The Palliser Novels (537 page)

“Whatever he may think to be his duty he will be sure to do it,” said the elder lady very solemnly.

Lady Mabel was surprised by the invitation, but she was not slow to accept it. “Papa will be here and will be so glad to meet you,” Lady Mary had said. Why should the Duke of Omnium wish to meet her? “Silverbridge will be here too,” Mary had gone on to say. “It is just a family party. Papa, you know, is not going anywhere; nor am I.” By all this Lady Mabel’s thoughts were much stirred, and her bosom somewhat moved. And Silverbridge also was moved by it. Of course he could not but remember that he had pledged himself to his father to ask Lady Mabel to be his wife. He had faltered since. She had been, he thought, unkind to him, or at any rate indifferent. He had surely said enough to her to make her know what he meant; and yet she had taken no trouble to meet him half way. And then Isabel Boncassen had intervened. Now he was asked to dinner in a most unusual manner!

Of all the guests invited Lord Popplecourt was perhaps the least disturbed. He was quite alive to the honour of being noticed by the Duke of Omnium, and alive also to the flattering courtesy shown to him by Lady Cantrip. But justice would not be done him unless it were acknowledged that he had as yet flattered himself with no hopes in regard to Lady Mary Palliser. He, when he prepared himself for his journey down to Richmond, thought much more of the Duke than of the Duke’s daughter.

“Oh yes, I can drive you down if you like that kind of thing,” Silverbridge said to him on the Saturday evening.

“And bring me back?”

“If you will come when I am coming. I hate waiting for a fellow.”

“Suppose we leave at half-past ten.”

“I won’t fix any time; but if we can’t make it suit there’ll be the governor’s carriage.”

“Will the Duke go down in his carriage?”

“I suppose so. It’s quicker and less trouble than the railway.” Then Lord Popplecourt reflected that he would certainly come back with the Duke if he could so manage it, and there floated before his eyes visions of under-secretaryships, all of which might owe their origin to this proposed drive up from Richmond.

At six o’clock on the Sunday evening Silverbridge called for Lord Popplecourt. “Upon my word,” said he, “I didn’t ever expect to see you in my cab.”

“Why not me especially?”

“Because you’re not one of our lot.”

“You’d sooner have Tifto, I dare say.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Tifto is not at all a pleasant companion, though he understands horses. You’re going in for heavy politics, I suppose.”

“Not particularly heavy.”

“If not, why on earth does my governor take you up? You won’t mind my smoking, I dare say.” After this there was no conversation between them.

It was pretty to see the Duke’s reception of Lady Mabel. “I knew your mother many years ago,” he said, “when I was young myself. Her mother and my mother were first cousins and dear friends.” He held her hand as he spoke and looked at her as though he meant to love her. Lady Mabel saw that it was so. Could it be possible that the Duke had heard anything; — that he should wish to receive her? She had told herself and had told Miss Cassewary that though she had spared Silverbridge, yet she knew that she would make him a good wife. If the Duke thought so also, then surely she need not doubt.

“I knew we were cousins,” she said, “and have been so proud of the connection! Lord Silverbridge does come and see us sometimes.”

Soon after that Silverbridge and Popplecourt came in. If the story of the old woman in the portrait may be taken as evidence of a family connexion between Lady Cantrip and Lord Popplecourt, everybody there was more or less connected with everybody else. Nidderdale had been a first cousin of Lady Glencora, and he had married a daughter of Lady Cantrip. They were manifestly a family party, — thanks to the old woman in the picture.

It is a point of conscience among the — perhaps not ten thousand, but say one thousand of bluest blood, — that everybody should know who everybody is. Our Duke, though he had not given his mind much to the pursuit, had nevertheless learned his lesson. It is a knowledge which the possession of the blue blood itself produces. There are countries with bluer blood than our own in which to be without such knowledge is a crime.

