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 they 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 covets 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 have 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 loved 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 think 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 he were 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 you 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 the 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