 CHAPTER XXXII Lord Silverbridge made up his mind that as he could not dance with Miss Boncassen he would not dance at all. He was not angry at being rejected, and when he saw her stand up with Dolly Longstaff he felt no jealousy. She had refused to dance with him not because she did not like him, but because she did not wish to show that she liked him. He could understand that, though he had not quite followed all the ins and outs of her little accusations against him. She had flattered him without any intention of flattery on her part. She had spoken of his intelligence, and had complained that he had been too sharp to her. Mabel Grex, when most sweet to him, when most loving, always made him feel that he was her inferior. She took no trouble to hide her conviction of his youthfulness. This was anything but flattering. Miss Boncassen, on the other hand, professed herself to be almost afraid of him. There shall be no Tom Fulery of love-making, she had said. But what if it were not Tom Fulery at all? What if it were good, genuine, earnest love-making? He certainly was not pledged to Lady Mabel. As regarded his father, there would be a difficulty. In the first place he had been fool enough to tell his father that he was going to make an offer to Mabel Grex. And then his father would surely refuse his consent to a marriage with an American stranger. In such case there would be no unlimited income, no immediate pleasantess of magnificent life such as he knew would be poured out upon him if he were to marry Mabel Grex. As he thought of this, however, he told himself that he would not sell himself for money and magnificence. He could afford to be independent and gratify his own taste. Just at this moment he was of opinion that Isabel Boncassen would be the sweeter companion of the two. He had sauntered down to the place where they were dancing, and stood by, saying a few words to Mrs. Boncassen. Why, are you not dancing, my lord? She asked. There are enough without me. I guess you young aristocrats are never over fond of doing much with your own arms and legs. I don't know about that. Polo you know for the legs, and lawn tennis for the arms is hard work enough. But it must always be something newfangled, and after all it isn't of much account. Our young men like to have quite a time at dancing. It all came through her nose, and she looked so common. What would the duke say to her, or Mary, or even Gerald? The father was by no means so objectionable. He was a tall, straight, ungainly man who always wore black clothes. He had dark, stiff, short hair, a long nose, and a forehead that was both high and broad. Ezekiel Boncassen was the very man, from his appearance, for a president of the United States, and there were men who talked to him for that high office. That he had never attended to politics was supposed to be in his favor. He had the reputation of being the most learned man in the states, and reputation itself often suffices to give man dignity of manner. He, too, spoke through his nose, but the peculiar twang coming from a man would be supposed to be veral and incisive. From a woman, Lord Silverbridge thought it to be unbearable. But as to Isabel, had she been born within the confines of some lordly park in Hertfordshire, she could not have been more completely free from the abomination. I am sorry that you should not be enjoying yourself, said Mr. Boncassen, coming to his wife's relief. Nothing could have been nicer to tell the truth. I am standing idle by way of showing my anger against your daughter, who would not dance with me. I am sure she would have felt herself honored, said Mr. Boncassen. Who is the gentleman with her? asked the mother. A particular friend of mine, Dolly Longstaff. Dolly, ejaculated Mrs. Boncassen. Everybody calls him so. His real name, I believe, to be Adolphus. Is he just anybody? asked the anxious mother. He is a very great deal. As people go here, everybody knows him. He is asked everywhere, but he goes nowhere. The greatest compliment paid to you here is his presence. Nay, my lord, there are the Countess Montague and the Marchioness of Capulet and Lord Tybalt, and they go everywhere. They are nobodies. It is a charity to even invite them, but to have had Dolly Longstaff once as a triumph for life. Laws, said Mrs. Boncassen, looking hard at the young man who was dancing. What has he done? He never did anything in his life. I suppose he's very rich. I don't know. I should think not. I don't know anything about his riches, but I can assure you that having had him down here will give quite a character to the day. In the meantime, Dolly Longstaff was in the state of great excitement. Some part of the character assigned to him by Lord Silverbridge was true. He very rarely did go anywhere, and yet was asked to a great many places. He was a young man, though not a very young man, with a fortune of his own and the expectation of a future fortune. Few men living could have done less for the world than Dolly Longstaff, and yet he had a position of his own. Now he had taken it into his head to fall in love with Miss Boncassen. This was an accident which had probably never happened to him before, and which had disturbed him very much. He had known Miss Boncassen a week or two before Lord Silverbridge had seen her, having by some chance dined out and sat next to her. From that moment he had become changed, and had gone hither and thither in pursuit of the American beauty. His passion, having become suspected by his companions, had excited their ridicule. Nevertheless he had persevered, and now he was absolutely dancing with the lady out in the open air. If this goes on your friends will have to look after you and put you somewhere, Mr. Lupton had said to him in one of the intervals of the dance. Dolly had turned round and scowled, and suggested that if Mr. Lupton would mind his own affairs it would be as well with the world at large. At the present crisis Dolly was very much excited. When the dance was over, as a matter of course he offered the lady his arm, and as a matter of course she accepted it. You'll take a turn, won't you? He said. It must be a very short turn, she said, as I am expected to make myself busy. Oh, bother that! It bothers me, but it has to be done. You have set everything going now. They'll begin dancing again without you telling them. I hope so, and I've got something I want to say. Dear me, what is it? They were now on a path close to the riverside in which there were many loungers. Would you mind coming up to the temple, he said? What temple? Oh, such a beautiful place! The Temple of the Winds, I think they call it, or Venus, or Mrs. Arthur de Beaver. Was she a goddess? It is something built to her memory, such a view of the river. I was here once before, and they took me up there. Everybody who comes here goes and sees Mrs. Arthur de Beaver. They ought to have told you. Let us go, then, said Miss Boncassen. Only it must not be long. Five minutes will do it all. Then he walked rather quickly up a flight of rural steps. Lovely spot, isn't it? Yes, indeed. That's Maidenhead Bridge. That's somebody's place, and now I've got something to say to you. You're not going to murder me now that you've got me up here alone, said Miss Boncassen, laughing. Murder you, said Dolly, throwing himself into an attitude that was intended to express devoted affection. Oh, no! I am glad of that. Miss Boncassen. Mr. Longstaff, if you sigh like that, you'll burst yourself. Oh, what? Burst yourself, and she nodded her head at him. Then he clapped his hands together and turned his head away from her towards the little temple. I wonder whether she knows what love is, he said, as though he were addressing himself to Mrs. Arthur de Beaver. No, she don't, said Miss Boncassen. But I do, he shouted, turning back towards her. I do, if any man were ever absolutely, actually, really in love, I am the man. Are you indeed, Mr. Longstaff? Isn't it pleasant? Pleasant? Pleasant? Oh, it could be so pleasant. But who is the lady? Perhaps you don't mean to tell me that. You mean to say you don't know? Haven't the least idea in life? Let me tell you, then, that it could only be one person. It never was but one person. It never could have been but one person. It is you that he put his hand well on his heart. Me, said Miss Boncassen, choosing to be ungrammatical in order that he might be more absurd. Of course it is you. Do you think I should have brought you all the way up here to tell you I was in love with somebody else? I thought I was brought to see Mrs. DeSomebody in the view. Not at all, said Dolly emphatically. Then you have deceived me. I will never deceive you, only say that you will love me and I will be true to you as the North Pole. Is that true to me? You know what I mean. If I don't love you, yes you do. Do I? I beg your pardon, said Dolly. I didn't mean to say that. Of course a man shouldn't make sure of a thing. Not in this case, Mr. Longstaff, because really I entertain no such feeling. But you can, if you please, just let me tell you who I am. That will do no good whatever, Mr. Longstaff. Let me tell you at any rate I have a very good income of my own as it is. Money can have nothing to do with it. But I want you to know that I can afford it. You might perhaps have thought that I wanted your money. I will attribute nothing evil to you, Mr. Longstaff. Only it is quite out of the question that I should respond as I suppose you wish me to, and therefore pray, do not say anything further. He went to the head of the little steps, but he interrupted her. You ought to hear me, he said. I have heard you. I can give you as good a position as any man without a title in England. Mr. Longstaff, I rather fancy that wherever I may be I can make a position for myself. At any rate I shall not marry with the view of getting one. If my husband were an English duke, I should think myself nothing unless I wish something as Isabel von Kassen. When she said this she did not but think herself that Lord Silverbridge would, in the course of nature, become an English duke, but the allusion to an English duke told intensely on Dolly, who suspected that he had a noble rival. English dukes aren't so easily got, he said. Very likely not. I might have expressed my meaning better had I said an English prince. That's quite out of the question, said Dolly. They can't do it, by act of parliament, except in a hugger-mugger left-handed way that wouldn't suit you at all. Mr. Longstaff, you must forgive me if I say that of all the gentlemen I have ever met in this country or in any other, you are the most obtuse. This she brought out in little disjointed sentences, not with any hesitation, but in a way to make every word she uttered more clear to an intelligence which she did not believe to be bright. But in this belief she did some injustice to Dolly. He was quite alive to the disgrace of being called obtuse, and quick enough to avenge himself at the moment. Am I, said he, how humble-minded you must be when you think me a fool because I have fallen in love with such a one as yourself. I'd like you for that, she replied, laughing, and withdraw the epithet as not being applicable. Now we are quits and can forget and forgive, only let there be the forgetting. Never, said Dolly, with his hand again on his heart. Then let it be a little dream of your youth that you once met a pretty American girl who was foolish enough to refuse all that you would have given her. So pretty, so awfully pretty. I have seen all the handsome women in England going for the last ten years, and there has not been one who has made me think that it would be worth my while to get off my perch for her. And now you would desert your perch for me. I have already. But you can get up again, let it all be a dream. I know men like to have had such dreams, and in order that the dream may be pleasant the last word between us shall be kind. Such admiration from such a one as you is an honour, and I will reckon it among my honours. But it can be no more than a dream. Then she gave him her hand. It shall be so, shall it not? Then she paused. It must be so, Mr. Longstaff. Must it? That and no more. Now I wish to go down. Will you come with me? It will be better. Don't you think it is going to rain? Dolly looked up at the clouds. I wish it would with all my heart. I know you are not so ill-natured. It would spoil all. You have spoiled all? No, no, I have spoiled nothing. It will only be a little dream about that strange American girl who really did make me feel queer