'
'Of course that's nothing to you, but it is a very tidy income for
a commoner. And how is she to do better?'
'I don't know how she could do much worse,' said Silverbridge in a
transport of rage. Then he pulled his moustache in vexation, angry
with himself that he should have allowed himself to say even a
word on so preposterous a supposition. Isabel Boncassen and Dolly
Longstaff! It was Titania and Bottom over again. It was
absolutely necessary that he should get rid of this intruder, and
he began to be afraid that he could not do this without using
language which would have been uncivil. 'Upon my word,' he said,
'I think you had better not talk about it any more. The young lady
is one for whom I have a very great respect.'
'I mean to marry her,' said Dolly, thinking to vindicate himself.
'You might as well think of marrying one of the stars.'
'One of the stars!'
'Or a royal princess.'
'Well! Perhaps that is your opinion, but I can't say that I agree
with you. I don't see why she shouldn't take me. I can give her a
position which you may call A1 out of the Peerage. I can bring her
into society. I can make an English lady of her.'
'You can't make anything of her,--except to insult her,--and me too
by talking of her.'
'I don't quite understand this,' said the unfortunate lover
getting up from his seat. 'Very likely she won't have me. Perhaps
she has told you so.'
'She never mentioned your name to me in her life. I don't suppose
she remembers your existence.'
'But I say that there can be no insult in such a one as me asking
such a one as her to be my wife. To say that she doesn't remember
my existence is absurd.'
'Why should I be troubled with all this?'
'Because I think you are making a fool of her, and because I am
honest. That's why,' said Dolly with much energy. There was
something in this which partly reconciled Silverbridge to his
despised rival. There was a touch of truth about the man, though
he was so utterly mistaken in his ideas. 'I want you to give over
in order that I may try again. I don't think you ought to keep a
girl from her promotion, merely for the fun of a flirtation.
Perhaps you're fond of her;--but you won't marry her. I am fond of
her, and I shall.'
After a minute's pause, Silverbridge resolved that he would be
magnanimous. 'Miss Boncassen is going to be my wife,' he said.
'Your wife!'
'Yes;--my wife. And now I think you will see that nothing further
can be said about this matter.'
'Duchess of Omnium!'
'She will be Lady Silverbridge.'
'Oh; of course she'll be that first. Then I've got nothing further
to say. I'm not going to enter myself to run against you. Only I
shouldn't have believed it if anybody else had told me.'
'Such is my good fortune.'
'Oh ah,--yes; of course. That is one way of looking at it. Well,
Silverbridge. I'll tell you what I shall do; I shall hook it.'
'No; not you.'
'Yes, I shall. I daresay you won't believe me, but I've got such a
feeling about me here'--as he said this he laid his hand upon his
heart,--'that if I stayed I should go for hard drinking. I shall
take the great Asiatic tour. I know a fellow that wants to go, but
he hasn't got any money. I daresay I shall be off before the end
of next month. You don't know any fellow that would buy a half-a-
dozen hunters; do you?' Silverbridge shook his head. 'Good-bye,'
said Dolly, in a melancholy tone. 'I am sure I am very much
obliged to you for telling me. If I'd known you'd meant it, I
shouldn't have meddled, of course. Duchess of Omnium!'
'Look here, Dolly, I have told you what I should have not have
told anyone, but I wanted to screen the young lady's name.'
'It was so kind of you.'
'Do not repeat it. It is a kind of thing that ladies are
particular about. They choose their own time of letting everybody
know.' Then Dolly promised to be as mute as a fish, and took his
departure.
Silverbridge had felt, towards the interview, that he had been
arrogant to the unfortunate man,--particular in saying that the
young lady would not remember the existence of such a suitor,--and
had also recognised a certain honesty in the man's purpose, which
had not been less honest because it was so absurd. Actuated by the
consciousness of this, he had swallowed his anger, and had told
the whole truth. Nevertheless things had been said which were
horrible to him. This buffoon of a man had called his Isabel a-
pert poppet! How was he to get over the remembrance of such an
offence? And then the wretch had declared that he was--enamoured!
There was sacrilege in the term when applied by such a man to
Isabel Boncassen. He had thought of days to come, when everything
would be settled, when he might sit close to her, and call her
pretty names,--when he might in sweet familiarity tell that she was
a little Yankee and a fierce republican, and 'chaff' her about the
stars and stripes; and then, as he pictured the scene to himself
in his imagination, she would lean upon him and would give him
back his chaff, and would call him an aristocrat and would laugh
at his titles. As he thought of all this he would be proud with
the feeling that such privileges would be his own. And now this
wretched man had called her a pert poppet!
There was a sanctity about her,--a divinity which made it almost a
profanity to have talked about her at all to such a one as Dolly
Longstaff. She was his Holy of Holies, at which vulgar eyes should
not even be allowed to gaze. It had been a most unfortunate
interview. But this was clear, that, as he had announced his
engagement to such a one as Dolly Longstaff, the matter now would
admit of no delay. He would explain to his father that as tidings
of the engagement had got abroad, honour to the young lady would
compel him to come forward openly as her suitor at once. If this
argument might serve him, then perhaps this intrusion would not
have been altogether a misfortune.
CHAPTER 70
'Love May be a Great Misfortune'
Silverbridge when he reached Brook Street that day was surprised
to find that a large party was going to lunch there. Isabel had
asked him to come, and he had thought her the dearest girl in the
world for doing so. but now his gratitude for that favour was
considerably abated. He did not care just now for the honour of
eating his lunch in the presence of Mr Gotobed, the American
minister, whom he found there already in the drawing-room with Mrs
Gotobed, nor with Ezekiel Sevenkings, the great American poet from
the far West, who sat silent and stared at him in an unpleasant
way. When Sir Timothy Beeswax was announced, with Lady Beeswax,
and her daughter, his gratification certainly was not increased.
And the last comer,--who did to arrive till they were all seated at
the table,--almost made him start from his chair and take his
departure suddenly. That last comer was no other than Mr Adolphus
Longstaff. As it happened he was seated next to Dolly, with Lady
Beeswax on the other side of him. Whereas his Holy of Holies was
on the other side of Dolly! The arrangement made seemed to have
been monstrous. He had endeavoured to get next to Isabel; but she
had so manoeuvred that there should be a vacant seat between them.
He had not much regarded this because a vacant chair may be pushed
on one side. But before he had made all his calculations Dolly
Longstaff was sitting there! He almost thought that Dolly winked
at him in triumph,--that very Dolly, who an hour ago had promised
to take himself upon his Asiatic travels!
Sir Timothy and the minister kept up the conversation very much
between them, Sir Timothy flattering everything that was American,
and the minister finding fault with very many things which were
English. Now and then Mr Boncassen would put in a word to soften
the severe honesty of his countryman, or to correct the
euphemistic falsehoods of Sir Timothy. The poet seemed always to
be biding his time. Dolly ventured to whisper a word to his
neighbour. It was but to say that the frost had broken up. But
Silverbridge heard it and looked daggers at everyone. Then Lady
Beeswax expressed to him a hope that he was going to do great
things in Parliament this session. 'I don't mean to go near the
place,' he said, not at all conveying any purpose to which he had
really come, but driven by the stress of the moment to say
something that should express his general hatred of everybody. Mr
Lupton was there, on the other side of Isabel, and was soon
engaged with her in a pleasant familiar conversation. Then
Silverbridge remembered that he had always thought Lupton to be a
most conceited prig. Nobody gave himself so many airs, or was so
careful as to the dyeing of his whiskers. It was astonishing that
Isabel should allow herself to be amused by such an antiquated
coxcomb. When they had finished eating they moved about and
changed their places. Mr Boncassen being rather anxious to stop
the flood of American eloquence which came from his friend Mr
Gotobed. British viands had become subject to his criticism, and
Mr Gotobed had declared to Mr Lupton that he didn't believe that
London could produce a dish of squash tomatoes. He was quite sure
you couldn't have sweet corn. Then there had been a moving of
seats in which the minister was shuffled off to Lady Beeswax, and
the poet found himself by the side of Isabel. 'Do you not regret
our mountains and our prairies?' said the poet; 'our great waters
and our green savannahs?' 'I think more perhaps of Fifth Avenue,'
said Miss Boncassen. Silverbridge, who at this moment was being
interrogated by Sir Timothy, heard every word of it.
'I was so sorry, Lord Silverbridge,' said Sir Timothy, 'that you
could not accede to our little request.'
'I did not quite see my way,' said Silverbridge, with his eye upon
Isabel.
'So I understood, but I hope that things will make themselves
clearer to you shortly. There is nothing that I desire so much as
the support of young men such as yourself,--the very cream, I may
say, of the whole country. It is to the young conservative
thoughtfulness and the truly British spirit of our springing
aristocracy that I look for that reaction which I am sure will at
last carry us safely over the rocks and shoals of communistic
propensities.'
'I shouldn't wonder if it did,' said Silverbridge. They didn't
think that he was going to remain down there talking politics to
an old humbug like Sir Timothy when the sun and moon, and all the
stars had gone up into the drawing-room! For at that moment
Isabel was making her way to the door.
But Sir Timothy had buttonholed him. 'Of course it is late now to
say anything further about that address. We have arranged that.
Not quite as I would have wished, for I had set my heart upon
initiating you into the rapturous pleasure of parliamentary
debate. But I hope that a good time is coming. And pray remember
this, Lord Silverbridge;--there is no member sitting on our side of
the House, and I need hardly say on the other, whom I would go
farther to oblige than your father's son.'
'I'm sure that's very kind,' said Silverbridge, absolutely using a
little force as he disengaged himself. Then at once he followed
the ladies upstairs passing the poet on the stairs. 'You have
hardly spoken to me,' he whispered to Isabel. He knew that to
whisper to her now, with the eyes of so many upon him, with the
ears of many open, was an absurdity; but he could not refrain
himself.
'There are so many to be,--entertained, as people say! I don't
think I ought to have to entertain you,' she answered, laughing.
No one heard her but Silverbridge, yet she did not seem to
whisper. She left him, however, at once, and was soon engaged in
conversation with Sir Timothy.
A convivial lunch I hold to be altogether bad, but the worst of
its many evils is that vacillating mind which does not know when
to take its owner off. Silverbridge was on this occasion
determined not to take himself off at all. As it was only lunch
the people must go, and then he would be left with Isabel. But the
vacillation of the others was distressing to him. Mr Lupton went,
and poor Dolly got away apparently without a word. But the
Beeswaxes and the Gotobeds would not go, and the poet sat staring
immovably. In the meantime Silverbridge endeavoured to make the
time pass lightly by talking to Mrs Boncassen. He had been so
determined to accept Isabel with all her adjuncts that he had come
almost to like Mrs Boncassen, and would certainly have taken her
part violently had anyone spoke ill of her in his presence.
Then suddenly he found that the room was almost empty. The
Beeswaxes and the Gotobeds were gone, and at last the poet
himself, with a final glare of admiration at Isabel, had taken his
departure. When Silverbridge looked round, Isabel was also gone.
Then to Mrs Boncassen had left the room suddenly. At the same
instant Mr Boncassen entered by another door, and the two men were
alone together. 'My dear Lord Silverbridge,' said the father, 'I
want to have a few words with you.' Of course there was nothing
for him but to submit. 'You remember what you said to me down at
Matching?'
'Oh yes; I remember that.'
'You did me the great honour of expressing a wish to make my child
your wife.'
'I was asking for a very great favour.'
'That also;--for there is no greater favour I could do to any man
than to give him my daughter. Nevertheless, you were doing me a
great honour,--and you did it, as you do everything, with an honest
grace that went far to win my heart. I am not at all surprised,
sir, that you should have won hers.' The young man as he heard
this could only blush and look foolish. 'If I know my girl,
neither your money nor your title would go for anything.'
'I think much more of her love, Mr Boncassen, than I do of
anything else in the world.'
'But love, my Lord, may be a great misfortune.' As he said this
the tone of his voice was altered, and there was a melancholy
solemnity not only in his words but in his countenance. 'I take it
that young people when they love rarely think of more than the
present moment. If they did so the bloom would be gone from their
romance. But others have to do this for them. If Isabel had come
to me saying that she loved a poor man, there would not have been
much to disquiet me. A poor man may earn bread for himself and his
wife, and if he failed I could have found them bread. Nor had she
loved somewhat below her degree, should I have opposed her. So
long as her husband had been an educated man, there might have
been no future punishment to fear.'
'I don't think she could have done that,' said Silverbridge.
'At any rate she has not done so. But how am I to look upon this
that she has done?'
'I'll do my best for her, Mr Boncassen.'
'I believe you would. But even your love can't make her an
English-woman. You can make her a Duchess.'
'Not that, sir.'
'But you can't give her a parentage fit for a Duchess;--not fit at
least in the opinion of those with whom you will pass your life,
with whom,--or perhaps without whom,--she will be destined to pass
her life, if she becomes your wife! Unfortunately it does not
suffice that you should think it fit. Though you loved each other
as well as any man and woman that ever were brought into each
other's arms by the beneficence of God, you cannot make her
happy,--unless you can ensure her the respect of those around her.'
'All the world will respect her.'
'Her conduct;--yes. I think the world, your world, would learn to
do that. I do not thing it could help itself. But that would not
suffice. I may respect the man who cleans my boots, but he would
be a wretched man if her thrown on me for society. I would not
give him my society. Will your Duchesses and Countesses give her
theirs?'
'Certainly they will.'
'I do not ask for it as thinking it to be of more value than that
of others; but were she to become your wife she would be so
abnormally placed as to require it for her comfort. She would have
become a lady of high rank,--not because she loves rank, but
because she loves you.'
'Yes, yes, yes,' said Silverbridge, hardly himself knowing why
became impetuous.
'But having removed herself into that position, being as she would
be, a Countess, or a Duchess, or what not, how could she be happy
if he were excluded from the community of Countesses and
Duchesses?'
'They are not all like that,' said Silverbridge.
'I will not say that they are, but I do not know. Having Anglican
tendencies I have been wont to contradict my countrymen when they
have told me of the narrow exclusiveness of your nobles. Having
found your nobles and your commoners all alike in their courtesy,--
which is a cold word; in their hospitable friendships,--I would now
not only contradict, but would laugh to scorn any such charge,'--so
far he spoke somewhat loudly, and then dropped his voice as he
concluded,--'were it anything less than the happiness of my child
that is in question.'
'What am I to say, sir? I only know this; I am not going to lose
her.'
'You are a fine fellow. I was going to say that I wished you were
an American, so that Isabel need not lose you. But, my boy, I have
told you that I do not know how it might be. Of all whom you know,
who could best tell me the truth on such a subject? Who is there,
whose age will have given him experience, whose rank will have
made him familiar with this matter, who from friendship to you
would be least likely to decide against your wishes, who from his
own native honesty would be most likely to tell the truth?'
'You mean my father,' said Silverbridge.
'I do mean your father. Happily he has taken no dislike to the
girl herself. I have seen enough of him to feel that he is devoted
to his own children.'
'Indeed he is.'
'A just and liberal man;--one whom I should say not carried away by
prejudices! Well,--my girl and I have just put our heads together,
and we have come to a conclusion. If the Duke of Omnium will tell
us that she would be safe as your wife,--safe from the contempt of
those around her,--you shall have her. And I shall rejoice to give
her to you,--not because you are Lord Silverbridge, not because of
your rank and wealth; but because your are--that individual human
being whom I now hold by the hand.'
CHAPTER 71
'What am I to Say, Sir?'
When Silverbridge left Mr Boncassen's house he was resolved to go
to his father without an hour's delay, and represent to the Duke
exactly how the case stood. He would be urgent, piteous,
submissive, and eloquent. In any other matter he would promise to
make whatever arrangements his father might desire. He would make
his father understand that all his happiness depended on this
marriage. When once married he would settle down, even at Gatherum
Castle if the Duke should wish it. He would not think of
racehorses, he would desert the Beargarden, he would learn blue-
books by heart, and only do as much shooting and hunting as would
become a young nobleman in his position. All this he would say as
eagerly and as pleasantly as it might be said. But he would add to
all this an assurance of his unchangeable intention. It was his
purpose to marry Isabel Boncassen. If he could do this with his
father's good will,--so best. But at any rate he would marry her!
The world at this time was altogether busy with political rumours;
and it was supposed that Sir Timothy Beeswax would do something
very clever. It was supposed also that he would sever himself from
some of his present companions. On that point everybody was
agreed,--and on that point only everybody was right. Lord Drummond,
who was the titular Prime Minister, and Sir Timothy, had, during a
considerable part of the last session, and through the whole
vacation, so belarded each other with praise in their public
expressions that it was quite manifest that they had quarrelled.
