 Chapter 72 of The Duke's Children Three days after this it was arranged that Isabel should be taken to Carleton Terrace to be accepted there into the full good graces of her future father-in-law and to go through the pleasant ceremony of seeing the house in which it was to be her destiny to live as mistress. What can be more interesting to a girl than this first visit to her future home? And now Isabel von Kassen was to make her first visit to the house in Carleton Terrace, which the Duke had already declared his purpose of surrendering to the young couple. She was going among very grand things, so grand that those whose affairs in life are less magnificent may think that her mind should have soared all together above chairs and tables and reposed itself among diamonds, gold, and silver ornaments, rich necklaces, the old masters, and alabaster statuary. But dukes and duchesses must sit upon chairs, or at any rate on sofas, as well as their poorer brethren, and probably have the same regard for their comfort. Isabel was not above her future furniture, or the rooms that were to be her rooms, or the stairs which she would have to tread, or the pillow on which her head must rest. She had never yet seen even the outside of the house in which she was to live, and was now prepared to make her visit with as much enthusiasm as though her future abode was to be prepared for her in a small house in a small street beyond Islington. But the duke was no doubt more than the house, the father-in-law more than the tables. Isabel, in the ordinary way of society, he had already known almost with intimacy. She, the while, had been well aware that if all things could possibly be made to run smoothly with her, this lordly host, who was so pleasantly courteous to her, would become her father-in-law. But she had known also that he, in his courtesy, had been altogether unaware of any such intention on her part, and that she would now present herself to him in an aspect very different from that in which she had hitherto been regarded. She was well aware that the duke had not wished to take her into his family, would not himself have chosen her for his son's wife. She had seen enough to make her sure that he had even chosen another bride for his heir. She had been too clever not to perceive that Lady Mabel Grex had been not only selected, but almost accepted as though the thing had been certain. She had learned nearly the whole truth from Silverbridge, who was not good at keeping a secret from one to whom his heart was open. The story had been all but read by her with exactness. I cannot lose you now, she had said to him, leaning on his arm. I cannot afford to lose you now, but I fear that someone else is losing you. To this he answered nothing but simply pressed her closer to his side. Someone else, she continued, who perhaps may have reasoned to think that you have injured her. No, he said boldly, no, there is no such person. For he had never ceased to assure himself that in all that matter with Mabel Grex he had been guilty of no treachery. There had been a moment, indeed, in which she might have taken him, but she had chosen to let it pass from her, all of which, or nearly all of which, Isabel now saw, and had seen also that the due could have been a consenting party to that other arrangement. She had reason, therefore, to doubt the manner of her acceptance. But she had been accepted. She had made such acceptance by him, a stipulation in her acceptance of his son, she was sure of the ground on which she trod, and was determined to carry herself, if not with pride yet with dignity. There might be difficulties before her, but it should not be her fault if she were not as good a countess, and when time would have it also as good a duchess as another. The visit was made not quite in the fashion in which Silverbridge himself had wished. His idea had been to call for Isabel in his cab, and take her down to Carleton Terrace. Mother must go with me, she had said. Then he looked blank, as he could look when he was disappointed, as he had looked when she would not talk to him at the lunch, when she told him that it was not her business to entertain him. Don't be selfish, she added, laughing. Do you think that Mother will not want to have seen the house that I am to live in? She shall come afterwards as often as she likes. What? Paying me morning visits from New York? She must come now, if you please. Love me, love my Mother. I am awfully fond of her, said Silverbridge, who felt that he really had behaved well to the old lady. So am I, and therefore she shall go and see the house now. You are as good as gold, and do everything just as I tell you. But a good time is coming when I shall have to do everything that you tell me. Then it was arranged that Mrs. and Miss Boncassen were to be taken down to the house in their own carriage, and were to be received at the door by Lord Silverbridge. Another arrangement had also been made. Isabel was to be taken to the Duke immediately upon her arrival, and to be left for a while with him alone, so that he might express himself as he might find fit to do to this newly adopted child. It was a matter to him of such importance that nothing remaining to him in his life could equal it. It was not simply that she was to be the wife of his son, though that in itself was a consideration very sacred. Had it been Gerald who was bringing to him a bride, the occasion would have had less of awe. But this American girl was to be the mother and grandmother of future dukes of omnium, the ancestors it was to be hoped of all future dukes of omnium. By what she might be, by what she might have in her of metal fiber, of high or low quality, of true or untrue womanliness, were to be fashioned those who in days to come might be amongst the strongest and most faithful bulwarks of the Constitution. In England, without a duke of omnium, or at any rate without any duke, what would it be? And yet he knew that with bad dukes his country would be in worse stress than though she had none at all. An aristocracy, yes, but an aristocracy that shall be of the very best. He believed himself thoroughly in his order, but if his order, or many of his order, should now become as was now Lord Grex, then he thought that his order not only must go to the wall, but that in the cause of humanity it had better do so. With all this daily, hourly, always in his mind, this matter of the choice of a wife for his heir was to him of solemn importance. When they arrived, Silverbridge was there and led them first of all into the dining room. My, said Mrs. Boncassen as she looked around her, I thought that our Fifth Avenue parlors whipped everything in the way of city houses. What a nice little room for Darby and Joan to sit down to eat a mutton chop in, said Isabelle. It's a beastly great barrack, said Silverbridge, but the best of it is that we never use it. We'll have a cozy little place for Darby and Joan. You'll see. Now, come to the governor. I've got to leave you with him. Oh, me, I am in such a fright. He can't eat you, said Mrs. Boncassen, and he won't even bite, said Silverbridge. I should not mind that, because I could bite again. But if he looks as though he thought I shouldn't do, I shall drop. My belief is that he's almost as much in love with you as I am, said Silverbridge, as he took her to the door of the Duke's room. Here we are, sir. My dear, said the Duke, rising up and coming to her. I am very glad to see you. It is good of you to come to me. Then he took her in both his hands and kissed her forward and her lips. She, as she put her face up to him, stood quite still in his embrace, but her eyes were bright with pleasure. Shall I leave her, said Silverbridge, for a few minutes? Don't keep her too long, for I want to take her all over the house. A few minutes, and then I will bring her up to the drawing-room. Upon this the door was closed, and Isabelle was alone with her new father. And so, my dear, you are to be my child. If you will have me. Come here and sit down by me. Your father has already told you that, has he not? He told me that you had consented. And Silverbridge has said as much, I would sooner hear it from you than from either of them. Then hear it from me. You shall be my child, and if you will love me, you shall be very dear to me. You shall be my own child, as dear as my own. I must either love his wife very dearly, or else I must be an unhappy man. And she must love me dearly, or I must be unhappy. I will love you, she said, pressing his hand. And now let me say some few words to you. Only let there be no bitterness in them to your young heart. When I say that I take you to my heart, you may be sure that I do so thoroughly. You shall be as dear to me and as near as though you had been all English. Shall I? There shall be no difference made. My boy's wife shall be my daughter in very deed, but I had not wished it to be so. I knew that, but could I have given him up? He, at any rate, could not give you up. There were little prejudices. You can understand that. Oh, yes. We who wear black coats could not bring ourselves readily to put on scarlet garments, nor should we sit comfortably with our legs crossed like turks. I am your scarlet coat and your cross-legged turk, she said, with feigned self-reproach in her voice, but with a sparkle of mirth in her eye. But when I have once got into my scarlet coat, I can be very proud of it. And when I am once seated in the van, I shall find it of all postures the easiest. Do you understand me? I think so. Not a shade of any prejudice shall be left to darken my mind. There shall be no feeling but that you are, in truth, his chosen wife. After all, neither can country nor race nor rank nor wealth make a good woman. Education can do much, but nature must have done much also. Do not expect too much of me. I will so expect that all shall be taken for the best. You know, I think, that I have liked you since I first saw you. I know that you have always been good to me. I have liked you from the first, that you are lovely perhaps as no merit. Though, to speak the truth, I am well pleased that Silverbridge should have found so much beauty. That is all a matter of taste, I suppose, she said, laughing. But there is much that a young woman may do for herself, which I think you have done. A silly girl, though she had been a second Helen, would hardly have satisfied me. Or perhaps him, said Isabel. Or him, and it is in that feeling that I find my chief satisfaction that he should have had the sense to have liked such a one as you better than the others. Now I have said it. As not being one of us, I did at first object to his choice. As being what you are yourself, I am altogether reconciled to it. Do not keep him long waiting. I do not think he likes to be kept waiting for anything. I dare say not. I dare say not. And now there is one thing else. Then the duke unlocked a little drawer that was close to his hand, and taking out a ring, put it on her finger. It was a bar of diamonds, perhaps a dozen of them, fixed in a little circlet of gold. This must never leave you, he said. It never shall, having come from you. It was the first present that I gave to my wife, and it is the first that I give to you. You may imagine how sacred it is to me. On no other hand could it be warned without something which to me would be akin to sacrilege. Now I must not keep you longer, or still the ridge will be storming about the house. He, of course, will tell me when it is to be, but do not you keep him long waiting. Then he kissed her and let her up into the drawing room. When he had spoken a word of greeting to Mrs. Boncassen, he left them to their own devices. After that they spent the best part of an hour in going over the house, but even that was done in a manner unsatisfactory to Silverbridge. Wherever Isabelle went, there Mrs. Boncassen went also. There might have