The Duke’s Children by Anthony Trollope (page 13)

word. But I shall always think of it; and remembering the way in which my character struck an educated Englishman,–who was not altogether ill-disposed towards me,–I may hope to improve myself.’

CHAPTER 73

‘I Have Never Loved You.’

Silverbridge had now been in town three or four weeks, and Lady Mabel Grex had also been in London all that time, and yet he had not seen her. She had told him that she loved him and had asked him plainly to make her his wife. He had told her he could not do so,–that he was altogether resolved to make another woman his wife. Then she had rebuked him, and had demanded from him how he had dared to treat her as he had done. His conscience was clear. He had his own code or morals as to such matters; and had, as he regarded it, kept within the law. But she thought that she was badly treated, and had declared that she was now left out in the cold for ever through his treachery. Then her last word had been almost the worst of all, ‘Who can tell what may come to pass?’– showing too plainly that she would not even now give up her hope. Before the month was up she wrote to him as follows:

‘DEAR LORD SILVERBRIDGE,

‘Why do you not come and see me? Are friends so plentiful with you that one so staunch as I may be thrown over? But of course I know why you do not come. Put all that aside,–and come. I cannot hurt you. I have learned to feel that certain things which the world regards as too awful to be talked of,–except in the way of scandal, may be discussed and then laid aside just like other subjects. What though I wear a wig or a wooden leg, I may still be fairly comfortable among my companions unless I crucify myself by trying to hide my misfortune. It is not the presence of the skeleton that crushes us. Not even that will hurt us much if we let him go about the house as he lists. It is the everlasting effort which the horror makes to peep out of his cupboard that robs us of our ease. At any rate come and see me.

‘Of course I know that you are to be married to Miss Boncassen. Who does not know it? The trumpeters have been at work for the last week.

‘Your very sincere Friend,
‘MABEL.’

He wished that she had not written. Of course he must go to her. And though there was a word or two in her letter which angered him, his feelings towards her were kindly. Had not that American angel flown across the Atlantic to his arms he could have been well content to make her his wife. But the interview at the present moment could hardly be other than painful. She could, she said, talk of her own misfortunes, but the subject would be very painful to him. It was not to him a skeleton, to be locked out of sight, but it had been a misfortune, and the sooner that such misfortune could be forgotten the better.

He knew what she meant about trumpeters. She had intended to signify that Isabel in her pride had boasted of her matrimonial prospects. Of course there had been trumpets. Are there not always trumpets when a marriage is contemplated, magnificent enough to be called an alliance? As for that he himself had blown the trumpets. He had told everybody that he was going to be married to Miss Boncassen. Isabel had blown no trumpets. In her own straightforward way she had told the truth to whom it concerned. Of course he would go and see Lady Mabel, but he trusted that for her own sake nothing would be said about trumpets.

‘So you have come at last,’ Mabel said when he entered the room. ‘No;–Miss Cassewary is not here. As I wanted to see you alone I got her to go out this morning. Why did you not come before?’

‘You said in your letter you knew why.’

‘But in saying so I was accusing you of cowardice;–was I not?’

‘It was not cowardice.’

‘Why then did you not come?’

‘I thought you would hardly wish to see me so soon,–after what passed.’

‘That is honest at any rate. You felt that I must be too much ashamed of what I said to be able to look you in the face.’

‘Not that exactly.’

‘Any other man would have felt the same, but no other man would be honest enough to tell me so. I do not think that ever in your life you have constrained yourself to the civility of a lie.’

‘I hope not.’

‘To be civil and false is often better than to be harsh and true. I may be soothed by the courtesy and yet not deceived by the lie. But what I told you in my letter,–which I hope you have destroyed–‘

‘I will destroy it.’

‘Do. It was not intended for the partner of your future joys. As I told you then I can talk freely. Why not? We know it,–both of us. How your conscience may be I cannot tell; but mine is clear from that soil with which you think it should be smirched.’

‘I think nothing of the sort.’

‘Yes, Silverbridge, you do. You have said to yourself this;–That girl has determined to get me, and she has not stopped as to how she would do it.’

‘No such idea ever crossed my mind.’

‘But you have never told yourself of the engagement which you gave me. Such condemnation as I have spoken of would have been just if my efforts had been sanctioned by no words, no looks, no deeds from you. Did you give me warrant for thinking that you were my lover?’

That theory by which he had justified himself to himself seemed to fall away from him under her questioning. He could not now remember his words to her in those old days before Miss Boncassen had crossed his path; but he did know that he had once intended to make her understand that he loved her. She had not understood him;–or understanding, had not accepted his words; and therefore he had thought himself free. But it now seemed that he had not been entitled so to regard himself. There she sat, looking at him, waiting for his answer; and he who had been so sure that he had committed no sin against her, had not a word to say to her.

‘I want you to answer that, Lord Silverbridge. I have told you that I would have no skeleton in the cupboard. Down at Matching, and before that at Killancodlem, I appealed to you, asking you to take me as your wife.’

‘Hardly that.’

‘Altogether that! I will have nothing denied what I have done,– nor will I be ashamed of anything. I did do so,–even after this infatuation. I thought then that one so volatile might perhaps fly back again.’

‘I shall not do that,’ said he, frowning at her.

‘You need trouble yourself with no assurance, my friend. Let us understand each other now. I am not now supposing that you can fly back again. You have found your perch, and you must settle on it like a good domestic barn-door fowl.’ Again he scowled. If she were too hard upon him he would certainly turn upon her. ‘No; you will not fly back again now;–but was I, or was I not, justified when you came to Killancodlem in thinking that my lover had come there?’

‘How can I tell? It is my own justification I am thinking of.’

‘I see all that. But we cannot both be justified. Did you mean me to suppose that you were speaking to me words in earnest when there,–sitting in that very spot,–you spoke to me of your love.’

‘Did I speak of my love?’

‘Did you speak of your love! And now, Silverbridge,–for if there be an English gentleman on earth I think you are one,–as a gentleman tell me this. Did you not even tell your father that I should be your wife? I know you did.’

‘Did he tell you?’

‘Men such as you and he, who cannot even lie with your eyelids, who will not condescend to cover up a secret by a moment of feigned inanimation, have many voices. He did tell me; but he broke no confidence. He told me, but did not mean to tell me. Now you also have told me.’

‘I did. I told him so. And then I changed my mind.’

‘I know you changed your mind. Men often do. A pinker pink, a whiter white,–a finger that will press you just half an ounce the closer,–a cheek that will consent to let itself come just a little nearer-!’

‘No; no; no! It was because Isabel had not easily consented to such approaches!’

‘Trifles such as these will do it;–and some such trifles have done it with you. It would be beneath me to make comparisons where I might seem to be the gainer. I grant her beauty. She is very lovely. She has succeeded.’

‘I have succeeded.’

‘But;–I am justified, and you are condemned. Is it not so? Tell me like a man.’

‘You are justified.’

‘And you are condemned? When you told me that I should be your wife, and then told your father the same story, was I to think it all meant nothing? Have you deceived me?’

‘I did not mean it.’

‘Have you deceived me? What; you cannot deny it, and yet have not the manliness to own it to a poor woman who can only save herself from humiliation by extorting the truth from you!’

‘Oh, Mabel, I am so sorry that it should be so.’

‘I believe you are,–with a sorrow that will last till she is again sitting close to you. Nor, Silverbridge, do I wish it to be longer. No;–no;–no. Your fault after all has not been great. You deceived, but did not mean to deceive me?’

‘Never, never.’

‘And I fancy you have never known how much you bore about with you. Your modesty has been so perfect that you have not thought of yourself as more than other men. You have forgotten that you have had in your hand the disposal to some one woman of a throne in Paradise.’

‘I don’t suppose you thought of that.’

‘But I did. Why should I tell falsehoods now. I have determined that you should know everything,–but I could better confess to you my own sins, when I had shown that you too have not been innocent. Not think of it! Do not men think of high titles and great wealth and power and place? And if men, why should not women? Do not men try to get them;–and are they not even applauded for their energy? A woman has but one way to try. I tried.’

‘I do not think it was well for that.’

‘How shall I answer that without a confession which even I am not hardened enough to make? In truth, Silverbridge, I have never loved you.’

He drew himself up slowly before he answered her, and gradually assumed a look very different from that easy boyish smile which was customary to him. ‘I am glad of that,’ he said.

‘Why are you glad?’

‘Now I can have no regrets.’

‘You need have none. It was necessary to me that I should have my little triumph;–that I should show you that I knew how far you had wronged me! But now I wish you should know everything. I have never loved you.’

‘There is an end of it then.’

‘But I have liked you so well;–so much better than all others! A dozen men have asked me to marry them. And though they might be nothing till they made the request, then they became,–things of horror to me. But you were not a thing of horror. I could have become your wife, and I think I would have learned to love you.’

‘It is best as it is.’

‘I ought to say so too; but I have a doubt I should have liked to be Duchess of Omnium, and perhaps I might have fitted the place better than one who can as yet know but little of its duties or its privileges. I may, perhaps, think that that other arrangement would have been better even for you.’

‘I can take care of myself in that.’

