 CHAPTER 65 Do you ever think what money is? Gerald told his story, standing bolt upright, and looking his father full in the face as he told it. You lost three thousand four hundred pounds at one sitting to Lord Percival, at cards. Yes, sir. In Lord Niddardale's house. Yes, sir. Niddardale wasn't playing. It wasn't his fault. Who were playing? Percival and Dolly Longstuff, and Jack Hinds, and I. Lord Popplecourt was playing at first. Lord Popplecourt. Yes, sir, but he went away when he began to lose. Three thousand four hundred pounds. How old are you? I am just twenty-one. You are beginning the world well, Gerald. What is the engagement which Silverbridge has made with Lord Percival? To pay him the money at the end of next month. What had Silverbridge to do with it? Nothing, sir. I wrote to Silverbridge because I didn't know what to do. I knew he would stand to me. Who is to stand to either of you? If you go on thus, I do not know. To this, Gerald, of course, made no reply, but an idea came across his mind that he knew who would stand both to himself and his brother. How did Silverbridge mean to get the money? He said he would ask you, but I thought that I ought to tell you. Is that all? All what, sir? Are there any other debts? To this, Gerald made no reply. Other gambling debts? No, sir, not a shilling of that kind. I have never played before. Does it ever occur to you that, going on at that rate, you may very soon lose all the fortune that will ever come to you? You were not yet of age, and you lost three thousand four hundred pounds at cards, to a man whom you probably knew to be a professed gambler. The duke seemed to wait for a reply, but poor Gerald had not a word to say. Can you explain to me what benefit you proposed to yourself when you played for such stakes as that? I had hoped to win back what I had lost. Faquilis de census averni," said the duke, shaking his head, noctes at cuedies patet atri yano aditis. No doubt he thought that, as his son was at Oxford, admonishments in Latin would serve him better than in his native tongue. But Gerald, when he heard the grand examiner rolled out in his father's grandest tone, entertained a comfortable feeling that the worst of the interview was over. Win back what you had lost! Do you think that that is the common fortune of young gamblers when they fall among those who are more experienced than themselves? One goes on, sir, without reflecting. Go on without reflecting! Yes, and where to? Where to? Oh, Gerald, where to? Wither will such progress without reflection take you? He means to the devil, the lad said inwardly to himself, without moving his lips. There is but one goal for such going on as that. I can pay three thousand four hundred pounds for you, certainly. I think it hard that I should have to do so, but I can do it, and I will do it. Thank you, sir, murmured Gerald. But how can I wash your young mind clean from the foul stain which has already defiled it? Why did you sit down to play? Was it to win the money which these men had in their pockets? Not particularly. It cannot be that a rational being should consent to risk the money he has himself, to risk even the money which he has not himself, without a desire to win that which as yet belongs to his opponents. You desired to win. I suppose I did hope to win. And why? Why did you want to extract their property from their pockets and to put it into your own? That the footpad on the road should have such desire when with his pistol he stops the traveller on his journey we all understand, and we know what we think of the footpad and what we do to him. He is a poor creature who from his youth upwards has had no good thing done for him uneducated and outcast whom we should pity more than we despise him. We take him as a pest which we cannot endure, and lock him up where he can harm us no more. On my word, Gerald, I think that the so-called gentleman who sits down with the deliberate intention of extracting money from the pockets of his antagonists, who lays out for himself that way of repairing the shortcomings of fortune, who looks to that resource as an aid to his means, is worse, much worse than the public robber. He is meaner, more cowardly, and has I think in his bosom less of the feelings of an honest man. And he probably has been educated as you have been. He calls himself a gentleman. He should know black from white. It is considered terrible to cheat at cards. There was nothing of that, sir. The man who plays and cheats has fallen low indeed. I understand that, sir. He who plays that he may make an income but does not cheat, has fallen nearly as low. Do you ever think what money is? The Duke paused so long, collecting his own thoughts and thinking of his own words, that Gerald found himself obliged to answer. Checks and sovereigns and banknotes, he replied with much hesitation. Money is the reward of labour, said the Duke, or rather in the shape it reaches you it is your representation of that reward. You may earn it yourself, or, as is I am afraid, more likely to be the case with you, you may possess it honestly as prepared for you by the labour of others who have stored it up for you. But it is a commodity of which you are bound to see that the source is not only clean but noble. You would not let Lord Percival give you money. He wouldn't do that, sir, I am sure. Nor would you take it. There is nothing so comfortable as money, but nothing so defiling if it be come by unworthily. Nothing so comfortable, but nothing so noxious if the mind be allowed to dwell upon it constantly. If a man have enough, let him spend it freely. If he wants it, let him earn it honestly. Let him do something for it, so that the man who pays it to him may get its value. But to think that it may be got by gambling, to hope to live after that fashion, to sit down with your fingers almost in your neighbour's pockets, with your eye on his purse, trusting that you may know better than he some studied calculations as to the pips concealed in your hands, praying to the only God you worship that some special card may be vouch safe to you, that I say is to have left far, far behind you all nobility, all gentleness, all manhood. Write me down Lord Percival's address and I will send him the money. Then the Duke wrote a cheque for the money claimed, and sent it with a note as follows. The Duke of Omnium presents his compliments to Lord Percival. The Duke has been informed by Lord Gerald Palliser that Lord Percival has won at cards from him the sum of three thousand four hundred pounds. The Duke now encloses a cheque for that amount, and requests that the document which Lord Percival holds from Lord Silverbridge as security for the amount may be returned to Lord Gerald. Let the noble gamer have his prey, he was little solicitors about that. If he could only so operate on the mind of this son, so operate on the minds of both his sons, as to make them see the foolishness of folly, the ugliness of what is mean, the squalor and dirt of ignoble pursuits, then he could easily pardon past faults. If it were half his wealth what would it signify, if he could teach his children to accept those lessons without which no man can live as a gentleman, let his rank be the highest known, let his wealth be as the sands, his fashion unrivalled. The word or two which his daughter had said to him, declaring that she still took pride in her lover's love, and then this new misfortune on Gerald's part upset him greatly. He almost sickened of politics when he thought of his domestic bereavement and his domestic misfortunes. How completely had he failed to indoctrinate his children with the ideas by which his own mind was fortified and controlled. Nothing or so base to him as a gambler, and they had both commenced their career by gambling. From their young boyhood nothing had seemed so desirable to him as that they should be accustomed by early training to devote themselves to the service of their country. He saw other young noblemen around him who at eighteen were known as debaters in their colleges, or at twenty-five were already deep in politics, social science, and educational projects. What good would all his wealth or all his position do for his children, if their minds could rise to nothing beyond the shooting of deer and the hunting of foxes? There was young Lord Buttercup, the son of the Earl of Wooland-Hallow, only a few months older than Silverbridge, who was already a junior lord, and as constant at his office, or during the session on the treasury bench, as though there were not a pack of hounds or a card-table in Great Britain. Lord Buttercup, too, had already written an article in the fortnightly on the subject of Turkish finance. How long would it be before Silverbridge would write an article, or Gerald sign his name in the service of the public? And then those proposed marriages, as to which he was beginning to know that his children would be too strong for him, anxious as he was that both his sons should be permeated by liberal politics, studious as he had ever been to teach them, that the highest duty of those high in rank was to use their authority to elevate those beneath them. Until he was hardly less anxious to make them understand that their second duty required them to maintain their own position, it was by feeling this second duty, by feeling it and performing it, that they would be enabled to perform the rest. And now both Silverbridge and his girl were bent upon marriages by which they would depart out of their own order. With Silverbridge, marry whom he might, he could not be other than heir to the honors of his family. But by his marriage he might either support or derogate from those honors. And now, having at first made a choice that was good, he had altered his mind from simple freak, captivated by a pair of bright eyes and an arch-smile, and without a feeling in regard to his family, was anxious to take to his bosom the granddaughter of an American day-labourer. And then his girl, of whose beauty he was so proud, from whose manners and tastes and modes of life he had expected to reap those good things in a feminine degree, which his sons as young men seemed so little fitted to give him. By slow degrees he had been brought round to acknowledge that the young man was worthy. Tragear's conduct had been felt by the duke to be manly. The letter he had written was a good letter, and then he had won for himself a seat in the House of Commons. When forced to speak of him to this girl, he had been driven by justice to call him worthy. But how could he serve to support and strengthen that nobility, the endurance and perpetuation of which should be the peculiar care of every palacer? And yet, as the duke walked about his room, he felt that his opposition, either to the one marriage or to the other, was vain. Of course, they would marry according to their wills. That same night Gerald wrote to his brother before he went to bed, as follows, Dear Silver, I was awfully obliged to you for sending me the IOU for that brute Percival. He only sneered when he took it and would have said something disagreeable, but that he saws that I was in earnest. I know he did say something to Nid, only I can't find out what. Nid is an easygoing fellow, and as I saw, didn't want to have a rumpus. But now, what do you think I've done? Directly I got home, I told the Governor all about it. As I was in the train, I made up my mind that I would, I went slap at it. If there is anything that never does any good, it's craning. I did it all at one rush, just as though I was swallowing a dose of physics. I wish I could tell you all that the Governor said, because it was really tip-top. What is a fellow to get by playing high, a fellow like you and me? I didn't want any of that beast's money. I don't suppose he had any. But once Danda gets up, and one doesn't like to be done, and so it goes on. I shall cut that kind of thing altogether. You should have heard the Governor spouting Latin, and then the way he sat upon Percival without mentioning the fellow's name. I do think it mean to set yourself to work to win money at cards, and it is awfully mean to lose more than you have got to pay. Then at the end the Governor said he'd send the beast a check for the amount. You know his way of finishing up, just like two fellows fighting, when one has awfully punished the other, he goes up and shakes hands with him. He did pitch into me, not abusing me, nor even saying the word about the money which he at once promised to pay, but laying it on to gambling with a regular cat and nine tails. And then there was an end of it. He just asked for the fellow's address, and said that he would send in the money. I will say this. I don't think there's a greater brick than the Governor out anywhere. I'm awfully sorry about Tragear. I can't quite make out how it happened. I suppose you were too near him, and Melrose always does rush at his fences. One fellow shouldn't be too near another fellow. Only it so often happens that it can't be helped. It's just like anything else, if nothing comes of it, then it's all right. But if anybody comes to grief, then he's got to be pitched into. Do you remember when I nearly cut over old Simon's slobedy? Didn't I hear about it? I'm awfully glad you didn't smash up Tragear altogether because of Mary. I'm quite sure it is no good anybody setting up his back against that. It's one of the things that have got to be. You always have said that he is a good fellow. If so, what's the harm? At any rate, it has got to be. Your affectionate brother Gerald. I go up in about a week. End of CHAPTER 65. CHAPTER 66 OF THE DUKE'S CHILDREN. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Piper Hayes. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trellop. CHAPTER 66 THE THREE ATTACKS. During the following week, the communications between Harrington and Matching were very frequent. There were no further direct messages between Tragear and Lady Mary, but she heard daily of his progress. The Duke was conscious of the special interest which existed in his house as to the condition of the young man, but after his arrival, not a word was spoken for some days between him and his daughter on the subject. Then Gerald went back to his college, and the Duke made his preparations for going up to town and making some attempt at parliamentary activity. It was by no concert that an attack was made upon him from three-quarters at once, as he was preparing to leave Matching. On the Sunday morning during church time, for on that day Lady Mary went to her devotions alone, Mrs. Finn was closeted for an hour with the Duke in his study. I think you ought to be aware, she said to the Duke, that though I trust Mary implicitly, and know her to be thoroughly high-principled, I cannot be responsible for her if I remain with her here. I do not quite follow your meaning. Of course there is but one matter on which there can probably be any difference between us. If she should choose to write to Mr. Tragear or to send him a message, or even to go to him, I could not prevent it. Go to him, exclaimed the horrified Duke. I merely suggest such a thing in order to make you understand that I have absolutely no control over her. What control have I? Nay, I cannot define that. You are her father, and she acknowledges your authority. She regards me as a friend, and as such treats me with the sweetest affection. Nothing can be more gratifying than her manner to me personally. It ought to be so. She has thoroughly won my heart. But still I know that if there were a difference between us, she would not obey me. Why should she? Because you hold my deputed authority. Oh, Duke, that goes for very little anywhere. No one can depute authority. It comes too much from personal accidents, and too little from reason or law to be handed over to others. Because I fear that, on one matter concerning her, you and I are not agreed. I shall be sorry if it be so. I feel that I am bound to tell you my opinion. Oh, yes. You think that in the end Lady Mary will allow herself to be separated from Tragear. I think that in the end they will become man and wife. This seemed to the Duke to be not quite so bad as it might have been. Many speculation as to results were very different from an expressed opinion as to propriety. Were he to tell the truth as to his own mind, he might perhaps have said the same thing. But one is not to relax in one's endeavours to prevent that which is wrong because one fears that the wrong may be ultimately perpetrated. Let that be as it may, he said. It cannot alter my duty. No mind, Duke, if I may presume to think that I have a duty in this matter, that you should encounter the burden of the duty binds me to you forever. If it be that they will certainly be married one day, who has said that? Who has admitted that? If it be so, if it seems to me that it must be so, then how can I be anxious to prolong her sufferings? She does suffer terribly. Given this, the Duke frowned, that there was more of tenderness in his frown than in the hard smile which he had hitherto worn, I do not know whether you see it all. He well remembered all that he had seen when he and Mary were travelling together. I see it, and I do not pass half an hour with her without sorrowing for her. On hearing this he sighed and turned his face away. Those are so different. There are many who, though they be genuinely in love, though their natures are sweet and affectionate, are not strong enough to support their own feelings in resistance to the will of those who have authority over them. Had it been so with his wife? At this moment all the former history passed through his mind. They yield to that which seems to be inevitable, and allow themselves to be fashioned by the purposes of others. It is well for them often that they are so plastic. Whether it would be better for her that she should be so, I will not say. It would be better, said the Duke doggedly. But such is not her nature. She is as determined as ever. I may be determined, too. But if at last it will be of no use, if it be her fate either to be married to this man or die of a broken heart. What justifies you in saying that? How can you torture me by such a threat? If I think so, Duke, I am justified. Of late I have been with her daily, almost hourly. I do not say that this will kill her now, in her youth. It is not often, I fancy, that women die after that fashion. But a broken heart may bring the sufferer to the grave after a lapse of many years. How will it be with you if she should live like a ghost beside you for the next twenty years and you should then see her die, faded and withered before her time, all her life gone without a joy, because she had left a man whose position in life was displeasing to you? Would the ground on which the sacrifice had been made then justify itself to you? In thus performing your duty to your order, would you feel satisfied that you had performed that to your child? She had come there determined to say it all, to liberate her own soul as it were, but had much doubted the spirit in which the Duke would listen to her, that he would listen to her she was sure, and then if he chose to cast her out she would endure his wrath. It would not be to her now as it had been when he accused her of treachery. But nevertheless bold as she was and independent he had imbued her as he did all those around him with so strong a sense of his personal dignity that when she had finished she almost trembled as she looked in his face. Since he had asked her how she could justify to herself the threats which she was using he had sat still with his eyes fixed upon her. Now when she had done he was in no hurry to speak. He rose slowly and walking towards the fireplace stood with his back towards her, looking down upon the fire. She was the first to speak again. Shall I leave you now? She said in a low voice. Perhaps it will be better, he answered. His voice too was very low. In truth he was so moved that he hardly knew how to speak at all. Then she rose and was already on her way to the door when he followed her. One moment, if you please, he said almost sternly, I am under a debt of gratitude to you of which I cannot express my sense in words. How far I may agree with you and where I may disagree I will not attempt to point out to you now. Oh no! But all that you have troubled yourself to think and to feel in this matter and all that true friendship has compelled you to say to me shall be written down in the tablets of my memory. Duke! My child! has at any rate been fortunate in securing the friendship of such a friend. Then he turned back to the fireplace and she was constrained to leave the room without another word. She had determined to make the best plea in her power for Mary, and while she was making the plea had been almost surprised by her own vehemence. But the greater had been her vehemence, the stronger she thought would have been the Duke's anger, and as she had watched the workings of his face she had felt for a moment that the vials of his wrath were about to be poured out upon her. Even when she left the room she almost believed that had he not taken those moments for consideration at the fireplace his parting words would have been different. But as it was there could be no question now of her departure. No power was left to her of separating herself from Lady Mary. Though the Duke had not as yet acknowledged himself to be conquered, there was no doubt to her now that he would be conquered, and she, either here or in London, must be the girl's nearest friend, up to the day when she should be given over to Mr. Tragear. That was one of the three attacks which were made upon the Duke before he went up to his parliamentary duties. The second was as follows. Among the letters on the following morning one was brought to him from Tragear. It is hoped that the reader will remember the lover's former letter and the very unsatisfactory answer which had been sent to it. Nothing could have been colder, less propitious, or more inveterately hostile than the reply. As he lay in bed with his broken bones at Harrington he had ample time for thinking over all this. He knew every word of the Duke's distressing note by heart and had often lashed himself to rage as he had repeated it. But he could affect nothing by showing his anger. He must go on and still do something. Since the writing of that letter he had done something. He had got his seat in Parliament. And he had secured the interest of his friend, Silverbridge. This had been partially done at Paul Winning, but the accident in the break country had completed the work. The brother had at last declared himself in his friend's favour. Of course I should be glad to see it, he had said, while sitting by Tragear's bedside, the worst is that everything does seem to go against the poor Governor. Then Tragear made up his mind that he would write another letter. Personally he was not in the best condition for doing this, as he was lying in bed with his left arm tied up and with straps and bandages all round his body, but he could sit up in bed and his right hand and arm were free. So he declared to Lady Chiltern his purpose of writing a letter. We tried to dissuade him gently and offered to be his secretary. But when he assured her that no secretary could write this letter for him, she understood pretty well what would be the subject of the letter. With considerable difficulty Tragear wrote his letter. My Lord Duke! On this occasion he left out the epithet which he had before used. Your Grace's reply to my last letter was not encouraging, but in spite of your prohibition I venture to write to you again. If I had the slightest reason for thinking that your daughter was estranged from me, I would not persecute either you or her. But if it be true that she is as devoted to me as I am to her, can I be wrong in pleading my cause? Is it not evident to you that she has made of such stuff that she will not be controlled in her choice, even by your will? I have had an accident in the hunting field and am now writing from Lord Children's house where I am confined to bed, but I think you will understand me when I say that even in this helpless condition I feel myself constrained to do something. Of course I ask for nothing from you on my own behalf, but on her behalf may I not add my prayers to hers. I have the honour to be your Grace's very faithful servant, Francis Tragear. This coming alone would perhaps have had no effect. The