The Duke’s Children by Anthony Trollope (page 9)

told Lady Cantrip that my mother wasn’t well and wants to see me. You’ll stop your time out, I suppose?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’ve got it all square, no doubt. I wish I’d a handle to my name. I never cared for it before.’

‘I’m sorry you’re so down in the mouth. Why don’t you try again? The thing is to stick to ’em like wax. If ten times of asking won’t do, go in twenty times.’

Dolly shook his head despondently. ‘What can you do when a girl walks out of a room and slams the door in your face? She’ll get it hot and heavy before she’s done. I know what she’s after. She might as well cry for the moon.’ And so Dolly got into the trap and went to Bridport and slept the night at the hotel at Dorchester.

Lord Popplecourt, though he could give such excellent advice to his friend, had been able as yet to do very little in his own case. He had been a week at Custins, and had said not a word to denote his passion. Day after day he had prepared himself for the encounter, but the lady had never given him the opportunity. When he sat next to her at dinner she would be very silent. If he stayed at home on a morning she was not visible. During the short evenings he could never get her attention. And he made no progress with the Duke. The Duke had been very courteous to him at Richmond, but here he was monosyllabic and almost sullen.

Once or twice Lord Popplecourt had a little conversation with Lady Cantrip. ‘Dear girl!’ said her ladyship. ‘She is so little given to seeing admiration.’

‘I dare say.’

‘Girls are so different, Lord Popplecourt. With some of them it seems that a gentleman need have no trouble in explaining what it is that he wishes.’

‘I don’t think Lady Mary is like that at all.’

‘Not in the least. Anyone who addresses her must be prepared to explain himself fully. Nor ought he to hope to get much encouragement at first. I do not think that Lady Mary will bestow her heart till she is sure she can give it with safety.’ There was an amount of falsehood in this which was proof at any rate of very strong friendship on the part of Lady Cantrip.

After a few days Lady Mary became more intimate with the American and his daughter than with any others of the party. Perhaps she liked to talk about Scandinavian poets, of whom, Mr Boncassen was so fond. Perhaps she felt sure that her transatlantic friend would not make love to her. Perhaps it was that she yielded to the various allurements of Miss Boncassen. Miss Boncassen saw the Duke of Omnium for the first time at Custins, and there had the first opportunity of asking herself how such a man as that would receive from his son and heir such an announcement as Lord Silverbridge would have to make him should she at the end of three months accept his offer. She was quite aware that Lord Silverbridge need not repeat his offer unless he were so pleased. But she thought that he would come again. He had so spoken that she was sure of his love; and had so spoken as to obtain hers. Yes;–she was sure that she loved him. She had never seen anything like him before;– so glorious in his beauty, so gentle in his manhood, so powerful and yet so little imperious, so great in condition, and yet so little confident in his own greatness, so bolstered up with external advantages, and so little apt to trust anything but his own heart and his own voice. She was glad he was what he was. She counted at their full value all his natural advantages. To be an English Duchess! Oh–yes; her ambition understood it all! But she loved him, because in the expression of his love no hint had fallen from him of the greatness of the benefits which he could confer upon her. Yes, she would like to be a Duchess; but not to be a Duchess would she become the wife of a man who should begin his courtship by assuming a superiority.

Now the chances of society had brought her into the company of his nearest friends. She was in the house with his father and with his sister. Now and again the Duke spoke a few words to her, and always did so with a polite courtesy. But she was sure that the Duke had heard nothing of his son’s courtship. And she was equally sure that the matter had not reached Lady Mary’s ears. She perceived that the Duke and her father would often converse together. Mr Boncassen would discuss republicanism generally, and the Duke would explain that theory of monarchy as it prevails in England, which but very few Americans had been made to understand. All this Miss Boncassen watched with pleasure. She was still of opinion that it would not become her to force her way into a family which would endeavour to repudiate her. She would not become this young man’s wife if all connected with the young man were resolved to reject the contact. But if she could conquer them,–then,–then she thought that she could put her little hand into that young man’s grasp with a happy heart.

It was in this frame of mind that she laid herself out not unsuccessfully to win the esteem of Lady Mary Palliser. ‘I do not know whether you approve it,’ said Lady Cantrip to the Duke; ‘but Mary has become very intimate with our new American friend.’ At this time Lady Cantrip had become very nervous,–so as almost to wish that Lady Mary’s difficulties might be unravelled elsewhere than at Custins.

‘They seem to be sensible people,’ said the Duke. ‘I don’t know when I have met a man with higher ideals on politics than Mr Boncassen.’

‘His daughter is popular with everybody.’

‘A nice ladylike girl,’ said the Duke, ‘and appears to have been well educated.’

It was now near the end of October, and the weather was peculiarly fine. Perhaps in our climate, October would of all months be the most delightful if something of its charms were not detracted from by the feeling that with it depart the last relics of delight of summer. The leaves are still there with their gorgeous colouring, but they are going. The last rose still lingers on the bush, but it is the last. The woodland walks are still pleasant to the feet, but caution is heard on every side by the coming winter.

The park at Custins, which was spacious, had many woodland walks attached to it, from which, through vistas of the timber, distant glimpses of the sea were caught. Within half a mile of the house the woods were reached, and within a mile the open sea was in sight,–and yet the wanderers might walk for miles without going over the same ground. Here, without other companions, Lady Mary and Miss Boncassen found themselves one afternoon, and here the latter told her story to her lover’s sister. ‘I long to tell you something,’ she said.

‘Is it a secret?’ asked Lady Mary.

‘Well; yes it is,–if you will keep it so. I would rather you should keep it a secret. But I will tell you.’ Then she stood still looking into the other’s face. ‘I wonder how you will take it.’

‘What can it be?’

‘Your brother has asked me to be his wife.’

‘Silverbridge!’

‘Yes;–Lord Silverbridge. You are astonished.’

Lady Mary was much astonished,–so much astonished that words escaped from her, which she regretted afterwards. ‘I thought there was someone else.’

‘Who else?’

‘Lady Mabel Grex. But I know nothing.’

‘I think not,’ said Miss Boncassen slowly. ‘I have seen them together and I think not. There might be somebody, though I think not her. But why do I say that? Why do I malign him, and make so little of myself. There is no one else, Lady Mary. Is he not true?’

‘I think he is true.’

‘I am sure he is true. And he has asked me to be his wife.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Well;–what do you think? What is it probable that such a girl as I would say when such a man as your brother asks her to be his wife? Is he not such a man as a girl would love?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Is he not handsome as a god?’ Mary stared at her with all her eyes. ‘And sweeter than any god those pagan races knew? And is he not good-tempered, and loving; and has he not that perfection of manly dash without which I do not think I do not think I could give my heart to any man?’

‘Then you have accepted him?’

‘And his rank and wealth! The highest position in all the world in my eyes.’

‘I do not think you should take him for that.’

‘Does it not all help? Can you put yourself in my place? Why should I refuse him? No, not for that. I would not take him for that. But if I love him,–because he is all that my imagination tells me that a man ought to be;–if to be his wife seems to be the greatest bliss that could happen to a woman; if I feel that I could die to serve him, that I would live to worship him, that his touch would be sweet to me, his voice music, his strength the only supports in the world on which I would care to lean,–what then?’

‘Is it so?’

‘Yes it is so. it is after that fashion that I love him. He is my hero;–and not the less so because there is none higher than he among the nobles of the greatest land under the sun. Would you have me for a sister?’ Lady Mary could not answer all at once. She had to think of her father,–and then she thought of her own lover. Why should not Silverbridge be as well entitled to his choice as she considered herself to be? And yet how would it be with her father? Silverbridge would in process of time be the head of the family. Would it be proper that he should marry an American?

‘You would not like me for a sister?’

‘I was thinking of my father. For myself I like you.’

‘Shall I tell you what I said to him?’

‘If you will.’

‘I told him that he must ask his friends;–that I would not be his wife to be rejected by them all. Nor will I. Though it be heaven I will not creep there through a hole. If I cannot go with my head upright, I will not go even there.’ The she turned round as though she were prepared in her emotion to walk back to the house alone. But Lady mare ran after her, and having caught her put her arm round her waist and kissed her.

‘I at any rate will love you,’ said Lady Mary.

‘I will do as I said,’ continued Miss Boncassen. ‘I will do as I have said. Though I love your brother down to the ground he shall not marry me without his father’s consent.’ Then they returned arm-in-arm close together; but very little was said between them.

When Lady Mary entered the house she was told that Lady Cantrip wished to see her in her own room.

CHAPTER 48

The Party at Custins is Broken Up

The message was given to Lady Mary after so solemn a fashion that she was sure that some important communication was to be made to her. Her mind at that moment had been filled with her new friend’s story. She felt that she required some time to meditate before she could determine what she herself would wish; but when she was going to her own room, in order that she might think it over, she was summoned to Lady Cantrip. ‘My dear,’ said the Countess, ‘I wish you to do something to oblige me.’

‘Of course I will.’

‘Lord Popplecourt wants to speak to you.’

‘Who?’

‘Lord Popplecourt.’

‘What can Lord Popplecourt have to say to me?’