‘I should have married you without loving you, but I should have done so determined to serve you with a devotion which a woman who does love hardly thinks necessary. I would have so done my duty that you should never have guessed that my heart had been in the keeping of another man.’

‘Another man!’

‘Yes; of course. If there had been no other man, why not you? Am I so hard, do you think that I can love no one? Are you not such a one that a girl would naturally love,–were she not preoccupied? That a woman should love seems as necessary as that a man should not.’

‘A man can love too.’

‘No;–hardly. He can admire, and he can like, and he can fondle and be fond. He can admire, and approve, and perhaps worship. He can know of a woman that she is part of himself, the most sacred part, and therefore will protect her from the very winds. But all that will not make love. It does not come to a man that to be separated from a woman is to be dislocated from his very self. A man has but one centre, and that is himself. A woman has two. Though the second may never be seen by her, may live in the arms of another, may do all for that other that man can do for a woman,–still, still, though he be half the globe asunder from her, still he is to her the other half of her existence. If she really love, there is, I fancy, no end of it. To the end of time I shall love Frank Tregear.’

‘Tregear!’

‘Who else?’

‘He is engaged to Mary.’

‘Of course he is. Why not;–to her or to whomsoever else he might like best? He is as true I doubt not to your sister as you are to your American beauty,–or as you would have been to me had fancy held. He used to love me.’

‘You were always friends.’

‘Always;–dear friends. And he would have loved me if a man were capable of loving. But he could sever himself from me easily, just when he was told to do so. I thought that I could do the same. But I cannot. A jackal is born a jackal, and not lion, and cannot help himself. So is a woman born–a woman. They are clinging, parasite things, which cannot but adhere; though they destroy themselves by adhering. Do not suppose that I take pride in it. I would give one of my eyes to be able to disregard him.’

‘Time will do it.’

‘Yes; time,–that brings wrinkles and rouge-pots and rheumatism. Though I have so hated those men as to be unable to endure them, still I want some man’s house, and his name,–some man’s bread and wine,–some man’s jewels and titles and woods and parks and gardens,–if I can get them. Time can help a man in his sorrow. If he begins at forty to make speeches, or to win races, or to breed oxen, he can yet live a prosperous life. Time is but a poor consoler for a young woman who has to be married.’

‘Oh Mabel.’

‘And now let there be not a word more about it. I know–that I can trust you.’

‘Indeed you may.’

‘Though you will tell her everything else you will not tell her this.’

‘No;–not this.’

‘And surely you will not tell your sister!’

‘I shall tell no one.’

‘It is because you are so true that I have dared to trust you. I had to justify myself,–and then to confess. Had I at that moment taken you at your word, you would have never have known anything of all this. “There is a tide in the affairs of men-!” But I let the flood go by! I shall not see you again before you are married; but come to me afterwards.’

CHAPTER 74

‘Let Us Drink a Glass of Wine Together’

Silverbridge pondered it all much as he went home. What a terrible story was that he had heard! The horror to him was chiefly in this,–that she should yet be driven to marry some man without even fancying that she could love him! And his was Lady Mabel Grex, who, on his own first entrance into London life, now not much more than twelve months ago, had seemed to him to stand above all other girls in beauty, charm, and popularity!

As he opened the door of his house with his latch-key, who should be coming out but Frank Tregear,–Frank Tregear with his arm in a sling, but still with an unmistakable look of general satisfaction. ‘When on earth did you come up?’ asked Silverbridge. Tregear told him that he had arrived on the previous evening from Harrington. ‘And why? The doctor would not have let you come if he could have helped it.’

‘When he found he could not help it, he did let me come. I am nearly all right. If I had been nearly all wrong I should have had to come.’

‘And what are you doing here?’

‘Well; if you’ll allow me I’ll go back with you for a moment. What do you think I have been doing?’

‘Have you seen my sister?’

‘Yes, I have seen your sister. And I have done better than that. I have seen your father. Lord Silverbridge,–behold your brother-in- law.’

‘You don’t mean to say that it is arranged?’

‘I do.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He made me understand by most unanswerable arguments, that I had no business to think of such a thing. I did not fight the point with him,–but simply stood there, as conclusive evidence of my business. He told me that we should have nothing to live on unless he gave us an income. I assured him that I would never ask him for a shilling. “But I cannot allow her to marry a man without an income,” he said.’

‘I know his way so well.’

‘I have just two facts to go upon,–that I would not give her up, and that she would not give me up. When I pointed that out he tore up his hair,–in a mild way, and said that he did not understand that kind of thing at all.’

‘And yet he gave way.’

‘Of course he did. They say that when a king of old would consent to see a petitioner for his life, he was bound by his royalty to mercy. So it was with the Duke. Then, very early in the argument, he forgot himself, and called her,–Mary. I knew that he had thrown up the sponge then.’

‘How did he give way at last?’

‘He asked me what were my ideas about life in general. I said that I thought Parliament was a good sort of thing, that I was lucky enough to have a seat, and that I should take lodgings somewhere near Westminster till-“Till what?” he asked. Till something is settled I replied. Then he turned away from me and remained silent. May I see Lady Mary? I asked. “Yes; you may see her,” he replied, as he rang the bell. Then when the servant was gone he stopped me. “I love her too dearly to see her grieve,” he said. “I hope you will show that you can be worthy of her.” Then I made some sort of protestation and went upstairs. While I was with Mary there came a message to me, telling me to come to dinner.’

‘The Boncassens are all dining there.’

‘Then we shall be a family party. So far I suppose I may say it is settled. When he will let us marry heaven only knows. Mary declares that she will not press him. I certainly cannot do so. It is all a matter of money.’

‘He won’t care about that.’

‘But he may perhaps think that a little patience will do us good. You will have to soften him.’ Then Silverbridge told all he knew about himself. He was to be married in May; was to go to Matching for a week or two after his wedding, was then to see the Session to an end, and after that to travel with his wife to the United States. ‘I don’t suppose we shall be allowed to run about the world together so soon as that,’ said Tregear, ‘but I am too well satisfied with my day’s work to complain.’

‘Did he say what he meant to give her?’

‘Oh dear no;–nor even that he meant to give her anything. I should not dream of asking a question about it. Nor when he makes any proposition shall I think of having any opinion of my own.’

‘He’ll make it all right;–for her sake you know.’

‘My chief object as regards him, is that he should not think I have been looking for her money. Well; good-bye. I suppose we shall all meet at dinner?’

When Tregear left him Silverbridge went to his father’s room. He was anxious that they should understand each other as to Mary’s engagement. ‘I thought you were at the House,’ said the Duke.

‘I was going there, but I met Tregear at the door. He tells me you have accepted him for Mary.’

‘I wish that he had never seen her. Do you think that a man can be thwarted in everything and not feel it?’

‘I thought–you had reconciled yourself–to Isabel.’

‘If it were that alone I could do so the more easily, because personally she wins upon me. And this man too;–it is not that I find fault with himself.’

‘He is in all respects a high-minded gentleman.’

‘I hope so. But yet, had he a right to set his heart there, where he could make his fortune,–having none of his own?’

‘He did not think of it.’

‘A gentleman should do more than not think of it. He should think that it shall not be so. a man should own his means or should earn them.’

‘How many, sir, do neither?’

‘Yes, I know,’ said the Duke. ‘Such a doctrine nowadays is caviare to the general. One must live as others live around one, I suppose. I could not see her suffer. It was too much for me. When I became convinced that this was no temporary passion, no romantic love which time might banish, that she was of such a temperament that she could not change,–that I had to give way. Gerald I suppose will bring me some kitchen-maid for his wife.’

‘Oh sir, you should not say that to me.’

‘No;–I should not have said it to you. I beg your pardon, Silverbridge.’ Then he paused a moment, turning over certain thoughts within his own bosom. ‘Perhaps after all it is well that a pride of which I am conscious should be rebuked. And it may be that the rebuke has come in such a form that I should be thankful. I know that I can love Isabel.’

‘That to me will be everything.’

‘And this young man has nothing that should revolt me. I think he has been wrong. But now that I have said it I will let all that pass from me. He will dine with us today.’

Silverbridge then went to see his sister. ‘So you have settled your little business, Mary.’

‘Oh Silverbridge, you will wish me joy?’

‘Certainly. Why not?’

‘Papa is so stern with me. Of course he has given way, and of course I am grateful. But he looks at me as though I had done something to be forgiven.’

‘Take the good the gods provide you, Mary. That will all come right.’

‘But I have not done anything wrong, have I?’

‘That is a matter of opinion. How can I answer you when I don’t quite know whether I have done anything wrong or not myself. I am going to marry the girl that I have chosen. That’s enough for me.’

‘But you did change.’

‘We need not say anything about that.’

‘But I have never changed. Papa just told me that he would consent, and that I might write to him. So I did write, and he came. But papa looks at me as though I had broken his heart.’

‘I tell you what it is, Mary. You expect too much from him. He has not had his own way with either of us, and of course he feels it.’

