 Chapter 39 of The Duke's Children Mr. Dobbs was probably right in his opinion that hotels, tourists, and congregations of men are detrimental to shooting. Crummy Toddy was in all respects suited for sport. Killen Codlam, though it had the name of a shooting place, certainly was not so. Men going there took their guns, gamekeepers were provided and gillies, and, in a moderate quantity, game. On certain grand days a deer or two might be shot, and would be very much talked about afterwards. But a glance at the place was a feist to show that Killen Codlam was not intended for sport. It was a fine, castellated mansion, with beautiful, though narrow grounds, standing in the valley of the Arcay River, with a mountain behind it and the river in front. Between the gates and the river there was a public road on which a stagecoach ran, with loud blown horns and the noise of many tourists. A mile beyond the castle was the famous Killen Codlam Hotel, which made up 120 beds, and at which half as many more guests would sleep on occasions under the tables. And there was the Killen Codlam Post Office, halfway between the two. At Crummy Toddy they had to send nine miles for their letters and newspapers. At Killen Codlam there was a lawn tennis and a billiard room and dancing every night. The costumes of the ladies were lovely, and those of the gentlemen who were wonderful in dickabockers, picturesque hats and variegated stockings hardly less so. And then there were carriages and saddle-horses, and paths had been made hither and thither through the rocks and hills for the sake of the scenery. Scenery! To hear Mr. Dobbs utter the single word was as good as a play. Is it for such cockney purposes as those that Scotland had been created, fit mother for grouse and dear? Silverbridge arrived just before lunch, and was soon made to understand that it was impossible that he should go back that day. Mrs. Jones was very great on that occasion. You are afraid of Reginald Dobbs, she said severely. I think I am rather. Of course you are. How came it to pass that you of all men should submit yourself to such a tyrant? Good shooting, you know, said Silverbridge. But you dare not call an hour your own or your soul, Mr. Dobbs and I, or sworn enemies. We both like Scotland, and unfortunately we have fallen into the same neighbourhood. He looks upon me as the genius of sloth. I regard him as the incarnation of tyranny. He once said that there should be no women in Scotland, just an old one here and there, who would know how to cook grouse. I offered to go and cook his grouse. Any friend of mine, continued Mrs. Jones, who comes down to crummy toddy without staying a day or two with me, will never be my friend any more. I do not hesitate to tell you, Lord Silverbridge, that I call for your surrender in order that I may show my power over Reginald Dobbs. Are you a Dobbite? Not thorough going, said Silverbridge. Then be a Montecute Jonesite, or a Boncassanite, if, as is possible, you prefer a young woman to an old one. At this moment, Isabel Boncassan was standing close to them. Kill and coddle him against crummy toddy forever, said Miss Boncassan, waving her handkerchief. As a matter of course, a messenger was sent back to crummy toddy for the young lord's wearing apparel. The whole of that afternoon he spent playing lawn tennis with Miss Boncassan. Lady Mabel was asked to join the party, but she refused, having promised to take a walk to a distant waterfall where the coddle falls into the arcade. A gentleman in Nickerbockers was to have gone with her, and two other young ladies, but when the time came she was weary, she said, and she sat almost the entire afternoon, looking at the game for a distance. Silverbridge played well, but not so well as the pretty American. With them were joined two others, somewhat inferior, so that Silverbridge and Miss Boncassan were on different sides. They played game after game, and Miss Boncassan's side always won. Very little was said between Silverbridge and Miss Boncassan, which did not refer to the game. But Lady Mabel, looking on, told herself that they were making love to each other before her eyes. And why shouldn't they? She asked herself that question in perfect good faith. Why should they not be lovers? Was ever anything prettier than the girl in her country dress, active as a fawn, and as graceful? Or could anything be more handsome, more attractive to a girl, more good humored, or better bred in this playful emulation than Silverbridge? When youth and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet, she said to herself, over and over again. But why had he sent her the ring? She would certainly give him back the ring, and bid him bestow it at once upon Miss Boncassan, in constant boy. Then she would get up and wander away for a time and rebuke herself. What right had she even to think of inconstancy? Could she be so irrational, so unjust, as to be sick for his love, as to be angry with him because he seemed to prefer another? Was she not well aware that she herself did not love him, but that she did love another man? She had made up her mind to marry him in order that she might be a duchess, and because she could give herself to him without any of that horror which would be her fate in submitting to matrimony with one or another