Duke had desired the young man not to address him again, and the young man had disobeyed him. No mere courtesy would now have constrained him to send any reply to this further letter, but coming as it did while his heart was still throbbing with the effects of Mrs. Finn's words, it was allowed to have a certain force. The argument used was a true argument. His girl was devoted to the man who sought her hand. Mrs. Finn had told him that sooner or later he must yield. Unless he was prepared to see his child wither and fade at his side, he had once thought that he would be prepared even for that. He had endeavored to strengthen his own will by arguing with himself that when he saw a duty plainly before him he should cleave to that, let the results be what they might. But that picture of her face withered and won after twenty years of sorrowing had had its effect upon his heart. He even made excuses within his own breast in the young man's favor. He was in Parliament now, and what may not be done for a young man in Parliament? Altogether the young man appeared to him in a light different from that through which he had viewed the presumptuous, arrogant, utterly unjustifiable suitor who had come to him now nearly a year since in Carleton Terrace. He went to breakfast with Tragear's letter in his pocket, and was then gracious to Mrs. Finn and tender to his daughter. When do you go, Papa? Mary asked. I shall take the eleven forty-five train. I have ordered the carriage at a quarter before eleven. May I go to the train with you, Papa? Certainly I shall be delighted. Papa, Mary said, as soon as she found herself seated beside her father in the carriage. My dear. Oh, Papa! And she threw herself onto his breast. He put his arm round her and kissed her, as he would have had so much delight in doing, as he would have done so often before, had there not been this ground of discord. She was very sweet to him. It had never seemed to him that she had disgraced herself by loving Tragear, but that a great misfortune had fallen upon her. Silverbridge, when he had gone into a racing partnership with Tifto, and Gerald, when he had played for money which he did not possess, had degraded themselves in his estimation. He would not have used such a word, but it was his feeling. They were less noble, less pure than they might have been, had they kept themselves free from such stain, but this girl, whether she should live and fade by his side, or whether she should give her hand to some fitting noble suitor, or even though she might at last become the wife of this man who loved her, would always have been pure. It was sweet to him to have something to caress. Now in the solitude of his life, as years were coming on him, he felt how necessary it was that he should have someone who would love him. Since his wife had left him he had been debarred from these caresses by the necessity of showing his antagonism to her dearest wishes. It had been his duty to be stern. In all his words to his daughter he had been governed by a conviction that he never ought to allow the duty of separating her from her lover to be absent from his mind. He was not prepared to acknowledge that that duty had ceased, but yet there had crept over him a feeling that he was half conquered. Why should he not seek some recompense in his daughter's love? Papa, she said, you do not hate me. Hate you, my darling? Because I am disobedient. Oh, Papa, I cannot help it. He should not have come. He should not have been let to come. He had not a word to say to her. He could not, as yet, bring himself to tell her that it should be as she desired. Much less could he now argue with her as to the impossibility of such a marriage, as he had done on former occasions when the matter had been discussed. He could only press his arm tightly round her waist and be silent. It cannot be altered now, Papa. Look at me. Tell me that you love me. Have you doubted my love? No, Papa. But I would do anything to make you happy, anything that I could do. Papa, you do not want me to marry Lord Papalcourt. I would not have you marry any man without loving him. I never can love anybody else. That is what I wanted you to know, Papa. To this he made no reply. Nor was there anything else set upon the subject before the carriage drove up to the railway station. Do not get out, dear, he said, seeing that her eyes had been filled with tears. It is not worthwhile. God bless you, my child. You will be up in London, I hope, in a fortnight, and we must try to make the house a little less dull for you. And so he had encountered the third attack. Lady Mary, as she was driven home, recovered her spirits wonderfully. Not a word had fallen from her father, which she could use hereafter as a refuge from her embarrassments. He had made her no promise. He had assented to nothing. But there had been something in his manner, in his gate, in his eye, in the pressure of his arm, which made her feel that her troubles would soon be at an end. I do love you so much, she said to Mrs. Finn, late on that afternoon. I am glad of that, dear. I shall always love you because you have been on my side all through. No, Mary, that is not so. I know it is so. Of course you have to be wise because you are older. And Papa would not have you here with me if you were not wise. But I know you are on my side and Papa knows it, too. And someone else shall know it some day. After the election first reached him, it made his hair stand on end. He had never yet risen to his feet in the house. He had spoken at those election meetings in Cornwall, and had found it easy enough. After the first or second time he had thought it good fun. But he knew that standing up in the House of Commons would be different from that. Then there would be the dress. I should so hate to fig myself out and look like a guy, he said to Trigir, to whom, of course, he confided the offer that was made to him. Trigir was very anxious that he should accept it. A man should never refuse anything of that kind which comes in his way, Trigir said. It is only because I am the governor's son, Silverbridge pleaded. Partly so, perhaps. But if it be altogether so, what of that? Take the goods the gods provide you. Of course all these things, which our ambition covets, are easier to Duke's sons than to others. But not on that account should a Duke's son refuse them. A man, when he sees a rung vacant on the ladder, should always put his feet there. I'll tell you what, said Silverbridge. If I thought this was all fair sailing, I'd do it. I should feel certain that I should come a cropper, but still I'd try it, as you say a fellow should try. But it's all meant as a blow at the governor. Old Beeswax thinks that if he can get me up to swear that he and his crew are real first chop hands, that will hit the governor hard. It's as much as saying to the governor, this chap belongs to me, not to you. That's a thing I won't go in for. Then Trigir counseled him to write to his father for advice, and at the same time to ask Sir Timothy to allow him a day or two for consideration. This counsel he took. This letter reached his father two days before he left matching. In answer to it there came first a telegram begging Silverbridge to be in London on the Monday, and then a letter, in which the Duke expressed himself as being anxious to see his son before giving a final answer to the question. Thus it was that Silverbridge had been taken away from his hunting. Isabelle Boncassen, however, was now in London, and from her it was possible that he might find consolation. He had written to her soon after reaching Harrington, telling her that he had had it all out with the governor. There is a good deal that I can only tell you when I see you, he said. Then he assured her, with many lovers' protestations, that he was and always would be till death altogether, her own most loving S. To this he had received an answer by return of post. She would be delighted to see him up in town, as would her father and mother. They had now got a comfortable house in Brook Street. And then she signed herself his sincere friend, Isabelle. Silverbridge thought that it was cold, and remembered certain scraps in another feminine handwriting in which more passion was expressed. Perhaps this was the way with American young ladies when they were in love. Yes, said the Duke, I am glad that you have come up at once, as Sir Timothy should have his answer without further delay. But what shall I say? The Duke, though he had already considered the matter very seriously, nevertheless took a few minutes to consider it again. The offer, said he, must be acknowledged as very flattering. But the circumstances are not usual. It cannot often be the case that a minister should ask the son of his keenest political opponent to render him such a service. But however we will put that aside. Not quite, sir. For the present we will put that on one side. Not looking at the party which you may be called upon to support, having for the moment no regard to this or that line in politics. There is no opening to the real duties of parliamentary life which I would sooner see accorded to you than this. But if I were to break down. Talking to his father he could not quite venture to ask what might happen if he were to come a cropper. None but the brave deserved the fair, said the Duke, slapping his hands upon the table. Why, if we fail, we fail. But screw your courage to the sticking place and will not fail. What high point would ever be reached if cautions such as that were allowed to prevail? What young men have done before cannot you do. I have no doubt of your capacity, none. Haven't you, sir, said Silverbridge, considerably gratified, and also surprised? None in the least, but perhaps some of your diligence. I could learn it by heart, sir, if you mean that. But I don't mean that. Or rather I mean much more than that. You have first to realize in your mind the thing to be said. And then the words in which you should say it before you come to learning by heart. Some of them I suppose would tell me what to say. No doubt, with your inexperience, it would be unfit that you should be left entirely to yourself. But I would wish you to know, perhaps I should say to feel, that the sentiments to be expressed by you were just. I should have to praise Sir Timothy. Not that, necessarily, but you would have to advocate that course in Parliament which Sir Timothy and his friends have taken, and propose to take. But I hate him like poison. There need be no personal feeling in the matter. I remember that when I moved the address in your house, Mr. Malaube was Prime Minister, a man for whom my regarding esteem were unbounded, who had been, in political matters, the preceptor of my youth, whom as a patriotic statesman I almost worshipped, whom I now remember as a man whose departure from the arena of politics left the country very destitute. No one has sprung up since like to him, or hardly second to him. But in speaking on so large a subject as the policy of a party, I thought it beneath me to eulogize a man. The same policy reversed may keep you silent respecting Sir Timothy. I mean, of course, say what I think about him. I suppose you do agree with Sir Timothy as to his general policy? On no other condition can you undertake such a duty. Of course I have voted with him. So I have observed. Not so regularly, perhaps, as Mr. Roby would have desired. Mr. Roby was the conservative whip. And I suppose the people at Silverbridge expect me to support him. I hardly know how that may be. They used to be contented with my poor services. No doubt they feel they have changed for the better. You shouldn't say that, sir. I am bound to suppose that they think so, because when the matter was left in their own hands they at once elected a conservative. You need not fear that you will offend them by seconding the address. They will probably feel proud to see their young member brought forward on such an occasion. As I shall be proud to see my son. You would if it were on the other side, sir. Yes, Silverbridge, yes. I should be very proud if it were on the other side. But there is a useful old adage which bids us not cry for spilt milk. You have a right to your opinions, though perhaps I may think