 CHAPTER 78 THE DUKE RETURNS TO OFFICE Not farewell took place on the Friday morning. Trickier, as he walked out of the square, knew now that he had been the cause of a great shipwreck. At first, when that passionate love had been declared, he could hardly remember whether with the fullest passion by him or by her, he had been as a god walking upon air. That she who seemed to be so much above him should have owned that she was all his own, seemed then to be world enough for him. For a few weeks he lived a hero to himself and was able to tell himself that for him the glory of a passion was sufficient. In those halcyon moments no common human care is allowed to intrude itself. To one who has thus entered in upon the heroism of romance, his own daily work, his dinners, clothes, income, father and mother, sisters and brothers, his own street and house are nothing. Hunting, shooting, rowing, alpine climbing, even speeches in parliament if they perchance have been attained to, all become leather or prunella. The heavens have been opened to him and he walks among them like a god, so it had been with Trickier. Then had come the second phase of his passion, which is also not uncommon to young men who soar high in their first assaults. He was told that it would not do, and was not so told by a hard-hearted parent but by the young lady herself, and she had spoken so reasonably that he had yielded and had walked away with that sudden feeling of a vile return to his own mean belongings, to his lodgings and his income, which not a few ambitious young men have experienced. But she had convinced him. Then had come the journey to Italy and the reader knows all the rest. He certainly had not derogated in transferring his affections, but it may be doubted whether in his second love he had walked among the stars as in the first. A man can hardly mount twice among the stars. But he had been as eager and as true. And he had succeeded without any flaw on his conscience. It had been agreed when that first disruption took place that he and Mabel should be friends, and as to a friend he had told her of his hopes. When first she had mingled something of sarcasm with her congratulations, though it had annoyed him, it had hardly made him unhappy. When she called him Romeo and spoke of herself as Rosaline, he took her remark as indicating some petulance rather than an enduring love. That had been womanly, and he could forgive it. He had his other great and solid happiness to support him. Then he had believed that she would soon marry, if not Silverbridge, then some other fitting young nobleman, and that all would be well. But now things were very far from well. The storm which was now howling round her afflicted him much. Perhaps the bitterest feeling of all was that her love should have been so much stronger, so much more enduring than his own. He could not but remember how in his first agony he had blamed her because she had declared that they should be severed. He had then told himself that such severing would be to him impossible and that had her nature been as high as his it would have been as impossible to her. Which nature must he now regard as the higher? She had done her best to rid herself of the load of her passion and had failed, but he had freed himself with convenient haste. All that he had said as to the manliness of conquering grief had been wise enough, but still he could not quit himself of some feeling of disgrace in that he had changed and she had not. He tried to comfort himself with reflecting that Mary was all his own, that in that matter he had been victorious and happy. But for an hour or two he thought more of Mabel than of Mary. When the time came in which he could employ himself, he called for Silverbridge and they walked together across the park to Westminster. Silverbridge was gay and full of eagerness as to the coming ministerial statement, but Tragear could not turn his mind from the work of the morning. I don't seem to care very much about it, he said at last. I do care very much, said Silverbridge. What difference will it make? I breakfasted with the Governor this morning and I have not seen him in such good spirit since—well, for a long time. The date to which Silverbridge would have referred had he not checked himself was that of the evening on which it had been agreed between him and his father that Mabel Gregg should be promoted to the seat of highest honour in the House of Palliser. But that was a matter which must henceforward be buried in silence. He did not say as much, but I feel perfectly sure that he and Mr. Monk have arranged a new government. I don't see any matter for joy in that to Conservatives like you and me. He is my father, and as he is going to be your father-in-law I should have thought that you might have been pleased. Oh yes, if he likes it! But I have heard so often of the crushing cares of office, and I had thought that of all living men he had been the most crushed by them. All that had to be done in the House of Commons on that afternoon was finished before five o'clock. By half past five the