 CHAPTER XIV Lord Silverbridge was informed that it would be right that he should go down to Silverbridge a few days before the election to make himself known to the electors. As the day for the election drew near, it was understood that there would be no other candidate. The conservative side was the popular side among the tradesmen of Silverbridge. Silverbridge had been proud to be honored by the services of the heir of the House of Omnium, even while that heir had been a liberal, had regarded it as so much a matter of course that the borrower should be at his disposal and that no question as to politics had ever arisen while he retained the seat, and had the duke chosen to continue to send them liberals, one after another, when he went into the House of Lords, there would have been no question as to the fitness of the man or the men so sent. Silverbridge had been supposed to be a liberal as a matter of course, because the palaces were liberals. But when the matter was remitted to themselves, when the duke declared that he would not interfere any more, for it was thus that the borrower had obtained its freedom, then the borrower began to feel conservative predilections. If his grace really does mean us to do just what we please ourselves, which is a thing we never thought of asking from his grace, then we find, having turned the matter over among ourselves, that we are upon the whole conservative. In this spirit the borrower had elected a certain Mr. Fletcher, but in doing so the borrower had still a shade of fear that it would offend the duke. The House of Palliser, Gatherham Castle, the Duke of Omnium, and this special duke himself were all so great in the eyes of the borrower that the first and only strong feeling in the borrower was the one of duty. The borrower did not altogether enjoy being enfranchised, but when the duke had spoken once, twice, and thrice, then with a hesitating heart the borrower returned Mr. Fletcher. Now Mr. Fletcher was wanted elsewhere, having been persuaded to stand for the county, and it was a comfort to the borrower that it could resettle itself beneath the warmth of the wings of the Pallisers. So the matter stood when Lord Silverbridge was told that his presence in the borrower for a few hours would be taken as a compliment. Hitherto no one knew him at Silverbridge. In his boyhood he had not been much at Gatherham Castle, and had done his best to astue the place since he had ceased to be a boy. All the Pallisers took a great pride in Gatherham Castle, but they all disliked it. "'Oh, yes, I'll go down,' he said to Mr. Morton, who was up in town. "'I needn't go to the great barrack, I suppose.' The great barrack was the castle. "'I'll put up at the inn.' Mr. Morton begged the heir to come to his own house, and Silverbridge declared that he would prefer the inn, and so the matter was settled. He was to meet sundry politicians, Mr. Spurgeon and Mr. Sprout and Mr. Debung, who would like to be thanked for what they had done. But who was to go with him? He would naturally have asked Tragear, but from Tragear he had for the last week or two been not perhaps estranged but separated. He had been very much taken up with racing. He had gone down to Chester with Major Tifto, and under the Major's auspicious influences had won a little money, and now he was very anxiously preparing himself for the new market's second spring meeting. He had therefore passed much of his time with Major Tifto, and when this visit to Silverbridge was pressed on him he thoughtlessly asked Tifto to go with him. Tifto was delighted. Lord Silverbridge was to be met at Silverbridge by various well-known politicians from the neighborhood, and Major Tifto was greatly elated by the prospect of such an introduction to the political world. But no sooner had the offer been made by Lord Silverbridge than he saw his own indiscretion. Tifto was all very well for Chester or Newmarket, very well perhaps for the bear garden, but not very well for an electioneering expedition. An idea came to the young nobleman that if it should be his fate to represent Silverbridge in Parliament for the next twenty years it would be well that Silverbridge should entertain respecting him some exalted estimation. That Silverbridge should be taught to regard him as the fit son of his father and a worthy specimen of the British political nobility. Struck by serious reflections of this nature he did open his mind to Dragheer. I am very fond of Tifto, he said, but I don't know whether he's just the sort of fellow to take down to an election. I should think not, said Dragheer very decidedly. He's a very good fellow, you know, said Silverbridge. I don't know an honester man than Tifto anywhere. I daresay, or rather, I don't daresay. I know nothing at all about the Major's honesty, and I doubt whether you do. He rides very well. What is that to do with it? Nothing on earth. Therefore I advise you not to take him to Silverbridge. You needn't preach. You may call it what you like. Tifto would not hold his tongue, and there is nothing he could say which would not be to your prejudice. Will you go? If you wish it, said Dragheer, what will the Governor say? That must be your lookout. In a political point of view I shall not disgrace you. I shall hold my tongue and look like a gentleman, neither of which is in Tifto's power. And so it was settled that on the day but one after this conversation Lord Silverbridge and Dragheer should go together to Silverbridge. But the Major, when on the same night his noble friends altered plans for explain to him, did not bear the disappointment with equanimity. Isn't that a little strange, he said, becoming very red in the face? What do you call strange, said the Lord? Well, I'd made all my arrangements when a man has been asked to do a thing like that he doesn't like to be put off. The truth is, Tifto, when I came to think of it, I saw that going down to these fellows about Parliament and all that sort of thing I ought to have a political atmosphere and not a racing or a betting or a hunting atmosphere. There isn't a man in London who cares more about politics than I do and not very many perhaps who understand them better. To tell you the truth, my Lord, I think you are throwing me over. I'll make it up to you, said Silverbridge, meaning to be kind. I'll go down to Newmarket with you and stick to you like wax. No doubt you'll do that, said Tifto, who, like a fool, failed to see where his advantage lay. I can be useful at Newmarket and so you'll stick to me. Look here, Major Tifto, said Silverbridge. If you are dissatisfied, you and I can easily separate ourselves. I am not dissatisfied, said the little man, almost crying. Then don't talk as though you were. As to Silverbridge, I shall not want you there. When I asked you, I was only thinking what would be pleasant to both of us, but since that I remembered that business must be business. Even this did not reconcile the angry little man, who, as he turned away, declared within his own little bosom that he would take it out of Silverbridge for that. Lord Silverbridge and Tragere went down to the borough together, and on the journey something was said about Lady Mary and something also about Lady Mabel. From the first, you know, said Lady Mary's brother, I never thought it would answer. Why not answer? Because I knew the Governor would not have it. Money and rank and those sort of things are not particularly charming to me. But still, things should go together. It is all very well for you and me to be pals, but of course it will be expected that Mary should marry some...some swell? Some swell, if you will have it. You mean to call yourself a swell? Yes I do, said Silverbridge, with considerable resolution. You ought not to make yourself disagreeable, because you understand all about it as well as anybody. Chances made me the eldest son of a duke and heir to an enormous fortune. Chances made my sister the daughter of a duke and an heiress also. My intimacy with you ought to be proof at any rate to you that I don't, on that account, set myself up above other fellows. But when you come to talk of marriage, of course it is a serious thing. But you have told me more than once that you have no objection on your own score. Nor have I. You are only saying what the duke will think. I am telling you that it is impossible, and I told you so before, you and she will be kept apart and so...and so she'll forget me. Something of the kind. Of course I have to trust to her for that, if she forgets me well and good. She needn't forget you. Lord, bless me. You talk as though the thing were not done every day. You'll hear some mourning that she is going to marry some fellow who has a lot of money and a good position. And what difference will it make, then, whether she has forgotten you or not? It might almost have been supposed that the young man had been acquainted with his mother's history. After this there was a pause, and there arose conversation about other things, and a cigar was smoked. Then Tragear returned once more to the subject. There is one thing I wish to say about it all. What is that? I want you to understand that nothing else will turn me away from my intention, but such a marriage on her part as that of which you speak. Nothing that your father can do will turn me. She can't marry without his leave. Perhaps not. That he'll never give, and I don't suppose you look forward to waiting till his death. If he sees that her happiness really depends on it, he will give his leave. It all depends on that. If I judge your father rightly, he's just as soft-hearted as other people. The man who holds out is not the man of the firmest opinion, but the man of the hardest heart. Somebody will talk Mary over. If so, the thing is over. It all depends on her. Then he went on to tell his friend that he had spoken of his engagement to Lady Mabel. I have mentioned it to no soul but to your father and to her. Why to her? Because we were friends together as children. I never had a sister, but she has been more like a sister to me than anyone else. Do you object to her knowing it? Not particularly. It seems to me now that everybody knows everything. There are no longer any secrets. But she is a special friend. Of yours, said Silverbridge. And of yours, said Tragear. Well, yes, in a sort of way. She is the jolliest girl I know. Take her all round for beauty, intellect, good sense, and fun at the same time. I don't know any one equal to her. It's a pity you didn't fall in love with her. We knew each other too early for that, and then she has not a shilling. I shouldn't think myself dishonest if I did not tell you that I could not afford to love any girl who hadn't money. A man must live and a woman too. At the station they were met by Mr. Sprojan and Mr. Sprout, who, with many apologies for the meanness of such entertainment, took them up to the George and Vulture, which was supposed for the nonce to be the conservative hotel in town. Here they were met by other men of importance in the borough, and among them by Mr. Debunk. Now Mr. Sprout and Mr. Sprojan were conservatives, but Mr. Debunk was a strong liberal. We are all of us particularly pleased to see your lordship among us, said Mr. Debunk. I have told his lordship how perfectly satisfied you are to see the borough in his lordship's hands, said Mr. Sprout. I am sure it could not be better, said Mr. Debunk. For myself I am quite willing to postpone any peculiar shade of politics to the advantage of having your father's son as our representative. This Mr. Debunk said with much intention of imparting both grace and