The Palliser Novels (532 page)

“You had Mary up in town on Friday,” he said to his son on the following Sunday morning.

“Yes, sir.”

“And that friend of yours came in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you not know what my wishes are?”

“Certainly I do; — but I could not help his coming. You do not suppose that anybody had planned it?”

“I hope not.”

“It was simply an accident. Such an accident as must occur over and over again, — unless Mary is to be locked up.”

“Who talks of locking anybody up? What right have you to speak in that way?”

“I only meant that of course they will stumble across each other in London.”

“I think I will go abroad,” said the Duke. He was silent for awhile, and then repeated his words. “I think I will go abroad.”

“Not for long, I hope, sir.”

“Yes; — to live there. Why should I stay here? What good can I do here? Everything I see and everything I hear is a pain to me.” The young man of course could not but go back in his mind to the last interview which he had had with his father, when the Duke had been so gracious and apparently so well pleased.

“Is there anything else wrong, — except about Mary?” Silverbridge asked.

“I am told that Gerald owes about fifteen hundred pounds at Cambridge.”

“So much as that! I knew he had a few horses there.”

“It is not the money, but the absence of principle, — that a young man should have no feeling that he ought to live within certain prescribed means! Do you know what you have had from Mr. Morton?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“It is different with you. But a man, let him be who he may, should live within certain means. As for your sister, I think she will break my heart.” Silverbridge found it to be quite impossible to say anything in answer to this. “Are you going to church?” asked the Duke.

“I was not thinking of doing so particularly.”

“Do you not ever go?”

“Yes; — sometimes. I will go with you now, if you like it, sir.”

“I had thought of going, but my mind is too much harassed. I do not see why you should not go.”

But Silverbridge, though he had been willing to sacrifice his morning to his father, — for it was, I fear, in that way that he had looked at it, — did not see any reason for performing a duty which his father himself omitted. And there were various matters also which harassed him. On the previous evening, after dinner, he had allowed himself to back the Prime Minister for the Leger to a very serious amount. In fact he had plunged, and now stood to lose some twenty thousand pounds on the doings of the last night. And he had made these bets under the influence of Major Tifto. It was the remembrance of this, after the promise made to his father, that annoyed him the most. He was imbued with a feeling that it behoved him as a man to “pull himself together,” as he would have said himself, and to live in accordance with certain rules. He could make the rules easily enough, but he had never yet succeeded in keeping any one of them. He had determined to sever himself from Tifto, and, in doing that, had intended to sever himself from affairs of the turf generally. This resolution was not yet a week old. It was on that evening that he had resolved that Tifto should no longer be his companion; and now he had to confess to himself that because he had drunk three or four glasses of champagne he had been induced by Tifto to make those wretched bets.

And he had told his father that he intended to ask Mabel Grex to be his wife. He had so committed himself that the offer must now be made. He did not specially regret that, though he wished that he had been more reticent. “What a fool a man is to blurt out everything!” he said to himself. A wife would be a good thing for him; and where could he possibly find a better wife than Mabel Grex? In beauty she was no doubt inferior to Miss Boncassen. There was something about Miss Boncassen which made it impossible to forget her. But Miss Boncassen was an American, and on many accounts out of the question. It did not occur to him that he would fall in love with Miss Boncassen; but still it seemed hard to him that this intention of marriage should stand in his way of having a good time with Miss Boncassen for a few weeks. No doubt there were objections to marriage. It clipped a fellow’s wings. But then, if he were married, he might be sure that Tifto would be laid aside. It was such a great thing to have got his father’s assured consent to a marriage. It meant complete independence in money matters.

Then his mind ran away to a review of his father’s affairs. It was a genuine trouble to him that his father should be so unhappy. Of all the griefs which weighed upon the Duke’s mind, that in reference to his sister was the heaviest. The money which Gerald owed at Cambridge would be nothing if that other sorrow could be conquered. Nor had Tifto and his own extravagance caused the Duke any incurable wounds. If Tregear could be got out of the way, his father, he thought, might be reconciled to other things. He felt very tender-hearted about his father; but he had no remorse in regard to his sister as he made up his mind that he would speak very seriously to Tregear.