been some fun in showing even the back kitchens to his bride-elect by herself, but there was none in wandering about those vast underground regions with a stout lady who was really interested with the cooking apparatus and the wash houses. The bedroom was one after another became tedious to him when Mrs. Boncassen would make communications respecting each of them to her daughter. That is Gerald's room, since Silverbridge. You have never seen Gerald, he is such a brick. Mrs. Boncassen was charmed with the whips and sticks and boxing gloves in Gerald's room and expressed an opinion that young men in the States mostly carried their knickknacks about with them to the universities. When she was told that he had another collection of knickknacks at Matching and another at Oxford, she thought that he was a very extravagant young man. Isabelle, who had heard all about the gambling in Scotland, looked round at her lover and smiled. Well, my dear, said Mrs. Boncassen as they took their leave. It is a very grand house and I hope with all my heart you may have your health there and be happy, but I don't know that you'll be any happier because it's so big. Wait till you see gatherings at Silverbridge. That I own does make me unhappy. It has been calculated that three months at Gatherham Castle would drive a philosopher mad. In all this there had been a certain amount of disappointment for Silverbridge, but on that evening, before dinner in Brook Street, he received compensation. As the day was one somewhat peculiar in its nature, he decided that it should be kept altogether as a holiday and he did not therefore go down to the house. And not going to the house, of course, he spent time with the Boncassans. You know you ought to go, Isabelle said to him, when they found themselves alone together in the back drawing room. Of course I ought. Then go. Do you think I would keep a Britain from his duties? Not though the Constitution should fall in ruins. Do you suppose that a man wants no rest after inspecting all the pots and pans in that establishment? A woman, I believe, could go on doing that kind of thing all day long. You should remember at least that the woman was interesting herself about your pots and pans. And now, Bella, tell me what the governor said to you. Then she showed him the ring. Did he give you that? She nodded her head in a scent. I did not think he would ever have parted with that. It was your mother's. She wore it always. I almost think that I never saw her hand without it. He would not have given you that unless he had meant to be very good to you. He was very good to me. Silverbridge, I have a great deal to do to learn to be your wife. I'll teach you. Yes, you'll teach me, but will you teach me right? There is something almost awful in your father's serious dignity and solemn appreciation of the responsibilities of his position. Will you ever come to that? I shall never be a great man as he is. It seems to me that life to him is a load which he does not object to carry but which he knows must be carried with a great struggle. I suppose it ought to be so with everyone. Yes, she said, but the higher you put your foot on the ladder, the more constant should be your thought that your stepping requires care. I fear that I am climbing too high. You can't come down now, my young woman. I have to go on now and do it as best I can. I will try to do my best. I will try to do my best. I told him so, and now I tell you so. I will try to do my best. Perhaps after all I am only a pert puppet, she said, half an hour afterwards for Silverbridge and told her of that terrible mistake made by poor Dolly Longstaff. Brute, he exclaimed. Not at all, and when we are settled down in the real Darby and Joan way, I shall hope to see Mr. Longstaff very often. I dare say he won't call me a pert puppet, and I shall not remind him of the word, but I shall always think of it and remembering the way in which my character struck an educated Englishman who was not altogether ill-disposed towards me, I may hope to improve myself. End of chapter 72. Chapter 73 of The Duke's Children. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 73, I Have Never Loved You. Silverbridge had now been in town three or four weeks, and Lady Mabel Grex had also been in London all that time, and yet he had not seen her. She had told him that she loved him and had asked him plainly to make her his wife. He had told her that he could not do so, that he was altogether resolved to make another woman his wife. Then she had rebuked him and had demanded from him how he dared to treat her as he had done. His conscience was clear. He had his own code of morals as to such matters and had, as he regarded it, kept within the law. But she thought that she was badly treated and had declared that she was now left out in the cold for ever through his treachery. Then her last word had almost been the worst of all. Who can tell what may come to pass, showing too plainly that she would not even now give up her hope? Before the month was up she wrote him as follows. Dear Lord Silverbridge, why do you not come and see me? Are friends so plentiful with you that one so staunch as I may be thrown over? But of course I know why you do not come. Put all that aside and come. I cannot hurt you. I have learned to feel that certain things which the world regards as too awful to be talked of, except in the way of scandal, may be discussed and then laid aside just like other subjects. What though I wear a wig or a wooden leg, I may still be fairly comfortable among my companions unless I crucify myself by trying to hide my misfortune. It is not the presence of the skeleton that crushes us. Not even that will hurt as much if we let him go about the house as he lists. It is the everlasting effort which the horror makes to peep out of his cupboard that robs us of our ease. At any rate, come and see me. Of course I know that you were to be married to Miss Boncassen. Who does not know it? The trumpeters have been at work for the last week. Your very sincere friend, Mabel. He wished that she had not written. Of course he must go to her. And though there was a word or two in her letter which angered him, his feelings towards her were kindly. Had not that American angel flown across the Atlantic to his arms, he could have been well content to make her his wife. But the interview at the present moment could hardly be other than painful. She could, she said, talk of her own misfortunes, but the subject would be very painful to him. It was not the him a skeleton to be locked out of sight, but it had been a misfortune, and the sooner that such misfortunes could be forgotten, the better. He knew what she meant about trumpeters. She had intended to signify that Isabelle, in her pride, had boasted of her matrimonial prospects. Of course there had been trumpets. Are there not always trumpets when a marriage is contemplated, magnificent enough to be called an alliance? As for that, he himself had blown the trumpets. He had told everybody that he was going to be married to Miss Boncassen. Isabelle had blown no trumpets. In her own straightforward way she had told the truth to whom it concerned. Of course she would go and see Lady Mabel, but he trusted that for her sake nothing would be said about trumpets. "'So you have come at last,' Mabel said when he entered the room. "'No, Miss Cassowary is not here. As I wanted to see you alone I got her to go out this morning. Why did you not come before?' You said in your letter that you knew why. But in saying so I was accusing you of cowardice, was I not? It was not cowardice. Why then did you not come? I thought you would hardly wish to see me so soon, after what passed. That is honest at any rate. You felt that I must be too much ashamed of what I said to be able to look you in the face. Not that exactly. Any other man would have felt the same, but no other man would be honest enough to tell me so. I do not think that ever in your life you have constrained yourself to the civility of a lie. I hope not. To be civil and false is often better than to be harsh and true. I may be soothed by the courtesy and yet not deceived by the lie, but what I told you in my letter, which I hope you have destroyed— I will destroy it—do, it was not intended for the partner of your future joys. As I told you then, I can talk freely—why not? We know it, both of us. How your conscience may be, I cannot tell, but mine is clear from that soil with which you think it should be smirked. I think nothing of the sort. Yes, silver bridge, you do. You have said to yourself this. That girl has determined to get me, and she has not scrupled as to how she would do it. No such idea has ever crossed my mind. But you have never told yourself of the encouragement which you gave me. Such condemnation as I have spoken of would have been just if my efforts had been sanctioned by no words, no looks, no deeds from you. Did you give me warrant for thinking that you were my lover? That theory, by which he had justified himself to himself, seemed to fall away from him under her questioning. He could not now remember his words to her in those old days, or Miss Boncassen had crossed his path. But he did know that he had once intended to make her understand that he loved her. She had not understood him, or understanding had not accepted his words, and therefore he had thought himself free. But it now seemed that he had not been entitled so to regard himself. There she sat, looking at him, waiting for his answer, and he who had been so sure that he had committed no sin against her, had not a word to say to her. I want your answer to that, Lord Silverbridge. I have told you that I would have no skeleton in the cupboard, down at Matching, and before that at Killen-Codlam, I appeal to you asking you to take me as your wife. Hardly that. All together that, I will have nothing denied that I have done, nor will I be ashamed of anything. I did so even after this infatuation. I thought then that one so volatile might perhaps fly back again. I shall not do that, said he, frowning at her. You need trouble yourself with no assurance, my friend. Let us understand each other now. I am not supposing that you can fly back again. You have found your perch, and you must settle on it like a good domestic barn door fowl. Again, he scowled. If she were too hard upon him, he would certainly turn upon her. No, you will not fly back again now, but was I or was I not justified when you came to Killen-Codlam in thinking that my lover had come there? How can I tell? It is my own justification I am thinking of. I see all that, but we cannot both be justified. Did you mean me to suppose that you were speaking to me words and earnest when there, sitting in that very spot, you spoke to me of your love? Did I speak of my love? Did you speak of your love? And now, Silverbridge, for if there be an English gentleman on earth, I think you are one. As a gentleman, tell me this. Did you not even tell your father that I should be your wife? I know you did. Did he tell you? Men such as you and he who cannot even lie with your eyelids, who will not condescend to cover up a secret by a moment of feigned inanimation, have many voices. He did tell me, but he broke no confidence. He told me, but did not mean to tell me. Now you also have told me. I did. I told him so, and then I changed my mind. I know you changed your mind. Men often do. A pinker pink, a whiter white, a finger that will press you just half an ounce the closer, a cheek that will consent to let itself come just a little nearer. No, no, no. It was because Isabel had not easily consented to such approaches. Trifles such as these will do it, and some such trifles have done it with you. It would be beneath me to make comparisons where I might seem to be the gainer. I grant her beauty. She is very lovely. She has succeeded. I have succeeded. But