‘Can you not guess? Lord Popplecourt is a young nobleman, standing very high in the world, possessed of ample means, just in that position in which it behoves such a man to look about for a wife.’ Lady Mary pressed her lips together, and clenched her two hands. ‘Can you not imagine what such a gentleman may have to say?’ Then there was a pause, but she made no immediate answer. ‘I am to tell you, my dear, that your father would approve of it.’

‘Approve of what?’

‘He approves of Lord Popplecourt as a suitor for your hand.’

‘How can he?’

‘Why not, Mary? Of course he has made it his business to ascertain all particulars as to Lord Popplecourt’s character and property.’

‘Papa knows that I love somebody else.’

‘My dear Mary, that is all vanity.’

‘I don’t think that papa can want to see me married to a man when he knows that with all my heart and soul–‘

‘Oh, Mary!’

‘When he knows,’ continued Mary, who would not be put down, ‘that I love another man with all my heart. What will Lord Popplecourt say if I tell him that? If he says anything to me, I shall tell him. Lord Popplecourt! He cares for nothing but his coal mines. Of course, if you bid me to see him I will; but it can do no good. I despise him, and if he troubles me I shall hate him. As for marrying him,–I would sooner die this minute.’

After this Lady Cantrip did not insist on the interview. She expressed her regret that things should be as they were,–explained in sweetly innocent phrases that in a certain rank of life young ladies could not always marry the gentlemen to whom their fancies might attach them, but must, not infrequently, postpone their youthful inclinations to the will of their elders,–or in less delicate language, that though they might love in one direction the must marry in another; and then expressed a hope that her dear Mary would think over these things and try to please her father. ‘Why does he not try to please me?’ said Mary. Then Lady Cantrip was obliged to see Lord Popplecourt, a necessity which was a great nuisance to her. ‘Yes;–she understands what you mean. But she is not prepared for it yet. You must wait awhile.’

‘I don’t see why I am to wait.’

‘She is very young,–and so are you, indeed. There is plenty of time.’

‘There is somebody else I suppose.’

‘Is it that Tregear?’

‘I am not prepared to mention names,’ said Lady Cantrip, astonished that he should know so much. ‘But indeed you must wait.’

‘I don’t see it, Lady Cantrip.’

‘What can I say more? If you think that such a girl as Lady Mary Palliser, the daughter of the Duke of Omnium, possessed of fortune, beauty, and every good gift, is to come like a bird to your call, you will find yourself mistaken. All that her friends can do for you will be done. The rest must remain with yourself.’ During that evening Lord Popplecourt endeavoured to make himself pleasant to one of the FitzHoward young ladies, and on the next morning he took his leave of Custins.

‘I will never interfere again in reference to anybody else’s child as long as I live,’ Lady Cantrip said to her husband that night.

Lady Mary was very much tempted to open her heart to Miss Boncassen. It would be delightful to have a friend; but were she to engage Miss Boncassen’s sympathies on her behalf, she must of course sympathise with Miss Boncassen in return. And what if, after all, Silverbridge were not devoted to the American beauty! What if it should turn out that he was going to marry Lady Mabel Grex? ‘I wish you would call me Isabel,’ her friend said to her. ‘It is so odd,–since I have left New York I have never heard my name from any lips except father’s and mother’s.’

‘Has not Silverbridge ever called you by your christian-name?’

‘I think not. I am sure he never has.’ But he had, though it had passed by her at the moment without attention. ‘It all came from him so suddenly. And yet I expected it. But it was too sudden for christian-names and pretty talk. I do not even know what his name is.’

‘Plantagenet,–but we always call him Silverbridge.’

‘Plantagenet is much prettier. I shall always call him Plantagenet. But I recall that. You will not remember that against me?’

‘I will remember nothing that you do not wish.’

‘I mean that if,–if all the grandeurs of the Pallisers could consent to put up with poor me, if heaven were opened to me with a straight gate, so that I could walk out of our republic into your aristocracy with my head erect, with the stars and stripes waving proudly will I had been accepted into the shelter of the Omnium griffins,–then I would call him–‘

‘There’s one Palliser would welcome you.’

‘Would you dear? Then I will love you dearly. May I call you Mary?’

‘Of course you may.’

‘Mary is the prettiest name under the sun. But Plantagenet is so grand! Which of the kings did you branch off from?’

‘I know nothing about it. From none of them I should think. There is some story about a Sir Guy, who was a king’s friend. I never trouble myself about it. I hate aristocracy.’

‘Do you, dear?’

‘Yes,’ said Mary, full of her own grievances. ‘It is an abominable bondage, and I do not see that it does any good at all.’

‘I think it is so glorious,’ said the American. ‘There is no such mischievous nonsense in the world as equality. That is what father says. What men ought to want is liberty.’

‘It is terrible to be tied up in a small circle,’ said the Duke’s daughter.

‘What do you mean, Lady Mary?’

‘I thought you were to call me Mary. What I mean is this. Suppose that Silverbridge loves you better than all the world.’

‘I hope he does. I think he does.’

‘And suppose he cannot marry you, because of his–aristocracy?’

‘But he can.’

‘I thought you were saying yourself–‘

‘Saying what? That he could not marry me! No indeed! But that under certain circumstances I would not marry him. You don’t suppose that I think he would be disgraced? If so I would go away at once, and he should never again see my face or hear my voice. I think myself good enough for the best man God every made. But if others think differently, and those others are closely concerned with him and would be so closely concerned with me, as to trouble our joint lives;–then will I neither subject him to such sorrow nor will I encounter it myself.’

‘It all comes from what you call aristocracy.’

‘No, dear;–but from the prejudices of an aristocracy. To tell the truth, Mary, the most difficult a place is to get into, the more right of going in is valued. If everybody could be a Duchess and a Palliser, I should not perhaps think so much about it.’

‘I thought it was because you loved him.’

‘So I do. I love him entirely. I have said not a word of that to him;–but I do, if I know at all what love is. But if you love a star, the pride you have in your star will enhance your love. Though you know that you must die of your love, still you must love your star.’

And yet Mary could not tell her tale in return. She could not show the reverse picture:–that she being a star was anxious to dispose of herself after the fashion of poor human rushlights. It was not that she was ashamed of her love, but that she could not bring herself to yield altogether in reference to the great descent which Silverbridge would have to make.

On the day after this,–the last day of the Duke’s sojourn at Custins, the last also of the Boncassen’s visit,–it came to pass that the Duke and Mr Boncassen with Lady Mary and Isabel, were all walking in the woods together. And it so happened when they were at a little distance from the house, each of the girls was walking with the other girl’s father. Isabel had calculated what she would say to the Duke should a time for speaking come to her. She could not tell him of his son’s love. She could not ask his permission. She could not explain to him all her feelings, or tell him what she thought of her proper way of getting into heaven. That must come afterwards if it should ever come at all. But there was something that she could tell. ‘We are different from you,’ she said, speaking of her own country.

‘And yet so like,’ said the Duke, smiling;–‘your language, your laws, your habits!’

‘But still there is such a difference! I do not think there is a man in the whole union more respected than father.’

‘I dare say not.’

‘Many people think that if he would only allow himself to be put in nomination, he might be the next president.’

‘The choice, I am sure, would to your country honour.’

‘And yet his father was a poor labourer who earned his bread among the shipping at New York. That kind of thing would be impossible here.’

‘My dear young lady, there you wrong us.’

‘Do I?’

‘Certainly! A Prime Minister with us might as easily come from the same class.’

‘Here you think so much of rank. You are–a Duke.’

‘But a Prime Minister can make a Duke, and if a man can raise himself by his own intellect to that position, no one will think of his father or his grandfather. The sons of merchants have with us been Prime Ministers more than once, and no Englishman ever were more honoured among their countrymen. Our peerage is being continually recruited from the ranks of the people, and hence it gets its strength.’

‘Is it so?’

‘There is no greater mistake than to suppose that inferiority of birth is a barrier to success in this country.’ She listened to this and to much more on the same subject with attentive ears–not shaken in her ideas as to the English aristocracy in general, but thinking that she was perhaps learning something of his own individual opinion. If he were more liberal than others, on that liberality might perhaps be based her own happiness and fortune.

He in all this was quite unconscious of the working of her mind. Nor in discussing such matters generally did he ever mingle his own private feelings, his own pride of race and name, his own ideas of what was due to his ancient rank with the political creed by which his conduct was governed. The peer who sat next to him in the House of Lords, whose grandmother had been a washerwoman and whose father an innkeeper, was to him every whit as good a peer as himself. And he would as soon sit in counsel with Mr Monk, whose father had risen from a mechanic to be a merchant, as with any nobleman who could count ancestors against himself. But there was an inner feeling in his bosom as to his own family, his own name, his own children, and his own personal self, which was kept altogether apart from his grand political theories. It was a subject on which he never spoke; but the feeling had come to him as a part of his birthright. And he conceived that it would pass through him to his children after the same fashion. It was this which made the idea of a marriage between his daughter and Tregear intolerable to him, and which would operate as strongly in regard to any marriage which his son might contemplate. Lord Grex was not a man with whom he would wish to form any intimacy. He was, we may say, a wretched unprincipled old man, bad all round; and such the Duke knew him to be. But the blue blood and the rank were there, and as the girl was good herself he would have been quite contented that his son should marry the daughter of Lord Grex. That one and the same man should have been in one part of himself so unlike the other part,–that he should have one set of opinions so contrary to another set,–poor Isabel Boncassen did not understand.