House and all the Perlews of the House were deserted. And yet at four immediately after prayers there had been such a crowd that members had been unable to find seats. Tragear and Silverbridge having been early had succeeded, but those who had been less careful were obliged to listen as best they could in the galleries. The stretching out of necks and the holding of hands behind ears did not last long. Sir Timothy had not had much to say, but what he did say was spoken with a dignity which seemed to anticipate future exaltation rather than present downfall. There had arisen a question in regard to revenue. He need hardly tell them that it was that question in reference to Brewer's licenses to which the honourable gentleman opposite had alluded on the previous day. As to which, unfortunately, he was not in accord with his noble friend the Prime Minister. Under the circumstances it was hardly possible that they should at once proceed to business and he therefore moved that the House should stand adjourned till Tuesday next. That was the whole statement. Not very long afterwards the Prime Minister made another statement in the House of Lords, as the Chancellor of the Exchequer had very suddenly resigned and had thereby broken up the Ministry, he had found himself compelled to place his resignation in the hands of Her Majesty. Then that House was also adjourned. On that afternoon all the clubs were alive with admiration at the great cleverness displayed by Sir Timothy in this transaction. It was not only that he had succeeded in breaking up the Ministry and that he had done this without incurring violent disgrace, but he had so done it as to throw all the reproach upon his late unfortunate colleague. It was thus that Mr. Lupton explained it. Sir Timothy had been at the pains to ascertain on what matters connected with the Revenue, Lord Drummond, or Lord Drummond's closest advisers, had opinions of their own, opinions strong enough not to be abandoned, and having discovered that he also discovered arguments on which to found an exactly contrary opinion. But as the Revenue had been entrusted specially to his unworthy hands, he was entitled to his own opinion on this matter. The majority of the House said Mr. Lupton and the entire public will no doubt give him credit for great self-abnegation. All this happened on the Friday. During the Saturday it was considered probable that the Cabinet would come to terms with itself and that internal wounds would be healed. The general opinion was that Lord Drummond would give way, but on the Sunday morning it was understood that Lord Drummond would not yield. It was reported that Lord Drummond was willing to purchase his separation from Sir Timothy even at the expense of his office. That Sir Timothy should give way seemed to be impossible. Had he done so it would have been impossible for him to recover the respect of the House. Then it was rumored that two or three others had gone with Sir Timothy, and on Monday morning it was proclaimed that the Prime Minister was not in a condition to withdraw his resignation. On the Tuesday the House met and Mr. Monk announced, still from the opposition benches, that he had that morning been with the Queen. Then there was another adjournment, and all the Liberals knew that the gates of Paradise were again about to be opened to them. This is only interesting to us as affecting the happiness and character of our Duke. He had consented to assist Mr. Monk in forming a government and to take office under Mr. Monk's leadership. He had had many contests with himself before he could bring himself to this submission. He knew that if anything could once again make him contented it would be work. He knew that if he could serve his country it was his duty to serve it, and he knew also that it was only by the adhesion of such men as himself that the traditions of his party could be maintained. But he had been Prime Minister, and he was sure he could never be Prime Minister again. There are in all matters certain little almost hidden signs by which we can measure within our own bosoms the extent of our successes and our failures. Our Duke's friends had told him that his ministry had been serviceable to the country, but no one had ever suggested to him that he would again be asked to fill the place which he had filled. He had stopped a gap. He would beforehand have declared himself willing to serve his country even in this way, but having done so, having done that and no more than that, he felt that he had failed. He had in his soreness declared to himself that he would never more take office. He had much to do to overcome this promise to himself, but when he had brought himself to submit he was certainly a happier man. There was no going to see the Queen, that on the present occasion was done simply by Mr. Monk. But on the Wednesday morning his name appeared in the list of the new Cabinet as President of the Council. He was perhaps a little fidgety, a little too anxious to employ himself and to be employed, a little too desirous of immediate work, but still he was happy and