that in adopting what I must call new opinions you were a little precipitate. We cannot act together in politics. But not the less on that account do I wish to see you taken active and useful part on that side to which you have attached yourself. As he said this he rose from his seat and spoke with emphasis, as though he were addressing some imaginary speaker or a house of legislators around. I shall be proud to hear you second the address. If you do it as gracefully and as fitly as I am sure you may, if you will give yourself the trouble, I shall hear you do it with infinite satisfaction. Even though I shall feel at the same time anxious to answer all your arguments and to disprove all your assertions, I should be listening no doubt to my opponent. But I should be proud to feel that I was listening to my son. My advice to you is to do as Sir Timothy has asked you. He is such a beast, sir, said Silverbridge. Pray do not speak in that way on matters so serious. I do not think you quite understand it, sir. Perhaps not. Can you enlighten me? I believe he has done this only to annoy you. The Duke, who had again seated himself and was leaning back in his chair, raised himself up, placed his hands on the table before him, and looked his son hard in the face. The idea which Silverbridge had just expressed had certainly occurred to himself. He remembered well all the circumstances of the time when he and Sir Timothy Beeswax had been members of the same government, and he remembered how animosities had grown, and how treacherous he had thought the man. From the moment in which he had read the minister's letter to the young member, he had felt that the offer had too probably come from a desire to make the political separation between himself and his son complete. But he had thought that in counseling his son, he was bound to ignore such a feeling. And it certainly had not occurred to him that Silverbridge would be astute enough to perceive the same thing. What makes you fancy that, said the Duke, striving to conceal by his manner, but not altogether successful in concealing, the gratification which he certainly felt. Well, sir, I am not sure that I can explain it. Of course it is putting you in a different boat from me. You have already chosen your boat. Perhaps he thinks I may get out again. I dislike the skipper so much that I am not sure that I shall not. Oh, Silverbridge, that is such a fault. So much is included in that which is unstatesmanlike, unpatriotic, almost dishonest. Do you mean to say that you would be this or that in politics, according to your personal liking for an individual? When you don't trust the leader, you can't believe very firmly in the followers, said Silverbridge doggedly. I won't say, sir, what I may do. I dare say that what I think is not of much account. I do think a good deal about it. I am glad of that. And as I think it not at all improbable that I may go back again, if you don't mind it, I will refuse. Of course after that the Duke had no further arguments to use in favor of Sir Timothy's proposition. CHAPTER 68 Silverbridge had now a week on his hands which he felt he might devote to the lady of his love. It was a comfort to him that he need have nothing to do with the address. To have to go day after day to the treasury, in order that he might learn his lesson, would have been disagreeable to him. He did not quite know how the lesson would have been communicated, but fancied it would have come from Old Roby, whom he did not love much better than Sir Timothy. Then the speech must have been composed, and afterwards submitted to some one, probably to Old Roby again, by whom no doubt it would be cut and slashed and made quite a different speech than he had intended. If he had not praised Sir Timothy himself, Roby, or whatever other tutor might have been assigned to him, would have put the praise in. And then how many hours it would have taken to learn the horrid thing by heart! He proudly felt that he had not been prompted by idleness to decline the task, but not the less was he glad to have shuffled the burden from off his shoulders. Only the next morning he was in Brook Street, having sent a note to say he would call, and having even named the hour. And yet when he knocked at the door he was told with the utmost indifference by a London footman that Miss Boncasson was not at home, also that Mrs. Boncasson was not at home, also that Mr. Boncasson was not at home. When he asked at what hour Miss Boncasson was expected home, the man answered him, just as though he had been anybody else, that he knew nothing about it. He turned away in disgust and had himself driven to the bear-garden. In his misery he had recourse to game-pie and a pint of champagne for his lunch. �Hello, old fellow, what is this I hear about you?� said Niddardale, coming in and sitting opposite to him. �I don't know what you've heard. You're going to second the address. What made them pick you from out of the lot of us? It is just what I'm not going to do. I saw it in all the papers!� I daresay. And yet it isn't true. I shouldn't wonder if they ask you. At this moment a waiter handed a large official letter to Lord Niddardale, saying that the messenger who had brought it was waiting for an answer in the hall. The letter bore the important signature of T. Beeswax on the corner of the envelope, and so disturbed Lord Niddardale that he called at once for a glass of soda and brandy. When opened it was found to be very nearly a counterpart of that which Silverbridge had received down in the country. There was, however, added a little prayer that Lord Niddardale would at once come down to the treasury chambers. �They must be very hard up,� said Lord Niddardale. �But I shall do it. Can-trip is always at me to do something, and you see if I don't butter them up properly.� Then having fortified himself with game-pie and a glass of brown sherry, he went away at once to the treasury chambers. Silverbridge felt himself a little better after his lunch, better still when he had smoked a couple of cigarettes walking about the empty smoking-room. And as he walked, he collected his thoughts. She could hardly have meant to slight him. No doubt her letter down to him at Harrington had been very cold. No doubt he had been ill-treated in being sent away so unceremoniously from the door. But yet she could hardly intend that everything between them should be over. Even an American girl could not be so unreasonable as that. He remembered the passionate way in which she had assured him of her love. All that could not have been forgotten. He had done nothing by which he could have forfeited her esteem. She had desired him to tell the whole affair to her father, and he had done so. Mr. Boncassen might perhaps have objected. It might be that this American was so prejudiced against English aristocrats as to desire no commerce with them. Though there were not many Englishmen who would not have welcomed him as a son-in-law, but Americans might be different. Still! Still! Isabelle would hardly have shown her obedience to her father in this way. She was too independent to obey her father in a matter concerning her own heart. And if he had not been the possessor of her heart at that last interview, then she must have been false indeed. So he got once more into his handsome, and had himself taken back to Brook Street. Mrs. Boncassen was in the drawing-room alone. "'I am so sorry,' said the lady, "'but Mr. Boncassen has, I think, just gone out.' "'Indeed. And where is Isabelle?' "'Isabelle is downstairs. That is, if she hasn't gone out, too. She did talk of going with her father to the museum. She is getting quite bookish. She has got a ticket, and goes there, and has all the things brought to her, just like the other learned folks. "'I am anxious to see her, Mrs. Boncassen.' "'My! If she has gone out it will be a pity. She was only saying, yesterday, she wouldn't wonder if you shouldn't turn up.' "'Of course I've turned up, Mrs. Boncassen. I was here an hour ago.' "'Was it you who called and asked all them questions?' "'My! We couldn't make out who it was. The man said it was a flurry young gentleman who wouldn't leave a card, but who wanted to see Mr. Boncassen most as special.' "'It was Isabelle I wanted to see. Didn't I leave a card?' "'No, I don't think I did. I felt so almost at home that I didn't think of a card. That's very kind of you, Lord Silverbridge. I hope you're going to be my friend, Mrs. Boncassen. I'm sure I don't know Lord Silverbridge. Isabelle is most used to having her own way, I guess. I think when hearts are joined almost nothing ought to stand between them. But Mr. Boncassen does have doubts. He don't wish as Isabelle should force herself anywhere. But here she is, and now she can speak for herself. Whereupon not only did Isabelle enter the room, but at the same time Mrs. Boncassen most discreetly left it. It must be confessed that American mothers are not afraid of their daughters. Silverbridge, when the door was closed, stood looking at the girl for a moment, and thought that she was more lovely than ever. She was dressed for walking. She still had on her fur jacket, but had taken off her hat. I was in the parlor downstairs, she said, when you came in, with papa, and we were going out together. But when I heard who was here, I made him go alone. Was I not good? He had not thought of a word to say or a thing to do, but he felt as he looked at her that the only thing in the world worth living for was to have her for his own. For a moment he was half abashed. Then in the next she was close in his arms with his lips pressed to hers. He had been so sudden that she had been unable, at any rate thought that she had been unable, to repress him. "'Lord Silverbridge,' she said, I told you I would not have it. You have offended me.' "'Isabelle!' "'Yes, Isabelle. Isabelle is offended with you. Why did you do it? Why did he do it? It seemed to him to be the most unnecessary question. I want you to know how I love you. Will that tell me? That only tells me how little you think of me. Then it tells you a falsehood, for I am thinking of you always, and I always think of you as being the best and dearest and sweetest thing in the world. And now I think you dearer and sweeter than ever.' On this she tried to frown, but her frown at once broke out into a smile. When I wrote to say that I was coming, why did you not stay at home for me this morning? I got no letter, Lord Silverbridge. Why didn't you get it? "'That,' I cannot say, Lord Silverbridge, Isabelle, if you are so formal you will kill me. Lord Silverbridge, if you are so forward you will offend me.' Then it turned out that no letter from him had reached the house, and as the letter had been addressed to Bruton Street instead of Brook Street, the failure on the part of the post-office was not surprising. Whether or no she were offended or killed he remained with her the whole of that afternoon. "'Of course I love you,' she said. "'Do you suppose I should be here with you, if I did not? All that you could have remained in the house, after what you did just now. I am not given to run into rhapsodies quite so much as you are, and being a woman perhaps it is well that I don't, but I think I can be quite as true to you as you are to me. I am so much obliged to you for that,' he said, grasping at her hand. "'But I am sure that rhapsodies won't do any good. Now, I'll tell you my mind.' "'You know mine,' said Silverbridge. "'I will take it for granted that I do. Your mind is to marry me, will you nilly,' as the people say.' He answered this by merely nodding his head and getting a little nearer to her. "'That is all very well in its way, and I am not going to say but what I am gratified.' Then he did grasp her hand. "'If it pleases you to hear me say so, Lord Silverbridge, not Lord. Then I shall call you Plantagenet, only it sounds so horribly historical. Why are you not Thomas or Abraham? But if it will please you to hear me say so, I am ready to acknowledge that nothing in all my life ever came near to the delight I have in your love.' Hereupon he almost succeeded in getting his arm round her waist, but she was strong and seized his hand and held it. And I speak no rhapsodies. I tell you a