As Tregear had said there was quite a family party in Carlton Terrace, though as yet the family was not bound together by family ties. All the Boncassens were there, the father, the mother, and the promised bride. Mr Boncassen bore himself with more ease than anyone in the company, having at his command a gift of manliness which enabled him to regard this marriage exactly as he would have done any other. America was not so far distant but what he would be able to see his girl occasionally. He liked the young man and he believed in the comfort of wealth. Therefore he was satisfied. But when the marriage was spoken of, or written of, as an ‘alliance’, then he would say a hard word or two about dukes and lords in general. On such an occasion as this he was happy and at his ease.

So much could not be said for his wife, with whom the Duke attempted to place himself on terms of family equality. But in doing this he failed to hide the attempt even from her, and she broke down under it. Had he simply walked into the room with her as he would have done on any other occasion, and then remarked that the frost was keen or the thaw disagreeable, it would have been better for her. But when he told her that he hoped that she would often make herself at home in that house, and looked, as he said it, as though he were asking her to take a place among the goddesses of Olympus, she was troubled as to her answer. ‘Oh, my Lord Duke,’ she said, ‘when I think of Isabel living here and being called by such a name, it almost upsets me.’

Isabel had all her father’s courage, but she was more sensitive; and though she would have borne her honours well, was oppressed by the feeling that the weight was too much for her mother. She could not keep her ear from listening to her mother’s words, or her eye from watching her mother’s motions. She was prepared to carry her mother everywhere. ‘As other girls have to be taken with their belongings, so must I, if I be taken at all.’ This she had said plainly enough. There should be no division between her and her mother. But still knowing that her mother was not quite at ease, she was hardly at ease herself.

Silverbridge came in at the last moment, and of course occupied a chair next to Isabel. As the House was sitting, it was natural that he should come in a flurry. ‘I left Phineas,’ he said, ‘pounding away in his old style at Sir Timothy. By-the-bye, Isabel, you must come down some day and hear Sir Timothy badgered. I must be back again about ten. Well, Gerald, how are they all at Lazarus?’ He made an effort to be free and easy, but even he soon found that it was an effort.

Gerald had come up from Oxford for the occasion that he might make acquaintance with the Boncassens. He had taken Isabel in to dinner, but had been turned out of his place when his brother came in. He had been a little confused by the first impression made upon him by Mrs Boncassen, and had involuntarily watched his father. ‘Silver is going to have an odd sort of mother-in-law,’ he said afterwards to Mary, who remarked in reply that this would not signify, as the mother-in-law would be in New York.

Tregear’s part was very difficult to play. He could not but feel that though he had succeeded, still he was looked upon askance. Silverbridge had told him that by degrees the Duke would be won round, but that it was not to be expected that he should swallow at once all his regrets. The truth of this could not but be accepted. The immediate inconvenience, however, was not the less felt. Each and everyone there knew the position of each and everyone;–but Tregear felt it difficult to act up to his. He could not play the well-pleased lover openly, as did Silverbridge. Mary herself was disposed to be very silent. The heart-breaking tedium of her dull life had been removed. Her determination had been rewarded. All that she had wanted had been granted to her, and she was happy. But she was not prepared to show off her happiness before others. And she was aware that she was thought to have done evil by introducing her lover into her august family.

But it was the Duke who made the greatest efforts, and with the least success. He had told himself again and again that he was bound be every sense of duty to swallow all regrets. He had taken himself to task on this matter. He had done so even out loud to his son. He had declared that he would ‘let it all pass from’ him. But who does not know how hard it is for a man in such matters to keep his word to himself? Who has not said to himself at the very moment of his own delinquency, ‘Now,–it is now,–at this very instant of time, that I should abate my greed, or smother my ill- humour, or abandon my hatred. It is now, and here, that I should drive out the fiend, as I have sworn to myself that I would do.’– and yet has failed?

That it would be done, would be done at last, by this man was very certain. When Silverbridge assured his sister that ‘it would all come right very soon,’ he had understood his father’s character. But it could not be completed quite at once. Had he been required to take Isabel only to his heart, it would have been comparatively easy. There are men, who do not seem at first sight very susceptible to feminine attractions, who nevertheless are dominated by the grace of flounces, who succumb to petticoats unconsciously, and who are half in love with every woman merely for her womanhood. So it was with the Duke. He had given way in regard to Isabel with less than half the effort that Frank Tregear was likely to cost him.

‘You were not at the House, sir,’ said Silverbridge when he felt that there was a pause.

‘No, not today.’ Then there was a pause again.

‘I think that we shall beat Cambridge this year to a moral,’ said Gerald, who was sitting at the round table opposite to his father. Mr Boncassen, who was next him, asked, in irony probably rather than in ignorance, whether the victory was to be achieved by mathematical or classical proficiency. Gerald turned and looked at him. ‘Do you mean to say that you have never heard of the University boat-races?’

‘Papa, you have disgraced yourself for ever,’ said Isabel.

‘Have I, my dear? Yes, I have heard of them. But I thought Lord Gerald’s protestation was too great for a mere aquatic triumph.’

‘Now you are poking your fun at me,’ said Gerald.

‘Well he may,’ said the Duke sententiously. ‘We have laid ourselves very open to having fun poked at us in this matter.’

‘I think,’ said Tregear, ‘that they are learning to do the same sort of thing in American Universities.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ said the Duke in a solemn, dry, funereal tone. And then all the little life which Gerald’s remark about the boat-race had produced, was quenched at once. The Duke was not angry with Tregear for his little word of defence,–but he was not able to bring himself into harmony with this one guest, and was almost savage to him without meaning it. He was continually asking himself why Destiny had been so hard upon him as to force him to receive there at his table as his son-in-law a man who was distasteful to him. And he was endeavouring to answer the question, taking himself to task and telling himself that his destiny had done him no injury, and that the pride which had been wounded was a false pride. He was making a brave fight; but during the fight he was hardly fit to be the genial father and father-in- law of young people who were going to be married to one another. But before the dinner was over he made a great effort. ‘Tregear,’ he said,–and even that was an effort, for he had never hitherto mentioned the man’s name without the formal Mister, ‘Tregear, as this is the first time you have sat at my table, let me be old- fashioned, and ask you to drink a glass of wine with me.’

The glass of wine was drunk and the ceremony afforded infinite satisfaction to one person there. Mary could not keep herself from some expression of joy by pressing her finger for a moment against her lover’s arm. He, though not usually given to such manifestations, blushed up to his eyes. But the feeling produced on the company was solemn rather than jovial. Everyone there understood it all. Mr Boncassen could read the Duke’s mind down to the last line. Even Mrs Boncassen was aware that an act of reconciliation had been intended. ‘When the governor drank that glass of wine it seemed as though half the marriage ceremony had been performed,’ Gerald said to his brother that evening. When the Duke’s glass was replaced on the table, he himself was conscious of the solemnity of what he had done, and was half ashamed of it.

When the ladies had gone upstairs the conversation became political and lively. The Duke could talk freely about the state of things to Mr Boncassen, and was able gradually to include Tregear in the badinage with which he attacked the conservatism of his son. And so the half hour passed well. Upstairs the two girls immediately came together, leaving Mrs Boncassen to chew the cud of the grandeur around her in the sleepy comfort of an arm-chair. ‘And so everything is settled for both of us,’ said Isabel.

‘Of course I knew it was to be settled for you. You told me so at Custins.’

‘I did not know it then. I only told you that he had asked me. And you hardly believed me.’

‘I certainly believed you.’

‘But you knew about–Lady Mabel Grex.’

‘I only suspected something, and now I know it was a mistake. It has never been more than a suspicion.’

‘And why, when we were at Custins, did you not tell me about yourself?’

‘I had nothing to tell.’

‘I can understand that. But is it not joyful that it should all be settled? Only poor Lady Mabel! You have got no Lady Mabel to trouble your conscience.’ From which it was evident that Silverbridge had not told all.

CHAPTER 75

The Major’s Story

By the end of March Isabel was in Paris, whither she had forbidden her lover to follow her. Silverbridge was therefore reduced to the shifts of a bachelor’s life, in which his friends seemed to think that he ought now to take special delight. Perhaps he did not take much delight in them. He was no doubt impatient to commence that steady married life for which he had prepared himself. But nevertheless, just at present, he lived a good deal at the Beargarden. Where was he to live? The Boncassens were in Paris, his sister was at Matching with a houseful of other Pallisers, and his father was again deep in politics.

Of course he was much in the House of Commons, but that also was stupid. Indeed everything would be stupid till Isabel came back. Perhaps dinner was more comfortable at the club than at the House. And then, as everybody knew, it was a good thing to change the scene. Therefore he dined at the club, and though he would keep his hansom and go down to the House again in the course of the evening, he spent many long hours at the Beargarden. ‘There’ll very soon be an end of this as far as you are concerned,’ said Mr Lupton to him one evening as they were sitting in the smoking-room after dinner.

‘The sooner the better as far as this place is concerned.’

‘This place is as good as any other. For the matter of that I like the Beargarden since we got rid of two or three not very charming characters.’

‘You mean my poor friend Tifto,’ said Silverbridge.

‘No;–I was not thinking of Tifto. There were one or two here who were quite as bad as Tifto. I wonder what has become of that poor devil?’

