 CHAPTER 26 DINNER AT THE BEAR-GARDEN The duke was in the gallery of the House of Commons which is devoted to the use of peers, and Silverbridge, having heard that his father was there, had come up to him. It was then about half-past five, and the house had settled down to business. Prayers had been read, petitions had been presented, and ministers had gone through their course of bating with that equanimity and era superiority, which always belongs to a well-trained occupant of the treasury bench. The duke was very anxious that his son should attend to his parliamentary duties, but he was too proud a man, and too generous, to come to the house as a spy. It was his present habit always to be in his own place when the lords were sitting, and to remain there while the lords sat. It was not for many reasons an altogether satisfactory occupation, but it was the best which his life afforded him. He would never, however, come across into the other house without letting his son know of his coming, and Lord Silverbridge had on this occasion been on the lookout, and had come up to his father at once. Don't let me take you away, said the duke, if you are particularly interested in your chief's defense. For Sir Timothy Beeswax was defending some measure of legal reform in which he was said to have fallen into trouble. I can hear it up here, you know, sir. Hardly, if you are talking to me. To tell the truth it's a matter I don't care much about. They've got into some mess as to the number of judges and what they ought to do. Finn was saying that they had so arranged that there was one judge who never could possibly do anything. If Mr. Finn said so it would probably be so, with some little allowance for Irish exaggeration. He is a clever man, with less of his countries hyperbole than others, but still not without his share. You know him well, I suppose. Yes, as one man does know another in the political world. But he is a friend of yours. I don't mean an honorable friend, which is great Bosch, but you know him at home. Oh, yes, certainly. He has been staying with me at matching. In public life such intimacies come from politics. You don't care very much about him, then. The Duke paused a moment before he answered. Yes, I do. And in what I said just now, perhaps I wronged him. I have been under obligations to Mr. Finn, in a matter as to which he behaved very well. I have found him to be a gentleman. If you come across him in the house I would wish you to be courteous to him. I have not seen him since we came from abroad. I have been able to see nobody. But if ever again I should entertain my friends at my table, Mr. Finn would be one who would always be welcome there. This he said with a sadly serious air, as though wishing that his words should be noted. At the present moment he was remembering that he owed recompense to Mrs. Finn, and was making an effort to pay the debt. But your leader is striking out into unwanted eloquence. Surely we ought to listen to him. Sir Timothy was a fluent speaker, and when there was nothing to be said was possessed of great plenty of words. And he was gifted with that peculiar power which enables a man to have the last word in every encounter, a power which we are apt to call repartee, which is in truth the readiness which comes from continual practice. You shall meet two men of whom you shall know the one to be in doubt with the brilliancy of true genius, and the other to be possessed of but moderate parts, and shall find the former never able to hold his own against the latter. In a debate the man of moderate parts will seem to be greater than the man of genius. But this skill of tongue, this glibness of speech, is hardly an affair of intellect at all. It is, as is styled to the writer, not the wares which he has to take to market, but the vehicle in which they may be carried. Of what avail to you is it to have filled granaries with corn if you cannot get your corn to the consumer? Now, Sir Timothy was a great vehicle, but he had not, in truth, much corn to send. He could turn a laugh against an adversary, no man better. He could seize at the moment every advantage which the opportunity might give him. The treasury bench on which he sat, and the big box on the table before him, were to him fortifications of which he knew how to use every stone. The cheers and jeers of the house had been so measured by him that he knew the value and force of every sound. Politics had never been to him a study, but to parliamentary strategy he had devoted all his faculties. No one knew so well as Sir Timothy how to make arrangements for business so that every detail should be troublesome to his opponents. He could foresee, a month beforehand, that on a certain day a royal concert would make the house empty, and would generously give that day to a less observant adversary. He knew how to blind the eyes of members to the truth. Those on the opposite side of the house would find themselves checkmated by his astuteness. When, with all their pieces on the board, there should be none which they could move. And this to him was government. It was to these purposes that he conceived that a great statesman should devote himself. Parliamentary management. That, in his mind, was under this constitution of ours, the one act essential for government. In all this he was very great. But when it might fall to his duty, either to suggest or to defend any real piece of proposed legislation, he was less happy. On this occasion he had been driven to take the matter in hand, because he had previously been concerned in it as a lawyer. He had allowed himself to wax angry as he endeavored to answer certain personal criticisms. Now Sir Timothy was never stronger than when he simulated anger. His mock indignation was perhaps his most powerful weapon. But real anger is a passion which few men can use with judgment. And now Sir Timothy was really angry, and condescended to speak to our old friend Phineas, who had made the onslaught as a bellicose Irishman. There was an over-true story as to our friend having once been seduced in dividing a duel, and those who wished to decry him sometimes alluded to the adventure. Sir Timothy had been called to order, but the speaker had ruled that bellicose Irishman was not beyond the latitude of parliamentary animate version. Then Sir Timothy had repeated the phrase, with emphasis, and the Duke, hearing it in the gallery, had made his remark as to the unwanted eloquence of his son's parliamentary chief. Surely we ought to listen to him, said the Duke, and for a short time they did listen. Sir Timothy is not a man I like, you know, said the son, feeling himself obliged to apologize for his subjection to such a chief. I never particularly loved him myself. They say that he is a sort of necessity. A conservative fate, said the Duke. Well, yes, he is so awfully clever. We all feel that we could not get on without him. When you were in, he was one of your party. Oh, yes, he was one of us. I have no right to complain of you for using him. But when you say you could not get on without him, does it not occur to you that should he, let us say, be taken up to heaven, you would have to get on without him? Then he would be out of the way, sir. What you mean, perhaps, is that you do not know how to get rid of him. Of course, I don't pretend to understand much about it, but they all think that he does know how to keep the party together. I don't think we are proud of him. Hardly that. He is awfully useful. A man has to look out so sharp to be always ready for those other fellows. I beg your pardon, sir, but I mean your side. I understand who the other fellows are. And it is in everybody who will go through such a grind. A man to do it must be always ready. He has so many little things to think of. As far as I can see, we all feel that we could not get along very well without him. Upon the whole, the Duke was pleased with what he heard from his son. The young man's ideas about politics were boyish, but they were the ideas of a clear-headed boy. Silverbridge had picked up some of the ways of the place, though he had not yet formed any sound political opinions. Then Sir Timothy finished a long speech with a flowery parloration, in which he declared that if Parliament were desirous of keeping the realms of Her Majesty free from the invasions of foreigners, it must be done by maintaining the dignity of the judicial bench. There were some clamors at this, and although it was now dinner time, Phineas Finn, who had been called a bellicose Irishman, was able to say a word or two. The right honorable gentleman no doubt means, said Phineas, that we must carry ourselves with some increased external dignity. The world is bewigging itself, and we must buy a bigger wig than any we have got in order to confront the world with proper self-respect. Turvy drop and deportment will suffice for us against any odds. About half past seven the house became very empty. Where are you going to dine, Sir, asked Silverbridge? The Duke was something like a sigh, said he's supposed he should dine at home. You never were at the Bear Garden were you, Sir, asked Silverbridge suddenly. Never said the Duke. Come and dine with me. I am not a member of the club. We don't care at all about that. Anybody can take in anybody. Does that not make it promiscuous? Well, no, I don't know that it does. It seems to go on very well. I dare say there are some cats there sometimes, but I don't know where one doesn't meet cats. There are plenty in the House of Commons. There is something in that Silverbridge which makes me think that you have not realized the difference between private and public life. In the former you choose your own associates and are responsible for your choice. In the latter you are concerned with others, for the good of the state, and though even for the state's sake you would not willingly be closely allied with those whom you think dishonest, the outward manners and fashions of life need create no barriers. I should not turn up my nose at the House of Commons because some constituency might send them an illiterate shoemaker, but I might probably find the illiterate shoemaker an unprofitable companion for my private hours. I don't think there will be any shoemakers at the Bear Garden. Even if there were, I would go and dine with you. I shall be glad to see the place where you, I suppose, past many hours. I find it a very good shop to dine at, the place at the House is so stuffy and nasty. Besides, one likes to get away for a little time. Certainly, I never was an advocate for living in the House. One should always change the atmosphere. Then they got into a cab and went to the club. Silverbridge was a little afraid of what he was doing. The invitation had come from him on the spur of the moment, and he hardly ventured to think that his father would accept it. And now he did not quite know how the Duke would go through the ceremony. The other fellows would all come and stare at a man whom they had all been taught to regard as the most unbear gardenish of men. But he was especially anxious to make things pleasant for his father. What shall I order? said the son, as he took the Duke into a dressing room to wash his