When any body of statesmen make public asseverations by one or
various voices, that there is no discord among them, not a
dissentient voice on any subject, people are apt to suppose that
they cannot hang together much longer. It is the man who has not
peace at home declares abroad that his wife is an angel. He who
lives on comfortable terms with the partner of his troubles can
afford to acknowledge the ordinary rubs of life. Old Mr Mildmay,
who was Prime Minister for so many years, and whom his party
worshipped, used to say that he had never found a gentleman who
had quite agreed with him all round; but Sir Timothy has always
been in exact accord with all his colleagues,--till he has left
them, or they him. Never had there been such concord as of late,--
and men, clubs, and newspapers now protested that as a natural
consequence there would soon be a break-up.
But not on that account would it perhaps be necessary that Sir
Timothy should resign,--or not necessary that his resignation
should be permanent. The Conservative majority had dwindled,--but
still there was a majority. It certainly was the case that Lord
Drummond could not get on without Sir Timothy. But might it not be
possible that Sir Timothy should get on without Lord Drummond? If
so he must begin his action in that direction by resigning. He
would have to place his resignation, no doubt with infinite
regret, in the hands of Lord Drummond. But if such a step were to
be taken now, just as Parliament was about to assemble, what would
become of the Queen's speech, of the address, and of the noble
peers and noble and other commoners who were to propose and second
it in the two Houses of Parliament? There were those who said
that such a trick played at the last moment would be very shabby.
But then again there were those who foresaw that the shabbiness
would be made to rest anywhere than on the shoulders of Sir
Timothy. If it should turn out that he had striven manfully to
make things run smoothly,--that the Premier's incompetence, or the
Chancellor's obstinacy, or this or that Secretary's peculiarity of
temper had done it all;--might not Sir Timothy then be able to
emerge from the confused flood, and swim along pleasantly with his
head higher than ever above the waters?
In these great matters parliamentary management goes for so much!
If a man be really clever and handy at his trade, if he can work
hard and knows what he is about, if he can give and take and be
not thin-skinned or sore-boned, if he can ask pardon for a
peccadillo and seem to be sorry with a good grace, if above all
things he be able to surround himself with the prestige of
success, then so much will be forgiven him! Great gifts of
eloquence are hardly wanted, or a deep-seated patriotism which is
capable of strong indignation. A party has to be managed, and he
who can manage it best, will probably be its best leader. The
subordinate task of legislation and of executive government may
well fall into the inferior hands of less astute practitioners. It
was admitted on both sides that there was no man like Sir Timothy
for managing the House or coercing a party, and there was
therefore a general feeling that it would be a pity that Sir
Timothy should be squeezed out. He knew all the little secrets of
the business;--could arrange let the cause be what it might, to get
a full House for himself and his friends, and empty benches for
his opponents,--could foresee a thousand little things to which
even a Walpole would have been blind, which a Pitt would not have
condescended to regard, but with which his familiarity made him a
very comfortable leader of the House of Commons. There were
various ideas prevalent as to the politics of the coming session;
but the prevailing idea was in favour of Sir Timothy.
The Duke was at Longroyston, the seat of his old political ally
the Duke of St Bungay, and had been absent from Sunday the sixth
till the morning of Friday the eleventh, on which day Parliament
was to meet. On that morning at about noon a letter came to the
son saying that his father had returned and would be glad to see
him. Silverbridge was going to the House on that day and was not
without his own political anxieties. If Lord Drummond remained in,
he thought that he must for the present stand by the party which
he had adopted. If, however, Sir Timothy should become Prime
Minister there would be a loophole for escape. There were some
three or four besides himself who detested Sir Timothy, and in
such case he might perhaps have company in his desertions. All
this was on his mind; but through all this he was aware that there
was a matter of much deeper moment which required his energies.
When his father's message was brought to him he told himself at
once that now was the time for eloquence.
'Well, Silverbridge,' said the Duke, 'how are matters going on
with you?' There seemed to be something in his father's manner
more than ordinarily jocund and good-humoured.
'With me, sir?'
'I don't mean to ask any party secrets. If you and Sir Timothy
understand each other, of course you will be discreet.'
'I can't be discreet, sir, because I don't know anything about
him.'
'When I heard,' said the Duke smiling, 'of your being in close
conference with Sir Timothy--'
'I, sir?'
'Yes, you. Mr Boncassen told me that you and he were so deeply
taken up with each other at his house that nobody could get a word
with either of you.'
'Have you seen Mr Boncassen?' asked the son, whose attention was
immediately diverted from his father's political badinage.
'Yes;--I have seen him. I happened to meet him where I was dining
last Sunday, and he walked home with me. He was so intent upon
what he was saying that I fear he allowed me to take him out of
his way.'
'What was he talking about,' said Silverbridge. All his
preparations, all his eloquence, all his method, now seemed to
have departed from him.
'He was talking about you,' said the Duke.
'He had told me that he wanted to see you. What did he say, sir?'
'I suppose you can guess what he said. He wished to know what I
thought of the offer you have made to his daughter.' The great
subject had come up so easily, so readily, that he was almost
aghast when he found himself in the middle of it. And yet he must
speak of the matter, and that at once.
'I hope you raised no objection, sir,' he said.
'The objection came mainly from him; and I am bound to say that
every word that fell from him was spoken with wisdom.'
'But still he asked you to consent.'
'By no means. He told me his opinion,--and then he asked me a
question.'
'I am sure he did not say that we ought not to be married.'
'He did say that he thought you ought not to be married if--'
'If what, sir?'
'If there were probability that his daughter would not be well
received as your wife. Then he asked me what would be my reception
of her.' Silverbridge looked up into his father's face with
beseeching imploring eyes as though everything now depended on the
few next words that he might utter. 'I shall think it an unwise
marriage,' said the Duke. Silverbridge when he heard this at once
knew that he had gained his cause. His father had spoken of the
marriage as a thing that was to happen. A joyous light dawned in
his eyes, and the look of pain went from his brow, all which the
Duke was not slow to perceive. 'I shall think it an unwise
marriage,' he continued, repeating his words; 'but I was bound to
tell him that were Miss Boncassen to become your wife she would
also become my daughter.'
'Oh sir.'
'I told him why the marriage would be distasteful to me. Whether I
may be wrong or right I think it to be for the good of our
country, for the good of our order, for the good of our individual
families, that we should support each other by marriage. It is not
as though we were a narrow class, already too closely bound
together by family alliances. The room for choice might be wide
enough for you without going across the Atlantic to look for her
who is to be the mother of your children. To this Mr Boncassen
replied that he was to look solely to his daughter's happiness. He
meant me to understand that he cared nothing for my feelings. Why
should he? That which to me is deep wisdom is to him an empty
prejudice. He asked me then how others would receive her.'
'I am sure everybody would like her,' said Silverbridge.
'I like her. I like her very much.'
'I am so glad.'
'But still all this is a sorrow to me. When however he put that
question to me about the world around her,--as to those among whom
her lot would be cast, I could not say I thought she would be
rejected.'
'Oh no!' The idea of rejecting Isabel.
'She has a brightness and a grace all her own,' continued the
Duke, 'which will ensure her acceptance in all societies.'
'Yes, yes;--it is just that, sir.'
'You will be a nine days' wonder,--the foolish thing young nobleman
who chose to marry an American.'
'I think it will be just other way up, sir--among the men.'
'But her place will I think be secure to her. That is what I told
Mr Boncassen.'
'It is all right with him, then,--now?'
'If you call it all right. You will understand of course that you
are acting in opposition to my advice,--and my wishes.'
'What am I to say, sir?' exclaimed Silverbridge, almost in
despair. 'When I love the girl better than my life, and when you
tell me that she can be mine if I choose to take her; when I have
asked her to be my wife, and have got her to say that she likes
me, when her father has given way, and all the rest of it, would
it be possible that I should say now that I will give her up?'
'My opinion is to go for nothing,--in anything?' The Duke as he
said this knew that he was expressing aloud a feeling which should
have been restrained within his own bosom. It was natural that
there should have been such plaints. The same suffering must be
encountered in regard to Tregear and his daughter. In every way he
had been thwarted. In every direction he was driven to yield. And
yet now he had to undergo rebuke from his own son, because one of
the inward plaints would force itself from his lips! Of course
this girl was to be taken among the Pallisers and treated with an
idolatrous love,--as perfect as though 'all the blood of all the
Howards' were running in her veins. What further inch of ground
was there for a fight? And if the fight were over, why should he
rob his boy of one sparkle from the joy of his triumph?
Silverbridge was now standing before him abashed by that plaint,
inwardly sustained no doubt by the conviction of his great
success, but subdued by his father's wailing. 'However,--perhaps we
had better let that pass,' said the Duke, with a long sigh. Then
Silverbridge took his father's hand, and looked up in his face. 'I
most sincerely hope that she may make you a good and loving wife,'
said the Duke, 'and that she may do her duty by you in that not
easy sphere of life to which she will be called.'
'I am quite sure she will,' said Silverbridge, whose ideas as to
Isabel's duties were confined at present to a feeling that she
would now have to give him kisses without stint.
'What I have seen of her personally recommends her to me,' said
the Duke. 'Some girls are fools--'
'That's quite true, sir.'
'Who think that the world is to be nothing but dancing, and going
to parties.'
'Many have been doing it for many years,' said Silverbridge, 'that
they can't understand that there should be an end of it.'
'A wife ought to feel the great responsibility of her position. I
hope she will.'
'And the sooner she begins the better,' said Silverbridge stoutly.
'And now,' said the Duke, looking at his watch, 'we might as well
have lunch and go down to the House. I will walk with you if you
please. It will be about time for each of us.' Then the son was
forced to go down and see a somewhat faded ceremony of seeing
Parliament opened by three Lords sitting in commission before the
throne. Whereas but for such stress as his father had laid upon
him, he would have disregarded his parliamentary duties and have
rushed at once up to Brook Street. As it was he was so handed over
from one political pundit to another, was so buttonholed by Sir
Timothy, so chaffed as to the address by Phineas Finn, and at last
so occupied with the whole matter that he was compelled to sit in
his place till he had heard Nidderdale make his speech. This the
young Scotch Lord did so well, and received so much praise for the
doing of it, and looked so well in his uniform, that Silverbridge
almost regretted the opportunity that he had lost. At seven the
sitting was over, the speeches, though full of interest, having
been shorter than usual. They had been full of interest, but
nobody understood in the least what was going to happen. 'I don't
know anything about the Prime Minister,' said Mr Lupton as he left
the House with our hero and another not very staunch supporter of
the Government, 'but I'll back Sir Timothy to be the Leader of the
House on the last day of the session, against all comers. I don't
think it much matters who is Prime Minister nowadays.'
At half-past seven Silverbridge was at the door at Brook Street.
Yes; Miss Boncassen was at home. The servant thought that she was
upstairs dressing. Then Silverbridge made his way without further
invitation into the drawing-room. There he remained alone for ten
minutes. At last the door opened, and Mrs Boncassen entered.
'Dear! Lord Silverbridge, who ever dreamed of seeing you? I
thought all you Parliament gentlemen were going through your
ceremonies. Isabel had a ticket and went down, and saw your
father.'
'Where is Isabel?'
'She's gone.'
'Gone! Where on earth has she gone to?' asked Silverbridge, as
though fearing lest she had been already carried off to the other
side of the Atlantic. Then Mrs Boncassen explained. Within the
last three minutes Mrs Montacute Jones had called and carried
Isabel off to the play. Mrs Jones was up in town for a week and
this had been a very old engagement. 'I hope you did not want her
particularly,' said Mrs Boncassen.
'But I did,--not particularly,' said Lord Silverbridge. The door
was opened and Mr Boncassen entered the room. 'I beg your pardon
for coming at such a time,' said the lover, 'but I did so want to
see Isabel.'
'I rather thinks she wants to see you,' said the father.
'I shall go to the theatre after her.'
'That might be awkward,--particularly as I doubt whether anybody
knows what theatre they are gone to. Can I receive a message for
her, my lord?' This was certainly not what Lord Silverbridge had
intended. 'You know, perhaps, that I have seen the Duke?'
'Oh yes;--I have seen him. Everything is settled.'
'That is the only message she will want to hear when she comes
home. She is a happy girl and I am proud to think that I should
live to call such a grand young Briton as you my son-in-law.'
Then he American took the young man's two hands and shook them
cordially, while Mrs Boncassen bursting into tears insisted on
kissing him.
'Indeed she is a happy girl,' said she; 'but I hope Isabel won't
be carried away too high and mighty.'
CHAPTER 72
Carlton Terrace
Three days after this it was arranged that Isabel should be taken
to Carlton Terrace to be accepted there into the full good graces
of her future father-in-law, and to go through the pleasant
ceremony of seeing the house which it was her destiny to be
mistress. What can be more interesting to a girl than this first
visit to her future home? And now Isabel Boncassen was to make
her first visit to the house In Carlton Terrace, which the Duke
had already declared his purpose of surrendering to the young
couple. She was going among very grand things,--so grand that those
whose affairs in life are less magnificent may think that her mind
should have soared altogether above the chairs and tables, and
reposed itself among diamonds, gold and silver ornaments, rich
necklaces, the old masters, and alabaster statuary. But Dukes and
Duchesses must sit upon chairs,--or at any rate on sofas,--as well
as their poorer brethren, and probably have the same regard for
their comfort. Isabel was not above her future furniture, or the
rooms that were to be her rooms, or the stairs which she would
have to tread, or the pillow on which her head must rest. She had
never yet seen the outside of the house in which she was to live,
and was now prepared to make her visit with as much enthusiasm as
though her future abode was to be prepared for her in a small
house in a small street beyond Islington.
But the Duke was no doubt more than the house, the father-in-law
more than the tables. Isabel, in the ordinary way of society, he
had known almost with intimacy. She, the while, had been well
aware that if all things could possibly be made to run smoothly
with her, this lordly host, who was so pleasantly courteous to
her, would become her father-in-law. But she had known also that,
in his courtesy, had been altogether unaware of any such intention
on her part, and that she would now present herself to him in an
aspect very different from that in which she had hitherto been
regarded. She was well aware that the Duke had not wished to take
her into the family,--would not himself have chosen her for his
son's wife. She had seen enough to make her sure that he had even
chosen another bride for his heir. She had been too clever not to
perceive that Lady Mabel Grex had been not only selected,--but
almost accepted as though the thing had been certain. She had
learned nearly the whole truth from Silverbridge, who was not good
at keeping a secret from one to whom his heart was open. That
story had been read by her with exactness. 'I cannot lose you
now,' she had said to him, leaning on his arm;--'I cannot afford to
lose you now. But I fear that someone else is losing you.' To
this he answered nothing, but simply pressed her closer to his
side. 'Someone else,' she continued, 'who perhaps may have reason
to think that you have injured her.' 'No,' he said boldly; 'no;
there is no such person.' For he had never ceased to assure
himself that in all that matter with Mabel Grex he had been guilty
of no treachery. There had been a moment, indeed, in which she
might have taken him; but she had chosen to let it pass from her.
All of which, or nearly all of which,--Isabel now saw, and had seen
also that the Duke had been a consenting party to that other
arrangement. She had reason therefore to doubt the manner of her
acceptance.
But she had been accepted. She had made such acceptance by him a
stipulation in her acceptance of her son. She was sure of the
ground on which she trod and was determined to carry herself, if
not with pride, yet with dignity. There might be difficulties
before her, but it should not be her fault if she were not as good
as a Countess, and,--when time would have it so,--as good a Duchess
as another.
The visit was not quite in the fashion in which Silverbridge
himself had wished. His idea had been to call for Isabel in his
cab and take her down to Carlton Terrace. 'Mother must go with
me,' she had said. Then he looked blank,--as he could look when he
was disappointed, as he had looked when she would not talk to him
at the lunch, when she told him that it was not her business to
entertain him. 'Don't be selfish,' she added, laughing. 'Do you
think that mother will not want to have seen the house that I am
to live in?'
'She shall come afterwards as often as she likes.'
'What,--paying me morning visits from New York! She must come now,
if you please. Love me, love my mother.'
'I am awfully fond of her,' said Silverbridge, who felt that he
really had behaved well to the old lady.
'So am I,--and therefore she shall go to see the house now. You are
as good as gold,--and do everything just as I tell you. But a good
time is coming, when I shall have to do everything that you tell
me.' Then it was arranged that Mrs and Miss Boncassen were to be
taken down to the house in their own carriage, and were to be
received at the door by Lord Silverbridge.