‘I don’t know in the least. You heard of that row about the hounds?’

‘And his letter to you.’

‘He wrote to me,–and I answered him, as you know. But whither he vanished or what he is doing, or how he is living, I have not the least idea.’

‘Gone to join those other fellows abroad I should say. Among them they got a lot of money,–as the Duke ought to remember.’

‘He is not with them,’ said Silverbridge, as though he were in some degree mourning over the fate of his unfortunate friend.

‘I suppose Captain Green was the leader in all that.’

‘Now it is all done and gone I own to a certain regard for the Major. He was true to me till he thought I snubbed him. I would not let him go down to Silverbridge with me. I always thought that I drove the poor Major to his malpractice.’

At this moment Dolly Longstaff sauntered into the room and came up to them. It may be remembered that Dolly had declared his purpose of emigrating. As soon as he heard that the Duke’s heir had serious thoughts of marrying the lady whom he loved he withdrew at once from the contest, but, as he did so, he acknowledged that there could be no longer a home for him in the country which Isabel was to inhabit as the wife of another man. Gradually, however, better thoughts returned to him. After all, what was she but a ‘pert poppet’? He determined that marriage ‘clips a fellow’s wings confoundedly’, and so he set himself to enjoy life after his old fashion. There was perhaps a little swagger as he threw himself into a chair and addressed the happy lover. ‘I’ll be shot if I didn’t meet Tifto at the corner of the street.’

‘Tifto!’

‘Yes, Tifto. He looked awfully seedy, with a greatcoat buttoned up to his chin, a shabby hat and gloves.’

‘Did he speak to you?’ asked Silverbridge.

‘No;–nor I to him. He hadn’t time to think whether he would speak or not, and you may be sure I didn’t.’

Nothing further was said about the man, but Silverbridge was uneasy and silent. When his cigar was finished he got up saying that he should go back to the House. As he left the club he looked about him as though expecting to see his old friend, and when he had passed through the first street and had got into the Haymarket there he was! The Major came up to him, touched his hat, asked to be allowed to say a few words. ‘I don’t think it can do any good,’ said Silverbridge. The man had not attempted to shake hands with him, or affected familiarity; but seemed to be thoroughly humiliated. ‘I don’t think I can be of any service to you, and therefore I had rather decline.’

‘I don’t want you to be of any service, my Lord.’

‘Then what’s the good?’

‘I have something to say. May I come to you tomorrow?’

Then Silverbridge allowed himself to make an appointment, and an hour was named at which Tifto might call into Carlton Terrace. He felt that he almost owed some reparation to the wretched man,–whom he had unfortunately admitted among his friends, whom he had used, and to whom he had been uncourteous. Exactly at the hour named the Major was shown into the room.

Dolly had said that he was shabby,–but the man was altered rather than shabby. He still had rings on his fingers and studs in his shirt, and a jewelled pin in his cravat,–but he had shaven off his moustache and the tuft from his chin, and his hair had been cut short, and in spite of his jewellery there was a hang-dog look about him. ‘I’ve got something that I particularly want to say to you, my Lord.’ Silverbridge would not shake hands with him, but could not refrain from offering him a chair.

‘Well;–you can say it now.’

‘Yes;–but it isn’t so very easy to be said. There are some things, though you want to say them ever, so you don’t quite know how to do it.’

‘You have your choice, Major Tifto. You can speak or hold your tongue.’

Then there was a pause, during which Silverbridge sat with his hands in his pockets trying to look unconcerned. ‘But if you’ve got it here, and feel it as I do,’–the poor man as he said this put his hand upon his heart,–‘you can’t sleep in your bed till it’s out. I did that thing that they said I did.’

‘What thing?’

‘Why, the nail! It was I lamed the horse.’

‘I am sorry for it. I can say nothing else.’

‘You ain’t so sorry for it as I am. Oh no; you can never be that, my Lord. After all what does it matter to you.’

‘Very little. I meant that I was sorry for your sake.’

‘I believe you are, my Lord. For though you could be rough you was always kind. Now I will tell you everything, and then you can do as you please.’

‘I wish to do nothing. As far as I am concerned the matter is over. It made me sick of horses, and I do not wish to have to think of it again.’

‘Nevertheless, my Lord, I’ve got to tell it. It was Green who put me up to it. He did it just for the plunder. As God is my judge it was not for the money I did it.’

‘Then it was revenge.’

‘It was the devil got hold of me, my Lord. Up to that I had always been square,–square as a die! I got to think that your Lordship was upsetting. I don’t know whether your Lordship remembers, but you did put me down once or twice rather uncommon.’

‘I hope I was not unjust.’

‘I don’t say you was, my Lord. But I got a feeling on me that you wanted to get rid of me, and I all the time doing the best I could for the ‘orses. I did do the best I could up to that very morning at Doncaster. Well;–it was Green put me up to it. I don’t say I was to get nothing; but it wasn’t so much more than I could have got by the ‘orse winning. And I’ve lost pretty nearly all that I did get. Do you remember, my Lord,’–and now the Major sank his voice to a whisper,–‘when I come up to your bedroom that morning?’

‘I remember it.’

‘The first time?’

‘Yes; I remember it.’

‘Because I came twice, my Lord. When I came first it hadn’t been done. You turned me out.’

‘That is true, Major Tifto.’

‘You was very rough then. Wasn’t you rough?’

‘A man’s bedroom is generally supposed to be private.’

‘Yes, my Lord,–that’s true. I ought to have sent your man first. I came then to confess it all, before it was done.’

‘Then why couldn’t you let the horse alone?’

‘I was in their hands. And then you was so rough with me! So I said to myself I might as well do it,–and I did it.’

‘What do you want me to say? As far as my forgiveness goes, you have it!’

‘That saying a great deal, my Lord,–a great deal,’ said Tifto, now in tears. ‘But I ain’t said it all yet. He’s here; in London!’

‘Who’s here.’

‘Green. He’s here. He doesn’t think I know, but I could lay my hands on him tomorrow.’

‘There is no human being alive, Major Tifto, whose presence or absence could be a matter of more indifference to me.’

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, my Lord. I’ll go before any judge, or magistrate, or police-officer in the country, and tell the truth. I won’t ask even for a pardon. They shall punish me and him too. I’m in that state of mind that any change would be for the better. But he,–he ought to have it heavy.’

‘It won’t be done by me, Major Tifto. Look here, Major Tifto, you have come here to confess that you have done me a great injury.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘And you say you are sorry for it.’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘And I have forgiven you. There is only one way in which you can show your gratitude. Hold your tongue about it. Let it be as a thing done and gone. The money has been paid. The horse has been sold. The whole thing has gone out of my mind, and I don’t want to have it brought back again.’

‘And nothing is to be done to Green?’

‘I should say nothing,–on that score.’

‘And he has got they say five-and-twenty thousand pounds clear money.’

‘It is a pity, but it cannot be helped. I will have nothing further to do with it. Of course I cannot bind you, but I have told you my wishes.’ The poor wretch was silent, but still it seemed as though he did not wish to go quite yet. ‘If you have said what you have got to say, Major Tifto, I may as well tell you that my time is engaged.’

‘And must that be all?’

‘What else?’

‘I am in such a state of mind, Lord Silverbridge, that it would be satisfaction to tell it all, even against myself.’

‘I can’t prevent you.’

Then Tifto got up from his chair, as though he were going. ‘I wish I knew what I was going to do with myself.’

‘I don’t know that I can help you, Major Tifto.’

‘I suppose not, my Lord. I haven’t twenty pounds left in all the world. It’s the only thing that wasn’t square that ever I did in all my life. Your Lordship couldn’t do anything for me? We was very much together at one time, my Lord.’

‘Yes, Major Tifto, we were.’

‘Of course I was a villain. But it was only once; and your Lordship was so rough with me! I am not saying but what I was a villain. Think of what I did for myself by that one piece of wickedness! Master of Hounds! Member of the club! And the horse would have run in my name and won the Leger! And everybody knew as your Lordship and me was together in him!’ Then he burst out into a paroxysm of tears and sobbing.

The young Lord certainly could not take the man into partnership again, nor could he restore to him either the hounds or his club,– or his clean hands. Nor did he know in what way he could serve the man, except by putting his hand into his pocket,–which he did. Tifto accepted the gratuity, and ultimately became an annual pensioner on his former noble partner, living on the allowance made him in some obscure corner of South Wales.