of the young men around her. There might be disappointment. If he escaped her there would be bitter disappointment. But seeing how it was, had she any further ground for hope? She certainly had no ground for anger. It was thus within her own bosom she put questions to herself, and yet all this before her was simply a game of play in which the girl and the young man were as eager for victory as though they were children. They were thinking neither of love nor of love-making, that the girl should be so lovely was no doubt a pleasure to him, and perhaps to her also that he should be so joyous to look at and sweet of voice. But he, could he have been made to tell all the truth within him, would have still owned that it was his purpose to make Mabel his wife. When the game was over and the propositions made for further matches and the like, Miss Boncassen said that she would take herself to her own room. I never worked so hard in my life before, she said, and I feel like a navvy. I could drink beer out of a jug and eat bread and cheese. I won't play with you any more, Lord Silverridge, because I am beginning to think that it is un-lady like to exert myself. Are you not glad you came over, said Lady Mabel to him, as he was going off the ground almost without seeing her? Pretty well, he said. Is not that better than stalking? Law and tennis? Yes, law and tennis, with Miss Boncassen. She plays uncommonly well. And so do you. Ah, she has such an eye for distances. And you, what have you and I for? Will you answer me a question? Well, yes, I think so. Truly, certainly, if I do answer it. Do you not think of the most beautiful creature you ever saw in your life? He pushed back his cap and looked at her without making any immediate answer. I do. Now tell me what you think. I think that perhaps she is. I knew you would say so. You were so honest that you could not bring yourself to tell a fib, even to me about that. Come here and sit down for a moment. Of course, he sat down by her. You know that Frank came to see me at Grex? He never mentioned it. Dear me, how odd. It was odd, said he, in a voice which showed that he was angry. She could hardly explain to herself why she told him this at the present moment. It came partly from jealousy, as though she had said to herself. Though he may neglect me, he shall know that there is someone who does not. And partly from an eager, half angry feeling that she would have nothing concealed. There were moments with her in which she thought that she could arrange her future life in accordance with certain wise rules over which her heart should have no influence. There were others, many others, in which her feelings completely got the better of her. And now she told herself that she would be afraid of nothing. There should be no deceit, no lies. He went to see you at Grex, said Silverbridge. Why should he not have come to me at Grex? Only it is so odd that he did not mention it. It seems to me that he is always having secrets with you of some kind. Poor Frank, there was no one else who would come to see me at that tumbledown old place. But I have another thing to say to you. You have behaved badly to me. Have I? Yes, sir. After my folly about that ring, you should have known better than to send it to me. You must take it back again. You shall do exactly what you said you would. You shall give it to my wife when I have one. That did very well for me to say in a note. I did not want to send my anger to you over a distance of two or three hundred miles by the postman. But now that we are together, you must take it back. I will do no such thing, said he sturdily. You speak as though this were a matter in which you can have your own way. I mean to have mine about that. Any lady then must be forced to take any present that a gentleman may send her. Allow me to assure you that the usages of society do not run in that direction. Here is the ring. I knew that you would come over to see, well, to see someone here, and I have kept it ready in my pocket. I came over to see you. Lord Silverbridge, but we know that in certain employments all things are fair. He looked at her not knowing what were the employments to which she eluded. At any rate you will oblige me by not being troublesome and putting this little trinket into your pocket? Never, nothing on earth shall make me do it. At Killen Codlam they did not dine till half past eight. Twilight was now stealing on these two, who were still out in the garden, all the others having gone in to dress. She looked round to see that no other eyes were watching them as she still held the ring. It is there, she said, putting it on the bench between them. Then she prepared to rise again from the seat so that she might leave it with him. But he was too quick for her and was away at a distance before she had collected her dress. And from a distance he spoke again, if you choose that it shall be lost, so be it. You had better take it, said she, following him slowly. But he would not turn back, nor would she. They met again in the hall for a moment. I should be sorry it should be lost, said he, because it belonged to my great-uncle, and I had hoped that I might live to see it very often. You can fetch it, she said, as she went to her room. He, however, would not fetch it. She had accepted it, and