Another arrangement had also been made. Isabel was to be taken to
the Duke immediately upon her arrival, and to be left for a while
with him, so that he might express himself as might find fit to do
to this newly-adopted child. It was a matter to him of such
importance that nothing remaining to him in his life could equal
it. It was not simply that she was to be the wife of his son,--
though that in itself was a consideration very sacred. Had it been
Gerald who was bringing to him a bride, the occasion would have
had less of awe. But this girl, this American girl, was to be the
mother and grandmother of future Dukes of Omnium,--the ancestress,
it was to be hoped, of all future Dukes of Omnium! By what she
might be, by what she might have in her of mental fibre, of high
or low quality, of true or untrue womanliness, were to be
fashioned those who in days to come might be amongst the strongest
and most faithful bulwarks of the constitution. An England without
a Duke of Omnium,--or at any rate without any Duke,--what would it
be? And yet he knew that with bad Dukes his country would be in
worse stress than though she had none at all. An aristocracy;--yes;
but an aristocracy that shall be of the very best! He believed
himself thoroughly in this order; but if this order or many of his
order, should become as was now Lord Grex, then, he thought, that
his order not only must go to the wall, but that, in the cause of
humanity, it had better do so. With all this daily, hourly,
always in his mind, this matter in the choice of a wife for his
heir was to him of solemn importance.
When they arrived Silverbridge was there and led them first of all
into the dining-room. 'My!' said Mrs Boncassen, as she looked
around her. 'I thought that our Fifth Avenue parlous whipped up
everything in the way of city houses.'
'What a nice little room for Darby and Joan to sit down to eat a
mutton-chop in,' said Isabel.
'It's a beastly great barrack,' said Silverbridge;--'but the best
of it is that we never use it. We'll have a cosy little place for
Darby and Joan;--you'll see. Now come to the governor. I've got to
leave you with him.'
'Oh me! I am in such a fright.'
'He can't eat you,' said Mrs Boncassen.
'And he won't even bite,' said Silverbridge.
'I should not mind that because I could bite again. But if he
looks as though he thought I shouldn't do, I shall drop.'
'My belief is that he's almost as much in love with you as I am,'
said Silverbridge, as he took her to the door of the Duke's room.
'Here we are, sir.'
'My dear,' said the Duke, rising up and coming to her, 'I am very
glad to see you. It is good of you to come to me.' Then he took
her in both his hands and kissed her forehead and her lips. She,
as she put her face up to him, stood quite still in his embrace,
but her eyes were bright with pleasure.
'Shall I leave her?' said Silverbridge.
'For a few minutes.'
'Don't keep her too long, for I want to take her all over the
house.'
'A few minutes,--and then I will bring her up to the drawing-room.'
Upon this the door was closed, and Isabel was alone with her new
father. 'And so, my dear, you are to be my child.'
'If you will have me.'
'Come here and sit down by me. Your father has already told you
that;--has he not?
'He has told me that you had consented.'
'And Silverbridge has said as much?'
'I would sooner hear it from you than from either of them.'
'Then hear it from me. You shall be my child. And if you will love
me you shall be very dear to me. You shall be my own child,--as
dear to me as my own. I must either love his wife very dearly, or
else I must be an unhappy man. And she most love me dearly, or I
must be unhappy.'
'I will love you,' she said, pressing his hand.
'And now let me say some few words to you, only let there be no
bitterness in them to your young heart. When I say that I take you
to my own heart, you may be sure that I do so thoroughly. You
shall be as dear to me and as near as though you had been all
English.'
'Shall I?'
'There shall be no difference made. My boy's wife shall be my
daughter in very deed. But I had not wished it to be so.'
'I knew that,--but could I have given up?'
'He at any rate could not give up. There were little prejudices;--
you can understand that.'
'Oh yes.'
'We who wear black coats could not bring ourselves readily to put
on scarlet garments; nor should we sit comfortably with our legs
crossed like Turks.'
'I am your scarlet coat and our cross-legged Turk,' she said, with
feigned self-reproach in her voice, but with a sparkle of mirth in
her eye.
'But when I have once got into my scarlet coat I can be very proud
of it, and when I am once seated in my divan I shall find it of
all postures the easiest. Do you understand me?'
'I think so.'
'Not a shade of any prejudice shall be left to darken my mind.
There shall be no feeling but that you are in truth his chosen
wife. After all neither can country, nor race, nor rank, nor
wealth, make a good woman. Education can do much. But nature must
have done much also.'
'Do not expect too much of me.'
'I will so expect that all shall be taken for the best. You know,
I think, that I have liked you since I first saw you.'
'I know that you have always been good to me.'
'I have liked you from the first. That you are lovely perhaps is
no merit, though, to speak the truth, I am well pleased that
Silverbridge should have found so much beauty.'
'That is all a matter of taste, I suppose,' she said, laughing.
'But there is much a young woman may do for herself, which I think
you have done. A silly girl, though she be a second Helen, would
hardly have satisfied me.'
'Or perhaps him,' said Isabel.
'Or him; and it is in that feeling that I find my chief
satisfaction,--that he should have the sense to have liked such a
one as you better than others. Now I have said it. As not being
one of us I did at first object to his choice. As being what you
are yourself, I am altogether reconciled to it. Do not keep him
long waiting.'
'I do not think he likes being kept waiting for anything.'
'I dare say not. I dare say not. And how there is one thing else.'
Then the Duke unlocked a little drawer that was close to his
hand, and taking out a ring put it on her finger. It was a bar of
diamonds, perhaps a dozen or them, fixed in a little circlet of
gold. 'This must never leave you,' he said.
'It never shall,--having come from you.'
'It was the first present that I gave to my wife, and it is the
first that I shall give to you. You may imagine how sacred it is
to me. On no other hand could it be worn without something which
to me would be akin to sacrilege. Now I must not keep you longer
or Silverbridge will be storming about the house. He of course
will tell me when it is to be; but do not you keep him long
waiting.' Then he kissed her and led her up into the drawing-
room. When he had spoken a word of greeting to Mrs Boncassen, he
left them to their own devices.
After that they spent the best part of an hour in going over the
house; but even that was done in a manner unsatisfactory to
Silverbridge. Wherever Isabel went, there Mrs Boncassen went also.
There might have been some fun in showing even the back kitchens
to his bride-elect by herself;--but there was one in wandering
about those vast underground regions with a stout old lady who was
really interested with the cooking apparatus and the washhouses.
The bedrooms one after another became tedious to him when Mrs
Boncassen would make communications respecting each of them to her
daughter. 'That is Gerald's room,' said Silverbridge. 'You have
never seen Gerald. He is such a brick.' Mrs Boncassen was charmed
with the whips and sticks and boxing-gloves in Gerald's room, and
expressed an opinion that young men in the States mostly carried
their knickknacks about with them to the Universities. When she
was told that he had another collection of 'knickknacks' at
Matching, and another at Oxford, she thought that he was a very
extravagant young man. Isabel who had heard all about the gambling
in Scotland, looked round her lover and smiled.
'Well, my dear,' said Mrs Boncassen, as they took their leave, 'it
is a very grand house, and I hope with all my heart you may have
your health there and be happy. But I don't know that you'll be
any happier because it's so big.'
'Wait till you see Gatherum,' said Silverbridge. 'That, I own,
does make me unhappy. It has been calculated that three months at
Gatherum Castle would drive a philosopher mad.'
In all this there had been a certain amount of disappointment for
Silverbridge; but on that evening, before dinner in Brook Street,
he received compensation. As the day was one somewhat peculiar in
its nature he decided that it should be kept together as a
holiday, and he did not therefore go down to the House. And not
going to the House of course he spent the time with the
Boncassens. 'You know you ought to go,' Isabel said to him when
the found themselves alone together in the back drawing-room.
'Of course I ought.'
'Then go. Do you think I would keep a Briton from his duties?'
'Not though the constitution should fall in ruins. Do you suppose
that a man wants no rest after inspecting all the pots and pans in
that establishment? A woman, I believe, could go on doing that
kind of thing all day long.'
'You should remember at least that the--woman was interesting
herself about your pots and pans.'
'And now, Bella, tell me what the governor said to you.' Then she
showed him the ring. 'Did he give you that?' She nodded her head
in assent. 'I did not think he would ever part with that.'
'It was your mother's.'
'She wore it always. I almost think that I never saw her hand
without it. He would not have given you that unless he had meant
to be very good to you.'
'He was very good to me, Silverbridge, I have a great deal to do,
to learn to be your wife.''
'I'll teach you.'
'Yes; you will teach me. But will you teach me right? There is
something almost awful in your father's serious dignity and solemn
appreciation of the responsibilities of his position. Will you
ever come to that?'
'I shall never be a great man as he is.'
'It seem to me that life to him is a load;--which he does not
object to carry, but which he knows must be carried with a great
struggle.'
'I suppose it ought to be so with everyone.'
'Yes,' she said, 'but the higher you put your foot on the ladder
the more constant should be your thought that your stepping
requires care. I fear that I am climbing too high.'
'You can't come down now, young woman.'
'I have to go on now,--and do the best I can. I will try to do my
best. I will try to do my best. I told him so, and now I tell you
so. I will try to do my best.'
'Perhaps after all I am only a "pert poppet",' she said half an
hour afterwards, for Silverbridge had told her of the terrible
mistake made by poor Dolly Longstaff.
'Brute!' he exclaimed.
'Not at all. And when we are settled down in the real Darby-and-
Joan way I shall hope to see Mr Longstaff very often. I daresay he
won't call me a pert poppet, and I shall not remind him of the
word. But I shall always think of it; and remembering the way in
which my character struck an educated Englishman,--who was not
altogether ill-disposed towards me,--I may hope to improve myself.'
CHAPTER 73
'I Have Never Loved You.'
Silverbridge had now been in town three or four weeks, and Lady
Mabel Grex had also been in London all that time, and yet he had
not seen her. She had told him that she loved him and had asked
him plainly to make her his wife. He had told her he could not do
so,--that he was altogether resolved to make another woman his
wife. Then she had rebuked him, and had demanded from him how he
had dared to treat her as he had done. His conscience was clear.
He had his own code or morals as to such matters; and had, as he
regarded it, kept within the law. But she thought that she was
badly treated, and had declared that she was now left out in the
cold for ever through his treachery. Then her last word had been
almost the worst of all, 'Who can tell what may come to pass?'--
showing too plainly that she would not even now give up her hope.
Before the month was up she wrote to him as follows:
'DEAR LORD SILVERBRIDGE,
'Why do you not come and see me? Are friends so plentiful with
you that one so staunch as I may be thrown over? But of course I
know why you do not come. Put all that aside,--and come. I cannot
hurt you. I have learned to feel that certain things which the
world regards as too awful to be talked of,--except in the way of
scandal, may be discussed and then laid aside just like other
subjects. What though I wear a wig or a wooden leg, I may still be
fairly comfortable among my companions unless I crucify myself by
trying to hide my misfortune. It is not the presence of the
skeleton that crushes us. Not even that will hurt us much if we
let him go about the house as he lists. It is the everlasting
effort which the horror makes to peep out of his cupboard that
robs us of our ease. At any rate come and see me.
'Of course I know that you are to be married to Miss Boncassen.
Who does not know it? The trumpeters have been at work for the
last week.
'Your very sincere Friend,
'MABEL.'
He wished that she had not written. Of course he must go to her.
And though there was a word or two in her letter which angered
him, his feelings towards her were kindly. Had not that American
angel flown across the Atlantic to his arms he could have been
well content to make her his wife. But the interview at the
present moment could hardly be other than painful. She could, she
said, talk of her own misfortunes, but the subject would be very
painful to him. It was not to him a skeleton, to be locked out of
sight, but it had been a misfortune, and the sooner that such
misfortune could be forgotten the better.
He knew what she meant about trumpeters. She had intended to
signify that Isabel in her pride had boasted of her matrimonial
prospects. Of course there had been trumpets. Are there not always
trumpets when a marriage is contemplated, magnificent enough to be
called an alliance? As for that he himself had blown the
trumpets. He had told everybody that he was going to be married to
Miss Boncassen. Isabel had blown no trumpets. In her own
straightforward way she had told the truth to whom it concerned.
Of course he would go and see Lady Mabel, but he trusted that for
her own sake nothing would be said about trumpets.
'So you have come at last,' Mabel said when he entered the room.
'No;--Miss Cassewary is not here. As I wanted to see you alone I
got her to go out this morning. Why did you not come before?'
'You said in your letter you knew why.'
'But in saying so I was accusing you of cowardice;--was I not?'
'It was not cowardice.'
'Why then did you not come?'
'I thought you would hardly wish to see me so soon,--after what
passed.'
'That is honest at any rate. You felt that I must be too much
ashamed of what I said to be able to look you in the face.'
'Not that exactly.'
'Any other man would have felt the same, but no other man would be
honest enough to tell me so. I do not think that ever in your life
you have constrained yourself to the civility of a lie.'
'I hope not.'
'To be civil and false is often better than to be harsh and true.
I may be soothed by the courtesy and yet not deceived by the lie.
But what I told you in my letter,--which I hope you have destroyed--'
'I will destroy it.'
'Do. It was not intended for the partner of your future joys. As I
told you then I can talk freely. Why not? We know it,--both of us.
How your conscience may be I cannot tell; but mine is clear from
that soil with which you think it should be smirched.'
'I think nothing of the sort.'
'Yes, Silverbridge, you do. You have said to yourself this;--That
girl has determined to get me, and she has not stopped as to how
she would do it.'
'No such idea ever crossed my mind.'
'But you have never told yourself of the engagement which you gave
me. Such condemnation as I have spoken of would have been just if
my efforts had been sanctioned by no words, no looks, no deeds
from you. Did you give me warrant for thinking that you were my
lover?'
That theory by which he had justified himself to himself seemed to
fall away from him under her questioning. He could not now
remember his words to her in those old days before Miss Boncassen
had crossed his path; but he did know that he had once intended to
make her understand that he loved her. She had not understood
him;--or understanding, had not accepted his words; and therefore
he had thought himself free. But it now seemed that he had not
been entitled so to regard himself. There she sat, looking at him,
waiting for his answer; and he who had been so sure that he had
committed no sin against her, had not a word to say to her.
'I want you to answer that, Lord Silverbridge. I have told you
that I would have no skeleton in the cupboard. Down at Matching,
and before that at Killancodlem, I appealed to you, asking you to
take me as your wife.'
'Hardly that.'
'Altogether that! I will have nothing denied what I have done,--
nor will I be ashamed of anything. I did do so,--even after this
infatuation. I thought then that one so volatile might perhaps fly
back again.'
'I shall not do that,' said he, frowning at her.'
'You need trouble yourself with no assurance, my friend. Let us
understand each other now. I am not now supposing that you can fly
back again. You have found your perch, and you must settle on it
like a good domestic barn-door fowl.' Again he scowled. If she
were too hard upon him he would certainly turn upon her. 'No; you
will not fly back again now;--but was I, or was I not, justified
when you came to Killancodlem in thinking that my lover had come
there?'
'How can I tell? It is my own justification I am thinking of.'
'I see all that. But we cannot both be justified. Did you mean me
to suppose that you were speaking to me words in earnest when
there,--sitting in that very spot,--you spoke to me of your love.'
'Did I speak of my love?'
'Did you speak of your love! And now, Silverbridge,--for if there
be an English gentleman on earth I think you are one,--as a
gentleman tell me this. Did you not even tell your father that I
should be your wife? I know you did.'
'Did he tell you?'
'Men such as you and he, who cannot even lie with your eyelids,
who will not condescend to cover up a secret by a moment of
feigned inanimation, have many voices. He did tell me; but he
broke no confidence. He told me, but did not mean to tell me. Now
you also have told me.'
'I did. I told him so. And then I changed my mind.'
'I know you changed your mind. Men often do. A pinker pink, a
whiter white,--a finger that will press you just half an ounce the
closer,--a cheek that will consent to let itself come just a little
nearer-!'
'No; no; no! It was because Isabel had not easily consented to
such approaches!'
'Trifles such as these will do it;--and some such trifles have done
it with you. It would be beneath me to make comparisons where I
might seem to be the gainer. I grant her beauty. She is very
lovely. She has succeeded.'
'I have succeeded.'
'But;--I am justified, and you are condemned. Is it not so? Tell
me like a man.'
'You are justified.'
'And you are condemned? When you told me that I should be your
wife, and then told your father the same story, was I to think it
all meant nothing? Have you deceived me?'
'I did not mean it.'
'Have you deceived me? What; you cannot deny it, and yet have not
the manliness to own it to a poor woman who can only save herself
from humiliation by extorting the truth from you!'
'Oh, Mabel, I am so sorry that it should be so.'
'I believe you are,--with a sorrow that will last till she is again
sitting close to you. Nor, Silverbridge, do I wish it to be
longer. No;--no;--no. Your fault after all has not been great. You
deceived, but did not mean to deceive me?'
'Never, never.'
