The Palliser Novels (536 page)

“That seems rather hard upon me,” said Silverbridge. “You told me to come.”

“I told you to come and ask after us all. You have come and asked after us, and have been informed that we are very bad. What more can I say? You accuse me of getting out of bed the wrong side, and I own that I did.”

“I meant to say that Dolly Longstaff had done so.”

“And I say it was Silverbridge,” said Dolly.

“We aren’t very agreeable together, are we? Upon my word I think you’d better both go.” Silverbridge immediately got up from his chair; upon which Dolly also moved.

“What the mischief is up?” asked Silverbridge, when they were under the porch together.

“The truth is, you never can tell what you are to do with those American girls.”

“I suppose you have been making up to her.”

“Nothing in earnest. She seemed to me to like admiration; so I told her I admired her.”

“What did she say then?”

“Upon my word, you seem to be very great at cross-examining. Perhaps you had better go back and ask her.”

“I will, next time I see her.” Then he stepped into his cab, and in a loud voice ordered the man to drive him to the Zoo. But when he had gone a little way up Portland Place, he stopped the driver and desired he might be taken back again to the hotel. As he left the vehicle he looked round for Dolly, but Dolly had certainly gone. Then he told the waiter to take his card to Miss Boncassen, and explain that he had something to say which he had forgotten.

“So you have come back again?” said Miss Boncassen, laughing.

“Of course I have. You didn’t suppose I was going to let that fellow get the better of me. Why should I be turned out because he had made an ass of himself!”

“Who said he made an ass of himself?”

“But he had; hadn’t he?”

“No; — by no means,” said she after a little pause.

“Tell me what he had been saying.”

“Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind. If I told you all he said, then I should have to tell the next man all that you may say. Would that be fair?”

“I should not mind,” said Silverbridge.

“I dare say not, because you have nothing particular to say. But the principle is the same. Lawyers and doctors and parsons talk of privileged communications. Why should not a young lady have her privileged communications?”

“But I have something particular to say.”

“I hope not.”

“Why should you hope not?”

“I hate having things said particularly. Nobody likes conversation so well as I do; but it should never be particular.”

“I was going to tell you that I came back to London yesterday in the same carriage with old Lady Clanfiddle, and that she swore that no consideration on earth would ever induce her to go to Maidenhead again.”

“That isn’t particular.”

“She went on to say; — you won’t tell of me; will you?”

“It shall all be privileged.”

“She went on to say that Americans couldn’t be expected to understand English manners.”

“Perhaps they may be all the better for that.”

“Then I spoke up. I swore I was awfully in love with you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did; — that you were, out and away, the finest girl I ever saw in my life. Of course you understand that her two daughters were there. And that as for manners, — unless the rain could be attributed to American manners, — I did not think anything had gone wrong.”

“What about the smoking?”

“I told her they were all Englishmen, and that if she had been giving the party herself they would have smoked just as much. You must understand that she never does give any parties.”

“How could you be so ill-natured?”

“There was ever so much more of it. And it ended in her telling me that I was a schoolboy. I found out the cause of it all. A great spout of rain had come upon her daughter’s hat, and that had produced a most melancholy catastrophe.”

“I would have given her mine willingly.”

“An American hat; — to be worn by Lady Violet Clanfiddle!”

“It came from Paris last week, sir.”

“But must have been contaminated by American contact.”

“Now, Lord Silverbridge,” said she, getting up, “if I had a stick I’d whip you.”

“It was such fun.”

“And you come here and tell it all to me?”

“Of course I do. It was a deal too good to keep it to myself. ‘American manners!’” As he said this he almost succeeded in looking like Lady Clanfiddle.

At that moment Mr. Boncassen entered the room, and was immediately appealed to by his daughter. “Father, you must turn Lord Silverbridge out of the room.”

“Dear me! If I must, — of course I must. But why?”

“He is saying everything horrid he can about Americans.”