gracious to those around him. I suppose you like that particular office, Silverbridge said to him? Well, yes, not best of all, you know, and he smiled as he made this admission. You mean Prime Minister? No, indeed I don't. I am inclined to think that the Premier should always sit in your house. No, Silverbridge, if I could have my way, which is of course impossible for I cannot put off my honours, I would return to my old place. I would return to the exchequer where the work is hard and certain, where a man can do or at any rate attempt to do some special thing. A man there, if he sticks to that and does not travel beyond it, need not be popular, need not be a partisan, need not be eloquent, need not be a courteous. He should understand his profession as should a lawyer or a doctor. If he does that thoroughly, he can serve his country without recourse to that parliamentary strategy for which I know that I am unfit. You can't do that in the House of Lords, sir. No, no, I wish the title could have passed over my head, Silverbridge, and gone to you at once. I think we both should have been suited better. But there are things which one should not consider, even in this place I may perhaps do something. Shall you attack us very bitterly? I am the only man who does not mean to make any change. How so? I shall stay where I am, on the government side of the house. Are you clear about that, my boy? Quite clear. Such changes should not be made without very much consideration. I have already written to them at Silverbridge, and have had three or four answers. Mr. Dubung says that the borough is more than grateful. Mr. Sprout regrets it much, and suggests a few months' consideration. Mr. Spurgeon seems to think it does not signify. That is hardly complimentary. No, not to me, but he is very civil to the family. As long as a palacer represents the borough, Mr. Spurgeon thinks that it does not matter much on which side he may sit. I have had my little vagary, and I don't think that I shall change again. I suppose it is your Republican bride-elect that has done that, said the Duke, laughing. CHAPTER 79 THE FIRST WEDDING As Easter Sunday fell on the seventeenth April, and as the arrangement of the new cabinet with its inferior offices was not completed till the sixth of that month, there was only just time for the new elections before the holidays. Mr. Monk sat on his bench so comfortably that he hardly seemed ever to have been off it. And Phineas Finn resumed the peculiar ministerial tone of voice, just as though he had never allowed himself to use the free and indignant strains of opposition. As to a majority, nothing as yet was known about that. Some few beside Silverbridge might probably transfer themselves to the government, none of the ministers lost their seats at the new elections. The opposite party seemed for a while to have been paralyzed by the defection of certimacy, and men who liked a quiet life were able to comfort themselves with a reflection that nothing could be done this session. For our lovers, this was convenient. Neither of them would have allowed their parliamentary energies to have interfered at such a crisis with his domestic affairs, but still it was well to have time at command. The day for the marriage of Isabel and Silverbridge had now been fixed. That was to take place on the Wednesday after Easter and was to be celebrated by special royal favour in the chapel at Whitehall. All the palisers would be there and all the relations of all the palisers, all the ambassadors, and of course all the Americans in London. It would be a wretched grind, as Silverbridge said, but it had to be done. In the meantime, the whole party, including the new president of the council, were down at matching. Even Isabel, though it must be presumed that she had much to do in looking after her bridal garments, was able to be there for a day or two. But Tragear was the person to whom this visit was of the greatest importance. He had been allowed to see Lady Mary in London but hardly to do more than see her. With her he had been alone for about five minutes and then cruel circumstances, circumstances however which were not permanently cruel, had separated them. All their great difficulties had been settled and no doubt they were happy. Tragear, though he had been as it were, received into grace by that glass of wine, still had not entered into the intimacies of the house. This he felt himself. He had been told that he had better restrain himself from writing to Mary and he had restrained himself. He had therefore no immediate opportunity of creeping into that perfect intimacy with the house and household which is generally accorded to a promised son-in-law. On this occasion he travelled down alone and as he approached the house, he, who was not by nature timid, felt himself to be somewhat cowed, that the Duke should not be cold to him was almost impossible. Of course he was there in opposition to the Duke's wishes. Even Silverbridge had never quite liked the match. Of course he was to have all that he desired. Of course he was the most fortunate