He had wandered into St. James’s Park, and had lighted by this time half-a-dozen cigarettes one after another, as he sat on one of the benches. He was a handsome youth, all but six feet high, with light hair, with round blue eyes, and with all that aristocratic look, which had belonged so peculiarly to the late Duke but which was less conspicuous in the present head of the family. He was a young man whom you would hardly pass in a crowd without observing, — but of whom you would say, after due observation, that he had not as yet put off all his childish ways. He now sat with his legs stretched out, with his cane in his hands, looking down upon the water. He was trying to think. He worked hard at thinking. But the bench was hard and, upon the whole, he was not satisfied with his position. He had just made up his mind that he would look up Tregear, when Tregear himself appeared on the path before him.

“Tregear!” exclaimed Silverbridge.

“Silverbridge!” exclaimed Tregear.

“What on earth makes you walk about here on a Sunday morning?”

“What on earth makes you sit there? That I should walk here, which I often do, does not seem to me odd. But that I should find you is marvellous. Do you often come?”

“Never was here in my life before. I strolled in because I had things to think of.”

“Questions to be asked in Parliament? Notices of motions, Amendments in Committee, and that kind of thing?”

“Go on, old fellow.”

“Or perhaps Major Tifto has made important revelations.”

“D–––– Major Tifto.”

“With all my heart,” said Tregear.

“Sit down here,” said Silverbridge. “As it happened, at the moment when you came up I was thinking of you.”

“That was kind.”

“And I was determined to go to you. All this about my sister must be given up.”

“Must be given up?”

“It can never lead to any good. I mean that there never can be a marriage.” Then he paused, but Tregear was determined to hear him out. “It is making my father so miserable that you would pity him if you could see him.”

“I dare say I should. When I see people unhappy I always pity them. What I would ask you to think of is this. If I were to commission you to tell your sister that everything between us should be given up, would not she be so unhappy that you would have to pity her?”

“She would get over it.”

“And so will your father.”

“He has a right to have his own opinion on such a matter.”

“And so have I. And so has she. His rights in this matter are very clear and very potential. I am quite ready to admit that we cannot marry for many years to come, unless he will provide the money. You are quite at liberty to tell him that I say so. I have no right to ask your father for a penny, and I will never do so. The power is all in his hands. As far as I know my own purposes, I shall not make any immediate attempt even to see her. We did meet, as you saw, the other day, by the merest chance. After that, do you think that your sister wishes me to give her up?”

“As for supposing that girls are to have what they wish, that is nonsense.”

“For young men I suppose equally so. Life ought to be a life of self-denial, no doubt. Perhaps it might be my duty to retire from this affair, if by doing so I should sacrifice only myself. The one person of whom I am bound to think in this matter is the girl I love.”

“That is just what she would say about you.”

“I hope so.”

“In that way you support each other. If it were any other man circumstanced just like you are, and any other girl placed like Mary, you would be the first to say that the man was behaving badly. I don’t like to use hard language to you, but in such a case you would be the first to say of another man — that he was looking after the girl’s money.”

Silverbridge as he said this looked forward steadfastly on to the water, regretting much that cause for quarrel should have arisen, but thinking that Tregear would find himself obliged to quarrel. But Tregear, after a few moments’ silence, having thought it out, determined that he would not quarrel. “I think I probably might,” he said, laying his hand on Silverbridge’s arm. “I think I perhaps might express such an opinion.”

“Well then!”