CHAPTER 76

On Deportment

Frank Tregear had come up to town at the end of February. He remained in London, with an understanding that he was not to see Lady Mary again till the Easter holidays. He was then to pay a visit to Matching, and to enter it, it may be presumed, on the full fruition of his advantages as accepted suitor. All this had been arranged with a good deal of precision,–as though there had still been a hope left that Lady Mary might change her mind. Of course there was no such hope. When the Duke asked the young man to dine with him, when he invited him to drink that memorable glass of wine, when the young man was allowed, in the presence of the Boncassens, to sit next to Lady Mary, it was of course settled. But the father probably found some relief in yielding by slow degrees. ‘I would rather that there should be no correspondence till then,’ he said both to Tregear and to his daughter. And they had promised there should be no correspondence. At Easter they would meet. After Easter Mary was to come up to London to be present at her brother’s wedding, to which also Tregear had been formally invited; and it was hoped that then something might be settled as to their own marriage. Tregear, with the surgeon’s permission, took his seat in Parliament. He was introduced by two leading Members on the conservative side, but immediately afterwards found himself seated next to his friend Silverbridge on the top bench behind the ministers. The House was very full, as there was a feverish report abroad that Sir Timothy Beeswax intended to make a statement. No one quite knew what the statement was to be; but every politician in the House and out of it thought that he knew that the statement would be a bid for higher power on the part of Sir Timothy himself. If there had been dissensions in the Cabinet, the secret of them had been well kept. To Tregear who was not as yet familiar with the House there was no special appearance of activity; but Silverbridge could see that there was more than wonted animation. That the Treasury bench should be full at this time was a thing of custom. A whole broadside of questions would be fired off, one after another, like a rattle of musketry down the ranks, when as nearly as possible the report of each gun is made to follow close upon that of the gun before,–with this exception, that in such case each little sound is intended to be as like as possible to the preceding, whereas with the rattle of the questions and answers, each question and each answer becomes a little more authoritative and less courteous than the last. The Treasury bench was ready for its usual responsive firing, as the questioners were of course in their places. The opposition front bench was also crowded, and those behind were nearly equally full. There were many Peers in the gallery, and a general feeling of sensation prevailed. All this Silverbridge had been long enough in the House to appreciate;–but to Tregear the House was simply the House.

‘It’s odd enough we should have a row the very first day you come,’ said Silverbridge.

‘You think there will be a row?’

‘Beeswax has something special to say. He’s not here yet you see. They’ve left about six inches for him between Roper and Sir Orlando. You’ll have the privilege of looking just down on the top of his head when he does come. I shan’t stay much longer after that.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I don’t mean today. But I should not have been here now,–in this very place I mean,–but I want to stick to you just at first. I shall move down below the gangway; and not improbably creep over to the other side before long.’

‘You don’t mean it?’

‘I think I shall. I begin to feel I’ve made a mistake.’

‘In coming to this side at all?’

‘I think I have. After all it is not very important.’

‘What is not important? I think it is very important.’

‘Perhaps it may be to you, and perhaps you may be able to keep it up. But the more I think of it the less excuse I seem to have for deserting the old ways of the family. What is there in those fellows down there to make a fellow feel that he ought to bind himself to them neck and heels?’

‘Their principles.’

‘Yes, their principles! I believe I have some vague idea as to supporting property and land and all that kind of thing. I don’t know that anybody wants to attack anything.’

‘Somebody soon would want to attack if there no defenders.’

‘I suppose there is an outside power,–the people, or public opinion, or whatever they choose to call it. And the country will have to go very much as that outside power chooses. Here, in Parliament, everybody will be as conservative as the outside will let them. I don’t think it matters on which side you sit;–but it does matter that you shouldn’t have to act with those who go against the grain with you.’

‘I never heard worse political arguments in my life.’

‘I daresay not. However, there’s Sir Timothy. When he looks in that way, all buckram, deportment, and solemnity, I know he’s going to pitch into somebody.’

At this moment the Leader of the House came in from behind the Speaker’s chair and took his place between Mr Roper and Sir Orlando Drought. When a man has to declare a solemn purpose on a solemn occasion in a solemn place, it is needful that he should be solemn himself. And though the solemnity which befits a man best will be that which the importance of the moment may produce, without thought given by himself to his own outward person, still, who is there can refrain himself from some attempt? Who can boast, who that has been versed in the ways and duties of high places, that he has kept himself free from all study of grace, of feature, or attitude, of gait–or even of dress? For most of our bishops, for most of our judges, or our statesmen, our orators, our generals, for many even of our doctors and our parsons, even our attorneys, our taxgatherers, and certainly our butlers and our coachmen. Mr Turveydrop, the great professor of deportment, has done much. But there should always be the art to underlie and protect the art;–the art that can hide the art. The really clever archbishop,–the really potent chief justice, the man, who as a politician, will succeed in becoming a king of men, should know how to carry his buckram without showing it. It was in this that Sir Timothy perhaps failed a little. There are men who look as though they were born to wear blue ribbons. It has come, probably, from study, but it seems to be natural. Sir Timothy did not impose on those who looked at him as do these men. You see a little of the paint, you could hear the crumple of the starch and the padding; you could trace something of the uneasiness in the would- be composed grandeur of the brow. ‘Turveydrop!’ the spectator would say to himself. But after all it may be a question whether a man be open to reproach for not doing that well which the greatest among us,–if we could find one great enough,–would not do at all.

For I think we must hold that true personal dignity should be achieved,–must, if it is to be quite true, have been achieved,– without any personal effort. Though it be evinced, in part, by the carriage of the body, that carriage should be the fruit of the operation of the mind. Even when it be assisted by external garniture such as special clothes, and wigs, and ornaments, such garniture should be prescribed by the sovereign or by custom, and should not have been selected by the wearer. In regard to speech a man may study all that which may make him suasive, but if he go beyond that he will trench on those histrionic efforts, which he will know to be wrong because he will be ashamed to acknowledge them. It is good to be beautiful, but it should come of God and not of the hairdresser. And personal dignity is a great possession; but a man should struggle for it no more than he would for beauty. Many, however, do struggle for it, and with such success that, though they do not achieve quite the real thing, still they get something on which they can bolster themselves up and be mighty.

Others, older men than Silverbridge, saw as much as did our young friends, but they were more complaisant and more reasonable. They, too, heard the crackle of the buckram, and were aware that the last touch of awe had come upon that brow just as its owner was emerging from the shadow of the Speaker’s chair;–but to them it was a thing of course. A real Csar is not to be found every day, nor can we always have a Pitt to control our debates. That kind of thing, that last touch has its effect. Of course it is all paint,– but how would the poor girl look before the gaslights if there were no paint? The House of Commons likes a little deportment on occasions. If a special man looks bigger than you, you can console yourself by reflecting that he also looks bigger than your fellows. Sir Timothy probably knew what he was about, and did himself on the whole more good than harm by his little tricks.

As soon as Sir Timothy had taken his seat, Mr Rattler got up from the opposition bench to ask him some questions on a matter of finance. The brewers were anxious about publican licences. Could the Chancellor of the Exchequer say a word on the matter? Notice had of course been given, and the questioner had stated a quarter of an hour previously that he would postpone his query till the Chancellor of the Exchequer was in the House.

Sir Timothy rose from his seat, and in his blandest manner began by apologising for his late appearance. He was sorry that he had been prevented by public business from being in place to answer the honourable gentleman’s question in proper turn. And even now, he feared, that he must decline to give any answer which could be supposed to be satisfactory. It would probably be his duty to make a statement to the House on the following day,–a statement which he was not quite prepared to make at the present moment. But in the existing state of things he was unwilling to make any reply to any question by which he might seem to bind the government to any opinion. Then he sat down. And rising again not long afterwards, when the House had gone through certain formal duties, he moved that it should be adjourned till the next day. Then all the members trooped out, and with the others Tregear and Lord Silverbridge. ‘So that is the end our your first day in Parliament,’ said Silverbridge.

‘What does it all mean?’

‘Let us go down to the Carlton and hear what the fellows are saying.’

On that evening both the young men dined at Mr Boncassen’s house. Though Tregear had been cautioned not to write to Lady Mary, and though he was not to see her before Easter, still it was so completely understood that he was about to become her husband, that he was entertained in that capacity by all those who were concerned in the family. ‘And so they will all go out,’ said Mr Boncassen.

‘That seems to be the general idea,’ said the expectant son-in- law. ‘When two men want to be first and neither will give way, they can’t very well get on in the same boat together.’ Then he expatiated angrily on the treachery of Sir Timothy, and Tregear in a more moderate way joined in the same opinion.

‘Upon my word, young men, I doubt whether you are right,’ said Mr Boncassen. ‘Whether it can be possible that a man should have risen to such a position with so little patriotism as you attribute to our friend, I will not pretend to say. I should think that in England it was impossible. But of this I am sure, that the facility which exists here for a minister or ministers to go out of office without disturbance of the Crown, is a great blessing. You say the other party will come in.’

‘That is most probable,’ said Silverbridge.

‘With us the other party never comes in,–never has a chance of coming in,–except once in four years, when the President is elected. That one event binds us for four years.’

‘But you do change your ministers,’ said Tregear.

‘A secretary may quarrel with the President, or he may have the gout, or be convicted of peculation.’

‘And yet you think yourselves more nearly free than we are.’

‘I am not so sure of that. We have had a pretty difficult task, that of carrying on a government in a new country, which is nevertheless more populous than almost any old country. The influxions are so rapid, that every ten years the nature of the people is changed. It isn’t easy; and though I think on the whole we’ve done pretty well, I am not going to boast that Washington is as yet a seat of political Paradise.’

