The Palliser Novels (572 page)

“It is distasteful,” said Dolly; “but the truth is I am so downright, — what you may call
enamoured — “

“Don’t talk such stuff as that here,” said Silverbridge, jumping up. “I won’t have it.”

“But I am. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to get her. Of course it’s a good match for her. I’ve got three separate properties; and when the governor goes off I shall have a clear fifteen thousand a year.”

“Oh, bother!”

“Of course that’s nothing to you, but it is a very tidy income for a commoner. And how is she to do better?”

“I don’t know how she could do much worse,” said Silverbridge in a transport of rage. Then he pulled his moustache in vexation, angry with himself that he should have allowed himself to say even a word on so preposterous a supposition. Isabel Boncassen and Dolly Longstaff! It was Titania and Bottom over again. It was absolutely necessary that he should get rid of this intruder, and he began to be afraid that he could not do this without using language which would be uncivil. “Upon my word,” he said, “I think you had better not talk about it any more. The young lady is one for whom I have a very great respect.”

“I mean to marry her,” said Dolly, thinking thus to vindicate himself.

“You might as well think of marrying one of the stars.”

“One of the stars!”

“Or a royal princess!”

“Well! Perhaps that is your opinion, but I can’t say that I agree with you. I don’t see why she shouldn’t take me. I can give her a position which you may call Al out of the Peerage. I can bring her into society. I can make an English lady of her.”

“You can’t make anything of her, — except to insult her, — and me too by talking of her.”

“I don’t quite understand this,” said the unfortunate lover, getting up from his seat. “Very likely she won’t have me. Perhaps she has told you so.”

“She never mentioned your name to me in her life. I don’t suppose she remembers your existence.”

“But I say that there can be no insult in such a one as me asking such a one as her to be my wife. To say that she doesn’t remember my existence is absurd.”

“Why should I be troubled with all this?”

“Because I think you’re making a fool of her, and because I’m honest. That’s why,” said Dolly with much energy. There was something in this which partly reconciled Silverbridge to his despised rival. There was a touch of truth about the man, though he was so utterly mistaken in his ideas. “I want you to give over in order that I may try again. I don’t think you ought to keep a girl from her promotion, merely for the fun of a flirtation. Perhaps you’re fond of her; — but you won’t marry her. I am fond of her, and I shall.”

After a minute’s pause Silverbridge resolved that he would be magnanimous. “Miss Boncassen is going to be my wife,” he said.

“Your wife!”

“Yes; — my wife. And now I think you will see that nothing further can be said about this matter.”

“Duchess of Omnium!”

“She will be Lady Silverbridge.”

“Oh; of course she’ll be that first. Then I’ve got nothing further to say. I’m not going to enter myself to run against you. Only I shouldn’t have believed it if anybody else had told me.”

“Such is my good fortune.”

“Oh ah, — yes; of course. That is one way of looking at it. Well; Silverbridge, I’ll tell you what I shall do; I shall hook it.”

“No; no, not you.”

“Yes, I shall. I dare say you won’t believe me, but I’ve got such a feeling about me here” — as he said this he laid his hand upon his heart, — “that if I stayed I should go in for hard drinking. I shall take the great Asiatic tour. I know a fellow that wants to go, but he hasn’t got any money. I dare say I shall be off before the end of next month. You don’t know any fellow that would buy half-a-dozen hunters; do you?” Silverbridge shook his head. “Good-bye,” said Dolly in a melancholy tone; “I am sure I am very much obliged to you for telling me. If I’d known you’d meant it, I shouldn’t have meddled, of course. Duchess of Omnium!”

“Look here, Dolly, I have told you what I should not have told any one, but I wanted to screen the young lady’s name.”

“It was so kind of you.”

“Do not repeat it. It is a kind of thing that ladies are particular about. They choose their own time for letting everybody know.” Then Dolly promised to be as mute as a fish, and took his departure.