hands. The Duke suggested that anything sufficient for his son would certainly be sufficient for him. Nothing as special occurred during the dinner which the Duke appeared to enjoy very much. Yes, I think it is very good soup, he said. I don't think they ever give me any soup at home. Then the son expressed his opinion that unless his father looked about rather more sharply, they very soon would provide no dinner at all, remarking that experience had taught him that the less people demanded the more they were sat upon. The Duke did like his dinner, or rather he liked the feeling that he was dining with his son. A report that the Duke of Omnium was with Lord Silverbridge soon went round the room, and they who were justified by some previous acquaintance came up to greet him. To all who did so he was very gracious, and was specially so to Lord Popplecourt, who happened to pass close by the table. I think he is a fool, whispered Silverbridge as soon as Popplecourt had passed. What makes you think so? We thought him an ass had eaten. He has done pretty well, however. Oh yes, in a way. Somebody has told me that he is a careful man about his property. I believe he is all that, said Silverbridge. Then I don't see why you should think him a fool. To this Silverbridge made no reply, partly perhaps because he had nothing to say, but hindered also by the coming in of Tragear. This was an accident, the possibility of which had not crossed him. Unfortunately too the Duke's back was turned, so that Tragear, as he walked up the room, could not see who was sitting at his friend's table. Tragear, coming up, stood close to the Duke's elbow before he recognized the man, and spoke some word or two to Silverbridge. How do you do, Mr. Tragear, said the Duke, turning round? Oh, my lord, I did not know that it was you. You hardly would. I am quite a stranger here. Silverbridge and I came up from the house together, and he has been hospitable enough to give me a dinner. I will tell you an odd thing for a London man, Mr. Tragear. I have not dined at a London club for fifteen years before this. I hope you like it, sir, said Silverbridge. Very much indeed. Good evening, Mr. Tragear. I suppose you have to go to your dinner now. Then they went into one of the rooms upstairs to have coffee, the son declining to go into the smoking-room, and assuring his father that he did not in the least care about a cigar after dinner. You would be smothered, sir. The Duke did as he was bidden, and went upstairs. There was, in truth, a strong reason for avoiding the publicity of the smoking-room. When bringing his father to the club, he had thought nothing about Tragear, but he had thought about Tifto. As he entered, he had seen Tifto at a table, dining alone, and had bobbed his head at him. Then he had taken the Duke to the further end of the room, and had trusted that fear would keep the Major in his place. Fear had kept the Major in his place. When the Major learned who the stranger was, he had become silent and reserved. Before the father and son had finished their dinner, Tifto had gone to his cigar, and so that danger was over. By George, there Silverbridge has got his governor to dinner, said Tifto, standing in the middle of the room, and looking round as though he were announcing some confusion of the heavens and earth. Why shouldn't Lord Silverbridge have his father to dine with him? asked Mr. Lupton. I believe I know Silverbridge as well as any man, and by George it is the very last thing of the kind that I should have expected. There have been no end of quarrels. There has been no quarrel at all, said Tragear, who had then just entered the room. Nothing on earth would make Silverbridge quarrel with his father, and I think it would break the Duke's heart to quarrel with his son. Tifto endeavored to argue the matter out, but Tragear, having made the assertion on behalf of his friend, would not allow himself to be enticed into further speech. Nevertheless there was a good deal said by others, in which the Major drank two classes of whisky and water. In the dining room he had been struck with awe by the Duke's presence, and had certainly no idea of presenting himself personally to the great man. But Bacchus lent him aid, and when the discussion was over and the whisky had been swallowed, it occurred to him that he would go upstairs and ask to be introduced. In the meantime the Duke and his son were seated in close conversation on one of the upstairs sofas. It was a rule at the bear garden that men might smoke all over the house, except in the dining room, but there was one small chamber called the library, in which the practice was not often followed. The room was generally deserted, and at this moment the father and son were the only occupants. A club, said the Duke, as he sipped his coffee, is a comfortable and economical residence. A man gets what he wants well-served, and gets it cheap. But it has its drawbacks. You always see the same fellows, said Silverbridge. A man who lives much at a club is apt to fall into a selfish mode of life. He is taught to think that his own comfort should always be the first object. A man can never be happy unless his first objects are outside himself. Personal self-indulgence begets a sense of meanness, which sticks to a man, even when he has got beyond all hope of rescue. It is for that reason, among others, that marriage is so desirable. A man should marry, I suppose. Unless a man has on his shoulders the burden of a wife and children he should, I think, feel that he has shirked out of school. He is not doing his share of the work of the Commonwealth. Pitt was not married, sir. No, and a great many other good men have remained unmarried. Do you mean to be another Pitt? I don't intend to be a Prime Minister. I would not recommend you to entertain that ambition. Pitt perhaps hardly had time for marriage. You may be more lucky. I suppose I shall marry some day. I should be glad to see you marry early, said the Duke, speaking in a low voice, almost solemnly, but in his quietest, sweetest tone of voice. You are peculiarly situated, though as yet you are only the heir to the property and honors of our family. Still, were you married, almost everything would be at your disposal. There is so much which I should only be too ready to give up to you. I can't bear to hear you talking of giving up anything, said Silverbridge energetically. Then the father looked round the room furtively, and seeing that the door was shut and that they were assuredly alone, he put out his hand and gently stroked the young man's hair. It was almost a caress, as though he would have said to himself, were he my daughter, I would kiss him. There is much I would fain give up, he said. If you were a married man the house in Carleton Terrace would be fitter for you than for me. I have disqualified myself for taking that part in society, which should be filled by the head of our family. You, who have inherited so much from your mother, would, if you married pleasantly, do all that right well. He paused for a moment and then asked a straightforward question very quickly. You have never thought of any one yet, I suppose. Silverbridge had thought very much of somebody. He was quite aware that he had almost made an offer to Lady Mabel. She certainly had not given him any encouragement, but the very fact that she had not done so allured him all the more. He did believe that he was thoroughly in love with Lady Mabel. She had told him that he was too young, but he was older than Lady Mabel herself by a week. She was beautiful, that was certain. It was acknowledged by all that she was clever. As for blood of which he believed his father thought much, there was perhaps none better in England. He had heard it said of her, as he now well remembered in his father's presence, that she had behaved remarkably well in trying circumstances. She had no fortune, everybody knew that, but then he did not want fortune. Would not this be a good opportunity for breaking the matter to his father? You have never thought of any one, said the Duke, again very sweetly, very softly. But I have. Lord Silverbridge, as he made the announcement, blushed up to the eyes. Then there came over the father something almost of fear. If he was to be told, how would it be if he could not approve? Yes, I have, said Silverbridge, recovering himself. If you wish it, I will tell you who it is. Nay, my boy, as to that consult your own feelings. Are you sure of yourself? Oh, yes. Have you spoken to her? Well, yes, in part. She has not accepted me, if you mean that, rather the contrary. Now the Duke would have been very unwilling to say that his son would certainly be accepted by any girl in England, to whom he might choose to offer his hand. But when the idea of a doubt was suggested to him, it did seem odd that his son should ask in vain. What other young man was there who could offer so much, and who was at the same time so likely to be loved for his own sake? He smiled, however, and was silent. I suppose I may as well out with it, continued Silverbridge. You know Lady Mabel Grax? Lady Mabel Grax? Yes, I know her. Is there any objection? Is she not your senior? No, sir, no. She is younger than I am. Her father is not a man I esteem. But she has always been so good. Then the Duke was again silent. Have you not heard that, sir? I think I have. Is not that a great deal? A very great deal. To be good must of all qualities be the best. She is very beautiful. I think so, sir. Of course she has no money. It is not needed. It is not needed. I have no objection to make, if you are sure of your own mind. I am quite sure of that, sir. Then I will raise no objection. Lady Mabel Grax? Her father, I fear, is not a worthy man. I hear that he is a gambler. He is so poor. That makes it worse, Silverbridge. A man who gambles because he has money that he can afford to lose is, to my thinking, a fool. But he who gambles because he has none is, well, let us hope the best of him. You may give her my love. She has not accepted me. But should she do so, you may. She almost rejected me. But I am not sure that she was an earnest, and I mean to try again. Just at that moment the door was open, and Major Tiftoe walked into the room. Chapter 27 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 Piper Hayes. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 27. Major Tiftoe and The Duke. I beg your pardon, Silverbridge, said the Major, entering the room. But I was looking for long staff. He isn't here, said Silverbridge, who did not wish to be interrupted by his racing friend. Your father, I believe, said Tiftoe. He was red in the face but was in other respects perhaps improved in appearance by his liquor. In his more sober moments he was not always able to assume that appearance of equality with his companions, which it was the ambition of his soul to achieve. But a second glass of whisky and water would always enable him to cock his tail and bark before the company with all the courage of my lady's pug. Would you do me the great honour to introduce me to his grace? Silverbridge was not prone to turn his back upon a friend because he was low in the world. He had begun to understand that he had made a mistake by connecting himself with the Major. But at the club he always defended his partner. Though he not unfrequently found himself obliged to snub the Major himself, he always countenanced the little master of hounds and was true to his own idea of standing to a fellow. Nevertheless he did not wish to introduce his friend to his father. The Duke saw it all at a glance and felt that the introduction should be made. Perhaps, said he, getting up from his chair, this is Major Tiftoe. Yes, my lord Duke, I am Major Tiftoe. The Duke bowed graciously. My father and I were engaged about private matters, said Silverbridge. I beg ten thousand pardons, exclaimed the Major. I did not intend to intrude. I think we had done, said the Duke. Praise it down, Major Tiftoe. The Major sat down. Though now I be thanked myself, I have to beg your pardon, that I, a stranger, should ask you to sit down in your own club. Don't mention it, my lord Duke. I am so unused to clubs that I forgot where I was. Quite so, my lord Duke. I hope you think that Silverbridge is looking well. Yes, yes, I think so. Silverbridge bit his lips and turned his face away to the door. We didn't make a very good thing of our derby nag the other day. Perhaps your Grace has heard all that? I did hear that the horse in which you are both interested had failed to win the race. Yes, he did. The Prime Minister, we call him your Grace, thought of compliment to a certain ministry, which I wish it was going on today instead of the seedy lot we've got in. I think, my lord Duke, that anyone you may ask will tell you that I know what running is. Well, I can assure you, your Grace, that since I've seen horses, I've never seen a horse fitter than him. When he got his canter that morning it was nearly even budding. Not that I or Silverbridge were fools enough to put on anything at that rate. But I never saw a horse so bad ridden. I don't mean to say anything, my lord Duke, against the man. But if that fellow hadn't been squared, or else wasn't drunk, or else wasn't off his head, that horse must have won, my lord Duke. I do not know anything about racing, major Tiftel. I suppose not, your Grace. But as I and Silverbridge are together in this matter, I thought I'd just let your Grace know that we ought to have had a very good thing. I thought that perhaps your Grace might like to know that. Tiftel, you are making an ass of yourself, said Silverbridge. Making an ass of myself, exclaimed the major. Yes, considerably. I think you are a little hard upon your friend, said the Duke, with an attempt at a laugh. It is not, to be supposed, that he should know how utterly indifferent I am to everything connected with the turf. I thought, my lord Duke, you might care about learning how Silverbridge was going on. This, the poor little man said, almost with a whine. His partner's roughness had knocked out of him nearly all the courage which Bacchus had given him. So I do. Anything that interests him, interests me. But perhaps of all his pursuits, racing is the one to which I am least able to lend an attentive ear. That every horse has a head, and that all did have tails, till they were ill-used, is the extent of my stable knowledge. Very good indeed, my lord Duke. Very good indeed. Ha, ha, ha! All horses have heads, and all have tails, heads and tails. Upon my word, that is the best thing I have heard for a long time. I will do myself the honor of wishing your grace good night. Bye-bye, Silverbridge. Then he left the room, having been made supremely happy by what he considered to have been the Duke's joke. Nevertheless, he would remember the snubbing, and would be even with Silverbridge someday. Did Lord Silverbridge think that he was going to look after his lordship's horses, and do this always on the square, and then be snubbed for doing it? I am very sorry that he should have come in to trouble you, said the son. He has not troubled me much. I do not know whether he has troubled you. If you are coming down to the house again, I will walk with you. Silverbridge, of course, had to go down to the house again, and they started together. That man did not trouble me, Silverbridge, but the question is whether such an acquaintance must not be troublesome to you. I am not very proud of him, sir, but I think one ought to be proud of one's friends. He isn't my friend in that way at all. In what way, then? He understands racing. He is the partner of your pleasure, then, the man in whose society you love to enjoy the recreation of the race course. It is, sir, because he understands it. I thought that a gentleman on the turf would have a trainer for that purpose, not a companion. You mean to imply that you can save money by licking yourself with major tifto? No, sir, indeed. If you associate with him not for pleasure, then it surely must be for profit that you should do the former would be to me so surprising that I must regard it as impossible. That you should do the latter is, I think, a reproach. This, he said, with no tone of anger in his voice, so gently that Silverbridge, at first, hardly understood it. But gradually all that was meant came in upon him, and he felt himself to be ashamed of himself. He is bad, he said at last. Whether he be bad, I will not say, but I am sure that you can gain nothing by his companionship. I will get rid of him, said Silverbridge, after a considerable pause. I cannot do so at once, but I will do it. It will be better, I think. Tragear has been telling me the same thing. Is he objectionable to Mr. Tragear, asked the Duke? Oh yes, Tragear cannot bear him. You treated him a great deal better than Tragear ever does. I do not deny that he is entitled to be treated well, but so also is your groom. Let us say no more about him. And so it is to be Mabel Brex. I did not say so, sir. How can I answer for her? Only it was so pleasant for me to know that you would approve if it should come off. Yes, I will approve when she has accepted you, but I do not think she will. If she should, tell her that I will go to her at once. It will be much to have a new daughter. Very much that you should have a wife. Where would she like to live? Oh, sir, we have not got as far as that yet. I dare say not. I dare say not, said the Duke. Gather him is always thought to be dull. She would not like Gather him, I am sure. Have you asked her? No, sir, but nobody ever did like Gather him. I suppose not. And yet Silverbridge, what a sum of money it cost. I believe it did. All vanity and vexation of spirit. The Duke, no doubt, was thinking of certain scenes past at the Great House in question, which scenes had not been delightful to him. No, I don't suppose she would wish to live at Gather him. The horns was given expressly by my uncle to your dear mother, and I should like Mary to have the place. Certainly. You should live among your tenancy. I don't care so very much for matching. It is the one place you do like, sir. However, we can manage all that. Carlton Terrace I do not particularly like, but it is a good house, and there you should hang your hat when in London. When in his settle, let me know at once. But if it should never be settled, I will ask no questions. But if it be settled, tell me. Then, in Pallas Yard, he was turning to go, but before he did so he said another word, leaning on his son's shoulder. I do not think that Mabel Gratz and Major Tifto would do well together at all. There shall be an end to that, sir. God bless you, my boy, said the Duke. Lord Silverbridge sat in the house, or, to speak more accurately, in the smoking room of the house, for about an hour thinking over all that had passed between himself and his father. He certainly had not intended to say anything about Lady Mabe, but on the spur of the moment it had all come out. Now, at any rate, it was decided for him that he must, in set terms, ask her to be his wife, the scene which had just occurred that made him thoroughly sick of Major Tifto. He must get rid of the major, and there could be no way of doing this at once so easy and so little open to observation as marriage. If he were but once engaged to Mabel Gratz, the dismissal of Tifto would be quite a matter of course. He would see Lady Mabel again, on the morrow, and ask her indirect language to be his wife. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 28, Mrs. Montacute-Jones' Garden Party It was known to all the world that Mrs. Montacute-Jones' first great garden party was to come off on Wednesday, 16th June, at Roehampton. Mrs. Montacute-Jones, who lived in Grovener Place, and had a country house in Gloucester, and a place for young men to shoot at in Scotland, also kept a suburban Elysium at Roehampton in order that she might give two garden parties every year. When it is said that all these costly luxuries appertain to Mrs. Montacute-Jones, it is to be understood that they did in truth belong to Mr. Jones, of whom nobody heard much. But if Mrs. Jones, that is Mrs. Montacute-Jones, everybody heard a great deal. She was an old lady who devoted her life to the amusement of, not only her friends, but very many who were not her friends. No doubt she was fond of lords and countesses, and worked very hard to get round her all the rank and fashion of the day. It must be acknowledged that she was a worldly old woman, but no more good-natured old woman lived in London, and everybody liked to be asked to her garden parties. On this occasion there was to be a considerable infusion of royal blood, German, Belgian, French, Spanish, and of native growth. Everybody who was asked would go, and everybody had been asked, who was anybody. Lord Silverbridge had been asked, and Lord Silverbridge intended to be there. Lady Mary, his sister, could not even be asked, because her mother was hardly more than three months dead. But it is understood in the world that women more longer than men. Silverbridge had mounted a private handsome cab in which he could be taken about rapidly, and as he said himself without being shut up in a coffin. In this vehicle he had himself taken to Rohampton, purporting to kill two birds with one stone. He had not as yet seen his sister since she had been with Lady Cantrip. He would on this day come back by the horns. He was well aware that Lady Mabe would be at the garden party. What place could be better for putting the question he had to ask? He was by no means so confident as the heir to so many good things might perhaps have been without overdue self-confidence. Entering through the house into the lawn he encountered Mrs. Montacute Jones, who, with a seat behind her on the terrace, surrounded by flowers, was going through the immense labor of receiving her guests. How very good of you to come all this way, Lord Silverbridge, to eat by strawberries. How very good of you to ask me. I did not come to eat your strawberries, but to see your friends. You ought to have said you came to see me, you know. Have you met Miss Boncassen yet? The American beauty? No. Is she here? Yes, and she particularly wants to be introduced to you. You won't betray me, will you? Certainly not. I am as true as steel. She wanted, she said, to see if the eldest son of the Duke of Omnium really did look like any other man. Then I