CHAPTER 49

The Major’s Fate

The affair of Prime Minister and the nail was not allowed to fade away into obscurity. Through September and October it was made matter for pungent inquiry. The Jockey Club was alive. Mr Pook was very instant,–with many Pookites anxious to free themselves from suspicion. Sporting men declared that the honour of the turf required that every detail of the case should be laid open. But by the end of October, though every detail had been surmised, nothing had in truth been discovered. Nobody doubted but that Tifto had driven the nail into the horse’s foot, and that Green and Gilbert Villiers had shared the bulk of the plunder. They had gone off on their travels together, and the fact that each of them had been in possession of about twenty thousand pounds was proved. But then there is no law against two gentlemen having such a sum of money. It was notorious that Captain Green and Mr Gilbert Villiers had enriched themselves to this extent by the failure of Prime Minister. But yet nothing was proved!

That the Major had either himself driven the nail or seen it done, all racing men were agreed. He had been out with the horse in the morning and had been the first to declare that the animal was lame. And he had been with the horse till the farrier had come. But he had concocted a story for himself. He did not dispute that the horse had been lamed by the machinations of Green and Villiers,–with the assistance of the groom. No doubt he said, these men, who had been afraid to face an inquiry, had contrived and had carried out the iniquity. How the lameness had been caused he could not pretend to say. The groom who was at the horse’s head, and who evidently knew how these things were done, might have struck a nerve in the horse’s foot with his boot. But when the horse was got into the stable, he, Tifto,–so he declared,–at once ran out to send for the farrier. During the minutes so occupied, the operation must have been made with the nail. That was Tifto’s story,–and as he kept his ground, there were some few who believed it.

But though the story was so far good, he had at moments been imprudent, and had talked when he should have been silent. The whole matter had been a torment to him. In the first place his conscience made him miserable. As long as it had been possible to prevent the evil he had hoped to make a clean breast of it to Lord Silverbridge. Up to this period of his life everything had been ‘square’ with him. He had betted ‘square’, and had ridden ‘square’, and had run horses ‘square’. He had taken a pride in this, as though it had been a great virtue. It was not without great inward grief that he had deprived himself of the consolations of those reflections! But when he had approached his noble partner, his noble partner snubbed him at every turn,–and he did the deed.

His reward was to be three thousand pounds,–and he got his money. The money was very much to him,–would perhaps have been almost enough to comfort him in his misery, had not those other rascals got so much more. When he heard that the groom’s fee was higher than his own, it almost broke his heart. Green and Villiers, men of infinitely lower standing,–men at whom the Beargarden would not have looked,–had absolutely netted fortunes on which they could live in comfort. No doubt they had run away while Tifto still stood his ground,–but he soon began to doubt whether to have run away with twenty thousand pounds was not better than to remain with such small plunder as had fallen to his lot, among such faces as those which now looked upon him! Then when he had drunk a few glasses of whisky-and-water, he said something very foolish as to his power of punishing that swindler Green.

An attempt had been made to induce Silverbridge to delay the payment of his bets;–but he had been very eager that they should be paid. Under the joint auspices of Mr Lupton and Mr Moreton the horses were sold, and the establishment was annihilated,–with considerable loss, but with great despatch. The Duke had been urgent. The Jockey Club, and the racing world, and the horsey fraternity generally, might do what seemed to them good,–so that Silverbridge was extricated from the matter. Silverbridge was extricated,–and the Duke cared nothing for the rest.

But Silverbridge could not get out of the mess quite so easily as his father wished. Two questions arose about Major Tifto, outside the racing world, but within the domain of the world of sport and pleasure generally, as to one of which it was impossible that Silverbridge should not express an opinion. The first question had reference to the mastership of the Runnymede hounds. In this our young friend was not bound to concern himself. The other affected the Beargarden Club; and as Lord Silverbridge had introduced the Major, he could hardly forbear from the expression of an opinion.

There was a meeting of the subscribers to the hunt in the last week of October. At that meeting Major Tifto told his story. There he was, to answer any charge which might be brought against him. If he had made money by losing the race,–where was it and whence had it come? Was it not clear that a conspiracy might have been made without his knowledge;–and clear also that the real conspirators had levanted? He had not levanted! The hounds were his own. He had undertaken to hunt the country for this season, and they had undertaken to pay him a certain sum of money. He should expect and demand that sum of money. If they chose to make any other arrangement for the year following they could do so. then he sat down and the meeting was adjourned,–the secretary having declared that he would not act in that capacity any longer, nor collect the funds. A farmer had also asserted that he and his friends had resolved that Major Tifto should not ride over their fields. On the next day the Major had his hounds out, and some of the London men, with a few of the neighbours, joined him. Gates were locked, but the hounds ran, and those who chose to ride managed to follow them. There are men who will stick to their sport though Apollyon himself should carry the horn. Who cares whether the lady who fills a theatre be or be not a moral young woman, or whether the bandmaster who keeps such excellent time in a ball has or has not paid is debts? There were men of this sort who supported Major Tifto;–but then there was a general opinion that the Runnymede hunt would come to an end unless a new master could be found.

Then in the first week of November a special meeting was called at the Beargarden, at which Lord Silverbridge was asked to attend. ‘It is impossible that he should be allowed to remain in the club.’ This was said to Lord Silverbridge by Mr Lupton. ‘Either he must go or the club must be broken up.’

Silverbridge was very unhappy on the occasion. He had at last been reasoned into believing that the horse had been the victim of foul play; but he persisted in saying that there was no conclusive evidence against Tifto. The matter was argued with him. Tifto had laid bets against the horse; Tifto had been hand and glove with Green; Tifto could not have been absent from the horse above two minutes; the thing could not have been arranged without Tifto. As he had brought Tifto into the club, and had been his partner on the turf, it was his business to look into the matter. ‘But for all that,’ said he, ‘I’m not going to jump on a man when he’s down, unless I feel sure that he is guilty.’

Then the meeting was held, and Tifto himself appeared. When the accusation was made by Mr Lupton, who proposed that he should be expelled, he burst into tears. The whole story was repeated,–the nail, the hammer, and the lameness; and the moments were counted up, and poor Tifto’s bets and friendship with Green were made apparent,–and the case was submitted to the club. An old gentleman who had been connected with the turf all his life, and who would not have scrupled, by square betting, to rob his dearest friend of his last shilling, seconded the proposition,–telling all the story over again. Then Major Tifto was asked whether he wished to say anything.

‘I’ve got to say that I’m here,’ said Tifto, still crying, ‘and if I’d done anything of that kind, of course I’d have gone with the rest of ’em. I put it to Lord Silverbridge to say whether I’m that sort of fellow.’ Then he sat down.

Upon this there was a pause, and the club was manifestly of the opinion that Lord Silverbridge ought to say something. ‘I think that Major Tifto should not have betted against the horse,’ said Silverbridge.

‘I can explain that,’ said the Major. ‘Let me explain that. Everybody knows that I’m a man of small means. I wanted to ‘edge, I only wanted to ‘edge.’

Mr Lupton shook his head. ‘Why have you not shown me your book?’

‘I told you before that it was stolen. Green got hold of it. I did win a little. I never said I didn’t. But what has that to do with hammering a nail into a horse’s foot? I have always been true to you Lord Silverbridge, and you ought to stick up for me now.’

‘I will have nothing further to do with the matter,’ said Silverbridge, ‘one way or the other,’ and he walked out of the room,–and out of the club. The affair was ended by a magnanimous declaration on the part of the Major that he would not remain in a club in which he was suspected, and by a consent on the part of the meeting to receive the Major’s instant resignation.

CHAPTER 50

The Duke’s Arguments

The Duke before he left Custins had an interview with Lady Cantrip, at which that lady found herself called upon to speak her mind freely. ‘I don’t think she cares about Lord Popplecourt,’ Lady Cantrip said.

‘I am sure I don’t know why she should,’ said the Duke, who was often very aggravating even to his friend.

‘But as we had thought–‘

‘She ought to do as she is told,’ said the Duke, remembering how obedient Glencora had been. ‘Has he spoken to her?’

‘I think not.’

‘Then how can we tell?’

‘I asked her to see him, but she expressed so much dislike that I could not press it. I am afraid, Duke, that you will find it difficult to deal with her.’

‘I have found it very difficult!’

‘As you have trusted me so much–‘

‘Yes;–I have trusted you, and do trust you. I hope you understand that I appreciate your kindness.’

‘Perhaps then you will let me say what I think.’

‘Certainly, Lady Cantrip.’

‘Mary is a very peculiar girl,–with great gifts,–but–‘

‘But what?’

‘She is obstinate. Perhaps it would be fairer to say that she has great firmness of character. It is within your power to separate her from Mr Tregear. It would be foreign to her character to–to– leave you, except with your approbation.’

‘You mean, she will not run away.’

‘She will do nothing without your permission. But she will remain unmarried unless she be allowed to marry Mr Tregear.’

‘What do you advise then?’

‘That you should yield. As regards money, you could give them what they want. Let him go into public life. You could manage that for him.’

‘He is Conservative!’

‘What does that matter when the question is one of your daughter’s happiness? Everybody tells me that he is clever and well conducted.’