of men. Of course no man had ever stronger reason to be contented with the girl he loved. But still his heart was a little low as he was driven up to the door. The first person whom he saw was the Duke himself, who, as the fly from the station arrived, was returning from his walk. You are welcome to matching, he said, taking off his hat with something of ceremony. This was said before the servants, but Tragear was then led into the study and the door was closed. I never do anything by halves, Mr. Tragear, he said. Since it is to be so, you shall be the same to me as though you had come under other auspices. Of yourself personally I hear all that is good. Consider yourself at home here, and in all things use me as your friend. Tragear endeavored to make some reply but could not find words that were fitting. I think that the young people are out, continued the Duke. Mr. Warburton will help you to find them if you like to go upon the search. The words had been very gracious, but still there was something in the manner of the man which made Tragear find it almost impossible to regard him as he might have regarded another father-in-law. He had often heard the Duke spoken of as a man who could become awful if he pleased, almost without an effort. He had been told of the man's mingled simplicity, courtesy, and self-assertion against which no impudence or railery could prevail. And now he seemed to understand it. He was not driven to go under the private secretary's escort in quest of the young people. Mary had understood her business much better than that. If you please, sir, Lady Mary is in the little drawing-room, said a well-arrayed young girl to him as soon as the Duke's door was closed. This was Lady Mary's own maid who had been on the lookout for the fly. Lady Mary had known all details as to the arrival of the trains and the length of the journey from the station and had not been walking with the other young people when the Duke had intercepted her lover. Even that delay she had thought was hard. The discreet maid opened the door of the little drawing-room and discreetly closed it instantly. At last, she said, throwing herself into his arms. Yes, at last. On this occasion time did not envy them. The long afternoons of spring had come, and as Tragear had reached the house between four and five, they were able to go out together before the sun set. No, she said, when he came to inquire as to her life during the last twelve months, you had not much to be afraid of as to my forgetting. But when everything was against me, one thing was not against you. You ought to have been sure of that. And so I was, and yet I felt that I ought not to have been sure. Sometimes in my solitude I used to think that I myself had been wrong. I began to doubt whether under any circumstances I could have been justified in asking your father's daughter to be my wife. Because of his rank? Not so much his rank as his money. Aught that to be considered? A poor man who marries a rich woman will always be suspected. Because people are so mean and poor-spirited, and because they think that money is more than anything else, it should be nothing at all in such matters. I don't know how it can be anything. They've been saying that to me all along as though one were to stop to think whether one was rich or poor. Trickier when this was said could not but remember that at a time not very much prior to that at which Mary had not stopped to think, neither for a while had he and Mabel. I suppose it was worse for me than for you, she added. I hope not. But it was, Frank, and therefore I ought to have it made up to me now. It was very bad to be alone here, particularly when I felt that Papa always looked at me as though I were a sinner. He did not mean it, but he could not help looking at me like that. And there was nobody to whom I could say a word. It was pretty much the same with me. Yes, but you were not offending a father who could not keep himself from looking reproaches at you. I was like a boy at school who had been put into coventry. And then they sent me to Lady Cantrip. Was that very bad? I do believe that if I were a young woman with a well-ordered mind I should feel myself very much indebted to Lady Cantrip. She had a terrible task of it. But I could not teach myself to like her. I believe she knew all through that I should get my way at last. That ought to have made you friends. But yet she tried everything she could, and when I told her about that meeting up at Lord Grexas she was so shocked. Do you remember that? Do I remember it? Were you not shocked? This question was not to be answered by any word. I was she continued. It was an awful thing to do, but I was determined to show them all that I was in earnest. Do you remember how Miss Cassowary looked? Miss Cassowary knew all about it. I dare say she did. And so I suppose did Mabel Grex. I had thought that perhaps I might make Mabel a confidant, but then she looked up into his face. But what? You like Mabel, do you not? I do. I like her very, very much. Perhaps you have liked her too well for