After this they settled down for a few minutes to general conversation, and then Lord Silverbridge again took his leave. When he was gone Isabel Boncassen almost regretted that the “something particular” which he had threatened to say had not been less comic in its nature.

When the reader was told that Lord Popplecourt had found Lady Cantrip very agreeable it is to be hoped that the reader was disgusted. Lord Popplecourt would certainly not have given a second thought to Lady Cantrip unless he had been specially flattered. And why should such a man have been flattered by a woman who was in all respects his superior? The reader will understand. It had been settled by the wisdom of the elders that it would be a good thing that Lord Popplecourt should marry Lady Mary Palliser.

The mutual assent which leads to marriage should no doubt be spontaneous. Who does not feel that? Young love should speak from its first doubtful unconscious spark, — a spark which any breath of air may quench or cherish, — till it becomes a flame which nothing can satisfy but the union of the two lovers. No one should be told to love, or bidden to marry, this man or that woman. The theory of this is plain to us all, and till we have sons or daughters whom we feel imperatively obliged to control, the theory is unassailable. But the duty is so imperative! The Duke had taught himself to believe that as his wife would have been thrown away on the world had she been allowed to marry Burgo Fitzgerald, so would his daughter be thrown away were she allowed to marry Mr. Tregear. Therefore the theory of spontaneous love must in this case be set aside. Therefore the spark, — would that it had been no more! — must be quenched. Therefore there could be no union of two lovers; — but simply a prudent and perhaps splendid marriage.

Lord Popplecourt was a man in possession of a large estate which was unencumbered. His rank in the peerage was not high; but his barony was of an old date, — and, if things went well with him, something higher in rank might be open to him. He had good looks of that sort which recommend themselves to pastors and masters, to elders and betters. He had regular features. He looked as though he were steady. He was not impatient nor rollicking. Silverbridge was also good-looking; — but his good looks were such as would give a pang to the hearts of anxious mothers of daughters. Tregear was the handsomest man of the three; — but then he looked as though he had no betters and did not care for his elders. Lord Popplecourt, though a very young man, had once stammered through half-a-dozen words in the House of Lords, and had been known to dine with the “Benevolent Funds.” Lord Silverbridge had declared him to be a fool. No one thought him to be bright. But in the eyes of the Duke, — and of Lady Cantrip, — he had his good qualities.

But the work was very disagreeable. It was the more hard upon Lady Cantrip because she did not believe in it. If it could be done, it would be expedient. But she felt very strongly that it could not be done. No doubt that Lady Glencora had been turned from her evil destiny; but Lady Glencora had been younger than her daughter was now, and possessed of less character. Nor was Lady Cantrip blind to the difference between a poor man with a bad character, such as that Burgo had been, and a poor man with a good character, such as was Tregear. Nevertheless she undertook to aid the work, and condescended to pretend to be so interested in the portrait of some common ancestor as to persuade the young man to have it photographed, in order that the bringing down of the photograph might lead to something.

He took the photograph, and Lady Cantrip said very much to him about his grandmother, who was the old lady in question. “She could,” she said, “just remember the features of the dear old woman.” She was not habitually a hypocrite, and she hated herself for what she was doing, and yet her object was simply good, — to bring together two young people who might advantageously marry each other. The mere talking about the old woman would be of no service. She longed to bring out the offer plainly, and say, “There is Lady Mary Palliser. Don’t you think she’d make a good wife for you?” But she could not, as yet, bring herself to be so indelicately plain. “You haven’t seen the Duke since?” she asked.

“He spoke to me only yesterday in the House. I like the Duke.”

“If I may be allowed to say so, it would be for your advantage that he should like you; — that is, if you mean to take a part in politics.”

“I suppose I shall,” said Popplecourt. “There isn’t much else to do.”

“You don’t go to races?” He shook his head. “I am glad of that,” said Lady Cantrip. “Nothing is so bad as the turf. I fear Lord Silverbridge is devoting himself to the turf.”

“I don’t think it can be good for any man to have much to do with Major Tifto. I suppose Silverbridge knows what he’s about.”