he would not take it back again, let the fate of the gem be what it might. But to the feminine and more cautious mind, the very value of the trinket made its position out there on the bench, within the grasp of any dishonest gardener or burden to her. She could not reconcile it to her conscience that it should be so left. The diamond was a large one, and she had heard it spoken of as a stone of great value, so much so that Silverbridge had been blamed for wearing it ordinarily. She had asked for it in a joke, regarding it as a thing which could not be given away. She could not go down herself and take it up again, but neither could she allow it to remain. As she went to her room, she met Mrs. Jones already coming from hers. You will keep us all waiting, said the hostess. Oh, no, nobody ever dressed so quickly, but Mrs. Jones, would you do me a favor? Certainly, and will you let me explain something? Anything you like, from a hopeless engagement down to a broken garter. I am suffering neither from one or the other, but there is a most valuable ring lying out in the garden. Will you send for it? Then, of course, the story had to be told. You will, I hope, understand how I came to ask for it foolishly. It was because it was the one thing which I was sure he would not give away. Why not take it? Can't you understand? I wouldn't for the world, but you will be good enough, won't you, to see that there is nothing else in it? Nothing of love? Nothing of the least. He and I are excellent friends. We are cousins and intimate and all that. I thought I might have my joke, and now I am punished for it. As for love, don't you see he is overhead in ears in love with Miss Boncassen? This was very imprudent on the part of Lady Mabel, who, had she been capable of clinging fast to her policy, would not now, in a moment of strong feeling, have done so much to raise obstacles in her own way. But you will send for it, won't you, and have it put on his dressing table tonight? When he went to bed, Lord Silverbridge found it on his table. But before that time came, he had twice danced with Miss Boncassen, Lady Mabel having refused to dance with him. No, she said, I am angry with you. You ought to have felt that it did not become you as a gentleman to subject me to inconvenience by throwing upon me the charge of that diamond. You may be foolish enough to be indifferent about its value, but as you have mixed me up with it, I cannot afford to have it lost. It is yours. No, sir, it is not mine, nor will it ever be mine, but I wish you to understand that you have offended me. This made him so unhappy for the time that he almost told the story to Miss Boncassen. If I were to give you a ring, he said, would you not accept it? What a question! What I mean is, don't you think all those conventional rules about men and women are absurd? As a progressive American, of course, I am bound to think all conventional rules are an abomination. If you had a brother and I gave him a stick, he'd take it. Not across his back, I hope. Or if I gave your father a book, he'd take books to any extent, I should say. And why not you a ring? Who said I wouldn't? But after all this you must not try me. I was not thinking of it. I'm so glad of that. Well, if you'll promise me that you'll never offer me one, I'll promise that I'll take it when it comes. But what does all this mean? It is not worth talking about. You have offered somebody a ring and somebody hasn't taken it. May I guess? I had rather you did not. I could, you know. Never mind about that. Now, come and have a turn. I am bound not to give you a ring, but you are bound to accept anything else I may offer. No, Lord Silverbridge, not at all. Nevertheless, we'll have a turn. That night, before he went up to his room, he had told Isabel Boncassen that he loved her. And when he spoke, he was telling her the truth. It had seemed to him that Maybel had become hard to him and had over and over again rejected the approaches to tenderness which he attempted to make in his intercourse with her. Even though she were to accept him, what would that be worth to him if she did not love him? So many things had been added together. Why had Trigir gone to Grex and having gone there, why had he kept his journey a secret? Trigir, he knew, was engaged to his sister. But for all that, there was a closer intimacy between Maybel and Trigir than between Maybel and himself. And surely she might have taken his ring. And then Isabel Boncassen was so perfect. Since he had first met her, he had heard her loveliness talked of on all sides. It seemed to be admitted everywhere that so beautiful a creature had never before been seen in London. There is even a certain dignity attached to that which is praised by all lips. Miss Boncassen, as an American girl, had she been judged to be beautiful only by his own eyes, might perhaps have seemed to him to be beneath his serious notice. In such a case, he might have felt himself unable to justify so extraordinary a choice. But there was an acclamation of assent as to this girl. Then came the dancing, the one dance after another, the pressure of the hand, the entreaty that she would not, just on this occasion, dance with any other man, the attendance on her when she took her glass of wine, the whispered encouragement of