truth which I want you to know and to keep in your heart, so that you may be always, always sure of it. I never will doubt it. But that marrying will you nilly will not suit me. There is so much wanted for happiness in life. I will do all that I can. Yes, even though it be hazardous, I am willing to trust you. If you were as other men are, if you could do as you please as lowermen may do, I would leave father and mother and my own country, that I might be your wife. I would do that because I love you. But what will my life be here, if they who are your friends turn their backs upon me? What will your life be, if through all that you continue to love me? That will all come right. And what will your life be all mine, she said, going on with her own thoughts, without seeming to have heard his last words? If in such a condition as that you did not continue to love me, I should always love you. It might be very hard, and if once felt to be hard, then impossible. You have not looked at it as I have done. Why should you, even with a wife that was a trouble to you, oh, Isabel! His arm was now round her waist, but she continued speaking as though she were not aware of the embrace. Yes, a trouble. I shall not always be just what I am now. Now I can be bright and pretty and hold my own with others because I am so. But are you sure, I am not, that I am such stuff as an English lady should be made of? If in ten years time you found that others did not think so, that worse again you did not think so yourself, would you be true to me then? I will always be true to you. She gently extricated herself, as though she had done so that she might better turn round and look into his face. Oh, my own one! Who can say of himself that it would be so? How could it be, when you would have all the world against you? You would still be what you are, with a clog round your leg while at home, in Parliament among your friends, at your clubs, you would be just what you are. You would be that Lord Silverbridge who had all good things at his disposal, except that he had been unfortunate in his marriage. But what should I be? Though she paused he could not answer her. Not yet. There was a solemnity in her speech which made it necessary that he should hear her to the end. I too have friends in my own country. It is no disgrace to me there that my grandfather worked on the keys. No one holds her head higher than I do, or is more sure of being able to hold it. I have there that assurance of esteem and honour which you have here. I would lose it all to do you a good. But I will not lose it to do you an injury. I don't know about injuries, he said, getting up and walking about the room. But I am sure of this, you will have to be my wife. If your father will take me by the hand and say that I shall be his daughter, I will risk all the rest. Even then it might not be wise, but we love each other too well not to run some peril. Do you think that I want anything better than to preside in your home, to soften your cares, to welcome your joys, to be the mother perhaps of your children and to know that you are proud that I should be so? No, my darling, I can see a paradise only, only I may not be fit to enter it. I must use some judgment better than my own, sounder dear than yours. Tell the Duke what I say, tell him with what language a son may use to his father, and remember that all you ask for yourself, you will ask doubly for me. I will ask him so that he cannot refuse me. If you do so, I shall be contented. And now go, I have said ever so much, and I am tired. Isabel, oh my love, yes, Isabel, your love, I am that at any rate for the present, and proud to be so as a queen. Well, if it must be this once, as I have been so hard to you, then she gave him her cheek to kiss, but of course he took more than she gave. When he got out into the street it was dark, and there was still standing the faithful cab. But he felt that at the present moment it would be impossible to sit still, and he dismissed the equipage. He walked rapidly along Brook Street into Park Lane, and from thence to the park, hardly knowing whither he went in the enthusiasm of the moment. He walked back to the marble arch, and then surround by the drive to the guard-house and the bridge over the serpentine, by the night's bridge barracks to hide Park Corner. Though he should give up everything and go and live in her own country with her, he would marry her. His politics, his hunting, his address to the queen, his horses, his guns, his father's wealth and his own rank, what were they all to Isabel Boncassen? In meeting her he had met the one human being in all the world who could really be anything to him either in friendship or in love. When she had told him what she would do for him to make his home happy, it had seemed to him that all other delights must fade away from him for ever. How odious were Tifto and his race-horses, how unmeaning the noise of his club, how terrible the tedium of those parliamentary benches! He could not tell his love as she had told hers. He acknowledged to himself that his words could not be as her words, nor his intellect as hers. But his heart could be as true. She had spoken to him of his name, his rank, and all his outside world around him. He would make her understand at last that they were nothing to him in comparison with her. When he had got round to hide Park Corner, he felt that he was almost compelled to go back again to Brook Street. In no other place could there be anything to interest him. Nowhere else could there be light or warmth or joy. But what would she think of him, to go back hot and soiled with mud in order that he might say one more adieu, that possibly he might ravish one more kiss, would hardly be manly. He must postpone all that for the morrow. On the morrow, of course, he would be there. But his work was all before him. That prayer had to be made to his father, or rather some wonderful effort of eloquence must be made by which his father might be convinced that this girl was so infinitely superior to anything of feminine creation that had ever hitherto been seen or heard of, that all ideas as to birth, country, rank, or name ought in this instance to count for nothing. He did believe himself that he had found such a pearl that a no question of setting need be taken into consideration. If the duke would not see it, the fault would be in the duke's eyes, or perhaps in his own words, but certainly not in the pearl. Then he compared her to poor Lady Mabel, and in doing so did arrive at something near the truth in his inward delineation of the two characters. Lady Mabel, with all her grace, with all her beauty, with all her talent, was a creature of efforts, or as it might be called, a manufactured article. She strove to be graceful, to be lovely, to be agreeable and clever. Isabelle was all this and infinitely more without any struggle. When he was most fond of Mabel, most anxious to make her his wife, there had always been present to him a feeling that she was old, though he knew her age to a day and knew her to be younger than himself, yet she was old. Something had gone of her native bloom, something had been scratched and chipped from the first fair surface, and this had been repaired by varnish and veneering. Though he had loved her, he had never been altogether satisfied with her. But Isabelle was as young as he be. He knew nothing of her actual years, but he did know that to have seemed younger, or to have seemed older, to have seemed in any way different from what she was, would have been to be less perfect. CHAPTER 69 PURT POPPET On a Sunday morning, while Lord Silverbridge was alone in a certain apartment in the house in Carlton Terrace, which was called his own sitting-room, the name was brought him of a gentleman who was anxious to see him. He had seen his father, and had used all the eloquence of which he was master, but not quite with the effect which he had desired. His father had been very kind, but he too had been eloquent, and had, as is often the case with orators, been apparently more moved by his own words than by those of his adversary. If he had not absolutely declared himself as irrevocably hostile to Miss Boncassen, he had not said a word that might be supposed to give token of assent. Silverbridge, therefore, was moody, contemplative, and desirous of solitude, nothing that the duke had said had shaken him. He was still sure of his pearl, and quite determined that he would wear it. Various thoughts were running through his brain. What if he were to abdicate the title, and become a Republican? He was inclined to think that he could not abdicate, but he was quite sure that no one could prevent him from going to America and calling himself Mr. Palliser. That his father would forgive him, and accept the daughter-in-law brought to him, were he in the first place to marry without sanction, he felt quite sure. What was there that his father would not forgive, but then Isabel would not assent to this? He was turning it all in his head, and ever and anon, trying to relieve his mind by cleversa, which he was reading in conformity with his father's advice, when the gentleman's card was put into his hand. Whatever does he want here, he said to himself, and then he ordered that the gentleman might be shown up. The gentleman in question was our old friend Dolly Longstaff. Dolly Longstaff and Silverbridge had been intimate, as young men are, but they were not friends, nor, as far as Silverbridge knew, had Dolly ever set his foot in that house before. Well, Dolly, said he, what's the matter now? I suppose you were surprised to see me. I didn't think that you were ever up so early. It was, at this time, almost noon. Oh, come now, that's nonsense. I can get up as early as anybody else. I have changed all that for the last four months. I was at breakfast this morning, very soon after ten. What a miracle! Is there anything I can do for you? Well, yes, there is. Of course you are surprised to see me. You never were here before, and therefore it is odd. It is odd. I felt that myself, and when I tell you what I've come about, you will think it more odd. I know I can trust you with a secret. That depends, Dolly. What I mean is, I know you are good-natured. There are ever so many fellows that are one's most intimate friends that would say anything on earth they could that was ill-natured. I hope they are not my friends. Oh yes they are. Think of Glasslow, or Popplecourt, or Hines. If they knew anything about you that you didn't want to have known, about a young lady or anything of that kind, don't you think they'd tell everybody? A man can't tell anything he doesn't know. That's true. I had thought of that myself, but then there's a particular reason for my telling you this. It is about a young lady. You won't tell, will you? No, I won't, but I can't see why on earth you should come to me. You are ever so many years older than I am. I had thought of that too, but you are just the person I must tell. I want you to help me. These last words were said in a whisper, and Dolly, as he said them, had drawn nearer to his friend. Silverbridge remained in suspense, saying nothing by way of encouragement. Dolly, either in love with his own mystery, or doubtful of his own purpose, sat still, looking eagerly at his companion. What the mischief is it, said Silverbridge impatiently. I have quite made up my own mind. That's a good thing at any rate. I am not what you would have called a marrying sort of man. I should have said no, but I suppose most men do marry, sooner or later. That's just what I said to myself. It has to be done, you know. There are three different properties coming to me. At least one has come already. You're a lucky fellow. I've made up my mind, and when I say a thing I mean to do it. But what can I do? That's just what I'm coming to. If a man does marry, I think he ought to be attached to her. To this, as a broad proposition, Silverbridge was ready to accede. But regarding Dolly as a middle-aged sort of fellow, one of those men who marry because it is convenient to have a house kept for them, he simply nodded his head. I am awfully attached to her, Dolly went on to say. That's all right. Of course, there are fellows who marry girls for