 59 No one can tell what may come to pass. Then Lord Silverbridge necessarily went down to matching, knowing that he must meet Mabel Grex. Why should she have prolonged her visit? No doubt it might be very pleasant for her to be his father's guest at matching, but she had been there above a month. He could understand that his father should ask her to remain. His father was still brooding over that foolish communication which had been made to him on the night of the dinner at the Bear Garden. His father was still intending to take Mabel to his arms as a daughter-in-law. But Lady Mabel herself knew that it could not be so. The whole truth had been told to her. Why should she remain at matching, for the sake of being mixed up in a scene, the acting of which could not fail but to be disagreeable to her? He found the house very quiet and nearly empty. Mrs. Finn was there with the two girls, and Mr. Warburton had come back. Miss Cassowary had gone to her brother's house. Other guests to make Christmas merry there were none. As he looked round at the large rooms, he reflected that he himself was there only for a special purpose. It was his duty to break the news of his intended marriage to his father. As he stood before the fire, thinking how best he might do this, it occurred to him that a letter from a distance would have been the ready and simple way. But then it had occurred to him also, when at a distance, that a declaration of his purpose face to face was the simplest and readiest way. If you have to go headlong into the water you should take your plunge without hesitating. So he told himself, making up his mind, that he would have it all out that evening. At dinner Lady Mabel sat next to his father, and he could watch the special courtesy with which the duke treated the girl whom he was so desirous of introducing to his house. Silverbridge could not talk about the election at Paul Penneau, because all conversation about Tragear was interdicted in the presence of his sister. He could say nothing is to the runny mead hunt and the two thunderbolts which had fallen on him, as Major Tifto was not a subject on which he could expatiate in the presence of his father. He asked a few questions about the shooting, and referred with great regret to his absence from the break-country. I am sure Mr. Cassowary could spare you for another fortnight, the duke said to his neighbor, alluding to a visit which he now intended to make. If so, he would have to spare me altogether, said Mabel, for I must meet my father in London in the middle of January. Could you not put it off to another year? You would think I had taken root and was growing at matching. Of all our products you would be the most delightful and the most charming. And we would hope the most permanent, said the courteous duke. After being here so long I need hardly say that I like matching better than any place in the world. I suppose it is the contrast to Grex. Grex was a palace, said the duke, before a wall of this house had been built. Grex is very old and very wild and very uncomfortable, but I love it dearly. Matching is the very reverse of Grex. Not I hope in your affections. I did not mean that. I think one likes a contrast. But I must go, say, on the first of January, to pick up Miss Cassowary. It was certain, therefore, that she was going on the first of January. How would it be if he put off the telling of his story for yet another week till she should be gone? Then he looked around and bethought himself that the time would hang very heavy with him, and his father would daily expect from him a declaration exactly opposed to that which he had to make. He had no horses to ride. As he went on listening he almost convinced himself that the proper thing to do would be to go back to London and thence right to his father. He made no confession to his father on that night. On the next morning there was a heavy fall of snow, but nevertheless everybody managed to go to church. The duke, as he looked at Lady Mabel tripping along the swept paths in her furs and short petticoats and well-made boots, thought that his son was a lucky fellow to have the chance of winning the love of such a girl. No remembrance of Miss Boncassen came across his mind as he saw them close together. It was so important that Silverbridge should marry and thus be kept from further follies, and it was so momentous to the fortunes of the palaces of family generally that he should marry well. In thinking so it did not occur to him that the granddaughter of an American laborer might be offered to him. A young lady fit to be Duchess of Omnium was not to be found everywhere, but this girl, he thought as he saw her walking briskly and strongly through the snow, with every mark of health about her, and every sign of high-breeding, very beautiful, exquisite in manner, gracious as a goddess, was fit to be a Duchess. Silverbridge at this moment was walking close to her side, in good looks, in gracious manner, in high-breeding, her equal, in worldly gifts, infinitely her superior. Surely she would not despise him. Silverbridge at the moment was expressing a hope that the sermon would not be very long. After lunch Mabel came suddenly behind the chair on which Silverbridge was sitting, and asked him to take a walk with her. Was she not afraid of the snow? Perhaps you are, she said, laughing, I do not mind in the least. When they were but a few yards from the front door she put her hand upon his arm, and spoke to him as though she had arranged the walk with reference to that special question. And now tell me all about Frank. She had arranged everything. She had a plan before her now, and had determined in accordance with that plan that she would say nothing to disturb him on this occasion. If she could succeed in bringing him into good humour with herself, that should be sufficient for her to-day. Now tell me everything about Frank. Frank is Member of Parliament for Paul Peno, that is all. That is so like a man and so unlike a woman. What did he say? What did he do? How did he look? What did you say? What did you do? How did you look? We looked very miserable when we got wet through walking about all day in the rain. Was that necessary? Quite necessary. He looked so mean and draggled that nobody would have voted for us, and only poor Mr. Carbottle looked meaner and more draggled. The Duke says you made ever so many speeches. I should think I did. It is very easy to make speeches down to the place like that. Tragear spoke like a book. He spoke well? Awfully well. He told them that all the good things that had ever been done in Parliament had been carried by the Tories. He went back to Pitt's time and had it all at his finger's ends. And quite true. That's just what it was not. It was all a crammer, but it did as well. I am glad he is a Member. Don't you think the Duke will come round a little now? When Tragear and the election had been sufficiently discussed, they came by degrees to Major Tifto and the two Thunderbolts. Silverbridge, when he perceived that nothing was to be said about Isabel Boncasin, or his own freedom in the matter of love-making, was not sorry to have a friend from whom he could find sympathy for himself in his own troubles. With some encouragement from Mabel the whole story was told. Was it not a great impertinence, she asked? It was an awful bore. What could I say? I was not going to pronounce judgment against the poor devil. I daresay he was good enough for Mr. Jostock. But I suppose he did cheat horribly. I daresay he did. A great many of them do cheat. But what of that? I was not bound to give him a character bad or good. Certainly not. He had not been my servant. It was such a letter. I'll show it to you when we get in, asking whether Tifto was fit to be the depository of the intimacy of the runny-mead hunt. And then Tif's letter. I almost wept over that. How could he have had the audacity to write at all? He said that him and me had been a good deal together. Unfortunately that was true. Even now I am not quite sure that he blamed the horse himself. Everybody thinks he did. Percival says there's no doubt about it. Percival knows nothing about it. Three of the gang ran away and he stood his ground. That's about all we do know. What did you say to him? I had to address him as sir and beg him not to write to me any more. Of course they mean to get rid of him, and I couldn't do him any good. Poor Tifto. Upon the whole I think I hate Jawstock worse than Tifto. Lady Mabel was content with her afternoon's work. When they had been at matching before the Paul Penneau election, there had apparently been no friendship between them, at any rate no confidential friendship. Miss Boncassen had been there, and he had had neither eyes nor ears for anyone else. But now something like the feeling of old days had been restored. She had not done much towards her great object, but then she had known that nothing could be done till he should again be in a good humour with her. On the Sunday, the Monday, and the Tuesday they were again together. In some of these interviews Silverbridge described the Paul Penneau people, and told her how Mr. Geer had been reassured by his eloquence. He also read to her the Jawstock and Tifto correspondence, and was complimented by her as to his prudence and foresight. To tell the truth I consulted Mr. Lupton, he said, not liking to take credit for wisdom which had not been his own. Then they talked about Grex and Killen Codlam, about Gerald and the shooting, about Mary's love for Geer, and about the work of the coming session. On all these subjects they were comfortable and confidential, Miss Boncassen's name never having been as yet so much as mentioned. But still the real work was before her. She had not hoped to bring him round to kneel once more at her feet by such gentle measures as these. She had not dared to dream that he could in this way be taught to forget the past autumn and all its charms. She knew well that there was something very difficult before her. But if that difficult thing might be done at all, these were the preparations which must be made for the doing of it. It was arranged that she should leave matching on Saturday, the first day of the new year. Things had gone on in the manner described till the Thursday had come. The Duke had been impatient but had restrained himself. He had seen that they were much together and that they were apparently friends. He too told himself that there were two more days and that before the end of those days everything might be pleasantly settled. It had become a matter of course that Silverbridge and Mabel should walk together in the afternoon. He himself had felt that there was danger in this. Not danger that he should be untrue to Isabel but that he should make others think that he was true to Mabel. But he excused himself on the plea that he and Mabel had been intimate friends, were still intimate friends, and that she was going away in a day or two. Mary, who watched it all, was sure that misery was being prepared for someone. She was aware that by this time her father was anxious to welcome Mabel as his daughter in law. She strongly suspected that something had been said between her father and her brother on the subject. But then she had Isabel Boncassen's direct assurance that Silverbridge was engaged to her. Now when Isabel's back was turned, Silverbridge and Mabel were always together. On the Thursday after lunch they were again out together. It had become so much a habit that the walk repeated itself without an effort. It had been part of Mabel's scheme that it should be so. During all this morning she had been thinking of her scheme. It was all but hopeless. So much she had declared to herself. But forlorn hopes do sometimes end in splendid triumphs. That which she might gain was so much, and what could she lose? The sweet bloom of