that, eh, Frank? Too well for what? That she should have heard all that I had to say about you with sympathy. If so, I am sorry. You need not fear that I have ever for a moment been untrue either to her or you. I am sure you have not to me, poor Mabel. Then they took me to Custon's. That was worst of all. I cannot quite tell you what happened there. Of course he asked her, but as she had said she could not quite tell him about Lord Popplecourt. The next morning the Duke asked his guest in a playful tone what was his Christian name. It could hardly be that he should not have known, but yet he asked the question. Francis Olyphant said trickier. Those are two Christian names, I suppose, but what do they call you at home? Frank, whispered Mary, who was with them. Then I will call you Frank if you will allow me. The use of Christian names is, I think, pleasant and hardly common enough among us. I almost forget my own boy's name because the practice has grown up of calling him by a title. I am going to call him Abraham, said Isabel. Abraham is a good name, only I do not think he got it from his godfathers and godmothers. Who can call a man Plantagenet? I should assume think of calling my father-in-law Curde Leon. So he is, said Mary, whereupon the Duke kissed the two girls and went his way, showing that by this time he had adopted the one and the proposed husband of the other into his heart. The day before the Duke started for London to be present at the grand marriage he sent for Frank, I suppose, said he, that you would wish that some time should be fixed for your own marriage. To this the accepted suitor, of course, assented. But before we can do that something must be settled about money. Trigier, when he heard this, became hot all over and felt that he could not restrain his blushes. Such must be the feeling of a man when he finds himself compelled to own to a girl's father that he intends to live upon her money and not upon his own. I do not like to be troublesome, continued the Duke, or to ask questions which might seem to be impertinent. Oh, no! Of course I feel my position. I can only say that it was not because your daughter might probably have money that I first sought her love. It shall be so received. And now, but perhaps it will be best that you should arrange all this with my man of business, Mr. Morton shall be instructed. Mr. Morton lives near my place in Barsonshire but is now in London. If you call on him he shall tell you what I would suggest. I hope you will find that your affairs will be comfortable. And now as to the time. Isabelle's wedding was declared by the newspapers to have been one of the most brilliant remembered in the Metropolis. There were six bridesmaids, of whom of course Mary was one, and of whom Poor Lady Mabel Grex was equally, of course, not another. Poor Lady Mabel was at this time with Miss Cassowary at Grex. Paying what she believed would be a last visit to the old family home. Among the others were two American girls brought into that august society for the sake of courtesy rather than of personal love. And there were two other palacer girls and a Scotch-McCluskey cousin. The breakfast was, of course, given by Mr. Bond Casson at his house in Brook Street where the bridal presents were displayed. And not only were they displayed, but a list of them, with an approximating statement as to their value, appeared in one or two of the next day's newspapers, as to which terrible sin against good taste neither was Mr. or Mrs. Bond Casson guilty. But in these days in which such splendid things were done on so very splendid a scale, a young lady cannot herself lay out her friend's gifts so as to be properly seen by her friends. Some well-skilled, well-paid hand is needed even for that, and hence comes this public information on affairs which should surely be private. In our own grandmother's time the happy bride's happy mother herself compounded the cake, or at any rate the trusted housekeeper. But we all know that terrible tower of silver which now stands niddle-noddling with its appendages of flags and spears on the modern wedding-breakfast table. It will come to pass with some of us soon that we must deny ourselves the pleasure of having young friends because their marriage presents are so costly. Poor Mrs. Bond Casson had not perhaps a happy time with her august guests on that morning, but when she retired to give Isabel her last kiss in privacy she did feel proud to think that her daughter would some day be an English duchess. CHAPTER 80 THE SECOND WEDDING November is not altogether an hymenial month, but it was not till November that Lady Mary Pallister became the wife of Frank Trager. It was postponed a little, perhaps in order that the silver-bridges, as they were now called, might be present. The silver-bridges, who are now quiet Darby and Joan, had gone to the States when the session had been brought to a close nearly in August, and had remained there nearly three months. Isabel had taken infinite pleasure in showing her English husband to her American friend, and the American friends had no doubt