The Duke’s Children by Anthony Trollope (page 3)

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 was 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 her 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 too 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. ‘I 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 beautiful, 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 had 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 were 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.

‘If 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 him. ‘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, there 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 bet 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 your licking and don’t squeal.’

‘That’s 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.’