for half an hour. Look at that! A great big drop, and the cloud has come over us as black as arabus. Do hurry down! He was leading the way. What shall we do for carriages to get us to the inn? There's the summer house. It will hold about half of us, and think what it will be to be in there waiting till the rain shall be over. Everybody has been so good-humoured, and now they will be so cross. The rain was falling in big heavy drops, slow and far between, but almost black with their size, and the heaviness of the cloud which had gathered over them made everything black. Will you have my arm, said Silverbridge, who saw Miss Boncasson scutting along, with Dolly Longstaff following as fast as he could? Oh, dear, no, I have got to mine by dress. There I have gone right into a puddle. Oh, dear! So she ran on, and Silverbridge followed close behind her, leaving Dolly Longstaff in the distance. It was not only Miss Boncasson who got her feet into a puddle and splashed her stockings. Many did so who were not obliged by their position to maintain good humour under their misfortunes. The storm had come on with such unexpected quickness that there had been a general stampede to the summer house. As Isabel had said, there was comfortable room for not more than half of them. In a few minutes people were crushed who never ought to be crushed, a countess for whom treble-piled sofas were hardly good enough with seated on the corner of a table till some younger and less gorgeous lady could be made to give way, and the marchiness was declaring that she was as wet through as though she had been dragged in a river. Miss Boncasson was so absolutely quelled as to have retired into the kitchen attached to the summer house. Mr. Boncasson, with all his country's pluck and pride, was proving to a knot of gentlemen round him on the veranda that such treachery in the weather was a thing unknown in his happier country. Miss Boncasson had to do her best to console the splashed ladies. Oh, Mrs. Jones, is it not a pity? What can I do for you? We must bear it, my dear, it often does rain, but why on this special day should it come down out of buckets? I never was so wet in all my life, said Dolly Longstaff, poking in his head. There's somebody smoking, said the countess angrily. There was the crowd of men smoking out on the veranda. I never knew anything so nasty, the countess continued, leaving it in doubt whether she spoke of the rain, or the smoke, or the party generally. Damp gauzes, splashed stockings, trampled muslins, and features which have perhaps known something of rouge, and certainly encountered something of rain, may be made, but can only, by supreme high breeding, be made compatible with good humor. To be moist, muddy, rumpled, and smeared, when by the very nature of your position it is your duty to be clear-starched up to the palusidity of crystal, to be spotless as the lily, to be crisp as the ivy leaf, and as clear in complexion as the rose, is it not, O gentle readers, felt to be a disgrace? It came to pass, therefore, that many now were very cross. Carriages were ordered under the idea that some improvement might be made at the inn, which was nearly a mile distant. Very few, however, had their own carriages, and there was jockeying for the vehicles. In the midst of all this, Silverbridge remained as near to Miss Boncassen as circumstances would admit. You are not waiting for me, she said. Yes I am. We might as well go up to town together. Leave me with father and mother, like the captain of a ship, I must be the last to leave the wreck. But I'll be the gallant sailor of the day, who always at the risk of his life sticks to the skipper to the last moment. Not at all, just because there will be no gallantry. But come and see us to-morrow, and find out whether we have got through it alive. CHAPTER XXXIII 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, by Nicholas Clifford. The Duke's Children, by Anthony Trollop. CHAPTER XXXIII THE LANGAM HOTEL What an abominable climate, Mrs. Boncassen had said, when they were quite alone at Baitenhead. My dear, you didn't think you were to bring New York along with you when you came here, replied her husband. I wish I was going back to-morrow. That's a foolish thing to say. People here are very kind, and you are seeing a great deal more of the world than you would ever see at home. I am having a very good time. What do you say, Belle? I wish I could have kept my stockings clean. But what about the young men? Young men are pretty much the same everywhere, I guess. They never have their wits about them. They never mean what they say, because they don't understand the use of words. They are generally half impudent and half timid. And in love they do not at all understand what has befallen them. What they want they try to compass as a cow does when it stands, stretching out its head towards a stack of hay which it cannot reach. Indeed, there is no such thing as a young man, for a man is not really a man till he is middle-aged. But take them at their worst. They are a deal too good for us, for they become men some day, whereas we must only be women to the end. My word, Bella, exclaimed the mother. You have managed to be tolerably heavy upon God's creatures taking them in a lump, said the father, boys, girls, and cows. Something has gone wrong with you besides the rain. Nothing on earth, sir, except the boredom. Some young man has been talking to you, Bella. One or two, mother, and I got to be thinking if any one of them should ask me to marry him, and if moved by some evil destiny I would take him, whether I should murder him, or myself, or run away with one of the others. Couldn't you bear with him till, according to your own theory, he would grow out of his folly, said the father? Being a woman, no. The present moment is always everything to me, when that horrid old Harrodon hallowed out that somebody was smoking, I thought I should have died. It was very bad just then. Awful, said Mrs. Boncassen, shaking her head. I didn't seem to feel it much, said the father. One doesn't look to have everything just what one wants always. If I did, I should go nowhere. But my total life would be less enjoyable. If ever you do get married, Belle, you should remember that. I mean to get married someday so that I shouldn't be made love to any longer. I hope it will have that effect, said the father. Mr. Boncassen ejaculated the mother. What I say is true. I hope it will have that effect it had with you, my dear. I don't know what people didn't think of me as much as of anybody else, even though I was married. Then, my dear, I never knew it. Mrs. Boncassen, though she had behaved serenely and with good temper during the process of Dolly's proposal, had not liked it. She had a very high opinion of herself, and was certainly entitled to have it by the undisguised admiration of all that came near her. She was not more indifferent to the admiration of young men than our other young ladies. But she was not proud of the admiration of Dolly Longstaff. She was here among strangers whose ways were unknown to her, whose rank and standing in the world were vague to her, and wonderful in their dimness. She knew that she was associating with men very different from those at home, where young men were supposed to be under the necessity of earning their bread. At New York she would dance, as she had said, with bank clerks. She was not prepared to admit that a young London Lord was better than a New York bank clerk. Judging the men on their own individual merits, she might find the bank clerk to be the better of the two. But a sort of sweetness of the aroma of rank was beginning to permeate her Republican sentences. The softness of a life in which no occupation was compulsory had its charms for her. Though she had complained of the insufficient intelligence of young men, she was alive to the delight of having nothing said to her pleasantly. All this had affected her so strongly that she had almost felt that a life among these English luxuries would be a pleasant life. Like most Americans who do not as yet know the country, she had come with an inward feeling that as an American and a Republican she might probably be despised. There is, not uncommonly, a savageness of self-assertion about Americans which arises from a too great anxiety to be admitted to fellowship with Britons. She had felt this, and conscious of reputation already made by herself in the social life of New York, she had half trusted that she would be well received in London, and had half convinced herself that she would be rejected. She had not been rejected. She must have become quite aware of that. She had dropped very quickly the idea that she would be scorned. Ignorant as she had been of English life, she perceived that she had at once become popular. And this had been so in spite of her mother's homeliness and her father's awkwardness. By herself and by her own gifts she had done it. She had found out concerning herself that she had that which would commend her to other society than that of the Fifth Avenue. Those lords of whom she had heard were as plenty with her as Blackberries. Young Lord Silverbridge, of whom she was told that of all the young lords of the day he stood first in rank and wealth, was peculiarly her friend. Her brain was firmer than that of most girls, but even her brain was a little turned. She never told herself that it would be well for her to become the wife of such a one. In her more thoughtful moments she told herself that it would not be well. But still the allurement was strong upon her. Park Lane was sweeter than Fifth Avenue. Lord Silverbridge was nicer than the bank clerk. But Dolly Longstaff was not. She would certainly prefer the bank clerk to Dolly Longstaff. And yet Dolly Longstaff was the one among her English admirers who had come forward and spoken out. She did not desire that any one should come forward and speak out. But it was an annoyance to her that this special man should have done so. The waiter at the Langham understood American ways perfectly, and what a young man called between three and four o'clock asking for Mrs. Boncassen said that Miss Boncassen was at home. The young man took off his hat, brushed up his hair, and followed the waiter up to the sitting room. The door was opened, and the young man was announced. After Longstaff, Miss Boncassen was rather disgusted. She had had enough of this English lover. Why should he have come after what had occurred yesterday? He ought to have felt that he was absolved from the necessity of making personal inquiries. I am glad to see that you got home safe, she said, as she gave him her hand. And you, too, I hope. Well so-so, with my clothes a good deal damaged and my temper rather worse. I am so sorry. It should not rain on such days. Mother has gone to church. Oh, indeed I like going to church myself sometimes. Do you now? I know what would make me like to go to church. And father is at the Athenaeum. He goes there to do a little light reading at the library on Sunday afternoon. I shall never forget yesterday, Miss Boncassen. You wouldn't if your clothes had been spoiled as mine were. Money will repair that. Well, yes, but when I've had a petticoat flounced particularly to order I don't like to see it ill-treated. There are emotions of the heart which money can't touch. Just so, emotions of the heart, that's the very phrase. She was determined, if possible, to prevent a repetition of the scene which had taken place up at Mrs. De Beaver's temple. All my emotions about my dress. All? Well, yes, all. I guess I don't care much for eating and drinking, in saying this she actually contrived to produce something of a nasal twang. Eating and drinking, said Dolly. Of course they are necessities and so are clothes. But new things as such ducks. Trousers maybe, said Dolly. Then she took a prolonged gaze at him, wondering whether he was or was not such a fool as he looked. How funny you are, she said. A man does not generally feel funny after going through what I suffered yesterday, Miss Boncassen. Would you mind ringing the bell? Must it be done quite at once? Quite, quite, she said. I can do it myself for the matter of that. Then she rang the bell somewhat violently. Dolly sank back again into his seat, remarking in his usual apathetic way that he had intended to obey her behest, but had not understood that she was in so great a hurry. I am always in a hurry, she said. I like things to be done sharp. And she hit the table a crack. Please bring me some iced