their money. I've known men who have married their grandmothers, not really. That kind of thing. When a woman is old, it does not much matter who she is, but my one, she is not old, nor rich. Well, I don't know about that, but I'm not after her money, pray understand that. It's because I'm downright fond of her. She's an American. Of what? said Silverbridge, startled. You know her. That's the reason I've come to you. It's Miss Bond Cassin. A dark frown came across the young man's face. That all this should be said to him was disgusting. That an owl like that should dare to talk of loving Miss Bond Cassin was offensive to him. It's because you know her that I've come to you. She thinks that you're after her. Dolly, as he said this, lifted himself quickly up in his seat and nodded his head mysteriously as he looked into his companion's face. It was as much as though he should say, I see you are surprised, but so it is. Then he went on, she does the pert poppet. This was almost too much for Silverbridge, but still he contained himself. She might look at me because she has got it into her head, that perhaps some day she may be Duchess of Omnium. That of course is out of the question. Upon my word, all this seems to me to be so very, very distasteful that I think you had better say nothing more about it. It is distasteful, said Dolly, but the truth is I am so downright what you may call enamored. Don't talk such stuff as that here, said Silverbridge jumping up. I won't have it. But I am. There is nothing I wouldn't do to get her. Of course it's a good match for her. I've got three separate properties, and when the Governor goes off I shall have a clear 15,000 a year. Oh bother. Of course that's nothing to you, but it is a very tidy income for a commoner. And how is she to do better? I don't know how she could do much worse, said Silverbridge in a transport of rage. When he pulled his moustache in vexation, angry with himself that he should have allowed himself to say even a word on so preposterous a supposition, Isabel Boncasin and Dolly Longstaff, it was to Tanya and Bottom over again. It was absolutely necessary that he should get rid of this intruder, and he began to be afraid that he could not do this without using language which would be uncivil. Upon my word, he said, I think you had better not talk about it anymore. The young lady is the one for whom I have a very great respect. I mean to marry her, said Dolly, thinking thus to vindicate himself. You might as well think of marrying one of the stars. One of the stars? Or a royal princess? Well, perhaps that is your opinion, but I can't say that I agree with you. I don't see why she shouldn't take me. I can give her a position which you may call a one out of the peerage. I can bring her into society. I can make an English lady of her. You can't make anything of her, except to insult her and me too by talking of her. I don't quite understand this, said the unfortunate lover, getting up from his seat. Very likely she won't have me. Perhaps she has told you so. She never mentioned your name to me in her life. I don't suppose she remembers your existence, but I say that there can be no insult in such a one as me asking such a one as her to be my wife. To say that she doesn't remember my existence is absurd. Why should I be troubled with all this? Because I think you're making a fool of her, and because I'm honest. That's why, said Dolly, with much energy. There was something in this which partly reconciled Silverbridge to his despised rival. There was a touch of truth about the man, although he was so utterly mistaken in his ideas. I want you to give over an order that I may try again. I don't think you ought to keep a girl from her promotion, merely for the fun of a flirtation. Perhaps you'll fond of her, but you won't marry her. I am fond of her, and I shall. After a minute's pause, Silverbridge resolved that he would be magnanimous. Miss Boncassan is going to be my wife, he said. Your wife? Yes, my wife. And to know I think you will see that nothing further can be said about this matter. Duchess of Omnium? She will be Lady Silverbridge. Oh, of course she'll be that first. Then I've got nothing further to say. I'm not going to enter myself to run against you. Only I shouldn't have believed it, if anybody else had told me. As such is my good fortune. Oh, ah, yes, of course. That is one way of looking at it. Well, Silverbridge, I'll tell you what I shall do. I shall hook it. No, no, not you. Yes, I shall. I dare say you won't believe me, but I've got such a feeling about me here. As he said this, he laid his hand upon his heart. That if I stayed, I should go in for hard drinking. I shall take the great Asiatic tour. I know a fellow that wants to go, but he hasn't got any money. I dare say I shall be off before the end of next month. You don't know any fellow that would buy half a dozen hunters, do you? Silverbridge shook his head. Goodbye, said Dolly, in a melancholy tone. I'm sure I am very much obliged to you for telling me. If I'd known you'd meant it, I shouldn't have meddled, of course. Duchess of Omnium! Look here, Dolly, I've told you what I should not have told anyone, but I wanted to screen the young lady's name. It was so kind of you. Do not repeat it. It is a kind of thing that ladies are particular about. They choose their own time for letting everybody know. Then Dolly promised to be as mute as a fish and took his departure. Silverbridge had felt, towards the end of the interview, that he had been arrogant to the unfortunate man, particularly in saying that the young lady would not remember the existence of such a suitor, and had also recognized a certain honesty in the man's purpose, which had not been the less honest, because it was so absurd. Actuated by the consciousness of this, he had swallowed his anger and had told the whole truth. Nevertheless, things had been said which were horrible to him. This buffoon of a man had called his Isabelle a pert puppet. How was he to get over the remembrance of such an offence? And then the wretch had declared that he was enamored. There was sacrilege in the term when applied by such a man to Isabelle Boncassen. He had thoughts of days to come when everything would be settled, when he might sit close to her and call her pretty names, when he might in sweet familiarity tell her that she was a little Yankee, and a fierce Republican, and chaff her about the stars and stripes. And then, as he picked at the scene to himself in his imagination, she would lean upon him and give him back his chaff, and would call him an aristocrat, and would laugh at his titles. As he thought of all this, he would be proud with the feeling that such privileges would be his own, and now this wretched man had called her a pert puppet. There was a sanctity about her, a divinity which made it almost a profanity to have talked about her at all, to such a one as dolly long staff. She was as holy of holies at which vulgar eyes should not even be allowed to gaze. It had been a most unfortunate interview. But this was clear that, as he had announced his engagement to such a one as dolly long staff, the matter now would admit of no delay. He would explain to his father that, as tidings of the engagement had got abroad, honour to the young lady would compel him to come forward openly as her suitor at once. If this argument might serve him, then perhaps this intrusion would not have been altogether a misfortune. End of Chapter 69 Recording by Felicity Campbell, Whanganui, New Zealand Silverbridge, when he reached Brook Street that day, was surprised to find that a large party was going to lunch there. Isabelle had asked him to come, and he had thought her the dearest girl in the world for doing so, but now his gratitude for that favour was considerably abated. He did not care just now for the honour of eating his lunch in the presence of Mr. Godabed, the American Minister, whom he found there already in the drawing-room with Mrs. Godabed, nor with Ezekiel Seven-Kings, the great American poet from the far west, who sat silent and stared at him in an unpleasant way. When Sir Timothy Beeswax was announced, with Lady Beeswax and her daughter, his gratification certainly was not increased, and the last-comer, who did not arrive indeed, till they were all seated at the table, almost made him start from his chair and take his departure suddenly. That last-comer was no other than Mr. Adolphus Longstaff. As it happened he was seated next to Dolly, with Lady Beeswax on the other side of him, whereas his holy of holies was on the other side of Dolly. The arrangement made seemed to him to have been monstrous. He had endeavoured to get next to Isabelle, but she had so manoeuvred that there should be a vacant chair between them. He had not much regarded this because a vacant chair may be pushed on one side, but before he had made all his calculations, Dolly Longstaff was sitting there. He almost thought that Dolly winked at him in triumph. That very Dolly who an hour ago had promised to take himself off upon his Asiatic travels. Sir Timothy and the Minister kept up the conversation very much between them, Sir Timothy flattering everything that was American, and the Minister finding fault with very many things that were English. Now and then Mr. Boncassen would put in a word to soften the severe honesty of his countrymen, or to correct the euphemistic falsehoods of Sir Timothy. The poet seemed always to be biding his time. Dolly ventured to whisper a word to his neighbour. It was but to say that the frost had broken up, but Silverbridge hearted and looked daggers at everyone. Then Lady Beeswax expressed to him a hope that he was going to do great things in Parliament this session. I don't mean to go near the place, he said, not at all conveying any purpose to which he had really come, but driven by the stress of the moment to say something that would express his general hatred of everybody. Mr. Lupton was there, on the other side of Isabel, and was soon engaged with her in a pleasant familiar conversation. Then Silverbridge remembered that he had always thought Lupton to be a most conceited prig. Nobody gave himself so many years, or was so careful as to the dying of his whiskers. It was astonishing that Isabel should allow herself to be amused by such an antiquated coxcomb. When they had finished eating they moved about and changed their places, Mr. Boncassen being rather anxious to stop the flood of American eloquence, which came from his friend Mr. Godebed. British vians had become subject to his criticism, and Mr. Godebed had declared to Mr. Lupton that he didn't believe that London could produce a dish of squash or tomatoes. He was quite sure you couldn't have sweet corn. Then there had been a moving of seats in which the minister was shuffled off to Lady Beeswax, and the poet found himself by the side of Isabel. Do you not regret our mountains and our prairies, said the poet? Our great waters and our green savannas. I think more perhaps of Fifth Avenue, said Mr. Boncassen. Silverbridge, who at this moment was being interrogated by Sir Timothy, heard every word of it. I was so sorry, Lord Silverbridge, said Sir Timothy, that you could not accede to our little request. I did not quite see my way, said Silverbridge, with his eye upon Isabel. So I understood, but I hope that things will make themselves clearer to you shortly. There is nothing that I desire so much as the support of young men, such as yourself. The very cream, I may say, of the whole country. It is to the young conservative thoughtfulness, and the truly British spirit, of our springing aristocracy, that I look for that reaction which I am sure will at last carry us safely over the rocks and shoals of communist propensities. I shouldn't wonder if it did, said Silverbridge. They didn't think that he was going to remain down there talking politics to an old humbug like Sir Timothy, when the sun and moon and all the stars had gone up into the drawing-room, for at that moment Isabel was making her way to the door. But Sir Timothy had button-hulled him. Of course it is late now to say anything further about the address, we have arranged that. Not quite as I would have wished, for I had set my