dignity to the occasion. He thought that he was doing a great thing for the House of Omnium, and that the House of Omnium ought to know it. That's very kind of you, said Lord Silverbridge, who would not read as carefully as he should have done the letters which had been sent to him, and did not therefore quite understand the position. Mr. Debunk had intended to stand himself, said Mr. Sprout, but if retired in your lordship's favor, said Mr. Sprugin. In doing which I considered that I studied the interest of the borough, said Mr. Debunk, I thought you gave it up because it was hardly a footing for a liberal, said his lordship very imprudently. The borough was always liberal till the last election, said Mr. Debunk, drawing himself up. The borough wishes on this occasion to be magnanimous, said Mr. Sprout, probably having on his mind some confusion between magnanimity and unanimity. As your lordship is coming among us, the borough is anxious to sink politics altogether for the moment, said Mr. Sprugin. There had no doubt been a compact between the Sprugin and the Sprout Party and the Debunk Party in accordance with which it had been arranged that Mr. Debunk should be entitled to a certain amount of glorification in the presence of Lord Silverbridge. And it was in compliance with that wish on the part of the borough, my lord, said Mr. Debunk, as to which my own feelings were quite as strong as that of any other gentleman in the borough that I conceived it to be my duty to give way. His lordship is quite aware how much he owes to Mr. Debunk, said Tragear, whereupon Lord Silverbridge bowed. And now what are we to do, said Lord Silverbridge? Then there was a little whispering between Mr. Sprout and Mr. Sprugin. Perhaps Mr. Debunk, said Sprugin, his lordship had better call first than Dr. Tempest. Perhaps, said the injured brewer, as it is to be a party affair after all, I had better retire from the scene. I thought all that was to be given up, said Tragear. Oh, certainly, said Sprout, suppose we go to Mr. Walker first. I'm up to anything, said Lord Silverbridge, but of course everybody understands that I am a conservative. Oh, dear, yes, said Sprugin. We are all aware of that, said Sprout. And very glad we've all of us been to hear it, said the landlord. Though there was some in the borough who could have wished my lord that you had stuck to the old palace of politics, said Mr. Debunk. But I haven't stuck to the palace of politics. Just at present I think that order and all that sort of thing should be maintained. Here, here, said the landlord. And now, as I have expressed my views generally, I am willing to go anywhere. Then we'll go to Mr. Walker first, said Sprugin. Now it was understood that in the borough, among those who really had opinions of their own, Mr. Walker, the old attorney, stood first as a liberal, and Dr. Tempest, the old rector, first as a conservative. I am glad to see your lordship in the town which gives you its name, said Mr. Walker, who was a hail-old gentleman with silvery white hair, over seventy years of age. I proposed your father for this borough on, I think, six or seven different occasions. They used to go in and out then whenever they changed their offices. We hope you'll propose Lord Silverbridge now, said Mr. Sprugin. Said Mr. Sprugin. Oh, well, yes, he's its father's son, and I never knew anything but good of the family. I wish you were going to sit on the same side, my lord. Times are changed a little, perhaps, said his lordship. The matter is not to be discussed now, said the old attorney. I understand that. Only I hope you'll excuse me if I say that a man ought to get up very early in the morning, if he means to see further into politics than your father. Very early indeed, said Mr. Dubung, shaking his head. That's all right, said Lord Silverbridge. I'll propose you, my lord. I need not wish you success, because there is no one to stand against you. Then they went to Dr. Tempest, who was also an old man. Yes, my lord, I shall be proud to second you, said director. I didn't think that I should ever do that to one of your name in Silverbridge. I hope you think I've made a change for the better, said the candidate. You've come over to my school, of course, and I suppose I am bound to think that a change for the better. Nevertheless, I have a kind of idea that certain people ought to be tories, and that other certain people ought to be wigs. What does your father say about it? My father wishes me to be in the house, and that he is not quarreled with me, you may know by the fact that had there been a contest he would have paid my expenses. A father generally has to do that, whether he approves of what his son are about or not, said the caustic, old gentleman. There was nothing else to be done. They all went back to the hotel, and Mr. Spurgeon, with Mr. Sprout and the landlord, drank a glass of sherry at the candidate's expense, wishing him political long life and prosperity. There was no one else whom it was thought necessary that the candidate should visit, and the next day he returned to town with the understanding that on the day appointed in the next week he should come back again to be elected. And on the day appointed the two young men again went to Silverbridge, and after he had been declared duly elected, the new Member of Parliament made his first speech. There was a meeting at the town hall, and many were assembled, anxious to hear, not the lads' opinions, for which probably nobody cared much, but the tone of his voice and to see his manner. Of what sort was the eldest son of the man of whom the neighborhood had been so proud? For the county was, in truth, proud of their duke. Of this son, whom they had now made a Member of Parliament, they at present only knew that he had been sent away from Oxford, not so very long ago, for painting the Dean's House Scarlet. The speech was not very brilliant. He told them that he was very much obliged to them for the honour they had done him, though he could not follow exactly his father's political opinions he would always have before his eyes his father's political honesty and independence. He broke down two or three times and blushed and repeated himself, and knocked his words a great deal too quickly, one on top of another. But it was taken very well, and was better than was expected. When it was over he wrote a line to the duke, My dear father, I am Member of Parliament for Silverbridge, as you used to be in the days which I can first remember. I hope you won't think that it does not make me unhappy to have differed from you. Indeed it does. I don't think that anybody has ever done so well in politics as you have, but when a man does take up an opinion I don't see how he can help himself. Of course I could have kept myself quiet, but then you wished me to be in the House. They were all very civil to me at Silverbridge, but there was very little said. You're affectionate son, Silverbridge. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Duke's Children This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop Chapter 15 The Duke receives a letter and writes one The Duke, when he received Mrs. Finn's note demanding an interview, thought much upon the matter before he replied. She had made her demand as though the Duke had been no more than any other gentleman, almost as though she had a right to call upon him to wait upon her. He understood and admired the courage of this, but nevertheless he would not go to her. He had trusted her with that which of all things was the most sacred to him, and she had deceived him. He wrote to her as follows. The Duke of Omnium presents his compliments to Mrs. Finn. As the Duke thinks that no good could result either to Mrs. Finn or to himself from an interview, he is obliged to say that he would rather not do, as Mrs. Finn had requested. But for the strength of this conviction, the Duke would have waited upon Mrs. Finn most willingly. Mrs. Finn, when she received this, was not surprised. She had felt sure that such would be the nature of the Duke's answer. But she was also sure that if such an answer did come, she would not let the matter rest. The accusation was so bitter to her that she would spare nothing in defending herself, nothing in labor and nothing in time. She would make him know that she was an earnest, that she could not succeed in getting into his presence. She must do this by letter, and she wrote her letter, taking two days to think of her words. May 18, 18 blank. My dear Duke of Omnium, as you will not come to me, I must trouble your grace to read what I fear will be a long letter. For it is absolutely necessary that I should explain my conduct to you, that you have condemned me, I am sure you will not deny, nor that you have punished me, as far as the power of punishment was in your hands. If I can succeed in making you see that you have judged me wrongly, I think you will admit your error and beg my pardon. You are not one who from your nature can be easily brought to do this, but you are one who will certainly do it, if you can be made to feel that by not doing so you would be unjust. I am myself so clear as to my own rectitude of purpose and conduct, and am so well aware of your perspicuity, that I venture to believe that if you will read this letter, I shall convince you. Before I go any further, I will confess that the matter is won. I was going to say almost of life and death to me. Circumstances, not of my own seeking, have for some years passed thrown me so closely into intercourse with your family, that now to be cast off and to be put on one side is a disgraced person, and that so quickly after the death of her, who loved me so dearly and who was so dear to me, is such an affront as I cannot bear and hold up my head afterwards. I have come to be known as her whom your uncle trusted and loved, as her whom your wife trusted and loved, obscure as I was before, and as her whom, may I not say, you yourself trusted, as there was much of honor and very little of pleasure in this, so also was there something of misfortune. Friendships are safest when the friends are of the same standing, I have always felt there was danger, and now the thing I feared has come home to me. Now I will plead my case. I fancy that when first you heard that I had been cognizant of your daughter's engagement, you imagined that I was aware of it before I went to matching. Had I been so, I should have been guilty of that treachery of which you accuse me. I did know nothing of it until Lady Mary told me on the day before I left matching, that she should tell me was natural enough. Her mother had known it, and for the moment, if I am not assuming too much in saying so, I was filling her mother's place. But in reference to you, I could not exercise the discretion which a mother might have used, and I told her at once most decidedly that you must be made acquainted with that fact. Then Lady Mary expressed to me her wish, not that this matter should be kept any longer from you, for that it should be told she was as anxious as I was myself, but that it should be told to you by Mr. Tragear. It was not for me to raise any question as to Mr. Tragear's fitness or unfitness, as to which indeed I could know nothing. All I could do was to say that if Mr. Tragear would make the communication at once, I should feel that I had done my duty. The upshot was that Mr. Tragear came to me immediately on my return to London, and agreeing with me that it was imperative that you be informed, went to you, and did inform you. In all of that, if I have told the story truly, where has been