He betrayed nothing by his face as this was said to him. But as he got into the carriage he was a miserable man. It is very well to tell a man that he should yield, but there is nothing so wretched to a man as yielding. Young people and women have to yield,–bur for such a man as this, to yield is in itself a misery. In this matter the Duke was quite certain of the propriety of his judgement. To yield would be not only to mortify himself; but to do wrong at the same time. He had convinced himself that the Popplecourt arrangement would come to nothing. Nor had he or Lady Cantrip combined been able to exercise over her the sort of power to which Lady Glencora had been subjected. If he had persevered,– and he was still sure, almost sure, that he would persevere,–his object must be achieved after a different fashion. There must be infinite suffering,–suffering both to him and to her. Could she have been made to consent to marry someone else, terrible as the rupture might have been, she would have reconciled herself at last to her new life. So it had been with Glencora,–after a time. Now the misery must go on from day to day beneath his eyes, with the knowledge on his part that he was crushing all the joy out of her young life, and the conviction on her part that she was being treated with continued cruelty by her father! It was a terrible prospect! But if it was manifestly his duty to act after this fashion, must he not do his duty?

If he were to find that by persevering in this course he would doom her to death, or perchance to madness,–what then? If it were right, he must still do it. He must still do it, if the weakness incident to his human nature did not rob him of the necessary firmness. If every foolish girl were indulged, all restraint would be lost, and there would be an end to those rules as to birth and position by which he thought his world was kept straight. And then, mixed with all this, was his feeling of the young man’s arrogance in looking for such a match. Here was a man without a shilling, whose manifest duty was to go to work so that he might earn his bread, who instead of doing so, he hoped to raise himself to wealth and position by entrapping the heart of an unwary girl! There was something to the Duke’s thinking base in this, and much more base because the unwary girl was his own daughter. That such a man as Tregear should make an attack upon him and select his rank, his wealth, and his child as the stepping-stones by which he intended to rise! What could be so mean as that a man should seek to live by looking out for a wife with money? But what so impudent, so arrogant, so unblushingly disregardful of propriety, as that he should endeavour to select his victim from such a family as the Pallisers, and that he should lay his impious hand on the very daughter of the Duke of Omnium?

But together with all this came upon him his moments of ineffable tenderness. He felt as though he longed to take her in his arms and tell her, that if she were unhappy, so would he be unhappy too,–to make her understand that a hard necessity had made his sorrow common to them both. He thought that, if she would only allow it, he could speak of her love as a calamity which had befallen them, as from the hand of fate, and not as a fault. If he could make a partnership in misery with her, so that each might believe that each was acting for the best, then he could endure all that might come. But, as he was well aware, she regarded him as being simply cruel to her. She did not understand that he was performing an imperative duty. She had set her heart upon a certain object, and having taught herself that in that way happiness might be reached, had no conception that there should be something in the world, some idea of personal dignity, more valuable to her than the fruition of her own desires! And yet every word he spoke to her was affectionate. He knew that she was bruised, and if it might be possible he would pour oil into her wounds,–even though she would not recognise the hand which relieved her.

They slept one night in town–where they encountered Silverbridge soon after his retreat from the Beargarden. ‘I cannot quite make up my mind, sir, about that fellow Tifto,’ he said to his father.

‘I hope you have made up your mind that he is not fit companion for yourself.’

‘That’s over. Everybody understands that, sir.’

‘Is anything more necessary?’

‘I don’t like feeling that he has been ill-used. They have made him resign the club, and I fancy they won’t have him at the hunt.’

‘He has lost no money by you!’

‘Oh no.’

‘Then I think you may be indifferent. From all that I hear I think he must have won money,–which will probably be a consolation to him.’

‘I think they have been hard upon him,’ continued Silverbridge. ‘Of course he is not a good man, nor a gentleman, nor possessed of very high feelings. But a man is not to be sacrificed altogether for that. There are so many men who are not gentlemen, and so many gentlemen who are bad fellows.’

‘I have no doubt Mr Lupton knew what he was about,’ replied the Duke.

On the next morning the Duke and Lady Mary went down to Matching, and as they sat together in the carriage after leaving the railway the father endeavoured to make himself pleasant to his daughter. ‘I suppose we shall stay at Matching till Christmas,’ he said.

‘I hope so.’

‘Whom would you like to have here?’

‘I don’t want anyone, papa.’

‘You will be very sad without somebody. Would you like the Finns?’

‘If you please, papa. I like her. He never talks anything but politics.’

‘He is none the worse for that, Mary. I wonder whether Lady Mabel Grex would come.’

‘Lady Mabel Grex!’

‘Do you not like her?’

‘Oh yes;–but what made you think of her, papa?’

‘Perhaps Silverbridge would come to us then.’

Lady Mary thought that she knew a great deal more about that than her father did. ‘Is he fond of Lady Mabel, papa?’

‘Well,–I don’t know. There are secrets which should not be told. I think they are very good friends. I would not have her asked unless it would please you.’

‘I like her very much, papa.’

‘And perhaps we might get the Boncassens to come to us. I did say a word to him about it.’ Now, as Mary felt, difficulty was heaping itself upon difficulty. ‘I have seldom met a man in whose company I could take more pleasure than in that Mr Boncassen; and the young lady seems to be worthy of her father.’ Mary was silent, feeling the complication of the difficulties. ‘Do you not like her?’ asked the Duke.

‘Very much indeed,’ said Mary.

‘Then let us fix a day and ask them. If you will come to me after dinner with an almanac we will arrange it. Of course you will invite Miss Cassewary too?’

The complication seemed to be very bad indeed. In the first place was it not clear that she, Lady Mary, ought not to be a party to asking Miss Boncassen to meet her brother at Matching? Would it not be imperative on her part to tell her father the whole story? And yet how could she do that? It had been told to her in confidence, and she remembered what her own feelings had been when Mrs Finn had suggested the propriety of telling the story which had been told to her! And how would it be possible to ask Lady Mabel to come to Matching to meet Miss Boncassen in the presence of Silverbridge! If the party could be made up without Silverbridge things might run smoothly.

As she was thinking of this in her own room, thinking also how happy she could be if one other name could be added to the list of guests, the Duke had gone alone into his library. There a pile of letters reached him, among which he found one marked ‘Private’, and addressed in a hand which he did not recognise. This he opened suddenly,–with a conviction that it would contain a thorn,–and, turning over the page found the signature to be ‘Francis Tregear’. The man’s name was wormwood to him. He at once felt that he would wish to have his dinner, his fragment brought to him in that solitary room, and that he might remain secluded for the rest of the evening. But still he must read the letter,–and he read it.

‘MY DEAR LORD DUKE,

‘If my mode of addressing your Grace be too familiar I hope you will excuse it. It seems to me that if I were to use one more distant, I should myself be detracting something from my right to make the claim which I intend to put forward. You know what my feelings are in reference to your daughter. I do not pretend to suppose that they should have the least weight with you. But you know also what her feelings are for me. A man seems to be vain when he expresses his conviction of a woman’s love for himself. But this matter is so important to her as well as to me that I am compelled to lay aside all pretence. If she do not love me as I love her, then the whole thing drops to the ground. Then it will be for me to take myself off from out of your notice,–and from hers, and to keep to myself whatever heart-breaking I may have to undergo. But if she be as steadfast in this matter as I am,–if her happiness be fixed on marrying me as mine to marrying her,–then, I think, I am entitled to ask you whether you are justified in keeping us apart.

‘I know well what are the discrepancies. Speaking from my own feeling I regard very little those of rank. I believe myself to be as good a gentleman as though my father’s forefathers had sat for centuries past in the House of Lords. I believe that you would have thought so also had you and I been brought in contact on any other subject. The discrepancy with regard to money is, I own, a great trouble to me. Having no wealth of my own I wish that your daughter were so circumstanced that I could go out into the world and earn bread for her. I know myself so well that I dare say positively that her money,–if it be that she will have money,–had no attractions for me when I first became acquainted with her and adds nothing now to the persistency with which I claim her hand.

‘But I venture to ask whether you can dare to keep us apart if her happiness depends on her lover for me? It is now more than six months since I called upon you in London and explained my wishes. You will understand me when I say that I cannot be contented to sit idle, trusting simply to the assurance I have of her affection. Did I doubt it, my way would be more clear. I should feel in that case that she would yield to your wishes, and I should then, as I have said before, just take myself out of the way. But if it be not so, then I am bound to do something,–on her behalf as well as my own. What am I to do? Any endeavours to meet her clandestinely is against my instincts, and would certainly be rejected by her. A secret correspondence would be equally distasteful to both of us. Whatever I do in this matter, I wish you to know that I do it.

‘Yours always,
‘Most faithfully, and with the deepest respect,’ ‘FRANCIS TREGEAR.’

He read the letter very carefully, and was at first simply astonished by what he considered to be the unparalleled arrogance of the young man. In regard to rank this young gentleman thought himself to be as good as anybody else! In regard to money he did acknowledge some inferiority. But that was a misfortune, and could not be helped! Not only was the letter arrogant,–but the fact that he should dare to write any letter on such a subject was proof of most unpardonable arrogance. The Duke walked about the room thinking of it till he was almost in a passion. Then he read the letter again and was gradually pervaded by a feeling of manliness. Its arrogance remained, but with its arrogance there was a certain boldness which induced respect. Whether I am such a son-in-law as you would like or not, it is your duty to accept me, if by refusing to do so you will render your daughter miserable. That was Mr Tregear’s argument. He himself might be prepared to argue in answer that it was his duty to reject such a son-in-law, even though by rejecting him he might make his daughter miserable. He was not shaken; but with his condemnation of the young man there was mingled something of respect.