'And I fancy you have never known how much you bore about with
you. Your modesty has been so perfect that you have not thought of
yourself as more than other men. You have forgotten that you have
had in your hand the disposal to some one woman of a throne in
Paradise.'
'I don't suppose you thought of that.'
'But I did. Why should I tell falsehoods now. I have determined
that you should know everything,--but I could better confess to you
my own sins, when I had shown that you too have not been innocent.
Not think of it! Do not men think of high titles and great wealth
and power and place? And if men, why should not women? Do not
men try to get them;--and are they not even applauded for their
energy? A woman has but one way to try. I tried.'
'I do not think it was well for that.'
'How shall I answer that without a confession which even I am not
hardened enough to make? In truth, Silverbridge, I have never
loved you.'
He drew himself up slowly before he answered her, and gradually
assumed a look very different from that easy boyish smile which
was customary to him. 'I am glad of that,' he said.
'Why are you glad?'
'Now I can have no regrets.'
'You need have none. It was necessary to me that I should have my
little triumph;--that I should show you that I knew how far you had
wronged me! But now I wish you should know everything. I have
never loved you.'
'There is an end of it then.'
'But I have liked you so well;--so much better than all others! A
dozen men have asked me to marry them. And though they might be
nothing till they made the request, then they became,--things of
horror to me. But you were not a thing of horror. I could have
become your wife, and I think I would have learned to love you.'
'It is best as it is.'
'I ought to say so too; but I have a doubt I should have liked to
be Duchess of Omnium, and perhaps I might have fitted the place
better than one who can as yet know but little of its duties or
its privileges. I may, perhaps, think that that other arrangement
would have been better even for you.'
'I can take care of myself in that.'
'I should have married you without loving you, but I should have
done so determined to serve you with a devotion which a woman who
does love hardly thinks necessary. I would have so done my duty
that you should never have guessed that my heart had been in the
keeping of another man.'
'Another man!'
'Yes; of course. If there had been no other man, why not you? Am
I so hard, do you think that I can love no one? Are you not such
a one that a girl would naturally love,--were she not preoccupied?
That a woman should love seems as necessary as that a man should
not.'
'A man can love too.'
'No;--hardly. He can admire, and he can like, and he can fondle and
be fond. He can admire, and approve, and perhaps worship. He can
know of a woman that she is part of himself, the most sacred part,
and therefore will protect her from the very winds. But all that
will not make love. It does not come to a man that to be separated
from a woman is to be dislocated from his very self. A man has but
one centre, and that is himself. A woman has two. Though the
second may never be seen by her, may live in the arms of another,
may do all for that other that man can do for a woman,--still,
still, though he be half the globe asunder from her, still he is
to her the other half of her existence. If she really love, there
is, I fancy, no end of it. To the end of time I shall love Frank
Tregear.'
'Tregear!'
'Who else?'
'He is engaged to Mary.'
'Of course he is. Why not;--to her or to whomsoever else he might
like best? He is as true I doubt not to your sister as you are to
your American beauty,--or as you would have been to me had fancy
held. He used to love me.'
'You were always friends.'
'Always;--dear friends. And he would have loved me if a man were
capable of loving. But he could sever himself from me easily, just
when he was told to do so. I thought that I could do the same.
But I cannot. A jackal is born a jackal, and not lion, and cannot
help himself. So is a woman born--a woman. They are clinging,
parasite things, which cannot but adhere; though they destroy
themselves by adhering. Do not suppose that I take pride in it. I
would give one of my eyes to be able to disregard him.'
'Time will do it.'
'Yes; time,--that brings wrinkles and rouge-pots and rheumatism.
Though I have so hated those men as to be unable to endure them,
still I want some man's house, and his name,--some man's bread and
wine,--some man's jewels and titles and woods and parks and
gardens,--if I can get them. Time can help a man in his sorrow. If
he begins at forty to make speeches, or to win races, or to breed
oxen, he can yet live a prosperous life. Time is but a poor
consoler for a young woman who has to be married.'
'Oh Mabel.'
'And now let there be not a word more about it. I know--that I can
trust you.'
'Indeed you may.'
'Though you will tell her everything else you will not tell her
this.'
'No;--not this.'
'And surely you will not tell your sister!'
'I shall tell no one.'
'It is because you are so true that I have dared to trust you. I
had to justify myself,--and then to confess. Had I at that moment
taken you at your word, you would have never have known anything
of all this. "There is a tide in the affairs of men-!" But I let
the flood go by! I shall not see you again before you are
married; but come to me afterwards.'
CHAPTER 74
'Let Us Drink a Glass of Wine Together'
Silverbridge pondered it all much as he went home. What a terrible
story was that he had heard! The horror to him was chiefly in
this,--that she should yet be driven to marry some man without even
fancying that she could love him! And his was Lady Mabel Grex,
who, on his own first entrance into London life, now not much more
than twelve months ago, had seemed to him to stand above all other
girls in beauty, charm, and popularity!
As he opened the door of his house with his latch-key, who should
be coming out but Frank Tregear,--Frank Tregear with his arm in a
sling, but still with an unmistakable look of general
satisfaction. 'When on earth did you come up?' asked Silverbridge.
Tregear told him that he had arrived on the previous evening from
Harrington. 'And why? The doctor would not have let you come if
he could have helped it.'
'When he found he could not help it, he did let me come. I am
nearly all right. If I had been nearly all wrong I should have had
to come.'
'And what are you doing here?'
'Well; if you'll allow me I'll go back with you for a moment. What
do you think I have been doing?'
'Have you seen my sister?'
'Yes, I have seen your sister. And I have done better than that. I
have seen your father. Lord Silverbridge,--behold your brother-in-
law.'
'You don't mean to say that it is arranged?'
'I do.'
'What did he say?'
'He made me understand by most unanswerable arguments, that I had
no business to think of such a thing. I did not fight the point
with him,--but simply stood there, as conclusive evidence of my
business. He told me that we should have nothing to live on unless
he gave us an income. I assured him that I would never ask him
for a shilling. "But I cannot allow her to marry a man without an
income," he said.'
'I know his way so well.'
'I have just two facts to go upon,--that I would not give her up,
and that she would not give me up. When I pointed that out he tore
up his hair,--in a mild way, and said that he did not understand
that kind of thing at all.'
'And yet he gave way.'
'Of course he did. They say that when a king of old would consent
to see a petitioner for his life, he was bound by his royalty to
mercy. So it was with the Duke. Then, very early in the argument,
he forgot himself, and called her,--Mary. I knew that he had
thrown up the sponge then.'
'How did he give way at last?'
'He asked me what were my ideas about life in general. I said that
I thought Parliament was a good sort of thing, that I was lucky
enough to have a seat, and that I should take lodgings somewhere
near Westminster till-"Till what?" he asked. Till something is
settled I replied. Then he turned away from me and remained
silent. May I see Lady Mary? I asked. "Yes; you may see her," he
replied, as he rang the bell. Then when the servant was gone he
stopped me. "I love her too dearly to see her grieve," he said. "I
hope you will show that you can be worthy of her." Then I made
some sort of protestation and went upstairs. While I was with Mary
there came a message to me, telling me to come to dinner.'
'The Boncassens are all dining there.'
'Then we shall be a family party. So far I suppose I may say it is
settled. When he will let us marry heaven only knows. Mary
declares that she will not press him. I certainly cannot do so.
It is all a matter of money.'
'He won't care about that.'
'But he may perhaps think that a little patience will do us good.
You will have to soften him.' Then Silverbridge told all he knew
about himself. He was to be married in May; was to go to Matching
for a week or two after his wedding, was then to see the Session
to an end, and after that to travel with his wife to the United
States. 'I don't suppose we shall be allowed to run about the
world together so soon as that,' said Tregear, 'but I am too well
satisfied with my day's work to complain.'
'Did he say what he meant to give her?'
'Oh dear no;--nor even that he meant to give her anything. I should
not dream of asking a question about it. Nor when he makes any
proposition shall I think of having any opinion of my own.'
'He'll make it all right;--for her sake you know.'
'My chief object as regards him, is that he should not think I
have been looking for her money. Well; good-bye. I suppose we
shall all meet at dinner?'
When Tregear left him Silverbridge went to his father's room. He
was anxious that they should understand each other as to Mary's
engagement. 'I thought you were at the House,' said the Duke.
'I was going there, but I met Tregear at the door. He tells me you
have accepted him for Mary.'
'I wish that he had never seen her. Do you think that a man can be
thwarted in everything and not feel it?'
'I thought--you had reconciled yourself--to Isabel.'
'If it were that alone I could do so the more easily, because
personally she wins upon me. And this man too;--it is not that I
find fault with himself.'
'He is in all respects a high-minded gentleman.'
'I hope so. But yet, had he a right to set his heart there, where
he could make his fortune,--having none of his own?'
'He did not think of it.'
'A gentleman should do more than not think of it. He should think
that it shall not be so. a man should own his means or should earn
them.'
'How many, sir, do neither?'
'Yes, I know,' said the Duke. 'Such a doctrine nowadays is caviare
to the general. One must live as others live around one, I
suppose. I could not see her suffer. It was too much for me. When
I became convinced that this was no temporary passion, no romantic
love which time might banish, that she was of such a temperament
that she could not change,--that I had to give way. Gerald I
suppose will bring me some kitchen-maid for his wife.'
'Oh sir, you should not say that to me.'
'No;--I should not have said it to you. I beg your pardon,
Silverbridge.' Then he paused a moment, turning over certain
thoughts within his own bosom. 'Perhaps after all it is well that
a pride of which I am conscious should be rebuked. And it may be
that the rebuke has come in such a form that I should be thankful.
I know that I can love Isabel.'
'That to me will be everything.'
'And this young man has nothing that should revolt me. I think he
has been wrong. But now that I have said it I will let all that
pass from me. He will dine with us today.'
Silverbridge then went to see his sister. 'So you have settled
your little business, Mary.'
'Oh Silverbridge, you will wish me joy?'
'Certainly. Why not?'
'Papa is so stern with me. Of course he has given way, and of
course I am grateful. But he looks at me as though I had done
something to be forgiven.'
'Take the good the gods provide you, Mary. That will all come
right.'
'But I have not done anything wrong, have I?'
'That is a matter of opinion. How can I answer you when I don't
quite know whether I have done anything wrong or not myself. I am
going to marry the girl that I have chosen. That's enough for me.'
'But you did change.'
'We need not say anything about that.'
'But I have never changed. Papa just told me that he would
consent, and that I might write to him. So I did write, and he
came. But papa looks at me as though I had broken his heart.'
'I tell you what it is, Mary. You expect too much from him. He has
not had his own way with either of us, and of course he feels it.'
As Tregear had said there was quite a family party in Carlton
Terrace, though as yet the family was not bound together by family
ties. All the Boncassens were there, the father, the mother, and
the promised bride. Mr Boncassen bore himself with more ease than
anyone in the company, having at his command a gift of manliness
which enabled him to regard this marriage exactly as he would have
done any other. America was not so far distant but what he would
be able to see his girl occasionally. He liked the young man and
he believed in the comfort of wealth. Therefore he was satisfied.
But when the marriage was spoken of, or written of, as an
'alliance', then he would say a hard word or two about dukes and
lords in general. On such an occasion as this he was happy and at
his ease.
So much could not be said for his wife, with whom the Duke
attempted to place himself on terms of family equality. But in
doing this he failed to hide the attempt even from her, and she
broke down under it. Had he simply walked into the room with her
as he would have done on any other occasion, and then remarked
that the frost was keen or the thaw disagreeable, it would have
been better for her. But when he told her that he hoped that she
would often make herself at home in that house, and looked, as he
said it, as though he were asking her to take a place among the
goddesses of Olympus, she was troubled as to her answer. 'Oh, my
Lord Duke,' she said, 'when I think of Isabel living here and
being called by such a name, it almost upsets me.'
Isabel had all her father's courage, but she was more sensitive;
and though she would have borne her honours well, was oppressed by
the feeling that the weight was too much for her mother. She could
not keep her ear from listening to her mother's words, or her eye
from watching her mother's motions. She was prepared to carry her
mother everywhere. 'As other girls have to be taken with their
belongings, so must I, if I be taken at all.' This she had said
plainly enough. There should be no division between her and her
mother. But still knowing that her mother was not quite at ease,
she was hardly at ease herself.
Silverbridge came in at the last moment, and of course occupied a
chair next to Isabel. As the House was sitting, it was natural
that he should come in a flurry. 'I left Phineas,' he said,
'pounding away in his old style at Sir Timothy. By-the-bye,
Isabel, you must come down some day and hear Sir Timothy badgered.
I must be back again about ten. Well, Gerald, how are they all at
Lazarus?' He made an effort to be free and easy, but even he soon
found that it was an effort.
Gerald had come up from Oxford for the occasion that he might make
acquaintance with the Boncassens. He had taken Isabel in to
dinner, but had been turned out of his place when his brother came
in. He had been a little confused by the first impression made
upon him by Mrs Boncassen, and had involuntarily watched his
father. 'Silver is going to have an odd sort of mother-in-law,' he
said afterwards to Mary, who remarked in reply that this would not
signify, as the mother-in-law would be in New York.
Tregear's part was very difficult to play. He could not but feel
that though he had succeeded, still he was looked upon askance.
Silverbridge had told him that by degrees the Duke would be won
round, but that it was not to be expected that he should swallow
at once all his regrets. The truth of this could not but be
accepted. The immediate inconvenience, however, was not the less
felt. Each and everyone there knew the position of each and
everyone;--but Tregear felt it difficult to act up to his. He
could not play the well-pleased lover openly, as did Silverbridge.
Mary herself was disposed to be very silent. The heart-breaking
tedium of her dull life had been removed. Her determination had
been rewarded. All that she had wanted had been granted to her,
and she was happy. But she was not prepared to show off her
happiness before others. And she was aware that she was thought to
have done evil by introducing her lover into her august family.
But it was the Duke who made the greatest efforts, and with the
least success. He had told himself again and again that he was
bound be every sense of duty to swallow all regrets. He had taken
himself to task on this matter. He had done so even out loud to
his son. He had declared that he would 'let it all pass from' him.
But who does not know how hard it is for a man in such matters to
keep his word to himself? Who has not said to himself at the very
moment of his own delinquency, 'Now,--it is now,--at this very
instant of time, that I should abate my greed, or smother my ill-
humour, or abandon my hatred. It is now, and here, that I should
drive out the fiend, as I have sworn to myself that I would do.'--
and yet has failed?
That it would be done, would be done at last, by this man was very
certain. When Silverbridge assured his sister that 'it would all
come right very soon,' he had understood his father's character.
But it could not be completed quite at once. Had he been required
to take Isabel only to his heart, it would have been comparatively
easy. There are men, who do not seem at first sight very
susceptible to feminine attractions, who nevertheless are
dominated by the grace of flounces, who succumb to petticoats
unconsciously, and who are half in love with every woman merely
for her womanhood. So it was with the Duke. He had given way in
regard to Isabel with less than half the effort that Frank Tregear
was likely to cost him.
'You were not at the House, sir,' said Silverbridge when he felt
that there was a pause.
'No, not today.' Then there was a pause again.
'I think that we shall beat Cambridge this year to a moral,' said
Gerald, who was sitting at the round table opposite to his father.
Mr Boncassen, who was next him, asked, in irony probably rather
than in ignorance, whether the victory was to be achieved by
mathematical or classical proficiency. Gerald turned and looked
at him. 'Do you mean to say that you have never heard of the
University boat-races?'
'Papa, you have disgraced yourself for ever,' said Isabel.
'Have I, my dear? Yes, I have heard of them. But I thought Lord
Gerald's protestation was too great for a mere aquatic triumph.'
'Now you are poking your fun at me,' said Gerald.
'Well he may,' said the Duke sententiously. 'We have laid
ourselves very open to having fun poked at us in this matter.'
'I think,' said Tregear, 'that they are learning to do the same
sort of thing in American Universities.'
'Oh, indeed,' said the Duke in a solemn, dry, funereal tone. And
then all the little life which Gerald's remark about the boat-race
had produced, was quenched at once. The Duke was not angry with
Tregear for his little word of defence,--but he was not able to
bring himself into harmony with this one guest, and was almost
savage to him without meaning it. He was continually asking
himself why Destiny had been so hard upon him as to force him to
receive there at his table as his son-in-law a man who was
distasteful to him. And he was endeavouring to answer the
question, taking himself to task and telling himself that his
destiny had done him no injury, and that the pride which had been
wounded was a false pride. He was making a brave fight; but during
the fight he was hardly fit to be the genial father and father-in-
law of young people who were going to be married to one another.
But before the dinner was over he made a great effort. 'Tregear,'
he said,--and even that was an effort, for he had never hitherto
mentioned the man's name without the formal Mister, 'Tregear, as
this is the first time you have sat at my table, let me be old-
fashioned, and ask you to drink a glass of wine with me.'