taken a pride in seeing so glorious a British husband in the hands of an American wife. Everything was new to silver-bridge, and he was happy in his new possession. She, too, enjoyed it infinitely, and so it happened that they had been unwilling to curtail their sojourn. But in November they had to return, because Mary had declared that her marriage should be postponed till it could be graced by the presence of her elder brother. The marriage of silver-bridge had been in August. There had been a manifest intention that it should be so. Nobody knew with whom this originated. Mrs. Bonacasson had probably been told that it ought to be so, and Mr. Bonacasson had been willing to pay the bill. External forces had perhaps operated. The Duke had simply been passive and obedient. There had been, however, a general feeling that the bride of the heir of the House of Omnium should be produced to the world amidst a glare of trumpets and a glare of torches. So it had been. But both the Duke and Mary were determined that this other wedding should be different. It was to take place at matching. And none would be present but they who were staying in the House, or who lived around, such as tenants and dependents. Four clergymen united their forces to tie Isabel to her husband, one of whom was a bishop, one a canon, and the two others royal chaplains. But there was only to be the wicker of the parish at matching. And indeed there were no guests in the House except the two bridesmaids and Mr. and Mrs. Finn. As to Mrs. Finn, Mary had made a request, and then the Duke had suggested that the husband should be asked to accompany his wife. It was very pretty. The church itself is pretty, standing in the park, close to the ruins of the old priory, not above three hundred yards from the House. And they all walked, taking the broad pathway through the ruins, going under that figure of Sir Guy, which Silverbridge had pointed out to Isabel when they had been whispering there together. The Duke led the way with his girl upon his arm. The two bridesmaids followed. Then Silverbridge and his wife, with Phineas and his wife, Gerald and a bridegroom accompanied them, belonging as it were to the same party. It was very rustic, almost improper. This is all together wrong, you know, said Gerald. You should appear coming from some other part of the world, as if you were almost unexpected. You ought not to have been in the House at all, and certainly should have gone under some disguise. There had been rich presence, too, on this occasion. But they were shown to none except to Mrs. Finn and the bridesmaids, and perhaps to the favored servants in the House. At any rate there was nothing said of them in the newspapers. One present there was, given not to the bride but to the bridegroom, which he showed to none except to her. This came to him only on the morning of his marriage, and the envelope containing it wore the postmark of Sadberg. He knew the handwriting well before he opened the parcel. It contained a small signetering with his crest, and with it there were but a few words written on a scrap of paper. I pray that you may be happy. This was to have been given to you long ago, but I kept it back because of that decision. He showed the ring to Mary, and told her it had come from Lady Mebble, but the scrap of paper no one sow but himself. Perhaps the matter most remarkable in the wedding was the hilarity of the Duke. One who did not know him well might have said that he was a man with few cares, and who now took special joy in the happiness of his children, who was thoroughly contented to see their Mary after their own hearts, and yet, as he stood there on the altar steps, giving his daughter to that new son and looking first at his girl, and then at his married son, he was reminding himself of all that he had suffered. After the breakfast, which was by no means a grand repast, and at which the cake did not look so like an ill-soldered silver castle as that other construction had done, the happy couple were sent away in a modest chariot to the railway station, and not above half a dozen slippers were thrown after them. There were enough for luck, or perhaps there might have been luck even without them, for the wife thoroughly respected her husband, as did the husband his wife. Mrs. Finn, when she was alone with Phineas, said a word or two about Frank Tragear. When she first told me of her engagement I did not think it possible that she should marry him, but after he had been with me I felt sure that he would succeed. Well, sir, said Silverbridge to the Duke when they were out together in the park that afternoon. What do you think about him? I think he is a manly young man. He is certainly that, and then he knows things and understands them. It was never a surprise to me that Mary should have been so fond of him. I do not know that one ought to be surprised at anything. Perhaps what surprised me most was that he should have looked so high. There seemed to be so little to justify it. But now I will accept that that is the courage which I before regarded as arrogance.