He continued to digest the letter before the hour of dinner, and when the almanac was brought to him he fixed on certain days. The Boncassens he knew would be free from engagements in ten days’ time. As to Lady Mabel, he seemed to think it almost certain that she would come. ‘I believe she is always going about from one house to another at this time of the year,’ said Mary.

‘I think she will come to us if it be possible,’ said the Duke. ‘And you must write to Silverbridge.’

‘And what about Mr and Mrs Finn?’

‘She promised she would come again, you know. They are at their own place in Surrey. They will come unless they have friends with them. They have no shooting, and nothing brings people together now except shooting. I suppose there are better things here to be shot. And be sure you write to Silverbridge.’

CHAPTER 51

The Duke’s Guests

‘The Duke of Omnium presents his compliments to Mr Francis Tregear, and begs to acknowledge the receipt of Mr Tregear’s letter of-. The Duke has no other communication to make to Mr Tregear, and must beg to decline any further correspondence.’ This was the reply which the Duke wrote to the applicant for his daughter’s hand. And he wrote it at once. He had acknowledged to himself that Tregear had shown a certain manliness in his appeal; but not on that account was such a man to have all that he demanded! It seemed to the Duke that there was no alternative between such a note as that given above and a total surrender.

But the post did not go out during the night, and the note lay hidden in the Duke’s private drawer till the morning. There was still that ‘locus poenitentiae’ which should be accorded to all letters written in anger. During the day he thought over it all constantly, not in any spirit of yielding, not descending a single step from that attitude of conviction which made him feel that it might be his duty absolutely to sacrifice his daughter,–but asking himself whether it might not be better to explain the whole matter at length to the young man. He thought that he could put the matter strongly. It was not by his own doing that he belonged to an aristocracy which, if all exclusiveness were banished from it, must cease to exist. But being what he was, having been born to such privileges and such limitations, was he not bound in duty to maintain a certain exclusiveness? He would appeal to the young man himself to say whether marriage ought to be free between all classes of the community. And if not between all, who was to maintain the limits but they to whom authority in such matters is given? So much in regard to rank! And then he would ask this young man whether he thought it fitting that a young man whose duty according to all known principles it must be to earn bread, should avoid that manifest duty by taking a wife who could maintain him. As he roamed about his park alone he felt that he could write such a letter as would make an impression even upon a lover. But when he had come back to his study, other reflections came to his aid. Though he might write the most appropriate letter in the world, would there not certainly be a reply? As to conviction, had he ever known an instance of a man who had been convinced by an adversary? Of course there would be a reply,–and replies. And to such a correspondence there would no visible end. Words when once written, remain, or may remain, in testimony for ever. So at last when the moment came he sent off those three lines, with his uncourteous compliments and his demand that there should be no further correspondence.

At dinner he endeavoured to make up for his harshness by increased tenderness to his daughter, who was altogether ignorant of the correspondence. ‘Have you written your letters, dear?’ She said she had written them.

‘I hope the people will come.’

‘If it will make you comfortable, papa!’

‘It is for your sake I wish them to be here. I think that Lady Mabel and Miss Boncassen are just such girls as you would like.’

‘I do like them; only–‘

‘Only what?’

‘Miss Boncassen is an American.’

‘Is that an objection? According to my ideas it is desirable to become acquainted with persons of various nations. I have heard, no doubt, many stories of the awkward manners displayed by American ladies. If you look for them you may probably find American women who are not polished. I do not think I shall calumniate my own country if I say the same of English women. It should be our object to select for our own acquaintance the best we can find of all countries. It seems to me that Miss Boncassen is a young lady with whom any other young lady might be glad to form an acquaintance.’

This was a little sermon which Mary was quite contented to endure in silence. She was, in truth, fond of the young American beauty, and had felt a pleasure in the intimacy which the girl had proposed to her. But she thought it inexpedient that Miss Boncassen, Lady Mabel, and Silverbridge, should be at Matching together. Therefore she made a reply to her father’s sermon which hardly seemed to go to the point at issue. ‘She is so beautiful!’ she said.

‘Very beautiful,’ said the Duke. ‘But what has that to do with it? My girl need not be jealous of any girl’s beauty.’ Mary laughed and shook her head. ‘What is it then?’

‘Perhaps Silverbridge might admire her.’

‘I have no doubt he would,–or does, for I am aware that they have met. But why should he not admire her?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lady Mary sheepishly.

‘I fancy there is no danger in that direction. I think Silverbridge understands what is expected from him.’ Had not Silverbridge plainly shown that he had understood what was expected from him when he selected Lady Mabel? Nothing could have been more proper, and the Duke had been altogether satisfied. That in such a matter there should have been a change in so short a time did not occur to him. Poor Mary was now completely silenced. She had been told that Silverbridge understood what was expected from him; and of course could not fail to carry home to herself an accusation that she failed to understand what was expected from her.

She had written her letters, but had not yet sent them. Those to Mrs Finn and the two younger ladies had been easy enough. Could Mr and Mrs Finn come to Matching on the twentieth of November? ‘Papa says that you promised to return, and thinks this time will perhaps suit you.’ And then to Lady Mabel: ‘Do come if you can; and papa particularly says that he hopes Miss Cassewary will come also.’ To Miss Boncassen she had written a long letter, but that too had been written very easily. ‘I write to you instead of your mamma because I know you. You must tell her that, and then she will not be angry. I am only papa’s messenger, and I am to say how much he hopes that you will come on the twentieth. Mr Boncassen is to bring the whole British Museum if he wishes.’ Then there was a little postscript which showed that there was already considerable intimacy between the two young ladies: ‘We won’t have either Mr L or Lord P.’ Not a word was said about Lord Silverbridge. There was not even an initial to indicate his name.

But the letter to her brother was more difficult. In her epistles to those others she had so framed her words as if possible to bring them to Matching. But in writing to her brother, she was anxious to write as to deter him from coming. She was bound to obey her father’s commands. He had desired that Silverbridge should be asked to come,–and he was asked to come. But she craftily endeavoured to word the invitation that he should be induced to remain away. ‘It is all papa’s doing,’ she said; ‘and I am glad that he should like to have people here. I have asked the Finns with whom papa seems to have made up everything. Mr Warburton will be here of course, and I think Mr Moreton is coming. He seems to think that a certain amount of shooting ought to be done. Then I have invited Lady Mabel Grex and Miss Cassewary,–all of course of papa’s choosing, and the Boncassens. Now you will know whether the set will suit you. Papa particularly begged that you will come,–apparently because of Lady Mabel. I don’t know what all that means. Perhaps you do. As I like Lady Mabel, I hope she will come.’ Surely Silverbridge would not run himself into the jaws of the lion. When he heard that he was specially expected by his father to come to Matching in order that he might make himself agreeable to one young lady, he would hardly venture to come, seeing that he would be bound to make love to another young lady!

To Mary’s great horror, all the invitations were accepted. Mr and Mrs Finn were quite at the Duke’s disposal. That she had expected. The Boncassens would all come. This was signified by a note from Isabel, which covered four sides of the paper and was full of fun. But under her signature had been written a few words,–not in fun,– words which Lady Mary perfectly understood. ‘I wonder, I wonder, I wonder!’ Did the Duke when inviting her know anything of his son’s inclinations? Would he be made to know them now, during this visit? And what would he say when he did know them?

That the Boncassens would come as a matter of course; but Mary had thought that Lady Mabel would refuse. She had told Lady Mabel that the Boncassens had been asked, and to her thinking it had not been improbable that the young lady would be unwilling to meet her rival at Matching. But the invitation was accepted.

But it was her brother’s ready acquiescence which trouble Mary chiefly. He wrote as though there was no doubt about the matter. ‘Of course there is a deal of shooting to be done,’ he said, ‘and I consider myself bound to look after it. There ought not to be less than four guns,–particularly if Warburton is to be one of them. I like Warburton very much, but I think he shoots badly to ingratiate himself with the governor. I wonder whether the governor would get leave for Gerald for a week. He has been sticking to his work like a brick. If not, would he mind my bringing someone? You ask the governor and let me know. I’ll be there on the twentieth. I wonder whether they’ll let me hear what goes on among them about politics? I’m sure there is not one of them hates Sir Timothy worse than I do. Lady Mab is a brick, and I’m glad you have asked her. I don’t think she’ll come, as she likes shutting herself up at Grex. Miss Boncassen is another brick. And if you can manage about Gerald I will say you are a third.’

This would have been all very well had she not know that secret. Could it be that Miss Boncassen had been mistaken? She was forced to write again to say that her father did not think it right that Gerald should be brought away from his studies for the sake of shooting, and that the necessary fourth gun would be there in the person of Barrington Erle. Then she added: ‘Lady Mabel Grex is coming, and so is Miss Boncassen.’ But to this she received no reply.