her maiden shame? That she told herself, with bitterest inward tears, was already gone from her. Frank Tragear at any rate knew where her heart had been given. Frank Tragear knew that having lost her heart to one man, she was anxious to marry another. He knew that she was willing to accept the coronet of a duchess as her consolation. The bloom of her maiden shame, of which she quite understood the sweetness, the charm, the value, was gone when she had brought herself to such a state that any human being should know that, loving one man, she should be willing to marry another. The sweet treasure was gone from her. Its aroma was fled. It behooved her now to be ambitious, cautious, and, if possible, successful. When first she had so resolved, success seemed to be so easily within her reach. Of all the golden youths that had crossed her path, no one was so pleasant to her eye, to her ear, to her feelings generally as this duke's young air. There was a coming manliness about him which she liked, and she liked even the slight want of present manliness. Going aside, Frank Draghear, she could go nearer to loving him than any other man she had ever seen. With him she would not be turned from her duties by disgust, by dislike, or dismay. She could even think that the time would come when she might really love him. Then she had all but succeeded, and she might have succeeded altogether, had she been but a little more prudent, but she had allowed her great prize to escape from her fingers. But the prize was not yet utterly beyond her grasp. To recover it, to recover even the smallest chance of recovering it, there would be need of great exertion. She must be bold, sudden, unwomen-like, and yet with such a display of woman's charm that he at least should discover no want. She must be false, but false with such perfect deceit that he must regard her as a pearl of truth. If anything could lure him back, it must be his conviction of her passionate love. And she must be strong. So strong is to overcome not only his weakness, but all that was strong in him. She knew that he did love that other girl. And she must even overcome that. And to do this she must prostrate herself at his feet. As since the world began, it has been man's province to prostrate himself at the feet of the woman he loves. To do this she must indeed bid adieu to the sweet bloom of her maiden shame. But had she not done so already when by the side of the brook at Killan-Codlam, she had declared to him plainly enough her despair at hearing that he loved that other girl? Though she were to grovel at his feet, she could not speak more plainly than she had spoken then. She could not tell her story now more plainly than she had done then. But though the chances were small, per chance she might tell it more effectually. Perhaps this will be our last walk, she said. Come down to the seat over the river. Why should it be the last? You'll be here to-morrow. There were so many slips and such things, she said, laughing. You may get a letter from your constituents that will want all the day to answer, or your father may have a political communication to make to me, but at any rate come. It was a spot in the park from whence there was a distant view over many lands, and low beneath the bench which stood on the edge of a steep bank ran a stream which made a sweeping bend in this place so that a reach of the little river might be seen both to the right and to the left. Though the sun was shining, the snow under their feet was hard with frost. It was an air such as one sometimes finds in England and often in America. Though the cold was very perceptible, though water in the shade was freezing at this moment, there was no feeling of damp, no sense of bitter wind. It was a sweet and jockened air, such as would make young people prone to run and skip. You are not going to sit down with all that snow on the bench, said Silverbridge. On their way did she had not said a word that would disturb him. She had spoken to him of the coming session, and had managed to display to him the interest which she took in his parliamentary career. In doing this she had flattered him to the top of his bent. If he would return to his father's politics, then would she too become a renegade. Would he speak in the next session? She hoped he would speak. And if he did, might she be there to hear him? She was cautious not to say a word of Frank Draghiere, understanding something of that strange jealousy which could exist even when he who was jealous did not love the woman who caused it. No, she said, I do not think we can sit. But still I like to be here with you. All that some day will be your own. Then she stretched her hands out to the far view. Some of it, I suppose, I don't think it is all ours. As for that, if we cared for extent of acres one ought to go to Barsature. Is that larger? Twice as large, I believe, and yet none of the family like being there. The rental is very well. And the borrower, she said, leaning on his arm and looking up into his face. What a happy fellow you ought to be! Bar Tifto and Mr. Drawstock. You have got rid of Tifto in all those troubles very easily. Thanks to the Governor. Yes, indeed, I do love your father so dearly. So do I, rather. May I tell you something about him? She asked the question she was standing very close to him, leaning upon his arm with her left hand crossed upon her right. Had others been there, of course she would not have stood in such a guise. She knew that, and he knew it too. Of course there was something in it of declared affection, of that kind of love which most of us have been happy enough to give and receive, without intending to show more than true friendship will allow, at special moments. Don't tell me anything about him I shan't like to hear. Ah, that is so hard to know. I wish you would like to hear it. What can it be? I cannot tell you now. Why not? And why did you offer? Because—oh, Silverbridge. He certainly, as yet, did not understand it. It had never occurred to him that she would know what were his father's wishes. Perhaps he was slow of comprehension as he urged her to tell him what was this about his father. What can you tell me about him that I should not like to hear? You do not know, O Silverbridge, I think you know. Then there came upon him a glimmering of the truth. You do know, and she stood apart, looking him full in the face. I do not know what you can have to tell me. No, no, it is not I that should tell you, but yet it is so. What did you say to me when you came to me that morning in the square? What did I say? Was I not entitled to think that you loved me? To this he had nothing to reply, but stood before her silent and frowning. Think of it, Silverbridge. Was it not so, and because I did not at once tell you all the truth, because I did not there say that my heart was all yours, were you right to leave me? You only laughed at me. No, no, no, I never laughed at you. How could I laugh when you were all the world to me? Ask Frank. He knew. Ask Miss Cass. She knew. And can you say that you did not know you, you, you yourself? Can any girl suppose that such words as these are to mean nothing where they have been spoken? You knew I loved you. No, no. You must have known it. I will never believe but that you knew it. Why should your father be so sure of it? He never was sure of it. Yes, Silverbridge, yes. There is not one in the house who does not see that he treats me as though he expected me to be his son's wife. Do you not know that he wishes it? He feigned would not have answered this, but he paused for his answer and then repeated her question. Do you not know that he wishes it? I think he does, said Silverbridge, but it can never be so. Oh, Silverbridge, oh, my loved one, do not say that to me. Do not kill me at once. Now she placed her hands, one on each arm, and she stood opposite to him and looked up into his face. You said you loved me once. Why do you desert me now? Have you a right to treat me like that, when I tell you that you have all my heart? The tears were now streaming down her face, and they were not counterfeit tears. You know, he said, submitting to her hands, but not lifting his arm to embrace her. What do I know? That I have given all I have to give to another. As he said this, he looked away sternly, over her shoulder, to the distance. That American girl, she exclaimed, starting back with some show of sternness, also on her brow. Yes, that American girl, said Silverbridge. Then she recovered herself immediately. Indignation, natural indignation, would not serve her turn in the present emergency. You know that cannot be. You ought to know it. What will your father say? You have not dared to tell him. That is so natural, she added, trying to appease his frown. How possibly can it be told to him? I will not say a word against her. No, do not do that. But there are fitnesses of things which such a one as you cannot disregard without preparing for yourself a whole life of repentance. Look here, Mabel. Well, I will tell you the truth. Well, I would sooner lose all the rank I have, the rank that I am to have, all these lands that you have been looking on, my father's wealth, my seat in Parliament, everything that fortune has done for me. I would give them all up sooner than lose her. Now at any rate he was a man. She was sure of that now. This was more, very much more, not only than she had expected from him, but more than she had thought it possible that his character should have produced. His strength reduced her to weakness. And I am nothing, she said. Yes indeed, you are Lady Mabel Grex, whom all women envy, and whom all men honour. The poorest wretch this day under the sun. Do not say that. You should take shame to say that. I do take shame, and I do say it. Sir, do you not feel what you owe me? Do you not know that you have made me the wretch I am? How did you dare to talk to me as you did talk when you were in London? You tell me that I am Lady Mabel Grex, and yet you come to me with a lie on your lips, with such a lie as that. You must have taken me for some nursemaid on whom you would condescended to cast your eye. It cannot be that even you should have dared to treat Lady Mabel Grex after such a fashion as that. And now you have cast your eye on this other girl. You can never marry her. I shall endeavor to do so. You can never marry her, she said, stamping her foot. She had now lost all the caution which she had taught herself for the prosecution of her scheme, all the care with which she had burdened herself. Now she was natural enough. No, you can never marry her. You could not show yourself after it in your clubs, or in Parliament, or in the world. Come home, do you say? No, I will not go to your home. It is not my home. Cold, of course I am cold, cold through to the heart. I cannot leave you alone here, he said, for she had now turned from him and was walking with hurried steps and short turns on the edge of the bank, which at this place was almost a precipice. You have left me utterly in the cold, more desolate than I am here, even though I should spend the night among the trees, but I will go back and will tell your father everything. If my father were other than he is, if my brother were better to me, you would not have done this. If you had a legion of brothers, it would have been the same, he said, turning sharp upon her. They walked on together, but without a word until the house was in sight. Then she looked round at him and stopped him on the path as she caught his eye. Silverbridge, she said, Lady Mabel, call me Mabel, at any rate call me Mabel. If I have said anything to offend you, I beg your pardon. I am not offended, but unhappy. If you are unhappy, what must I be? What have I to look forward to? Give me your hand and say that we are friends. Certainly we are friends, he said, as he gave her his