Mrs. Montecute-Jones, the half-resisting and yet half-yielding conduct of the girl. I shall not dance at all again, she said, when he asked her to stand up for another. Think of all that lawn tennis this morning. But you will play tomorrow. I thought you were going. Of course I shall stay now, he said. And as he said it, he put his hand on her hand, which was on his arm. She drew it away at once. I love you so dearly, he whispered to her, so dearly. Lord Silverbridge, I do, I do. Can you say that you will love me in return? I cannot, she said slowly. I have never dreamed of such a thing. I hardly know now whether you are an earnest. Indeed, indeed I am. Then I will say good night and think about it. Everybody is going. We will have our game tomorrow at any rate. When he went to his room, he found the ring on his dressing table. End of chapter 39. Chapter 40 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 40, and then. On the next morning Miss Boncassen did not appear at breakfast. Word came that she had been so fatigued by the law and tennis as not to be able to leave her bed. I have been to her, said Mrs. Montacute Jones, whispering to Lord Silverbridge, as though he were particularly interested. There's nothing really the matter. She will be down to lunch. I was afraid she might be ill, said Silverbridge, who was now hardly anxious to hide his admiration. Oh no, nothing of that sort, but she will not be able to play again today. It was your fault. You should not have made her dance last night. After that, Mrs. Jones said a word about it all to Lady Babel. I hope the Duke will not be angry with me. Why should he be angry with you? I don't suppose he will approve of it, and perhaps he'll say I brought them together on purpose. Soon afterwards, Babel asked Silverbridge to walk with her to the waterfall. She had worked herself into such a state of mind that she hardly knew what to do, what to wish, or how to act. At one moment she would tell herself that it was better in every respect that she should cease to think of being Duchess of Omnium. It was not fit that she should think of it. She herself cared but little for the young man, and he, she would tell herself, now appeared to care as little for her, and yet to be Duchess of Omnium. But was it not clear that he was absolutely in love with this other girl? She had played her card so badly that the game was now beyond her powers. Then other thoughts would come. Was it beyond her powers? Had he not told her in London that he loved her? Had he not given her the ring which she well knew he valued? Ah, if she could but have been aware of all that had passed between Silverbridge and the Duke, how different would have been her feelings? And then would it not be so much better for him that he should marry her, one of his own class, than this American girl of whom nobody knew anything? And then, to be the daughter of the Duke of Omnium, to be the future Duchess, to escape from all the cares which her father's vices and follies had brought upon her, to have come to an end of all her troubles, would it not be sweet? She had made up her mind to nothing when she asked him to walk up to the waterfall. There was present to her only the glimmer of an idea that she ought to caution him not to play with the American girl's feelings. She knew herself to be aware that when the time for her own action came, her feminine feelings would get the better of her purpose. She could not craftily bring him to the necessity of bestowing himself upon her. Had that been within the compass of her powers, opportunities had not been lacking to her. On such occasions, she had always spared him. And should the opportunity come again, again she would spare him. But she might perhaps do some good, not to herself, that was now out of the question, but to him by showing him how wrong he was in trifling with this girl's feelings. And so they started for their walk. He, of course, would have avoided it had it been possible. When men in such matters have two strings to their bow, much inconveniences felt when the two become entangled. Silverbridge, no doubt, had come over to Killen Codlam for the sake of making love to Mabel Grex, and instead of doing so, he had made love to Isabel Boncassen. And during the watches of the night, and as he had dressed himself in the morning, and while Mrs. Jones had been whispering to him her little bulletin as to the state of the young lady's health, he had not repented himself of the change. Mabel had been, he thought, so little gracious to him that he would have given up that notion earlier, but for his indiscreet declaration to his father. On the other hand, making love to Isabel Boncassen, seemed to him to possess some divine aflatus of joy, which made it of all imaginable occupations the sweetest and most charming. She had admitted of no embrace. Indeed, he had attempted none, unless that touch of the hand might be so called, from which she had immediately withdrawn. Her conduct had been such that he had felt it to be incumbent on him at the very moment to justify the touch by a declaration of love. Then she had told him that she would not promise to love him in return, and yet it had been so sweet, so heavenly sweet. During the morning he had almost forgotten Mabel. When Mrs. Jones told him that