I am justified, and you are condemned. Is it not so? Tell me like a man. You are justified. And you are condemned, when you told me that I should be your wife, and then told your father the same story, was I to think it all meant nothing? Have you deceived me? I did not mean it. Have you deceived me? What? You cannot deny it. But have not the manliness to own it to a poor woman who can only save herself from humiliation by extorting the truth from you? Oh, Mabel, I am so sorry that it should be so. I believe you are, with a sorrow that will last till she again is sitting close to you. Nor, Silverbridge, do I wish it to be longer. No, no, no. Your fault, after all, has not been great. You deceived, but did not mean to deceive me? Never. Never. And I fancy you have never known how much you bore about with you. Your modesty has been so perfect that you have not thought of yourself as more than other men. You have forgotten that you have had in your hand the disposal to some one woman of a throne in paradise. I don't suppose you thought of that. But I did. Why should I tell falsehoods now? I have determined that you should know everything, but I could better confess to you my own sins when I had shown that you, too, have not been innocent. Not think of it. Do not men think of high titles and great wealth and power and place? And if men, why should not women? Do not men try to get them? And are they not even applauded for their energy? A woman has but one way to try. I tried. I do not think it was all for that. How shall I answer that without a confession which even I have not hardened enough to make? In truth, Silverbridge, I have never loved you. He drew himself up slowly before he answered her, and gradually assumed a look very different from that easy boyer's smile which was customary to him. I am glad of that, he said. Why are you glad? Now I can have no regrets. You need have none. It was necessary to me that I should have my little triumph, that I should show you that I knew how far you had wronged me. But now I wish that you should know everything. I have never loved you. There is an end of it, then. But I have liked you so well, so much better than all the others. A dozen men have asked me to marry them, and though they might be nothing till they made that request, then they became things of horror to me. But you are not a thing of horror. I could have become your wife, and I think that I could have learned to love you. It is best as it is. I ought to say so, too, but I have a doubt that I should have liked to be Duchess of Omnium, and perhaps I might have fitted the place better than one who can yet know but little of its duties or privileges. I may perhaps think that that other arrangement would have been better, even for you. I can take care of myself in that. I should have married you without loving you, but I should have done so determined to serve you with a devotion which a woman who does love hardly thinks necessary. I would have so done my duty that you should never have guessed that my heart had been in the keeping of another man. Another man? Yes, of course. If there had been no other man, why not you? Am I so hard, do you think that I can love no one? Are you not such a one that a girl would naturally love? Was she not preoccupied? That a woman should love seems as necessary as that a man should not. A man can love, too. No, hardly. He can admire and he can like and he can fondle and be fond. He can admire and approve and perhaps worship. He can know of a woman that she is part of himself, the most sacred part, and therefore will protect her from the very winds. But all that will not make love. It does not come to a man that to be separated from a woman is to be dislocated from his very self. A man has but one center, and that is himself. A woman has, too, though the second may never be seen by her, may live in the arms of another, may do all for that other that man can do for a woman, still, still, though he be half the globe asunder from her, still he is to be the half of her existence. Though she really love, there is, I fancy, no end of it. To the end of time I shall love Frank Tragear. Tragear? Who else? He is engaged to Mary. Of course he is. Why not? To her, or whomesoever else he might like the best? He is as true, I doubt not, to your sister, as you are to your American beauty, or as you would have been to me had fancy held. He used to love me. You were always friends. Always dear friends, and he would have loved me if a man were capable of loving, but he could sever himself from me easily just when he was told to do so. I thought that I could do the same, but I cannot. A jackal is born a jackal and not a lion, and cannot help himself. So is a woman born a woman. They are clinging, parasite things which cannot but adhere, though they destroy themselves by adhering. Do not suppose that I take a pride in it. I would give one of my eyes to be able to disregard him. Time will do it. Yes, time, that brings wrinkles and rouge-pots and rheumatism, though I have so hated those men as to be unable to endure them. Still I want some man's house and his name, some man's bread and wine, some man's jewels and titles, and woods and parks and gardens. If I can get them, time can help a man in his sorrow. If he begins at forty to make speeches, or to win races, or to breed oxen, he can yet live a prosperous life. Time is but a poor consular for a young woman who has to be married. Oh, Mabel! And now let there not be a word more said about it. I know that I can trust you. Indeed you may. Although you will tell her everything else, you will not tell her this. No, not this. And surely you will not tell your sister. I shall tell no one. It is because you are so true that I have dared to trust you. I had to justify myself, and then to confess. Had I at that one moment taken you at your word, you would never have known anything of all this. There was the tide in the affairs of men. But I let the flood go by. I shall not see you again now before you are married, but come to me afterwards. End of Chapter 73. Chapter 74 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 Trollope. Chapter 74. Let us drink a glass of wine together. Silverbridge pondered it all much as he went home. What a terrible story was that he had heard. The horror to him was chiefly in this. That she should yet be driven to marry some man without even fancying that she could love him. And this was Lady Mabel Grex, who, on his own first entrance into London life, now not much more than twelve months ago, had seemed to him to stand above all other girls in beauty, charm, and popularity. As he opened the door of the house with his latch-key, who should be coming out but Frank Trighear? Frank Trighear with his arm in a sling, but still with an unmistakable look of general satisfaction. When on earth did you come up? asked Silverbridge. Trighear told him that he had arrived on the previous evening from Harrington. And why? The doctor would not have let you come if he could have helped it. When he found he could not help it he did let me come. I am nearly all right. If I had been nearly all wrong I should have had to come. And what are you doing here? Well, if you'll allow me I'll go back with you for a moment. What do you think I have been doing? Have you seen my sister? Yes, I have seen your sister, and I have done better than that. I have seen your father. Lord Silverbridge, behold your brother-in-law. You don't mean to say that it is arranged? I do. What did he say? He made me understand by most unanswerable arguments that I had no business to think of such a thing. I did not fight the point with him but simply stood there as conclusive evidence of my business. He told me that we should have nothing to live on unless he gave us an income. I assured him that I would never ask him for a shilling. But I cannot allow her to marry a man without an income, he said. I know his way so well. I had just two facts to go upon that I would not give her up and that she would not give me up. When I pointed that out he tore his hair, in a mild way, and said that he did not understand that kind of thing at all. Yet he gave way. Of course he did. They say that when a king of old would consent to see a petitioner for his life he was bound by his royalty to mercy. So it was with the duke. Then very early in the argument he forgot himself and called her Mary. I knew he had thrown up the sponge then. How did he give way at last? He asked me what were my ideas about life in general. I said that I thought Parliament was a good sort of thing, that I was lucky enough to have a seat, and that I should take lodging somewhere in Westminster till— Till what? he asked. Till something is settled, I replied. Then he turned away from me and remained silent. May I see, Lady Mary? I asked. Yes, you may see her, he replied, as he rang the bell. Then when the servant was gone he stopped me. I love her too dearly to see her grieve, he said. I hope you will show that you can be worthy of her. Then I made some sort of protestation and went upstairs. While I was with Mary there came a message to me telling me to come to dinner. The Boncassans are all dining here. Then we shall be a family party. So far I suppose I may say it is settled. When he will let us Mary heaven only knows, Mary declares that she will not press him. I certainly cannot do so. It is all a matter of money. He won't care about that, but he may perhaps think that a little patience will do us good. You will have to soften him. Then Silverbridge told all that he knew about himself. He was to be married in May, was to go to matching for a week or two after his wedding, was then to see the session to an end, and after that to travel with his wife in the United States. I don't suppose we shall be allowed to run about the world together so soon as that, said Tragear. But I am too well satisfied with my day's work to complain. Did he say what he meant to give her? Oh, dear no, nor even that he meant to give her anything. I should not dream of asking a question about it, nor when he makes any proposition shall I think of having any opinion of my own. He'll make it all right for her sake, you know. My chief object as regards him is that he should not think that I have been looking after her money. Well, good-bye. I suppose we shall all meet at dinner. When Tragear left him, Silverbridge went to his father's room. He was anxious that they should understand each other as to Mary's engagement. I thought you were at the house, said the Duke. I was going there, but I met Tragear at the door. He tells me you have accepted him for Mary. I wish that he had never seen her. Do you think that a man can be thwarted in everything and not feel it? I thought you had reconciled yourself to Isabelle. If it were that alone I could do so the more easily, because, personally, she wins upon me. And this man, too, it is not that I find fault with himself. He is, in all respects, a high-minded gentleman. I hope so. But yet had he a right to set his heart there, where he could make his fortune, having none of his own? He did not think of that. He should have thought of it. A man does not allow himself to love without any consideration or purpose. You say that he is a gentleman. A gentleman should not look to live on means brought to him by a wife. You say that he did not. He did not think of it. A gentleman should do more than not think of it. He should think that it shall not be so. A man should own his means or should earn them. How many men, sir, do neither? Yes, I know, said the Duke. Such a doctrine nowadays is caviar to the general. One must live as others live around one, I suppose. I could not see her suffer. It was too much for me. When I became convinced that this was no temporary passion, no romantic love which time might banish, that she was of such a temperament that she