hand. Who can tell what may come to pass? To this he would make no answer, as it seemed to imply that some division between himself and Isabel von Kassen might possibly come to pass. You will not tell anyone that I love you? I tell such a thing, is that? But never forget it yourself. No one can tell what may come to pass. Lady Mabel at once went up to her room. She had played her scene, but was well aware that she had played it altogether unsuccessfully. End of Chapter 59 CHAPTER XIX When Silver Ridge got back to the house, he was by no means well pleased with himself. In the first place he was unhappy to think that Mabel was unhappy, and that he had made her so. And then she had told him that he would not have dared to have acted as he had done, but that her father and her brother were careless to defend her. He had replied fiercely that a legion of brothers ready to act on her behalf would not have altered his conduct, but not the less that he feel that he had behaved badly to her. It could not now be altered. He could not now be untrue to Isabel. But certainly he had said a word or two to Mabel which he could not remember without regret. He had not thought that a word from him could have been so powerful. Now, when that word was recalled to his memory by the girl to whom it had been spoken, he could not quite acquit himself. And Mabel had declared to him that she would at once appeal to his father. There was an absurdity in this at which he could not but smile, that the girl should complain to his father because he would not marry her. But even in doing this she might cause him great vexation. He could not bring himself to ask her not to tell her story to the duke. He must take all that as it might come. While he was thinking of all this in his own room, a servant brought him two letters. From the first which he opened he soon perceived that it contained an account of more troubles. It was from his brother Gerald, and was written from Old Reiki, the name of a house in Scotland, belonging to Lord Nittedale's people. Dear Silver, I have gotten into a most awful scrape. That fellow Percival is here, and Dolly Longstaff, and Nittedale, and Popplecourt, and Jack Hines, and Perry, who is in the cold streams, and one or two more, and there has been a lot of cards, and I have lost ever so much money. I wouldn't mind it so much, but Percival has won it all. A fellow I hate, and now I owe him three thousand four hundred pounds. He has just told me he is hard up that he wants the money before the week is over. He can't be hard up because he has won from everybody, but of course I had to tell him that I would pay him. Can you help me? Of course I know that I have been a fool. Percival knows what he is about and plays regularly for money. When I began I didn't think I could lose above twenty or thirty pounds. But it got from one thing to another, and when I woke this morning I felt I didn't know what to do with myself. You can't think how the luck went against me. Everybody says they never saw such cards. And now do tell me how I am to get rid of it. Could you manage it with Mr. Morton? Of course I will make it all right with you some day. Morton always lets you have whatever you want, but perhaps you couldn't do this without letting the governor know. I would rather anything than that. There is some money owing at Oxford also, which of course he must know. I was thinking that perhaps I might get it from some one of those fellows in London. There were people called Comfort and Cribble who let men have money constantly. I know two or three up at Oxford who have had it from them. Of course I couldn't go to them as you could do, for in spite of what the governor said to us up in London one day there is nothing that must come to me. But you could do anything in that way, and of course I would stand to it. I know you won't throw me over, because you always have been such a brick. But above all things, don't tell the governor. First of all, he is such a nasty fellow, otherwise I shouldn't mind it. He spoke this morning as though I was treating him badly, though the money was only lost last night. And he looked at me in a way that made me long to kick him. I told him not to flurry himself that he should have his money. If he speaks to me like that again I will kick him. I will be at matching as soon as possible, but I cannot go till this is settled. Nid, meaning Lord Nittadale, is a brick. Your affectionate brother, Gerald. The other was from Nittadale, and referred to the same subject. Dear Silverbridge, here has been a terrible nuisance. Last night some of the men got the playing cards, and Gerald lost a terribly large sum to Percival. I did all that I could to stop it, because I saw that Percival was going in for a big thing. I fancied that he got as much from Dali longstaff as he did from Gerald, but it won't matter much to Dali, or if it does nobody cares. Gerald told me he was writing to you about it, so I am not betraying him. What is to be done? Of course Percival is behaving badly. He always does. I can't turn him out of the house, and he seems to intend to stick to Gerald until he has got the money. He has taken a check from Dali dated two months hence. I am in an awful funk for fear Gerald should pitch into him. He will in a minute, if anything rough is said to him. I suppose the strangest thing would be to go to the duke at once, but Gerald won't hear of it. I hope you won't think me wrong to tell you. If I could help him, I would. You know what a bad doctor I am for that sort of complaint. Yours always, Nittadale. The dinnerbell had rung before Silverbridge had come to an end of thinking of this new vexation, and he had not as yet made up his mind what he had better do for his brother. There was one thing as to which he was determined, that it should not be done by him, nor if he could prevent it by Gerald. There should be no dealings with comfort and crib-all. The duke had succeeded at any rate in filling his son's mind with a horror of aid of that sort. Nittadale had suggested that the straightest thing would be to go direct to the duke. That no doubt would be straight and efficacious. The duke would not have allowed a boy of his to be a debtor to Lord Percival for a day, let the debt have been contracted how it might. But Gerald had declared against this course, and Silverbridge himself would have been most unwilling to adopt it. How could he have told that story to the duke, while there was that other infinitely more important story of his own, which must be told at once? In the midst of all these troubles he went down to dinner. Lady Mabel, said the duke, tells me that you two have been to see Sir Guy's look-out. She was standing close to the duke and whispered a word into his ear. You said you would call me Mabel. Yes, sir, said Silverbridge, and I have made up my mind that Sir Guy never stayed there very long in the winter. It was awfully cold. I had furs on, said Mabel, what a lovely spot it is, even in this weather. Then dinner was announced. She had not been cold. She could still feel the tingling heat of her blood as she had implored him to love her. Silverbridge felt that he must write his brother by the first post. The communication was of a nature that would bear no delay. If his hands had been free he would himself have gone off to Alderike. At last he made up his mind. The first letter he wrote was neither to Nittedale nor to Gerald, but to Lord Percival himself. Dear Percival. Gerald writes me a word that he has lost to you at cards three thousand four hundred pounds, and he wants me to get him the money. It is a terrible nuisance, and he has been an ass. But of course I shall stand to him for anything he wants. I haven't got three thousand four hundred pounds in my pocket, and I don't know anyone who has. That is, among our set. But I send you my IOU for the moment, and will promise to get you the money in two months. I suppose that will be sufficient, and that you will not bother Gerald any more about it. Yours truly, Silverbridge. Then he copied this letter and enclosed the copy in another, which he wrote to his brother. Dear Gerald, what an ass you have been! But I don't suppose you are worse than I was at Doncaster. I will have nothing to do with such people as Comfort and Cribble. That is the sure way to the Duh. As for telling Morton, that is only a polite and roundabout way of telling the Governor. He would immediately ask the Governor what was to be done. You will see what I have done. Of course I must tell the Governor before the end of February, as I cannot get the money in any other way. But that will do. It does seem hard upon him, not that the money will hurt him much, but that he would so like to have a steady going son. I suppose Percival won't make any bother about the IOU. He'll be a fool if he does. I wouldn't kick him if I were you, unless he says anything very bad. You would be sure to come to grief somehow. He is a beast. Your affectionate brother, Silverbridge. With these letters that special grief was removed from his mind for a while. Looking over the dark river of possible trouble which seemed to run between the present moment and the time at which the money must be procured, he thought that he had driven off this calamity of jarrals to infinite distance. But into that dark river he must now plunge almost at once. On the next day he managed so that there should be no walk with Mabel. In the evening he could see that the Duke was uneasy, but not a word was said to him. On the following morning Lady Mabel took her departure. When she went from the door both the Duke and Silverbridge were there to bid her farewell. She smiled and was as gracious as though everything had gone according to her heart's delight. Dear Duke, I am so obliged to you for your kindness, she said, as she put up her cheek for him to kiss. When she gave her hand to Silverbridge, of course she will come and see me in town. And then she smiled upon them all, having courage enough to keep down all her sufferings. Come in here a moment, Silverbridge, said the Father, as they returned into the house together. How is it now between you and her? End of CHAPTER 60 CHAPTER 61 OF THE DUKE'S CHILDREN How is it now between you and her? That was the question which the Duke put to his son as soon as he had closed the door of the study. Lady Mabel had just been dismissed from the front door on her journey, and there could be no doubt as to the HER intended. No such questions would have been asked had not Silverbridge himself declared to his father his purpose of making Lady Mabel his wife. On that subject the Duke, without such authority, would not have interfered. But he had been consulted, had exceeded, and had encouraged the idea by excessive liberality on his part. He had never dropped it out of his mind for a moment. And when he found that the girl was leaving his house without any explanation, then he became restless and inquisitive. They say that perfect love casteth out fear. If it be so, the love of children to their parents is seldom altogether perfect, and perhaps had better not be quite perfect. With this young man it was not that he feared anything which his father could do to him, that he believed that in consequence of the declaration which he had to make his comforts and pleasures would be curtailed, or his independence diminished. He knew his father too well to dread such punishment. But he feared that he would make his father unhappy, and he was conscious that he had so often sinned in that way. He had stumbled so frequently, though in action he would so often be thoughtless, yet he understood perfectly the effect which had been produced on his father's mind by his conduct. He had it at heart to be good to the Governor, to gratify that most loving of all possible friends, who, as he knew well, was always thinking of