When the old lady in the portrait had been discussed, Popplecourt was close to Lady Mary. They two had no idea why such vicinity had been planned. The Duke knew, of course, and Lady Cantrip. Lady Cantrip had whispered to her daughter that such a marriage would be suitable, and the daughter had hinted it to her husband. Lord Cantrip of course was not in the dark. Lady Mabel had expressed a hint on the matter to Miss Cass, who had not repudiated it. Even Silverbridge had suggested to himself that something of the kind might be in the wind, thinking that, if so, none of them knew much about his sister Mary. But Popplecourt himself was divinely innocent. His ideas of marriage had as yet gone no farther than a conviction that girls generally were things which would be pressed on him, and against which he must arm himself with some shield. Marriage would have to come, no doubt; but not the less was it his duty to live as though it were a pit towards which he would be tempted by female allurements. But that a net should be spread over him here he was much too humble-minded to imagine.

“Very hot,” he said to Lady Mary.

“We found it warm in church to-day.”

“I dare say. I came down here with your brother in his hansom cab. What a very odd thing to have a hansom cab!”

“I should like one.”

“Should you indeed?”

“Particularly if I could drive it myself. Silverbridge does, at night, when he thinks people won’t see him.”

“Drive the cab in the streets! What does he do with his man?”

“Puts him inside. He was out once without the man and took up a fare, — an old woman, he said. And when she was going to pay him he touched his hat and said he never took money from ladies.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Oh yes. I call that good fun, because it did no harm. He had his lark. The lady was taken where she wanted to go, and she saved her money.”

“Suppose he had upset her,” said Lord Popplecourt, looking as an old philosopher might have looked when he had found some clenching answer to another philosopher’s argument.

“The real cabman might have upset her worse,” said Lady Mary.

“Don’t you feel it odd that we should meet here?” said Lord Silverbridge to his neighbour, Lady Mabel.

“Anything unexpected is odd,” said Lady Mabel. It seemed to her to be very odd, — unless certain people had made up their minds as to the expediency of a certain event.

“That is what you call logic; — isn’t it? Anything unexpected is odd!”

“Lord Silverbridge, I won’t be laughed at. You have been at Oxford and ought to know what logic is.”

“That at any rate is ill-natured,” he replied, turning very red in the face.

“You don’t think I meant it. Oh, Lord Silverbridge, say that you don’t think I meant it. You cannot think I would willingly wound you. Indeed, indeed, I was not thinking.” It had in truth been an accident. She could not speak aloud because they were closely surrounded by others, but she looked up in his face to see whether he were angry with her. “Say that you do not think I meant it.”

“I do not think you meant it.”

“I would not say a word to hurt you, — oh, for more than I can tell you.”

“It is all bosh, of course,” he said laughing; “but I do not like to hear the old place named. I have always made a fool of myself. Some men do it and don’t care about it. But I do it, and yet it makes me miserable.”

“If that be so you will soon give over making — what you call a fool of yourself. For myself I like the idea of wild oats. I look upon them like measles. Only you should have a doctor ready when the disease shows itself.”

“What sort of a doctor ought I to have?”

“Ah; — you must find out that yourself. That sort of feeling which makes you feel miserable; — that is a doctor itself.”

“Or a wife?”

“Or a wife, — if you can find a good one. There are wives, you know, who aggravate the disease. If I had a fast husband I should make him faster by being fast myself. There is nothing I envy so much as the power of doing half-mad things.”

“Women can do that too.”

“But they go to the dogs. We are dreadfully restricted. If you like champagne you can have a bucketful. I am obliged to pretend that I only want a very little. You can bet thousands. I must confine myself to gloves. You can flirt with any woman you please. I must wait till somebody comes, — and put up with it if nobody does come.”

“Plenty come, no doubt.”

“But I want to pick and choose. A man turns the girls over one after another as one does the papers when one is fitting up a room, or rolls them out as one rolls out the carpets. A very careful young man like Lord Popplecourt might reject a young woman because her hair didn’t suit the colour of his furniture.”

“I don’t think that I shall choose my wife as I would papers and carpets.”

The Duke, who sat between Lady Cantrip and her daughter, did his best to make himself agreeable. The conversation had been semi-political, — political to the usual feminine extent, and had consisted chiefly of sarcasms from Lady Cantrip against Sir Timothy Beeswax. “That England should put up with such a man,” Lady Cantrip had said, “is to me shocking! There used to be a feeling in favour of gentlemen.” To this the Duke had responded by asserting that Sir Timothy had displayed great aptitude for parliamentary life, and knew the House of Commons better than most men. He said nothing against his foe, and very much in his foe’s praise. But Lady Cantrip perceived that she had succeeded in pleasing him.