my offence? I suppose you will believe me, but your daughter can give evidence as to every word I have written. I think that you have got it into your mind that I have befriended Mr. Tragear's suit, and that having received this impression, you hold it with the tenacity which is usual to you. There never was a greater mistake. I went to matching as a friend of my dear friend, but I stayed there at your request as your friend. Had I been, when you asked me to do so, a participator in the secret I could not have honestly remained in the position you assigned to me. Had I done so, I should have deserved your ill opinion. As it is, I have not deserved it, and your condemnation of me has been altogether unjust. Should I not now receive from you a full withdrawal of all charge against me, I shall be driven to think that after all the insight which the circumstances have given me into your character, I have nevertheless been mistaken in the reading of it. I remain, dear Duke of Omnium, yours truly M. Finn. I find, not looking over my letter, that I must add one word further. It might seem that I am asking for a return of your friendship. Such is not my purpose. Neither can you forget that you have accused me, nor can I. What I expect is that you should tell me that you and your conduct to me have been wrong, and that I and mine to you have been right. I must be enabled to feel that the separation between us has come from injury done to me and not by me. He did read the letter more than once, and read it with tingling ears and hot cheeks and a knitted brow. As the letter went on, that as the woman's sense of wrong grew hot from her own telling of her own story, her words became stronger and still stronger, till at last they were almost insolent in their strength. Were it not that they came from one who did think herself to have been wronged, then certainly they would be insolent. A sense of injury, a burning conviction of wrong sustained, will justify language which otherwise would be unbearable. The Duke felt that, and though his ears were tingling and his brow knitted, he could have forgiven the language if only he could have admitted the argument. He understood every word of it. When she spoke of tenacity, she intended to charge him with obstinacy. Though she had dwelt but likely on her own services, she had made her thoughts on the matter clear enough. I, Mrs. Finn, who of nobody have done much to sucker and assist you, the Duke of Omnium, and this is the return which I have received. And then she told him to his face that unless he did something which it would be impossible that he should do, she would revoke her opinion of his honesty. He tried to persuade himself that her opinion about his honesty was nothing to him, but he failed. Her opinion was very much to him. Though in his anger he had been determined to throw her off from him, he knew her to be one whose good opinion was worth having. Not a word of overt accusation had been made against his wife. Every allusion to her was full of love. But yet how heavy a charge was really made, that such a secret should be kept from him as a father, was acknowledged to be a heinous fault, but the wife had known the secret and had kept it from him, the father. And then how wretched a thing it was for him that anyone should dare to write to him about the wife that had been taken away from him. In spite of all her faults, her name was so holy to him that it had never once passed his lips since her death, except in low whispers to himself, low whispers made in the perfect double-guarded seclusion of his own chamber. Quora, quora, he had murmured, so that the sense of the sound and not the sound itself had come to him from his own lips. And now this woman wrote to him about her freely, as though there were nothing sacred, no religion in the memory of her. It was not for me to raise any question as to Mr. Dragheer's fitness. Was it not palpable to all the world that he was unfit? Unfit. How could a man be more unfit? He was asking for the hand of one who was second only to royalty, who was possessed of everything, who was beautiful, well-born, rich, who was the daughter of the Duke of Omnium, and he had absolutely nothing of his own to offer. But it was necessary that he should at last come to the consideration of the actual point, as to which he had written to him so forcibly. He tried to set himself to the task in perfect honesty. He certainly had condemned her, he had condemned her, and had no doubt punished her to the extent of his power. And if he could be brought to see that he had done this unjustly, then certainly must he beg her pardon. And when he considered it all, he had to own that her intimacy with his uncle and his wife had not been so much of her seeking as of theirs. It grieved him now that it should have been so, but so it was. And after all this, after the affectionate surrender of herself to his wife's caprices which the woman had made, he had turned upon her and driven her away with ignominy. That was all true, as he thought of it he became hot and was conscious of a quivering feeling round his heart. These were bonds indeed, but they were bonds of such a nature as to be capable of being rescinded and cut away altogether by absolute bad conduct. If he could make it good to himself that in a matter of such magnitude as the charge of his daughter, she had been untrue to him and had leagued herself against him with an unworthy lover, then then all bonds would be rescinded, then would his wrath be altogether justified, then would it have been impossible that he should have done ought else than cast her out? As he thought of this, he felt sure that she had betrayed him. How great would be the ignominy to him, should he be driven to own to himself that she had not betrayed him? There should not have been a moment, he said to himself over and over again, not a moment. Yes, she certainly had betrayed him. There might still be safety for him in that confident assertion of not a moment, but had there been anything of that conspiracy of which he had certainly at first judged her to be guilty? She had told her story and had then appealed to Lady Mary for evidence. After five minutes of perfect stillness, but five minutes of misery, five minutes during which great beads of perspiration broke out from him and stood upon his brow, he had to confess to himself that he did not want any evidence. He did believe her story. When he allowed himself to think she had been in league with Tragear, he had wronged her. He wiped away the beads from his brow, and again repeated to himself those words which were now his only comfort. There should not have been a moment, not a moment. It was thus and only thus that he was unable to assure himself that there need be no acknowledgment of wrong done on his part. Having settled this in his own mind, he forced himself to attend a meeting at which his assistance had been asked, as to a complex question on law reform, that he would endeavor to give himself up entirely to the matter. But through it all there was a picture before him of Mrs. Finn waiting for an answer to her letter. If he should confirm himself in his opinion that he had been right, then would any answer be necessary? He might just acknowledge the letter after the fashion which has come up in official life, than which silence is an insult much more bearable. But he did not wish to insult, nor to punish her further. He would willingly have withdrawn the punishment under which he was grown him. Could he have done so without self-abasement? Or he might write as she had done, advocating his own cause with all his strength, using that last one strong argument there should not have been a moment? But there would be something repulsive to his personal dignity in the continued correspondence which this would produce. The Duke of Omnium regrets to say, in answer to Mrs. Finn's letter, that he thinks no good can be attained by a prolonged correspondence. Such or of such kind, he thought, must be his answer. But would this be a fair return for the solicitude shown by her to his uncle, for the love which had made her so patient a friend to his wife, for the nobility of her conduct and so many things? Then his mind reverted to certain jewels, supposed to be of enormous value, which was still in his possession, though they were the property of this woman. They had been left to her by his uncle, and she had obstinately refused to take them. Now they were lying packed in the cellars of certain bankers. But still they were in his custody. What should he do now in this matter? His or two, perhaps once in every six months, he had notified to her that he was keeping them as her curator, and she had always repeated that it was a charge from which she could not relieve him. It had become almost a joke between them. But how could he joke with a woman with whom he had quarreled after this internessine fashion? What if he were to consult Lady Cantrip? He could not do so without a pang that would be very bitter to him, but any agony would be better than that arising from a fear that he had been unjust to one who had deserved well of him. No doubt Lady Cantrip would see it in the same light as he had done, and then he would be able to support himself by the assurance that that which he had judged to be right was approved by one whom the world would acknowledge to be a good judge on such a matter. When he got home he found his son's letter telling him of the election at Silverbridge. There was something in it which softened his heart to the young man, or perhaps it was that in the midst of his many discomforts he wished to find something which at least was not painful to him. That his son and his heir should insist on entering political life in opposition to him was, of course, a source of pain. But putting that aside, the thing had been done pleasantly enough, and the young member's letter had been written with some good feeling. So we answered the letter as pleasantly as he knew how. My dear Silverbridge, I am glad that you are in Parliament, and am glad also that you should have been returned by the old borough, though I would that you could have reconciled yourself to adhering to the politics of your family. But there is nothing disgraceful in such a change, and I am able to congratulate you as a father, should a son, and to wish you long life and success as a legislator. There are one or two things I would ask you to remember, and firstly this, that as you were voluntarily undertaken certain duties, you were bound as an honest man to perform them as scrupulously as though you were paid for doing them. There was no obligation in you to seek the post, but having sought it and acquired it, you cannot neglect the work attached to it without being untrue to the covenant you have made. It is necessary that a young member of Parliament should bear this in his mind, and especially a member who has not worked his way up to notoriety outside the house, because to him there will be great facility for idleness and neglect. And then I would have you always remember the purport for which there is a Parliament elected in this happy and free country. It is not that some men may shine there, that some may acquire power, or that all may plume themselves on being the elect of the nation. It often appears to me that some members of Parliament so regard their success in life, as the fellows of our colleges do too often, thinking that their fellowships were awarded for their comfort, and not for the furtherance of any object as education or religion. I have known gentlemen who have