his welfare. And yet he never had been good to the Governor, nor had Gerald, and to all this was added his sister's determined perversity. It was thus he feared his father. He paused for a moment while the Duke stood with his back to the fire, looking at him. I'm afraid that it is all over, sir, he said. All over? I am afraid so. Why is it all over? Has she refused you? Well, sir, it isn't quite that. Then he paused again. It was so difficult to begin about Isabel Boncassen. I am sorry for that, said the Duke, almost hesitating. Very sorry. You will understand, I hope, that I should make no inquiry in such a matter, unless I had felt myself warranted in doing so by what you had yourself told me in London. I understand all that. I have been very anxious about it, and have even gone so far as to make some preparations for what I hoped would be your early marriage. Preparations, exclaimed Silverbridge, thinking of church bells, bride-cake, and wedding presents. As to the property, I am so anxious that you should enjoy all the settled independence which can belong to an English gentleman. I never plough or sow. I know no more of sheep and bulls than of the extinct animals of earlier ages. I would not have it sow with you. I would feign see you surrounded by those things which ought to interest a nobleman in this country. Why is it all over with Lady Mabel Grex? The young man looked imploringly at his father, as though earnestly begging that nothing more might be said about Mabel. I had changed my mind before I found out that she was really in love with me. He could not say that. He could not hint that he might still have Mabel if he would. The only thing for him was to tell everything about Isabel Boncassen. He felt that in doing so he must begin with himself. I have rather changed my mind, sir, he said, since we were walking together in London that night. Have you quarreled with Lady Mabel? Oh, dear no, I am very fond of Mabel, only not just like that. Not just like what? I had better tell the whole truth at once. Certainly tell the truth, Silver Bridge. I cannot say that you are bound in duty to tell the whole truth even to your father in such a matter. But I mean to tell you everything. Mabel did not seem to care for me much in London. And then I saw someone I liked better than he stopped. But as the Duke did not ask any questions, he plunged on. It was Miss Boncassen. Miss Boncassen? Yes, sir, said Silver Bridge, with a little access of decision. The American young lady? Yes, sir. Do you know anything of her family? I think I know all about her family. It is not much in the way of family. You have not spoken to her about it? Yes, sir, I have settled it all with her on condition. Settled it with her that she is to be your wife? Yes, sir, on condition that you will approve. Did you go to her, Silver Bridge, with such a stipulation as that? It was not like that. How was it then? She stipulated she will marry me if you will consent. It was she then who thought of my wishes and my feeling, not you? I knew that I loved her. What is a man to do when he feels like that? Of course I meant to tell you. The Duke was now looking very black. I thought you liked her, sir. Liked her? I did like her. I do like her. What is that to do with it? Do you think I like none but those with whom I should think it fitting to align myself in marriage? Is there to be no duty in such matters? No restraint? No feeling of what is due to your own name, and to others who bear it? The lad out there who is sweeping the walks can marry the first girl that pleases his eye if she will take him. Perhaps his lot is the happier because he owns such liberty. Have you the same freedom? I suppose I have, by law. Do you recognize no duty but what the laws impose upon you? Should you be disposed to eat and drink in bestial excess because the laws would not hinder you? Should you lie and sleep all the day? The law would say nothing. Should you neglect every duty which your position imposes on you? The law could not interfere. To such a one as you the law can be no guide. You should so live as not to come near the law, or to have the law to come near to you. From all evil against which the law bars you, you should be barred at an infinite distance by honor, by conscious, and nobility. Does the law require patriotism, philanthropy, self-abnegation, public service, purity of purpose, devotion to the needs of others who have been placed in the world below you? The law is a great thing because men are poor and weak and bad, and it is great because when it exists in its strength no tyrant can be above it. But between you and me there should be no mention of law as the guide of conduct. Speak to me of honor, of duty, and of nobility, and tell me what they require of you. Silverbridge listened in silence and with something of true admiration in his heart. But he felt the strong necessity of declaring his own convictions on one special point here at once in this new crisis of the conversation. That accident in regard to the color of the dean's lodge had stood in the way of his logical studies, so that he was unable to put his argument into proper shape. But there belonged to him a certain natural astuteness which told him that he must put in his rejoinder at this particular point. I think I am bound in honor and in duty to marry Miss Boncassen, he said, and if I understand what you mean by nobility just as much. Because you were promised. Not only for that I have promised and therefore I am bound. She has, well, she has said that she loves me, and therefore of course I am bound, but it is not only that. What do you mean? I suppose a man ought to marry the woman he loves, if he can get her. No, no, not so, not always so. Do you think that love is a passion that cannot be withstood? But here we are both of one mind, sir. When I saw how you seemed to take to her—take to her—can I not interest myself in human beings without wishing to make them flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone? What am I to think of you? It was but the other day that all that you are now telling me of Miss Boncassen you were telling me of Lady Mabel Grex. Here poor Silverbridge bit his lips and shook his head and looked down upon the ground. This was the weak part of his case. He could not tell his father the whole story about Mabel, that she had coid his love so that he had been justified in thinking himself free from any claim in that direction when he had encountered the infinitely sweeter charms of Isabel Boncassen. You are as weak as water, said the unhappy father. I am not weak in this. Did you not say exactly the same about Lady Mabel? There was a pause so that he was driven to reply. I found her as I thought indifferent, and then I changed my mind. Indifferent? What does she think about it now? Does she know of this? How does it stand between you two at the present moment? She knows that I am engaged to Miss Boncassen. Does she approve of it? Why should I ask her, sir? I have not asked her. Then why did you tell her? She could not have but spoken her mind when you told her. There must have been much between you when this was talked of. The unfortunate young man was obliged to take some time before he could answer this appeal. He had to own that his father had some justice on his side, but at the same time he could reveal nothing of Mabel's secret. I told her because we were friends. I did not ask her approval, but she did disapprove. She thought that your son should not marry an American girl without family. Of course she would feel that. Now I have told you what she said, and I hope you will ask me no further questions about her. I cannot make Lady Mabel my wife, though for the matter of that I ought not to presume that she would take me if I wished it. I had intended to ask you today to consent to my marriage with Miss Boncassen. I cannot give you my consent. Then I am very unhappy. How can I believe as to your unhappiness when you would have said the same thing about Lady Mabel Grex a few weeks ago? Only eight months at Silverbridge. What is the difference? It is not the time but the disposition of the man. I cannot give you my consent. The young lady sees it in the right light, and that will make your escape easy. I do not want to escape. She has indicated the cause which will separate you. I will not be separated from her, said Silverbridge, who was beginning to feel that he was subjugated to tyranny. If he chose to marry Isabel, no one could have a right to hinder him. I can only hope that you will think better of it, and that when you next speak to me on that or any other subject you will answer me with less arrogance. This rebuke was terrible to the son, whose mind at the present moment was filled with two ideas—that of constancy to Isabel Boncassen, and then of respect and affection for his father. Indeed, sir, he said, I am not arrogant, and if I have answered him properly, I beg your pardon. But my mind is made up about this, and I thought you had better know how it is. I do not see that I can say anything else to you now. I think of going to Harrington this afternoon. Then the duke, with further very visible annoyance, asked where Harrington was. It was explained that Harrington was Lord Chilton's seat, Lord Chilton being master of the breakhounds, that it was his son's purpose to remain six weeks among the breakhounds, but that he should stay only a day or two with Lord Chilton. Then it appeared that Silverbridge intended to put himself up at a hunting inn in the neighborhood, and the duke did not at all like the plan, that his son should choose to live at an inn when the comforts of an English country house were open to him was distasteful and almost offensive to the duke. And the matter was not improved when he was made to understand that all this was to be done for the sake of hunting. There had been the shooting at Scotland, then the racing—ah, alas, yes, the racing—and the betting at Doncaster. Then the shooting at Matching had been made to appear to be the chief reason why he himself had been living in his own house, and now his son was going away to live at an inn in order that more time might be devoted to hunting. Why can't you hunt here at home, if you must hunt? It is all woodlands in Silverbridge. I thought you wanted woods. Lord Chilton has always troubled me about trumpet and wood. This breeze about the hunting enabled the son to escape without any further relusion to Miss Boncassen. He did escape and proceeded to turn over in his mind all that had been said. His tale had been told. A great burden was thus taken off his shoulders. He could tell Isabelle so much, and thus free himself from the suspicion of having been afraid to declare his purpose. She should know what he had done, and should be made to understand that he had been firm. He had, he thought, been very firm, and gave himself some credit on that head. His father, no doubt, had been firm, too, but that he had expected. His father had said much. All that about honor and duty had been very good. But this was certain, that when a young man had promised a young woman, he ought to keep his word. And he thought that there were certain changes going on in the management of the world, which his father did not quite understand. Fathers never do quite understand the changes which are manifest to their sons. Some years ago it might have been improper that an American girl should be elevated to the rank of an English duchess. But now all that was altered. The duke spent the rest of the day alone, and was not happy in his solitude. All that Silverbridge had told him was sad to him. He had taught himself to think that he could love Lady Mabel as an affectionate father wishes to love his son's wife. He had set himself to wish to like her, and had been successful. Being most anxious that his son should marry, he