The glass of wine was drunk and the ceremony afforded infinite
satisfaction to one person there. Mary could not keep herself from
some expression of joy by pressing her finger for a moment against
her lover's arm. He, though not usually given to such
manifestations, blushed up to his eyes. But the feeling produced
on the company was solemn rather than jovial. Everyone there
understood it all. Mr Boncassen could read the Duke's mind down to
the last line. Even Mrs Boncassen was aware that an act of
reconciliation had been intended. 'When the governor drank that
glass of wine it seemed as though half the marriage ceremony had
been performed,' Gerald said to his brother that evening. When the
Duke's glass was replaced on the table, he himself was conscious
of the solemnity of what he had done, and was half ashamed of it.
When the ladies had gone upstairs the conversation became
political and lively. The Duke could talk freely about the state
of things to Mr Boncassen, and was able gradually to include
Tregear in the badinage with which he attacked the conservatism of
his son. And so the half hour passed well. Upstairs the two girls
immediately came together, leaving Mrs Boncassen to chew the cud
of the grandeur around her in the sleepy comfort of an arm-chair.
'And so everything is settled for both of us,' said Isabel.
'Of course I knew it was to be settled for you. You told me so at
Custins.'
'I did not know it then. I only told you that he had asked me. And
you hardly believed me.'
'I certainly believed you.'
'But you knew about--Lady Mabel Grex.'
'I only suspected something, and now I know it was a mistake. It
has never been more than a suspicion.'
'And why, when we were at Custins, did you not tell me about
yourself?'
'I had nothing to tell.'
'I can understand that. But is it not joyful that it should all be
settled? Only poor Lady Mabel! You have got no Lady Mabel to
trouble your conscience.' From which it was evident that
Silverbridge had not told all.
CHAPTER 75
The Major's Story
By the end of March Isabel was in Paris, whither she had forbidden
her lover to follow her. Silverbridge was therefore reduced to the
shifts of a bachelor's life, in which his friends seemed to think
that he ought now to take special delight. Perhaps he did not take
much delight in them. He was no doubt impatient to commence that
steady married life for which he had prepared himself. But
nevertheless, just at present, he lived a good deal at the
Beargarden. Where was he to live? The Boncassens were in Paris,
his sister was at Matching with a houseful of other Pallisers, and
his father was again deep in politics.
Of course he was much in the House of Commons, but that also was
stupid. Indeed everything would be stupid till Isabel came back.
Perhaps dinner was more comfortable at the club than at the House.
And then, as everybody knew, it was a good thing to change the
scene. Therefore he dined at the club, and though he would keep
his hansom and do down to the House again in the course of the
evening, he spent many long hours at the Beargarden. 'There'll
very soon be an end of this as far as you are concerned,' said Mr
Lupton to him one evening as they were sitting in the smoking-room
after dinner.
'The sooner the better as far as this place is concerned.'
'This place is as good as any other. For the matter of that I like
the Beargarden since we got rid of two or three not very charming
characters.'
'You mean my poor friend Tifto,' said Silverbridge.
'No;--I was not thinking of Tifto. There were one or two here who
were quite as bad as Tifto. I wonder what has become of that poor
devil?'
'I don't know in the least. You heard of that row about the
hounds?'
'And his letter to you.'
'He wrote to me,--and I answered him, as you know. But whither he
vanished or what he is doing, or how he is living, I have not the
least idea.'
'Gone to join those other fellows abroad I should say. Among them
they got a lot of money,--as the Duke ought to remember.'
'He is not with them,' said Silverbridge, as though he were in
some degree mourning over the fate of his unfortunate friend.
'I suppose Captain Green was the leader in all that.'
'Now it is all done and gone I own to a certain regard for the
Major. He was true to me till he thought I snubbed him. I would
not let him go down to Silverbridge with me. I always thought that
I drove the poor Major to his malpractice.'
At this moment Dolly Longstaff sauntered into the room and came up
to them. It may be remembered that Dolly had declared his purpose
of emigrating. As soon as he heard that the Duke's heir had
serious thoughts of marrying the lady whom he loved he withdrew at
once from the contest, but, as he did so, he acknowledged that
there could be no longer a home for him in the country which
Isabel was to inhabit as the wife of another man. Gradually,
however, better thoughts returned to him. After all, what was she
but a 'pert poppet'? He determined that marriage 'clips a
fellow's wings confoundedly', and so he set himself to enjoy life
after his old fashion. There was perhaps a little swagger as he
threw himself into a chair and addressed the happy lover. 'I'll be
shot if I didn't meet Tifto at the corner of the street.'
'Tifto!'
'Yes, Tifto. He looked awfully seedy, with a greatcoat buttoned up
to his chin, a shabby hat and gloves.'
'Did he speak to you?' asked Silverbridge.
'No;--nor I to him. He hadn't time to think whether he would speak
or not, and you may be sure I didn't.'
Nothing further was said about the man, but Silverbridge was
uneasy and silent. When his cigar was finished he got up saying
that he should go back to the House. As he left the club he looked
about him as though expecting to see his old friend, and when he
had passed through the first street and had got into the Haymarket
there he was! The Major came up to him, touched his hat, asked to
be allowed to say a few words. 'I don't think it can do any good,'
said Silverbridge. The man had not attempted to shake hands with
him, or affected familiarity; but seemed to be thoroughly
humiliated. 'I don't think I can be of any service to you, and
therefore I had rather decline.'
'I don't want you to be of any service, my Lord.'
'Then what's the good?'
'I have something to say. May I come to you tomorrow?'
Then Silverbridge allowed himself to make an appointment, and an
hour was named at which Tifto might call into Carlton Terrace. He
felt that he almost owed some reparation to the wretched man,--whom
he had unfortunately admitted among his friends, whom he had used,
and to whom he had been uncourteous. Exactly at the hour named the
Major was shown into the room.
Dolly had said that he was shabby,--but the man was altered rather
than shabby. He still had rings on his fingers and studs in his
shirt, and a jewelled pin in his cravat,--but he had shaven off his
moustache and the tuft from his chin, and his hair had been cut
short, and in spite of his jewellery there was a hang-dog look
about him. 'I've got something that I particularly want to say to
you, my Lord.' Silverbridge would not shake hands with him, but
could not refrain from offering him a chair.
'Well;--you can say it now.'
'Yes;--but it isn't so very easy to be said. There are some things,
though you want to say them ever, so you don't quite know how to
do it.'
'You have your choice, Major Tifto. You can speak or hold your
tongue.'
Then there was a pause, during which Silverbridge sat with his
hands in his pockets trying to look unconcerned. 'But if you've
got it here, and feel it as I do,'--the poor man as he said this
put his hand upon his heart,--'you can't sleep in your bed till
it's out. I did that thing that they said I did.'
'What thing?'
'Why, the nail! It was I lamed the horse.'
'I am sorry for it. I can say nothing else.'
'You ain't so sorry for it as I am. Oh no; you can never be that,
my Lord. After all what does it matter to you.'
'Very little. I meant that I was sorry for your sake.'
'I believe you are, my Lord. For though you could be rough you was
always kind. Now I will tell you everything, and then you can do
as you please.'
'I wish to do nothing. As far as I am concerned the matter is
over. It made me sick of horses, and I do not wish to have to
think of it again.'
'Nevertheless, my Lord, I've got to tell it. It was Green who put
me up to it. He did it just for the plunder. As God is my judge it
was not for the money I did it.'
'Then it was revenge.'
'It was the devil got hold of me, my Lord. Up to that I had always
been square,--square as a die! I got to think that your Lordship
was upsetting. I don't know whether your Lordship remembers, but
you did put me down once or twice rather uncommon.'
'I hope I was not unjust.'
'I don't say you was, my Lord. But I got a feeling on me that you
wanted to get rid of me, and I all the time doing the best I could
for the 'orses. I did do the best I could up to that very morning
at Doncaster. Well;--it was Green put me up to it. I don't say I
was to get nothing; but it wasn't so much more than I could have
got by the 'orse winning. And I've lost pretty nearly all that I
did get. Do you remember, my Lord,'--and now the Major sank his
voice to a whisper,--'when I come up to your bedroom that morning?'
'I remember it.'
'The first time?'
'Yes; I remember it.'
'Because I came twice, my Lord. When I came first it hadn't been
done. You turned me out.'
'That is true, Major Tifto.'
'You was very rough then. Wasn't you rough?'
'A man's bedroom is generally supposed to be private.'
'Yes, my Lord,--that's true. I ought to have sent your man first. I
came then to confess it all, before it was done.'
'Then why couldn't you let the horse alone?'
'I was in their hands. And then you was so rough with me! So I
said to myself I might as well do it,--and I did it.'
'What do you want me to say? As far as my forgiveness goes, you
have it!'
'That saying a great deal, my Lord,--a great deal,' said Tifto, now
in tears. 'But I ain't said it all yet. He's here; in London!'
'Who's here.'
'Green. He's here. He doesn't think I know, but I could lay my
hands on him tomorrow.'
'There is no human being alive, Major Tifto, whose presence or
absence could be a matter of more indifference to me.'
'I'll tell you what I'll do, my Lord. I'll go before any judge, or
magistrate, or police-officer in the country, and tell the truth.
I won't ask even for a pardon. They shall punish me and him too.
I'm in that state of mind that any change would be for the better.
But he,--he ought to have it heavy.'
'It won't be done by me, Major Tifto. Look here, Major Tifto, you
have come here to confess that you have done me a great injury.'
'Yes, I have.'
'And you say you are sorry for it.'
'Indeed I am.'
'And I have forgiven you. There is only one way in which you can
show your gratitude. Hold your tongue about it. Let it be as a
thing done and gone. The money has been paid. The horse has been
sold. The whole thing has gone out of my mind, and I don't want to
have it brought back again.'
'And nothing is to be done to Green?'
'I should say nothing,--on that score.'
'And he has got they say five-and-twenty thousand pounds clear
money.'
'It is a pity, but it cannot be helped. I will have nothing
further to do with it. Of course I cannot bind you, but I have
told you my wishes.' The poor wretch was silent, but still it
seemed as though he did not wish to go quite yet. 'If you have
said what you have got to say, Major Tifto, I may as well tell you
that my time is engaged.'
'And must that be all?'
'What else?'
'I am in such a state of mind, Lord Silverbridge, that it would be
satisfaction to tell it all, even against myself.'
'I can't prevent you.'
Then Tifto got up from his chair, as though he were going. 'I wish
I knew what I was going to do with myself.'
'I don't know that I can help you, Major Tifto.'
'I suppose not, my Lord. I haven't twenty pounds left in all the
world. It's the only thing that wasn't square that ever I did in
all my life. Your Lordship couldn't do anything for me? We was
very much together at one time, my Lord.'
'Yes, Major Tifto, we were.'
'Of course I was a villain. But it was only once; and your
Lordship was so rough with me! I am not saying but what I was a
villain. Think of what I did for myself by that one piece of
wickedness! Master of Hounds! Member of the club! And the horse
would have run in my name and won the Leger! And everybody knew
as your Lordship and me was together in him!' Then he burst out
into a paroxysm of tears and sobbing.
The young Lord certainly could not take the man into partnership
again, nor could he restore to him either the hounds or his club,--
or his clean hands. Nor did he know in what way he could serve the
man, except by putting his hand into his pocket,--which he did.
Tifto accepted the gratuity, and ultimately became an annual
pensioner on his former noble partner, living on the allowance
made him in some obscure corner of South Wales.
CHAPTER 76
On Deportment
Frank Tregear had come up to town at the end of February. He
remained in London, with an understanding that he was not to see
Lady Mary again till the Easter holidays. He was then to pay a
visit to Matching, and to enter it, it may be presumed, on the
full fruition of his advantages as accepted suitor. All this had
been arranged with a good deal of precision,--as though there had
still been a hope left that Lady Mary might change her mind. Of
course there was no such hope. When the Duke asked the young man
to dine with him, when he invited him to drink that memorable
glass of wine, when the young man was allowed, in the presence of
the Boncassens, to sit next to Lady Mary, it was of course
settled. But the father probably found some relief in yielding by
slow degrees. 'I would rather that there should be no
correspondence till then,' he said both to Tregear and to his
daughter. And they had promised there should be no correspondence.
At Easter they would meet. After Easter Mary was to come up to
London to be present at her brother's wedding, to which also
Tregear had been formally invited; and it was hoped that then
something might be settled as to their own marriage. Tregear, with
the surgeon's permission, took his seat in Parliament. He was
introduced by two leading Members on the conservative side, but
immediately afterwards found himself seated next to his friend
Silverbridge on the top bench behind the ministers. The House was
very full, as there was a feverish report abroad that Sir Timothy
Beeswax intended to make a statement. No one quite knew what the
statement was to be; but every politician in the House and out of
it thought that he knew that the statement would be a bid for
higher power on the part of Sir Timothy himself. If there had been
dissensions in the Cabinet, the secret of them had been well kept.
To Tregear who was not as yet familiar with the House there was no
special appearance of activity; but Silverbridge could see that
there was more than wonted animation. That the Treasury bench
should be full at this time was a thing of custom. A whole
broadside of questions would be fired off, one after another, like
a rattle of musketry down the ranks, when as nearly as possible
the report of each gun is made to follow close upon that of the
gun before,--with this exception, that in such case each little
sound is intended to be as like as possible to the preceding,
whereas with the rattle of the questions and answers, each
question and each answer becomes a little more authoritative and
less courteous than the last. The Treasury bench was ready for its
usual responsive firing, as the questioners were of course in
their places. The opposition front bench was also crowded, and
those behind were nearly equally full. There were many Peers in
the gallery, and a general feeling of sensation prevailed. All
this Silverbridge had been long enough in the House to
appreciate;--but to Tregear the House was simply the House.
'It's odd enough we should have a row the very first day you
come,' said Silverbridge.
'You think there will be a row?'
'Beeswax has something special to say. He's not here yet you see.
They've left about six inches for him between Roper and Sir
Orlando. You'll have the privilege of looking just down on the top
of his head when he does come. I shan't stay much longer after
that.'
'Where are you going?'
'I don't mean today. But I should not have been here now,--in this
very place I mean,--but I want to stick to you just at first. I
shall move down below the gangway; and not improbably creep over
to the other side before long.'
'You don't mean it?'
'I think I shall. I begin to feel I've made a mistake.'
'In coming to this side at all?'
'I think I have. After all it is not very important.'
'What is not important? I think it is very important.'
'Perhaps it may be to you, and perhaps you may be able to keep it
up. But the more I think of it the less excuse I seem to have for
deserting the old ways of the family. What is there in those
fellows down there to make a fellow feel that he ought to bind
himself to them neck and heels?'
'Their principles.'
'Yes, their principles! I believe I have some vague idea as to
supporting property and land and all that kind of thing. I don't
know that anybody wants to attack anything.'
'Somebody soon would want to attack if there no defenders.'
'I suppose there is an outside power,--the people, or public
opinion, or whatever they choose to call it. And the country will
have to go very much as that outside power chooses. Here, in
Parliament, everybody will be as conservative as the outside will
let them. I don't think it matters on which side you sit;--but it
does matter that you shouldn't have to act with those who go
against the grain with you.'
'I never heard worse political arguments in my life.'
'I daresay not. However, there's Sir Timothy. When he looks in
that way, all buckram, deportment, and solemnity, I know he's
going to pitch into somebody.'
At this moment the Leader of the House came in from behind the
Speaker's chair and took his place between Mr Roper and Sir
Orlando Drought. When a man has to declare a solemn purpose on a
solemn occasion in a solemn place, it is needful that he should be
solemn himself. And though the solemnity which befits a man best
will be that which the importance of the moment may produce,
without thought given by himself to his own outward person, still,
who is there can refrain himself from some attempt? Who can boast,
who that has been versed in the ways and duties of high places,
that he has kept himself free from all study of grace, of feature,
or attitude, of gait--or even of dress? For most of our bishops,
for most of our judges, or our statesmen, our orators, our
generals, for many even of our doctors and our parsons, even our
attorneys, our taxgatherers, and certainly our butlers and our
coachmen. Mr Turveydrop, the great professor of deportment, has
done much. But there should always be the art to underlie and
protect the art;--the art that can hide the art. The really clever
archbishop,--the really potent chief justice, the man, who as a
politician, will succeed in becoming a king of men, should know
how to carry his buckram without showing it. It was in this that
Sir Timothy perhaps failed a little. There are men who look as
though they were born to wear blue ribbons. It has come, probably,
from study, but it seems to be natural. Sir Timothy did not impose
on those who looked at him as do these men. You see a little of
the paint, you could hear the crumple of the starch and the
padding; you could trace something of the uneasiness in the would-
be composed grandeur of the brow. 'Turveydrop!' the spectator
would say to himself. But after all it may be a question whether a
man be open to reproach for not doing that well which the greatest
among us,--if we could find one great enough,--would not do at all.