felt that in becoming members of Parliament they had achieved an object for themselves instead of thinking that they had put themselves in the way of achieving something for others. A member of Parliament should feel himself to be the servant of his country, and like every other servant he should serve. If this be distasteful to a man, he need not go into Parliament. If the harness gall him, he need not wear it. But if he takes the trappings, then he should draw the coach. You are there as the guardian of your fellow countrymen, that they may be safe, that they may be prosperous, that they may be well governed and likely burdened, above all that they may be free. If you cannot feel this to be your duty, you should not be there at all. And I would have you remember also that the work of a member of Parliament can seldom be of that brilliant nature which is of itself charming, and that the young member should think of such brilliancy as being possible to him only at a distance. It should be your first care to sit and listen so that the forms and methods of the house may, as it were, soak into you gradually. And then you must bear in mind that speaking in the house is but a very small part of a member's work, perhaps that part which he may lay aside altogether with the least strain on his conscience. A good member of Parliament will be good upstairs in the committee rooms, good downstairs to make and to keep a house, good to vote for his party if it may be nothing better, but for the measures also which he believes to be for the good of this country. Gradually, if you will give your thoughts to it, and above all your time, the theory of legislation will sink into your mind and you will find that they will come upon you the ineffable delight of having served your country to the best of your ability. It is the only pleasure in life which has been enjoyed without alloy by your affectionate Father Omnium. The Duke, in writing this letter, was able for a few moments to forget Mrs. Finn and to enjoy the work which he had on hand. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of The Duke's Children. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 16. Poor boy. The new member for Silverbridge, when he entered the house to take the oath, was supported on the right and left by two staunch old Tories. Mr. Monk had seen him a few minutes previously. Mr. Monk, who of all Liberals, was the firmest, and then whom no one had been more staunch to the Duke, and had congratulated him on his election, expressing at the same time some gentle regrets. I only wish you could have come among us on the other side, he said. But I couldn't, said the young Lord. I am sure nothing but a conscientious feeling would have separated you from your father's friends, said the old Liberal. And then they were parted, and the member for Silverbridge was bustled up to the table between two staunch Tories. Of what else was done on that occasion, nothing shall be said here. No political work was required from him, except that of helping for an hour or two to crowd the government benches. But we will follow him as he left the house. There were one or two others quite as anxious as to his political career as any staunch old Liberal. At any rate, one other, he had promised that as soon as he could get away from the house he would go to Belgrave Square and tell Lady Mabel Grex all about it. When he reached the square it was past seven, but Lady Mabel and Miss Cassowary were still in the drawing room. There seemed to be a great deal of bustle, and I didn't understand much about it, said the member. But you heard the speeches? These were the speeches made on the proposing and seconding of the address. Oh yes, Lupton did it very well. Lord George didn't seem to be quite so good. Then Sir Timothy Beeswax made a speech, and then Mr. Monk. After that I saw other fellows going away, so I bolted too. If I were a member of Parliament I would never leave it while the house was sitting, said Miss Cassowary. If all were like that there wouldn't be seats for them to sit upon, said Silverbridge. A persistent member will always find a seat, continued the positive old lady. I am sure that Lord Silverbridge means to do his duty, said Lady Mabel. Oh yes, I've thought a good deal about it and I mean to try. As long as a man isn't called upon to speak I don't see why it shouldn't be easy enough. I'm so glad to hear you say so. Of course, after a little time you will speak I should so like to hear you make your first speech. If I thought you were there I'm sure I should not make it at all. Just at this period Miss Cassowary, saying something as to the necessity of dressing and cautioning her young friend that there was not much time to be lost, left the room. Dressing does not take me more than ten minutes, said Lady Mabel. Miss Cassowary declared this to be nonsense, but she nevertheless left the room. Whether she would have done so if Lord Silverbridge had not been Lord Silverbridge, but had been some young man with whom it would not have been expedient that Lady Mabel should fall in love, may perhaps be doubted. But then it may be taken as certain that under such circumstances Lady Mabel herself would not have remained. She had quite realized the duties of life, had had her little romance, and had acknowledged that it was foolish. I do so hope that you will do well, she said, going back to the parliamentary duties. I don't think I shall ever do much. I shall never be like my father. I don't see why not. There never was anybody like him. I am always amusing myself, but he never cared for amusement. You were very young. As far as I can learn he was just as he is now at my age. My mother has told me that long before she married him he used to spend all his time in the house. I wonder whether he would mind reading the letter he wrote me when he heard of my election. Then he took the epistle out of his pocket and handed it to Lady Mabel. He means all that he says. He always does that. And he really hopes that you will put your shoulder to the wheel, even though you must do so in opposition to him. That makes no difference. I think my father is a very fine fellow. Shall you do all that he tells you? Well, I suppose not, except that he advises me to hold my tongue. I think that I shall do that. I mean to go down there, you know, and I dare say I shall be much the same as others. Has he talked to you much about it? No, he never talks much. Every now and then he will give me a downright lecture, or he will write me a letter like that, but he never talks to any of us. How very odd. Yes, he is odd. He seems to be fretful when we are with him. The good many things make him unhappy. Your poor mother's death. That first, and then there are other things. I suppose he didn't like the way I came to an end at Oxford. You were a boy then. Of course I was very sorry for it, though I hated Oxford. It was neither one thing nor the other. You were your own master, and yet you were not. Now you must be your own master. I suppose so. You must marry and become a lord of the treasury. When I was a child, I acted as a child. You know all about that. Oh yes, and now I must throw off childish things. You mean that I mustn't paint any man's house, eh, Lady Mab? That and the rest of it. You are a legislator now. So is Popplecourt, who took his seat in the House of Lords two or three months ago. He's the biggest young fool I know out. He couldn't even paint a house. He is not an elected legislator. It makes all the difference. I quite agree with what the Duke says. Lord Popplecourt can't help himself. Whether he's an idle young scamp or not, he must be a legislator. But when a man goes in for it himself, as you have done, he should make up his mind to be useful. I shall vote with my party, of course. More than that. Much more than that. If you didn't care for politics, you couldn't have taken a line of your own. When she said this, she knew that he had been talked into what he had done by Tragear. By Tragear, who had ambition and intelligence, and capacity for forming an opinion of his own. If you do not do it for your own sake, you will for the sake of those who are your friends, she said at last, not feeling quite able to tell him that he must do it for the sake of those who loved him. There are not many, I suppose, who care about it. Your father? Oh, yes, my father. And Tragear? Tragear has got his own fish to fry. Are there none others? Do you think we care nothing about it here? Miss Cassowary? Well, Miss Cassowary, a man might have a worse friend than Miss Cassowary and my father. I don't suppose Lord Grex cares a straw about me. Indeed, he does, a great many straws, and so do I. Do you think I don't care a straw about it? I don't know why you should. Because it is my nature to be earnest. A girl comes out into the world so young that she becomes serious and steady as it were so much sooner than a man does. I always think that nobody is so full of chaff as you are, Lady Mab. I am not chaffing now in recommending you to go to work in the world like a man. As she said this they were sitting on the same sofa, but with some space between them. When Miss Cassowary had left the room Lord Silverbridge was standing, but after a little he had fallen into the seat at the extreme corner and had gradually come a little nearer to her. Now in her energy she put out her hand, meaning perhaps to touch lightly the sleeve of his coat, meaning perhaps not quite to touch him at all, but as she did so he put out his hand and took hold of hers. She drew it away, not seeming to allow it to remain in his grasp for a moment, but she did so not angrily or hurriedly or with any flurry. She did it as though it were natural that he should take her hand and natural that she should recover it. Indeed I have hardly more than ten minutes left for dressing, she said, rising from her seat. If you will say that you care about it, you yourself, I will do my best. As he made this declaration, luscious covered his cheeks and forehead. I do care about it very much, I myself, said Lady Mabel, not blushing at all. Then there was a knock at the door and Lady Mabel's maid, putting her head in, declared that my lord had come in and had already been some time in his dressing room. Good-bye, Lord Silverridge, she said quite gaily, and rather more allowed than would have been necessary had she not intended that the maid should also hear her. Poor boy, she said to herself as she was dressing, poor boy. Then when the evening was over she spoke to herself again about him. Dear sweet boy! And then she sat and thought, how was it that she was so old a woman while he was so little more than a child? How fair he was! How far removed from conceit! How capable of being made into a man, in the process of time! What might not be expected from him if he could be kept in good hands for the next ten years? But in whose hands? What would she be in ten years? She who had already seemed to know the town and all its belonging so well. And yet she was as young in years as he. He, as she knew, had passed his twenty-second birthday, and so had she. That was all. It might be good for her that she should marry him. She was ambitious, and such a marriage would satisfy her ambition. Through her father's fault and her brothers she was likely to be poor. This man would certainly be rich. Many of those who were buzzing around her from day to day were distasteful to her. From among them she knew that she could not take a husband, let their rank and wealth be what it might. She was too fastidious, too proud, too prone to think that