had prepared himself to be more than ordinarily liberal, to be in every way gracious. His children were now everything to him, and among his children his son and heir was the chief. From the moment in which he had heard from Silverbridge that Lady Mabel was chosen, he had given himself up to considering how he might best promote their interests, how he might best enable them to live with that dignity and splendor which he himself had unwisely despised, that the son who was to come after him should be worthy of the place assigned to his name had been of personal objects the nearest to his heart. There had been failures, but still there had been left room for hope. The boy had been unfortunate at eating, but how many unfortunate boys had become great men? He had disgraced himself by his folly at college, but though some lads will be men at twenty, others are then little more than children. The fruit that ripens the soonest is seldom the best. Then had come Tifto and the racing mania. Everything could be worse than Tifto and the race horses. But from that evil Silverbridge had seemed to be made free by the very disgust which the vileness of the circumstance had produced. Perhaps Tifto, driving a nail into his horse's foot, had on the whole been serviceable. That apostasy from the political creed of the palaces had been a blow, much more felt than the loss of the seventy thousand pounds, but even under that blow he had consoled himself by thinking that a conservative patriotic nobleman may serve his country even as a conservative. In the midst of this he had felt that the surest resource for his son against evil would be an early marriage. If he would marry becomingly, then might everything still be made pleasant. If his son would marry becomingly, nothing which a father could do should be wanting to add splendor and dignity to his son's life. In thinking of all this he had by no means regarded his own mode of life with favor. He knew how Jejun his life had been, how devoid of other interest in that of public service to which he had devoted himself. He was thinking of this when he told his son that he had neither plowed and sowed, or been the owner of sheep and oxen. He often thought of this when he heard those around him talking of the sports, which though he condemned them as the employments of a life, he now regarded wistfully, hopelessly as far as he himself was concerned, as proper recreations for a man of wealth. Silverbridge should have it all if he could arrange it. The one necessary was a fitting wife, and the fitting wife had been absolutely chosen by Silverbridge himself. It may be conceived, therefore, that he was again unhappy. He had already been driven to acknowledge that these children of his, thoughtless, restless though they seemed to be, still had a will of their own, in all which how like they were to their mother. With her, however, his word, though it might be resisted, had never lost its authority. When he had declared that a thing should not be done, she had never persisted in saying that she would do it. But with his children it was otherwise. What power had he over Silverbridge, or for the matter of that even over his daughter? They had only to be firm, and he knew that he must be conquered. I thought you liked her, Silverbridge had said to him. How utterly unconscious thought the duke! Must the young man have been of all that his position required of him when he used such an argument? Liked her? He did like her. She was clever, accomplished, beautiful, well-mannered, as far as he knew endowed with all good qualities. Could not many an old Roman have said as much for some favorite Greek slave, for some freedman whom he would admit to his very heart? But what old Roman ever dreamed of giving his daughter to the son of a Greek bondsman? Had he done so, what would have become of the name of a Roman citizen? And was it not his duty to fortify and maintain that higher, smaller, more precious pinnacle of rank on which Fortune had placed him and his children? Like her? Yes, he liked her certainly. He had by no means always found that he best liked the companionship of his own order. He had liked to feel around him the free battle of the House of Commons. He liked the power of attack and defense, and carrying on which an English politician cares nothing for rank. He liked to remember that the son of any tradesman might, by his own merits, become a peer of Parliament. He would have liked to think that his son should share all these tastes with him. Yes, he liked Isabelle Boncassen. But how different was that liking from a desire that she should be bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh? End of chapter 61. Chapter 62 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 62 The Break Country. What does your father mean to do about trumping wood? That was the first word from Lord Chilton after he had shaken hands with his guest. Isn't it all right yet? All right? No. How can a wood like that be all right without a man about the place who knows anything of the nature of a fox in your grandfather's time? My great-uncle, you mean? Well, your great-uncle, they used to trap foxes there. There was a fellow named Father Gill who used to come there for the shooting. Now it is worse than ever. Nobody shoots there because there is nothing to shoot. There isn't a keeper. Every scamp is allowed to go where he pleases. And of course there isn't a fox in the whole place. My huntsman laughs at me when I ask him to draw it. As the indignant master of the break-hound said this, the very fire flashed from his eyes. My dear, said Lady Chilton, expostulating, Lord Silverbridge hasn't been in the house above half an hour. What does that matter? When a thing has to be said, it had better be said at once. Phineas Finn was staying at Harrington with his intimate friends, the children's, as were also a certain Mr. and Mrs. Mall, both of whom were addicted to hunting, the lady whose maiden name had been Palliser, being a cousin to Lord Silverbridge. On that day also a certain Mr. and Mrs. Spooner dined at Harrington. Mr. and Mrs. Spooner were both very much given to hunting, as seemed to be necessarily the case with everybody admitted to that house. Mr. Spooner was a gentleman who might be on the wrong side of fifty, with a red nose, very rigorous, and submissive in regard to all things but port wine. His wife was perhaps something more than half his age, a stout, hard-riding, handsome woman. She had been the penniless daughter of a retired officer, but yet had managed to ride on whatever animal anyone would lend her. Then Mr. Spooner, who had for many years been part and parcel of the break-hunt, and who was much in want of a wife, had, luckily for her, cast his eyes upon Miss Leatherside. It was thought that upon the whole she made him a good wife. She hunted four days a week, and he could afford to keep horses for her. She never flirted, wanted no one to open gates. Tom Spooner himself was not always so forward as he used to be, but his wife was always there, and would tell him all that he did not see himself. And she was a good housewife, taking care that nothing should be spat lavishly, except upon the stable. Of him too and of his health she was careful, never scrupling to say a word in season when he was likely to hurt himself, either among the fences or among the decanters. You ain't so young as you were, Tom, don't think of doing it. This she would say to him with a loud voice when she would find him pausing at a fence. Then she would hop over herself, and he would go round. She was quite a providence to him, as her mother, old Mrs. Leatherside, would say. She was hardly the woman that one would have expected to meet as a friend in the drawing-room of Lady Chilton. Lord Chilton was perhaps a little rough, but Lady Chilton was all that a mother, a wife, and a lady ought to be. She probably felt that some little apology ought to be made for Mrs. Spooner. I hope you like hunting, she said to Sylva Bridge. Best of all things, said he enthusiastically. Because you know this is Castle Nimrod, in which nothing is allowed to interfere with the one great business of life. It's like that, is it? Quite like that. Lord Chilton has taken up hunting as his duty in life, and he does it with his might and main. Not to have a good day is a misery to him, not for himself, but because he feels that he is responsible. We had one blank day last year, and I thought he would never recover it. It was that unfortunate trumpington would. How he will hate me! Not if you praise the hounds judiciously, and then there is a Mr. Spooner coming here to-night. He is the first lieutenant. He understands all about the foxes and all about the farmers. He has got a wife. Does she understand anything? She understands him. She is coming too. They have not been married long, and he never goes anywhere without her. Does she ride? Well, yes. I never go out myself now, because I have so much of it all at home. But I fancy she does ride a good deal. She will talk hunting too. If children were to leave the country, I think they ought to make her a master. Perhaps she will think her rather odd, but she really is a very good woman. I am sure I shall like her. I hope you will. You know Mr. Finn. He is here. He and my husband are very old friends. An Adelaide ball is your cousin. She hunts too, and so does Mr. Ball, only not quite so energetically. I think that is all we shall have. Immediately after that all the guests came in at once, and a discussion was heard as they were passing through the hall. No, that wasn't it, said Mrs. Spooner loudly. I don't care what Dick said. Dick Rabbit was the first whip, and seems to have been much exercised with the matter now under dispute. The fox never went into grobby-gorse at all. I was there, and I saw Sappho give him a line down the bank. I think he must have gone into the gorse, my dear, said her husband. The earth was open, you know. I tell you she didn't. You weren't there, and you can't know. I'm sure it was a vixen by her running. We ought to have killed that fox, my lord. Then Mrs. Spooner made her obeisance to her hostess. Perhaps she was rather slow in doing this, but the greatness of the subject had been the cause. These are matters so important that the ordinary civilities of the world should not stand in their way. What do you say, Chilton? asked the husband. I say that Mrs. Spooner isn't very often wrong, and that Dick Rabbit isn't very often right about a fox. It was a pretty run, said Phineas. Just thirty-four minutes, said Mr. Spooner. Thirty-two up to grobby-gorse, asserted Mrs. Spooner. The hounds never hunted a yard after that. Dick hurried them into the gorse, and the old hound wouldn't stick to his line when she found that no one believed her. This was on a Monday evening, and the break hounds went out generally five days a week. You'll hunt tomorrow, I suppose, Lady Chilton said to Silverbridge. I hope so. You must hunt tomorrow. Indeed there is nothing else to do. Chilton has taken such a dislike to shooting men that he won't shoot pheasants himself. We don't hunt on Wednesdays or Sundays, and then everybody lies in bed. Here is Mr. Maul, he lies in bed on other mornings as well, and spends the rest of his day riding about the country looking for the hounds. Does he ever find them? What did become of you all today, said Mr. Maul, as he took his place at the dinner table? You can't have drawn any of the coverts regularly. Then we found our foxes without drawing them, said the master. We chopped one at Bromley's, said Mr. Spooner. I went there. When you ought to have known better, said Mrs. Spooner. When a man loses the hounds in that country, he ought to go direct to Brackett's wood. If you had come on to Brackett's, you'd have seen as good a thirty-two minutes as ever you wished to ride. When the ladies