For I think we must hold that true personal dignity should be
achieved,--must, if it is to be quite true, have been achieved,--
without any personal effort. Though it be evinced, in part, by the
carriage of the body, that carriage should be the fruit of the
operation of the mind. Even when it be assisted by external
garniture such as special clothes, and wigs, and ornaments, such
garniture should be prescribed by the sovereign or by custom, and
should not have been selected by the wearer. In regard to speech a
man may study all that which may make him suasive, but if he go
beyond that he will trench on those histrionic efforts, which he
will know to be wrong because he will be ashamed to acknowledge
them. It is good to be beautiful, but it should come of God and
not of the hairdresser. And personal dignity is a great
possession; but a man should struggle for it no more than he would
for beauty. Many, however, do struggle for it, and with such
success that, though they do not achieve quite the real thing,
still they get something on which they can bolster themselves up
and be mighty.
Others, older men than Silverbridge, saw as much as did our young
friends, but they were more complaisant and more reasonable. They,
too, heard the crackle of the buckram, and were aware that the
last touch of awe had come upon that brow just as its owner was
emerging from the shadow of the Speaker's chair;--but to them it
was a thing of course. A real Csar is not to be found every day,
nor can we always have a Pitt to control our debates. That kind of
thing, that last touch has its effect. Of course it is all paint,--
but how would the poor girl look before the gaslights if there
were no paint? The House of Commons likes a little deportment on
occasions. If a special man looks bigger than you, you can console
yourself by reflecting that he also looks bigger than your
fellows. Sir Timothy probably knew what he was about, and did
himself on the whole more good than harm by his little tricks.
As soon as Sir Timothy had taken his seat, Mr Rattler got up from
the opposition bench to ask him some questions on a matter of
finance. The brewers were anxious about publican licences. Could
the Chancellor of the Exchequer say a word on the matter? Notice
had of course been given, and the questioner had stated a quarter
of an hour previously that he would postpone his query till the
Chancellor of the Exchequer was in the House.
Sir Timothy rose from his seat, and in his blandest manner began
by apologising for his late appearance. He was sorry that he had
been prevented by public business from being in place to answer
the honourable gentleman's question in proper turn. And even now,
he feared, that he must decline to give any answer which could be
supposed to be satisfactory. It would probably be his duty to make
a statement to the House on the following day,--a statement which
he was not quite prepared to make at the present moment. But in
the existing state of things he was unwilling to make any reply to
any question by which he might seem to bind the government to any
opinion. Then he sat down. And rising again not long afterwards,
when the House had gone through certain formal duties, he moved
that it should be adjourned till the next day. Then all the
members trooped out, and with the others Tregear and Lord
Silverbridge. 'So that is the end our your first day in
Parliament,' said Silverbridge.
'What does it all mean?'
'Let us go down to the Carlton and hear what the fellows are
saying.'
On that evening both the young men dined at Mr Boncassen's house.
Though Tregear had been cautioned not to write to Lady Mary, and
though he was not to see her before Easter, still it was so
completely understood that he was about to become her husband,
that he was entertained in that capacity by all those who were
concerned in the family. 'And so they will all go out,' said Mr
Boncassen.
'That seems to be the general idea,' said the expectant son-in-
law. 'When two men want to be first and neither will give way,
they can't very well get on in the same boat together.' Then he
expatiated angrily on the treachery of Sir Timothy, and Tregear in
a more moderate way joined in the same opinion.
'Upon my word, young men, I doubt whether you are right,' said Mr
Boncassen. 'Whether it can be possible that a man should have
risen to such a position with so little patriotism as you
attribute to our friend, I will not pretend to say. I should think
that in England it was impossible. But of this I am sure, that the
facility which exists here for a minister or ministers to go out
of office without disturbance of the Crown, is a great blessing.
You say the other party will come in.'
'That is most probable,' said Silverbridge.
'With us the other party never comes in,--never has a chance of
coming in,--except once in four years, when the President is
elected. That one event binds us for four years.'
'But you do change your ministers,' said Tregear.
'A secretary may quarrel with the President, or he may have the
gout, or be convicted of peculation.'
'And yet you think yourselves more nearly free than we are.'
'I am not so sure of that. We have had a pretty difficult task,
that of carrying on a government in a new country, which is
nevertheless more populous than almost any old country. The
influxions are so rapid, that every ten years the nature of the
people is changed. It isn't easy; and though I think on the whole
we've done pretty well, I am not going to boast that Washington is
as yet a seat of political Paradise.'
CHAPTER 77
'Mabel, Good-Bye'
When Tregear first came to town with his arm in a sling, and
bandages all round him,--in order that he might be formally
accepted by the Duke,--he had himself taken to one other house
besides the house in Carlton Terrace. He went to Belgrave Square,
to announce his fate to Lady Mabel Grex;--but Lady Mabel Grex was
not there. The Earl was ill at Brighton, and Lady Mabel had gone
down to nurse him. The old woman who came to him in the hall told
him that the Earl was very ill;--he had been attacked by the gout,
but in spite of the gout, and in spite of the doctors, he had
insisted on being taken to his club. Then he had been removed to
Brighton, under the doctor's advice, chiefly in order that he
might be kept out of the way of temptation. Now he was supposed to
be very ill indeed. 'My Lord is so imprudent!' said the old woman,
shaking her old head in real unhappiness. For though the Earl had
been a tyrant to everyone near him, yet when a poor woman becomes
old it is something to have a tyrant to protect her. 'My Lord!'
always had been imprudent. Tregear knew that it had been the
theory of my Lord's life that to eat and drink, and die was better
than to abstain and live. Then Tregear wrote to his friend as
follows:
'MY DEAR MABEL,
'I am up in town again as you will perceive, although I am still
in a helpless condition and hardly able to write even this letter.
I called today and was very sorry to hear so bad an account of
your father. Had I been able to travel I should have come down to
you. When I am able I will do so if you would wish to see me. In
the meantime pray tell me how he is, and how you are.
'My news is this. The Duke accepted me. It is great news to me,
and I hope will be acceptable to you. I do believe that if a
friend has been anxious for a friend's welfare you have been
anxious for mine,--as I have been and ever shall be for yours.'
'Of course this thing will be very much to me. I will not speak
now of my love for the girl who is to become my wife. You might
again call me Romeo. Nor do I like to say much of what may now be
pecuniary prospects. I did not ask Mary to become my wife because
I supposed she would be rich. But I could not have married her or
anyone else who had not money. What are the Duke's intentions I
have not the slightest idea, nor shall I ask him. I am to go down
to Matching at Easter, and shall endeavour to have some time
fixed. I suppose the Duke will say something about money. If he
does not, I shall not.
'Pray write me at once, and tell me when I shall see you.
'Your affectionate Cousin,
'F. O. TREGEAR.'
In answer to this there came a note in a very few words. She
congratulated him,--not very warmly,--but expressed a hope that she
might see him soon. But she told him not to come to Brighton. The
Earl was better but very cross, and she would be up in town before
long.
Towards the end of the month it became suddenly known in London
that Lord Grex had died at Brighton. There was a Garter to be
given away, and everybody was filled with regret that such an
ornament to the Peerage should have departed from them. The
conservative papers remembered how excellent a politician he had
been in his younger days, and the world was informed that the
family of Grex of Grex was about the oldest in Great Britain of
which authentic records were in existence. Then there came another
note from Lady Mabel to Tregear.
'I shall be in town on the thirty-first in the old house, with
Miss Cassewary, and will see you if can come down on the first.
Come early, at eleven, if you can.'
On the day named and at the hour fixed he was in Belgrave Square.
He had known this house since he was a boy, and could well
remember how, when he first entered it, he had thought with some
awe of the grandeur of the Earl. The Earl had then not paid much
attention to him, but he had become very much taken with the grace
and good nature of the girl who had owned him as a cousin. 'You
are my cousin, Frank,' she had said; 'I am so glad to have a
cousin.' He could remember the words now as though they had been
spoken only yesterday. Then there had quickly grown to be
friendship between him and this, as he thought, sweetest of all
girls. At that time he had just gone to Eton; but before he left
Eton they had sworn to love each other. And so it had been and the
thing had grown, till at last, just when he had taken his degree
two matters had been settled between them; the first was that each
loved the other irretrievably, irrevocably, passionately; the
second, that it was altogether out of the question that they
should ever marry each other.
It is but fair to Tregear to say that this last decision
originated with the lady. He had told her that he certainly would
hold himself engaged to marry her at some future time; but she had
thrown this aside at once. How was it possible, she said, that two
such beings, brought up in luxury, and taught to enjoy all the
good things of the world, should expect to live and be happy
together without an income? He offered to go to the bar;--but she
asked him whether he thought it well that such a one as she should
wait say a dozen years for such a process. 'When the time comes, I
should be an old woman and you would be a wretched man.' She
released him,--declared her own purpose of marrying well; and then,
though there had been a moment in which her own assurance of her
own love had been passionate enough, she went so far as to tell
him that she was heartwhole. 'We have been two foolish children
but we cannot be children any longer,' she said. 'There must be an
end of it.'
What had hitherto been the result of this the reader knows,--and
Tregear knew also. He had taken the privilege given to him, and
had made so complete a use of it that he had in truth transferred
his heart as well as his allegiance. Where is the young man who
cannot do so;--how few are there who do not do so when their first
passion has come on them at one-and-twenty? And he had thought
that she would do the same. But gradually he found that she had
not done so, did not do so, could not do so! When she first heard
of Lady Mary she had not reprimanded him,--but she could not keep
herself from showing the bitterness of her disappointment. Though
she would still boast of her own strength and of her own purpose,
yet it was too clear to him that she was wounded and very sore.
She would have liked him to remain single at any rate till she
herself had married. But the permission had hardly been given
before he availed himself of it. And then he talked to her not
only of the brilliancy of his prospects,--which she would have
forgiven,--but of his love--his love!
Then she had refused one offer after another, and he had known it
all. There was nothing in which she was concerned that she did not
tell him. Then young Silverbridge had come across her, and she had
determined that he should be her husband. She had been nearly
successful,--so nearly that at moments she felt sure of success.
But the prize had slipped from her through her own fault. She knew
well enough that it was her own fault. When a girl submits to play
such a game as that, she could not stand on too nice scruples. She
had told herself this many a time since;--but the prize was gone.
All this Tregear knew, and knowing it almost dreaded the coming
interview. He could not without actual cruelty have avoided her.
Had he done so before he could not have continued to do so now,
when she was left alone in the world. Her father had not been much
to her, but still his presence had enabled her to put herself
before the world as being somebody. Now she would be almost
nobody. And she had lost her rich prize, while he,--out of the same
treasury as it were,--had won his!
The door opened to him by the same old woman, and he was shown, at
a funereal pace, up into the drawing-room which he had known so
well. He was told that Lady Mabel would be down to him directly.
As he looked about him he could see that already had been
commenced that work of division of spoil which is sure to follow
the death of most of us. Things were already gone which used to be
familiar to his eyes, and the room, though not dismantled, had
been deprived of many of its little prettiness and was ugly.
In about ten minutes she came down to him,--with so soft a step
that he would not have been aware of her entrance had he not seen
her form in the mirror. Then, when he turned round to greet her,
he was astonished by the blackness of her appearance. She looked
as though she had become ten years older since he had last seen
her. As she came up to him she was grave and almost solemn in her
gait, but there was no sign of any tears. Why should there have
been a tear? Women weep, and men too, not from grief, but from
emotion. Indeed, grave and slow as she was her step, and serious,
almost solemn, as was her gait, there was something of a smile on
her mouth as she gave him her hand. And yet her face was very sad,
declaring to him too plainly something of the hopelessness of her
heart. 'And so the Duke has consented,' she said. He had told her
that in his letter, but since that, her father had died, and she
had been left, he did not as yet know how impoverished, but, he
feared, with no pleasant worldly prospects before her.
'Yes, Mabel;--that I suppose will be settled. I have been so
shocked to hear all this.'
'It has been very sad;--has it not? Sit down, Frank. You and I
have a good deal to say to each other now that we have met. It was
no good your going down to Brighton. He would not have seen you,
and at last I never left him.'
'Was Percival there?' She only shook her head. 'That was
dreadful.'
'It was not Percival's fault. He would not see him; nor till the
last hour or two would he believe in his own danger. Nor was he
ever to frightened for a moment,--not even then.'
'Was he good to you?'
'Good to me! Well;--he liked my being there. Poor papa! It had
gone so far with him that he could not be good to any one. I think
that he felt that it would be unmanly not to be the same till the
end.'
'He would not see Percival.'
'When it was suggested he would only ask what good Percival could
do him. I did send for him at last, in my terror, but he did not
see his father alive. When he did come he only told me how badly
his father had treated him! It was very dreadful!'
'I did so feel for you.'
'I am sure you did, and will. After all, Frank, I think that the
pious godly people have the best of it in this world. Let them be
ever so covetous, ever so false, ever so hard-hearted, the mere
fact that they must keep up appearances, makes them comfortable to
those around them. Poor papa was not comfortable to me. A little
hypocrisy, a little sacrifice to the feelings of the world, may be
such a blessing.'
'I am sorry that you should feel it so.'
'Yes; it is sad. But you;--everything is smiling with you! Let us
talk about your plans.'
'Another time will do for that. I had come to hear about your own
affairs.'
'There they are,' she said, pointing round the room. 'I have no
other affairs. You see that I am going from here.'
'And where are you going?' She shook her head. 'With whom will
you live?'
'With Miss Cass,--two old maids together. I know nothing further.'
'But about money? That is if I am justified in asking.'
'What would you not be justified in asking? Do you not know that
I would tell you every secret of my own heart;--if my heart had a
secret? It seems that I have given up what was to have been my
fortune. There was a claim of twelve thousand pounds on Grex. But
I have abandoned it.'
'And there is nothing?'
'There will be scrapings they tell me,--unless Percival refuses to
agree. This house is mortgaged, but not for its value. And there
are some jewels. But all that is detestable,--a mere grovelling
among mean hundreds; whereas you,--you will soar among--'
'Oh Mabel! do not say hard things to me.'
'No, indeed! why should I,--I who have been preaching that
comfortable doctrine of hypocrisy? I will say nothing hard. But I
would sooner talk of your good things than my evil ones.'
'I would not.'
'Then you must talk about them for my sake. How was it that the
Duke came round at last?'
'I hardly know. She sent for me.'
'A fine high-spirited girl. These Pallisers have more courage
about them than one expects from their outward manner.
Silverbridge has plenty of it.'
'I remember telling you he could be obstinate.'
'And I remember that I did not believe you. Now I know it. He has
that sort of pluck which enables a man to break a girl's heart,--or
to destroy a girl's hopes,--without wincing. He can tell a girl to
her face that she can go to the--mischief for him. There are so
many men who can't do that, from cowardice, though their hearts be
ever so well inclined. "I have changed my mind." There is
something great in the courage of a man who can say that to a
woman in so many words. Most of them, when they escape by lies and
subterfuges. Or they run away and won't allow themselves to be
heard of. They trust to a chapter of accidents, and leave things
to arrange themselves. But when a man can look a girl in the face
with those seemingly soft eyes, and say with that seemingly soft
mouth,--"I have changed my mind",--though she would look him dead in
return, if she could, still she must admire him.'
'Are you speaking of Silverbridge now?'
'Of course I am speaking of Silverbridge. I suppose I ought to
hide it all and not tell you. But as you are the only person I do
tell, you must put up with me. Yes;--when I taxed him with his
falsehood,--for he had been false,--he answered me with those very
words! "I have changed my mind." He could not lie. To speak the
truth was a necessity to him, even at the expense of his
gallantry, almost of his humanity.'
'Has he been false to you, Mabel?'
'Of course he has. But there is nothing to quarrel about if you
mean that. People do not quarrel now about such things. A girl has
to fight her own battle with her own pluck and her own wits. As
with these weapons she is generally stronger than her enemy, she
succeeds sometimes although everything else is against her. I
think I am courageous, but his courage beat mine. I craned at the
first fence. When he was willing to swallow my bait, my hand was
not firm enough to strike the hook in his jaws. Had I not quailed
then I think I should have-"had him".'
'It is horrid to hear you talk like this.' She was leaning over
from her seat, looking black as she was, so much older than her
wont, with something about her of the unworldly serious
thoughtfulness which a mourning always gives. And yet her words
were so worldly, so unfeminine!
'I have got to tell the truth to somebody. It was so, just as I
have said. Of course I did not love him. How could I love him
after what has passed? But there need have been nothing much in
that. I don't suppose that Duke's eldest sons often get married
for love.'