Though Silverbridge had written to his sister in his usual careless style, he had considered the matter much. The three months were over. He had no idea of any hesitation on his part. He had asked her to be his wife, and he was determined to go on with his suit. Had he ever been enabled to make the same request to Mabel Grex, or had she answered him when he did half make it in a serious manner, he would have been true to her. He had not told his father, or his sister, or his friends, as Isabel had suggested. He would not do so till he should have received some more certain answer from her. But in respect to his love he was prepared to be as quite as obstinate as his sister. It was a matter for his own consideration, and he would choose for himself. The three months were over, and it was now his business to present himself to the lady again.

That Lady Mabel should also be at Matching, would certainly be a misfortune. He thought it probable that she, knowing that Isabel Boncassen and he would be there together, would refuse the invitation. Surely she ought to do so. That was his opinion when he wrote to his sister. When he heard afterwards that she intended to be there, he could only suppose that she was prepared to accept the circumstances as they stood.

CHAPTER 52

Miss Boncassen Tells the Truth

On the twentieth of the month all the guests came rattling in at Matching one after the another. The Boncassens were the first, but Lady Mabel with Miss Cassewary followed them quickly. Then came the Finns, and with them Barrington Erle. Lord Silverbridge was the last. He arrived by a train which reached the station at 7pm, and only entered the house as his father was asking Miss Boncassen into the dining-room. He dressed himself in ten minutes, and joined the party as they had finished their fish. ‘I am awfully sorry,’ he said, rushing up to his father, ‘but I thought that I should just hit it.’

‘There is no occasion for awe,’ said the Duke, ‘as sufficiency of dinner is left. But how you should have hit it, as you say,–seeing that the train is not due at Bridstock till 7.05–I do not know.’

‘I’ve often done it, sir,’ said Silverbridge, taking the seat left vacant for him next to Lady Mabel. ‘We’ve had a political caucus of the party,–all the members who could be got together in London,–at Sir Timothy’s, and I was bound to attend.’

‘We’ve all heard of that,’ said Phineas Finn.

‘And we pretty well know all the points of Sir Timothy’s eloquence,’ said Barrington Erle.

‘I am not going to tell any of the secrets. I have no doubt that there were reporters present, and you will see the whole of it in the papers tomorrow.’ Then Silverbridge turned to his neighbour. ‘Well, Lady Mab, and how are you this long time?’

‘But how are you? Think what you have gone through since we were at Killancodlem!’

‘Don’t talk of it.’

‘I suppose it is not to be talked of.’

‘Though upon the whole it has happened very luckily, I have got rid of the accursed horses, and my governor has shown what a brick he can be. I don’t think there is another man in England who would have done as he did.’

‘There are not many who could.’

‘There are fewer who would. When they came into my bedroom that morning and told me that the horse could not run, I thought I should have broken my heart. Seventy thousand pounds gone!’

‘Seventy thousand pounds!’

‘And the honour and glory of winning the race! And then the feeling that one had been so awfully swindled! Of course I had to look as though I did not care a straw about it, and to go and see the race, with a jaunty air and a cigar in my mouth. That is what I call hard work.’

‘But you did it!’

‘I tried. I wish I could explain to you my state of mind that day. In the first place the money had got to be got. Though it was to go into the hands of swindlers, still it had to be paid. I don’t know how your father and Percival get on together,–but I felt like the prodigal son.’

‘It is very different with papa.’

‘I suppose so. I felt very like hanging myself when I was alone that evening. And now everything is right again.’

‘I am glad that everything is right,’ she said, with a strong emphasis on everything.

‘I have done with racing at any rate. The feeling of being in the power of a lot of low blackguards is so terrible! I did love the poor brute so dearly. And now what have you been doing?’

‘Just nothing;–and have seen nobody. I went back to Grex after leaving Killancodlem, and shut myself up in misery.’

‘Why misery?’

‘Why misery! What a question for you to ask! Though I love Grex, I am not altogether fond of living alone, and though Grex has its charms, they are of a melancholy kind. And when I think of the state of our family affairs, that is not reassuring. You father has just paid seventy thousand pounds for you. My father has been good enough to take something of less than a quarter of that sum from me;–but still it was all that I was ever to have.’

‘Girls don’t want money.’

‘Don’t they? When I look forward it seems to me that a time will come when I shall want it very much.’

‘You will marry,’ he said. She turned round for a moment and looked at him, full in the face, after a fashion that he did not dare to promise her future comfort in that direction. ‘Things always do come right, somehow.’

‘Let us hope so. Only nothing has ever come right for me yet. What is Frank doing?’

‘I haven’t seen him since he left Crummie-Toddle.’

‘And your sister?’ she whispered.

‘I know nothing about it at all.’

‘And you? I have told you everything about myself.’

‘As for me, I think of nothing but politics now. I have told you about my racing experiences. Just at present shooting is up. Before Christmas I shall go into Chiltern’s country for a little hunting.’

‘You can hunt here?’

‘I shan’t stay long enough to make it worth while to have my horses down. If Tregear will go with me to the Brake, I can mount him for a day or two. But I daresay you know more of his plans that I do. He went to see you at Grex.’

‘And you did not.’

‘I was not asked.’

‘Nor was he.’

‘Then all I can say is,’ replied Silverbridge, speaking in a low voice, but with considerable energy, ‘that he can use a freedom with Lady Mabel Grex which I cannot venture.’

‘I believe you begrudge me his friendship. If you had no one else belonging to you with whom you could have sympathy, would not you find comfort in a relation who could be almost as near to you as a brother?’

‘I do not grudge him to you.’

‘Yes; you do. And what business have to you interfere?’

‘None at all;–certainly. I will never do it again.’

‘Don’t say that, Lord Silverbridge. You ought to have more mercy on me. You ought to put up with anything from me,–knowing how much I suffer.’

‘I will put up with anything,’ said he.

‘Do, do. And now I will try to talk to Mr Erle.’

Miss Boncassen was sitting on the other side of the table, between Mr Monk and Phineas Finn, and throughout the dinner talked mock politics with the greatest liveliness. Silverbridge when he entered the room had gone round the table and shaken hands with everyone. But there had no other greeting between him and Isabel, nor had any sign passed from one to the other. No such greeting or sign had been possible. Nothing had been left undone which she had expected, or hoped. But, though she was lively, nevertheless she kept her eye upon her lover and Lady Mabel. Lady Mary had said that she thought her brother was in love with Lady Mabel. Could it be possible? In her own land she had heard absurd stories, stories which had seemed to her to be absurd,–of the treachery of Lords and Countesses, of the baseness of aristocrats, of the iniquities of high life in London. But her father had told her to go where she might, she would find people in the main to be very like each other. It had seemed that nothing could be more ingenuous than this young man had been in his declaration of his love. No simplest republican could have spoken more plainly. But now, at this moment, she could doubt but that her lover was very intimate with this other girl. Of course he was free. When she had refused to say a word to him of her own love or want of love, she had necessarily left him at liberty. When she had put him off for three months, of course he was to be his own master. But what must she think of him if it were so? And how could he have the courage to face her in her father’s house if he intended to treat her in such a fashion? But of all this she showed nothing, nor was there a tone in her voice which betrayed her. She said her last word to Mr Monk with so sweet a smile that that old bachelor wished he were younger for her sake.

In the evening after dinner there was music. It was discovered that Miss Boncassen sung divinely, and both Lady Mabel and Lady Mary accompanied her. Mr Erle, and Mr Warburton, and Mr Monk, all of whom were unmarried, stood by enraptured. But Lord Silverbridge kept himself apart, and interested himself in a description which Mrs Boncassen gave him of their young men and their young ladies in the States. He had hardly spoken to Miss Boncassen,–till he offered her sherry or soda-water before she retired for the night. She refused his courtesy with her usual smile, but showed no more emotion than though they two had now met for the first time in their lives.

He had quite made up his mind as to what he would do. When the opportunity should come his way he would simply remind her that the three months were passed. But he was shy of talking to her in the presence of Lady Mabel and his father. He was quite determined that the thing should be done at once, but he certainly wished that Lady Mabel had not been there. In what she had said to him at the dinner-table she had made him quite understand that she would be a trouble to him. He remembered her look when he had told her that she would marry. It was as though she had declared to him that it was he who ought to be her husband. It referred back to that proffer of love which he had once made to her. Of course all this was disagreeable. Of course it made things difficult for him. But not the less was it a thing quite assured that he would press his suit to Miss Boncassen. When he was talking to Mrs Boncassen he was thinking of nothing else. When he was offering Isabel the glass of sherry he was telling himself that he would find his opportunity on the morrow,–though, now, at this moment, it was impossible that he should make a sign. She, as she went to bed, asked herself whether it was possible that there should be such treachery;–whether it were possible that he should pass it all by as though he had never said a word to her!

During the whole of the next day, which was Sunday, he was equally silent. Immediately after breakfast, on the Monday, shooting commenced, and he could not find a moment in which to speak. It seemed to him that she purposely kept out of his way. With Mabel he did find himself for a few moments alone, and was then interrupted by his sister and Isabel. ‘I hope you have killed a lot of things,’ said Miss Boncassen.

‘Pretty well, among us all.’

‘What an odd amusement it seems, going out to commit wholesale slaughter. However it is the proper thing no doubt.’

‘Quite the proper thing,’ said Lord Silverbridge, and that was all.