things should be with her as she liked them. This last was in all things pleasant to her. Though he was but a boy, there was a certain boyish manliness about him. The very way in which he had grasped at her hand, and had then blushed ruby red at his own daring, had gone far with her. How gracious he was to look at! Dear, sweet boy! Love him? No, she did not know that she loved him. That dream was over. She was sure, however, that she liked him. But how would it be with him? It might be well for her to become his wife. But could it be well for him that he should become her husband? Did she not feel that it would be better for him that he should become a man before he married at all? Perhaps so. But then if she desisted, would others desist? If she did not put out her bait, would there not be other hooks, others, and worse? Would not such a one so soft, so easy, so prone to be caught, and so desirable for the catching, be sure to be made prey of by some snare? But could she love him? That a woman should not marry a man without loving him, she partly knew. But she thought she knew also that there must be exceptions. She would do her very best to love him. That other man should be banished from her very thoughts. She would be such a wife to him that he should never know that he lacked anything. Poor boy, sweet dear boy. He, as he went away to his dinner, had his thoughts also about her. Of all the girls he knew, she was the jolliest. And of all his friends, she was the pleasantest. As she was anxious that he should go to work in the House of Commons, he would go to work there. As for loving her? Well, of course, she must marry someone, and why not Lady Mab as well as anyone else? End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of The Duke's Children This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 17, The Darby. A attendance at the New Market's second spring meeting had unfortunately not been compatible with the Silver Bridge election. Major Tifto had therefore been obliged to look after the affair alone. A very useful mare, as Tifto had been in the habit of calling a leggy, sour-bread, meager-looking brute named Coalition, was on this occasion confided to the major's sole care and judgment. But Coalition failed, as Coalition's always do, and Tifto had to report to his noble patron that they had not pulled off the event. It had been a match for four hundred pounds, made indeed by Lord Silver Bridge, but at the suggestion of Tifto, and now Tifto wrote in a very bad humor about it. It had been altogether his lordship's fault in submitting to carry two pounds more than Tifto had thought to be fair and equitable. The match had been lost. Would Lord Silver Bridge be so good as to pay the money to Mr. Green Griffin and debit him, Tifto, with his share of the loss? We must acknowledge that the unpleasant tone of the major's letter was due quite as much to the ill usage he had received in reference to that journey to Silver Bridge as to the loss of the race. Within that little body there was a high-mounting heart, and that heart had been greatly wounded by his lordship's treatment. Tifto had felt himself to have been treated like a servant. Hardly an excuse had even been made. He had simply been told that he was not wanted. He was apt sometimes to tell himself that he knew on which side his bread was buttered, but perhaps he hardly knew how best to keep the butter going. There was a little pride about him, which was antagonistic to the best interest of such a trade as his. Perhaps it was well that he should inwardly suffer when injured. But it could not be well that he should declare to such men as Nittedale and Dolly Longstaff and Popplecourt that he didn't mean to put up with that sort of thing. He certainly should not have spoken in this strain before Tragear. Of all men living, he hated and feared him the most. And he knew that no other man loved Silver Bridge as did Tragear. Had he been thinking of his bread and butter instead of giving way to the mighty anger of his little bosom, he would have hardly declared openly at the club that he would let Lord Silver Bridge know that he did not mean to stand any man's heirs. But these extravagances would do perhaps to whiskey and water, and that kind of intoxication which comes to certain men from momentary triumphs. Tifto could always be got to make a fool of himself when surrounded by three or four men of rank who, for the occasion, would talk to him as an equal. He almost declared the coalition had lost his match because he had not been taken down to Silver Bridge. Tifto is an adduce of the way with you, said Dolly Longstaff to the young member. I know all about it, said Silver Bridge, who had had an interview with his partner since the race. If you don't take care, he'll dismiss you. Silver Bridge did not care much about this, knowing that words of wisdom did not ordinarily fall from the mouth of Dolly Longstaff. But he was more moved when his friend Tragear spoke to him. I wish you knew the kind of things that fellow Tifto says behind your back, as if I cared. But you ought to care. Do you care what every fellow says about you? I care very much what those say whom I choose to live with me, whatever Tifto might say about me would be quite indifferent to me, because we have nothing in common but you and he are bound together. We have a horse or two in common, that's all. But that's a great deal. The truth is he's a nasty, brawling, boasting, ill-conditioned little reptile. Silver Bridge, of course, did not acknowledge that this was true, but he felt it and almost repented of his trust in Tifto. But still Prime Minister stood very well for the Darby. He was the second favorite, the odds against him being only four to one. The glory of being part owner of a probable winner of the Darby was so much to him that he could not bring himself to be altogether angry with Tifto. There was no doubt that the horse's present condition was due entirely to Tifto's care. Tifto spent in these few days just before the race the greatest part of his time in the close vicinity of the horse, only running up to London now and then, as the fish comes up to the surface for a breath of air. It was impossible that Lord Silver Bridge should separate himself from the major, at any rate till after the Epsom meeting. He had paid the money for the match without a word of reproach to his partner, but still with the feeling that things were not quite as they ought to be. In money matters his father had been liberal, but not very definite. He had been told that he ought not to spend above two thousand pounds a year, and had been reminded that there was a house for him to use both in town and in the country. But he had been given to understand also that any application made to Mr. Morton, if not very unreasonable, would be attended with success. A solemn promise had been exacted from him that he would have no dealings with money lenders, and then he had twice been set afloat. There had been a rather frequent correspondence with Mr. Morton, who had once or twice submitted a total of the money paid on behalf of his correspondent. Lord Silver Bridge, who imagined himself to be anything but extravagant, had wondered how the figures could mount up so rapidly. But the money needed was always forthcoming, and the raising of objections never seemed to be carried back beyond Mr. Morton. His promise to his father about the money lenders had been scrupulously kept. As long as ready money can be made to be forthcoming without any charge for interest, a young man must be very foolish, who will prefer to borrow it at twenty-five percent. Now had come the night before the derby, and it must be acknowledged that the young lord was much fluttered by the greatness of the coming struggle. Tifto, having seen his horse conveyed to Epsom, had come up to London in order that he might dine with his partner and hear what was being said about the race at the bear garden. The party dining there consisted of Silver Bridge, Dolly Longstaff, Popplecourt, and Tifto. Nittedale was to have joined them, but he told them on the day before with a sigh that domestic duties were too strong for him. Lady Nittedale, or if not Lady Nittedale herself, than Lady Nittedale's mother, was so far potent over the young nobleman as to induce him to confine his derby jovialities to the derby day. Another guest had also been expected, the reason for whose non-appearance must be explained somewhat at length. Lord Gerald Palliser, the Duke's second son, was at this time at Cambridge, being almost as popular at Trinity as his brother had been at Christchurch. It was to him quite a matter of course that he should see his brother's horse run for the derby. But unfortunately in this very year a stand was being made by the university pundits against a practice which they thought had become too general. But the last year or two it had been considered almost as much a matter of course that a Cambridge undergraduate should go to the derby as that a member of parliament should do so. Against this three or four rigid disciplinarians had raised their voices and as a result no young man up at Trinity could get leave to be away on the derby pretext. Lord Gerald raged against the restriction very loudly. He at first proclaimed his intention of ignoring the college authorities altogether. Of course he would be expelled. But the order itself was to his thinking so absurd, the idea that he should not see his brother's horse run was so extravagant that he argued that his father could not be angry with him for incurring dismissal in so excellent a cause. But his brother saw things in a different light. He knew how his father had looked at him when he had been sent away from Oxford and he counseled moderation. Gerald should see the derby, but should not encounter that heaviest wrath of all which comes from a man's not sleeping beneath his college roof. There was a train which left Cambridge at an early hour and would bring him into London in time to accompany his friends to the race course and another train, a special, which would take him down after dinner so that he and others should reach Cambridge before the college gates were shut. The dinner at the Bayer Garden was very joyous. Of course the state of the betting in regard to Prime Minister was the subject generally popular for the night. Mr. Lupton came in, a gentleman well known in all fashionable circles, parliamentary, social, and racing, who was rather older than his company on this occasion, but still not so much so as to be found to be an encumbrance. Lord Glasslow, too, and others joined him, and a good deal was said about the horse. I never keep these things dark, said Tifto. Of course he's an uncertain horse. Most horses are, said Lupton. Just so, Mr. Lupton, what I mean is the Minister has got a bit of temper, but if he likes to do his best I don't think any three-year-old in England can get his nose past him. For half a mile he'd be nowhere with the Provence filly, said Glasslow. I'm speaking of a derby distance, my lord. That's the kind of thing nobody really knows, said Lupton. I've seen him avas gallop, said the little man, who in his moments of excitement would sometimes fall away from that exact pronunciation, which had been one of his studies of his life, and have measured his stride. I think I know what pace means. Of course I'm not going to answer the horse. He is the temper, but if things go favourably no animal that ever showed on the downs was more likely to do the trick. Is there any gentleman here who would like to bet me fifteen to one in hundreds