water. This of course was addressed to the waiter. And a glass for Mr. Longstaff. One for me, thank you. Perhaps you'd like soda and brandy? Oh, dear no, nothing of the kind, but I am so much obliged you all the same. As the water bottle was in fact standing in the room, and as the waiter had only to hand the glass, all this created with little obstacle. Still, it had its effect, and Dolly, when the man had retired, felt that there was a difficulty in proceeding. I have called today, he began. That has been so kind of you, but Mother has gone to church. I am very glad that she has gone to church, because I wish to, oh laws, there's a horse that's tumbled down in the street. I heard it. He has got up again, said Dolly, looking leisurely out of the window. But as I was saying, I don't think that the water we Americans drink can be good. It makes the women become ugly so young. You will never become ugly. She got up and curtsy to him, and then, still standing, made him a speech. Mr. Longstaff, it would be absurd of me to pretend not to understand what you mean, but I won't have any more of it. Whether you are making fun of me, or whether you are an earnest, it is just the same. Making fun of you? It does not signify. I don't care which it is, but I won't have it, there. The gentleman should be allowed to express his feelings and to explain his position. You have expressed and explained more than enough, and I won't have any more. If you will sit down and talk about something else, or else go away, there shall be an end of it. But if you go on, I will ring the bell again. What can a man gain by going on when a girl has spoken as I have done? They were both at this time standing up, and he was now as angry as she was. I've paid you the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman, he began. Very well. If I remember rightly, I thanked you for it yesterday. If you wish it, I will thank you again today. But it is a compliment which becomes very much the reverse if it be repeated too often. You are sharp enough to understand that I have done everything in my power to save us both from this trouble. What makes you so fierce, Miss Boncassen? What makes you so foolish? I suppose it must be something peculiar to American ladies. Just that, something peculiar to American ladies, they don't like, well, I don't want to say anything more that can be called fierce. At this moment the door was again opened and Lord Silverbridge was announced. Hello, Dolly, are you here? It seems that I am. And I am here, too, said Miss Boncassen, smiling her prettiest. None the worse for yesterday's troubles, I hope. A good deal the worse. I have been explaining all that to Mr. Longstaff, who has been quite sympathetic with me about my things. A terrible pity that shower, said Dolly. For you, said Silverbridge, because if I remember right Miss Boncassen was walking with you, but I was rather glad of it. Lord Silverbridge, I regarded it as a direct interposition of Providence because you would not dance with me. Any news today, Silverbridge, asked Dolly. Nothing particular. They say that Cole Heaver can't run for the ledger. What's the matter, asked Dolly vigorously? Broke down at Ascot, but I dare say it's a lie. Sure to be a lie, said Dolly. What do you think of Madame Schultzdam, Miss Boncassen? I am not a good judge. Never heard anything equal to it yet in this world, said Dolly. I wonder whether that's true about Cole Heaver. Tifto says so. Which, at the present moment, asked Miss Boncassen, is the greater favorite with the public, Madame Schultzdam or Cole Heaver? Cole Heaver is a horse, Miss Boncassen. Oh, a horse! Perhaps I ought to say a colt. Oh, a colt! Do you suppose, Dolly, that Miss Boncassen doesn't know all that, asked Silverbridge? He suppose is that my American ferocity has never been sufficiently softened for the reception of polite erudition. You too have been quarreling, I fear. I never quarrel with a woman, said Dolly. Over the man in my presence, I hope, said Miss Boncassen. Somebody does seem to have got out of the bed at the wrong side, said Silverbridge. I did, said Miss Boncassen. I got out of bed at the wrong side. I am cross. I can't get over the spoiling of my flounces. I think you had better both go away and leave me. If I could walk about the room for half an hour and stamp my feet, I should get better. Silverbridge thought that as he had come last, he certainly ought to be left last. Miss Boncassen felt that at any rate Mr. Longstaff should go. Dolly felt that his manhood required him to remain. After what had taken place, he was not going to leave the field vacant for another. Therefore he made no effort to move. That seems rather hard upon me, said Silverbridge. You told me to come. I told you to come and ask after us all. You have come and asked after us and have been informed that we are very bad. What more can I say? You accused me of getting out of bed on the wrong side and I owned that I did. I meant to say that Dolly Longstaff had done so. And I say it was Silverbridge, said Dolly. We aren't very agreeable together, are we? Upon my word I think you'd both better go. Silverbridge immediately got up from his chair, upon which Dolly also moved. What the mischief is up, asked Silverbridge when they were under the porch together. The truth is you can never tell what you are to do with those American girls. I suppose you have been making up to her. She seems to me to like admiration, so I told her I had mired her. What did she say then? Upon my word you seemed to be very great at cross-examining. Perhaps you had better go back and ask her. I will next time I see her. Then he stepped into his cab and in a loud voice ordered the man to drive him to the zoo. But when he had gone a little way up Portland Place, he stopped the driver and desired he might be taken back again to the hotel. As he left the vehicle he looked round for Dolly, but Dolly had certainly gone. Then he told the waiter to take his card to Miss Boncassen and explain that he had something to say which he had forgotten. So you have come back again, said Miss Boncassen, laughing. Of course I have. You didn't suppose I was going to let that fellow get the better of me? Why should I be turned out because he has made an ass of himself? Who said he has made an ass of himself? But he had, hadn't he? No, by no means, said she, after a little pause. Tell me what he had been saying. Indeed, I shall do nothing of the kind. If I told you all he said, then I should have to tell the next man all that you may say. Would that be fair? I should not mind, said Silverbridge. I dare say not, because you have nothing particular to say, but the principle is the same. Lawyers and doctors and Parsons talk of privileged communications. Why should not a young lady have her privileged communications? But I have something particular to say. I hope not. Why should you hope not? I hate having things said particularly. Nobody likes conversations so well as I do, but it should never be particular. I was going to tell you that I came back to London yesterday in the same carriage with old Lady Clan Fiddle, and that she swore that no consideration on earth would ever induce her to go to Maidenhead again. That isn't particular. She went on to say, you won't tell of me, will you? It shall all be privileged. She went on to say that Americans couldn't be expected to understand English manners. Perhaps they may be all the better for that. Then I spoke up. I swore I was awfully in love with you. You didn't. I did, that you were, out and away, the finest girl I ever saw in my life. Of course you understand that her two daughters were there, and that as for manners, unless the rain could be attributed to American manners, I did not think anything had gone wrong. What about the smoking? I told her they were all Englishmen, and that if she had been giving the party herself, they would have smoked just as much. You must understand that she never does give any parties. How could you be so ill-natured? There was ever so much more of it, and it ended in her telling me that I was a schoolboy. I found out the cause of it all. A great spout of rain had come upon her daughter's hat, and that had produced a most melancholy catastrophe. I would have given her mine willingly. An American hat to be worn by Lady Vile at Clan Fiddle? It came from Paris last week, sir, but must have been contaminated by American contact. Now Lord Silverbridge said she, getting up, if I had a stick I'd whip you. It was such fun, and you come here and tell it all to me. Of course I do. It was a deal too good to keep it to myself. American banners, as he said this he almost succeeded in looking like Lady Clan Fiddle. At that moment Mr. Boncasin entered the room and was immediately appealed to by his daughter. Father, you must turn Lord Silverbridge out of the room. Dear me, if I must, of course I must, but why? He is saying everything horrid he can about Americans. After this they settled down for a few minutes to general conversation, and then Lord Silverbridge again took his leave. When he was gone, Isabel Boncasin almost regretted that the something particular which he had threatened to say had not been less comic in its nature. End of chapter 33. Chapter 34 of the Duke's Children. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 34, Lord Popplecourt. When the reader was told that Lord Popplecourt had found Lady Cantrip very agreeable, it is to be hoped that the reader was disgusted. Lord Popplecourt would certainly not have given a second thought to Lady Cantrip, unless he had been specially flattered. And why should such a man have been flattered by a woman who was in all respects his superior? The reader will understand it had been settled by the wisdom of the elders that it would be a good thing that Lord Popplecourt should marry Lady Mary Palliser. The mutual assent which leads to marriage should no doubt be spontaneous. Who does not feel that? Young love should speak from its first doubtful unconscious spark, a spark which any breath of air may quench or cherish, till it becomes a flame which nothing can satisfy but the union of the two lovers. No one should be told to love or bidden to marry this man or that woman. The theory of this is plain to all until we have sons or daughters whom we feel imperatively obliged to control. The theory is unassailable. But the duty is so imperative that you could taught himself to believe that as his wife would have been thrown away on the world, had she been allowed to marry Bergo Fitzgerald, so would his daughter be thrown away, were she allowed to marry Mr. Triguer. Therefore the theory of spontaneous love must in this case be set aside. Therefore the spark, with that it had been no more, must be quenched. Therefore there could be no union of two lovers, but simply a prudent and perhaps splendid marriage. Lord Popplecourt was a man in possession of a large estate which was unencumbered. His rank in the peerage was not high, but his barony was of an old date, and if things went well with him, something higher in rank might be open to him. He had good looks of that sort which recommend themselves to pastors and masters, to elders and betters. He had regular features. He looked as though he were steady. He was not impatient or rollicking. Silverbridge was also good-looking, but his good looks were such as would give a pang to the hearts of anxious mothers of daughters. Triguer was the handsomest man of the three, but then he looked as though he had no betters and did not care for his elders. Lord Popplecourt, though a very young man, had once stammered through half a dozen words in the House of Lords, and had been known to dine with the benevolent funds. Lord Silverbridge had declared him to be a fool. No one thought him to be bright. But in the eyes of the Duke and of Lady Cantrip he had his good qualities. But the work was very disagreeable. It was the more hard upon Lady Cantrip because she did not believe in it. If it could be done it would be expedient, but she felt very strongly that it could not be done. No doubt that Lady Glencora had been turned from her evil destiny, but Lady Glencora had been younger than her daughter was now and possessed of less character. Nor was Lady Cantrip blind to the difference between a poor man with a bad character, such as that burgo had been, and a poor man with a good character, such as was Triguer. Nonetheless she undertook to aid the work and condescended to pretend to be so interested in the portrait of some common