could not change, then I had to give way. Gerald, I suppose, will bring me some kitchen-maid for his wife. Oh, sir, you should not say that to me. No. I should not have said it to you. I beg your pardon, Silverbridge. Then he paused a moment, turning over certain thoughts within his own bosom. Perhaps after all it is well that a pride of which I am conscious should be rebuked, and it may be that the rebuke has come in such a form that I should be thankful. I know that I can love Isabel. That to me will be everything. And this young man has nothing that should revolt me. I think he has been wrong, but now that I have said it I will let all that pass from me. He will dine with us to-day. Silverbridge then went up to see his sister. So you have settled your little business, Mary. Oh, Silverbridge, you will wish me joy. Certainly, why not? Papa is so stern with me. Of course he has given way, and of course I am grateful, but he looks at me as though I had done something to be forgiven. Take the good the gods provide you, Mary. That will all come right. But I have not done anything wrong, have I? That is a matter of opinion. How can I answer about you when I don't quite know whether I have done anything wrong or not myself? I am going to marry the girl I have chosen. That's enough for me. But you did change. We need not say anything about that. But I have never changed. Papa just told me that he would consent, and that I might write to him. So I did write, and he came. But Papa looks at me as though I had broken his heart. I tell you what it is, Mary. You expect too much from him. He has not had his own way with either of us, and of course he feels it. Mr. Geer had said there was quite a family party in Carlton Terrace, though as yet the family was not bound together by family ties. All the Boncassans were there, the father, the mother, and the promised bride. Mr. Boncassan bore himself with more ease than anyone in the company, having at his command a gift of manliness, which enabled him to regard this marriage exactly as he would have done any other. America was not so far distant, but what he would be able to see his girl occasionally. He liked the young man, and he believed in the comfort of wealth. Therefore he was satisfied. But when the marriage was spoken of or written of as an alliance, then he would say a hard word or two about dukes and lords in general. On such an occasion as this he was happy and at his ease. So much could not be said for his wife, with whom the duke attempted to place himself on terms of family equality. But in doing this he failed to hide the attempt even from her, and she broke down under it. Had he simply walked into the room with her as he would have done on any other occasion, and then remarked that the frost was keen or the thaw disagreeable, it would have been better for her. But when he told her that he hoped she would often make herself at home in that house, and looked, as he said it, as though he were asking her to take a place among the goddesses of Olympus, she was troubled as to her answer. Oh, my Lord duke, she said, when I think of Isabelle living here and being called by such a name it almost upsets me. Isabelle had all her father's courage, but she was more sensitive, and though she would have borne her honor as well, was oppressed by the feeling that the wait was too much for her mother, she could not keep her ear from listening to her mother's words, or her eye from watching her mother's motions. She was prepared to carry her mother everywhere. As other girls have to be taken with their belonging, so must I, if I be taken at all. This she had said plainly enough, there should be no division between her and her mother. But still, knowing that her mother was not quite at ease, she was hardly at ease herself. Silverbridge came in at the last moment, and of course occupied a chair next to Isabelle. As the house was sitting it was natural that he should come up in a flurry. I left Phineas, he said, pounding away in his old style at Sir Timothy. By the by, Isabelle, you must come down some day and hear Sir Timothy badgered. I must be back again about ten. Well, Gerald, how are they all at Lazarus? He made an effort to be free and easy, but even he soon found that it was an effort. Gerald had come up from Oxford for the occasion that he might make acquaintance with Boncassan's. He had taken Isabelle in to dinner, but had been turned out of his place when his brother came in. He had been a little confused by the first impression made upon him by Mrs. Boncassan, and had involuntarily watched his father. Silver is going to have an odd sort of mother-in-law, he said afterwards to Mary, who remarked in reply that this would not signify as the mother-in-law would be in New York. Triguer's part was very difficult to play. He could not but feel that though he had succeeded, still he was as yet looked upon as scant. Silverbridge had told him that, by degrees, the Duke would be one round, but that it was not to be expected that he should swallow at once all his regrets. The truth of this could not but be accepted. The immediate inconvenience, however, was not the less felt. Each and every one there knew the position of each and every one, but Triguer felt it difficult to act up to his. He could not play the well-pleased lover openly, as did Silverbridge. Mary herself was disposed to be very silent. The heartbreaking tedium of her dull life had been removed, her determination had been rewarded, all that she had wanted had been granted to her, and she was happy, but she was not prepared to show off her happiness before others, and she was aware that she was thought to have done evil by introducing her lover into her August family. But it was the Duke who made the greatest efforts, and with the least success. He had told himself again and again that he was bound by every sense of duty to swallow all regrets. He had taken himself to task on this matter. He had done so even out loud to his son. He had declared that he would let it all pass from him. But who does not know how hard it is for a man in such matters to keep his word to himself? Who has not said to himself at the very moment of his own delinquency? Now. It is now, at this very instant of time that I should crush and quench and kill the evil spirit within me. It is now that I should abate my greed or smother my ill humor or abandon my hatred. It is now and here that I should drive out the fiend, as I have sworn to myself that I would do, and yet has failed. That it would be done, would be done at last by this man was very certain, when Silverbridge assured his sister that it would come all right very soon, he had understood his father's character. But it could not be completed quite at once. Had he been required to take Isabelle only to his heart, it would have been comparatively easy. There are men who do not seem at first sight very susceptible to feminine attractions, who nevertheless are dominated by the grace of flounces, who succumb to petticoats unconsciously, and who are half in love with every woman merely for her womanhood. So it was with the Duke. He had given way in regard to Isabelle with less than half the effort that Frank Tragear was likely to cost him. You were not at the house, sir, said Silverbridge when he felt that there was a pause. No, not today. Then there was a pause again. I think that we shall beat Cambridge this year to a moral, said Gerald, who was sitting at the round table opposite to his father. Mr. Boncasson, who was next to him, asked, in irony probably rather than in ignorance, whether the victory was to be achieved by mathematical or classical proficiency. Gerald turned and looked at him. Do you mean to say that you have never heard of the university boat races? Papa, you have disgraced yourself forever, said Isabelle. Have I, my dear? Yes, I have heard of them, but I thought Lord Gerald's protestation was too great for a mere aquatic triumph. Now you are poking your fun at me, said Gerald. Well, he may, said the Duke sententiously. We have laid ourselves very open to having fun poked at us in this matter. I think, sir, said Tragear, that they are learning to do the same sort of thing at the American universities. Oh, indeed, said the Duke in a solemn, dry, funereal tone. And then all the little life which Gerald's remark about the boat race had produced was quenched at once. The Duke was not angry with Tragear for his little word of defense, but he was not able to bring himself into harmony with this one guest, and was almost savage to him without meaning it. He was continually asking himself why destiny had been so hard upon him as to force him to receive, there at his table, as his son-in-law, a man who was distasteful to him. And he was endeavouring to answer the question, taking himself to task and telling himself that his destiny had done him no injury and that the pride which had been wounded was a false pride. He was making a brave fight. But during the fight he was hardly fit to be the genial father and father-in-law of young people who were going to be married to one another. But before the dinner was over he made a great effort. Tragear, he said, and even that was an effort, for he had never hitherto mention the man's name without the formal Mr. Tragear, as this is the first time you have sat at my table, let me be old-fashioned and ask you to drink a glass of wine with me. The glass of wine was drunk, and the ceremony afforded infinite satisfaction at least to one person there. Mary could not keep herself from some expression of joy by pressing her finger for a moment against her lover's arm, he, though not usually given to such manifestations, blushed up to his eyes. But the feeling produced on the company was solemn, rather than jovial, every one there understood it all. After Boncassan could read the Duke's mind down to the last line, even Mrs. Boncassan was aware that an act of reconciliation had been intended. When the Governor drank that glass of wine it seemed as though half the marriage ceremony had been performed, Gerald said to his brother that evening. When the Duke's glass was replaced on the table, he himself was conscious of the solemnity of what he had done and was half ashamed of it. When the ladies had gone upstairs the conversation became political and lively. The Duke could talk freely about the state of things to Mr. Boncassan and was able gradually to include Tragear in the Bataanage in which he attacked the conservatism of his son, and so the half hour passed well. Upstairs the two girls immediately came together, leaving Mrs. Boncassan to chew the cud of the grandeur around her in the sleepy comfort of an armchair. And so everything is settled for both of us, said Isabel. Of course I knew it was to be settled for you, you told me so at customs. I did not know it myself then, I only told you that he had asked me and you hardly believed me. I certainly believed you. But you knew about Lady Mabel Grex. I only suspected something, and now I know it was a mistake, it has never been more than a suspicion. And why, when we were at customs, did you not tell me about yourself? I had nothing to tell. I can understand that, but is it not joyful that it should all be settled, only poor Lady Mabel, you have got no Lady Mabel to trouble your conscience? From which it was evident that Silverbridge had not told all. CHAPTER 75 THE MAJOR'S STORY By the end of March Isabel was in Paris, with which she had forbidden her lover to follow her. Silverbridge was therefore reduced to the shifts of a bachelor's life, in which his friends seemed to think that he ought now to take special delight. Perhaps he did not take much delight in them. He was no doubt impatient to commence that steady married life for which he had prepared himself. But nevertheless just at present he lived a good deal at the bear-garden. Where was he to live? The