don't want to see her, said Silverbridge, with a look of vexation. There you are wrong, for there was real downright fun in the way she said it. There they are, and I shall introduce you. Then Mrs. Montacute Jones absolutely left her post for a minute or two, and taking the young Lord down the steps of the terrace did introduce him to Mr. Boncassen, who was standing there amidst a crowd, and to Miss Boncassen the daughter. Mr. Boncassen was an American who had lately arrived in England, with the object of carrying out certain literary pursuits in which he was engaged within the British Museum. He was an American who had nothing to do with politics and nothing to do with trade. He was a man of wealth and a man of letters. And he had a daughter who was said to be the prettiest young woman, either in Europe or in America at the present time. Isabelle Boncassen was certainly a very pretty girl. I wish that my reader would believe my simple assurance. But no such simple assurance was ever believed, and I doubt even whether any description will procure for me from the reader that amount of faith which I desire to achieve. But I must make the attempt. General opinion generally considered Miss Boncassen to be small, but she was in truth something above the average height of English women. She was slight without that look of slimness which has come into girls, and especially to American girls. That her figure was perfect the reader must believe on my word, as any detailed description of her arms, feet, bust, and waist would be altogether ineffective. Her hair was dark brown and plentiful, but it added but little to her charms, which depended on other matters. Perhaps what struck the beholder first was the excessive brilliancy of her complexion. No pink was ever pinker, no alabaster whiteness was ever more like alabaster. But under and around and through it all, there was a constantly changing hue which gave a fatality to her countenance, which no fixed colors can produce. Her eyes, too, were full of life and brilliancy, and even when she was silent her mouth would speak. Nor was there a fault within the oval of her face upon which the hypercritics of mature age could set a finger. Her teeth were excellent both in form and color, but were seen but seldom. Who does not know that look of ubiquitous ivory produced by teeth which are too perfect, in a face which is otherwise poor? Her nose at the base spread a little, so that it was not purely Grecian. But who has ever seen a nose to be eloquent and expressive, which did not so spread? It was, I think, the vitality of her countenance, the way in which she could speak with every feature, the command which she had of pathos, of humor, of sympathy, of satire, the assurance which she gave by every glance of her eye, every elevation of her brow, every curl of her lip, that she was alive to all that was going on. It was all this, rather than those feminine charms which can be catalogued and labeled, that made all acknowledge that she was beautiful. Lord Silverbridge, said Mr. Boncassen, speaking a little through his nose, I am proud to make your acquaintance, sir. Your father is a man for whom we in our country have a great respect. I think, sir, you must be proud of such a father. Oh yes, no doubt, said Silverbridge awkwardly. Then Mr. Boncassen continued his discourse with the gentleman around him. Upon this our friend turned to the young lady. Have you been long in England, Miss Boncassen? Long enough to have heard about you and your father, she said, speaking with no slightest twang. I hope you have not heard any evil of me. Well, I am sure you can't have heard much good. I know you didn't win the Derby. You've been long enough to hear that. Do you suppose we don't interest ourselves about the Derby in New York? Why, when we arrived at Queenstown, I was leaning over the Tefreil, so that I might ask the first man on board the tender whether the Prime Minister had won. And he said he hadn't. I can't conceive why you, of all men, should call your horse by such a name. If my father had been President of the United States, I don't think I'd call a horse President. I didn't name the horse. I'd have changed it. But is it not very impudent in me to be finding fault with you the first time I have ever seen you? Shall you have a horse at Ascot? There will be something going, I suppose. Nothing that I care about. Lord Silverbridge had made up his mind that he would go to know races with Tifto before the Ledger. The Ledger would be in a fair of such moment as to demand his presence. After that should come the complete rupture between him and Tifto. Then there was a movement among the Elders, and Lord Silverbridge soon found himself walking alone with Miss Boncassan. It seemed to her to be quite natural to do so, and there certainly was no reason why he should decline anything so pleasant. It was thus that he had intended to walk with Mabel Grex. Only Aschetti had not found her. Oh yes, said Miss Boncassan when they had been together about twenty minutes. We shall be here all the summer, and all the fall, and all the winter. Indeed, Father means to read every book in the British Museum before he goes back. He'll have something to do. He reads by steam, and he has two or three young men with him to take it all down and make other books out of it, just as you'll see a lady take a lace shawl, and turn it all about till she has trimmed a petticoat with it. It is the same lace all through, and so I tell Father it's the same knowledge. But he puts it where more people will find it. The lady endeavors to do the same with the lace. That depends on whether people look up or down. Father, however, is a very learned man. You mustn't suppose that I am laughing at him. He is going to write a very learned book. Only everybody will be dead before it can be half finished. They still went on together, and then he gave her his arm, and took her into the place where the strawberries and cream were prepared. As he was going in, he saw Mabel Grex walking with Tragear, and she bowed to him pleasantly and playfully. Is that lady a great friend of yours? asked Miss Boncassen. A very great friend indeed. She is very beautiful, and clever as well, and good as gold. Dear me, do tell me who it is that owns all these qualities. Lady Mabel Grex, she is daughter of Lord Grex. That man with her is my particular friend. His name is Frank Tragear, and they are cousins. I am so glad they are cousins. Why glad? Because his being with her won't make you unhappy. Supposing I was in love with her, which I am not, do you suppose it would make me jealous to see her with another man? In our country it would not. A young lady may walk about with a young gentleman, just as she might with another young lady. But I thought it was different here. Do you know judging by English ways, I believe I am behaving very improperly, and walking about with you so long. Aught I not to tell you to go away? Pray do not. As I am going to stay here so long, I wish to behave well to English eyes. People know who you are, and discount all that. If the difference be very marked they do. For instance, I didn't wear a hideous long bit of cloth over my face in Constantinople because I am a woman. But when the discrepancies are small, then they have to be attended to. So I shan't walk about with you any more. Oh yes you will, said Silverbridge, who began to think that he liked walking about with Miss Boncassen. Certainly not. There is Mr. Sprottel. He is Father's secretary. He will take me back. Cannot I take you back, as well as Mr. Sprottel? Indeed no. I am not going to monopolize such a man as you. Do you think that I don't understand that everybody will be making remarks upon the American girl who won't leave the son of the Duke of Omnium alone? There is your particular friend Lady Mabel, and here is my particular friend, Mr. Sprottel. May I come in call? Certainly. Father will only be too proud, and I shall be prouder. Mother will be the proudest of all. Mother very seldom goes out, till we get a house we are at the Langham. Thank you, Mr. Sprottel. I think we'll go and find Father. Lord Silverbridge found himself close to Lady Mabel and Trager, and also to Miss Casewerry, who had now joined Lady Mabel. He had been much struck with the American beauty but was not on that account, the less anxious to carry out his great plan. It was essentially necessary that he should do so at once, because the matter had been settled between him and his father. He was anxious to assure her that if she would consent, then the Duke would be ready to pour out all kinds of paternal blessings on their heads. Come and take a turn among the hay-cocks, he said. Frank declares, said Lady Mabel, that the hay is hired for the occasion. I wonder whether that is true. Anybody can see, said Trager, that it has not been cut off the grass it stands upon. If I could find Mrs. Montacute Jones, I'd ask her where she got it, said Lady Mabel. Are you coming? asked Silverbridge impatiently. I don't think I am. I have been walking round the hay-cocks till I am tired of them. Anywhere else, then? There isn't anywhere else. What have you done with your American beauty? The truth is, Lord Silverbridge, you asked me for my company when she won't give you hers any longer. Doesn't it look like it, Miss Casowary? I don't think Lord Silverbridge is the man to forget an old friend for a new one. Not, though, the new friend be as lovely as Miss Boncassen? I don't know that I ever saw a prettier girl, said Trager. I quite admit it, said Lady Mabel, but that is no salve for my injured feelings. I have heard so much about Miss Boncassen's beauty for the last week that I mean to get up a company of British females, limited, for the express purpose of putting her down. Who is Miss Boncassen that we are all to be put on one side for her? Of course, he knew that she was joking, but he hardly knew how to take her joke. There is a manner of joking which carries with it much serious intention. He did feel that Lady Mabel was not gracious to him because he had spent half an hour with this new beauty, and he was half inclined to be angry with her. Was it fitting that she should be cross with him, seeing that he was resolved to throw at her feet all the good things that he had in the world? Bother Miss Boncassen, he said. You might as well come and take a turn with a fellow. Come along, Miss Casowary, said she. We will go round the hay-cocks yet once again. So they turned and the two ladies accompanied Lord Silverbridge. But this was not what he wanted. He could not say what he had to say in the presence of Miss Casowary, nor could he ask her to take herself off in another direction, nor could he take himself off. Now that he had joined himself to these two ladies he must make with them the tour of the gardens. All this made him cross. These kind of things are a great boar, he said. I dare say you would rather be in the House of Commons, or better still at the Bear Garden. You mean to be ill-natured when you say that, Lady Mabel. You ask us to come and walk with you, and then you tell us that we are boars. I did nothing of the kind. I should have thought that you would be particularly pleased with yourself for coming here today, seeing that you have made Miss Bond Casson's acquaintance. To be allowed to walk half an hour alone with the acknowledged beauty of the two hemispheres ought to be enough even for Lord Silverbridge. That is nonsense, Lady Mabe. Nothing gives so much zest to admiration as novelty. A republican charmer must be exciting after all the blasé habitué of the London drawing rooms. How can you talk such nonsense, Mabel? said Miss Casowary. But it is so. I feel that people must be sick of seeing me. I know I am very often sick of seeing them. Here is something fresh, and not only unlike, but so much more lovely. I quite acknowledge that I may be jealous, but no one can say that I am spiteful. I wish that some republican Adonis or Apollo would crop up, so that we might have our turn. But I don't think the republican gentlemen are equal to the republican ladies. Do you, Lord Silverbridge? I haven't thought about it. Mr. Sprottle, for instance. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. Sprottle. Now we've been round the hay-cocks, and really, Lord Silverbridge, I don't think we have gained much by it. Those forced marches never do any good. And so they parted. He was thinking with a bitter spirit of the ill result of his morning's work, when he again found himself close to Miss Boncassan in the crowd of departing people on the terrace. Mind you, keep your word, she said. And then she turned to her father. Lord Silverbridge has promised to call. Mrs. Boncassan will be delighted to make his acquaintance. He got into his cab and was driven off towards Richmond. As he went he began to think of the two young women with whom he had passed his morning. Mabel had certainly behaved badly to him. Even if she suspected nothing of his object, did she not owe it to their friendship to be more courteous to him than she had been? And if she suspected that object, should she not at any rate have given him the opportunity? Or could it be that she was really jealous of the American girl? No, that idea he rejected instantly. It was not compatible with the innate modesty of his disposition. But no doubt the American girl was very lovely. Merely as a thing to be looked at, she was superior to Mabel. He did feel that as to mere personal beauty she was in truth superior to anything he had ever seen before. And she was clever too, and good-humored. Whereas Mabel had been both ill-natured and unpleasant. Chapter 29 The Lovers Meet Lord Silverbridge found his sister alone. I particularly want you, said he, to come and call on Mabel Grex. She wishes to know you, and I'm sure you would like her. But I haven't been out anywhere yet, she said. I don't feel as though I wanted to go anywhere. Nevertheless she was very anxious to know Lady Mabel Grex, of whom she had heard much. A girl, if she's had a former love passage, says nothing of it to her new lover. But a man is not so reticent. Frank Trager had perhaps not told her everything, but he had told her something. I was very fond of her. Very fond of her, he had said. And so I am still, he had added. As you are my love of loves, she is my friend of friends. Lady Mary had been satisfied by the assurance, but had become anxious to see the friend of friends. She resisted at first her brothers in treaties. She felt that her father in delivering her over to the seclusion of the horns had intended to preclude her from showing herself in London. She was conscious that she was being treated with cruelty, and had a certain pride in her martyrdom. She would obey her father to the letter. She would give him no right to call her conduct in question, but he and any other to whom he might entrust the care of her should be made to know that she thought him cruel. He had his power to which she must submit, but she also had hers. To which it was possible he might be made to submit. I do not know that Papa would wish me to go, she said. But it is just what he would wish. He thinks a good deal about Mabel. Why should he think about her at all? I can't exactly explain, said Silverbridge, but he does. If you mean to tell me that Mabel grex is anything particular to you, and that Papa approves of it, I will go all around the world to see her. But he had not meant to tell her this. The request had been made at Lady Mabel's instance. When his sister had spoken of her father's possible objection, then he had become eager in explaining the Duke's feeling, not remembering that such anxiety might betray himself. At that moment Lady Cantrip came in and the question was referred to her. She did not see any objection to such a visit, and expressed her opinion that it would be a good thing that Mary should be taken out. She should begin to go somewhere, said Lady Cantrip, and so it was decided. On the next Friday he would come down early in his handsome and drive her up to Belgrave Square. Then he would take her to Carleton Terrace, and Lady Cantrip's carriage should pick her up there and bring her home. He would arrange it all. What did you think of the American beauty? asked Lady Cantrip when that was settled. I thought she was a beauty. So I perceived you had eyes for nobody else, said Lady Cantrip, who had been at the garden party. Somebody introduced her to me and then I had to walk about the grounds with her. That's the kind of thing one always does in those places. Trust so. That is what those places are meant for, I suppose. But it was not, apparently, a great inflection. Lord Silverbridge had to explain that it was not an inflection, that it was a privilege, seeing that Miss Boncassen was both clever and lovely, but that it did not mean anything in particular. When he took his leave he asked his sister to go out into the grounds with him for a moment. This she did almost unwillingly, fearing that he was about to speak to her of Traguerre, but he had no such purpose in his mind. Of course you know, he began, all that was nonsense you were saying about Mabel. I did not know. I was afraid you might blurt out something before her. I should not be so imprudent. Girls do make such fools of themselves. Sometimes they're always thinking about people being in love. But it is the truth that my father said to me the other day how very much he liked what he'd heard of her, and that he would like you to know her. On that same evening Silverbridge wrote from the beer garden the shortest possible note to Lady Mabel, telling her what he had arranged. I and Mary proposed to call in B Square and Friday at two. I must be early because of the house. You will give us lunch. S. There was no word of endearment. None even of those ordinary words which people who hate each other use to one another. But he received the next day at home a much more kindly written note from her. Dear Lord Silverbridge, you are so good. You always do just what you think people will like best. Nothing could please me so much as seeing your sister, of whom of course I have heard very, very much. There shall be nobody here but Miss Cass, yours most sincerely, M.G. I do wish I were a man, his sister said to him when they were in the handsome together. You'd have a great deal more trouble. But I'd have a handsome of my own and go where I pleased. How would you like to be shut up at a place like the Horns? You can go out if you like it. Not like you. Papa thinks it's a proper place for me to live in and so I must live there. I don't think a woman ever chooses how or where she shall live herself. You're not going to take up women's rights, I hope. I think I shall, if I stare at the horns much longer. What would Papa say if he heard that I was going to give a lecture at an institute? The Governor has had so many things to bear that a trifle such as that would make but little difference. Poor Papa. He was dreadfully cut up about Gerald, and then he is so good. He said more to me about Gerald than he ever did about my own little misfortune at Oxford. But to Gerald himself he said almost nothing. Now he's forgiven me because he thinks I am constant at the house. And are you? Not so much as he thinks. I do go there, for his sake. He has been so good about my changing sides. I think you were quite right there. I am beginning to think I was quite wrong. What did it matter to me? I suppose it did make Papa unhappy. Of course it did. And then this affair of yours. As soon as this was said Lady Marriott once hardened her heart against her father. Whether Silverbridge was or was not entitled to his own political opinions, seeing that the palisers had her ages been known as staunch wigs and liberals, might be a matter for question. But that she had a right to her own lover, she thought that there could be no question. As they were sitting in the cab he could hardly see her face. But he was aware that she was in some fashion arming herself against opposition. I am sure that this makes him very unhappy, continued Silverbridge. It cannot be altered, she said. It will have to be altered. Nothing can alter it. He might die indeed, or so might I. Or he might see that it is no good and change his mind, suggested Silverbridge. Of course that is possible. Said Lady Marriott very curtly, showing plainly by her manner that the subject was one which she did not choose to discuss any further. It is very good of you to come to me. Said Lady Mabel, kissing her new acquaintance. I have heard so much about you, and I also of you. I, you know, am one of your brother's stern mentors. There are three or four of us determined to make him a pattern young legislator. Miss Cassowary is another, only she is not quite so stern as I am. He ought to be very much obliged. But he is not. Not a bit, are you, Lord Silverbridge? Not so much as I ought to be, perhaps. Of course there is an opposing force. There are the race-horses and the drag and Major Tiftoe. No doubt you have heard of Major Tiftoe. The Major is a Mr. worldly wise man who won't let Christian go to the straight gate. I am afraid he hasn't read his pilgrim's progress. But we shall prevail, Lady Mary, and he will get to the beautiful city at last. What is the beautiful city? He asked. A seat in the cabinet, I suppose, or that general respect which a young nobleman achieves when he has shown himself able to sit on a bench for six consecutive hours without appearing to go to sleep. Then they went to lunch, and Lady Mary did find herself to be happy with her new acquaintance. Her life since her mother's death had been so sad that this short escape from it was a relief to her. Now for a while she found herself almost gay. There was an easy liveliness about Lady Nable, a grain of humor and playfulness conjoined, which made her feel at home at once. And it seemed to her as though her brother was at home. He called the girl Lady Mabe, and Queen Mabe, and once plain Mable, and the old woman he called Miss Cass. It surely, she thought, must be the case that Lady Mable and her brother were engaged. Come upstairs into my own room, it's nicer than this, said Lady Mable, and they went from the dining room into a pretty little sitting room with which Silverbridge was very well acquainted. Have you heard of Miss Boncassen? Mary said she had heard something of Miss Boncassen's great