ancestor, as to persuade the young man to have it photographed in order that the bringing down of the photograph might lead to something. He took the photograph, and Lady Cantrip said very much to him about his grandmother, who was the old lady in question. She could, she said, just remember the features of the dear old woman. She was not habitually a hypocrite, and she hated herself for what she was doing, and yet her object was simply good, to bring together two young people who might advantageously marry each other. The mere talking about the old woman would be of no service. She longed to bring out the offer plainly and say, There is Lady Mary Palliser. Don't you think she'd make a good wife for you? But she could not as yet bring herself to be so indelicately plain. You haven't seen the duke since, she asked. He spoke to me only yesterday in the house. I like the duke. If I may be allowed to say so, it would be for your advantage that he should like you. That is, if you mean to take a part in politics. I suppose I shall, said Papal Court. There isn't much else to do. You don't go to the races? He shook his head. I am glad of that, said Lady Cantrip. Nothing is so bad as the turf. I fear Lord Silverbridge is devoting himself to the turf. I don't think it can be good for any man to have much to do with Major Tifto. I suppose Silverbridge knows what he's about. Here was an opportunity which might have been used. It would have been so easy for her to glide from the imperfections of the brother to the perfections of the sister, but she could not bring herself to do it quite at once. She approached the matter, however, as nearly as she could without making her grand proposition. She shook her head sadly in reference to Silverbridge, and then spoke of the duke. His father is so anxious about him. I dare say. I don't know any man who is more painfully anxious about his children. She feels the responsibility so much since his wife's death. There is Lady Mary. She's all right, I should say. All right. Oh, yes. But when a girl is possessed of so many things—rank, beauty, intelligence, large fortune—will Lady Mary have much? A large portion of her mother's money, I should say. When all these things are joined together, a father of course feels most anxious as to their disposal. I suppose she is clever. Very clever, said Lady Cantrip. I think a girl may be too clever, you know, said Lord Popplecourt. Perhaps she may, but I know more who are too foolish. I am so much obliged you for the photograph. Don't mention it. I really did mean that you should send a man down. On that occasion the two young people did not see each other. Lady Mary did not come down, and Lady Cantrip lacked the courage to send for her. As it was, might it not be possible that the young man should be induced to make himself agreeable to the young lady without any further explanation? But love-making between young people cannot well take place unless they be brought together. There was the difficulty in bringing them together at Richmond. The Duke had indeed spoken of meeting Lord Popplecourt at dinner there, but this was to have followed the proposition which Lady Cantrip should make to him. She could not yet make the proposition, and therefore she hardly knew how to arrange the dinner. She was obliged at last to let the wished-for lover go away without arranging anything. When the Duke should have settled his autumn plans, then an attempt must be made to induce Lord Popplecourt to travel in the same direction. That evening Lady Cantrip said a few words to Mary respecting the proposed suitor. There is nothing I have such a horror of as gambling, she said. It is dreadful. I am very glad to think that Nittedale does not do anything of that sort. It was perhaps on the cards that Nittedale should do things of which she knew nothing. I hope Silverbridge does not bet. I don't think he does. There is Lord Popplecourt, quite a young man, with everything at his disposal and a very large estate. Think of the evil he might do if he were given that way. Does he gamble? Not at all. It must be such a comfort to his mother. He looks to me as though he never would do anything, said Lady Mary. Then the subject was dropped. It was a week after this, towards the end of July, that the Duke wrote a line to Lady Cantrip apologizing for what he had done, but explaining that he had asked Lord Popplecourt to dine at the horns on a certain Sunday. He had, he said, been assured by Lord Cantrip that such an arrangement would be quite convenient. It was clear from his letter that he was much an earnest. Of course there was no reason why the dinner should not be eaten. Only the specialty of the invitation to Lord Popplecourt must not be so glaring that he himself should be struck by the strangeness of it. There must be a little part he made up. Lord Nittedale and his wife were therefore bidden to come down, and Silverbridge, who at first consented rather unwillingly, and Lady Mabel Grex, as to whom the Duke made a special request, that she might be asked. This last invitation was sent express from Lady Mary and included Miss Cass. So the party was made up. The careful reader will perceive that there were to be ten of them. "'Isn't it odd, Papa, wanting to have Lady Mabel?' Mary said to Lady Cantrip. "'Does he not know her, my dear?' He hardly ever spoke to her. "'I'll tell you what. I expect Silverbridge is going to marry her.' "'Why shouldn't he?' "'I don't know why he shouldn't. She is very beautiful and very clever. But if so, Papa must know all about it. It does seem so odd that Papa of all people should turn matchmaker, or even that he should think of it.' "'So much is thrown upon him now,' said Lady Cantrip. "'Poor Papa!' Then she remembered herself and spoke with a little start. "'Of course I am not thinking of myself. Getting a marriage is very different from preventing anyone from marrying. "'Whatever he may think to be his duty, he will be sure to do it,' said the elder lady, very solemnly. Lady Mabel was surprised by the invitation, but she was not slow to accept it. "'Papa will be here and will be so glad to meet you,' Lady Mary had said. "'Why should the Duke of Omnium wish to meet her?' "'Silverbridge will be here, too,' Mary had gone on to say. "'It is just a family party. Papa, you know, is not going anywhere, nor am I.' By all this Lady Mabel's thoughts were much stirred and her bosom somewhat moved, and Silverbridge also was moved by it. Of course she could not but remember that he had pledged himself to his father to ask Lady Mabel to be his wife. He had faltered since. She had been, he thought, unkind to him, or at any rate indifferent. He had surely said enough to her to make her know what he meant, and yet she had taken no trouble to meet him halfway. And then Isabel Boncassen had intervened. Now he was asked to dinner in a most unusual manner. Of all the guests invited, Lord Popplecourt was perhaps the least disturbed. He was quite alive to the honour of being noticed by the Duke of Omnium, and alive also to the flattering courtesy shown to him by Lady Cantrip, but justice would not be done to him unless it were acknowledged that he had as yet flattered himself with no hopes in regard to Lady Mary Palliser. He, when he prepared himself for his journey down to Richmond, thought much more of the Duke than of the Duke's daughter. Oh, yes, I can drive you down if you like that kind of thing, Silverbridge had said to him on Saturday evening. And bring me back? If you will come when I am coming, I hate waiting for a fellow. Suppose we leave at half-past ten. I won't fix any time, but if we can't make it suit, there'll be the Governor's carriage. Will the Duke go down in his carriage? I suppose so. It's quicker and less troubled than the railway. Then Lord Popplecourt reflected that he would certainly come back with the Duke if he could manage it, and there floated before his eyes visions of under-secretary ships, all of which might owe their origin to this proposed drive up from Richmond. At six o'clock on the Sunday evening Silverbridge called for Lord Popplecourt. Upon my word, said he, I didn't ever expect to see you in my cab. Why not me especially? Because you're not one of our lot. You'd sooner have Tifto, I dare say. No, I wouldn't. Tifto is not at all a pleasant companion, though he understands horses. You're going in for heavy politics, I suppose. Not particularly heavy. If not, why on earth does my Governor take you up? You won't mind my smoking, I dare say. After this there was no conversation between them. END OF CHAPTER XXXIV It was pretty to see the Duke's reception of Lady Mabel. I knew your mother many years ago, he said, when I was young myself. Her mother and my mother were first cousins and dear friends. He held her hand as he spoke, and looked at her as though he meant to love her. Lady Mabel saw that it was so. Could it be possible that the Duke had heard anything, that he should wish to receive her? She had told herself, and had told Miss Cassowary, that though she had spared Silverbridge, yet she knew that she would make him a good wife. If the Duke thought so also, then surely she need not doubt. I knew we were cousins, she said, and have been so proud of the connection. Lord Silverbridge does come to see us sometimes. Soon after that Silverbridge and Popplecourt came in. If the story of the old woman in the portrait may be taken as evidence of a family connection between Lady Cantrip and Lord Popplecourt, everybody there was more or less connected with everybody else. Citadel had been a first cousin of Lady Glencora, and he had married a daughter of Lady Cantrip. They were manifestly a family party, thanks to the old woman in the picture. It is a point of conscience among the, perhaps not ten thousand, but say one thousand of the bluest blood, that everybody should know who everybody is. Our Duke, though he had not given his mind much to the pursuit, had nevertheless learned his lesson. It is a knowledge which the possession of the blue blood itself produces. There are countries with bluer blood than our own, in which to be without such knowledge is a crime. When the old lady in the portrait had been discussed, Popplecourt was close to Lady Mary. They too had no idea why such vicinity had been planned. The Duke knew, of course, and Lady Cantrip. Lady Cantrip had whispered to her daughter that such a marriage would be suitable, and the daughter had hinted it to her husband. Lord Cantrip, of course, was not in the dark. Lady Mabel had expressed a hint on the matter to Miss Cass, who had not repudiated it. Even Silverbridge had suggested to himself that something of the kind might be in the wind, thinking that, if so, none of them knew much about his sister Mary. But Popplecourt himself was divinely innocent. His ideas of marriage had as yet gone no farther than a conviction that girls generally were things which would be pressed on him and against which he must arm himself with some shield. Marriage would have to come, no doubt, but not the less was it his duty to live as though it were a pit towards which he would be tempted by female allurements. But that a net should be spread over him here, he was much too humble-minded to imagine. Very hot, he said to Lady Mary. We found it warm in church today. I daresay I came down here with your brother in his handsome cab. What a very odd thing to have a handsome cab. I should like one. Should you indeed? Particularly, if I could drive it myself, Silverbridge does at night when he thinks people won't see him. Drive the cab in the streets. What does he do with his man? Put him inside. He was out once without the man and took up a fair, an old woman, he said, and when she was going to pay him he touched his hat and said he never took money from ladies. Do you believe that? Oh yes, I call that good fun, because there did no harm. He had his lark. The lady was taken where she wanted to go, and she saved her money. Who's he had upset her, said Lord Popplecourt, looking as an old philosopher might have looked when he had found some clenching answer to another philosopher's argument? The real cab man might have upset her worse, said Lady Mary. Don't you feel it odd that we should meet here, said Lord Silverbridge, to his neighbor, Lady Mabel? Anything unexpected is odd, said Lady Mabel. It seemed to her to be very odd, unless certain people had made up their minds as to the expediency of a certain event. That is what you call logic, isn't it? Anything unexpected is odd. Lord Silverbridge, I