'Miss Boncassen loves him.'
'I dare say the beggar's daughter loved King Cophetua. When you
come to distances such as that, there can be love. The very fact
that a man should have descended so far in the quest of beauty,--
the flattery of it alone,--will produce love. When the angels came
after the daughters of men of course the daughters of men loved
them. The distance between him and me is not great enough to have
produced that sort of worship. There was no reason why Lady Mabel
Grex should not be good enough wife for the son of the Duke of
Omnium.'
'Certainly not.'
'And therefore I was not struck, as by the shining of la light
from heaven. I cannot say that I loved him, Frank,--I am beyond
worshipping even an angel from heaven.'
'Then I do not know that you can blame him,' he said very
seriously.
'Just so;--and as I have chosen to be honest I have told him
everything. But I had my revenge first.'
'I would have said nothing.'
'You would have recommended--delicacy! No doubt you think that
women should be delicate let them suffer what they may. A woman
should not let it be known that she has any human nature in her. I
had him on the hip, and for a moment I used my power. He had
certainly done me a wrong. He had asked for my love,--and with the
delicacy which you commend, I had not at once grasped at all that
such a request conveyed. Then, as he told me so frankly, he
"changed his mind"! Did he not wrong me?'
'He should not have raised false hopes.'
'He told me that--he had changed his mind. I think I loved him then
as nearly as I ever did,--because he looked me full in the face.
Then,--I told him that I had never cared for him, and that he need
have nothing on his conscience. But I doubt whether he was glad to
hear it. Men are so vain! I have talked too much about myself.
And so you are to be the Duke's son-in-law. And she will have
hundreds of thousands.'
'Thousands perhaps, but I do not think very much about it. I feel
that he will provide for her.'
'And that you, having secured her, can creep under his wing like
an additional ducal chick. It is very comfortable. The Duke will
be quite a Providence to you. I wonder that all young gentlemen do
not marry heiresses;--it is so easy. And you have got your seat in
Parliament too! Oh, your luck! When I look back upon it all it
seems so hard to me! It was for you;--for you that I used to be
anxious. Now it is I who have not an inch of ground to stand
upon.' Then he approached her and put out his hand to her. 'No,'
she said, putting both her hands behind her back, 'for God's sake
let there be no tenderness. But is it not cruel? Think of my
advantages at that moment when you and I agreed that our paths
should be separate. My fortune then had not been made quite
shipwreck by my father and brother. I had before me all that
society could offer. I was called handsome and clever. Where was
there a girl more likely to make her way to the top?'
'You may do still.'
'No;--no;--I cannot. And you at least should not tell me so. I did
not know then the virulence of the malady which had fallen on me.
I did not know that, because of you, other men would have been
abhorrent to me. I thought that I was as easy-hearted as you have
proved yourself.'
'How cruel you can be.'
'Have I done anything to interfere with you? Have I said a word
even to that young lad when I might have said a word? Yes; to him
I did say something; but I waited, and would not say it, while a
word could hurt you. Shall I tell you what I told him? Just
everything that has ever happened between you and me.'
'You did?'
'Yes;--because I saw that I could trust him. I told him because I
wanted him to be quite sure that I had never loved him. But,
Frank, I have put no spoke in your wheel. There has not been a
moment since you told me of your love for this rich young lady in
which I would not have helped you had help been in my power.
Whomever I may have harmed, I have never harmed you.'
'Am I not as clear from blame towards you?'
'No, Frank. You have done me the terrible evil of ceasing to love
me.'
'It was at your own bidding.'
'Certainly! But if I were to bid you to cut your throat, would
you do it?'
'Was it not you who decided that we could not wait for each
other?'
'And should it not have been for you to decide that you would
wait?'
'You also would have married.'
'It almost angers me that you should not see the difference. A
girl unless she marries becomes nothing, as I have become nothing
now. A man does not want a pillar on which to lean. A man, when he
has done as you have done with me, and made a girl's heart all his
own, even though his own heart had been flexible and plastic as
yours is, should have been true to her, at least for a while. Did
it never occur to you that you owed something to me?'
'I have always owed you very much.'
'There should have been some touch of chivalry if not of love to
make you feel that a second passion should have been postponed for
a year or two. You could wait without growing old. You might have
allowed yourself a little space to dwell--I was going to say on the
sweetness of your memories. But they were not sweet, Frank, they
were not sweet to you.'
'These rebukes, Mabel, will rob them of their sweetness,--for a
time.'
'It is gone; all gone,' she said, shaking her head,--'gone from me
because I have been so easily deserted; gone from you because the
change has been so easy to you. How long was it, Frank, after you
had left me before you were basking happily in the smiles of Lady
Mary Palliser?'
'It was not very long, as months go.'
'Say days, Frank.'
'I have to defend myself, and I will do so with truth. It was not
very long,--as months go; but why should it have been less long,
whether for months or days? I had to cure myself of a wound.'
'To put plaster on a scratch, Frank.'
'And the sooner a man can do that the more manly he is. Is it a
sign of strength to wail under a sorrow that cannot be cured,--or
of truth to perpetuate the appearance of a woe?'
'Has it been an appearance with me?'
'I am speaking of myself now. I am driven to speak of myself by
the bitterness of your words. It was you who decided.'
'You accepted my decision easily.'
'Because it was based not only on my unfitness for such a
marriage, but on yours. When I saw that there would be perhaps
some years of misery for you, of course I accepted your decision.
The sweetness had been very sweet to me.'
'Oh Frank, was it ever sweet to you?'
'And the triumph of it had been very great. I had been assured of
the love of her who among all the high ones of the world seemed to
me to be the highest. Then came your decision. Do you really
believe that I could abandon the sweetness, that I could be robbed
of my triumph, that I could think I could never again be allowed
to put my arm round your waist, never again feel your cheek close
to mine, that I should lose all that had seemed left to me among
the gods, without feeling it?'
'Frank, Frank!' she said, rising to her feet, and stretching out
her hands as though she were going to give him back all these
joys.
'Of course I felt it. I did not then know what was before me.'
When he said this she sank immediately back upon her seat. 'I was
wretched enough. I had lost a limb and could not walk; my eyes,
and must always hereafter be blind; my fitness to be among men,
and must always hereafter be secluded. It is so that a man is
stricken down when some terrible trouble comes upon him. But it is
given to him to retrick his beams.'
'You have retricked yours.'
'Yes;--and the strong man will show his strength by doing it
quickly. Mabel, I sorrowed for myself greatly when that word was
spoken, partly because I thought that your love could be so easily
taken from me. And, since I have found that it has not been so, I
have sorrowed for you also. But I do not blame myself, and I will
not submit to have blame even from you.' She stared at him in the
face as he said this. 'A man should never submit to blame.'
'But if he has deserved it?'
'Who is to be the judge? But why should we contest this? You do
not really wish to trample on me!'
'No;--not that.'
'Nor to disgrace me; nor to make me feel myself disgraced in my
own judgement?' Then there was a pause for some moments as though
he had left her without another word to say. 'Shall I go now?' he
asked.
'Oh Frank!'
'I fear that my presence only makes you unhappy.'
'Then what will your absence do? When shall I see you again?
But, no; I will not see you again. Not for many days,--not for
years. Why should I? Frank, is it wicked that I should love you?'
He could only shake his head in answer to this. 'If it be so
wicked that I must be punished for it eternally, still I love you.
I can never, never, never love another. You cannot understand it.
Oh God,--that I had never understood it myself! I think, I think,
that I would go with you now anywhere, facing all misery, all
judgements, all disgrace. You know, do you not, that if it were
possible, I should not say so. But as I know that you would not
stir a step with me, I do say so.'
'I know that it is not meant.'
'It is meant, though it could not be done. Frank, I must not see
her, not for awhile; not for years. I do not wish to hate her, but
how can I help it? Do you remember when she flew into your arms
in this room?'
'I remember it.'
'Of course you do. It is your great joy now to remember that, and
such like. She must be very good! Though I hate her!'
'Do not say that you hate her, Mabel.'
'Though I hate her she must be good. It was a fine and brave thing
to do. I have done it; but never before the world like that; have
I, Frank? Oh, Frank, I shall never do it again. Go now, and do
not touch me. Let us both pray that in ten years we may meet as
passionate friends.' He came to her hardly knowing what he meant,
but purposing, as though by instinct, to take her hand as he
parted from her. But she, putting both her hands before her face,
and throwing herself on to the sofa, buried her head among the
cushions.
'Is there not to be another word?' he said. Lying as she did, she
still was able to make a movement of dissent and he left her,
muttering just one word between his teeth, 'Mabel, good-bye.'
CHAPTER 78
The Duke Returns to Office
That farewell took place on the Friday morning. Tregear as he
walked out of the Square knew now that he had been the cause of a
great shipwreck. At first when that passionate love had been
declared,--he could hardly remember whether with the fullest
passion by him or by her,--he had been as a god walking upon air.
That she who seemed to be so much above him should have owned that
she was all his own seemed then to be world enough for him. For a
few weeks he lived a hero to himself, and was able to tell
himself that for him, the glory of a passion was sufficient. In
those halcyon moments no common human care is allowed to intrude
itself. To one who has thus entered in upon the heroism of romance
his own daily work, his dinners, clothes, income, father and
mother, sisters and brothers, his own street and house are
nothing. Hunting, shooting, rowing, Alpine-climbing, even speeches
in Parliament,--if they perchance have been attained to,--all become
leather or prunella. The heavens have been opened to him and he
walks among them like a god. So it had been with Tregear. Then had
come the second phase of his passion,--which is not uncommon young
men who soar high in their first assaults. He was told that it
would not do; and was not so told by the hard-pressed parent, but
by the young lady herself. And she had spoken so reasonably, that
he had yielded, and had walked away with the sudden feeling of a
vile return to his own mean belongings, to his lodgings, and his
income, which not a few ambitious young men have experienced. But
she had convinced him. Then had come the journey to Italy, and the
reader knows all the rest. He certainly had not derogated in
transferring his affections,--but it may be doubted whether in his
second love he had walked among the stars as in the first. A man
can hardly mount twice among the stars. But he had been as eager,--
and as true. And he had succeeded, without any flaw on his
conscience. It had been agreed, when that first disruption took
place, that he and Mabel should be friends; and, as to friends, he
had told her of his hopes. When first she had mingled something of
sarcasm in her congratulations, though it had annoyed him, it had
hardly made him unhappy. When she called him Romeo and spoke of
herself as Rosaline, he took her remark as indicating some
petulance rather than an enduring love. That had been womanly and
he could forgive it. He had his other great and solid happiness to
support him. Then he had believed that she would soon marry, if
not Silverbridge, then some other fitting young nobleman, and that
all would be well. But now things were very far from well. The
storm which was now howling round her afflicted her much.
Perhaps the bitterest feeling of all was that her love should have
been so much stronger, so much more enduring than his own. He
could not but remember how in his first agony he had blamed her
because she had declared that they should be severed. He had then
told himself that such severing would be to him impossible, and
that her nature been as high as his, it would have been as
impossible to her. Which nature must he now regard as the higher?
She had done her best to rid herself of the load of her passion
and had failed. But he had freed himself with convenient haste.
All that he had said as the manliness of conquering grief had been
wise enough. But still he could not quit himself of some feeling
of disgrace in that he had changed and she had not. He tried to
comfort himself with reflecting that Mary was all his own,--that in
the matter he had been victorious and happy;--but for an hour or
two he thought more of Mabel than Mary.
When the time came in which he could employ himself he called for
Silverbridge, and they walked together across the park to
Westminster. Silverbridge was gay and full of eagerness as to the
coming ministerial statement, but Tregear could not turn his mind
from the work of the morning. 'I don't seem to care very much
about it,' he said at last.
'I do care very much,' said Silverbridge.
'What difference will it make?'
'I breakfasted with the governor this morning, and I have not seen
him in such good spirits since,--well for a long time.' The date
to which Silverbridge would have referred, had he not checked
himself was that of the evening on which it had been agreed
between him and his father that Mabel Grex should be promoted to
the seat of the highest honour in the house of Palliser,--but that
was a matter which must henceforward be buried in silence. 'He did
not say much, but I feel perfectly sure that he and Mr Monk have
arranged a new government.'
'I don't see any matter for joy in that to Conservatives like you
and me.'
'He is my father,--and as he is going to be your father-in-law I
should have thought that you would have been pleased.'
'Oh, yes;--if he likes it. But I have heard so often of the
crushing cares of office, and I had thought that of all living men
he had been the most crushed by them.'
All that had to be done in the House of Commons on that afternoon
was finished before five o'clock. By half-past five the House, and
all the purlieus of the House, were deserted. And yet at four,
immediately after prayers, there had been such a crowd that
members had been unable to find seats! Tregear and Silverbridge
having been early succeeded, but those who had been less careful
were obliged to listen as best they could in the galleries. The
stretching out of necks and the holding of hands behind the ears
did not last long. Sir Timothy had not much to say, but what he
did say was spoken with dignity which seemed to anticipate future
exaltation rather than present downfall. There had arisen a
question in regard to revenue,--he need hardly tell them that it
was the question in reference to brewers' licences which the
honourable gentlemen opposite had alluded on the previous day,--as
to which unfortunately he was not in accord with his noble friend
the Prime Minister. Under the circumstances it was hardly possible
that they should at once proceed to business, and he therefore
moved that the House should stand adjourned till Tuesday next.
That was the whole statement.
Not very long afterwards the Prime Minister made another statement
in the House of Lords. As the Chancellor of the Exchequer had very
suddenly resigned and had thereby broken up the Ministry, he had
found himself compelled to place his resignation in the hands of
her Majesty. Then that House was also adjourned. On that
afternoon all the clubs were alive with admiration at the great
cleverness played by Sir Timothy in this transaction. It was not
only that he had succeeded in breaking up the Ministry, and that
he had done this without incurring violent disgrace; but he had
done it as to throw all the reproach upon his late unfortunate
colleague. It was thus that Mr Lupton explained it. Sir Timothy
had been at the pains to ascertain on what matters connected with
the revenue, Lord Drummond--or Lord Drummond's closest advisers,--
had opinions of their own, opinions strong enough not to be
abandoned, and having discovered that, he also discovered
arguments on which to found an exactly opposite opinion. But as
the Revenue had been entrusted specially to his unworthy hands, he
was entitled to his own opinion in the matter. 'The majority of
the House,' said Mr Lupton, 'and the entire public, will no doubt
give him credit for self-abnegation.'
All this happened on the Friday. During the Saturday it was
considered probable that the Cabinet would come to terms with
itself, and that internal wounds would be healed. The general
opinion was that Lord Drummond would give way. But on the Sunday
morning it was understood that Lord Drummond would not yield. It
was reported that Lord Drummond was willing to purchase his
separation from Sir Timothy even at the expense of his office.
That Sir Timothy should give way seemed to be impossible. Had he
done so it would have been impossible for him to recover the
respect of the House. Then it was rumoured that two or three
others had gone with Sir Timothy. And on Monday morning it was
proclaimed that the Prime Minister was not in a position to
withdraw his resignation. On the Tuesday the House met and Mr Monk
announced, still from Opposition benches, that he had that morning
been with the Queen. Then there was another adjournment, and all
the Liberals knew that the gates of Paradise were again about to
be opened to them.
This is only interesting to us as affecting the happiness and
character of the Duke. He had consented to assist Mr Monk in
forming a government, and to take office under Mr Monk's
leadership. He had had many contests with himself before he could
bring himself to this submission. He knew that if anything could
once again make him contented it would be work; he knew that if he
could serve his country it was his duty to serve it; and he knew
also that it was only by the adhesion of such men as himself that
the tradition of his party could be maintained. But he had been
Prime Minister,--and he was sure he could never be Prime Minister
again. There are in all matters certain little, almost hidden,
signs, by which we can measure within our own bosoms the extent of
our successes and our failures. Our Duke's friends had told him
that his Ministry had been serviceable to the country; but no one
had ever suggested to him that he would again be asked to fill the
place which he had filled. He had stopped a gap. He would
beforehand have declared himself willing to serve his country even
in this way; but having done so,--having done that and no more than
that,--he felt that he had failed. He had in soreness declared to
himself that he would never more take office. He had much to do to
overcome this promise to himself;--but when he had brought himself
to submit he was certainly a happier man.
There was no going to see the Queen. That on the present occasion
was done simply by Mr Monk. But on the Wednesday morning is name
appeared in the list of the new Cabinet as President of the
Council. He was perhaps a little fidgety, a little too anxious to
employ himself and to be employed, a little too desirous of
immediate work;--but still he was happy and gracious to all those
around him. 'I suppose you like that particular office,'
Silverbridge said to him.