Silverbridge had felt, towards the end of the interview, that he had been arrogant to the unfortunate man, — particularly in saying that the young lady would not remember the existence of such a suitor, — and had also recognised a certain honesty in the man’s purpose, which had not been the less honest because it was so absurd. Actuated by the consciousness of this, he had swallowed his anger, and had told the whole truth. Nevertheless things had been said which were horrible to him. This buffoon of a man had called his Isabel a — pert poppet! How was he to get over the remembrance of such an offence? And then the wretch had declared that he was — enamoured! There was sacrilege in the term when applied by such a man to Isabel Boncassen. He had thoughts of days to come, when everything would be settled, when he might sit close to her, and call her pretty names, — when he might in sweet familiarity tell her that she was a little Yankee and a fierce republican, and “chaff” her about the stars and stripes; and then, as he pictured the scene to himself in his imagination, she would lean upon him and would give him back his chaff, and would call him an aristocrat and would laugh at his titles. As he thought of all this he would be proud with the feeling that such privileges would be his own. And now this wretched man had called her a pert poppet!

There was a sanctity about her, — a divinity which made it almost a profanity to have talked about her at all to such a one as Dolly Longstaff. She was his Holy of Holies, at which vulgar eyes should not even be allowed to gaze. It had been a most unfortunate interview. But this was clear; that, as he had announced his engagement to such a one as Dolly Longstaff, the matter now would admit of no delay. He would explain to his father that as tidings of the engagement had got abroad, honour to the young lady would compel him to come forward openly as her suitor at once. If this argument might serve him, then perhaps this intrusion would not have been altogether a misfortune.

Silverbridge when he reached Brook Street that day was surprised to find that a large party was going to lunch there. Isabel had asked him to come, and he had thought her the dearest girl in the world for doing so. But now his gratitude for that favour was considerably abated. He did not care just now for the honour of eating his lunch in the presence of Mr. Gotobed, the American minister, whom he found there already in the drawing-room with Mrs. Gotobed, nor with Ezekiel Sevenkings, the great American poet from the far West, who sat silent and stared at him in an unpleasant way. When Sir Timothy Beeswax was announced, with Lady Beeswax and her daughter, his gratification certainly was not increased. And the last comer, — who did not arrive indeed till they were all seated at the table, — almost made him start from his chair and take his departure suddenly. That last comer was no other than Mr. Adolphus Longstaff. As it happened he was seated next to Dolly, with Lady Beeswax on the other side of him. Whereas his Holy of Holies was on the other side of Dolly! The arrangement made seemed to him to have been monstrous. He had endeavoured to get next to Isabel; but she had so manœuvred that there should be a vacant chair between them. He had not much regarded this because a vacant chair may be pushed on one side. But before he had made all his calculations Dolly Longstaff was sitting there! He almost thought that Dolly winked at him in triumph, — that very Dolly who an hour ago had promised to take himself off upon his Asiatic travels!

Sir Timothy and the minister kept up the conversation very much between them, Sir Timothy flattering everything that was American, and the minister finding fault with very many things that were English. Now and then Mr. Boncassen would put in a word to soften the severe honesty of his countryman, or to correct the euphemistic falsehoods of Sir Timothy. The poet seemed always to be biding his time. Dolly ventured to whisper a word to his neighbour. It was but to say that the frost had broken up. But Silverbridge heard it and looked daggers at everyone. Then Lady Beeswax expressed to him a hope that he was going to do great things in Parliament this Session. “I don’t mean to go near the place,” he said, not at all conveying any purpose to which he had really come, but driven by the stress of the moment to say something that should express his general hatred of everybody. Mr. Lupton was there, on the other side of Isabel, and was soon engaged with her in a pleasant familiar conversation. Then Silverbridge remembered that he had always thought Lupton to be a most conceited prig. Nobody gave himself so many airs, or was so careful as to the dyeing of his whiskers. It was astonishing that Isabel should allow herself to be amused by such an antiquated coxcomb. When they had finished eating they moved about and changed their places, Mr. Boncassen being rather anxious to stop the flood of American eloquence which came from his friend Mr. Gotobed. British viands had become subject to his criticism, and Mr. Gotobed had declared to Mr. Lupton that he didn’t believe that London could produce a dish of squash or tomatoes. He was quite sure you couldn’t have sweet corn. Then there had been a moving of seats in which the minister was shuffled off to Lady Beeswax, and the poet found himself by the side of Isabel. “Do you not regret our mountains and our prairies,” said the poet; “our great waters and our green savannahs?” “I think more perhaps of Fifth Avenue,” said Miss Boncassen. Silverbridge, who at this moment was being interrogated by Sir Timothy, heard every word of it.