went out of the room, Mrs. Spooner gave a parting word of advice to her husband and to the host. Now, Tom, don't you drink port wine? Lord Chilton, look after him, and don't let him have port wine. Then there began an altogether different phase of hunting conversation. As long as the ladies were there, it was all very well to talk of hunting as an amusement, good sport, a thirty minutes or so, the delight of having a friend in a ditch, or the glory of a stiff-built rail were fitting subjects for a lighter hour. But now the business of the night was to begin. The difficulties, the enmities, the precautions, the resolutions, the resources of the break-hunt were to be discussed. And from thence the conversation of these devotees strayed away to the perils at large to which hunting in these modern days is subjected. Not the perils of broken necks and crushed ribs, which can be reduced to an average, and so an end made of that small matter. But the perils from outsiders, the perils from new fangled prejudices, the perils from more modern sports, the perils from over-cultivation, the perils from extended population, the perils from increasing railroads, the perils from literary ignorances, the perils from intruding cadds, the perils from indifferent magnets, the Duke of Omnium, for instance, and that peril of perils, the peril of decrease of funds and increase of expenditure. The jaunty gentleman who puts on his dainty britches and his pair of boots and on his single horse rides out on a pleasant morning to some neighboring meat, thinking himself a sportsman, has but a faint idea of the troubles which a few staunch workmen endure in order that he may not be made to think that his boots and his britches and his horse have been in vain. A word or two further was at first said about that unfortunate wood for which Silverbridge at the present felt himself responsible. Finn said that he was sure the Duke would look to it if Silverbridge would mention it. Chilton simply groaned. Silverbridge said nothing, remembering how many troubles he had on hand at this moment. Then by degrees their solicitude worked itself round to the cares of a neighboring hunt. The ARU had lost their master. One Captain Glomax was going, and the county had been driven to the necessity of advertising for a successor. When hunting comes to that, said Lord Chilton, one begins to think that it is in a bad way. It may always be observed that when hunting men speak seriously of their sport, they speak despondingly. Everything is going wrong. Perhaps the same thing may be remarked in other pursuits. Farmers are generally on the verge of ruin. Trade is always bad. The church is in danger. The house of lords isn't worth a dozen years' purchase. The throne totters. An itinerant master with a carpet bag can never carry on a country, said Mr. Spooner. You ought really to have a gentleman of property in the county, said Lord Chilton, in a self-deprecating tone. His father's acres lay elsewhere. It should be someone who has a real stake in the country, replied Mr. Spooner, whom the farmers can respect. Glomax understood hunting no doubt, but the farmers didn't care for him. If you don't have the farmers with you, you can't have hunting, then he filled a glass of port. If you don't approve of Glomax, what do you think of a man like Major Tifto, asked Mr. Mall? That was in the runny mead, said Spooner, contemptuously. Who is Major Tifto, asked Lord Chilton? He is the man, said Silver Ridge Boldly, who owned Prime Minister with me when he didn't win the legion last September. There was a deuce of a row, said Mall. Then Mr. Spooner, who read his bell's life and field very religiously, and who never missed an article in Bailey's, proceeded to give them an account of everything that had taken place in the runny mead hunt. It mattered but little that he was wrong in all his details. Narrations always are. The result to which he came was nearly right when he declared that the Major had been turned off, that a committee had been appointed, and that Messer's tops and drawstock had been threatened with a lawsuit. That comes, said Lord Chilton solemnly, of employing men like Major Tifto in places for which they are radically unfit. I daresay Major Tifto knew how to handle a pack of hounds, perhaps almost as well as my huntsman, Fowler. But I don't think a county would get on very well which appointed Fowler, Master of Hounds. He is an honest man, and therefore would be better than Tifto, but it would not do. It is a position in which a man should at any rate be a gentleman. If he be not, all those who should be concerned in maintaining the hunt will turn their backs upon him. When I take my hounds over this man's ground and that man's ground, certainly without doing him any good, I have to think of a great many things. I have to understand that those whom I cannot compensate by money, I have to compensate by courtesy. When I shake hands with the farmer and express my obligation to him, because he does not lock his gates, he is gratified. I don't think any decent farmer would care much for shaking hands with Major Tifto. If we fall into that kind of thing, there must soon be an end of hunting. Major Tifto's are cheap, no doubt, but in hunting, as in most other things, cheap and nasty go together. If men don't choose to put their hands in their pockets, they had better say so, and give the thing up altogether. If you won't take any more wine, we'll go to the ladies. Silverbridge, the trap will start from the door tomorrow precisely at 9.30 AM. Grantingham Cross is 14 miles. Then they all left their chairs. But as they did so, Mr. Spooner finished the bottle of port wine. I never heard children speak so much like a book before, said Spooner to his wife, as she drove him home that night. The next morning everybody was ready for a start at half-past nine, except Mr. Ball, as to whom his wife declared that she had left him in bed when she came down to breakfast. He could never get there if we don't take him, said Lord Chilton, who was, in truth, the most good-natured man in the world. Five minutes were allowed him, and then he came down with a large sandwich in one hand and a button-hook in the other, with which he was prepared to complete his toilet. What the juice makes you always in such a hurry, with the first words he spoke, as Lord Chilton got on the box. The master knew him too well to argue the point. Well, he always is in a hurry, said the sinner, when his wife accused him of ingratitude. Where Spooner asked the master, when he saw Mrs. Spooner without her husband at the meet? I knew how it would be when I saw the port wine, she said, in a whisper that could be heard all round. He has got it this time sharp, in his great toe. We shan't find it, Grantingham. They were cutting wood there last week. If I were you, my lord, I'd go away to the spinnies at once. I must draw the country regularly, muttered the master. The country was drawn regularly, but in vain till about two o'clock. Not only was there no fox at Grantingham wood, but none even at the spinnies. And a two, foul-er, with an anxious face, held a consultation with his more anxious master. Trumpington wood lay on their right, and that, no doubt, would have been the proper draw. I suppose we must try it, said Lord Chilton. Old foul-er looked very sour. You might as well look for a fox under my wife's bed, my lord. I daresay we should find one there, said one of the wags of the hunt. Fowler shook his head, feeling that this was no time for joking. It ought to be drawn, said Chilton. Of course you know best, my lord. I wouldn't touch it. Never know more. Let them all know what the duke's wood is. This is Lord Silverbridge, the duke's son, said Chilton, laughing. I beg your lordship's pardon, said Fowler, taking off his cap. We shall have a good time coming someday. Let me trot him off to Mittalmous Daisies, my lord. I'll be there in 30 minutes. In the neighboring parish of St. Michael de Daisier, there was a favorite little gorse which among hunting men had acquired this unreasonable name. After a little consideration, the master yielded and away they trotted. You'll cross the forward foul-er, asked Mrs. Spooner. Oh yes, ma'am, we couldn't draw the Daisies this afternoon if we didn't. It'll be up to the horse's bellies. Those who don't like it can go round. They'd never be there in time, foul-er. There's a many, ma'am, as don't mind that you won't be the one to stay behind. The water was up to the horse's bellies. But nevertheless Mrs. Spooner was at the gorse side when the Daisies were drawn. They found and were away in a minute. It was all done so quickly that foul-er, who had alone gone into the gorse, had hardly time to get out with his hounds. The fox ran right back as though he were making for the duke's pernicious wood. In the first field or two there was a succession of gates, and there was not much to do in the way of jumping. Then the fox, keeping straight ahead, deviated from the line by which they had come, making for the brook by a more direct course. The ruck of the horseman, understanding the matter very well, left the hounds and went to the right, riding for the ford. The ford was of such a nature that but one horse could pass at a time, and that one had to scramble through deep mud. They'll be the devil to pay there, said Lord Chilton, going straight with his hounds. Phineas Finn and Dick Rabbit were close after him. Old Fowler had craftily gone to the ford, but Mrs. Spooner, who did not intend to be shaken off, followed the master, and close with her was Lord Silverbridge. Lord Chilton hasn't got it right, she said. He can't do it among these bushes. As she spoke, the master put his horse at the bushes and then disappeared. The lady had been right. There was no ground at that spot to take off from, and the bushes had impeded him. Lord Chilton got over, but his horse was in the water. Dick Rabbit and poor Phineas Finn were stopped in their course by the necessity of helping the master in his trouble. But Mrs. Spooner, the judicious Mrs. Spooner, rode at the stream where it was, indeed a little wider, but at a place in which the horse could see what he was about and where he could jump from and to firm ground. Lord Silverbridge followed her gallantly. They both jumped the brook well, and then were together. "'You'll beat me in pace,' said the lady, as he rode alongside her. Take the fence ahead straight and then turn sharp to your right.' With all her faults Mrs. Spooner was a thorough sportsman. He did take the fence ahead, or rather tried to do so. It was a bank and a double ditch, not very great in itself, but requiring a horse to land on the top and go off with the second spring. Our young friend's nag, not quite understanding the nature of the impediment, endeavored to swallow it whole, as hard riding men say, and came down in the further ditch. Silverbridge came down on his head, but the horse pursued his course across a heavily plowed field. This was very disagreeable. He was not in the least hurt, but it became his duty to run after his horse. A very few furrows of that work suffice to make a man think that hunting altogether is a beastly sort of thing. Mrs. Spooner's horse, who had shown himself to be a little less quick of foot than his own, had known all about the bank and the double ditch, and had apparently of his own accord turned down to the right, either seeing or hearing the hounds and knowing that the plowed ground was to be avoided. But his rider soon changed his course. She went right after the riderless horse, and when Silverbridge had reduced himself to utter speechlessness by his exertions, brought him back his steed. I am so sorry, he struggled to say, and then, as she held his horse for him, he struggled up into the saddle. Keep down this furrow, said Mrs. Spooner, and we shall be with them in