beauty. Everybody is talking about her. Your brother met her at Mrs. Montecute Jones' garden party, and was made a conquest of instantly. I wasn't made a conquest of at all, said Silverbridge. Then he ought to have been made a conquest of. I should be if I were man. I think she's the loveliest person to look at, and the nicest person to listen to that I ever came across. We all feel that, as far as this season's concern, we are cut out. But we don't mind it so much, because she is a foreigner. Then, just as she said this, the door was opened, and Frank Traguerre was announced. Everybody there present knew as well as does the reader what was the connection between Traguerre and Lady Mary Pouser, and each knew that the other knew it. It was therefore impossible for them not to feel themselves guilty among themselves. The two lovers had not seen each other since they'd been together in Italy. Now they were brought face to face in this unexpected manner. And nobody except Traguerre was at first quite sure whether somebody had not done something to arrange the meeting. Mary might naturally suspect that Lady Mabel had done this in the interest of her friend Traguerre, and Silverbridge could not but suspect that it was so. Lady Mabel, who had never before met the other girl, could hardly refrain from thinking that there had been some underhand communication. And Miss Cassowary was clearly of opinion that there had been some understanding. Silverbridge was the first to speak. Hello, Traguerre. I did know that we were to see you. Nor I that I should see you, said he. Then, of course, there was a shaking of hands all round, in the course of which ceremony he came to marry the last. She gave him her hand, but had not a word to say to him. If I had known that you were here, he said, I should not have come. But I need hardly say how glad I am to see you, even in this way. Then the two girls were convinced that the meeting was accidental, but Miss Cass still had her doubts. Conversation became at once very difficult. Traguerre seated himself near, but not very near, to Lady Mary, and made some attempt to talk to both the girls at once. Lady Mabel plainly showed that she was not at her ease, whereas Mary seemed to be stricken dumb by the presence of her lover. Silverbridge was so much annoyed by a feeling that this interview was a treason to his father, that he sat, cuddling his brain, to think how he should bring it to an end. Miss Cassowary was dumbfounded by the occasion. She was the one elder in the company who ought to see that no wrong was committed. She was not directly responsible to the Duke of Omnium, but she was thoroughly permeated by a feeling that it was her duty to take care that there should be no clandestine love meetings in Lord Rex's house. At last Silverbridge jumped up from his chair. Upon my word, Traguerre, I think you'd better go, said he. So do I, said Miss Cassowary. If it is an accident, of course it is an accident. Said Traguerre angrily, looking round at Mary, who blushed up to her eyes. I did not mean to doubt it, said the old lady, but as it has occurred, Mabel, don't you think that he had better go? He won't bite anybody, Miss Cass. She would not have come if she had expected it, said Silverbridge. Certainly not, said Mary, speaking for the first time. But now he is here. Then she stopped herself, rose from the sofa, sat down, and then, rising again, stepped up to her lover, who rose at the same moment, and threw herself into his arms and put up her lips to be kissed. This won't do at all. Said Silverbridge. Miss Cassowary clasped her hands together and looked up to heaven. She probably had never seen such a thing done before. Lady Mabel's eyes were filled with tears, and though in all this there was much to cause her anguish, still, in her heart of hearts, she admired the brave girl who could thus show her truth to her lover. Oh, go! said Mary through her sobs. My own one, ejaculated Traguerre. Yes, yes, yes, always your own, go, go, go. She was weeping and sobbing as she said this and hiding her face with her handkerchief. He stood for a moment to resolute and then left the room without a word of a due to anyone. You have behaved very badly, said the brother. She has behaved like an angel, said Mabel, throwing her arms around Mary as she spoke, like an angel. If there had been a girl whom you loved and who loved you, would you not have wished it? Would you not have worshipped her for showing that she was not ashamed of her love? I am not a bit ashamed, said Mary. And I say that you have no cause, no one knows him as I do, how good he is, and how worthy. Immediately after that Silverbridge took his sister away, and Lady Mabel escaping from Miss Cass was alone. She loves him almost as I have loved him, she said to herself. I wonder whether he can love her as he did me. Chapter 30 Not a word was said in the cab as Lord Silverbridge took his sister to Carleton Terrace, and he was leaving her without any reference to the scene which had taken place when an idea struck him that this would be cruel. Mary, he said, I was very sorry for all that. It was not my doing. I suppose it was nobody's doing, but I am very sorry that it occurred. I think that you should have controlled yourself. No, she almost shouted. I think so. No. If you mean by controlling myself holding my tongue, he is the man I love whom I have promised to Mary. But Mary, do ladies generally embrace their lovers in public? No, nor should I. I never did such a thing in my life before. But as he was there I had to show that I was not ashamed of him. Do you think I should have done it if you all had not been there? Then again she burst into tears. He did not quite know what to make of it. Mabel Grex had declared that she behaved like an angel, but yet as he thought of what he had seen he shuddered with vexation. I was thinking of the governor, he said. He shall be told everything that you met Traguerre, certainly and that I kissed him. I will do nothing that I am ashamed to tell everybody. He will be very angry. I cannot help it. He should not treat me as he is doing. Mr. Traguerre is a gentleman. Why did he let him come? Why did you bring him? But it is of no use. The thing is settled. Papa can break my heart, but he cannot make me say that I am not engaged to Mr. Traguerre. On that night Mary told the whole of her story to Lady Cantrip. There was nothing that she tried to conceal. I got up, she said, and threw my arms around him. Is he not all the world to me? Had it been planned? asked Lady Cantrip. No, no, nothing had been planned. They are cousins and very intimate, and it goes there constantly. Now I want you to tell Papa all about it. Lady Cantrip began to think that it had been an evil day for her when she had agreed to take charge of this very determined young lady. But she consented at once to write to the Duke. As the girl was in her hands, she must take care not to lay herself open to reproaches. As this objectionable lover had either contrived a meeting, or had met her without contriving, it was necessary that the Duke should be informed. I would rather you wrote the letter, said Lady Mary. But pray tell him that all along I have meant him to know all about it. Till Lady Cantrip seated herself at her writing table, she did not know how great the difficulty would be. It cannot in any circumstance be easy to write to a father as to his daughter's love for an objectionable lover. But the Duke's character added much to the severity of the task, and then that embrace. She knew that the Duke would be struck with horror as he read of such a tale, and she found herself almost struck with horror as she attempted to write it. When she came to the point she found, she could not write it. I fear there was a good deal of warmth shown on both sides. She said, feeling that she was calumniating the man as to whose warmth she had heard nothing. It is quite clear, she added, that this is not a passing fancy on her part. It was impossible that the Duke should be made to understand exactly what had occurred. That Silverbridge had taken Mary he did understand, and that they had together gone to Lord Grex's house. He understood also that the meeting had taken place in the presence of Silverbridge and of Lady Mabel. No doubt it was all an accident, Lady Cantrap wrote. How could it be an accident? You had Mary up in town on Friday, he said to his son on the following Sunday morning. Yes, sir. And that friend of yours came in. Yes, sir. Do you not know what my wishes are? Certainly I do, but I could not help his coming. You do not suppose that anybody had planned it? I hope not. It was simply an accident. Such an accident as must occur over and over again, unless Mary is to be locked up. Who talks of locking anybody up? Where at right have you to speak in that way? I only meant that, of course, they will stumble across each other in London. I think I will go abroad, said the Duke. He was silent for a while. And then repeated his words. I think I will go abroad. Not for long, I hope, sir. Yes, to live there. Why should I stay here? What good can I do here? Everything I see and everything I hear is a pain to me. The young man, of course, could not but go back in his mind to the last interview which he had had with his father, when the Duke had been so gracious and apparently so well pleased. Is there anything else wrong, except about Mary? Silverbridge asked. I am told that Gerald owes about fifteen hundred pounds at Cambridge. So much as that. I knew he had a few horses there. It's not the money but the absence of principle, that a young man should have no feeling that he ought to live within certain prescribed means. Do you know what you have had for Mr. Morton? Not exactly, sir. It is different with you. But a man, let him be who he may, should live within certain means. As for your sister, I think she will break my heart. Silverbridge found it to be quite impossible to say anything in answer to this. Are you going to church? asked the Duke. I was not thinking of doing so particularly. Do you not ever go? Yes, sometimes I will go with you now if you like it, sir. I had thought of going but my mind is too much harassed. I do not see why you should not go. But Silverbridge, though he had been willing to sacrifice his mourning to his father, for it was I fear in that way that he had looked at it, did not see any reason for performing a duty which his father himself omitted. And there were various matters also which harassed him. On the previous evening after dinner he had allowed himself to back the Prime Minister for the leisure to a very serious amount. In fact he had plunged and now stood to lose some twenty thousand pounds on the doings of the last night. And he had made these bets under the influence of Major Tifto. It was the remembrance of this, after the promise made to his father, that annoyed him the most. He was imbued with the feeling that it behooved him as a man to pull himself together, as he would have said himself, and to live in accordance with certain rules. He could make the rules easily enough, but he had never yet succeeded in keeping any one of them. He had determined to sever himself from Tifto and in doing