Isabel would keep her room, he longed to ask for leave to go and make some inquiry at the door. She would not play lawn tennis with him. Well, he did not now care much for that. After what he had said to her, she must at any rate give him some answer. She had been so gracious to him that his hopes ran very high. It never occurred to him to fancy that she might be gracious to him because he was heir to the dukedom of Omnium. She herself was so infinitely superior to all wealth, to all rank, to all sub-lunary arrangements, conventions, and considerations that there was no room for confidence of that nature. But he was confident because her smile had been sweet and her eyes bright, and because he was conscious, though unconsciously conscious, of something of the sympathy of love. But he had to go to the waterfall with Mabel. Lady Mabel was always dressed perfectly, having great gifts of her own in that direction. There was a freshness about her which made her morning costume more charming than that of the evening. And never did she look so well as when a raid for a walk. On this occasion, she had certainly done her best. But he, poor blind idiot, saw nothing of this. The white, gauzy fabric which had covered Isabelle's satin petticoat on the previous evening still filled his eyes. Those perfect boots, the little glimpses of party-colored stockings above them, the looped-up skirt, the jacket fitting, but never binding that lovely body and waist, the jaunty hat with its small, fresh feathers, all were nothing to him. Nor was the bright, honest face beneath the hat anything to him now, for it was an honest face, though misfortunes which had come had somewhat marred the honesty of the heart. At first the conversation was about indifferent things. Killen Codlam and Mrs. Jones, crummy toddy and reginal dobs, they had gone along the high road as far as the post office and had turned up through the wood and reached a seat whence there was a beautiful view down upon the arcade before a word was said affecting either Miss Boncassen or the ring. "'You got the ring safe?' she said. "'Oh, yes. "'How could you be so foolish as to risk it?' "'I did not regard it as mine. "'You had accepted it,' I thought. "'But if I had, and then repented of my fault in doing so, "'should you not have been willing to help me "'and setting myself right with myself? "'Of course, after what had passed, "'it was a trouble to me when it came. "'What was I to do? "'For a day or two I thought I would take it, "'not as liking to take it, "'but as getting rid of the trouble in that way. "'Then I remembered its value, its history, "'the fact that all who knew you "'would want to know what had become of it, "'and I felt that it should be given back. "'There is only one person to whom you must give it.' "'Who is that?' he said quickly. "'Your wife, or to her who is to become your wife, "'no other woman can be justified "'in accepting such a present.' "'There has been a great deal more said about it than it's worth,' said he, not anxious at the present moment "'to discuss any matrimonial projects with her. "'Shall we go to the fall?' "'Then she got up and led the way "'till they came to the little bridge "'from which they could see the falls "'of the codlem below them. "'I call that very pretty,' he said. "'I thought you would like it. "'I never saw anything of that kind more jolly. "'Do you care for scenery, Mabel?' "'Very much. I know no pleasure equal to it. "'You have never seen greks? "'Is it like this? "'Not in the least. It is wilder than this, "'and there are not so many trees, "'but to my eyes it is very beautiful. "'I wish you had seen it. "'Perhaps I may some day.' "'That is not likely now,' she said. "'The house is in ruins. "'If I had just money enough to keep it for myself, "'I think I could live alone there and be happy. "'You, alone? Of course you mean to marry.' "'Mean to marry? Do persons marry because they mean it? "'With nineteen men out of twenty, "'the idea of marrying them "'would convey the idea of hating them. "'You can mean to marry. No doubt you do mean it. "'I suppose I shall some day. "'How very well the house looks from here. "'It was incumbent upon him at the present moment "'to turn the conversation. "'But when she had a project in her head, "'it was not so easy to turn her away. "'Yes, indeed,' she said, very well. "'But as I was saying, you can mean to marry. "'Anybody can mean it. "'But you can carry out a purpose. "'What are you thinking of doing now? "'Upon my honour, Mabel, that is unfair. "'Are we not friends?' "'I think so. "'Dear friends, I hope so. "'Then may I not tell you what I think? "'If you do not mean to marry that American young lady, "'you should not raise false hopes.' "'False hopes?' "'He had hopes, but he had never thought "'that Isabelle could have any. "'False hopes, certainly. "'Do you not know that everyone "'was looking at you last night? "'Certainly not. "'And that that old woman is going about talking of it "'as her doing, pretending to be afraid of your father, "'whereas nothing would please her better "'than to humble a family so high as yours?' "'Humble,' exclaimed Lord Silverbridge. "'Do you think your father would like it? "'Would you think that another man would be doing well "'for himself by marrying Miss Boncasin?' "'I