On the next morning he dressed himself for shooting,–and then sent out the party without him. He had heard, he said, of a young horse for sale in the neighbourhood, and had sent to desire that it might be brought to him. And now he found his occasion.

‘Come and play a game of billiards,’ he said to Isabel, as the three girls with the other ladies were together in the drawing- room. She got up very slowly from her seat, and very slowly crept away to the door. Then she looked round as though expecting the others to follow her. None of them did follow her. Mary felt that she ought to do so; but, knowing all that she knew, did not dare. And what good could she have done by one such interruption? Lady Mabel would fain have gone too;–but neither did she quite dare. Had there been no special reason why she should or should not have gone with them, the thing would have been easy enough. When two people go to play billiards, a third may surely accompany them. But now, Lady Mabel found that she could not stir. Mrs Finn, Mrs Boncassen, and Miss Cassewary were all in the room, but none of them moved. Silverbridge led the way quickly across the hall, and Isabel Boncassen followed him very slowly. When she entered the room she found him standing with a cue in his hand. He at once shut the door, and walking up to her dropped the butt of the cue on the floor and spoke one word. ‘Well!’ he said.

‘What does “Well” mean?’

‘The three months are over.’

‘Certainly the are “over”.’
‘And I have been a model of patience.’

‘Perhaps your patience is more remarkable than your constancy. Is not Lady Mabel Grex in the ascendant just now?’

‘What do you mean by that? Why do you ask that? You told me to wait for three months. I have waited, and here I am.’

‘How very–very–downright you are.’

‘Is it not the proper thing?’

‘I thought I was downright,–but you beat me hollow. Yes, the three months are over. And now what have you got to say?’ He put down his cue, stretched out his arms as though he were going to take her and hold her to his heart. ‘No;–no, not that,’ she said laughing. ‘But if you will speak, I will hear you.’

‘You know what I said before. Will you love me, Isabel?’

‘And you know what I said before. Do they know you love me? Does your father know it, and your sister? Why did they ask me to come here?’

‘Nobody knows it. But say that you love me, and everyone shall know it at once. Yes, one person knows it. Why did you mention Lady Mabel’s name? She knows it.’

‘Did you tell her?’

‘Yes, I went again to Killancodlem after you were gone, and then I told her.’

‘But why her? Come, Lord Silverbridge. You are straightforward with me, and I will be the same with you. You have told Lady Mabel. I have told Lady Mary.’

‘My sister!’

‘Yes;–your sister. And I am sure she disapproves it. She did not say so; but I am sure it is so. and then she told me something.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘Has there ever been reason to think that you intended to offer your hand to Lady Mabel Grex?’

‘Did she tell you so?’

‘You should answer my question, Lord Silverbridge. It is surely one which I have a right to ask.’ Then she stood waiting for his reply, keeping herself at some little distance from him as though she were afraid that he would fly upon her. And indeed there seemed to be cause for such fear from frequent gestures of his hands. ‘Why do you not answer me? Has there been some reason for such expectations?’

‘Yes;–there has.’

‘There has!’

‘I thought of it,–not knowing myself before I had seen you. You shall know it all if you will only say that you love me.’

‘I should like to know it first.’

‘You do know it all;–almost. I have told you that she knows what I said to you at Killancodlem. Is not that enough?’

‘And she approves!’

‘What has it to do with her? Lady Mabel is my friend, but not my guardian.’

‘Has she a right to expect that she should be your wife?’

‘No;–certainly not. Why should you ask all this? Do you love me? Come, Isabel; say that you love me. Will you call me vain if I say that I almost think you do. You cannot doubt my love;–not now.’

‘No;–not now.’

‘You needn’t. Why won’t you be as honest to me? If you hate me, say so;–but if you love me-!’

‘I do not hate you, Lord Silverbridge.’

‘And is that all?’

‘You asked me the question.’

‘But you do love me? By George, I thought you would be more honest and straightforward.’

Then she dropped her badinage and answered him seriously. ‘I thought I had been more honest and straightforward. When I found that you were in earnest at Killancodlem–‘

‘Why did you ever doubt me?’

‘When I felt that you were in earnest, then I had to be in earnest too. And I thought so much about it that I lay awake nearly all that night. Shall I tell you what I thought?’

‘Tell me something I would like to hear.’

‘I will tell you the truth. “Is it possible,” I said to myself, “that such a man as that can want me to be his wife; he an Englishman, of the highest rank and the greatest wealth, and one that any girl in the world would love?”‘

‘Psha!’ he exclaimed.

‘That is what I said to myself.’ Then she paused, and looking into his face he saw that there was a glimmer of a tear in each eye. ‘One that any girl must love when asked for her love;–because he is so sweet, so good, and so pleasant.’

‘I know that you are chaffing.’

‘Then I went on asking myself questions. And is it possible that I, who by all his friends will be regarded as a nobody, who am an American,–with merely human work-a-day blood in her veins,–that such a one as I should become his wife? Then I told myself that it was not possible. It was not in accordance with the fitness of things. All the dukes in England would rise up against it, and especially that duke whose good will would be imperative.’

‘Why should he rise up against it?’

‘You know he will. But I will go on with my story of myself. When I had settled that in my mind, I just cried myself to sleep. It had been a dream. I had come across one who in his own self seemed to combine all that I had ever thought of as being lovable in a man–‘

‘Isabel!’

‘And in his outward circumstances soared as much above my thoughts as the heaven is above the earth. And he had whispered to me soft loving, heavenly words. No;–no, you shall not touch me. But you shall listen to me. In my sleep I could be happy again and not see the barriers. But when I woke I made up my mind. “If he comes to me again,” I said-“if it should be that he should come to me again, I will tell him that he shall be my heaven on earth,–if,– if–if the ill will of his friends would not make that heaven a hell to both of us.” I did not tell you quite all that.’

‘You told me nothing but that I was to come back again in three months.’

‘I said more than that. I bade you ask your father. Now you have come again. You cannot understand a girl’s fears and doubts. How should you? I thought perhaps you would not come. When I saw you whispering to that highly-born well-bred beauty, and remembered what I was myself, I thought that–you would not come.’

‘Then you must love me.’

‘Love you! Oh, my darling!-No, no, no,’ she said, as she retreated from him round the corner of the billiard-table, and stood guarding herself from him with her little hands. ‘You ask if I love you. You are entitled to know the truth. From the sole of your foot to the crown of you head I love you as I think a man would wish to be loved by the girl he loves. You have come across my life, and have swallowed me up, and made me all your own. But I will not marry you to be rejected by your people. No; nor shall there be a kiss between us till I know that it will not be so.’

‘May I speak to your father?’

‘For what good? I have not spoken to father or mother because I have known that it must depend upon your father. Lord Silverbridge, if he will tell me that I shall be his daughter, I will become your wife,–oh with such perfect joy, with such perfect truth! If it can never be so, then let us be torn apart,–with whatever struggle, still at once. In that case I will get myself back to my own country as best I may, and will pray to God that all this may be forgotten.’ Then she made her way round to the door, leaving him fixed on the spot in which she had been standing. But as she went she made a little prayer to him. ‘Do not delay my fate. It is all in all to me.’ And so he was left alone in the billiard-room.

CHAPTER 53

Then I am as Proud as a Queen

During the next day or two the shooting went on without much interruption from love-making. The love-making was not prosperous all round. Poor Lady Mary had nothing to comfort her. Could she have been allowed to see the letter which her lover had written to her father, the comfort would have been, if not ample, still very great. Mary told herself again and again that she was quite sure of Tregear;–but it was hard upon her that she could not be made certain that her certainty was well grounded. Had she known that Tregear had written, though she had not seen a word of the letter, it would have comforted her. But she heard nothing of the letter. In June last she had seen him, by chance, for a few minutes, in Lady Mabel’s drawing-room. Since that she had not heard from him or of him. That was now more than five months since. How could love serve her,–how could her very life serve her, if things were to go on like that? How was she to bear it? Thinking of this she resolved, she almost resolved, that she would go boldly to her father and desire that she might be given up to her lover.

Her brother, although more triumphant,–for how could he fail to triumph after such words as Isabel had spoken to him,–still felt his difficulties very seriously. She had imbued him with a strong sense of her own firmness, and she had declared that she would go away and leave him altogether if the Duke should be unwilling to receive her. He knew that the Duke would be unwilling. The Duke, who certainly was not handy in those duties of match-making which seemed to have fallen upon him at the death of his wife, showed by a hundred little signs his anxiety that his son and heir should arrange his affairs with Lady Mabel. These signs were manifest to Mary,–were disagreeably manifest to Silverbridge,–and were unfortunately manifest to Lady Mabel herself. They were manifest to Mrs Finn, who was clever enough to perceive that the inclinations of the young heir were turned in another direction. And gradually they became manifest to Isabel Boncassen. The host himself, as host, was courteous to all his guests. They had been of his own selection, and he did his best to make himself pleasant to them all. But he selected two for his peculiar notice,–and those two were Miss Boncassen and Lady Mabel. While he would himself walk, and talk, and argue after his own particular fashion with the American beauty,–explaining to her matters political and social, till he persuaded her to promise to read his pamphlet upon decimal coinage,–he was always making efforts to throw Silverbridge and Lady Mabel together. The two girls saw it and knew how the matter was,–knew that they were rivals, and knew each the ground on which she herself and on which the other stood. But neither was satisfied with her advantage, or nearly satisfied. Isabel would not take the prize without the Duke’s consent;—and Mabel could not have it without that other consent. ‘If you want to marry an English Duke,’ she once said to Isabel in that anger which she was unable to restrain, ‘there is the Duke himself. I never saw a man so absolutely in love.’ ‘But I do not want to marry an English Duke,’ said Isabel, ‘and I pity any girl who has any idea of marriage except that which comes from a wish to give back love for love.’