against the two events, the derby and the ledger? The desired odds were at once offered to Mr. Lupton, and the bet was booked. This gave rise to other betting, and before the evening was over Lord Silverbridge had taken three-and-a-half to one against his horse, to such an extent that he stood to lose 1200 pounds. The champagne which he had drunk, and the news that Kuo Usui, the first favourite, had so gone to pieces that now there was a question which was the first favourite, had so inflated him that had he been left alone he would almost have wagered even money on his horse. In the midst of his excitement there came to him a feeling that he was allowing himself to do just that which he had intended to avoid. But then the occasion was so peculiar. How often can it happen to a man in his life that he shall own a favourite for the derby? The affair was one in which it was almost necessary that he should risk a little money. Tifto, when he got into his bed, was altogether happy. He had added whiskey and water to his champagne and feared nothing. If Prime Minister should win the derby, he would be able to pay all that he owed and to make a start with money in his pocket. And then there would be attached to him all the infinite glory of being the owner of a winner of the derby. The horse was run in his name. Thoughts as to great success crowded themselves upon his heated brain. What might not be open to him? Parliament? The Jockey Club? The Mastership of one of the Crack Shire Packs? Might it not come to pass that he should some day become the great authority in England upon races, racehorses, and hunters? If he could be the winner of a derby and leisure, he thought that Glasslow and Lupton would snub him no longer and that even Tragear would speak to him and that his pal, the Duke's son, would never throw him aside again. Lord Silverbridge had bought a drag with all its appendages. There was a coach, the four bay horses, the harness, and two regulation grooms. When making this purchase, he had condescended to say a word to his father on the subject. Everybody belongs to the Foreign Hand Club now, said the son. I never did, said the Duke. Ah, if I could be like you. The Duke had said that he would think about it and had told Mr. Morton that he was to pay the bill for this new toy. He had thought about it and had assured himself that driving a coach and four was at present regarded as a fitting amusement for young men of rank and wealth. He did not understand it himself. It seemed to him to be as unnatural as though a gentleman should turn blacksmith and make horseshoes for his amusement. Driving four horses was hard work. But the same might be said of rowing. There were men, he knew, who would spend their days standing at a lathe, making little boxes for their recreation. He did not sympathize with it. But the fact was so, and this driving of coaches was regarded with favour. He had been a little touched by that word his son had spoken. Ah, if I could be like you. So he had given the permission to drag horses, harness, and grooms, had come into the possession of Lord Silverbridge, and now they were put into requisition to take their triumphant owner and his party down to Epsom. Dolly Longstaff's team was sent down to meet them halfway. Gerald Palliser, who had come up from Cambridge that morning, was allowed to drive the first stage out of town to compensate him for the cruelty done him by the university pundits. Tifto, with a cigar in his mouth, with a white hat and a blue veil, and a new light-coloured coat, was by no means the least happy of the party. How that race was run, and how both Prime Minister and Quosquay were beaten by an outsider named Fishknife, Prime Minister, however, coming in a good second, the present writer, having no aptitude in that way, cannot describe. Such, however, were the facts, and then Dolly Longstaff and Lord Silverbridge drove the coach back to London. The coming back was not so triumphant, though the young fellows bore their failure well. Dolly Longstaff had lost a pot of money. Silverbridge would have to draw upon that inexhaustible Mr. Morton for something over two thousand pounds, in regard to which he had no doubt as to the certainty with which the money would be forthcoming, but he feared that it would give rise to a special notice from his father. Even the poor younger brother had lost a couple of hundred pounds, for which he would have to make his own special application to Mr. Morton. But Tifto felt it more than any one. The horse ought to have won. Fishknife had been favored by such a series of accidents that the whole affair had been a miracle. Tifto had these circumstances at his finger's ends, and in the course of the afternoon and evening explained him accurately to all who would listen to him. He had this to say on his own behalf, that before the party had left the course their horse stood first favorite for the leisure, but Tifto was unhappy as he came back to town, and in spite of the lunch, which had been very glorious, sat moody and sometimes even silent within his gay apparel. It was the unfairest start I ever saw, said Tifto, almost getting up from his seat on the coach, so as to address Dolly and Silverbridge on the box. What is the good of that? said Dolly from the coach box. Take your licking and don't squeal. That's all very well. I can take my licking as well as another man, but one has to look to the causes of these things. I never saw a peppermint ride so badly. Before he got round the corner, I wish I'd been on the horse myself. I don't believe it was peppermint's fault a bit, said Silverbridge. Well, perhaps not. Only I did think that I was a pretty good judge of riding. Then Tifto again settled down into silence. But though much money had been lost, and a great deal of disappointment had to be endured by our party in reference to the Darby, the most injurious and most deplorable event in the day's history had not occurred yet. Dinner had been ordered at the Beargarden at 7. An hour earlier than would have been named had it not been that Lord Gerald must be at the Eastern Counties Railway Station at 9 p.m. An hour and a half for dinner and a cigar afterwards and half an hour to get to the railway station would not be more than time enough. But of all men alive, Dolly Longstaff was the most unpunctual. He did not arrive till 8. The others were not there before half past 7, and it was nearly 8 before any of them sat down. At half past 8 Silverbridge began to be very anxious about his brother, and told him that he ought to start without further delay. A handsome cab was waiting at the door, but Lord Gerald still delayed. He knew, he said, that the special would not start till half past 9. There were a lot of fellows who were dining about everywhere, and they would never get to the station by the hour fixed. It became apparent to the elder brother that Gerald would stay altogether unless he were forced to go, and at last he did get up and pushed the young fellow out. Drive like the very devil, he said to the cab man, explaining to him something of the circumstances. The cab man did do his best, but a cab cannot be made to travel from the Beargarden, which as all the world knows is closest to James Street, to Liverpool Street in the city in ten minutes. When Lord Gerald reached the station, the train had started. At twenty minutes to ten, the young man reappeared at the club. Why on earth didn't you take a special for yourself? exclaimed Silverbridge. They wouldn't give me one. After that it was apparent to all of them that what had just happened had done more to ruffle our hero's temper than his failure and loss at the races. I wouldn't have had it happen for any money you could name, said the elder brother to the younger, as he took him home to Carleton Terrace. If they do send me down, what's the odds, said the younger brother, who was not quite as sober as he might have been. After what happened to me it will almost break the governor's heart, said the heir. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of The Duke's Children. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 18. One of the results of the Darby. On the following morning, at about eleven, Silverbridge and his brother were at breakfast at a hotel in German Street. They had slept in Carleton Terrace, but Lord Gerald had done so without the knowledge of the Duke. Lord Silverbridge, as he was putting himself to bed, had made up his mind to tell the story to the Duke at once, but when the morning came his courage failed him. The two young men, therefore, slunk out of the house, and as there was no breakfasting at the Bear Garden, they went to this hotel. They were both rather gloomy, but the elder brother was the more sad of the two. I'd give anything I have in the world, he said, that you hadn't come up at all. Things have been so unfortunate. Why the deuce wouldn't you go when I told you? Who on earth would have thought that they would have been so punctual? They never are punctual on the Great Eastern. It was an infernal shame. I think I shall go at once to Harnidge and tell him all about it. Mr. Harnidge was Lord Gerald's tutor. But you've been in ever-so-many rows before. Well, I've been gated, and once when they gated me, I came right upon Harnidge on the bridge at King's. What sort of a fellow is he? He used to be good-natured. Now he has taken ever-so-many crotchets into his head. It was he who began all this about none of the men going to the Darby. Did you ask him yourself for leave? Yes, and when I told him about your owning Prime Minister, he got savage and declared that that was the very reason why I shouldn't go. You didn't tell me that. I was determined I would go. I wasn't going to be made a child of. At last it was decided that the two brothers should go down to Cambridge together. Silverbridge would be able to come back to London the same evening, so as to take his drag down to the Oaks on the Friday, a duty from which even his present misery would not deter him. They reached Cambridge at about three, and Lord Silverbridge at once called at the Master's lodge and set up his card. The Master of Trinity is so great that he cannot be supposed to see all comers. But on this occasion Lord Silverbridge was fortunate. With much trepidation he told his story, such being the circumstances could anything be done to moderate the vials of wrath, which must doubtless be poured out over the head of his unfortunate brother? Why come to me? said the Master. From what you say yourself it is evident that you know that this must rest with the college tutor. I thought, sir, if you would say a word. Do you think it would be right that I should interfere for one special man, and that a man of special rank? Nobody thinks that would count for anything, but what? asked the Master. If you knew my father, sir, everybody knows your father, every Englishman I mean. Of course I know your father, as a public man, and I know how much the country owes to him. Yes it does, but it is not that I mean. If you knew how this would break his heart, then there came a tear into the young man's eye, and there was something almost like a tear in the eye of the old man, too. Of course it was my fault I got him to come. He had in the slightest intention of staying. I think you will believe what I say about that, sir. I believe every word you say, my Lord. I got into a row at Oxford. I daresay you heard, there never was anything so stupid. That was a great grief to my father, a very great grief. It is so hard upon him, because he never did anything foolish himself. You