the second field. There's nobody near them yet. CHAPTER 63 I've seen them like that before. On this occasion Silverbridge stayed only a few days at Harrington, having promised Tragear to entertain him at the bald-faced stag. It was here that his horses were standing, and he now intended, by limiting himself to one horse a day, to mount his friend for a couple of weeks. It was settled at last that Tragear should ride his friend's horse one day, higher the next, and so on. I wonder what you'll think of Mrs. Spooner, he said. Why should I think anything of her? Because I doubt whether you ever saw such a woman before. She does nothing but hunt. Then I certainly shan't want to see her again. And she talks as I never heard a lady talk before. Then I don't care if I never see her at all. But she is the most plucky and most good-natured human being I ever saw in my life. After all, hunting is very good fun. Very if you don't do it so often as to be sick of it. And as I've known you, I don't think I ever saw you ride yet. We used to have hunting down in Cornwall, and thought we did it pretty well, and I have ridden in South Wales, which I can assure you isn't an easy thing to do. But you mustn't expect much from me. They were both out the Monday and Tuesday in that week, and then again on the Thursday, without anything special in the way of sport. Lord Children, who had found Silverbridge to be a young man after his own heart, was anxious that he should come back to Harrington and bring Tragear with him. But to this Tragear would not have sent, alleging that he should feel himself to be a burden both to Lord and Lady Children. On the Friday Tragear did not go out, saying that he would avoid the expense, and on that day there was a good run. It is always the way, said Silverbridge, if you miss a day it's sure to be the best thing of the season, an hour and a quarter with hardly anything you could call a check. It is the only very good thing I have seen, since I have been here. Mrs. Spooner was with them all through. And I suppose you were with Mrs. Spooner? I wasn't far off. I wish you'd been there. On the next day the meat was at the kennels, close to Harrington, and Silverbridge drove his friend over in a gig. The master and Lady Children, Spooner and Mrs. Spooner, Maul and Mrs. Maul, Finneas Finn and a host of others, condoled with the unfortunate young man, because he had not seen the good thing yesterday. We've had it a little faster once or twice, said Mrs. Spooner with deliberation, but never for so long. Then it was straight as the line, and a real open kill. No changing, you know. We did go through the daisies, but I'll swear to it's being the same Fox. All of which set Tragear wondering, how could she swear to her Fox? And if they had changed, what did it matter? And if it had been a little crooked, why would it have been less enjoyable? And was she really so exact and judge of pace as she pretended to be? I'm afraid we shan't have anything like that today, she continued. The wind's in the west, and I never do like a westerly wind. A little to the north, said her husband, looking round the compass. My dear, said the lady, you never know where the wind comes from. Now don't you think of taking off your comforter. I won't have it. Tragear was riding his friend's favorite hunter, a thoroughbred bay horse, very much more than up to his rider's weight, and supposed to be peculiarly good at timber, water, or any well-defined kind of fence, however high or however broad. They found it a-covered near the kennels, and killed their Fox after a burst of a few minutes. They found again, and having lost their Fox, all declared that there was not a yard of scent. I always know what a west wind means, said Mrs. Spooner. Then they lunched and smoked and trotted about with an apparent acknowledgment that there wasn't much to be done. It was not right that they should expect much after so good a thing as they had had yesterday. At half-past two Mr. Spooner had been sent home by his Providence, and Mrs. Spooner was calculating that she would be able to ride her horse again on the Tuesday when, on a sudden, the hounds were on a Fox. It turned out afterwards that Dick Rabbit had absolutely ridden him up among the stubble, and that the hounds had nearly killed him before he had gone a yard. But the astute animal, making the best use of his legs, till he could get the advantage of the first ditch, ran, and crept and jumped absolutely through the pack. Then there was shouting, and yelling, and riding. The men who were idly smoking threw away their cigars. Those who were loitering at a distance lost their chance. But the real sportsmen, always on the alert, always thinking of the business in hand, always mindful that there may be at any moment of Fox just before the hounds, had a glorious opportunity of getting well away. Among these no one was more intent or, when the moment came, litter away than Mrs. Spooner. Silverbridge had been talking to her, and had the full advantage of her care. Tragear was riding behind with Lord Chilton, who had been pressing him to come with his friend to Harrington. As soon as the shouting was heard, Chilton was off like a rocket. It was not only that he was anxious to get well away, but that a sense of duty compelled him to see how the thing was being done. Lord Fowler certainly was a little slow, and Dick Rabbit, with the true bloody-minded instinct of a whip, was a little apt to bustle a fox back into cover. And then, when a run commences with a fast rush, riders are apt to override the hounds, and then the hounds will overrun the fox, all of which has to be seen to by a master who knows his business. Tragear followed, and being mounted on a fast horse, was soon as forward as a judicious rider would desire. Now, runks, don't you press on and spoil it all, said Mrs. Spooner, to the hard-riding, objectionable son of old runks, the vet from Rufford. But young runks did press on till the master spoke a word. The word shall not be repeated, but it was efficacious. At that moment there had been a check, as there is generally, after a short spurt, when fox, hounds, and horsemen get off together, and not always in the order in which they have been placed here. There is too much bustle, and the pack becomes disconcerted. But it enabled Fowler to get up, and by dint of growling at the men, and conciliating his hounds, he soon picked up the scent. If they'd all stand still for two minutes and be blank to them, he muttered aloud to himself, they'd have some at the ride-arter. They might go then, and the some of them soon be nowhere. But in spite of Fowler's denunciations there was, of course, another rush. Runks had slunk away, but by making a little distance was now again ahead of the hounds. And unfortunately there was a half a dozen with him. Lord Chilton was very wrath. When he's like that, said Mrs. Spooner to Tragear, it's always well to give him a wide berth. But as the hounds were now running fast, it was necessary that even in taking this precaution due regard should be had to the fox's line. He's back for Harrington Bush's, said Mrs. Spooner. And as she said so, she rode at a bank with a rail at the top of it, perhaps a foot and a half high, with a deep drop into the field beyond. It was not a very nice place, but it was apparently the only available spot in the fence. She seemed to know it well, for as she got close to it she brought her horse almost to a stand, and so took it. The horse cleared the rail, seemed just to touch the bank on the other side, while she threw herself back almost onto his cropper, and so came down with perfect ease. But she, knowing that it would not be easy to all horses, paused a moment to see what would happen. Tragear was next to her and was intending to fly the fence. But when he saw Mrs. Spooner pull her horse and pause, he also had to pull his horse. Yes he did, so as to enable her to take her leap without danger or encumbrance from him, but hardly so as to bring his horse to the bank in the same way. It may be doubted whether the animal he was riding would have known enough and been quiet enough to have performed the acrobatic maneuver which had carried Mrs. Spooner so pleasantly over the peril. He had some idea of this, for the thought occurred to him that he would turn and ride fast at the jump. But before he could turn he saw that Silverbridge was pressing on him. It was thus his only resource to do as Mrs. Spooner had done. He was too close to the rail, but still he tried it. The horse attempted to jump, caught his foot against the bar, and of course went over head foremost. This probably would have been nothing had not Silverbridge with his rushing beast been immediately after them. When the young Lord saw that his friend was down, it was too late for him to stop his course. His horse was determined to have the fence and did have it. He touched nothing and would have skimmed in glory over the next field had he not come right down on Tragear and Tragear's steed. There they were, four of them, two men and two horses in one confused heap. The first person with them was Mrs. Spooner, who was off her horse in a minute, and Silverbridge, too, was very soon on his legs. He at any rate was unhurt, and the two horses were up before Mrs. Spooner was out of her saddle. But Tragear did not move. What are we to do? said Lord Silverbridge, kneeling down over his friend. Oh, Mrs. Spooner, what are we to do? The hunt had passed on, and no one else was immediately with them. But at this moment Dick Rabbit, who had been left behind to bring up his hounds, appeared above the bank. Leave your horse and come down, said Mrs. Spooner. Here is a gentleman who has hurt himself. Dick wouldn't leave his horse, but was soon on the scene, having found his way through another part of the fence. No, he ain't dead, said Dick. I've seen him like that before, and they weren't dead. But he's had a awful squeege. Then he passed his hand over the man's neck and chest. There's a lot of them as broke, said he. We must get him into pharma-tubies. After a while he was got into pharma-tubies, when that surgeon came who was always in attendance on a hunting field. The surgeon declared that he had broken his collarbone, two of his ribs, and his left arm, and then one of the animals had struck him on the chest as he raised himself. A little brandy was poured down his throat, but even under that operation he gave no sign of life. No, Mrs. He Aren't Dead, said Dick to Mrs. Tooby. No more he won't die this bout, but he's got it very nasty. That night Silverbridge was sitting by his friend's bedside at ten o'clock in Lord Chilton's house. Tragear had spoken a few words and the bones had been set. But the doctor had not felt himself justified in speaking with that assurance which Dick had expressed. The man's whole body had been bruised by the horse which had fallen on him. The agony of Silverbridge was extreme, for he knew that it had been his doing. You were a little too close, Mrs. Spooner had said to him, but nobody saw it and will hold our tongues. Silverbridge, however, would not hold his tongue. He told everybody how it had happened, how he had been unable to stop his horse, how he had jumped upon his friend and perhaps killed him. I don't know what I am to do. I am so miserable, he said to Lady Chilton, with the tears running down his face. The two remained at Harrington, and their luggage was brought over from the bald-faced stag. The accident had happened on a Saturday. On the Sunday there was no comfort. On the Monday the patient's recollection and mind were re-established, and the doctor thought that perhaps with great care his constitution would pull him through. On that day the consternation at Harrington was so great that Mrs. Spooner would not go to the meet. She came over from Spoon Hall and spent a considerable