Through it all the father never suspected the real state of his son’s mind. He was too simple to think it possible that the purpose which Silverbridge had declared to him as they walked together from the Beargarden had already been thrown to the winds. He did not like to ask why the thing was not settled. Young men, he thought, were sometimes shy, and young ladies not always ready to give immediate encouragement. But when he saw them together he concluded that matters were going in the right direction. It was, however, an opinion which he had all to himself.

During the next three or four days which followed the scene in the billiard-room Isabel kept herself out of her lover’s way. She had explained to him that which she wished him to do, and she left him to do it. Day by day she watched the circumstances of the life around her, and knew that it had not been done. She was sure that it could not have been done while the Duke was explaining to her the beauty of quints, and expiating on the horrors of twelve pennies, and twelve inches, and twelve ounces,–variegated in some matters by sixteen and fourteen! He could not know that she was ambitious of becoming his daughter-in-law, while he was opening out to her the mysteries of the House of Lords, and explaining how it came to pass that while he was a member of one House of Parliament, his son should be sitting as a member of another;–how it was that a nobleman could be a commoner, and how a peer of one part of the Empire could sit as the representative of a borough in another part. She was an apt scholar. Had there been a question of any other young man marrying her, he would probably have thought that no other young man could have done better.

Silverbridge was discontented with himself. The greater misfortune was that Lady Mabel should be there. While she was present to his father’s eyes he did not know how to declare his altered wishes. Every now and then she would say to him some little word indicating her feelings of the absurdity of his passion. ‘I declare I don’t know whether it is you or your father that Miss Boncassen most affects,’ she said. But to this and to other similar speeches he would make no answer. She had extracted his secret from him at Killancodlem, and might use it against him if she pleased. In his present frame of mind he was not disposed to joke with her on the subject.

On that second Sunday,–the Boncassens were to return to London on the following Tuesday,–he found himself alone with Isabel’s father. The American had been brought out at his own request to see the stables, and had been accompanied round the premises by Silverbridge, Mr Wharton, by Isabel, and by Lady Mary. As they got out into the park the party were divided, and Silverbridge found himself with Mr Boncassen. Then it occurred to him that the proper thing for a young man in love was to go, not to his own father, but to the lady’s father. Why should not he do as others always did? Isabel no doubt had suggested a different course. But that which Isobel suggested was at the present moment impossible to him. Now at this instant, without a moment’s forethought, he determined to tell his story to Isabel’s father,–as any other young lover might tell it to any other father.

‘I am very glad to find ourselves alone, Mr Boncassen,’ he said. Mr Boncassen bowed and showed himself prepared to listen. Though so many at Matching had seen the whole play, Mr Boncassen had seen nothing of it.

‘I don’t know whether you are aware of what I have got to say.’

‘I cannot quite say that I am, my lord. But whatever it is, I am sure I shall be delighted to hear it.’

‘I want to marry your daughter,’ said Silverbridge. Isabel had told him that he was downright, and in such a matter he had hardly as yet learned how to express himself with those paraphrases in which the world delights. Mr Boncassen stood stock still, and in the excitement of the moment pulled off his hat. ‘The proper thing is to ask your permission to go on with it.’

‘You want to marry my daughter!’

‘Yes. That is what I have got to say.’

‘Is she aware of your–intention?’

‘Quite aware. I believe I may say that if other things go straight, she will consent.’

‘And your father–the Duke?’

‘He knows nothing about it,–as yet.’

‘Really this takes me by surprise. I am afraid you have not given enough thought to the matter.’

‘I have been thinking about it for the last three months,’ said Lord Silverbridge.

‘Marriage is a very serious thing.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘And men generally like to marry their equals.’

‘I don’t know about that. I don’t think that counts for much. People don’t always know who are their equals.’

‘That is quite true. If I were speaking to you or to your father theoretically I should perhaps be unwilling to admit superiority on your side because of your rank and wealth. I could make an argument in favour of any equality with the best Briton that ever lived,–as would become a true-born Republican.’

‘That is just what I mean.’

‘But when the question becomes one of practising,–a question for our lives, for our happiness, for our own conduct, then, knowing what must be the feelings of an aristocracy in such a country as this, I am prepared to admit that your father would be as well justified in objecting to a marriage between a child of his and a child of mine, as I should be in objecting to one between my child and the son of some mechanic in our native city.’

‘He wouldn’t be a gentleman,’ said Silverbridge.

‘That is a word of which I don’t quite know the meaning.’

‘I do,’ said Silverbridge confidently.

‘But you could not define it. If a man be well educated, and can keep a good house over his head, perhaps you may call him a gentleman. But there are many such with whom your father would not wish to be so closely connected to as you propose.’

‘But I may have your sanction?’ Mr Boncassen again took off his hat and walked along thoughtfully. ‘I hope you don’t object to me personally.’

‘My dear young lord, your father has gone out of his way to be civil to me. Am I to return his courtesy by bringing a great trouble upon him?’

‘He seems to be very fond of Miss Boncassen.’

‘Will he continue to be fond of her when he has heard this? What does Isabel say?’

‘She says the same as you, of course.’

‘Why of course;–except that it is evident to you as it is to me that she could not with propriety say anything else.’

‘I think she would,–would like it, you know.’

‘She would like to be your wife!’

‘Well;–yes. If it were all serene, I think she would consent.’

‘I daresay she would consent,–if it were all serene. Why should she not? do not try her too hard, Lord Silverbridge. You say you love her?’

‘I do indeed.’

‘Then think of the position in which you are placing her. You are struggling to win her heart.’ Silverbridge as he heard this assured himself that there was no need for any further struggling in that direction. ‘Perhaps you have won it. Yet she may feel that she cannot become your wife. She may well say to herself that this which is offered to her is so great, that she does not know how to refuse it; and may yet have to say, at the same time, that she cannot accept it without disgrace. You would not put one that you love into such a position?’

‘As for disgrace,–that is nonsense. I beg your pardon, Mr Boncassen.’

‘Would it be no disgrace that she should be known here, in England, to be your wife, and that none of those of your rank,–of what would then be her own rank,–should welcome her into the new world?’

‘That would be out of the question.’

‘If your own father refused to welcome her, would not others follow suit?’

‘You don’t know my father.’

‘You seem to know him well enough to fear that he would object.’

‘Yes;–that is true.’

‘What more do I want to know?’

‘If she were once my wife he would not reject her. Of all human beings he is in truth the kindest and most affectionate.’

‘And therefore you would try him after this fashion? No, my lord, I cannot see my way through these difficulties. You can say what you please to him as to your own wishes. But you must not tell him that you have any sanction from me.’

That evening the story was told to Mrs Boncassen, and the matter was discussed among the family. Isabel in talking to them made no scruple of declaring her own feelings; and though in speaking to Lord Silverbridge she had spoken very much as her father had done afterwards, yet in this family conclave she took her lover’s part. ‘That is all very well, father,’ she said, ‘I told him the same thing myself. But if he is man enough to be firm I shall not throw him over,–not for all the dukes in Europe. I shall not stay here to be pointed at. I will go back home. If he follows me to show that he is in earnest, I shall not disappoint him for the sake of pleasing his father.’ To this neither Mr nor Mrs Boncassen were able to make any efficient answer. Mrs Boncassen, dear good woman, could see no reason why two young people who loved each other should not be married at once. Dukes and duchesses were nothing to her. If they couldn’t be happy in England then let them come and live in New York. She didn’t understand that anybody could be too good for her daughter. Was there not an idea that Mr Boncassen would be the next President? And was not the President of the United States as good as the Queen of England?

Lord Silverbridge when he left Mr Boncassen wandered about the park by himself. King Cophetua married the beggar’s daughter. He was sure of that. King Cophetua probably had not a father, and the beggar, probably, was not high-minded. But the discrepancy in that case was much greater. He intended to persevere, trusting much to a belief that when once he was married his father would ‘come round’. His father always did come round. But the more he thought of it, the more impossible it seemed to him that he should ask his father’s consent at the present moment. Lady Mabel’s presence in the house was an insuperable obstacle. He thought that he could do it if he and his father were alone together, or comparatively alone. He must be prepared for an opposition, at any rate of some days, which opposition would make his father quite unable to entertain his guests while it lasted.

But as he could not declare his wishes to his father, and was thus disobeying Isabel’s behests, he must explain the difficulty to her. He felt already that she would despise him for his cowardice,–that she would not perceive the difficulties in his way, or understand that he might injure his cause by precipitation. Then he considered whether he might not possibly make some bargain with his father. How would it be if he should consent to go back to the Liberal party on being allowed to marry the girl he loved? As far as his political feelings were concerned he did not think that he would much object to make the change. There was only one thing certain,–that he must explain his condition to Miss Boncassen before she went.

He found no difficulty now in getting the opportunity. She was