do,' said he energetically. "'Then you must be very much in love with her.' "'I say nothing about that. "'If you are so much in love with her "'that you mean to face the displeasure of all your friends, "'I do not say what I mean. "'I could talk more freely to you than to anyone else, "'but I won't talk about that even to you. "'As regards Miss Boncasin, "'I think that any man might marry her without discredit. "'I won't have it said that she can be inferior to me "'or to anybody.' "'There was a steady manliness in this, "'which took Lady Mabel by surprise. "'She was convinced that he intended to offer his hand "'to the girl, and was now actuated chiefly by a feeling "'that his doing so would be an outrage "'to all English propriety. "'If a word might have an effect, "'it would be her duty to speak that word. "'I think you were wrong there, Lord Silverbridge. "'I am sure I am right. "'What have you yourself felt about your sister and Mr. Tragear?' "'It is altogether different. "'All together. "'Frank's wife will be simply his wife. "'Mine, should I outlive my father, "'will be Duchess of Omnium. "'But your father? "'I have heard you speak with bitter regret "'about this affair of Lady Mary's because it vexes him. "'Is your marriage with an American lady vex him less? "'Why should it vex him at all? "'Is she vulgar or ill to look at her, stupid?' "'Think of her mother. "'I am not going to marry her mother. "'Nor for that matter am I going to marry her. "'You are taking all that for granted in a most unfair way. "'How can I help it after what I saw yesterday? "'I will not talk any more about it. "'Let her go down, or we shall get no lunch.' "'Lady Mabel, as she followed him, "'tried to make herself believe that all her sorrow came "'from regret that so fine a scion of the British nobility "'should throw himself away upon an American adventurist.' "'The guests were still at lunch "'when they entered the dining room, "'and Isabel was seated close to Mrs. Jones. "'Silva Bridget once went up to her, "'and place was made for him "'as though he had almost a right to be next to her. "'Miss Boncassen herself bore her honors well, "'seeming to regard the little change at table "'as though it was of no moment. "'I became so eager about that game,' she said, "'that I went on for too long. "'I hope now you are none the worse. "'At six o'clock this morning "'I thought I should never use my legs again. "'Were you awake at six?' "'I said, Silver Bridget, with pitying voice. "'That was it. I could not sleep. "'Now I begin to hope that sooner or later "'I shall unstiffen.' "'During every moment and every word that he uttered, "'he was thinking of the declaration of love "'which he had made to her. "'But it seemed to him as though the matter "'had not dwelt on her mind. "'When they drew their chairs away from the table, "'he thought that not a moment was to be lost "'before some further explanation "'of their feelings for each other should be made. "'Was not the matter which had been so far discussed "'of vital importance for both of them? "'And glorious as she was above all other women, "'the offer which he had made must have had some weight "'with her. "'He did not think that he proposed to give more "'than she deserved. "'But still, that which he was so willing to give "'was not a little. "'Or was it possible that she had not understood "'his meaning? "'If so, he would not willingly lose a moment "'before he made it plain to her. "'But she seemed content to hang about with the other women, "'and when she sauntered about the grounds, "'seated herself on a garden-chair with Lady Mabel, "'and discussed with great eloquence "'the general beauty of the Scottish scenery.' "'An hour went on in this way. "'Could it be that she knew that he had offered "'to make her his wife? "'During this time he went and returned more than once, "'but still she was there, on the same garden-seat, "'talking to those who came her way. "'Then on a sudden she got up "'and put her hand on his arm. "'Come and take a turn with me,' she said. "'Lord Silverbridge, do you remember anything of last night?' "'Remember.' "'I thought for a while this morning "'that I would let it pass "'as though it had been mere trifling. "'It would have wanted, too, to let it pass in that way,' "'he said, almost indignantly. "'On hearing this she looked up at him, "'and there came over her face that brilliant smile, "'which to him was perhaps the most potent of her spells. "'What do you mean by wanting, too? "'I must have a voice in that as well as you. "'And what is your voice? "'My voice is this. "'I told you last night that I loved you. "'This morning I ask you to be my wife.' "'It is a very clear voice,' she said, almost in a whisper, "'but in a tone so serious that it startled him. "'It ought to be clear,' he said doggedly. "'Do you think I don't know that? "'Do you think that if I liked you well last night "'I don't like you better now? "'But do you like me? "'That is just the thing I am going to say nothing about. "'Isabel, just the one thing I will not allude to. "'Now you must listen to me. "'Certainly. "'I know a great deal about you. "'We Americans are an inquiring people, "'and I have found out pretty much everything.' "'His mind misgave him, "'as he felt she had ascertained his form of purpose "'respecting Mabel. "'You,' she said, among young men in England "'are about the foremost, "'and therefore, as I think, about the foremost in the world, "'and you have all personal gifts, youth, and spirits. "'Well, I will not go on and name the others. "'You are, no doubt, supposed to be entitled "'to the best and sweetest of God's feminine creatures.' "'You are she.' "'Whether you be entitled to me or not, I cannot yet say. "'Now I will tell you something of myself. "'My father's father came to New York as a laborer from Holland "'and worked upon the keys in that city. "'Then he built houses and became rich "'and was almost a miser, "'with the good sense, however, to educate his only son. "'What my father is, you see? "'To me, he is sterling gold, "'but he is not like your people. "'My dear mother is not at all like your ladies. "'She is not a lady in your sense. "'Though with her unselfish devotion to others, "'she is something infinitely better. "'For myself, I am, well, meaning to speak honestly, "'I will call myself pretty and smart. "'I think I know how to be true. "'I am sure you do. "'But what right have you to suppose "'that I shall know how to be a duchess? "'I am sure you will. "'Now, listen to me. "'Go to your friends and ask them. "'Ask that lady, Mabel. "'Ask your father. "'Ask that lady, Cantrip. "'And above all, ask yourself. "'And allow me to require you to take three months to do this. "'Do not come to see me for three months. "'And then?' "'What may happen then? "'I cannot tell, for I want three months also "'to think of it myself. "'Till then, goodbye.' She gave him her hand and left it in his for a few seconds. He tried to draw her to him, but she resisted him, still smiling, then she left him. End of chapter 40. Chapter 41 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 41, Ischel. It was accustomed with Mrs. Finn almost every autumn to go off to Vienna, where she possessed considerable property and there to inspect the circumstances of her estate. Sometimes her husband would accompany her, and he did so in this year of which we are now speaking. One morning in September they were together at a hotel in Ischel, with that they had come from Vienna, when, as they went through the hall into the courtyard, they came in the very doorway upon the Duke of Omnium and his daughter. The Duke and Lady Mary had just arrived, having passed through the mountains from the Saltmine district and were about to take up their residence in the hotel for a few days. They had traveled very slowly, for Lady Mary had been ill, and the Duke had expressed his determination to see a doctored Ischel. There was no greater mistake than in supposing that only the young blushed. But the blushes of middle life are luckily not seen through the tan, which has come from the sun and the gas and the work and the wiles of the world. Both the Duke and Finneas blushed, and though their blushes were hidden, that peculiar glance of the eye, which always accompanies a blush, was visible enough from one to the other. The elder lady kept her countenance admirably, and the younger one had no occasion for blushing. She had once ran forward and kissed her friend. The Duke stood with his hat off, waiting to give his hand to the lady, and then took that of his late colleague. How odd that we should meet here, he said, turning to Mrs. Finne. Odd enough to us that your grace should be here, she said, because we had heard nothing of your intended coming. It is so nice to find you, said Lady Mary. We are at this moment come. Don't say that you are at this moment going. At this moment we are going only as far as Halstadt. And are coming back to dinner. Of course they will dine with us. Will they not, papa? The Duke said that he hoped they would. To declare that you are engaged at the hotel, unless there be some real engagement, is almost an impossibility. There was no escape, and before they were allowed to get into their carriage, they had promised they would dine with the Duke and his daughter. I don't know that it is especially a bore, Mrs. Finne said to her husband at the carriage. You may be quite sure that of whatever trouble they may be in it, he is much more than his share. His share should be the whole, said her husband. No one else has done anything wrong. When the Duke's apology had reached her, so that there was no longer any ground for absolute hostility, then she had told the whole story to her husband. He at first was very indignant. What right had the Duke to expect that any ordinary friend should act duena over his daughter in accordance with his caprices? This was said, and much more of the kind, but any humor towards quarreling which Finneas Finne might have felt for a day or two was quieted by his wife's prudence. A man, she said, can do no more than apologize. After that there is no room for reproach. At dinner the conversation turned at first on British politics, in which Mrs. Finne was quite able to take her part. Finneas was decidedly of opinion that Sir Timothy Beeswax and Lord Drummond could not live another session. And on this subject a good deal was said. Later in the evening the Duke found himself sitting with Mrs. Finne and the broad veranda over the hotel garden, while Lady Mary was playing to Finneas within. How do you think she is looking? Asked