that had intended to sever himself from affairs of the turf generally. This resolution was not yet a week old. It was on that evening that he'd resolved that Tifto should no longer be his companion. And now he had to confess to himself that because he had drunk three or four glasses of champagne he had been induced by Tifto to make those wretched bets. And he had told his father that he intended to ask Mabel Grex to be his wife. He had so committed himself that the offer must now be made. He did not specially regret that, though he wished that he had been more reticent. What a fool a man is to blurt out everything, he said to himself. A wife would be a good thing for him. And where could he possibly find a better wife than Mabel Grex? In beauty she was no doubt inferior to Miss Boncassen. There was something about Miss Boncassen which made it impossible to forget her. But Miss Boncassen was an American, and on many accounts, out of the question. It did not occur to him that he would fall in love with Miss Boncassen. But still, it seemed hard to him that this intention of marriage should stand in his way of having a good time with Miss Boncassen for a few weeks. No doubt there were objections to marriage. It clipped to fellow's wings. But then, if he were married, he might be sure that Tifto would be laid aside. It was such a great thing to have got his father's assured consent to a marriage. It meant complete independence in money matters. Then his mind ran away to a review of his father's affairs. It was a genuine trouble to him that his father should be so unhappy. Of all the griefs which weighed upon the Duke's mind, that in reference to his sister was the heaviest. The money which Gerald owed at Cambridge would be nothing if that other sorrow could be conquered. Nor had Tifto in his own extravagance caused the Duke any incurable wounds. If Trager could be gone out of the way, his father, he thought, might be reconciled to other things. He felt very tender-hearted about his father. But he had no remorse in regard to his sister, as he made up his mind that he would speak very seriously to Trager. He had wandered into St. James Park and had lighted by this time half a dozen cigarettes, one after another, as he sat on one of the benches. He was a handsome youth, all but six feet high, with light hair, with round blue eyes, and with all that aristocratic look which had belonged so peculiarly to the late Duke, but which was less conspicuous in the present head of the family. He was a young man in whom you would hardly pass in a crowd without observing, but of whom you would say, after due observation, that he had not easily put off all his childish ways. He now sat with his legs stretched out, with his cane in his hands looking down upon the water, was trying to think. He worked hard at thinking. But the bench was hard, and upon the hole he was not satisfied with his position. He had just made up his mind that he would look up Trager when Trager himself appeared on the path before him. Trager! exclaimed Silverbridge. Silverbridge! exclaimed Trager. What on earth makes you walk about here in a Sunday morning? What on earth makes you sit there? That I should walk here, which I often do, does not seem to be odd, but that I should find you as marvelous. Do you often come? Never was here in my life before I strolled in because I had things to think of. Questions to be asked in Parliament? Notices of motions, amendments in committee, and that kind of thing? Go on, old fellow. Or perhaps Major Tifto has made important revelations. D. Major Tifto. With all my heart, said Trager. Sit down here, said Silverbridge. As it happened, at the moment when you came up, I was thinking of you. That was kind. And I was determined to go to you. All this about my sister must be given up. Must be given up? It can never lead to any good. I mean that there never can be a marriage. Then he paused. But Trager was determined to hear him out. It is making my father so miserable that you would pity him if you could see him. I daresay I should. When I see people unhappy, I always pity them. What I would ask you to think of is this. If I were to commission you to tell your sister that everything between us should be given up would not she be so unhappy that you would have to pity her? She would get over it. And so will your father. He has a right to have his own opinion on such a matter. And so have I. And so has she. His rights in this matter are very clear and very potential. I'm quite ready to admit that we cannot marry for many years to come, unless you'll provide the money. You are quite at liberty to tell him that I say so. I have no right to ask your father for a penny, and I will never do so. The power is all in his hands. As far as I know my own purposes, I shall not make any immediate attempt even to see her. We did meet, as you saw the other day, by the mirror's chance. After that, do you think that your sister wishes me to give her up? As for supposing that girls are to have what they wish, that is nonsense. For a young man I suppose equally so. Life ought to be a life of self-denial, no doubt. Perhaps it might be my duty to retire from this affair. If by doing so I should sacrifice only myself. The one person of whom I am bound to think in this matter is the girl I love. That is just what she would say about you, I hope so. In that way you support each other. If it were any other man's circumstance, just like you are, and any other girl placed like Mary, you would be the first to say that the man was behaving badly. I don't like to use hard language to you, but in such a case you would be the first to say of another man that he was looking after the girl's money. Silverbridge, as he said this, looked forward steadfastly onto the water, regretting much the cause for quarrel should have arisen, but thinking that Trager would find himself obliged to quarrel. But Trager, after a few moments silence having thought it out, determined that he would not quarrel. I think I probably might, he said, laying his hand on Silverbridge's arm. I think I perhaps might express such an opinion. Well then, I have to examine myself and find out whether I am guilty of the meanness which I might perhaps be too ready to impute to another. I have done so, and I am quite sure that I am not drawn to your sister by any desire for her money. I do not seek her because she was a rich man's daughter, nor because she is a rich man's daughter will I give her up. She shall be mistress of the occasion. Nothing but a word from her shall induce me to leave her, but a word from her, if it comes from her own lips, shall do so. Then he took his friend's hand in his and, having grasped it, walked away, without saying another word. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 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 Karen Glick. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 31 Chapter 31 Miss Boncassen's River Party Number 1 Thrice within the next three weeks did Lord Silverbridge go forth to ask Mabel to be his wife, but Thrice in vain. On one occasion she would talk on other things. On the second Miss Cassowary would not leave her. On the third the conversation turned in a very disagreeable way on Miss Boncassen. As to whom Lord Silverbridge could not but think that Lady Mabel said some very ill-natured things. It was no doubt true that he during the last three weeks had often been in Miss Boncassen's company, that he had danced with her, ridden with her, taken her to the House of Lords and to the House of Commons, and was now engaged to attend upon her at a river party up above Maidenhead. But Mabel had certainly no right to complain. Had he not Thrice during the same period come there to lay his coronet at her feet? And now, at this very moment, wasn't not her fault that he was not going through the ceremony? I suppose, she said laughing, that it is all settled. What is all settled? About you and the American beauty. I'm not aware that anything particular has been settled. Then it ought to be on it. For her sake, I mean. That is so like an English woman, said Lord Silverbridge. Because you cannot understand a manner of life a little different from your own, you will impute evil. I have imputed no evil, Lord Silverbridge, and you have no right to say so. If you remain to assert, said Miss Cass, that the manners of American young ladies are freer than those of English young ladies, it is you that are taking away their characters. I don't say it would be at all bad, continued Lady Mabel. She is a beautiful girl, and very clever, and would make a charming duchess. And then it would be such a delicious change to have an American duchess. She wouldn't be a duchess. Well, countess, with duchesship before her in the remote future, wouldn't it be a change, Miss Cass? Oh, decidedly, said Miss Cass. And very much for the better. Quite a case of new blood, you know. Pray, don't suppose that I mean to object. Everybody who talks about it approves. I haven't heard a dissension voice. Only as it has gone so far, and as English people are too stupid, you know, to understand all these new ways. Don't you think, perhaps? No, I don't think. I don't think anything, except that you are very ill-natured. Then he got up, and after making formal adieu to both the ladies, left the house. As soon as he was gone, Lady Mabel began to laugh. But the least apprehensive ears would have perceived that the laughter was affected. Miss Cass, where I did not laugh at all, but sat bolt upright, and looked very serious. Upon my honour, said the younger lady, he is the most beautifully simple-minded human being I ever knew in my life. Then I wouldn't laugh at him. How can one help it? But, of course, I'd do it with a purpose. What purpose? I think he's making a fool of himself. If somebody does not interfere, he will go so far that he will not be able to draw back without misbehaving. I thought, said Miss Cass Wary, in a very low voice, almost whispering. I thought that he was looking for a wife elsewhere. You need not think of that again, said Lady Mabe, jumping up from her seat. I had thought of it, too. But as I told you before, I spared him. He did not really mean it with me. Nor does he mean it with this American girl. Such young men seldom mean. They drift into matrimony. But she will not spare him. It would be a national triumph. All the states would sing a pan of glory. Fancy and New York bell have encompassed a duke. I do think it possible. It would be too horrid. I think it quite possible. As for me, I could teach myself to think it best as it is. Were I not so sure that I should be better for him than so many others? But I shouldn't love him. Why not love him? He's such a boy. I should always treat him like a boy, spoiling him and petting him, but never respecting him. Don't run away with any idea that I should refuse him from conscientious motives if you were really to ask me. I too should like to be a duchess. I should like to bring all this misery at home to an end. But you did refuse him. Not exactly because he never asked me. For the moment I was weak, and so I let him have another chance. I shall not have been a good friend to him if it