Boncassens were in Paris, his sister was at matching with a houseful of other palaces, and his father was again deep in politics. Of course he was much in the House of Commons, but that also was stupid. Indeed everything would be stupid till Isabel came back. Perhaps dinner was more comfortable at the club than at the house, and then as everybody knew it was a good thing to change the scene. Therefore he dined at the club, and though he would keep his handsome and go down to the house again in the course of the evening, he spent many long hours at the bear-garden. They'll very soon be an end of this, as far as you are concerned," said Mr. Lupton to him one evening as they were sitting in the smoking-room after dinner. The sooner the better, as far as this place is concerned. This place is as good as any other. For the matter of that I like the bear-garden, since we got rid of two or three not very charming characters. You mean my poor friend Tifto, said Silverbridge? No, I was not thinking of Tifto. There were one or two here who were quite as bad as Tifto. I wonder what has become of that poor devil? I don't know in the least. You heard of that row about the hounds. And his letter to you? He wrote to me, and I answered him, as you know. But whither he vanished, or what he is doing, or how he is living, I have not the least idea. Gone to join those other fellows abroad, I should say. Among them they got a lot of money, as the Duke ought to remember. Here is not with them," said Silverbridge, as though he were in some degree mourning over the fate of his unfortunate friend. I suppose Captain Green was the leader in all that. Now it is all done and gone. I owned to a certain regard for the Major. He was true to me, till he thought I snubbed him. I would not let him go down to Silverbridge with me. I always thought that I drove the poor Major to his malpractices. At this moment Dolly Longstaff sauntered into the room and came up to them. It may be remembered that Dolly had declared his purpose of emigrating. As soon as he heard that the Duke's heir had serious thoughts of marrying the lady whom he loved, he withdrew at once from the contest. But as he did so, he acknowledged that there could be no longer a home for him in the country which Isabelle was to inhabit as the wife of another man. Gradually however better so was returned to him. After all, what was she but a pert puppet? He determined that marriage clips a fellow's wings confoundedly, and so he set himself to enjoy life after his old fashion. There was perhaps a little swagger as he threw himself into a chair and addressed the happy lover. I'll be shot if I didn't meet Tiftoe at the corner of the street. Tiftoe? Yes, Tiftoe. He did awfully seedy with a great coat buttoned up to his chin, a shabby hat and old gloves. Did he speak to you? asked Silverbridge. No, nor I to him. He hadn't time to think whether he would speak or not, and you may be sure I didn't. Nothing further was said about the man, but Silverbridge was uneasy and silent. When his cigar was finished he got up, saying that he should go back to the house. As he left the club he looked about him as though expecting to see his old friend, and when he had passed through the first street and had got into the hay market, there he was. The major came up to him, touched his hat, asked to be allowed to say a few words. I don't think it can do any good, said Silverbridge. The man had not attempted to shake hands with him or affected familiarity, but seemed to be thoroughly humiliated. I don't think I can be of any service to you, and therefore I had rather decline. I don't want you to be of any service, my lord. Then what's the good? I have something to say. May I come to you to-morrow? Then Silverbridge allowed himself to make an appointment, and an hour was named at which Tiftoe might call in Carlton Terrace. He felt that he almost owed some reparation to the wretched man, whom he had unfortunately admitted among his friends, whom he had used, and to whom he had been uncurtious. Exactly at the hour named the major was shown into his room. Dolly had said that he was shabby, but the man was altered rather than shabby. He still had rings on his fingers and studs in his shirt and a jewelled pin in his bat, but he'd shaven off his moustache and the tuft from his chin, and his hair had been cut short, and in spite of his jewellery there was a hang-dog look about him. I've got something that I particularly want to say to you, my lord." Silverbridge would not shake hands with him, but could not refrain from offering him a chair. Well, you can say it now. Yes, but it isn't so very easy to be said. There are some things, though you want to say them ever so. You don't quite know how to do it. You have your choice, Major Tifto, you can speak or hold your tongue. Then there was a pause during which Silverbridge sat with his hands in his pockets, trying to look unconcerned. But if you've got it here, and seal it as I do," the poor man said, as he put his hand upon his heart, you can't sleep in your bed till it's out. I did that thing that they say I did. What thing? By the nail. It was I lame the horse. I'm sorry for it. I can say nothing else. You ain't as sorry for it as I am. Oh no, you can never be that, my lord. After all, what does it matter to you? Very little. I meant that I was sorry for your sake. I believe you are, my lord. For though you could be rough, you was always kind. Now, I will tell you everything, and then you can do as you please. I wish to do nothing. As far as I am concerned, the matter is over. It made me sick of horses, and I do not wish to have to think of it again. Nevertheless, my lord, I've got to tell it. It was Green who put me up to it. He did it just for the plunder. As God is my judge, it was not for the mummy I did it. But then it was revenge. It was the devil-guard of me, my lord. Up to that, I'd always been square, square as a die. I got to think that your lordship was upsetting. I don't know whether your lordship remembers, but you did put me down once or twice, rather uncommon. I hope I was not unjust. I don't say you was, my lord, but I got a feeling on me that you wanted to get rid of me, and I all the time doing the best I could for the horses. I did do the best I could, up to that very morning at Doncaster. Well, it was Green put me up to it. I don't say I was to get nothing, but it wasn't so much more than I could have got by the horse winning, and I've lost pretty nearly all that I did get. Do you remember, my lord? And now the major sank his voice to a whisper, when I come up to your bedroom that morning. I remember it. The first time. Yes, I remember it. Because I came twice, my lord. When I came first it hadn't been done. You turned me out. That is true, Major Tifter. You was very rough then, wasn't you rough? A man's bedroom is generally supposed to be private. Yes, my lord, that's true. I ought to have sent your man in first. I came then to confess it all before it was done. Then why couldn't you let the horse alone? I was in their hands, and then you were so rough with me, so I said to myself I might as well do it, and I did it. What do you want me to say? As far as my forgiveness goes, you have it. That's saying a great deal, my lord. A great deal, said Tifter, now in tears. But I ain't said it all yet. He's here in London. Who's here? Green. He's here. He doesn't think that I know, but I could lay my hand on him tomorrow. There is no human being alive, Major Tifter, whose presence or absence could be a matter of more indifference to me. I'll tell you what I'll do, my lord. I'll go before any judge or magistrate or police officer in the country and tell the truth. I won't even ask for a pardon. They shall punish me and him too. I mean that state of mind that any change would be for the better. But he ought to have it heavy. It won't be done by me, Major Tifter. Look here, Major Tifter. You'll come here to confess that you have done me a great injury? Yes, I have. And you say you are sorry for it? Indeed I am. And I have forgiven you. There is only one way in which you can show your gratitude. Hold your tongue about it. Let it be as a thing done and gone. The money has been paid, the horse has been sold, the whole thing has gone out of my mind and I don't want Abbot brought back again. And nothing is to be done to green. I should say nothing on that score. And he's got, they say, five and twenty thousand pounds clear money. It is a pity, but it cannot be helped. I will have nothing further to do with it. Of course I cannot bind you, but I have told you my wishes. The poor wretch was silent, but still it seemed as though he did not wish to go quite yet. If you have said what you have got to say, Major Tifto, I may as well tell you that my time is engaged. And must that be all? What else? I am in such a state of mind, Lord Silverbridge, that it would be a satisfaction to tell it all, even against myself. I can't prevent you. Then Tifto got up from his chair as though he were going. I wish I knew what I was going to do with myself. I don't know that I can help you, Major Tifto. I suppose not, my Lord. I haven't twenty pounds left in all the world. It's the only thing that wasn't square that ever I did in all my life. Your Lordship couldn't do anything for me. We was very much together at one time, my Lord. Yes, Major Tifto, we were. Of course I was a villain, but it was only once, and your Lordship was so rough to me. I am not saying but what I was a villain. Think of what I did for myself by that one piece of wickedness. Master of hounds, member of the club. And the horse would have run in my name and won the ledger. And everybody knew as your Lordship and me was together in him. Then he burst out into a paroxysm of tears and sobbing. The young Lord certainly could not take the man into partnership again, nor could he restore to him either the hounds or his club, or his clean hands. Nor did he know in what way he could serve the man, except by putting his hand into his pocket, which he did. Tifto accepted the gratuity, and ultimately became an annual pensioner on his former noble partner, living on the allowance made him, in some obscure corner of South Wales. End of Chapter 75 Chapter 76 of the Duke's Children This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Piper Hayes. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 76 On Deportment Frank Tragear had come up to town at the end of February. He remained in London with an understanding that he was not to see Lady Mary again till the Easter holidays. He was then to pay a visit to Matching, and to enter in, it may be presumed, on the full fruition of his advantages as an accepted suitor. All this had been arranged with a good deal of precision, as though there had still been a hope left that Lady Mary might change her mind. Of course there was no such hope. When the Duke asked the young man to dine with him, when he invited him to drink that memorable glass of wine, when the young man was allowed, in the presence of the Boncassans, to sit next Lady Mary, it was, of course, settled. But the father probably found some relief in yielding by slow degrees. I would rather that there should be no correspondence till then. He had said both to Tragear and to his daughter, and they had promised that there should be no correspondence. At Easter they would meet. After Easter Mary was to come up to London to be present at her brother's wedding, to which also Tragear had been formally invited, and it was hoped that then something might be settled as to their own marriage. Tragear, with a surgeon's permission, took his seat in Parliament. He was introduced by two leading members on the conservative side, but immediately afterwards found himself seated next to his friend Silverbridge, on the top bench behind the ministers. The house was very full, as there was a feverish report abroad that Sir Timothy Beeswax intended to make a statement. No one quite knew what the statement was to be, but every politician in the house and out of it thought that he knew that the statement would be a bid for higher power on the part of Sir Timothy himself. If there had been dissensions in the Cabinet, the secret of them had been well kept. To Tragear, who was not as yet familiar with the house, there was no special appearance of activity, but Silverbridge could see that there was more than wanted animation, that the treasury bench, should be full at this time, was a thing of custom. A whole broad side of questions would be fired off, one after another, like a rattle of musketry down the ranks, when, as nearly as possible, the report of each gun is made to follow close upon that of the gun before. With this exception, that in such case each little sound is intended to be as like as possible to the proceeding, whereas with the rattle of questions and answers, each question and each answer becomes a little more authoritative and less courteous than the last. The treasury bench was ready for its usual responsive firing, as the questioners were of course in their places. The opposition front bench was also crowded, and those behind were nearly equally full. There were many peers in the gallery, and a general feeling of sensation prevailed. All this Silverbridge had been long enough in the house to appreciate, but to Tragear the house was simply the house. It's odd enough we should have a row the first day you come, said Silverbridge. You think there will be a row? Beeswax has something special to say. He's not here yet, you see. They've left about six inches for him there between Roper and Sir Orlando. You'll have the privilege of looking just down on the top of his head when he does come. I shan't stay much longer after that. Where are you going? I don't mean today, but I should not have been here now, in this very place I mean, but I want to stick to you just at first. I shall move down below the gangway, and not improbably creep over to the other side before long. You don't mean it. I think I shall. I begin to feel I've made a mistake. In coming to this side at all? I think I have. After all, it is not very important. What is not important? I think it very important. Perhaps it may be to you, and perhaps you may be able to keep it up, but the more I think of it, the less excuse I seem to have for deserting the old ways of the family. What is there in those fellows down there to make a fellow feel that he ought to bind himself to them, neck and heels? They're principles. Yes, they're principles. I believe I have some vague idea as to supporting property and land and all that kind of thing. I don't know that anybody wants to attack anything. Somebody soon would want to attack it if there were no defenders. I suppose there is an outside power, the people or public opinion or whatever they choose to call it, and the country will have to go very much as that outside power chooses. Here, in Parliament, everybody will be as conservative as the outside will let them. I don't think it matters on which side you sit, but it does matter that you shouldn't have to act with those who go against the grain with you. I never heard a worse political argument in my life. I daresay not. However, here's Sir Timothy. When he looks in that way, all Buckrum deportment and solemnity, I know he's going to pitch into somebody. At this moment the leader of the house came in from behind the speaker's chair and took his place between Mr. Roper and Sir Orlando Drout. Silverbridge had been right in saying that Sir Timothy's heir was solemn. When a man has to declare a solemn purpose on a solemn occasion in a solemn place, it is needful that he should be solemn himself. And though the solemnity which befits a man best will be that which the importance of the moment may produce, without thought given by himself to his own outward person, still, who is there can refrain himself from some attempt? Who can boast? Who that has been versed in the ways and duties of high places, that he has kept himself free from all study of grace, of feature, of attitude, of gait, or even of dress? For most of our bishops, for most of our judges, of our statesmen, our orators, our generals, for many even of our doctors and our Parsons, even our attorneys, our tax-gathers, and certainly our butlers and our coachmen, Mr. Turvey Drop, the great professor of deportment, has done much. But there should always be the art to underlie and protect the art, the art that can hide the art. The really clever Archbishop, the really potent Chief Justice, the man who has a politician, will succeed in becoming a king of men, should know how to carry his buckram without showing it. It was in this that Sir Timothy perhaps failed a little. There are men who look as though they were born to wear blue ribbons. It has come probably from study, but it seems to be natural. Sir Timothy did not impose on those who looked at him as do these men. You could see a little of the paint. You could hear the crumple of the starch and the padding. You could trace something of an easiness in the would-be-composed grandeur of the brow. Turvey Drop, the spectator would say to himself, but after all it may be a question whether a man be open to reproach for not doing that well, which the greatest among us, if we could find one great enough, would not do at all. For I think we must hold that true personal dignity should be achieved. Must, if it be quite true, have been achieved without any personal effort. Though it be evinced in part by the carriage of the body, that carriage should be the fruit of the operation of the mind. Even when it be assisted by external garniture such as special clothes and wigs and ornaments, such garniture should have been prescribed by the sovereign or by custom, and should not have been selected by the wearer. In regard to speech a man may study all that which may make him suisive, but if he go beyond that he will trench on those histrionic efforts, which he will know to be wrong because he will be ashamed to acknowledge them. It is good to be beautiful, but it should come of God and not of the hairdresser. And personal dignity is a great possession, but a man should struggle for it no more than he would for beauty. Many, however, do struggle for it, and with such success that, though they do not achieve quite the real thing, still they get something on which they can bolster themselves up and be mighty. Others, older men than Silverbridge, saw as much as did our young friend, but they were more complacent and more reasonable. They, too, heard the crackle of the buck-room, and were aware that the last touch of awe had come upon that brow, just as its owner was emerging from the shadow of the speaker's chair. But to them it was a thing of course. A real Caesar is not to be found every day. Nor can we always have a pit to control our debates. That kind of thing. That last touch has its effect. Of course it is all paint, but how would the poor girl look before the gas lights if there were no paint? The House of Commons likes a little deportment on occasions. If a special man looks bigger than you, you can console yourself by reflecting that he also looks bigger than your fellows. Sir Timothy probably knew what he was about, and did himself on the whole wore good than harm by his little tricks. As soon as Sir Timothy had taken his seat, Mr. Rattler got up from the opposition bench to ask him some question on a matter of finance. The brewers were anxious about public and licenses. Could the Chancellor of the Ex-Checker say a word on the matter? Notice had of course been given, and the questioner had stated a quarter of an hour previously that he would postpone his query till the Chancellor of the Ex-Checker was in the House. Sir Timothy rose from his seat, and in his blandest manner began by apologizing for his late appearance. He was sorry that he had been prevented by public business from being in his place to answer the honorable gentleman's question in its proper turn, and even now he feared that he must decline to give any answer which could be supposed to be satisfactory. It would probably be his duty to make a statement to the House on the following day—a statement which he was not quite prepared to make at the present moment. But in the existing state of things he was unwilling to make any reply to any question by which he might seem to bind the Government to any opinion. Then he sat down, and rising again not long afterwards when the House had gone through certain formal duties, he moved that it should be adjourned till the next day. Then all the members trooped out, and with the others Tragear and Lord Silverbridge. So that is the end of your first day of Parliament, said Silverbridge. What does it all mean? Let us go to the carton and hear what the fellows are saying. On that evening both the young men dined at Mr. Boncassen's house. Though Tragear had been cautioned not to write to Lady Mary, and though he was not to see her before Easter, still it was so completely understood that he was about to become her husband, that he was entertained in that capacity by all those who were concerned in the family. And so they will all go out, said Mr. Boncassen. That seems to be the general idea, said the expectant son-in-law. When two men want to be first and neither will give way, they can't very well get on in the same boat together. Then he expatiated angrily on the treachery of Sir Timothy, and Tragear, in a more moderate way, joined in the same opinion. Upon my word, young man, I doubt whether you are right, said Mr. Boncassen, whether it can be possible that a man should have risen to such a position with so little patriotism as you attribute to our friend, I will not pretend to say. I should think that in England it was impossible. But of this I am sure that the facility which exists here for a minister or ministers to go out of office without disturbance of the crown is a great blessing. You say the other party will come in. That is most probable, said Silverbridge. With us the other party never comes in, never has a chance of coming in, except once in four years when the president is elected, that one event binds us all for four years. But you do change your ministers, said Tragear. A secretary may quarrel with the president, or he may have the gout, or be convicted of speculation. And yet you think yourselves more newly free than we are. I am not so sure of that. We have had a pretty difficult task, that of carrying on a government in a new country, which is nevertheless more populist than almost any old country. The inflections are so rapid that every ten years the nature of the people has changed. It isn't easy. And though I think on the whole we've done pretty well, I am not going to boast that Washington is as yet the seat of a political paradise. LIBERVOX.ORG Recording by Nicholas Clifford The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop Chapter 77 Mabel Goodbye When Tragear first came to town with his arm in a sling and bandages all round him, in order that he might be formally accepted by the Duke, he had himself taken to one other house besides the house in Carleton Terrace. He went to Belgrave Square to announce his fate to Lady Mabel Grex. But Lady Mabel Grex was not there. The Earl was ill at Brighton, and Lady Mabel had gone down to nurse him. The old woman who came to him in the hall told him that the Earl was very ill. He had been attacked by the gout, but in spite of the gout and in spite of the doctors, he had insisted on being taken to his club. Then he had been removed to Brighton, under the doctor's advice, chiefly in order that he might be kept out of the way of temptation. Now he was supposed to be very ill indeed. My Lord is so imprudent, said the old woman, shaking