should try to imitate him. Silverbridge shook his head. Or at least not to grieve him. That is it. He has got over the affair about me, as I'm the eldest son I've got into Parliament, and he thinks perhaps that all has been forgotten. An eldest son may, I fancy, be a greater ass than his younger brother. The master could not but smile, as he thought of the selection which had been made of a legislator. But if Gerald is sent down, I don't know how he'll get over it. And now the tears absolutely rolled down the young man's face, so that he was forced to wipe them from his eyes. The master was much moved, that a young man should pray for himself would be nothing to him. The discipline of the college was not in his hands, and such prayers would avail nothing with him. Nor would a brother praying simply for a brother avail much. A father asking for his son might be resisted. But the brother asking pardon for the brother on behalf of the father was almost irresistible. But this man had long been in a position in which he knew that no such prayers should ever prevail at all. In the first place, it was not his business. If he did anything, it would only be by asking a favour when he knew that no favour should be granted, and a favour which he of all men should not ask, because to him of all men it could not be refused. And then the very altitude of the great statesman, whom he was invited to befriend, the position of this duke, who had been so powerful, and might be powerful again, was against any such interference. Of himself he might be sure that he would certainly have done this as readily for any Mr. Jones as for the duke of Omnium. But were he to do it, it would be said of him that it had been done because the man was the duke of Omnium. There are positions exalted beyond the reach of benevolence, because benevolence would seem to be self-seeking. Your father, if he were here, said he, would know that I could not interfere. And will he be sent down? I do not know all the circumstances. From your own showing, the case seems to be one of great insubordination. To tell the truth, Lord Silverbridge, I ought not to have spoken to you on the subject at all. You mean that I should not have spoken to you? Well, I did not say so. And if you have been indiscreet, I can pardon that. I wish I could have served you, but I fear it is not in my power. Then Lord Silverbridge took his leave, and going to his brother's rooms, waited there till Lord Gerald had returned from his interview with the tutor. It's all up, said he, chucking down his cap, striving to be a disease. I may pack up and go just where I please. He says that on no account will he have anything more to do with me. I asked him what I was to do, and he said that the Governor had better take my name off the books of the college. I did ask whether I couldn't go over to McLean. Who is McLean? One of the other tutors, but the brute only smiled. He thought you meant it for Chaff. Well, I suppose I did mean to show him that I was not going to be exterminated by him. He will write to the Governor today, and you will have to talk to the Governor. Yes, as Lord Silverbridge went back that afternoon to London, he thought very much of that talking to the Governor. Never yet had he been able to say anything very pleasant to the Governor. He had himself always been in disgrace and eaten, and had been set away from Oxford. He had introduced Tragear into the family, which of all the troubles perhaps was the worst. He had changed his politics. He had spent more money than he ought to have done, and now at this very moment must ask for a large sum. And he had brought Gerald up to see the Darby, thereby causing him to be set away from Cambridge. And through it all, there was present to him a feeling that by no words which he could use would he be able to make his father understand how deeply he felt all this. He could not bring himself to see the Duke that evening, and the next morning he was sent for before he was out of bed. He found his father at breakfast with the Tudors' letter before him. Do you know anything about this? asked the Duke very calmly. Gerald ran up to see the Darby, and in the evening missed the train. Mr. Harnage tells me that he had been expressly ordered not to go to these races. I suppose he was, sir. Then there was silence between them for some minutes. You might as well sit down and eat your breakfast, said the father. Then Lord Silverbridge did sit down, and poured himself out a cup of tea. There was no servant in the room, and he dreaded to ring the bell. Is there anything you want? asked the Duke. There was a small dish of fried bacon on the table, and some cold mutton on the sideboard. Silverbridge, declaring that he had everything that was necessary, got up and helped himself to the cold mutton. Then again there was silence, during which the Duke crunched his toast, and made an attempt at reading the newspaper. But, soon pushing that aside, he again took up Mr. Harnage's letter. Silverbridge watched every motion of his father, as he slowly made his way through the slice of cold mutton. It seems that Gerald is to be sent away altogether. I fear so, sir. He has profited by your example at Oxford. Did you persuade him to come to these races? I am afraid I did. Though you knew the orders which had been given, I thought it was meant that he should not be away the night. He had asked permission to go to the Darby, and had been positively refused. Did you know that? Silverbridge sat for some moments considering. He could not at first quite remember what he had known, and what he had not known. Perhaps he entertained some faint hope that the question would be allowed to pass unanswered. He saw, however, from his father's eye that that was impossible. And then he did remember it all. I suppose I did know it. And you were willing to imperil your brother's position in life and my happiness in order that he might see a horse, of which I believe you call yourself part owner, run a race? I thought there would be no risk if he got back the same night. I don't suppose there is any good in my saying it, but I never was so sorry for anything in all my life. I feel as if I could go and hang myself. That is absurd and unmanly, said the Duke. The expression of sorrow, as it had been made, might be absurd and unmanly, but nevertheless it had touched him. He was severe because he did not know how far his severity wounded. It is a great blow, another great blow, races, a congregation of all the worst blaggers in the country mixed with the greatest fools. Lord Cantrip was there, said Silverbridge, and I saw Sir Timothy Beeswax. If the presence of Sir Timothy be an allurement to you, I pity you indeed. I have nothing further to say about it. You have ruined your brother. He had been driven to further anger by this reference to one man whom he respected and to another whom he despised. Don't say that, sir. What am I to say? Let him be an attaché or something of the sort. Do you believe it possible that he should pass any examination? I think that my children between them will bring me to the grave. You had better go now. I suppose you will want to be at the races again than the young man crept out of the room and going to his own part of the house shut himself up alone for nearly an hour. What had he better do to give his father some comfort? Should he abandon racing altogether, sell his share of prime minister and coalition, and go in hard and strong for committees, debates, and divisions? Should he get rid of his drag and resolve to read up parliamentary literature? He was resolved upon one thing at any rate. He would not go to the oaks that day. And then he was resolved on another thing. He would call on Lady Mab Grex and ask her advice. He felt so disconsolate and insufficient for himself that he wanted advice from someone whom he could trust. He found Tifto, Dolly, Longstaff, and one or two others at the stables from whence it was intended that the drag should start. They were waiting and rather angry because they had been kept waiting. But the news, when it came, was very sad indeed. You wouldn't mind taking the team down and back yourself, would you, Dolly? He said to Longstaff. You aren't going? said Dolly, assuming a look of much heroic horror. No, I am not going today. What's up? asked Popplecourt. That's rather sudden, isn't it? asked the Major. Well, yes, I suppose it is sudden. It's throwing us over a little, isn't it? Not that I see. You've got the trap in the horses. Yes, we've got the trap in the horses, said Dolly, and I vote we make a start. As you were not going yourself, perhaps I'd better drive your horses said Tiftoe. Dolly will take the team, said his lordship. Yes, decidedly I will take the team, said Dolly. There isn't a deal of driving wanted on the road to Epsom, but a man should know how to hold his reins. This, of course, gave rise to some angry words, but Silverbridge did not stop to hear them. The poor duke had no one to whom he could go for advice and consolation. When his son left him, he turned to his newspaper and tried to read it in vain. His mind was too ill at ease to admit of political matters. He was greatly grieved by this new misfortune, as did Gerald, and by Lord Silverbridge's propensity to racing. But though these sorrows were heavy, there was a sorrow heavier than these. Lady Cantrip had expressed an opinion almost in favor of Tragear, and had certainly expressed an opinion in favor of Mrs. Finn. The whole affair in regard to Mrs. Finn had been explained to her, and she had told the duke that, according to her thinking, Mrs. Finn had behaved well. When the duke with an energy which was by no means customary with him had asked that question on the answer to which so much depended, should there have been a moment lost? Lady Cantrip had assured him that not a moment had been lost. Mrs. Finn had had once gone to work, and had arranged that the whole affair should be told to him, the duke, in the proper way. I think she did, said Lady Cantrip, what I myself should have done in similar circumstances. If Lady Cantrip was right, then must his apology to Mrs. Finn be ample and abject. Perhaps it was this feeling which at the moment was most vexatious to him. CHAPTER XIX No, my lord, I do not. Between two and three o'clock Lord Silverbridge, in spite of his sorrow, found himself able to eat his lunch at his club. The place was deserted, the bear-garden world, having gone to the races. As he said eating cold lamb and drinking soda and brandy, he did confirm himself in certain modified resolutions, which might be more probably kept than those sterner laws of absolute renunciation, to which he had thought of pledging himself in his half-starved morning condition. His father had spoken in very strong language against racing, saying that those who went were either fools or rascals. He was sure that this was exaggerated. Half the House of Lords and two-thirds of the House of Commons were to be seen at the Derby, but no doubt there were many rascals and fools, and he could not associate with the legislators without finding himself among the fools and the rascals. He would, as soon as he could, separate himself from the Major. And he would not bet. It was on that side of the sport that the rascals and the fools showed themselves. Of what service could betting be to him, whom Providence had provided with all things wanted to make life pleasant? As to the drag, his father had in a certain measure approved of that, and he would keep the drag as he must have some relaxation, but his great effort of all should be made