heart upon initiating you into the rapturous pleasure of parliamentary debate. But I hope that a good time is coming, and pray remember this, Lord Silverbridge, there is no member sitting on our side of the house, and I need hardly say on the other, whom I would go farther to oblige, than your father's son. I'm sure that's very kind, said Silverbridge, absolutely using a little force as he disengaged himself. Then he at once followed the ladies upstairs, passing the poet on the stairs. You have hardly spoken to me, he whispered to Isabel. He knew that to whisper to her now, with the eyes of many upon him, with the ears of many open, was an absurdity, but he could not refrain himself. There are so many to be entertained, as people say. I don't think I ought to have to entertain you, she answered laughing. No one heard her but Silverbridge, yet she did not seem to whisper. She left him, however, at once, and was soon engaged in conversation with Sir Timothy. A convivial lunch I hold to be altogether bad, but the worst of its many evils is that vacillating mind which does not know when to take its owner off. Silverbridge was on this occasion quite determined not to take himself off at all. As it was only a lunch the people must go, and then he would be left with Isabel. But the vacillation of the others was distressing to him. Mr. Lipton went, and poor Dolly got away apparently without a word, but the beeswaxes and the go-to-beds would not go. And the poet sat staring immovably. In the meanwhile Silverbridge endeavored to make the time pass lightly by talking to Mrs. Boncassen. He had been so determined to accept Isabel with all her adjuncts, that he had come almost to like Mrs. Boncassen, and would certainly have taken her part violently, had anyone spoken ill of her in his presence. Then suddenly he found that the room was nearly empty, the beeswaxes and the go-to-beds were gone, and at last the poet himself, with a final glare of admiration at Isabel, had taken his departure. When Silverbridge looked round, Isabel also was gone. Then two Mrs. Boncassen had left the room suddenly at the same instant Mr. Boncassen entered by another door, and the two men were alone together. My dear Lord Silverbridge said the father, I want to have a few words with you. Of course there was nothing for him but to submit. You remember what you said to me down at Matching. Oh yes, I remember that. You did me the great honour of expressing a wish to make my child your wife. I was asking for a very great favour. That also, for there is no greater favour I could do to any man than to give him my daughter. Nevertheless you were doing me a great honour and you did it as you do everything, with an honest grace that went far to win my heart. I am not at all surprised, sir, that you should have won hers. The young man, as he heard this, could only blush and look foolish. If I know my girl neither your money nor your title would go for anything, I think much more of her love, Mr. Boncassen, than I do of anything else in the world. But love, my lord, may be a great misfortune. As he said this the tone of his voice was altered, and there was a melancholy solemnity not only in his words but in his countenance. I take it that young people, when they love, rarely think of more than the present moment. If they did so the bloom would be gone from their romance, but others have to do this for them. If Isabel had come to me saying that she loved a poor man, there would not have been much to disquiet me. A poor man may earn bread for himself and his wife, and if he failed I could have found them bread. Nor had she loved somewhat below her own degree, should I have opposed her. So long as her husband had been an educated man there might have been no future punishment to fear. I don't think she could have done that, said Silverbridge. At any rate she has not done so, but how am I to look upon this that she has done? I'll do my best for her, Mr. Boncassen. I believe you would, but even your love can't make her an Englishwoman. You can make her a duchess. Not that, sir. But you can't give her a parentage fit for a duchess, not fit at least in the opinion of those with whom you will pass your life, with whom, or perhaps without whom, she will be destined to pass her life if she becomes your wife. Unfortunately it does not suffice that you should think it fit. Though you loved each other, as well as any man and woman that ever were brought into each other's arms by the beneficence of God, you cannot make her happy unless you can assure her the respect of those around her. All the world will respect her. Her conduct, yes. I think the world, your world, would learn to do that. I do not think it could help itself. But that would not suffice. I may respect the man who cleans my boots, but he would be a wretched man if he were thrown on me for society. I would not give him my society. Will your duchesses and your countesses give her theirs? Certainly they will. I do not ask for it as thinking it to be of more value than that of others. But were she to become your wife? She would be so abnormally placed as to require it for her comfort. She would have become a lady of high rank. Not because she loves rank, but because she loves you. Yes, yes, yes, said Silverbridge, hardly himself knowing why he became impetuous. But having removed herself into that position, being as she would be a countess, or a duchess, or whatnot, how could she be happy if she were excluded from the community of countesses and duchesses? They are not like that, said Silverbridge. I will not say that they are, but I do not know. Having Anglican tendencies I have been want to contradict my countrymen when they have told me of the narrow exclusiveness of your nobles, having found your nobles and your commoners all alike in their courtesy, which is a cold word, in their hospitable friendships. I would not now only contradict, but would laugh to score in any such charge. So far he spoke somewhat loudly and then dropped his voice as he concluded. Were it anything less than the happiness of my child that is in question? What am I to say, sir? I only know this. I am not going to lose her. You are a fine fellow. I was going to say that I wished you were an American so that Isabell need not lose you, but, my boy, I have told you that I do not know how it might be. Of all whom you know, who could best tell me the truth on such a subject? Who is there whose age will have given him experience? Whose rank will have made him familiar with this matter? Who, from friendship to you, would be least likely to decide against your wishes? Who, from his own native honesty, would be most sure to tell the truth? You mean my father, said Silverbridge. I do mean your father. Happily he has taken no dislike to the girl herself. I have seen enough of him to feel sure that he is devoted to his own children. Indeed he is. A just and a liberal man, when I should say not carried away by prejudices. Well, my girl and I have just put our heads together, and we have come to a conclusion. If the Duke of Omnium will tell us that she would be safe as your wife, safe from the contempt of those around her, you shall have her. And I shall rejoice to give her to you, not because you are Lord Silverbridge, not because of your rank and wealth, but because you are that individual human being whom I now hold by the hand. When the American had come to an end, Silverbridge was much too moved to make any immediate answer. He had an idea in his own mind that the appeal was not altogether fair. His father was a just man. Just, affectionate, and liberal. But then it will so often happen that fathers do not want their sons to marry those very girls on whom the sons have set their hearts. He could only say that he would speak to his father again on the subject. Let him tell me that he is contented, said Mr. Boncassen, and I will tell him that I am contented. Now, my friend, good-bye. Silverbridge begged that he might be allowed to see Isabel before he was turned out, but Isabel had left the house in company with her mother. End of Chapter 70 Chapter 71 When Silverbridge left Mr. Boncassen's house, he was resolved to go to his father without an hours delay and represent to the Duke exactly how the case stood. He would be urgent, piteous, submissive, and eloquent. In any other matter, he would promise to make whatever arrangements his father might desire. He would make his father understand that all his happiness depended on this marriage. When once married, he would settle down, even at Gatherham Castle, if the Duke should wish it. He would not think of racehorses. He would desert the bear garden. He would learn blue books by heart and only do as much shooting and hunting as would become a young nobleman in his position. All this he would say as eagerly and as pleasantly as might be said. But he would add to all this an assurance of his unchangeable intention. It was his purpose to marry Isabel Boncassen. If he could do this through his father's good will, so best. But at any rate, he would marry her. The world at this time was altogether busy with political rumors, and it was supposed that Sir Timothy Beeswax would do something very clever. It was supposed also that he would sever himself from some of his present companions. On that point everybody was agreed, and on that point only everybody was right. Lord Drummond, who was the titular prime minister, and Sir Timothy had, during a considerable part of the last session, and through the whole vacation, so belarded each other with praise and all their public expressions that it was quite manifest that they had quarreled. When anybody of statesmen make public his aberrations by one or various voices, that there is no discord among them, not a dissentient voice on any subject, people are apt to suppose that they cannot hang together much longer. It is the man who has no peace at home that declares abroad that his wife is an angel. He who lives on comfortable terms with the partner of his troubles can afford to acknowledge the ordinary rubs of life. Old Mr. Mildmay, who was prime minister for so many years, and whom his party worshipped, used to say that he had never found a gentleman who would quite agreed with him all round. But Sir Timothy has always been an exact accord with all his colleagues, till he has left them, or they him. Never had there been such concord as of late, and men, clubs, and newspapers now protested that as a natural consequence there would soon be a break up. But not on that account would it perhaps be necessary that Sir Timothy should resign, or not necessary that his resignation should be permanent. The conservative majority had dwindled, but still there was a majority. It was certainly the case that Lord Drummond could not get on without Sir Timothy, but might it not be possible that Sir Timothy should get on without Lord Drummond? If so, he must begin his action in this direction by resigning. He would have to place his resignation no doubt with infinite regret in the hands of Lord Drummond. But if such a step would be taken now, just as Parliament was about to assemble, what would become of the Queen's speech, of the address and of the noble peers and noble and other commoners who were to propose and second it in the two houses of Parliament? There were those who said that such a trick played at the last moment would be very shabby, but then again there were those who foresaw that the shabbiness would be made to rest anywhere rather than on the shoulders of Sir Timothy. If it should turn out that he had striven manfully to make things run smoothly, that the Premier's incompetence or the Chancellor's obstinacy or this or that secretary's peculiarity of temper had done it all, might not Sir Timothy then be able to emerge from the confused flood and swim along pleasantly with his head higher than ever above the waters? In these great matters Parliamentary management goes for so much. If it may be really clever and handy at his trade, if he can work hard and knows what he is about, if he can give and take and be not thin-skinned or sore-bored, if he can ask pardon for a peccadillo and seem to be sorry with a good grace, if above all things he be able to surround himself with