CHAPTER 77

‘Mabel, Good-Bye’

When Tregear first came to town with his arm in a sling, and bandages all round him,–in order that he might be formally accepted by the Duke,–he had himself taken to one other house besides the house in Carlton Terrace. He went to Belgrave Square, to announce his fate to Lady Mabel Grex;–but Lady Mabel Grex was not there. The Earl was ill at Brighton, and Lady Mabel had gone down to nurse him. The old woman who came to him in the hall told him that the Earl was very ill;–he had been attacked by the gout, but in spite of the gout, and in spite of the doctors, he had insisted on being taken to his club. Then he had been removed to Brighton, under the doctor’s advice, chiefly in order that he might be kept out of the way of temptation. Now he was supposed to be very ill indeed. ‘My Lord is so imprudent!’ said the old woman, shaking her old head in real unhappiness. For though the Earl had been a tyrant to everyone near him, yet when a poor woman becomes old it is something to have a tyrant to protect her. ‘My Lord!’ always had been imprudent. Tregear knew that it had been the theory of my Lord’s life that to eat and drink, and die was better than to abstain and live. Then Tregear wrote to his friend as follows:

‘MY DEAR MABEL,

‘I am up in town again as you will perceive, although I am still in a helpless condition and hardly able to write even this letter. I called today and was very sorry to hear so bad an account of your father. Had I been able to travel I should have come down to you. When I am able I will do so if you would wish to see me. In the meantime pray tell me how he is, and how you are.

‘My news is this. The Duke accepted me. It is great news to me, and I hope will be acceptable to you. I do believe that if a friend has been anxious for a friend’s welfare you have been anxious for mine,–as I have been and ever shall be for yours.’

‘Of course this thing will be very much to me. I will not speak now of my love for the girl who is to become my wife. You might again call me Romeo. Nor do I like to say much of what may now be pecuniary prospects. I did not ask Mary to become my wife because I supposed she would be rich. But I could not have married her or anyone else who had not money. What are the Duke’s intentions I have not the slightest idea, nor shall I ask him. I am to go down to Matching at Easter, and shall endeavour to have some time fixed. I suppose the Duke will say something about money. If he does not, I shall not.

‘Pray write me at once, and tell me when I shall see you.

‘Your affectionate Cousin,
‘F. O. TREGEAR.’

In answer to this there came a note in a very few words. She congratulated him,–not very warmly,–but expressed a hope that she might see him soon. But she told him not to come to Brighton. The Earl was better but very cross, and she would be up in town before long.

Towards the end of the month it became suddenly known in London that Lord Grex had died at Brighton. There was a Garter to be given away, and everybody was filled with regret that such an ornament to the Peerage should have departed from them. The conservative papers remembered how excellent a politician he had been in his younger days, and the world was informed that the family of Grex of Grex was about the oldest in Great Britain of which authentic records were in existence. Then there came another note from Lady Mabel to Tregear.

‘I shall be in town on the thirty-first in the old house, with Miss Cassewary, and will see you if can come down on the first. Come early, at eleven, if you can.’

On the day named and at the hour fixed he was in Belgrave Square. He had known this house since he was a boy, and could well remember how, when he first entered it, he had thought with some awe of the grandeur of the Earl. The Earl had then not paid much attention to him, but he had become very much taken with the grace and good nature of the girl who had owned him as a cousin. ‘You are my cousin, Frank,’ she had said; ‘I am so glad to have a cousin.’ He could remember the words now as though they had been spoken only yesterday. Then there had quickly grown to be friendship between him and this, as he thought, sweetest of all girls. At that time he had just gone to Eton; but before he left Eton they had sworn to love each other. And so it had been and the thing had grown, till at last, just when he had taken his degree two matters had been settled between them; the first was that each loved the other irretrievably, irrevocably, passionately; the second, that it was altogether out of the question that they should ever marry each other.

It is but fair to Tregear to say that this last decision originated with the lady. He had told her that he certainly would hold himself engaged to marry her at some future time; but she had thrown this aside at once. How was it possible, she said, that two such beings, brought up in luxury, and taught to enjoy all the good things of the world, should expect to live and be happy together without an income? He offered to go to the bar;–but she asked him whether he thought it well that such a one as she should wait say a dozen years for such a process. ‘When the time comes, I should be an old woman and you would be a wretched man.’ She released him,–declared her own purpose of marrying well; and then, though there had been a moment in which her own assurance of her own love had been passionate enough, she went so far as to tell him that she was heartwhole. ‘We have been two foolish children but we cannot be children any longer,’ she said. ‘There must be an end of it.’

What had hitherto been the result of this the reader knows,–and Tregear knew also. He had taken the privilege given to him, and had made so complete a use of it that he had in truth transferred his heart as well as his allegiance. Where is the young man who cannot do so;–how few are there who do not do so when their first passion has come on them at one-and-twenty? And he had thought that she would do the same. But gradually he found that she had not done so, did not do so, could not do so! When she first heard of Lady Mary she had not reprimanded him,–but she could not keep herself from showing the bitterness of her disappointment. Though she would still boast of her own strength and of her own purpose, yet it was too clear to him that she was wounded and very sore. She would have liked him to remain single at any rate till she herself had married. But the permission had hardly been given before he availed himself of it. And then he talked to her not only of the brilliancy of his prospects,–which she would have forgiven,–but of his love–his love!

Then she had refused one offer after another, and he had known it all. There was nothing in which she was concerned that she did not tell him. Then young Silverbridge had come across her, and she had determined that he should be her husband. She had been nearly successful,–so nearly that at moments she felt sure of success. But the prize had slipped from her through her own fault. She knew well enough that it was her own fault. When a girl submits to play such a game as that, she could not stand on too nice scruples. She had told herself this many a time since;–but the prize was gone.

All this Tregear knew, and knowing it almost dreaded the coming interview. He could not without actual cruelty have avoided her. Had he done so before he could not have continued to do so now, when she was left alone in the world. Her father had not been much to her, but still his presence had enabled her to put herself before the world as being somebody. Now she would be almost nobody. And she had lost her rich prize, while he,–out of the same treasury as it were,–had won his!

The door opened to him by the same old woman, and he was shown, at a funereal pace, up into the drawing-room which he had known so well. He was told that Lady Mabel would be down to him directly. As he looked about him he could see that already had been commenced that work of division of spoil which is sure to follow the death of most of us. Things were already gone which used to be familiar to his eyes, and the room, though not dismantled, had been deprived of many of its little prettiness and was ugly.

In about ten minutes she came down to him,–with so soft a step that he would not have been aware of her entrance had he not seen her form in the mirror. Then, when he turned round to greet her, he was astonished by the blackness of her appearance. She looked as though she had become ten years older since he had last seen her. As she came up to him she was grave and almost solemn in her gait, but there was no sign of any tears. Why should there have been a tear? Women weep, and men too, not from grief, but from emotion. Indeed, grave and slow as she was her step, and serious, almost solemn, as was her gait, there was something of a smile on her mouth as she gave him her hand. And yet her face was very sad, declaring to him too plainly something of the hopelessness of her heart. ‘And so the Duke has consented,’ she said. He had told her that in his letter, but since that, her father had died, and she had been left, he did not as yet know how impoverished, but, he feared, with no pleasant worldly prospects before her.

‘Yes, Mabel;–that I suppose will be settled. I have been so shocked to hear all this.’

‘It has been very sad;–has it not? Sit down, Frank. You and I have a good deal to say to each other now that we have met. It was no good your going down to Brighton. He would not have seen you, and at last I never left him.’

‘Was Percival there?’ She only shook her head. ‘That was dreadful.’

‘It was not Percival’s fault. He would not see him; nor till the last hour or two would he believe in his own danger. Nor was he ever to frightened for a moment,–not even then.’

‘Was he good to you?’

‘Good to me! Well;–he liked my being there. Poor papa! It had gone so far with him that he could not be good to any one. I think that he felt that it would be unmanly not to be the same till the end.’

‘He would not see Percival.’

‘When it was suggested he would only ask what good Percival could do him. I did send for him at last, in my terror, but he did not see his father alive. When he did come he only told me how badly his father had treated him! It was very dreadful!’

‘I did so feel for you.’

‘I am sure you did, and will. After all, Frank, I think that the pious godly people have the best of it in this world. Let them be ever so covetous, ever so false, ever so hard-hearted, the mere fact that they must keep up appearances, makes them comfortable to those around them. Poor papa was not comfortable to me. A little hypocrisy, a little sacrifice to the feelings of the world, may be such a blessing.’

‘I am sorry that you should feel it so.’

‘Yes; it is sad. But you;–everything is smiling with you! Let us talk about your plans.’

‘Another time will do for that. I had come to hear about your own affairs.’

‘There they are,’ she said, pointing round the room. ‘I have no other affairs. You see that I am going from here.’

‘And where are you going?’ She shook her head. ‘With whom will you live?’

‘With Miss Cass,–two old maids together. I know nothing further.’

‘But about money? That is if I am justified in asking.’

‘What would you not be justified in asking? Do you not know that I would tell you every secret of my own heart;–if my heart had a secret? It seems that I have given up what was to have been my fortune. There was a claim of twelve thousand pounds on Grex. But I have abandoned it.’

‘And there is nothing?’