“I have to examine myself, and find out whether I am guilty of the meanness which I might perhaps be too ready to impute to another. I have done so, and I am quite sure that I am not drawn to your sister by any desire for her money. I did not seek her because she was a rich man’s daughter, nor, — because she is a rich man’s daughter, — will I give her up. She shall be mistress of the occasion. Nothing but a word from her shall induce me to leave her; — but a word from her, if it comes from her own lips, — shall do so.” Then he took his friend’s hand in his, and, having grasped it, walked away without saying another word.

Thrice within the next three weeks did Lord Silverbridge go forth to ask Mabel to be his wife, but thrice in vain. On one occasion she would talk on other things. On the second Miss Cassewary would not leave her. On the third the conversation turned in a very disagreeable way on Miss Boncassen, as to whom Lord Silverbridge could not but think that Lady Mabel said some very ill-natured things. It was no doubt true that he, during the last three weeks, had often been in Miss Boncassen’s company, that he had danced with her, ridden with her, taken her to the House of Lords and to the House of Commons, and was now engaged to attend upon her at a river-party up above Maidenhead. But Mabel had certainly no right to complain. Had he not thrice during the same period come there to lay his coronet at her feet; — and now, at this very moment, was it not her fault that he was not going through the ceremony?

“I suppose,” she said, laughing, “that it is all settled.”

“What is all settled?”

“About you and the American beauty.”

“I am not aware that anything particular has been settled.”

“Then it ought to be, — oughtn’t it? For her sake, I mean.”

“That is so like an English woman,” said Lord Silverbridge. “Because you cannot understand a manner of life a little different from your own you will impute evil.”

“I have imputed no evil, Lord Silverbridge, and you have no right to say so.”

“If you mean to assert,” said Miss Cass, “that the manners of American young ladies are freer than those of English young ladies, it is you that are taking away their characters.”

“I don’t say it would be at all bad,” continued Lady Mabel. “She is a beautiful girl, and very clever, and would make a charming Duchess. And then it would be such a delicious change to have an American Duchess.”

“She wouldn’t be a Duchess.”

“Well, Countess, with Duchessship before her in the remote future. Wouldn’t it be a change, Miss Cass?”

“Oh decidedly!” said Miss Cass.

“And very much for the better. Quite a case of new blood, you know. Pray don’t suppose that I mean to object. Everybody who talks about it approves. I haven’t heard a dissentient voice. Only as it has gone so far, and as English people are too stupid, you know, to understand all these new ways, — don’t you think
perhaps — ?”

“No, I don’t think. I don’t think anything except that you are very ill-natured.” Then he got up and, after making formal adieux to both the ladies, left the house.

As soon as he was gone Lady Mabel began to laugh, but the least apprehensive ears would have perceived that the laughter was affected. Miss Cassewary did not laugh at all, but sat bolt upright and looked very serious. “Upon my honour,” said the younger lady, “he is the most beautifully simple-minded human being I ever knew in my life.”

“Then I wouldn’t laugh at him.”

“How can one help it? But of course I do it with a purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“I think he is making a fool of himself. If somebody does not interfere he will go so far that he will not be able to draw back without misbehaving.”

“I thought,” said Miss Cassewary, in a very low voice, almost whispering, “I thought that he was looking for a wife elsewhere.”

“You need not think of that again,” said Lady Mab, jumping up from her seat. “I had thought of it too. But as I told you before, I spared him. He did not really mean it with me; — nor does he mean it with this American girl. Such young men seldom mean. They drift into matrimony. But she will not spare him. It would be a national triumph. All the States would sing a pæan of glory. Fancy a New York belle having compassed a Duke!”

“I don’t think it possible. It would be too horrid.”

“I think it quite possible. As for me, I could teach myself to think it best as it is, were I not so sure that I should be better for him than so many others. But I shouldn’t love him.”

“Why not love him?”

“He is such a boy. I should always treat him like a boy, — spoiling him and petting him, but never respecting him. Don’t run away with any idea that I should refuse him from conscientious motives, if he were really to ask me. I too should like to be a Duchess. I should like to bring all this misery at home to an end.”