'Well; yes;--not best of all, you know,' and he smiled as he made
this admission.
'You mean Prime Minister.'
'No, indeed I don't. I am inclined to think that the Premier
should always sit in your House. No, Silverbridge, if I could have
my way,--which is of course impossible, for I cannot put off my
honours,--I would return to my old place. I would return to the
Exchequer where the work is hard and certain, where a man can do,
or at any rate attempt to do, some special thing. A man there if
he stick to that and does not travel beyond it, need not be
popular, need not be a partisan, need not be eloquent, need not be
a courtier. He should understand his profession, as should a
lawyer or doctor. If he does that thoroughly he can serve his
country without recourse to that parliamentary strategy for which
I know that I am unfit.'
'You can't do that in the House of Lords, sir.'
'No; no. I wish the title could have passed over my head,
Silverbridge, and gone to you at once. I think we both should have
been suited better. But there are things which one should not
consider. Even in this place I may perhaps do something. Shall you
attack us very bitterly?'
'I am the only man who does not mean to change.'
'How so?'
'I shall stay where I am,--on the Government side of the House.'
'Are you clear about that, my boy?'
'Quite clear.'
'Such changes should not be made without very much consideration.'
'I have already written to them at Silverbridge and have had three
or four answers. Mr De Boung says that the borough is more than
grateful. Mr Sprout regrets it much, and suggests a few months'
consideration. Mr Sprugeon seems to think it does not much
signify.'
'That is hardly complimentary.'
'No;--not to me. But he is very civil to the family. As long as a
Palliser represents the borough, Mr Sprugeon thinks that it does
not matter on which side he may sit. I have had my little vagary,
and I don't think that I shall change again.'
'I suppose that it is your republican bride-elect that has done
that,' said the Duke laughing.
CHAPTER 79
The First Wedding
As Easter Sunday fell on the seventeenth of April, and as the
arrangement of the new Cabinet, with its inferior offices, was not
completed till the sixth of that month, there was only just time
for the new elections before the holidays. Mr Monk sat on his
bench so comfortably that he hardly seemed ever to have been off
it. And Phineas Finn resumed the peculiar ministerial tone of
voice just as though he had never allowed himself to use the free
and indignant strains of the opposition. As to a majority,--nothing
as yet was known about that. Some few besides Silverbridge might
probably transfer themselves to the Government. None of the
ministers lost their seats in the new elections. The opposite
party seemed for a while to have been paralysed by the defection
of Sir Timothy, and men who liked a quiet life were able to
comfort themselves with the reflection that nothing could be done
this session.
For our loves this was convenient. Neither of them would have
allowed their parliamentary energies to have interfered at such a
crisis with his domestic affairs; but still it was well to have
time at command. The day for the marriage of Isabel and
Silverbridge had been now fixed. That was to take place on the
Wednesday after Easter, and was to be celebrated by special royal
favour in the chapel at Whitehall. All the Pallisers would be
there, and all the relations of the Pallisers, all the
ambassadors, and of course all the Americans in London. It would
be a 'wretched grind', as Silverbridge said, but it had to be
done. In the meantime the whole party, including the new President
of the Council, were down at Matching. Even Isabel, though it must
be presumed that she had much to do in looking after her bridal
garments, was able to be there for a day or two. But Tregear was
the person to whom this visit was of the greatest importance.
He had been allowed to see Lady Mary in London, but hardly to do
more than see her. With her he had been alone for about five
minutes, and then the cruel circumstances,--circumstances, however,
which were not permanently cruel,--had separated them. All their
great difficulties had been settled, and no doubt they were happy.
Tregear, though he had been as it were received into grace by that
glass of wine, still had not entered into the intimacies of the
house. This he felt himself. He had been told that he had better
restrain himself from writing to Mary, and he had restrained
himself. He had therefore no immediate opportunity of creeping
into that perfect intimacy with the house and household which is
generally accorded to a promised son-in-law.
On this occasion he travelled down alone, and as he approached the
house he, who was not by nature timid, felt himself to be somewhat
cowed. That the Duke should not be cold to him was almost
impossible. Of course he was there in opposition to the Duke's
wishes. Even Silverbridge had never quite liked the match. Of
course he was to have all that he desired. Of course he was the
most fortunate of men. Of course no man had ever stronger reason
to be contented with the girl he loved. But still his heart was a
little low as he was driven up to the door.
The first person he saw was the Duke himself, who, as the fly from
the station arrived, was returning from his walk. 'You are welcome
to Matching,' he said, taking off his hat with something of
ceremony. This was said before the servants, but Tregear was then
led into the study and the door was closed. 'I never do anything
by halves, Mr Tregear,' he said. 'Since it is to so you shall be
the same to me as though you had come under other auspices. Of
yourself personally I hear all that is good. Consider yourself at
home here, and in all things use me as your friend.' Tregear
endeavoured to make some reply, but could not find words that were
fitting. 'I think that young people are out,' continued the Duke.
'Mr Warburton will help you find them if you like to go upon the
search.' The words had been very gracious, but still there was
something in the manner of the man which made Tregear find it
almost impossible to regard him as he might have regarded another
father-in-law. He had often heard the Duke spoken of as a man who
could become awful if he pleased, almost without an effort. He had
been told of the man's mingled simplicity, courtesy, self-
assertion against which no impudence or raillery could prevail.
And now he seemed to understand it.
He was not driven to go under the private secretary's escort in
quest of the young people. Mary had understood her business much
better than that. 'If you please, sir, Lady Mary is in the little
drawing-room,' said a well-arrayed young girl to him as soon as
the Duke's door was closed. This was Lady Mary's own maid who had
been on the look-out for the fly. Lady Mary had known all details,
as to the arrival of the trains and the length of the journey from
the station, and had not been walking with the other young people
when the Duke had intercepted her lover. Even the delay she had
thought was hard. The discreet maid opened the door of the little
drawing-room,--and discreetly closed it instantly. 'At last!' she
said, throwing herself into his arms.
'Yes,--at last.'
On this occasion time did not envy them. The long afternoons of
spring had come, and as Tregear had reached the house between four
and five they were able to go out together before the sun set.
'No,' she said when he came to inquire as to her life during the
last twelve months, 'you had not much to be afraid of as to my
forgetting.'
'But when everything was against me?'
'One thing was not against you. You ought to have been sure of
that.'
'And so I was. And yet I felt that I ought not to have been sure.
Sometimes, in my solitude, I used to think that I myself had been
wrong. I began to doubt whether under any circumstances I could
have been justified in asking your father's daughter to be my
wife.'
'Because of his rank?'
'Not so much his rank as his money.'
'Ought that to be considered?'
'A poor man who marries a rich woman will always be suspected.'
'Because people are so mean and poor-spirited; and because they
think that money is more than anything else. It should be nothing
at all in such matters. I don't know how it can be anything. They
have been saying that to me all along,--as though one were to stop
to think whether one was rich or poor.' Tregear, when this was
said, could not but remember a time not very much prior to that
which Mary had not stopped to think, neither for a while had he
and Mabel. 'I suppose it was worse for me than for you,' she
added.
'I hope not.'
'But it was, Frank; and therefore I ought to have made it up to me
now. It was very bad to be alone here, particularly when I felt
that papa always looked at me as though I were a sinner. He did
not mean it, but he could not help looking at me like that. As
there was nobody to whom I could say a word.'
'It was pretty much the same with me.'
'Yes; but you were not offending a father who could not keep
himself from looking reproaches at you. I was like a boy at school
who had been put into Coventry. And then they sent me to Lady
Cantrip!'
'Was that very bad?'
'I do believe that if I were a young woman with a well-ordered
mind, I should feel myself very much indebted to Lady Cantrip. She
had a terrible task of it. But I could not teach myself to like
her. I believe she knew all through that I should get my way at
last.'
'That ought to have made you friends.'
'But yet she tried everything she could. And when I told her about
that meeting up at Lord Grex's, she was so shocked! Do you
remember that?'
'Do I remember it!'
'Were you not shocked?' This question was not to be answered by
any word. 'I was,' she continued. 'It was an awful thing to do;
but I was determined to show them all that I was in earnest. Do
you remember how Miss Cassewary looked?'
'Miss Cassewary knew all about it.'
'I daresay she did. And so I suppose did Mabel Grex. I had thought
that perhaps I might make Mabel a confidante, but--'
'But what?'
'You like Mabel, do you not? I do.'
'I like her very, very much.'
'Perhaps you have liked her too well for that, eh, Frank?'
'Too well for what?'
'That she should have heard all that I had to say about you with
sympathy. If so, I am sorry.'
'You need not fear that I have ever for a moment been untrue to
either her or you.'
'I am sure you have not to me. Poor Mabel! Then they took me to
Custins. That was the worst of all. I cannot quite tell you what
happened there.' Of course he asked her,--but as she had said, she
could not quite tell him about Lord Popplecourt.
The next morning the Duke asked his guest in a playful tone what
was his Christian name. It could hardly be that he should not have
known, but yet he asked the question.
'Francis Oliphant,' said Tregear.
'Frank,' whispered Mary, who was with them.
'Then I will call you Frank, if you will allow me. The use of
Christian names is, I think, pleasant and hardly common enough
among us. I almost forget my own boy's name because the practice
has grown up of calling him by a title.'
'I am going to call him Abraham,' said Isabel.
'Abraham is a good name, only I do not think he got it from his
godfathers and godmothers.'
'Who can call a man Plantagenet? I should as soon think of
calling my father-in-law Coeur de Lion.'
'So he is,' said Mary. Whereupon the Duke kissed the two girls and
went his way,--showing that by this time he had adopted the one and
the proposed husband of the other into his heart.
The day before the Duke had started for London to be present at
the grand marriage he sent for Frank. 'I suppose,' said he, 'that
you would wish that some time should be fixed for your own
marriage.' To this the accepted suitor of course assented. 'But
before we can do that something must be settled about--money.'
Tregear when he heard this became hot all over, and felt that he
could not restrain his blushes. Such must be the feeling of a man
when he finds himself compelled to own to a girl's father that he
intends to live upon her money and not upon his own. 'I do not
like to be troublesome,' continued the Duke, 'or to ask questions
which might seem to be impertinent.'
'Oh no! Of course I feel my position. I can only say that it was
not because of your daughter might probably have money that I
first sought her love.'
'It shall be so received. And now--But perhaps it will be best that
you should arrange all this with my man of business. Mr Morton
shall be instructed. Mr Morton lives near my place in Barsetshire,
but is now in London. If you will call on him he shall tell you
what I would suggest. I hope you will find that your affairs will
be comfortable. And now as to time.'
Isabel's wedding was declared by the newspapers to have been one
of the most brilliant remembered in the metropolis. There were six
bridesmaids, of whom of course Mary was one,--and of whom poor Lady
Mabel Grex was equally of course not another. Poor Lady Mabel was
at this time with Miss Cassewary at Grex, paying what she believed
would be a last visit to the old family home. Among the others
were two American girls, brought into that august society for the
sake of courtesy rather than of personal love. And there were two
other Palliser girls and a Scotch McCloskie cousin. The breakfast
was of course given by Mr Boncassen at his home in Brook Street,
where the bridal presents were displayed. And not only were they
displayed; but a list of them, with an approximate statement as to
their value, appeared in one or two of the next day's newspapers;--
as to which terrible sin against good taste neither was Mr or Mrs
Boncassen guilty. But in these days, in which such splendid things
were done on so very splendid a scale, a young lady cannot herself
lay out her friends' gifts so as to be properly seen by her
friends. Some well-skilled, well-paid hand is needed even for
that, and hence comes this public information on affairs which
should surely be private. In our grandmothers' time the happy
bride's happy mother herself compounded the cake;--or at any rate
the trusted housekeeper. But we all know that terrible tower of
silver which now stands niddle-noddling with its appendages of
flags and spears on the modern wedding breakfast-table. It will
come to pass with some of us soon that we must deny ourselves the
pleasure of having young friends, because their marriage presents
are so costly.
Poor Mrs Boncassen had not perhaps a happy time with her august
guests on that morning; but when she retired to give Isabel her
last kiss in privacy she did feel proud to think that her daughter
would some day be an English Duchess.
CHAPTER 80
The Second Wedding
November is not altogether an hymeneal month, but it was not till
November that Lady Mary Palliser became the wife of Frank Tregear.
It was postponed a little perhaps, in order that the
Silverbridges,--as they were now called,--might be present. The
Silverbridges, who were now quite Darby and Joan, had gone to the
States when the Session had been brought to a close early in
August, and had remained there nearly three months. Isabel had
taken infinite pleasure in showing her English husband to her
American friends, and the American friends had not doubt taken
pride in seeing so glorious a British husband in the hands of an
American wife. Everything was new to Silverbridge, and he was
happy in his new possession. She too enjoyed it infinitely, and so
it happened that they were unwilling to curtail their sojourn. But
in November they had to return, because Mary had declared that her
marriage should be postponed till it could be graced by the
presence of her elder brother.
The marriage of Silverbridge had been august. There had been a
manifest intention that it should be so. Nobody knew with whom
this originated. Mrs Boncassen had probably been told that it
ought to be so, and Mr Boncassen was willing to pay the bill.
External forces had perhaps operated. The Duke had simply been
passive and obedient. There had however been a general feeling
that the bride of the heir of the house of Omnium should be
produced to the world amidst a blaze of trumpets and a glare of
torches. So it had been. But both the Duke and Mary were
determined that this wedding should be different. It was to take
place at Matching, and none would be present but they who were
staying in the house, or lived around,--such as tenants and
dependants. Four clergymen united their forces to tie Isabel to
her husband, one of them was a bishop, one a canon, and the two
others royal chaplains; but there was only to be the Vicar of the
parish at Matching. And indeed there were no guests in the house
except the two bridesmaids and Mr and Mrs Finn. As to Mrs Finn
Mary had made a request, and then the Duke had suggested that the
husband should be asked to accompany his wife.
It was very pretty. The church itself is pretty, standing in the
park, close to the old Priory, not above three hundred yards from
the house. And they all walked, taking the broad path through the
ruins, going under the figure of Sir Guy which Silverbridge had
pointed out to Isabel when they had been whispering together. The
Duke led the way with his girl upon his arm. The two bridesmaids
followed. Then Silverbridge and his wife, with Phineas and his
wife. and Gerald and the bridegroom accompanied them, belonging as
it were to the same party! It was very rustic;--almost improper!
'This is altogether wrong, you know,' said Gerald. 'You should
appear coming from some other part of the world, as if you were
almost unexpected. You ought not to have been in the house at all,
and certainly should have gone under disguise.'
There had been rich presents too on this occasion, but they were
shown to none except to Mrs Finn and the bridesmaids,--and perhaps
to the favoured servants of the house. At any rate there was
nothing said of them in the newspapers. One present there was,--
given not to the bride but to the bridegroom,--which he showed to
no one except to her. This came to him only on the morning of his
marriage, and the envelope containing it bore the postmark of
Sedburgh. He knew the handwriting well before he opened the
parcel. It contained a small signet-ring with his crest, and with
it there were but a few words written on a scrap of paper. 'I pray
that you may be happy. This was to have been given to you long
ago, but I kept it back because of that decision.' He showed the
ring to Lady Mary and told her that it had come from Lady Mabel;--
but the scrap of paper no one say but himself.
Perhaps the matter most remarkable of the wedding was the hilarity
of the Duke. One who did not know him well might have said that he
was a man with very few cares, and who now took special joy in the
happiness of his children,--who was thoroughly contented to see
them marry after their own hearts. And yet, as he stood there on
the altar-steps giving his daughter to that new son and looking
first at his girl, and then at his married son, he was reminding
himself of all that he had suffered.
After the breakfast,--which was by no means a grand repast and at
which the cake did not look so like an ill-soldered silver castle
as that other construction had done,--the happy couple were sent
away in a modest chariot to the railway station, and not above
half-a-dozen slippers were thrown after them. There were enough
for luck,---or perhaps there might have been luck even without them,
for the wife thoroughly respected her husband, as did the husband
his wife. Mrs Finn, when she was alone with Phineas, said a word
or two about Tregear. 'When she first told me of her engagement I
did not think it possible that she would marry him. But after he
had been with me I felt sure that he would succeed.'
'Well, sir,' said Silverbridge to the Duke when they were out
together in the park that afternoon, 'what do you think about
him?'
'I think he is a manly young man.'
'He certainly is that. And then he knows things and understands
them. It was never a surprise to me that Mary should have been so
fond of him.'
'I do not know that one ought to be surprised at anything. Perhaps
what surprised me most was that he should look so high. There
seemed so little to justify it. But now I will accept that as
courage which I before regarded as arrogance.'
End of Project Gutenberg Etext of The Duke's Children, by Anthony Trollope