won't be laughed at. You have been at Oxford and ought to know what logic is. That, at any rate, is ill-natured, he replied, turning very red in the face. You don't think I meant it—oh, Lord Silverbridge, say that you don't think I meant it? You cannot think I would willingly wound you. Indeed, I was not thinking. It had, in truth, been an accident. She could not speak aloud, because they were closely surrounded by others. But she looked up in his face to see whether he were angry with her. Say that you do not think I meant it. I do not think you meant it. I would not say a word to hurt you—oh, for more than I can tell you. It is o'bosh, of course, he said, laughing. But I do not like to hear the old place named. I have always made a fool of myself. Some men do it and don't care about it, but I do it, and yet it makes me miserable. If that be so, you will soon give over making what you call a fool of yourself. For myself I like the idea of wild oats. I look upon them like measles. Only you should have a doctor ready when the disease shows itself. What sort of a doctor ought I to have? Ah, you must find that out yourself. That sort of feeling which makes you feel miserable—that is the doctor itself. Or a wife? Or a wife. If you can find a good one, there are wives, you know, who aggravate the disease. If I had a fast husband, I should make him faster by being fast myself. There is nothing I envy so much as the power of doing half-mad things. One can do that too. But they go to the dogs. We are dreadfully restricted. If you like champagne, you can have a bucketful. I am obliged to pretend that I only want a little. You can bet thousands. I must confine myself to gloves. You can flirt with any woman you please. I must wait till somebody comes and put up with it if nobody does come. Plenty come, no doubt. But I want to pick and choose. A man turns the girls over one after another, as one does the papers when one is fitting up a room, or rolls them out as one rolls out the carpets. A very careful young man like Lord Popplecourt might reject a young woman because her hair didn't suit the colour of his furniture. I don't think that I shall choose my wife as I would papers and carpets. The duke, who sat between Lady Cantrip and her daughter, did his best to make himself agreeable. The conversation had been semi-political, political to the usual feminine extent, and had consisted chiefly of sarcasms from Lady Cantrip against Sir Timothy Beeswax, that England should put up with such a man, Lady Cantrip had said, is to me shocking. There used to be a feeling in favour of gentlemen. To this the duke had responded by asserting that Sir Timothy had displayed great aptitude for parliamentary life, and knew the House of Commons better than most men, he said nothing against his foe, and very much in his foe's praise. But Lady Cantrip perceived that she had succeeded in pleasing him. When the ladies were gone, the politics became more serious. That unfortunate quarrel is to go on the same as ever, I suppose, said the duke, addressing himself to the two young men who had seats in the House of Commons. You were both on the conservative side in politics. The three peers present were all liberals. "'Til the next session, I think, Sir,' said Silverbridge. "'Sir Timothy, though he did lose his temper, has managed it well,' said Lord Cantrip. "'Fineus Finn lost his temper worse than Sir Timothy,' said Lord Nitterdale. "'But yet I think he had the feeling of the House with him,' said the duke. "'I happened to be present in the gallery at the time.' "'Yes,' said Nitterdale, because he owned up. The fact is that if you own up in a genial sort of way, the House will forgive anything. If I would have murdered my grandmother, and when questioned about it, were to acknowledge that I had done it.' Then Lord Nitterdale stood up and made his speech, as he might have made it in the House of Commons. "'I regret to say, Sir, that the old woman did get in my way when I was in a passion. Unfortunately I had a heavy stick in my hand, and I did strike her over the head. Nobody can regret it so much as I do. Nobody can feel so acutely the position in which I am placed. I have sat in this House for many years, and many gentlemen know me well. I think, Sir, that they will acknowledge that I am a man not deficient in filial piety or general humanity. Sir, I am sorry for what I did in a moment of heat. I have now spoken the truth, and I shall leave myself in the hands of the House. My belief is I should get such a round of applause, as I certainly shall never achieve in any other way. It is not only that a popular man may do it, like Phineas Finn, but the most unpopular man in the House may make himself liked by owning freely that he has done something that he ought to be ashamed of. Citadel's unwanted eloquence was received in good part by the assembled legislators. Taking it all together, said the Duke, I know of no assembly in any country in which good humor prevailed so generally, in which the members behaved to each other so well, in which rules are so universally followed, or in which the President is so thoroughly sustained by the feeling of the members. I hear men say that it isn't quite what it used to be, said Silverbridge. Nothing will ever be quite what it used to be. Changes were the worse, I mean, men adoring all kinds of things just because the rules of the House allow them. If they be within the rule, said the Duke, I don't know who is to blame them. In my time, if any man stretched a rule too far, the House would not put up with it. That's just it, said Citadel. The House puts up with anything now. There is a great deal of good feeling, no doubt, but there's no earnestness about anything. I think you are more earnest than we, but then you are such horrid boars, and each earnest man is in earnest about something that nobody else cares for. When they were again in the drawing room, Lord Popplecourt was seated next to Lady Mary. Where were you going this autumn? He asked. I don't know in the least. Papa said something about going abroad. You won't be at Custon's? Custon's was Lord Cantrip's country seat and dorseture. I know nothing about myself as yet, but I don't think I shall go anywhere unless Papa goes too. Lady Cantrip has asked me to be at Custon's in the middle of October. They say it is about the best pheasant shooting in England. Do you shoot much? A great deal. I shall be in Scotland on the twelfth. I and Reginald Dobbs have a place together. I shall get to my own partridges on the first of September. I always manage that. Popplecourt is in Suffolk, and I don't think any man in England can beat me for partridges. What do you do with all you slay? Letten Hall Market. I make it pay, or very nearly. Then I run back to Scotland for the end of the stalking, and I can easily manage to be at Custon's by the middle of October. I never touch my own pheasant still November. Why are you so obstemious? The birds are heavier, and it answers better. But if I thought you would be at Custon's it would be much nicer. Lady Mary again told him that as yet she knew nothing of her father's autumn movements. But at the same time the Duke was arranging his autumn movements, or at any rate those of his daughter. Lady Cantrip had told him that the desirable son-in-law had promised to go to Custon's, and suggested that he and Mary should also be there. In his daughter's name he promised, but he would not bind himself. Would it not be better that he should be absent? Now that the doing of this thing was brought nearer to him so that he could see and feel its details, he was disgusted by it, and yet had answered so well with his wife. Is Lord Popplecourt intimate here? Lady Mabel asked her friend, Lord Silverbridge. I don't know. I am not. Lady Cantrip seems to think a great deal about him. I dare say I don't. Your father seems to like him. That's possible too. They're going back to London together in the Governor's carriage. My father will talk high politics all the way, and Popplecourt will agree with everything. He isn't intended to—you know what I mean. I can't say that I do. To cut out poor Frank—it's quite possible. Poor Frank. You had a great deal better say poor Popplecourt, or poor Governor, or poor Lady Cantrip. But a hundred countesses can't make your sister marry a man she doesn't like. Just that. They don't go the right way about it. What would you do? Leave her alone, let her find out gradually that what she wants can't be done, and so linger on for years, said Lady Mabel reproachfully. I say nothing about that. The man is my friend, and you ought to be proud of him. I never knew anybody yet that was proud of his friends. I like him well enough, but I can quite understand that the Governor should object. Yes, we all know that, said she, sadly. What would your father say if you wanted to marry someone who hadn't a shilling? I should object myself without waiting for my father. But then neither have I a shilling. If I had money, do you think I wouldn't like to give it to the man I loved? But this is a case of giving somebody else's money. They won't make her give it up by bringing such a young ass as that down there. If my father has persistency enough to let her cry her eyes out, he'll succeed. And break her heart. Could you do that? Certainly not. But then I'm soft. I can't refuse. Can't you? Not if the person who asks me is in my good books. You try me. What shall I ask for? Anything. Give me that ring off your finger, she said. He had once took it off his hand. Of course you know that I am in joke. You don't imagine that I would take it from you? He still held it towards her. Lord Silverbridge, I expect that with you I may say a foolish word. Without being brought to sorrow by it, I know that the ring belonged to your great uncle and to fifty palaces before. What would it matter? And it would be wholly useless to me as I could not wear it. Of course it would be too big, said he, replacing the ring on his own finger. But when I talk of anyone being in my good books, I don't mean a thing like that. Don't you know there is nobody on earth? There he paused and blushed, and she sat motionless looking at him, expecting with her color too somewhat raised. Whom I like so well as I do you? It was a lame conclusion. She felt it to be lame. But as regarded him, the lameness at the moment had come from a timidity which forbade him to say the word love, even though he had meant to say it. She recovered herself instantly. I do believe it, she said. I do think that we are real friends. Would you not take a ring from a real friend? Not that ring, nor a ring at all after I had asked for it in joke. You understand it all. But to go back to what we were talking about. If you can do anything for Frank, pray do. You know it will break her heart. A man, of course, bears it better, but he does not perhaps suffer the less. It is all his life to him. He can do nothing while this is going on. Are you not true enough to your friendship to exert yourself for him? Silverbridge put his hand up and rubbed his head as though he were vexed. Your aid would turn everything in his favor. You do not know my father. Is he so inexorable? It is not that, Mabel, but he is so unhappy. I cannot add to his unhappiness by taking part against him. In another part of the room Lady Cantrip was busy with Lord Popplecourt. She had talked about pheasants and had talked about grouse, had talked about moving the address in the House of Lords in some coming session, and the great value of political alliances early in life, till the young peer began to think that Lady Cantrip was the nicest of women. Then after a short pause she changed the subject. Don't you think Lady Mary very beautiful? Uncommon, said his lordship. And her man is so perfect. She has all her mother's ease without any of that. You know what I mean. Quite so, said his lordship. And then she has got so much inner. Is she, though? I don't know any girl of her age so thoroughly well educated. The duke seems to take to you. Well, yes, the duke is very kind. Don't you think, eh? You have heard of her mother's fortune. Tremendous. She will have it, I take it, quite a third of it. Whatever I say, I'm sure you will take in confidence. But she is a dear, dear girl, and I am anxious for her happiness almost as though she belonged to me. Lord Papalcourt went back to town in the duke's carriage, but was unable to say a word about politics. His mind was altogether filled with the wonderful words that had been spoken to him. Could