‘There will be scrapings they tell me,–unless Percival refuses to agree. This house is mortgaged, but not for its value. And there are some jewels. But all that is detestable,–a mere grovelling among mean hundreds; whereas you,–you will soar among–‘

‘Oh Mabel! do not say hard things to me.’

‘No, indeed! why should I,–I who have been preaching that comfortable doctrine of hypocrisy? I will say nothing hard. But I would sooner talk of your good things than my evil ones.’

‘I would not.’

‘Then you must talk about them for my sake. How was it that the Duke came round at last?’

‘I hardly know. She sent for me.’

‘A fine high-spirited girl. These Pallisers have more courage about them than one expects from their outward manner. Silverbridge has plenty of it.’

‘I remember telling you he could be obstinate.’

‘And I remember that I did not believe you. Now I know it. He has that sort of pluck which enables a man to break a girl’s heart,–or to destroy a girl’s hopes,–without wincing. He can tell a girl to her face that she can go to the–mischief for him. There are so many men who can’t do that, from cowardice, though their hearts be ever so well inclined. “I have changed my mind.” There is something great in the courage of a man who can say that to a woman in so many words. Most of them, when they escape by lies and subterfuges. Or they run away and won’t allow themselves to be heard of. They trust to a chapter of accidents, and leave things to arrange themselves. But when a man can look a girl in the face with those seemingly soft eyes, and say with that seemingly soft mouth,–“I have changed my mind”,–though she would look him dead in return, if she could, still she must admire him.’ ‘Are you speaking of Silverbridge now?’

‘Of course I am speaking of Silverbridge. I suppose I ought to hide it all and not tell you. But as you are the only person I do tell, you must put up with me. Yes;–when I taxed him with his falsehood,–for he had been false,–he answered me with those very words! “I have changed my mind.” He could not lie. To speak the truth was a necessity to him, even at the expense of his gallantry, almost of his humanity.’

‘Has he been false to you, Mabel?’

‘Of course he has. But there is nothing to quarrel about if you mean that. People do not quarrel now about such things. A girl has to fight her own battle with her own pluck and her own wits. As with these weapons she is generally stronger than her enemy, she succeeds sometimes although everything else is against her. I think I am courageous, but his courage beat mine. I craned at the first fence. When he was willing to swallow my bait, my hand was not firm enough to strike the hook in his jaws. Had I not quailed then I think I should have-“had him”.’

‘It is horrid to hear you talk like this.’ She was leaning over from her seat, looking black as she was, so much older than her wont, with something about her of the unworldly serious thoughtfulness which a mourning always gives. And yet her words were so worldly, so unfeminine!

‘I have got to tell the truth to somebody. It was so, just as I have said. Of course I did not love him. How could I love him after what has passed? But there need have been nothing much in that. I don’t suppose that Duke’s eldest sons often get married for love.’

‘Miss Boncassen loves him.’

‘I dare say the beggar’s daughter loved King Cophetua. When you come to distances such as that, there can be love. The very fact that a man should have descended so far in the quest of beauty,– the flattery of it alone,–will produce love. When the angels came after the daughters of men of course the daughters of men loved them. The distance between him and me is not great enough to have produced that sort of worship. There was no reason why Lady Mabel Grex should not be good enough wife for the son of the Duke of Omnium.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘And therefore I was not struck, as by the shining of la light from heaven. I cannot say that I loved him, Frank,–I am beyond worshipping even an angel from heaven.’

‘Then I do not know that you can blame him,’ he said very seriously.

‘Just so;–and as I have chosen to be honest I have told him everything. But I had my revenge first.’

‘I would have said nothing.’

‘You would have recommended–delicacy! No doubt you think that women should be delicate let them suffer what they may. A woman should not let it be known that she has any human nature in her. I had him on the hip, and for a moment I used my power. He had certainly done me a wrong. He had asked for my love,–and with the delicacy which you commend, I had not at once grasped at all that such a request conveyed. Then, as he told me so frankly, he “changed his mind”! Did he not wrong me?’

‘He should not have raised false hopes.’

‘He told me that–he had changed his mind. I think I loved him then as nearly as I ever did,–because he looked me full in the face. Then,–I told him that I had never cared for him, and that he need have nothing on his conscience. But I doubt whether he was glad to hear it. Men are so vain! I have talked too much about myself. And so you are to be the Duke’s son-in-law. And she will have hundreds of thousands.’

‘Thousands perhaps, but I do not think very much about it. I feel that he will provide for her.’

‘And that you, having secured her, can creep under his wing like an additional ducal chick. It is very comfortable. The Duke will be quite a Providence to you. I wonder that all young gentlemen do not marry heiresses;–it is so easy. And you have got your seat in Parliament too! Oh, your luck! When I look back upon it all it seems so hard to me! It was for you;–for you that I used to be anxious. Now it is I who have not an inch of ground to stand upon.’ Then he approached her and put out his hand to her. ‘No,’ she said, putting both her hands behind her back, ‘for God’s sake let there be no tenderness. But is it not cruel? Think of my advantages at that moment when you and I agreed that our paths should be separate. My fortune then had not been made quite shipwreck by my father and brother. I had before me all that society could offer. I was called handsome and clever. Where was there a girl more likely to make her way to the top?’

‘You may do still.’

‘No;–no;–I cannot. And you at least should not tell me so. I did not know then the virulence of the malady which had fallen on me. I did not know that, because of you, other men would have been abhorrent to me. I thought that I was as easy-hearted as you have proved yourself.’

‘How cruel you can be.’

‘Have I done anything to interfere with you? Have I said a word even to that young lad when I might have said a word? Yes; to him I did say something; but I waited, and would not say it, while a word could hurt you. Shall I tell you what I told him? Just everything that has ever happened between you and me.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes;–because I saw that I could trust him. I told him because I wanted him to be quite sure that I had never loved him. But, Frank, I have put no spoke in your wheel. There has not been a moment since you told me of your love for this rich young lady in which I would not have helped you had help been in my power. Whomever I may have harmed, I have never harmed you.’

‘Am I not as clear from blame towards you?’

‘No, Frank. You have done me the terrible evil of ceasing to love me.’

‘It was at your own bidding.’

‘Certainly! But if I were to bid you to cut your throat, would you do it?’

‘Was it not you who decided that we could not wait for each other?’

‘And should it not have been for you to decide that you would wait?’

‘You also would have married.’

‘It almost angers me that you should not see the difference. A girl unless she marries becomes nothing, as I have become nothing now. A man does not want a pillar on which to lean. A man, when he has done as you have done with me, and made a girl’s heart all his own, even though his own heart had been flexible and plastic as yours is, should have been true to her, at least for a while. Did it never occur to you that you owed something to me?’

‘I have always owed you very much.’

‘There should have been some touch of chivalry if not of love to make you feel that a second passion should have been postponed for a year or two. You could wait without growing old. You might have allowed yourself a little space to dwell–I was going to say on the sweetness of your memories. But they were not sweet, Frank, they were not sweet to you.’

‘These rebukes, Mabel, will rob them of their sweetness,–for a time.’

‘It is gone; all gone,’ she said, shaking her head,–‘gone from me because I have been so easily deserted; gone from you because the change has been so easy to you. How long was it, Frank, after you had left me before you were basking happily in the smiles of Lady Mary Palliser?’

‘It was not very long, as months go.’

‘Say days, Frank.’

‘I have to defend myself, and I will do so with truth. It was not very long,–as months go; but why should it have been less long, whether for months or days? I had to cure myself of a wound.’

‘To put plaster on a scratch, Frank.’

‘And the sooner a man can do that the more manly he is. Is it a sign of strength to wail under a sorrow that cannot be cured,–or of truth to perpetuate the appearance of a woe?’

‘Has it been an appearance with me?’

‘I am speaking of myself now. I am driven to speak of myself by the bitterness of your words. It was you who decided.’

‘You accepted my decision easily.’

‘Because it was based not only on my unfitness for such a marriage, but on yours. When I saw that there would be perhaps some years of misery for you, of course I accepted your decision. The sweetness had been very sweet to me.’

‘Oh Frank, was it ever sweet to you?’

‘And the triumph of it had been very great. I had been assured of the love of her who among all the high ones of the world seemed to me to be the highest. Then came your decision. Do you really believe that I could abandon the sweetness, that I could be robbed of my triumph, that I could think I could never again be allowed to put my arm round your waist, never again feel your cheek close to mine, that I should lose all that had seemed left to me among the gods, without feeling it?’

‘Frank, Frank!’ she said, rising to her feet, and stretching out her hands as though she were going to give him back all these joys.

‘Of course I felt it. I did not then know what was before me.’ When he said this she sank immediately back upon her seat. ‘I was wretched enough. I had lost a limb and could not walk; my eyes, and must always hereafter be blind; my fitness to be among men, and must always hereafter be secluded. It is so that a man is stricken down when some terrible trouble comes upon him. But it is given to him to retrick his beams.’

‘You have retricked yours.’

‘Yes;–and the strong man will show his strength by doing it quickly. Mabel, I sorrowed for myself greatly when that word was spoken, partly because I thought that your love could be so easily taken from me. And, since I have found that it has not been so, I have sorrowed for you also. But I do not blame myself, and I will not submit to have blame even from you.’ She stared at him in the face as he said this. ‘A man should never submit to blame.’