in the House of Commons. He would endeavor to make his father perceive that he had appreciated that letter. He would always be in the House soon after four, and would remain there, four if possible, as long as the speaker sat in the chair. He had already begun to feel that there was a difficulty in keeping his seat upon those benches. The half-hours there would be so much longer than elsewhere. An irresistible desire of tauntering out would come upon him. There were men the very sound of whose voices was already odious to him. There had come upon him a feeling in regard to certain orators, that when once they had begun there was no reason why they should ever stop. Words of some sort were always forthcoming, like spider's webs. He did not think that he could learn to take a pleasure in sitting in the House, but he hoped that he might be man enough to do it, though it was not pleasant. He would begin today, instead of going to the oaks. But before he went to the House he would see Lady Mabel Grex. And here it may be well to state that in making his resolutions, as to a better life, he had considered much, whether it would not be well for him to take a wife. His father had once told him that when he married the House in Carleton Terrace should be his own. I will be a lodger if you will have me, said the Duke, or if your wife should not like that, I will find a lodging elsewhere. This had been in the sadness and tenderness which had immediately followed the death of the Duchess. Marriage would steady him. Where he a married man Tifto would, of course, disappear. Upon the whole he thought it would be good that he should marry, and if so, who could be so nice as Lady Mabel, that his father would be contented with Lady Mabel he was inclined to believe. There was no better blood in England, and Lady Mabel was known to be clever, beautiful, and, in her peculiar circumstances, very wise. He was aware, however, of a certain drawback. Lady Mabel, as his wife, would be his superior, and, in some degree, his master. Though not older, she was wiser than he, and not only wiser but more powerful also, and he was not quite sure but that she regarded him as a boy. He thought that she did love him, or would do so if he asked her, but that her love would be bestowed upon him as on an inferior creature. He was already jealous of his own dignity, and fearful lest you should miss the glory of being loved by this lovely one for his own sake, for his own manhood, and his own gifts, and his own character. And yet his attraction to her was so great that, now in the day of his sorrow, he could think of no solace but what was to be found in her company. Not at the oaks, she said, as soon as he was shown into the drawing-room. No, not at the oaks, Lord Grex's there, I suppose. Oh yes, that is a matter of course. Why are you a-recreant? The house sits today. How virtuous! Is it coming to that, that when the house sits you will never be absent? That's the kind of life I am going to lead. You haven't heard about Gerald. About your brother? Yes, you haven't heard? Not a word. I hope there is no misfortune. But indeed there is a most terrible misfortune. Then he told the whole story. How Gerald had been kept in London, and how he had gone down to Cambridge, all in vain, how his father had taken the matter to heart, telling him that he had ruined his brother, and how he, in consequence, had determined not to go to the races. Then he said, continued Silverbridge, that his children between them would bring him to his grave. That was terrible. Very terrible. But what did he mean by that? Asked Lady Mabel, anxious to hear something about Lady Mary and Traguirre. Well, of course, what I did at Oxford made him unhappy, and now there is this affair of Gerald's. He did not allude to your sister? Yes, he did. You have heard of all that. Traguirre told you. He told me something. Of course my father does not like it. Do you approve of it? No, said he, curtly and sturdily. Why not? You like Traguirre. Certainly I like Traguirre. He is the friend among men whom I like the best. I have only two real friends. Who are they? she asked, sinking her voice very low. He is one and you are the other. You know that. I hoped that I was one, she said. But if you love Traguirre so dearly, why do you not approve of him for your sister? I always knew it would not do. But why not? Mary ought to marry a man of higher standing. Of higher rank, you mean, the daughters of Dukes have married commoners before. It is not exactly that. I don't like to talk of it in that way. I knew it would make my father unhappy. In point of fact, he can't marry her. What is the good of approving of a thing that is impossible? I wish I knew your sister. Is she firm? Indeed she is. I am not so sure that you are. No, said he, after considering a while. Nor am I. But she is not like Gerald or me. She is more obstinate. Less fickle, perhaps. Yes, if you choose to call it fickle. I don't know that I am fickle. If I were in love with a girl, I should be true to her. Are you sure of that? Quite sure. If I were really in love with her, I certainly should not change. It is possible that I might be bullied out of her. It is possible that I might be bullied out of it. But she will not be bullied out of it. Mary? No, that is just it. She will stick to it if he does. I would if I were she. Where will you find any young man equal to Frank for gear? Perhaps you mean to cut poor Mary out. That isn't a nice thing for you to say, Lord Silverbridge. Frank is my cousin, as indeed you are also. But it so happens that I have seen a great deal of him all my life. And though I don't want to cut your sister out, as you so prettily say, I love him well enough to understand that any girl whom he loves ought to be true to him. So far what she said was very well. But she afterwards added a word which might have been wisely omitted. Frank and I are almost beggars. What an accursed thing money is, he exclaimed, jumping up from his chair. I don't agree with you at all. It is a very comfortable thing. How is anybody who has got it to know if anybody cares for him? You must find that out. There is such a thing, I suppose, as real sympathy. You tell me to my face that you and Tragear would have been lovers, only that you are both poor. I never said anything of the kind. And that he is to be passed on to my sister because it is supposed that she will have some money. You are putting words into my mouth which I never spoke and ideas into my mind which I never thought. And of course I feel the same about myself. How can a fellow help it? I wish you had a lot of money, I know. It is very kind of you, but why? Well, I can't explain myself, he said, blushing, as was his want. I daresay it wouldn't make any difference. It would make a great difference to me, as it is, having none and knowing as I do that papa and Percival are getting things into a worse mess every day, I am obliged to hope that I may someday marry a man who has gotten income. I suppose so, said he, still blushing, but frowning at the same time. You see, I can be very frank with a real friend, but I am sure of myself and this, that I will never marry a man I do not love. A girl needn't love a man unless she likes it, I suppose. She doesn't tumble into love as she does into the fire. It would not suit me to marry a poor man, and so I don't mean to fall in love with a poor man. But you do mean to fall in love with a rich one. That remains to be seen, Lord Silverbridge. The rich man will at any rate have to fall in love with me first. If you know of any one, you need not tell him to be too sure, because he has a good income. There's Papal Court. He's his own master, and fool as he is, he knows how to keep his money. I don't want to fool. You must do better for me than Lord Papal Court. What do you say to Dolly Longstaff? He would be just the man, only he never would take the trouble to come out and be married. Or Glassloff. I'm afraid he is cross, and wouldn't let me have my own way. I can only think of one other, but you would not take him. Then you had better not mention him. It is no good crowding the list with impossibles. I was thinking of myself. You are certainly one of the impossibles. Why, lady man? For twenty reasons. You are too young, and you are bound to oblige your father, and you are to be wedded to parliament, at any rate for the next ten years, and all together it wouldn't matter. For a great many reasons. I suppose you don't like me well enough. What a question to ask. No, my lord, I do not. There, that's what you may call an answer. Don't you pretend to look offended, because if you do, I shall laugh at you. If you may have your joke, surely I may have mine. I don't see any joke in it. But I do. Suppose I were to say the other thing. Oh, Lord Silverbridge, you do me so much honour. And now I come to think about it, there is no one in the world I am so fond of as you. Would that suit you? Exactly. But it wouldn't suit me. There's papa. Don't run away. It's ever so much past five, said the legislator, and I had intended to be in the house more than an hour ago. Good-bye, give my love to Miss Casowary. Certainly. Miss Casowary is your most devoted friend. Won't you bring your sister to see me some day? When she is in town, I will. I should so like to know her. Good-bye. As he hurried down to the house in a handsome he thought over it all, and told himself that he feared it would not do. She might perhaps accept him. But if so, she would do it simply in order that she might become duchess of omdium. She might, he thought, have accepted him then, had she chosen. He had spoken plainly enough. But she had laughed at him. He felt that if she loved him, there ought to have been something of that feminine tremor, of that doubting, hesitating half a vowel of which he had perhaps read in novels, and which his own instincts taught him to desire. But there had been no tremor nor hesitating. No, my lord, I do not. She had said when he asked her to her face whether she liked him well enough to be his wife. No, my lord, I do not. It was not the refusal conveyed in these words which annoyed him. He did believe that if he were to press his suit, with the usual forms, she would accept him. But it was that there should be such a total absence of trepidation in her words in manner. Before her he blushed and hesitated, and felt that he did not know how to express himself. If she would only have done the same, then there would have been an equality. Then he could have seized her in his arms and swarmed that never, never, never would he care for anyone but her. In truth he saw everything as it was, only two truths. Although she might choose to marry him if he pressed his request, she would never subject herself to him, as he would have the girl do whom he loved. She was his superior, and in every word uttered between them showed that it was so. But yet how beautiful she was, how much more beautiful than any other thing he had ever seen. He sat on one of the high seats behind Sir Timothy Beaslax and Sir Orlando Drought, listening, or pretending to listen, to the speeches of three or four gentlemen respecting sugar, thinking of all this till half past seven. And then he went to dine with the proud consciousness of having done his duty. The forms and methods of the house were, he flattered himself, soaking into him gradually, as his father had desired. The theory of legislation was sinking into his mind. The welfare of the nation depended chiefly on sugar. But he thought that, after all, his own welfare must depend on the possession of Mape Grex.