it be that Lady Mary had fallen violently in love with him? He would not at once give himself up to the pleasing idea, having so thoroughly grounded himself in the belief that female nets were to be avoided. But when he got home he did think favorably of it. The daughter of a duke, and such a duke, so lovely a girl, and with such gifts, and then a fortune which would make a material addition to his own large property. End of Chapter 35. Chapter 36 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 Leanne Howlett. The duke's children by Antony Trollop. Chapter 36 Tally Ho Lodge. We all know that very clever dystic concerning the great fleas and the little fleas which tells us that no animal is too humble to have its parasite. Even Major Tifto had his inferior friend. This was a certain Captain Green, for the friend also affected military honors. He was a man somewhat older than Tifto of whose antecedents no one was supposed to know anything. It was presumed of him that he lived by bedding, and it was boasted by those who wished to defend his character that when he lost he paid his money like a gentleman. Tifto during the last year or two had been anxious to support Captain Green and had always made use of this argument. Where the devil he gets his money I don't know but when he loses it there it is. Major Tifto had a little box of his own in the neighborhood of Egham at which he had a set of stables a little bigger than his house and a set of kennels a little bigger than his stables. It was here he kept his horses and hounds and himself too when business connected with his sporting life did not take him to town. It was now the middle of August and he had come to Tally Ho Lodge there to look after his establishments to make arrangements for cub hunting and to prepare for the autumn racing campaign. On this occasion Captain Green was enjoying his hospitality and assisting him by sage counsels. Behind the little box was a little garden, a garden that was very little, but still thus close to the parlor window there was room for a small table to be put on the grass-plat and for a couple of arm-chairs. After the Major and the Captain were seated about eight o'clock one evening with convivial good things within their reach the good things were gin and water and pipes. The two gentlemen had not dressed strictly for dinner. They had spent a great part of the day handling the hounds and the horses, dressing wounds, curing sores, administering to canine ailments, and had been detained over their work too long to think of their toilet. As it was they had an eye to business. The stables at one corner and the kennels at the other were close to the little garden and the doings of a man and a boy who were still at work among the animals could be directed from the arm-chairs on which the two sportsmen were sitting. It must be explained that ever since the Silverbridge election there had been a growing feeling in Tifto's mind that he had been ill-treated by his partner. The feeling was strengthened by the admirable condition of Prime Minister. Probably more consideration had been due to a man who had produced such a state of things. I wouldn't quarrel with him, but I'd make him pay his way, said the prudent captain. As for that, of course he does pay, his share. Who does all the work? That's true. The fact is, Tifto, you don't make enough out of it. When a small man like you has to deal with a big man like that, he may take it out of him in one of two ways, but he must be deuce clever if he can get it both ways. What are you driving at? asked Tifto, who did not like being called a small man, feeling himself to be every inch a master of foxhounds. Why this? Look at that de-blank fellow fretting that horse with a switch. If you can't strap a horse without a stick in your hand, don't you strap him at all, you— Then there came a volley of abuse out of the captain's mouth, in the middle of which the man threw down the rubber he was using and walked away. You come back, hallowed Tifto, jumping up from his seat with his pipe in his mouth. Then there was a general quarrel between the man and his two masters in which the man at last was victorious, and the horse was taken into the stable in an unfinished condition. It's all very well to say, get rid of him, but where am I to get anybody better? It has come to such a past that now if you speak to a fellow he walks out of the yard. They then return to the state of affairs as it was between Tifto and Lord Silverbridge. What I was saying is this, continued the captain, if you choose to put yourself up to live with a fellow like that on equal terms— One gentleman with another, you mean? Put it so. It don't quite hit it off, but put it so. Why then you get your wages when you take his arm and call him Silverbridge? I don't want wages from any man, said the indignant major. That comes from not knowing what wages is. I do want wages. If I do a thing I like to be paid for it. You are paid for it after one fashion. I prefer the other. Do you mean you should give me a salary? I'd have it out of him some way. What's the good of young chaps of that sort if they aren't made to pay? You've got this young swell in tow. He's going to be about the richest man in England, and what the deuce better are you for it? Tifto sat meditating, thinking of the wisdom which was being spoken. The same ideas had occurred to him. The happy chance which had made him intimate with Lord Silverbridge had not yet enriched him. What is the good of chaps of that sort if they are not made to pay? The words were wise words. But yet how glorious he had been when he was elected at the Beargarden and had entered the club as the special friend of the heir of the Duke of Omnium. After a short pause Captain Green pursued his discourse. You said salary. I did mention the word. Salary in wages is one. A salary is a nice thing if it's paid regular. I had a salary once myself for looking after a stud of horses at Newmarket. Only the gentleman broke up and it never went very far. Was that Marley Bullock? Yes, that was Marley Bullock. He's abroad somewhere now with nothing a year paid quarterly to live on. I think he does a little at cards. He'd had a good bit of money once, but most of it was gone when he came my way. You didn't make by him. I didn't lose nothing. I didn't have a lot of horses under me without getting something out of it. What am I to do? asked Tiftoe. I can sell him a horse now and again, but if I give him anything good there isn't much to come out of that. Very little I should say. Don't he put his money on his horses? Not very free. I think he's coming out freer now. What did he stand to win on the derby? A thousand or two perhaps. There may be something god-handsome out of that, said the Captain, not venturing to allow his voice to rise above a whisper. Major Tiftoe looked hard at him but said nothing. Of course you must see your way. I don't quite understand. Race horses are expensive animals, and races generally as expensive. That's true. When so much is dropped somebody has to pick it up. That's what I've always said to myself. I'm as honest as another man. That's, of course, said the Major civilly. But if I don't keep my mouth shut somebody will have my teeth out of my head. Everyone for himself and God for us all. I suppose there's a deal of money flying about. He'll put a lot of money on this horse of yours for the leger if he's managed right. There's more to be got out of that than calling him Silver Bridge and walking arm in arm. Business is business. I don't know whether I make myself understood. The gentleman did not quite make himself understood, but Tiftoe endeavored to read the riddle. He must in some way make money out of his friend Lord Silver Bridge. Hitherto he had contented himself with the brilliancy of the connection. But now his brilliant friend had taken the snubbing him, and had on more than one occasion made himself disagreeable. It seemed to him that Captain Green counseled him to put up with that, but counseled him at the same time to pick up some of his friend's money. He didn't think that he could ask Lord Silver Bridge for a salary, he who was a master of foxhounds and a member of the Bear Garden. Then his friend had suggested something about the young Lord's bets. He was endeavoring to unriddle all this with a brain that was already somewhat muddled with alcohol. When Captain Green got up from his chair and standing over the Major, spoke his last words for that night as from an oracle. Square is all very well as long as others are square to you. When they aren't, then I say square be damned. Square, what comes of it? Work your heart out and then it's no good. The Major thought about it much that night, and was thinking about it still when he awoke on the next morning. He would like to make Lord Silver Bridge pay for his late insolence. He would answer his purpose to make a little money, as he told himself, in any honest way. At the present moment he was in want of money, and on looking into his affairs declared to himself that he had certainly impoverished himself by his devotion to Lord Silver Bridge's interests. At breakfast on the following morning he endeavored to bring his friend back to the subject, but the Captain was cross rather than a wrack-ular. Everybody, he said, ought to know his own business. He wasn't going to meddle or make. What he had said had been taken amiss. This was hard upon Tifto, who had taken nothing amiss. Square be damned. There was a great deal in the lesson there enunciated which demanded consideration. Hitherto the Major had fought his battles with a certain adherence to squareness. If his angles had not all been perfect angles, still there had always been an attempt at geometrical accuracy. He might now and again have told a lie about a horse, but who that deals in horses has not done that. He had been alive to the value of underhand information from racing stables, but who won't use a tip if he can get it? He had lied about the expense of his hounds in order to enhance the subscription of his members. Those were things which everybody did in his line. But Green had meant something beyond this. As far as he could see out in the world at large, nobody was square. You had to keep your mouth shut, or your teeth would be stolen out of it. He didn't look into a paper without seeing that on all sides of him men had abandoned the idea of squareness. Chairman, directors, members of parliament, ambassadors, all the world, as he told himself, were trying to get on by their wits. He didn't see why he should be more square than anybody else. Why hadn't Silverbridge taken him down to Scotland for the Grouse? CHAPTER 37 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 Leanne Howlett. The Duke's Children by Antony Trollop. CHAPTER 37 Grex. Far away from all known places and the northern limit of the Craven District on the borders of Westmoreland but in Yorkshire, there stands a large, rambling, most picturesque old house called Grex. The people around call it the castle, but it is not a castle. It is an old brick building, supposed to have been erected in the days of James I, having orial windows, twisted chimneys, long galleries, gable ends, a quadrangle of which the house surrounds three sides, terraces, sundials, and fishponds. But it is so sadly out of repair as to be altogether unfit for the residents of a gentleman and his family. It stands not in a park, for the land about it is divided into paddocks by low stone walls. But in the midst of lovely scenery, the ground rising all rounded and low irregular hills or fells, and close to it, a quarter of a mile from the back of the house, there is a small dark lake. Not serenely lovely, as are some of the lakes in Westmoreland, but attractive by the darkness of its waters and the gloom of the woods around it. This is the country seat of Earl Grex, which, however, he had not visited for some years. Gradually the place had gotten into such a condition that his absence is not surprising. An owner of Grex, with large means at his disposal, and with a taste for the picturesque to gratify, one who could afford to pay for memories and who was willing to pay dearly for such luxuries, might no doubt restore Grex. But the Earl had neither the money nor the taste. Lord Grex had laterally never gone near the place, nor was his son Lord Percival fond of looking upon the ruin of his property. But Lady Mabel loved it with a fond love. With all her lightness of spirit she was prone to memories, prone to melancholy, prone