her old head in real unhappiness. For though the Earl had been a tyrant to everyone near him, yet when a poor woman becomes old it is something to have a tyrant to protect her. My Lord always had been imprudent. Tragear knew that it had been the theory of my Lord's life that to eat and drink and die was better than to abstain and live. Then Tragear wrote to his friend as follows, My dear Mabel, I am up in town again as you will perceive, although I am still in a helpless condition and hardly able to write even this letter. I called to-day and was very sorry to hear so bad on the count of your father. Had I been able to travel I should have come down to you. When I am able I will do so if you would wish to see me. In the meantime pray tell me how he is and how you are. My news is this. The Duke has accepted me. It is great news to me and I hope will be acceptable to you. I do believe that if ever a friend has been anxious for a friend's welfare you have been anxious for mine, as I have been and ever shall be for yours. Of course this thing will be very much to me. I will not speak now of my love for the girl who is to become my wife. You might again call me Romeo. Nor do I like to say much of what may now be pecuniary prospects. I did not ask Mary to become my wife because I suppose she would be rich, but I could not have married her or anyone else who had not money. What are the Duke's intentions? I have not the slightest idea, nor shall I ask him. I am to go down to matching at Easter and shall endeavour to have some time fixed. I suppose the Duke will say something about money. If he does not I shall not. Pray write to me at once and tell me when I shall see you. Your affectionate cousin, F. O. Tragear. In answer to this there came a note in a very few words. She congratulated him, not very warmly, but expressed a hope that she might see him soon. But she told him not to come to brighten. The Earl was better, but very cross, and she would be up in town before long. Towards the end of the month it became suddenly known in London that Lord Grex had died at Brighton. There was a garter to be given away, and everybody was filled with regret that such an ornament to the peerage should have departed from them. The Conservative papers remembered how excellent a politician he had been in his younger days, and the world was informed that the family of Grex of Grex was about the oldest in Great Britain of which authentic records were in existence. Then there came another note from Lady Mabel to Tragear. I shall be in town on the thirty-first in the old house with Miss Cassowary, and we'll see you if you can come on the first. Come early, at eleven, if you can. On the day named, and at the hour fixed, he was in Belgrave Square. He had known this house since he was a boy, and could well remember how, when he first edited it, he had thought with some awe of the grandeur of the Earl. The Earl had not then paid much attention to him, but he had become very much taken by the grace and good nature of the girl who had owned him as a cousin. You are my cousin Frank, she had said. I am so glad to have a cousin. He could remember the words now as though they had been spoken only yesterday. Then there had quickly grown to be friendship between him, and this, as he thought, the sweetest of all girls. At that time he had just gone to Eaton, but before he left Eaton they had sworn to love each other. And so it had been, and the thing had grown, till at last, just when he had taken his degree, two matters had been settled between them. The first was that each loved the other irretrievably, irrevocably, passionately. The second that it was altogether out of the question that they should ever marry each other. It is but fair to tracheer to say that this last decision originated with the lady. He had told her that he certainly would hold himself engaged to marry her at some future time, but she had thrown this aside at once. How was it possible, she said, that two such beings, brought up in luxury, and taught to enjoy all the good things of the world, should expect to live and be happy together without an income? He offered to go to the bar, but she asked him whether he thought it well that such a one as she should wait a dozen years for such a process. When the time comes I should be an old woman, and you would be a wretched man. She released him, declared her own purpose of marrying well, and then, though there had been a moment in which her own assurance of her own love had been passionate enough, she went so far as to tell him that she was heart whole. We have been two foolish children, but we cannot be children any longer, she said. There must be an end of it. What had hitherto been the result of this, the reader knows, and tracheer knew also. He had taken the privilege given to him, and had made so complete a use of it that he had in truth transferred his heart as well as his allegiance. Where is the young man who cannot do so? How few are there who do not do so when their first fit of passion has come on them at one and twenty? And he thought that she would do the same. But gradually he found that she had not done so, did not do so, could not do so. When she first heard of Lady Mary she had not reprimanded him, but she could not keep herself from showing the bitterness of her disappointment. Though she would still boast of her own strength and of her own purpose, yet it was too clear to him that she was wounded and very sore. She would have liked him to remain single at any rate till she herself were married. But the permission had hardly been given before he availed himself of it. And then he talked to her not only of the brilliancy of his prospects, which he could have forgiven, but of his love, his love. Then she had refused one offer after another, and he had known it all. There was nothing in which she was concerned that she did not tell him. Then young Silverbridge had come across her, and she had determined that he should be her husband. She had been nearly successful, so nearly that at moments she had felt sure of success. But the prize had slipped from her through her own fault. She knew well enough that it was her own fault. When a girl submits to play such a game as that, she should not stand on two nice scruples. She had told herself this many a time since, but the prize was gone. All this, Tragear knew, and knowing it almost dreaded the coming interview. He could not without actual cruelty have avoided her. Had he done so before, he could not have continued to do so now, when she was left alone in the world. Her father had not been much to her, but still his presence had enabled her to put herself before the world as being somebody. Now she would be almost nobody, and she had lost her rich prize, while he, out of the same treasury as it were, had won his. The door was open to him by the same old woman, and he was shown, at a funerial pace, up into the drawing-room which he had known so well. He was told that Lady Mabel would be down to him directly. As he looked about him, he could see that already had been commenced that work of division of spoil which is sure to follow the death of most of us. Things were already gone which used to be familiar to his eyes, and the room, though not dismantled, had been deprived of many of its little prettinesses, and was ugly. In about ten minutes she came down to him, with so soft a step that he would not have been aware of her entrance, had he not seen her form in the mirror. Then, when he turned round to greet her, he was astonished by the blackness of her appearance. She looked as though she had become ten years older since he had last seen her. As she came up to him she was grave and almost solemn in her gait, but there was no sign of any tears. Why should there have been a tear? Women weep and men too, not from grief but from emotion. Indeed, grave and slow as was her step, and serious almost solemn as was her gait, there was something of a smile on her mouth as she gave him her hand. And yet her face was very sad, declaring to him too plainly something of the hopelessness of her heart. And so the duke has consented, she said. He had told her that in his letter, but since that her father had died, and she had been left he did not as yet know how far impoverished, but he feared with no pleasant worldly prospects before her. Yes, Mabel, that I suppose will be settled. I have been shocked to hear all this. It has been very sad, has it not? Sit down, Frank. You and I have a good deal to say to each other, now that we have met. It was no good you're going down to Brighton. He would not have seen you, and at last I never left him. Was Percival there? She only shook her head. That was dreadful. It was not Percival's fault. He would not see him, nor till the last hour or two would he believe in his own danger, nor was he ever frightened for a moment, not even then. Was he good to you? Good to me. Well, he liked my being there, poor Papa. It had gone so far with him that he could not be good to anyone. I think that he felt it would be unmanly not to be the same to the end. He would not see Percival. When it was suggested he would only ask what good Percival could do him. I did send for him at last in my terror, but he did not see his father alive. When he did come he only told me how badly his father had treated him. It was very dreadful. I did so feel for you. I am sure you did, and will, after all, Frank, I think that the pious, godly people have the best of it in this world. Let them be ever so covetous, ever so false, ever so hard-hearted. The mere fact that they must keep of appearances makes them comfortable to those around them. Poor Papa was not comfortable to me. A little hypocrisy, a little sacrifice to the feelings of the world, may be such a blessing. I am sorry that you should feel it so. Yes, it is very sad, but you, everything is smiling with you. Let us talk about your plans. Another time will do for that. I had come to hear about your own affairs. There they are, she said, pointing round the room. I have no other affairs. You see that I am going from here. And where are you going? She shook her head. With whom will you live? With Miss Cass, two old maids together, I know nothing further. But about money, that is, if I am justified in asking. What would you not be justified in asking? Do you not know that I would tell you every secret of my heart, if my heart had a secret? It seems that I have given up what was to have been my fortune. There was the claim of twelve thousand pounds on Grex, but I have abandoned it. And there is nothing? There will be scrapings, they tell me, unless Percival refuses to agree. This house is mortgaged, but not for its value. And there are some jewels, but all that is detestable. A mere groveling among mere hundreds, whereas you, you will soar among— Oh, Mabel, do not say hard things to me. No indeed, why should I? I who have been preaching that comfortable doctrine of hypocrisy. I will say nothing hard, but I would sooner talk of your good things than of my evil ones. I would not. Then you must talk about them for my sake. How was it that the duke came round at last? I hardly know. She sent for me. A fine, high-spirited girl. These palaces have more courage about them than one expects from their outward manner. Silverbridge has plenty of it. I remember telling you he could be obstinate. And I remember that I did not believe you. Now I know it. He has the sort of pluck which enables a man to break a girl's heart, or to destroy a girl's hopes, without wincing. He can tell a girl to her face that she can go to the mischief for him. There are so many men who can't do that, from cowardice, though their hearts be ever so well inclined. I have changed my mind. There is something great in the courage of a man who can say that to a woman in so many words. Most of them, when they escape, escape