When the ladies were gone the politics became more serious. “That unfortunate quarrel is to go on the same as ever, I suppose,” said the Duke, addressing himself to the two young men who had seats in the House of Commons. They were both on the Conservative side in politics. The three peers present were all Liberals.

“Till next Session, I think, sir,” said Silverbridge.

“Sir Timothy, though he did lose his temper, has managed it well,” said Lord Cantrip.

“Phineas Finn lost his temper worse than Sir Timothy,” said Lord Nidderdale.

“But yet I think he had the feeling of the House with him,” said the Duke. “I happened to be present in the gallery at the time.”

“Yes,” said Nidderdale, “because he ‘owned up.’ The fact is if you ‘own up’ in a genial sort of way the House will forgive anything. If I were to murder my grandmother, and when questioned about it were to acknowledge that I had done it — ” Then Lord Nidderdale stood up and made his speech as he might have made it in the House of Commons. “‘I regret to say, sir, that the old woman did get in my way when I was in a passion. Unfortunately I had a heavy stick in my hand and I did strike her over the head. Nobody can regret it so much as I do! Nobody can feel so acutely the position in which I am placed! I have sat in this House for many years, and many gentlemen know me well. I think, Sir, that they will acknowledge that I am a man not deficient in filial piety or general humanity. Sir, I am sorry for what I did in a moment of heat. I have now spoken the truth, and I shall leave myself in the hands of the House.’ My belief is I should get such a round of applause as I certainly shall never achieve in any other way. It is not only that a popular man may do it, — like Phineas Finn, — but the most unpopular man in the House may make himself liked by owning freely that he has done something that he ought to be ashamed of.” Nidderdale’s unwonted eloquence was received in good part by the assembled legislators.

“Taking it altogether,” said the Duke, “I know of no assembly in any country in which good-humour prevails so generally, in which the members behave to each other so well, in which rules are so universally followed, or in which the president is so thoroughly sustained by the feeling of the members.”

“I hear men say that it isn’t quite what it used to be,” said Silverbridge.

“Nothing will ever be quite what it used to be.”

“Changes for the worse, I mean. Men are doing all kinds of things, just because the rules of the House allow them.”

“If they be within rule,” said the Duke, “I don’t know who is to blame them. In my time, if any man stretched a rule too far the House would not put up with it.”

“That’s just it,” said Nidderdale. “The House puts up with anything now. There is a great deal of good feeling no doubt, but there’s no earnestness about anything. I think you are more earnest than we; but then you are such horrid bores. And each earnest man is in earnest about something that nobody else cares for.”

When they were again in the drawing-room, Lord Popplecourt was seated next to Lady Mary. “Where are you going this autumn?” he asked.

“I don’t know in the least. Papa said something about going abroad.”

“You won’t be at Custins?” Custins was Lord Cantrip’s country seat in Dorsetshire.

“I know nothing about myself as yet. But I don’t think I shall go anywhere unless papa goes too.”

“Lady Cantrip has asked me to be at Custins in the middle of October. They say it is about the best pheasant-shooting in England.”

“Do you shoot much?”

“A great deal. I shall be in Scotland on the Twelfth. I and Reginald Dobbes have a place together. I shall get to my own partridges on the 1st of September. I always manage that. Popplecourt is in Suffolk, and I don’t think any man in England can beat me for partridges.”

“What do you do with all you slay?”

“Leadenhall Market. I make it pay, — or very nearly. Then I shall run back to Scotland for the end of the stalking, and I can easily manage to be at Custins by the middle of October. I never touch my own pheasants till November.”

“Why are you so abstemious?”

“The birds are heavier and it answers better. But if I thought you would be at Custins it would be much nicer.” Lady Mary again told him that as yet she knew nothing of her father’s autumn movements.

But at the same time the Duke was arranging his autumn movements, or at any rate those of his daughter. Lady Cantrip had told him that the desirable son-in-law had promised to go to Custins, and suggested that he and Mary should also be there. In his daughter’s name he promised, but he would not bind himself. Would it not be better that he should be absent? Now that the doing of this thing was brought nearer to him so that he could see and feel its details, he was disgusted by it. And yet it had answered so well with his wife!