‘But if he has deserved it?’

‘Who is to be the judge? But why should we contest this? You do not really wish to trample on me!’

‘No;–not that.’

‘Nor to disgrace me; nor to make me feel myself disgraced in my own judgement?’ Then there was a pause for some moments as though he had left her without another word to say. ‘Shall I go now?’ he asked.

‘Oh Frank!’

‘I fear that my presence only makes you unhappy.’

‘Then what will your absence do? When shall I see you again? But, no; I will not see you again. Not for many days,–not for years. Why should I? Frank, is it wicked that I should love you?’ He could only shake his head in answer to this. ‘If it be so wicked that I must be punished for it eternally, still I love you. I can never, never, never love another. You cannot understand it. Oh God,–that I had never understood it myself! I think, I think, that I would go with you now anywhere, facing all misery, all judgements, all disgrace. You know, do you not, that if it were possible, I should not say so. But as I know that you would not stir a step with me, I do say so.’

‘I know that it is not meant.’

‘It is meant, though it could not be done. Frank, I must not see her, not for awhile; not for years. I do not wish to hate her, but how can I help it? Do you remember when she flew into your arms in this room?’

‘I remember it.’

‘Of course you do. It is your great joy now to remember that, and such like. She must be very good! Though I hate her!’

‘Do not say that you hate her, Mabel.’

‘Though I hate her she must be good. It was a fine and brave thing to do. I have done it; but never before the world like that; have I, Frank? Oh, Frank, I shall never do it again. Go now, and do not touch me. Let us both pray that in ten years we may meet as passionate friends.’ He came to her hardly knowing what he meant, but purposing, as though by instinct, to take her hand as he parted from her. But she, putting both her hands before her face, and throwing herself on to the sofa, buried her head among the cushions.

‘Is there not to be another word?’ he said. Lying as she did, she still was able to make a movement of dissent and he left her, muttering just one word between his teeth, ‘Mabel, good-bye.’

CHAPTER 78

The Duke Returns to Office

That farewell took place on the Friday morning. Tregear as he walked out of the Square knew now that he had been the cause of a great shipwreck. At first when that passionate love had been declared,–he could hardly remember whether with the fullest passion by him or by her,–he had been as a god walking upon air. That she who seemed to be so much above him should have owned that she was all his own seemed then to be world enough for him. For a few weeks he lived a hero to himself, and was able to tell himself that for him, the glory of a passion was sufficient. In those halcyon moments no common human care is allowed to intrude itself. To one who has thus entered in upon the heroism of romance his own daily work, his dinners, clothes, income, father and mother, sisters and brothers, his own street and house are nothing. Hunting, shooting, rowing, Alpine-climbing, even speeches in Parliament,–if they perchance have been attained to,–all become leather or prunella. The heavens have been opened to him and he walks among them like a god. So it had been with Tregear. Then had come the second phase of his passion,–which is not uncommon young men who soar high in their first assaults. He was told that it would not do; and was not so told by the hard-pressed parent, but by the young lady herself. And she had spoken so reasonably, that he had yielded, and had walked away with the sudden feeling of a vile return to his own mean belongings, to his lodgings, and his income, which not a few ambitious young men have experienced. But she had convinced him. Then had come the journey to Italy, and the reader knows all the rest. He certainly had not derogated in transferring his affections,–but it may be doubted whether in his second love he had walked among the stars as in the first. A man can hardly mount twice among the stars. But he had been as eager,– and as true. And he had succeeded, without any flaw on his conscience. It had been agreed, when that first disruption took place, that he and Mabel should be friends; and, as to friends, he had told her of his hopes. When first she had mingled something of sarcasm in her congratulations, though it had annoyed him, it had hardly made him unhappy. When she called him Romeo and spoke of herself as Rosaline, he took her remark as indicating some petulance rather than an enduring love. That had been womanly and he could forgive it. He had his other great and solid happiness to support him. Then he had believed that she would soon marry, if not Silverbridge, then some other fitting young nobleman, and that all would be well. But now things were very far from well. The storm which was now howling round her afflicted her much.

Perhaps the bitterest feeling of all was that her love should have been so much stronger, so much more enduring than his own. He could not but remember how in his first agony he had blamed her because she had declared that they should be severed. He had then told himself that such severing would be to him impossible, and that her nature been as high as his, it would have been as impossible to her. Which nature must he now regard as the higher? She had done her best to rid herself of the load of her passion and had failed. But he had freed himself with convenient haste. All that he had said as the manliness of conquering grief had been wise enough. But still he could not quit himself of some feeling of disgrace in that he had changed and she had not. He tried to comfort himself with reflecting that Mary was all his own,–that in the matter he had been victorious and happy;–but for an hour or two he thought more of Mabel than Mary.

When the time came in which he could employ himself he called for Silverbridge, and they walked together across the park to Westminster. Silverbridge was gay and full of eagerness as to the coming ministerial statement, but Tregear could not turn his mind from the work of the morning. ‘I don’t seem to care very much about it,’ he said at last.

‘I do care very much,’ said Silverbridge.

‘What difference will it make?’

‘I breakfasted with the governor this morning, and I have not seen him in such good spirits since,–well for a long time.’ The date to which Silverbridge would have referred, had he not checked himself was that of the evening on which it had been agreed between him and his father that Mabel Grex should be promoted to the seat of the highest honour in the house of Palliser,–but that was a matter which must henceforward be buried in silence. ‘He did not say much, but I feel perfectly sure that he and Mr Monk have arranged a new government.’

‘I don’t see any matter for joy in that to Conservatives like you and me.’

‘He is my father,–and as he is going to be your father-in-law I should have thought that you would have been pleased.’

‘Oh, yes;–if he likes it. But I have heard so often of the crushing cares of office, and I had thought that of all living men he had been the most crushed by them.’

All that had to be done in the House of Commons on that afternoon was finished before five o’clock. By half-past five the House, and all the purlieus of the House, were deserted. And yet at four, immediately after prayers, there had been such a crowd that members had been unable to find seats! Tregear and Silverbridge having been early succeeded, but those who had been less careful were obliged to listen as best they could in the galleries. The stretching out of necks and the holding of hands behind the ears did not last long. Sir Timothy had not much to say, but what he did say was spoken with dignity which seemed to anticipate future exaltation rather than present downfall. There had arisen a question in regard to revenue,–he need hardly tell them that it was the question in reference to brewers’ licences which the honourable gentlemen opposite had alluded on the previous day,–as to which unfortunately he was not in accord with his noble friend the Prime Minister. Under the circumstances it was hardly possible that they should at once proceed to business, and he therefore moved that the House should stand adjourned till Tuesday next. That was the whole statement.

Not very long afterwards the Prime Minister made another statement in the House of Lords. As the Chancellor of the Exchequer had very suddenly resigned and had thereby broken up the Ministry, he had found himself compelled to place his resignation in the hands of her Majesty. Then that House was also adjourned. On that afternoon all the clubs were alive with admiration at the great cleverness played by Sir Timothy in this transaction. It was not only that he had succeeded in breaking up the Ministry, and that he had done this without incurring violent disgrace; but he had done it as to throw all the reproach upon his late unfortunate colleague. It was thus that Mr Lupton explained it. Sir Timothy had been at the pains to ascertain on what matters connected with the revenue, Lord Drummond–or Lord Drummond’s closest advisers,– had opinions of their own, opinions strong enough not to be abandoned, and having discovered that, he also discovered arguments on which to found an exactly opposite opinion. But as the Revenue had been entrusted specially to his unworthy hands, he was entitled to his own opinion in the matter. ‘The majority of the House,’ said Mr Lupton, ‘and the entire public, will no doubt give him credit for self-abnegation.’

All this happened on the Friday. During the Saturday it was considered probable that the Cabinet would come to terms with itself, and that internal wounds would be healed. The general opinion was that Lord Drummond would give way. But on the Sunday morning it was understood that Lord Drummond would not yield. It was reported that Lord Drummond was willing to purchase his separation from Sir Timothy even at the expense of his office. That Sir Timothy should give way seemed to be impossible. Had he done so it would have been impossible for him to recover the respect of the House. Then it was rumoured that two or three others had gone with Sir Timothy. And on Monday morning it was proclaimed that the Prime Minister was not in a position to withdraw his resignation. On the Tuesday the House met and Mr Monk announced, still from Opposition benches, that he had that morning been with the Queen. Then there was another adjournment, and all the Liberals knew that the gates of Paradise were again about to be opened to them.

This is only interesting to us as affecting the happiness and character of the Duke. He had consented to assist Mr Monk in forming a government, and to take office under Mr Monk’s leadership. He had had many contests with himself before he could bring himself to this submission. He knew that if anything could once again make him contented it would be work; he knew that if he could serve his country it was his duty to serve it; and he knew also that it was only by the adhesion of such men as himself that the tradition of his party could be maintained. But he had been Prime Minister,–and he was sure he could never be Prime Minister again. There are in all matters certain little, almost hidden, signs, by which we can measure within our own bosoms the extent of