by lies and subterfuges, or they run away in what will allow themselves to be heard of. They trust to a chapter of accidents, and leave things to arrange themselves. But when a man can look a girl in the face with those seemingly soft eyes, and say with that seemingly soft mouth, I have changed my mind. Though she would look him dead in return, if she could, still she must admire him. Are you speaking of Silverbridge now? Of course I am speaking of Silverbridge. I suppose I ought to hide it all and not tell you. But as you are the only person I do tell, you must put up with me. Yes, when I taxed him with his falsehood, for he had been false, he answered me with those very words. I have changed my mind. He could not lie. To speak the truth was a necessity to him, even at the expense of his gallantry, almost of his humanity. Has he been false to you, Mabel? Of course he has, but there is nothing to quarrel about if you mean that. People do not quarrel now about such things. A girl has to fight her own battle with her own pluck and her own wits. As with these weapons she is generally stronger than her enemy, she succeeds sometimes, although everything else is against her. I think I am courageous, but his courage beat mine. I craned at the first fence. While he was willing to swallow my bait, my hand was not firm enough to strike the hook in his jaws. Had I not quailed then, I think I should have had him. It is horrid to hear you talk like this. She was leaning over from her seat, looking black as she was, so much older than her want, with something about her of that unworldly serious thoughtfulness which a mourning garb always gives. And yet her words were so worldly, so unfeminine. I have got to tell the truth to somebody. It was just so, just as I have said. Of course I did not love him. How could I love him after what has passed? But there need have been nothing much in that. I don't suppose that Duke's eldest sons often get married for love. Ms. Boncassen loves him. I daresay the beggar's daughter loved King Cafetua. When you come to distances such as that, there can be love. The very fact that a man should have descended so far in quest of beauty, the flattery of it alone, will produce love. When the angels came out at the daughters of men, of course the daughters of men loved them. The distance between him and me is not so great enough to have produced that kind of worship. There was no reason why Lady Mabel Grex should not be good enough wife for the son of the Duke of Omnia. Certainly not. And therefore I was not struck as by the shining of a light from heaven. I cannot say I loved him, Frank. I am beyond worshipping even an angel from heaven. Then I do not know that you could blame him, he said, very seriously. Just so, and as I have chosen to be honest, I have told him everything, but I had my revenge first. I would have said nothing. You would have recommended delicacy. No doubt you think that women should be delicate, let them suffer what they may. A woman should not let it be known that she has any human nature in her. I had him on the hip, and for a moment I used my power. He had certainly done me a wrong. He had asked for my love, and with the delicacy which you commend, I had not at once grasped at all that such a request conveyed. Then, as he told me so frankly, he changed his mind. Did he not wrong me? He should not have raised false hopes. He told me that. He had changed his mind. I think I loved him then as nearly as ever I did, because he looked me full in the face. Then I told him I had never cared for him, and that he need have nothing on his conscience. But I doubt whether he was glad to hear it. Men are so vain. I have taught too much of myself, and so you are to be the Duke's son-in-law, and she will have hundreds of thousands. Thousands, perhaps, but I do not think very much about it. I feel that he will provide for her. And that you, having secured her, can creep under his wing, like an additional ducal chick. It is very comfortable. The Duke will be quite a providence to you. I wonder that all young gentlemen do not marry heiresses. It is so easy. And you have got your seat in Parliament, too. Oh, your luck! When I look back upon it, it all seemed so hard to me. It was for you, for you, that I used to be anxious. Now it is I who have not an inch of ground to stand upon. Then he approached her and put out his hand to her. No, she said, putting both her hands behind her back. For God's sake, let there be no tenderness. But is it not cruel? Think of my advantages at that moment when you and I agreed that our paths should be separate. My fortune then had not been made quite shipwrecked by my father and brother. I had before me all that society could offer. I was called handsome and clever. Where was there a girl more likely to make her way to the top? You may do so still. No, no, I cannot, and you at least should not tell me so. I did not know then the virulence of the malady which has fallen on me. I did not know then that because of you other men would be abhorrent to me. I thought that I was as easy-hearted as you have proved yourself. How cruel you can be! Have I done anything to interfere with you? Have I said a word even to that young lad when I might have said a word? Yes, to him I did say something, but I waited, and I would not say it while a word could hurt you. Shall I tell you what I told him? Just everything that has ever happened between you and me? You did? Yes, because I saw that I could trust him. I told him because I wanted him to be quite sure that I had never loved him. But Frank, I have put no spoke in your wheel. There has not been a moment since you told me of your love for this rich young lady in which I would not have helped you had helped been in my power. Whomever I may have harmed I have never harmed you. Am I not as clear from blame towards you? No, Frank, you have done me the terrible evil of ceasing to love me. It was at your own bidding. Certainly, but if I would have bid you to cut my throat, would you do it? Was it not you who decided that we could not wait for each other? And should it not have been for you to decide that you would wait? You also would have married. It almost angers me that you should not see the difference. A girl, unless she marries, becomes nothing, as I have become nothing now. A man does not want a pillar on which to lean. A man, when he is done as you have done with me, had made a girl's heart all his own, even though his own heart had been flexible and plastic as yours is, should have been true to her at least for a while. Did it never occur to you that you owed something to me? I have always owed you very much. There should have been some touch of chivalry if not love to make you feel that a second passion should have been postponed for a year or two. You could wait without growing old. You might have allowed yourself a little space to dwell. I was going to say on the sweetness of your memories. But they were not sweet, Frank. They were not sweet to you. These rebukes, Mabel, will rob them of their sweetness for a time. It is all gone, all gone, she said, shaking her head. Gone from me because I have been so easily deserted. Gone from you because the change has been so easy to you. How long was it, Frank, after you had left me before you were basking happily in the smiles of Lady Mary Palliser? It was not very long as months go. Say days, Frank. I have to defend myself and I will do so with truth. It was not very long as months go. But why should it have been less long whether for months or days I had to cure myself of a wound? To put plaster on a scratch, Frank. And the sooner a man can do that, the more manly he is. Is it a sign of strength to wail under a sorrow that cannot be cured, or of truth to perpetuate the appearance of a woe? Has there been an appearance with me? I am speaking of myself now. I am driven to speak of myself by the bitterness of your words. It was you who decided. You accepted my decision easily. Because it was based not only on my unfitness for such a marriage, but on yours. When I saw that there would be perhaps some years of misery for you, of course I accepted your decision. The sweetness had been very sweet to me. Oh, Frank, was it ever sweet to you? And the triumph of it had been very great. I had been assured of the love of her who among all the high ones of the world seemed to me to be the highest. Then came your decision. Do you really believe that I could abandon the sweetness, that I could be robbed of my triumph, that I could think I could never again be allowed to put my arm around your waist, never again to feel your cheek close to mine, that I should lose all that had seemed left to me among the gods without feeling it? Frank, Frank, she said, rising to her feet and stretching out her hands as though she were going to give him back all these joys. Of course I felt it. I did not then know what was before me. When he said this, she sank back immediately upon her seat. I was wretched enough. I had lost a limb and could not walk. My eyes and must always hereafter be blind. My fitness to be among men and must always hereafter be secluded. It is so that a man is stricken down when some terrible trouble comes upon him. But it is given to him to retrick his beings. You have retricked yours? Yes, and the strong man will show his strength by doing it quickly. Mabel, I sorrowed for myself greatly when that word was spoken, partly because I thought that your love could so easily be taken from me. And since I have found that it has not been so, I have sorrowed for you also. But I do not blame myself, and I will not submit to have blame even from you. She stared him in the face as he said this. A man should never submit to blame. But if he has deserved it? Who is to be the judge? But why should we contest this? You do not really wish to trample on me. No, not that. Nor to disgrace me, nor to make me feel myself disgraced in my own judgment. Then there was a pause for some moments, as though he had left her without another word to say. Shall I go now? he asked. Oh, Frank, I fear that my presence only makes you unhappy. Then what will your absence do? When will I see you again? But no, I will not see you again, not for many days, not for years. Why should I? Frank, is it wicked that I should love you? He could only shake his head and answer to this. If it be so wicked that I must be punished for it eternally, still I love you. I can never, never, never love another. You cannot understand it. Oh, God, that I had never understood it myself. I think that I would go with you now anywhere, facing all misery, all judgments, all disgrace. You know, do you not, that if it were possible I should not say so. But as I know that you would not stir a step with me, I do say so. I know it is not meant. It is meant, though it could not be done. Frank, I must not see her, not for a while, not for years. I do not wish to hate her, but how can I help it? Do you remember when she flew into your arms in this room? I remember it. Of course you do. It is your great joy now to remember that and such like. She must be very good, though I hate her. Do not say that you hate her, Mabel. Though I hate her she must be good. It was a fine and a brave thing to do. I have done it, but never before the world like that have I, Frank. Oh, Frank, I shall never do it again. Go now and do not touch me. Let us both pray that in ten years we may meet as passionless friends. He came to her hardly knowing what he meant, but purposing, as though by instinct, to take her hand as he parted from her. But she, putting both her hands before her face and throwing herself under the sofa, buried her head among the cushions. Is there not to be another word, he said? Lying as she did, she was still able to make a movement of descent, and he left her, muttering just one word between his teeth. Mabel, goodbye.