ends in his marrying this Yankee. Lord Silverbridge went out of the house in a very ill humor, which however left him when in the course of the afternoon when he found himself up at Maidenhead with the Miss Boncassen. Miss Boncassen at any rate did not laugh at him, and then she was so pleasant, so full of common sense, and so completely intelligent. I like you, she had said, because I feel you will not think that you opt to make love to me. There is nothing I hate so much as the idea that a young man and a young woman can't be acquainted with each other without some such tomfoolery as that. This had exactly expressed his own feeling. Nothing could be so pleasant as his intimacy with Isabel Boncassen. Mrs. Boncassen seemed to be a homely person, with no desire either to speak or to be spoken to. She went out but seldom, and on those rare occasions did not in any way interfere with her daughter. Mr. Boncassen felt a prouder situation. Everybody knew that Miss Boncassen was in England, because it suited Mr. Boncassen to spend many hours in the British Museum. But still, the daughter hardly seemed to be under control from the father. She went alone where she liked, talked to those she liked, and did what she liked. Some of the young ladies of the day thought that there was a good deal to be said in favor of the freedom which she enjoyed. There is, however, a good deal to be said against it. All young ladies cannot be Miss Boncassen's, with such an assurance of admirers as to be free from all fear of loneliness. There is a comfort for a young lady in having a pietterre to which she may retreat in case of need. In American circles, where girls congregate without their mothers, there is a danger felt by young men that if a lady be once taken in hand, there will be no possibility of getting rid of her. No mama to whom she may be taken, and under whose wings she may be dropped. My dear, said an old gentleman the other day, walking through an American ballroom and addressing himself to a girl whom he knew well. My dear! But the girl bowed and passed on, still clinging to the arm of the young man who accompanied her. But the old gentleman was cruel and possessed of a determined purpose. My dear! said he again, catching the young man tight by the collar and holding him fast. Don't be afraid, I've got him. You shan't desert you. I'll hold him here till you have told me how your father does. The young lady looked as if she didn't like it, and the sight of her misery gave rise to a feeling that, after all, mama's perhaps may be a comfort. But in her present phase of life Miss Boncassen suffered no misfortune of this kind. It had become a privilege to be allowed to attend upon Miss Boncassen, and the feeling of this privilege had been enhanced by the manner in which Lord Silverbridge had devoted himself to her. Fashion, of course, makes fashion. Had that Lord Silverbridge been so very much struck by the charm of the young lady, Lord's glass law and poplcourt would not perhaps have found it necessary to run after her. As it was, even that most un-energenic of young men, Dolly Longstaff, was moved to profound admiration. On this occasion there were all up the river at Maidenhead. Mr. Boncassen had looked about for some means of returning the civilities offered to him, and had been instigated by Mrs. Montecute Jones to do it after this fashion. There was magnificent banquet spread in a summer house on the riverbank. There were boats, and there was a band, and there was a sword for dancing. There was lawn tennis and fishing rods, which nobody used, and better still, long shady secluded walks in which gentlemen might stroll, and ladies too if they were kind enough. The whole thing had been arranged by Mrs. Montecute Jones. As the day was fine, as many of the old people had abstained from coming, as there were plenty of young men of the best sort, and as nothing had been spared in reference to external comforts, the party promised to be a success. Every most lovely girl in London, of course, was there, except Lady Mabel Grex. Lady Mabel was in the habit of going everywhere, but on this occasion she had refused Mrs. Boncassen's invitation. I don't want to see her triumphs, she had said to Miss Cass. Everybody went down by railway, of course, and innumerable flies and carriages had been provided to take them to the scene of action. Some immediately got into boats and rode themselves up from the bridge, which, as the thermometer was standing at 80 in the shade, was an inconsiderate proceeding. I don't think I'm quite up to that, said Dolly Longstaff, when it was proposed to him to take an oar. Miss Amazon will do it. She rose so well and is so strong, whereupon this Amazon, not at all a bash, did take the oar. And as Lord Silverbridge was on the seat behind her with the other oar, she probably enjoyed her task. What a very nice sort of person Lady Cantrip is. This was said to Silverbridge by that generally silent young nobleman, Lord Papalcourt. The remark was the more singular, because Lady Cantrip was not at the party, and the more so again, because as Silverbridge thought, there could be but little in common between the Countess, who had a sister in charge, and the young Lord beside him, who was not fast only, because he did not like to risk his money. Well yes, I daresay she is. I thought so peculiarly. I was at that place at Richmond yesterday. The devil you were! What were you doing at the horns? Lady Cantrip's grandmother was, I don't quite know what she was, but something to us. I know I've got a picture of her at Papalcourt. Lady Cantrip wanted to ask me something about it, and so I went down. I was so glad to make acquaintance with your sister. You saw Mary, did you? Oh yes, I lunched there. I'm to go down and meet the Duke some day. Meet the Duke? Why not? No reason on earth only. I can't imagine the Governor going to Richmond for his dinner. Well, very glad to hear it. I hope you'll get on well with him. I was so much struck with your sister. Yes, I daresay, said Silverbridge, turning away into the path where he saw Miss Buncassan standing with some other ladies. It certainly did not occur to him that Papalcourt was to be brought forward as a suitor for his sister's hand. I believe this is the most lovely place in the world, Miss Buncassan said to him. We are so much the more obliged to you for bringing us here. We doubt bring you. You are lost to come with you and see all that is pretty and lovely. Is it not your party? Father will pay the bill, I suppose, as far as that goes. And mother's name was put on the cards. But of course we know what that means. It is because you and a few others like you have been so kind to us that we are able to be here at all. Everybody I should think must be kind to you. I do have a good time, pretty much. But nowhere so good as here. I fear that when I get back I shall not like New York. I have heard you say, Miss Buncassan, that Americans are more likeable than the English. Have you? Well, yes, I think I have said so. And I think it is so. I'd sooner have to dance with a bank clerk in New York than with a bank clerk here. Did you ever dance with bank clerks? Oh, dear, yes. At least, I suppose so. I dance with whoever comes up. We haven't got lords in America, you know. You have got gentlemen. Plenty of them, but they are not so easily defined as lords. I do like lords. Do you? Oh, yes, and ladies. Countess, as I mean, and women of that sort. Your Lady Mabel Grex is not here. Why wouldn't she come? Perhaps you didn't ask her. Oh, yes, I did. Especially for your sake. She is not my Lady Mabel Grex, said Lord Silverbridge, with unnecessary energy. But she will be. What makes you think that? You are devoted to her. Much more to you, Miss Bunkassen. That's nonsense, Lord Silverbridge. Not at all. It is also untrue. Surely I must be the best judge of that myself. Not a doubt. A judge not only whether it be true, but if true whether expedient, or even possible. What did I say to you when we first began to know each other? What did you say? That I liked knowing you. That was frank enough. That I liked knowing you because I knew that there would be no tomfoolery of love making. Then she paused, but he did not quite know how to go on with the conversation at once, and she continued her speech. When you come to send a tell me that you are devoted to me, as though that were the kind of thing that I expect to have said when I take a walk with a young man in a wood, is not that the tomfoolery of love making? She stopped and looked at him, so that he was obliged to answer. Then why do you ask if I am devoted to Lady Mabel? Would not that be tomfoolery, too? No. If I thought so, I would not have asked the question. I did specially invite her to come here, because I thought you would like it. You have got to marry somebody. Someday, perhaps. And why not her? If you come to that, why not you? He felt himself to be getting into deep waters as he said this, but he had a meaning to express. If only he could find the words to express it. I don't say whether it is tomfoolery as you call it or not, but whatever it is, you began it. Yes. Yes, I see. You punish me for my unpremeditated impertence in suggesting that you are devoted to Lady Mabel by the premeditated impertence of pretending to be devoted to me. Stop a moment. I cannot follow that. Then she laughed. I will swear that I did not intend to be impertinent. I hope not. I am devoted to you. Lord Silverbridge, I think you are— Stop. Stop. Do not say it. Well, I won't. Not now. But there has been no tomfoolery. May I ask a question, Lord Silverbridge? You will not be angry? I would not have you angry with me. I will not be angry, he said. Are you not engaged to marry Lady Mabel Grex? No. Then I beg your pardon. I was told that you were engaged to her, and I thought your choice was so fortunate. So happy! I have seen no girl here that I admire half so much. She almost comes up to my idea of what a young woman should be. Almost? Now I am sure that if not engaged to her, you must be in love with her, or my praise would have sufficed. Though one knows a Lady Mabel Grex, one may be acquainted with a Miss Bunkasson. There are moments in which stupid people say clever things, obtuse people say sharp things, and good-natured people say ill-natured things. Lord Silverbridge, she said, I did not expect that from you. Expect what? I meant it simply. I have no doubt you meant it simply. We Americans think ourselves sharp, but I have long since found out that we may meet more than our matches over here. I think we will go back. Mother means to try to get up a quadril. You will dance with me? I think not. I have been walking with you, and I'd better dance with someone else. You can let me have one dance. I think not. There will not be many. Are you angry with me? Yes, I am. There. But as she said that, she smiled. The truth is, I thought I was getting the better of you, and you turned round and gave me a pat in the head to show me that you could be master when it pleased you. You have defended your intelligence at the expense of your good nature. I'll be shot if I know what it all means, he said, just as he was parting with her. End of chapter 31