part of the day in the sick man's room. It's sure to come right if it's above the vitals, she said, expressing an opinion which had come from much experience. That is, she added, and lest the next broke, when poor old Jack's dubs drove his head into his cap and dislocated his vertebrae, of course it was all up with him, the patient heard this and was seen to smile. On the Tuesday there arose the question of family communication. As the accident would make its way into the papers, a message had been sent to Paul Wenig to say that various bones had been broken, but that the patient was upon the whole doing well. Then there had been different messages backwards and forwards, in all of which there had been an attempt to comfort old Mrs. Draghear. But on the Tuesday letters were written. Silverbridge, sitting in his friend's room, sent a long account of the accident to Mrs. Draghear, giving a list of the injuries done. Your sister whispered the poor fellow from his pillow. Yes, yes, yes I will. And Mabel Grex, Silverbridge nodded ascent and again went to the writing-table. He did write to his sister and in plain words told her everything. The doctor says he is not now in danger. Then he added a post-script. As long as I am here I will let you know how he is. The Duke's children by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 64. I believe him to be a worthy young man. Lady Mary and Mrs. Finn were alone when the tidings came from Silverbridge. The Duke had been absent, having gone to spend an unpleasant week in Barsicher. Mary had taken the opportunity of his absence to discuss her own prospects at full length. My dear, said Mrs. Finn, I will not express an opinion. How can I, after all that has passed? I have told the Duke the same. I cannot be heart and hand with either without being false to the other. But still, Lady Mary continued to talk about Draghear. I don't think Papa has the right to treat me in this way, she said. He wouldn't be allowed to kill me, and this is killing me. While there is life there is hope, said Mrs. Finn. Yes, while there is life there is hope, but one doesn't want to grow old first. There is no danger of that yet, Mary. I feel very old. What is the use of life without something to make it sweet? I am not even allowed to hear anything that he is doing. If he were to ask me, I think I would go away with him tomorrow. He would not be foolish enough for that. Because he does not suffer as I do. He has his borough and his public life and a hundred things to think of. I have got nothing but him. I know he is true, quite as true as I am, but it is I that have the suffering in all this. A man can never be like a girl. Papa ought not to make me suffer like this. That took place on the Monday. On the Tuesday Mrs. Finn received a letter from her husband, giving his account of the accident. As far as I can learn, he said, Silverbridge will write about it tomorrow. Then he went on to give a by no means good account of the state of the patient. The doctor had declared him to be out of immediate danger and had set the broken bones. As tidings would be sent on the next day, she had better say nothing about the accident to Lady Mary. This letter reached matching on Tuesday and made the position of Mrs. Finn very disagreeable. She was bound to carry herself as though nothing was amiss, knowing, as she did so, the condition of Mary's lover. On the evening of that day Lady Mary was more lively than usual, though her liveliness was hardly of a happy nature. I don't know what Papa can expect. I've heard him say a hundred times that to be in Parliament is the highest place a gentleman can fill, and now Frank is in Parliament. Mrs. Finn looked at her with beseeching eyes, as though begging her not to speak of Tragear. And then to think of there having that Lord Popplecourt here, I shall always hate Lady Cantrip, for it was her place, that she should have thought it possible, Lord Popplecourt, such a creature, hyperion to assate her, isn't it true, oh, that Papa should have thought it possible? Then she got up and walked about the room, beating her hands together. All this time Mrs. Finn knew that Tragear was lying in Harrington, with half his bones broken, and in danger of his life. On the next morning Lady Mary received her letters. There were two lying before her plate when she came into breakfast, one from her father, and the other from Silverbridge. She read that from the Duke first, while Mrs. Finn was watching her. Papa will be home on Saturday, she said. He declares that the people in the borough are quite delighted with Silverbridge, for a member, and he is quite jocos. They used to be delighted with me once, he says, but I suppose everybody changes. Then she began to pour out the tea before she opened her brother's letter. Mrs. Finn's eyes were still on her anxiously. I wonder what Silverbridge has got to say about the break-hunt. Then she opened her letter. Oh, oh, she exclaimed, Frank has killed himself. Killed himself? Not that. It is not so bad as that. You had heard it before? How is he, Mary? Oh, heavens, I cannot read it. Do you read it? Tell me all. Tell me the truth. What am I to do? Where shall I go? Then she threw up her hands, and with a loud scream fell on her knees with her head upon the chair. In the next moment Mrs. Finn was down beside her on the floor. Read it. Why do you not read it? If you will not read it, give it to me. Mrs. Finn did read the letter, which was very short, but still giving by no means an unfavorable account of the patient. I am sorry to say that he has broken ever so many bones, and we were very much frightened about him. Then the writer went into the tales, for which a reader who did not read the words carefully might well imagine that the man's life was still in danger. Mrs. Finn did read it all, and did her best to comfort her friend. It has been a bad accident, she said, but it is clear that he is getting better. Men do so often break their bones, and then seem to think nothing of it afterwards. Silverbridge says it was his fault. What does he mean? I suppose he was riding too close to Mr. Triguer, and they came down together. Of course it is distressing, but I do not think you need make yourself positively unhappy about it. Would you not be unhappy if it were Mr. Finn? And married, jumping up from her knees? I shall go to him. I should go mad if I were to remain here and know nothing about it but what Silverbridge will tell me. I will telegraph to Mr. Finn. Mr. Finn won't care. Men are so heartless. They write about each other just as though it did not signify in the least whether anybody were dead or alive. I shall go to him. You cannot do that. I don't care now what anybody may think. I choose to be considered as belonging to him, and if Papa were here I would say the same. It was, of course, not difficult to make her understand that she could not go to Harrington, but it was by no means easy to keep her tranquil. She would send a telegram herself. This was debated for a long time, till at last Lady Mary insisted that she was not subject to Mrs. Finn's authority. If Papa were here even then I would send it. But she did send it, in her own name, regardless of the fact pointed out to her by Mrs. Finn, that the people at the post office would thus know her secret. It is no secret, she said. I don't want it to be a secret. The telegram went in the following words. I have heard it. I am so wretched. Send me one word to say how you are. She got an answer back, with Tragear's own name on it, on that afternoon. Do not be unhappy. I am doing well. Lover bridges with me. On the Thursday Gerald came home from Scotland. He had arranged his little affair with Lord Percival, not, however, without some difficulty. Lord Percival had declared that he did not understand IOUs in an affair of that kind. He had always thought that gentlemen did not play for stakes which they could not pay at once. This was not said to Gerald himself, or the result would have been calamitous. Latterdale was the go-between, and at last arranged it, not, however, till he had pointed out that Percival, having won so large a sum of money from a lad under twenty-one years of age, was very lucky in receiving substantial security for his payment. Gerald had chosen the period of his father's absence for his return. It was necessary that the story of the gambling debt should be told to the Duke in February. Silverbridge had explained that to him, and he had quite understood it. He indeed would be up at Oxford in February, and, in that case, the first horror of the thing would be left to poor Silverbridge. Thinking of this, Gerald felt that he was bound to tell his father himself. He resolved that he would do so, but was anxious to postpone the evil day. He lingered, therefore, in Scotland till he knew that his father was in Barsature. On his arrival he was told of Tragear's accident. "'Oh, Gerald, have you heard?' said his sister. He had not as yet heard, and then the history was repeated to him. Mary did not attempt to conceal her own feelings. She was as open with her brother as she had been with Mrs. Finn. "'I suppose he'll get over it,' said Gerald. "'Is that all you can say?' she asked. "'What can I say better? I suppose he will. Fellows always do get over that kind of thing. Herbert de Berg smashed both his thighs, and now he can move about again, of course, with crutches. "'Gerald, how could you be so unfeeling? I don't know what you mean. I always liked Tragear, and I am very sorry for him. If you would take it a little quieter, I think it would be better. I could not take it quietly. How can I take it quietly when he is more than all the world to me?' You should keep that to yourself.' "'Yes, and so let people think that I didn't care till I broke my heart. I shall say just the same thing to Popeye when he comes home.' After that the brother and sister were not on very good terms with each other for the remainder of the day. On the Saturday there was the letter from Silverbridge to Mrs. Finn. Tragear was better, but was unhappy, because it had been decided that he could not be moved for the next month. This entailed two misfortunes on him, first that of being the enforced guest of persons who were not, or hitherto, had not been his own friends, and then his absence from the first meeting of parliament. When a gentleman has been in parliament some years he may be able to reconcile himself to an obligatory vacation with a calm mind. But when the honours and glory are new, and the tedium of the benches has not yet been experienced, then such an accident is felt to be a grievance. But the young member was out of danger and was, as Silverbridge declared, in the very best quarters which could be provided for a man in such a position. Phineas Finn told him all the politics, Mrs. Spooner related to him on Sundays and Wednesdays, all the hunting details, while Lady Chilton read to him light literature, because he was not allowed to hold a book in his hand. I wish it were me, said Gerald. I wish I were there to read to him, said Mary. Then the duke came home. Mary, said he, I have been distressed to hear of this accident. This seemed to her to be the kindest word she had heard from him for a long time. I believe him to be a worthy young man. I am sorry that he should be the cause of so much sorrow to you and to me. Of course I was sorry for his accident, she replied, after pausing a while, but now that he is better I will not call him a cause of sorrow to me. Then the duke said nothing further about her gear, nor did she. So you have come at last, he said to Gerald. That was the first greeting to which the sun responded by an awkward smile. But in the course of the evening he walked straight up to his father. I have something to tell you, sir, said he. Something to tell me. Something that will make you very angry.