the prestige of success, then so much will be forgiven him. Great gifts of eloquence are hardly wanted or a deep-seated patriotism which is capable of strong indignation. A party has to be managed and he who can manage it best will probably be its best leader. The subordinate task of legislation and of executive government may well fall into the inferior hands of less astute practitioners. It was admitted on both sides that there was no man like Sir Timothy for managing the house or coercing a party and there was therefore a general feeling that it would be a pity that Sir Timothy should be squeezed out. He knew all the little secrets of the business, could arrange, let the cause be what it might, to get a full house for himself and his friends and empty benches for his opponents, could foresee a thousand little things to which even a wallpole would have been blind, which a pit would not have condescended to regard, but with which his familiarity made him a very comfortable leader of the House of Commons. There were various ideas prevalent as to the politics of the coming session, but the prevailing idea was in favour of Sir Timothy. The Duke was at Long Royston, the seat of his old political ally, the Duke of St. Bungie, and had been absent from Sunday the 6th until the morning of Friday the 11th, on which day Parliament was to meet. On that morning at about noon a letter came to the son saying that his father had returned and would be glad to see him. Silverbridge was going to the House on that day and was not without his own political anxieties. If Lord Drummond remained in, he thought that he must for the present stand by the party which he had adopted. If, however, Sir Timothy should become Prime Minister, there would be a loophole for escape. There were some three or four besides himself who detested Sir Timothy, that in such case he might perhaps have company in his desertion. All this was on his mind, but through all this he was aware that there was a matter of much deeper moment which required his energies. When his father's message was brought to him he told himself at once that now was the time for his eloquence. Well, Silverbridge said the Duke, how are matters going on with you? There seemed to be something in his father's manner more than ordinarily jockened and good-humoured. With me, Sir? I don't mean to ask any party secrets, if you and Sir Timothy understand each other, of course you will be discreet. I can't be discreet, sir, because I don't know anything about him. When I heard, said the Duke smiling, of your being in close conference with Sir Timothy— I, sir? Yes, you. Mr. Boncassen told me that you and he were so deeply taken up with each other at his house that nobody could get a word with either of you. Have you seen Mr. Boncassen, asked the son, whose attention was immediately diverted from his father's political body-nage? Yes, I have seen him. I happened to beat him when I was dining last Sunday, and he walked home with me. He was so intent upon what he was saying that I fear he allowed me to take him out of his way. What was he talking about, said Silverbridge? All his preparations, all his eloquence, all his method now seem to have departed from him. He was talking about you, said the Duke. He had told me that he wanted to see you. What did he say, sir? I suppose you can guess what he said. He wished to know what I thought of the offer you have made to his daughter. The great subject had come up so easily, so readily, that he was almost aghast when he found himself in the middle of it. And yet he must speak of the matter, and that at once. I hope you raised no objection, sir, he said. The objection came mainly from him, and I am bound to say that every word that fell from him was spoken with wisdom. But still he asked you to consent? By no means. He told me his opinion, and then he asked me a question. I am sure he did not say that we ought not to be married. He did say that he thought you ought not to be married if? If what, sir? If there were probability that his daughter would not be well received as your wife, then he asked me what would be my reception of her. Silverbridge looked up into his father's face, with beseeching, imploring eyes, as though everything now depended on the next few words that he might utter. I shall think it an unwise marriage, continued the duke. Silverbridge, when he heard this, at once knew that he had gained his cause. His father had spoken of the marriage as a thing that was to happen. A joyous light dawned in his eyes. And the look of pain went from his brow, all of which the duke was not slow to perceive. I shall think it an unwise marriage, he continued, repeating his words. But I was bound to tell him that were Miss Boncassen to become your wife, she would also become my daughter. Oh, sir! I told him why the marriage would be distasteful to me. Whether I may be wrong or right, I think it to be for the good of our country, for the good of our order, and for the good of our individual families, that we should support each other by marriage. It is not as though we were a narrow class, already too closely bound together by family alliances. The room for choice might be wide enough for you without going across the Atlantic to look for her who was to be the mother of your children. To this, Mr. Boncassen replied that he was to look solely to his daughter's happiness. He meant me to understand that he cared nothing for my feelings. Why should he? That which to me is deep wisdom, is to him an empty prejudice. He asked me then how others would receive her. I am sure that everybody would like her, said Silverbridge. I like her. I like her very much. I am so glad. But still all this is a sorrow to me. When, however, he put that question to me about the world around her, as to those among whom her lot would be cast, I could not say that I thought she would be rejected. Oh no, the idea of rejecting Isabelle. She has a brightness and a grace all her own, continued the duke, which will ensure her acceptance in all societies. Yes, yes, yes, it is just that, sir. You will be a nine days wonder, the foolish young nobleman who chose to marry an American. I think it will be just the other way up, sir, among the man. But her place will, I think, be secure to her. That is what I told Mr. Boncassen. It is all right with him then, now. If you call it all right, you will understand, of course, that you are acting in opposition to my advice and my wishes. What am I to say, sir? exclaimed Silverbridge, almost in despair. When I love the girl better than my life, and when you tell me that she can be mine if I choose to take her, when I have asked her to be my wife, and have got her to say that she likes me, when her father has given way and all the rest of it, would it be possible that I should say now that I will give her up? My opinion is to go for nothing in anything. The duke, as he said this, knew that he was expressing a loud feeling which should have been restrained within his own bosom. It was natural that there should have been such planes. The same suffering must be encountered in regard to Dragheer and his daughter. In every way he had been thwarted, in every direction he was driven to yield, and yet now he had to undergo rebuke from his own son, because one of those inward planes would force itself from his lips. Of course, this girl was to be taken in among the palaces and treated with an idolatrous love, as perfect as though all the bloods of all the howards were running in her veins. What further inch of ground was there for such a fight? And if the fight were over, why should he rob his boy of one sparkle from off the joy of his triumph? Silverbridge was now standing before him abashed by that plane, inwardly sustained no doubt by the conviction of his great success, but subdued by his father's wailing. However, perhaps we had better let that pass, said the Duke, with a long sigh. Then Silverbridge took his father's hand and looked up into his face. I most sincerely hope that she may make you a good and loving wife, said the Duke, and that she may do her duty by you in that not easy sphere of life to which she will be called. I am sure she will, said Silverbridge, whose ideas as to Isabelle's duties were confined at present to a feeling that she would now have to give him kisses without stint. What I have seen of her personally recommends me to her, said the Duke. Some girls are fools, that's quite true, sir, who think that the world is to be nothing but dancing and going to parties. Many have been doing it for so many years, said Silverbridge, that they can't understand there should be an end of it. A wife ought to feel the great responsibility of her position. I hope she will. And the sooner she begins, the better, said Silverbridge stoutly. And now, said the Duke, looking at his watch, we might as well have lunch and go down to the house. I will walk with you, if you please. It will be about time for each of us. Then the son was forced to go down and witness the somewhat faded ceremony of seeing Parliament opened by three lords sitting in commission before the throne. Whereas, but for such stress as his father had laid upon him, he would have disregarded his parliamentary duties and have rushed up at once to Brook Street. As it was, he was so handed over, from one political pundit to another, was so button-holed by Sir Timothy, so chaffed as to the address by Finneas Finn, and at last so occupied with the whole matter that he was compelled to sit in his place till he had heard Niddardale made his speech. This the young Scotch Lord did so well and received so much praise for the doing of it and looked so well in his uniform that Silverbridge almost regretted the opportunity he had lost. At seven, the sitting was over, the speeches, though full of interest, having been shorter than usual. They had been full of interest, but nobody understood in the least what was going to happen. I don't know anything about the Prime Minister, said Mr. Lupton as he left the house with our hero and another not very staunch supporter of the government. But all backs Sir Timothy to be leader of the house on the last day of the session against all comers. I don't think it matters much who is Prime Minister nowadays. At half past seven, Silverbridge was at the door in Brook Street. Yes, Miss Boncastle was at home. The servant thought that she was upstairs dressing. Then Silverbridge made his way without further invitation into the drawing room. There he remained alone for ten minutes. At last the door opened and Mrs. Boncastle entered. Dear Lord Silverbridge, who ever dreamed of seeing you, I thought all you Parliament gentlemen were going through your ceremonies. Isabel had a ticket and went down and saw your father. Where is Isabel? She's gone. Gone? Where on earth is she gone to? Asked Silverbridge, as though fearing less she had been carried off to the other side of the Atlantic. Then Mrs. Boncastle explained. Within the last three minutes, Mrs. Motikute Jones had called and carried Isabel off to the play. Mrs. Jones was up in town for a week, and this had been a very old engagement. I hope you did not water very particularly, said Mrs. Boncastle. But I did, most particularly, said Lord Silverbridge. The door was opened and Mr. Boncastle entered the room. I beg your pardon for coming at such a time, said the lover, but I did so want to see Isabel. I rather think she wants to see you, said the father. I shall go to the theatre after her. That might be awkward, particularly as I doubt whether anybody knows what theatre they are gone to. Can I receive a message for her, my lord? This was certainly not what Lord Silverbridge had intended. You know perhaps that I have seen the Duke. Oh, yes, and I have seen him. Everything is settled. That is the only message she will want to hear when she comes home. She is a happy girl, and I am proud to think that I should live to call such a grand young Britain as you, my son-in-law. Then the American took the young man's two hands and shook them cordially, while Mrs. Boncastle, bursting into tears, insisted on kissing him. Indeed she is a happy girl, said she, but I hope Isabel won't be carried away too high and mighty. End of chapter 71