Here was an opportunity which might have been used. It would have been so easy for her to glide from the imperfections of the brother to the perfections of the sister. But she could not bring herself to do it quite at once. She approached the matter however as nearly as she could without making her grand proposition. She shook her head sadly in reference to Silverbridge, and then spoke of the Duke. “His father is so anxious about him.”

“I dare say.”

“I don’t know any man who is more painfully anxious about his children. He feels the responsibility so much since his wife’s death. There is Lady Mary.”

“She’s all right, I should say.”

“All right! oh yes. But when a girl is possessed of so many things, — rank, beauty, intelligence, large
fortune, — “

“Will Lady Mary have much?”

“A large portion of her mother’s money, I should say. When all these things are joined together, a father of course feels most anxious as to their disposal.”

“I suppose she is clever.”

“Very clever,” said Lady Cantrip.

“I think a girl may be too clever, you know,” said Lord Popplecourt.

“Perhaps she may. But I know more who are too foolish. I am so much obliged to you for the photograph.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I really did mean that you should send a man down.”

On that occasion the two young people did not see each other. Lady Mary did not come down, and Lady Cantrip lacked the courage to send for her. As it was, might it not be possible that the young man should be induced to make himself agreeable to the young lady without any further explanation? But love-making between young people cannot well take place unless they be brought together. There was a difficulty in bringing them together at Richmond. The Duke had indeed spoken of meeting Lord Popplecourt at dinner there; — but this was to have followed the proposition which Lady Cantrip should make to him. She could not yet make the proposition, and therefore she hardly knew how to arrange the dinner. She was obliged at last to let the wished-for lover go away without arranging anything. When the Duke should have settled his autumn plans, then an attempt must be made to induce Lord Popplecourt to travel in the same direction.

That evening Lady Cantrip said a few words to Mary respecting the proposed suitor. “There is nothing I have such a horror of as gambling,” she said.

“It is dreadful.”

“I am very glad to think that Nidderdale does not do anything of that sort.” It was perhaps on the cards that Nidderdale should do things of which she knew nothing. “I hope Silverbridge does not bet.”

“I don’t think he does.”

“There’s Lord Popplecourt, — quite a young man, — with everything at his own disposal, and a very large estate. Think of the evil he might do if he were given that way.”

“Does he gamble?”

“Not at all. It must be such a comfort to his mother!”

“He looks to me as though he never would do anything,” said Lady Mary. Then the subject was dropped.

It was a week after this, towards the end of July, that the Duke wrote a line to Lady Cantrip, apologising for what he had done, but explaining that he had asked Lord Popplecourt to dine at The Horns on a certain Sunday. He had, he said, been assured by Lord Cantrip that such an arrangement would be quite convenient. It was clear from his letter that he was much in earnest. Of course there was no reason why the dinner should not be eaten. Only the speciality of the invitation to Lord Popplecourt must not be so glaring that he himself should be struck by the strangeness of it. There must be a little party made up. Lord Nidderdale and his wife were therefore bidden to come down, and Silverbridge, who at first consented rather unwillingly, — and Lady Mabel Grex, as to whom the Duke made a special request that she might be asked. This last invitation was sent express from Lady Mary, and included Miss Cass. So the party was made up. The careful reader will perceive that there were to be ten of them.

“Isn’t it odd papa wanting to have Lady Mabel?” Mary said to Lady Cantrip.

“Does he not know her, my dear?”

“He hardly ever spoke to her. I’ll tell you what; I expect Silverbridge is going to marry her.”

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know why he shouldn’t. She is very beautiful, and very clever. But if so, papa must know all about it. It does seem so odd that papa of all people should turn match-maker, or even that he should think of it.”

“So much is thrown upon him now,” said Lady Cantrip

“Poor papa!” Then she remembered herself, and spoke with a little start. “Of course I am not thinking of myself. Arranging a marriage is very different from preventing any one from marrying.”