at times almost to seek the gratification of sorrow. After after year when the London season was over she would come down to Grex and spend a week or two amidst its desolation. She was now going on to a seat in Scotland belonging to Mrs. Montacute-Jones called Killon Codlam. But she was in the meanwhile passing a desolate fortnight at Grex and company with Miss Cassowary. The gardens were let, and being let, of course, were not kept in further order than as profit might require. The man who rented them lived in the big house with his wife, and they on such occasions as this would cook and wait upon Lady Mabel. Lady Mabel was at the home of her ancestors, and the faithful Miss Cass was with her. But at the moment and at the spot at which the reader shall see her, Miss Cass was not with her. She was sitting on a rock about twelve feet above the lake looking upon the black water, and on another rock a few feet from her was seated Frank Tragear. No, she said, you should not have come. Nothing can justify it. Of course, as you were here, I could not refuse to come out with you. To make a fuss about it would be the worst of all. But you should not have come. Why not? Whom does it hurt? It is a pleasure to me. If it be the reverse to you, I will go. Women are so unmanly. They take such mean advantages. You know it is a pleasure to me to see you. I had hoped so. But it is a pleasure I ought not to have, at least not here. That is what I do not understand, said he. In London, where the Earl could bark at me if he happened to find me, I could see the inconvenience of it. But here, where there is nobody but Miss Cass, there are a great many others, there are the rooks and stones and old women, all of which have ears. But of what is there to be ashamed? There is nothing in the world to me so pleasant as the companionship of my friends. Then go after Silverbridge. I mean to do so, but I am taking you by the way. It is all unmanly, she said, rising from her stone. You know that it is so. Friends, do you mean to say that it would make no difference whether you were here with me or with Miss Cass? The greatest difference in the world. Because she is an old woman and I am a young one, and because an intercourse between young men and young women there is something dangerous to the women, and therefore pleasant to the men. I never heard anything more unjust. You cannot think I desire anything injurious to you. I do think so. She was still standing and spoke now with great vehemence. I do think so. You forced me to throw aside the medicines I ought to keep. Would it help me in my prospects if your friend Lord Silverbridge knew that I was here? How should he know? But if he did, do you suppose that I want to have visits paid to me of which I am afraid to speak? Would you dare to tell Lady Mary that you had been sitting alone with me on the rocks at Grex? Certainly I would. Then it would be because you have not dared to tell her certain other things which have gone before. You have sworn to her no doubt that you love her better than all the world. I have. And you have taken the trouble to come here to tell me that, to wound me to the core by saying so, to show me that, though I may still be sick, you have recovered. That is, if you ever suffered, go your way and let me go mine. I do not want you. Mabel. I do not want you. I know you will not help me, but you need not destroy me. You know that you are wronging me. No. You understand it all, though you look so calm. I hate your Lady Mary palacer. There, but if by anything I could do I could secure her to you, I would do it, because you want it. She will be your sister-in-law, probably. Never. It will never be so. Why do you hate her? There again. You are so little of a man that you can ask me why. Then she turned away as though she intended to go down to the marge of the lake, but he rose up and stopped her. Let us have this out, Mabel, before we go, he said, unmanly is a heavy word to hear from you, and you have used it a dozen times. It is because I have thought it a thousand times, go and get her if you can, but why tell me about it? You said you would help me. So I would, as I would help you do anything you might want, but you can hardly think that after what has passed I can wish to hear about her. It was you spoke of her. I told you you should not be here, because of her and because of me. And I tell you again, I hate her. Do you think I can hear you speak of her as though she were the only woman you had ever seen without feeling it? Did you ever swear that you loved anyone else? Certainly I have so sworn. Have you ever said that nothing could alter that love? Indeed I have. But it is altered, it has all gone, it has been transferred to one who has more advantages of beauty, youth, wealth and position. Oh, Mabel, Mabel, but it is so. When you say this do you not think of yourself? Yes, but I have never been false to anyone. You are false to me. Have I not offered to face all the world with you? You would not offer it now? No, he said after a pause. Not now. For I to do so I should be false. You made me take my love elsewhere and I did so. With the greatest ease. We agreed it should be so, and you have done the same. That is false. Look me in the face and tell me whether you do not know it to be false. And yet I am told that I am injuring you with Silverbridge. Oh, so unmanly again. Of course I have to marry. Who does not know it? Do you want to see me begging my bread about the streets? You have bread, or if not you might earn it, if you marry for money. The accusation is altogether unjustifiable. Allow me to finish what I have to say. If you marry for money you will do that which is in itself bad and which is also unnecessary. What other course would you recommend me to take? No one goes into the gutter while there is a clean path open. If there be no escape but through the gutter one has to take it. You mean that my duty to you should have kept me from marrying all my life. Not that. For a little while, Frank, just a little while. Your bloom is not fading, your charms are not running from you. Have you not a strength which I cannot have? Do you not feel that you are a tree standing firm in the ground, while I am a bit of ivy that will be trodden in the dirt unless it can be made to cling to something? You should not liken yourself to me, Frank. If I could do you any good. Good? What is the meaning of good? If you love it is good to be loved again. It is good not to have your heart torn in pieces. You know that I love you. He was standing close to her and put out his hand as though he would twine his arm round her waist. Not for worlds, she said. It belongs to that palacer girl. And as I have taught myself to think that what there is left of me may perhaps belong to some other one, worthless as it is, I will keep it for him. I love you, but there can be none of that softness of love between us. Then there was a pause, but as he did not speak she went on. But remember, Frank, our position is not equal. You have got over your little complaint. It probably did not go deep with you and you have found a cure. Perhaps there is a satisfaction in finding that two young women love you. You were trying to be cruel to me. Why else should you be here? You know I love you, with all my heart, with all my strength, and that I would give the world to cure myself. Knowing this you come and talk to me of your passion for this other girl. I had hoped we might both talk rationally as friends. Friends? Frank Tragear, I have been bold enough to tell you I love you, but you are not my friend and cannot be my friend. If I have before asked you to help me in this mean catastrophe of mine and my attack upon that poor boy, I withdraw my request. I think I will go back to the house now. I will walk back to Leadburle if you wish it without going to the house again. No, I will have nothing that looks like being ashamed. You ought not to have come, but you need not run away. Then they walked back to the house together and found Miss Cassowary on the terrace. We have been to the lake, said Mabel, and have been talking of old days. I have but one ambition now in the world. Of course Miss Cassowary asked what the remaining ambition was. To get money enough to purchase this place from the ruins of the Grex property, if I could own the house and the lake and the paddocks about, and had enough income to keep one servant and bread for us to eat, of course including you, Miss Cassowary. Thank ye, my dear, but I am not sure I should like it. Yes, you would. Frank would come and see us perhaps once a year. I don't suppose anybody else cares about the place, but to me it is the dearest spot in the world. So she went on in almost high spirits, though alluding to the general decadence of the Grex family, Tautragueur took his leave. I wish he had not come, said Miss Cassowary when he was gone. Why should you wish that? There is not so much here to amuse me that you should begrudge me a stray visitor. I don't think that I grudge you anything in the way of pleasure, my dear, but still he should not have come. My lord, if he knew it would be angry. And let him be angry, papa does not do so much for me that I am bound to think of him at every turn. But I am, or rather I am bound to think of myself if I take his bread. Bread? Well, I do take his bread, and I take it on the understanding that I will be to you what a mother might be, or an aunt. Well, and if so, had I a mother living would not Frank Tragueur have come to visit her, and in visiting her would he not have seen me, and should we not have walked out together? Not after all that has come and gone. But you are not a mother nor yet an aunt, and you have to do just what I tell you. And don't I know that you trust me in all things? And am I not trustworthy? I think you are trustworthy. I know what my duty is, and I mean to do it. No one shall ever have to say of me that I have given way to self-indulgence. I couldn't help his coming, you know. That same night, after Miss Cassowary had gone to bed, when the moon was high in the heavens and the world around her was all asleep, Lady Mabel again wandered out to the lake and again seated herself on the same rock, and there she sat thinking of her past life and trying to think of that before her. It is so much easier to think of the past than of the future, to remember what has been and to resolve what shall be. She had reminded him of the offer which he had made and repeated to her more than once, to share with her all his chances in life. There would have been almost no income for them. All the world would have been against her. She would have caused his ruin. Her light on the matter had been so clear that it had not taken her very long to decide that such a thing must not be thought of. She had at last been quite stern in her decision. Now she was broken-hearted because she found that he had left her in very truth. Oh, yes. She would marry the boy if she could so arrange. Since that meeting at Richmond he had sent her the ring and reset. She was to meet him down in Scotland within a week or two from the present time. Mrs. Montacute-Jones had managed that. He had all but offered to her a second time at Richmond. But all that would not serve to make her happy. She declared to herself that she did not wish to see Frank Tragear again. But still it was a misery to her that his heart should in truth be given to another woman. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Almost at the last moment, Silverbridge and his brother Gerald were induced to join Lord Popplecourt's shooting party in Scotland. The party, perhaps, might more properly be called the party of Reginald Dobbs, who was a man knowing in such matters. It was he who made the party up. Popplecourt and Silverbridge were to share the expense between them, each bringing three guns. Silverbridge brought his brother and Frank Tragear, having refused a most piteous petition on the subject from Major Tifto. With Popplecourt, of course, came Reginald Dobbs, who was in truth to manage everything, and Lord Nittedale, whose wife had generously permitted him this recreation. The shooting was in the west of Perthshire, known as Crummy Toddy, and comprised an enormous acreage of so-called forest and moor. Mr. Dobbs declared that nothing like it has yet been produced in Scotland. Everything had been made to give way to deer and grouse. The thing had been managed so well that the tourist nuisance had been considerably abated. There was hardly a potato patch left in the district, nor a head of cattle to be seen. There were no inhabitants remaining, or so few, that they could be absorbed in game-preserving or cognate duties. Reginald Dobbs, who was very great at grouse, and supposed to be capable of outwitting a deer by vernactical wiles more perfectly than any other sportsman in Great Britain, regarded Crummy Toddy as the nearest thing there was to a paradise on earth. Could he have been allowed to pass one or two special laws for his own protection? There might still have been improvement. He would like the right to have all intruders thrashed by the gillies within an inch of their lives, and he would have had a clause in his lease against the making of any new roads, opening of footpaths, or building of bridges. He had seen somewhere in print a plan for running a railway from Calendar to Fort Augustus, right through Crummy Toddy. If this were done in his time, the beauty of the world would be over. Reginald Dobbs was a man of about 40, strong, active, well-made, about 5 feet 10 in height with broad shoulders and greatly developed legs. He was not a handsome man, having a protrusive nose, high cheekbones, and long upper lip, but there was a manliness about his face which redeemed it. Sport was the business of his life, and he thoroughly despised all who were not sportsmen. He fished and shot and hunted during nine or 10 months of the year, filling up his time as best he might with coaching polo and pigeon shooting. He regarded it as a great duty to keep his body in the firmest possible condition. All his eating and all his drinking was done upon a system, and he would consider himself to be guilty of weak self-indulgence, where he allowed himself to break through sanitary rules. But it never occurred to him that his whole life was one of self-indulgence. He could walk his 30 miles with his gun on his shoulder as well now as he could 10 years ago, and being sure of this was thoroughly contented with himself, he had a patrimony amounting to perhaps 1,000 pounds a year, which he husbanded so as to enjoy all his amusements to perfection. No one had ever heard of his sponging on his friends, of money he rarely spoke, sport being in his estimation the only subject worthy of a man's words. Such was Reginald Dobbs, who was now to be the master of the shooting at Crummy Toddy. Crummy Toddy was but 12 miles from Cullen Codlam, Mrs. Montecute Jones' highland seat, and it was this vicinity which first induced Lord Silverbridge to join the party. Mabel Grex was to be at Cullen Codlam and determined, as he still was, to ask her to be his wife. He would make this his opportunity. Of real opportunity, there had been none at Richmond. Since he had had his ring altered and had said it to her, there had come back but a word or two of answer. What am I to say, you unkindest of men, to keep it or send it back would make me equally miserable. I shall keep it till you are married and then give it to your wife. This affair of the ring had made him more intent than ever. After he heard that Isabel Boncassen would also be at Cullen Codlam, having been induced to join Mrs. Montecute Jones' swarm of visitors. Though he was dangerously devoid of experience, still he felt that this was unfortunate. He intended to marry Mabel Grex, and he could assure himself that he thoroughly loved her. Nevertheless, he liked making love to Isabel Boncassen. He was quite willing to marry and settle down and looked forward with the satisfaction to having Mabel Grex for his wife. But it would be pleasant to have a six months run of flirting and love-making before the settlement, and he had certainly never seen anyone with whom this would be so delightful as with Miss Boncassen, but that the two ladies should be at the same house was unfortunate. He and Gerald reached Crummy Toddy late on the evening of August 11th, and found Reginald Dobbs alone. That was on Wednesday. Poppelcourt and Nitterdale ought to have made their appearance on that morning, but had telegraphed to say that they would be detained two days on their route. Tragear, whom hitherto Dobbs had never seen, had left his arrival uncertain. This carelessness on such matters was very offensive to Mr. Dobbs, who loved discipline and exactitude. He ought to have received the two young men with open arms because they were punctual, but he had been somewhat angered by what he considered the extreme youth of Lord Gerald. Boys who could not shoot were, he thought, putting themselves forward before their time, and Silver Ridge himself was by no means a first-rate shot. Such a one as Silver Ridge had to be endured because from his position and wealth he could facilitate such arrangements as these. It was much to have to do with a man who would not complain if an extra 50 pounds were wanted, but he ought to have understood that he was bound in honor to bring down competent friends. After gear shooting, Dobbs had been able to learn nothing. Lord Gerald was a lad from the universities, and Dobbs hated university lads. Popplecourt and Nittedale were known to be efficient. They were men who could work hard and do their part in the required slaughter. Dobbs proudly knew that he could make up for some deficiency by his own prowess, but he could not struggle against three bad guns. What was the use of so perfecting crummy toddy as to make it the best bit of ground for grouse and deer in Scotland if the men who came there failed by their own incapacity to bring up the grand total of killed to a figure which would render Dobbs and crummy toddy famous throughout the whole shooting world? He had been hard at work on other matters. Dogs had gone amiss or guns, and he had been made angry by the champagne which Popplecourt caused to be sent down. He knew what champagne meant. Whiskey and water and not much of it was the liquor which Reginald Dobbs loved in the mountains. Don't you call this a very ugly country? Silverbridge asked as soon as he arrived. Now, it is the case that the traveller who travels into Argyleshire, Perthshire and Inverness expects to find lovely scenery, and it was also true that the country through which they had passed for the last 20 miles had been not only bleak and barren, but uninteresting and ugly. It was all rough open warland, never rising into mountains, and graced by no running streams, by no forest scenery, almost by no foliage. The lodge itself did indeed stand close upon a little river and was reached by a bridge that crossed it, but there was nothing pretty either in the river or the bridge. It was a placid black little streamlet which in that portion of its course was hurried by no steepness, had no broken rocks in its bed, no trees on its low banks, and played none of those gambles which make running water beautiful. The bridge was a simple low construction with a low parapet, carrying an ordinary roadway up to the hall door. The lodge itself was as ugly as a house could be, white of two stories with the door in the middle and windows on each side, with a slate roof and without a tree near it. It was in the middle of the shooting and did not create a town around itself as do sumptuous mansions to the great detriment of that seclusion which is favorable to game. Look at Killan Codlam. Dobbs had been heard to say, a very fine house for ladies to flirt in, but if you find a deer within six miles of it, I will eat him first and shoot him afterwards. There was a Spartan simplicity about crummy toddy which pleased the Spartan mind of Reginald Dobbs. Ugly, do you call it? Infernerly ugly, said Lord Gerald. What did you expect to find, a big hotel and a lot of cockneys? If you come after grouse, you must come to what the grouse think pretty. Nevertheless it is ugly, said Silverbridge, who did not choose to be sat upon. I have been at shootings in Scotland before and sometimes they are not ugly. This I call beastly, whereupon Reginald Dobbs turned on his heel and walked away. Can you shoot? He said afterwards to Lord Gerald. I can fire off a gun if you mean that, said Gerald. You have never shot much? Not what you call very much. I'm not so old as you are, you know. Everything must have a beginning. Mr. Dobbs wished the beginning might have taken place elsewhere, but there had been some truth in the remark. What on earth made you tell him crammers like that? Asked Silverbridge as the brothers sat together afterwards smoking on the wall of the bridge. Because he made an ass of himself, asking me whether I could shoot. On the next morning they started at seven. Dobbs had determined to be cross because as he thought the young men would certainly keep him waiting and was cross because by their punctuality they robbed him of any just cause for offense. During the morning on the moor they were hardly ever near each other enough for much conversation and very little was said. According to arrangement made, they returned to the house for lunch, it being their purpose not to go far from home till their numbers were complete. As they came over the bridge and put down their guns near the door, Mr. Dobbs spoke the first good-humored word they had heard from his lips. Why did you tell me such an infernal, I would say lie only perhaps you mightn't like it? I told you no lie, said Gerald. You've only missed two birds all the morning and you've shot 42, that's uncommonly good sport. What have you done? Only 40 and Mr. Dobbs seemed for the moment to be gratified by his own inferiority. You are a juiced sight better than your brother. Gerald's about the best shot I know, said Silverbridge. Why didn't he tell? Because you were angry when we said the place was ugly. I see all about it, said Dobbs. Nevertheless, when a fellow comes to shoot he shouldn't complain because the place isn't pretty. What you want is a decent house as near as you can have it to your ground. If there is anything in Scotland to beat Kramitadi I don't know where to find it. Shooting is shooting you know and touring is touring. Upon that he took very kindly to Lord Gerald who even after the arrival of the other men was second only in skill to Dobbs himself. With Nittedale who was an old companion he got on very well. Nittedale ate and drank too much and refused to be driven beyond a certain amount of labor but was in other respects obedient and knew what he was about. Popplecourt was disagreeable but he was a fairly good shot and understood what was expected of him. Silverbridge was so good-humored that even his manifest false shooting carelessly, lying in bed and wanting his dinner were, if not forgiven, at least endured. But Tragear was an abomination. He could shoot well enough and was active and when he was at the work seemed to like it but he would stay away whole days by himself and when spoken to would answer in a manner which seemed to Dobbs to be flat mutiny. We are not doing it for our bread, said Tragear. I don't know what you mean. There's no duty in killing a certain number of these animals. They had been driving deer on the day before and were to continue the work on the day in question. I'm not paid 15 shillings a week for doing it. I suppose if you undertake to do a thing you mean to do it. Of course you're not wanted. We can make the double party without you. Then why the mischief should you growl at me? Because I think a man should do what he undertakes to do. A man who gets tired after three days' work of this kind would become tired if he were earning his bread. Who says I am tired? I came here to amuse myself. Amuse yourself? And as long as it amuses me I shall shoot and when it does not I shall give it up. This vexed the governor of Crummy Toddy much. He had learned to regard himself as the arbiter of the fate of men while they were so journeying under the same autumnal roof as himself. But a defocation which occurred immediately afterwards was worse. Silverbridge declared his intention of going over one morning to kill in Codlam. Reginald Dobbs muttered a curse between his teeth which was visible by the anger on his brow to all the party. I shall be back to night, you know, said Silverbridge. A lot of men and women who pretend to come there for the shooting, said Dobbs angrily, but do all the mischief they can. One must go and see one's friends, you know. Some girl, said Dobbs. But worse happened than the evil so lightly mentioned. Silverbridge did go over to kill in Codlam and presently there came back a man with a cart who was to return with a certain not small proportion of his luggage. It's hardly honest, you know, said Reginald Dobbs. End of chapter 38.