“I was so sorry, Lord Silverbridge,” said Sir Timothy, “that you could not accede to our little request.”

“I did not quite see my way,” said Silverbridge, with his eye upon Isabel.

“So I understood, but I hope that things will make themselves clearer to you shortly. There is nothing that I desire so much as the support of young men such as yourself, — the very cream, I may say, of the whole country. It is to the young conservative thoughtfulness and the truly British spirit of our springing aristocracy that I look for that reaction which I am sure will at last carry us safely over the rocks and shoals of communistic propensities.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if it did,” said Silverbridge. They didn’t think that he was going to remain down there talking politics to an old humbug like Sir Timothy when the sun, and moon, and all the stars had gone up into the drawing-room! For at that moment Isabel was making her way to the door.

But Sir Timothy had buttonholed him. “Of course it is late now to say anything further about the address. We have arranged that. Not quite as I would have wished, for I had set my heart upon initiating you into the rapturous pleasure of parliamentary debate. But I hope that a good time is coming. And pray remember this, Lord Silverbridge; — there is no member sitting on our side of the House, and I need hardly say on the other, whom I would go farther to oblige than your father’s son.”

“I’m sure that’s very kind,” said Silverbridge, absolutely using a little force as he disengaged himself. Then he at once followed the ladies upstairs, passing the poet on the stairs. “You have hardly spoken to me,” he whispered to Isabel. He knew that to whisper to her now, with the eyes of many upon him, with the ears of many open, was an absurdity; but he could not refrain himself.

“There are so many to be, — entertained, as people say! I don’t think I ought to have to entertain you,” she answered, laughing. No one heard her but Silverbridge, yet she did not seem to whisper. She left him, however, at once, and was soon engaged in conversation with Sir Timothy.

A convivial lunch I hold to be altogether bad, but the worst of its many evils is that vacillating mind which does not know when to take its owner off. Silverbridge was on this occasion quite determined not to take himself off at all. As it was only a lunch the people must go, and then he would be left with Isabel. But the vacillation of the others was distressing to him. Mr. Lupton went, and poor Dolly got away apparently without a word. But the Beeswaxes and the Gotobeds would not go, and the poet sat staring immovably. In the meanwhile Silverbridge endeavoured to make the time pass lightly by talking to Mrs. Boncassen. He had been so determined to accept Isabel with all her adjuncts that he had come almost to like Mrs. Boncassen, and would certainly have taken her part violently had any one spoken ill of her in his presence.

Then suddenly he found that the room was nearly empty. The Beeswaxes and the Gotobeds were gone; and at last the poet himself, with a final glare of admiration at Isabel, had taken his departure. When Silverbridge looked round, Isabel also was gone. Then too Mrs. Boncassen had left the room suddenly. At the same instant Mr. Boncassen entered by another door, and the two men were alone together. “My dear Lord Silverbridge,” said the father, “I want to have a few words with you.” Of course there was nothing for him but to submit. “You remember what you said to me down at Matching?”

“Oh yes; I remember that.”

“You did me the great honour of expressing a wish to make my child your wife.”

“I was asking for a very great favour.”

“That also; — for there is no greater favour I could do to any man than to give him my daughter. Nevertheless, you were doing me a great honour, — and you did it, as you do everything, with an honest grace that went far to win my heart. I am not at all surprised, sir, that you should have won hers.” The young man as he heard this could only blush and look foolish. “If I know my girl, neither your money nor your title would go for anything.”

“I think much more of her love, Mr. Boncassen, than I do of anything else in the world.”

“But love, my Lord, may be a great misfortune.” As he said this the tone of his voice was altered, and there was a melancholy solemnity not only in his words but in his countenance. “I take it that young people when they love rarely think of more than the present moment. If they did so the bloom would be gone from their romance. But others have to do this for them. If Isabel had come to me saying that she loved a poor man, there would not have been much to disquiet me. A poor man may earn bread for himself and his wife, and if he failed I could have found them bread. Nor, had she loved somewhat below her own degree, should I have opposed her. So long as her husband had been an educated man, there might have been no future punishment to fear.”