the father. Of course I see that she has been ill. She tells me that she was far from well at Salzburg. Yes indeed, for three or four days she frightened me much. She suffered terribly from headaches. Nervous headaches? So they said there, I feel quite angry with myself because I did not bring a doctor with us. The trouble and ceremony of such an accompaniment is no doubt disagreeable. And I suppose seemed when he started to be unnecessary. Quite unnecessary. Does she complain again now? She did today, a little. The next day Lady Mary could not leave her bed and the Duke and his sorrow was obliged to apply to Mrs. Finne. After what had passed on the previous day, Mrs. Finne of course called and was shown up at once to her young friend's room. There she found the girl in great pain lying with her two thin hands up to her head and hardly able to utter more than a word. Shortly after that Mrs. Finne was alone with the Duke and then there took place a conversation between them which the Lady thought to be very remarkable. Had I better send for a doctor from England, he asked. In answer to this Mrs. Finne expressed her opinion that such a measure was hardly necessary, that the gentleman from the town who had been called in seemed to know what he was about and that the illness, lamentable as it was, did not seem to be in any way dangerous. One cannot tell what it comes from, said the Duke dubiously. Young people, I fancy, are often subject to such maladies. It must come from something wrong. That may be said of all sickness. And therefore one tries to find out the cause. She says that she is unhappy. These last words he spoke slowly and in a low voice. To this Mrs. Finne could make no reply. She did not doubt that the girl was unhappy and she knew well why, but the source of Lady Mary's misery was one to which she could not very well elude. You know all the misery about that young man. That is a trouble that requires time to cure it, she said. Not meaning to imply that time would cure it by enabling the girl to forget her lover but because in truth she had not known what else to say. If time will cure it, time they say cures all sorrows. But what should I do to help time? There is no sacrifice I would not make, no sacrifice of myself I mean. I would devote myself to her, leave everything else on one side. We purposed being back in England in October but I would remain here if I thought it better for her comfort. I cannot tell, Duke. Neither can I, but you are a woman and might know better than I do. It is so hard that a man should be left with a charge of which from its very nature he cannot understand the duties. Then he paused but she could find no words which would suit at the moment. It was almost incredible to her that after what had passed he should speak to her at all as to the condition of his daughter. I cannot, you know, he said very seriously, encourage a hope that she should be allowed to marry that man. I do not know. You yourself, Mrs. Finn, felt that when she told you about it at matching. I felt that you would disapprove of it. Disapprove of it? How could it be otherwise? Of course you felt that. There are ranks in life in which the first comer that suits a maiden's eyes may be accepted as a fitting lover. I will not say, but they who are born to such a life may be happier. They are, I am sure, free from the troubles to which they are incident whom fate has called to a different sphere. But duty is duty and whatever pang it may cost, duty should be performed. Certainly. Certainly, certainly, certainly, he said, re-echoing her word. But then, Duke, one has to be so sure what duty requires. In many matters, this is easy enough and the only difficulty comes from temptation. There are cases in which it is so hard to know. Is this one of them? I think so. Then the maiden should, in any class of life, be allowed to take the man that just suits her eye. As he said this, his mind was intent on his Glencora and on Bergo Fitzgerald. I have not said so. A man may be bad, vicious, a spendthrift, eaten up by bad habits. Then he frowned, thinking that she also had her mind intent on his Glencora and on that Bergo Fitzgerald and being most unwilling to have the difference between Bergo and Frank Tragear pointed out to him. Nor have I said, she continued, that even were none of these faults apparent in the character of a suitor, the lady should, in all cases, be advised to accept a young man because he has made himself agreeable to her. There may be discrepancies. There are, said he, still in a low voice, but with infinite energy, insurmountable discrepancies. I only said that this was a case in which it might be difficult for you to see your duty plainly. Why should it be? You would not have her break her heart? Then he was silent for a while, turning over in his mind the proposition which now seemed to have been made to him. If the question came to that, should she be allowed to break her heart and die? Or should he save her from that fate by sanctioning her marriage with Tragear? If the choice could be put to him plainly by some supernal power, what then would he choose? If duty required him to prevent this marriage, his duty could not be altered by the fact that his girl would avenge herself upon him by dying. If such a marriage were in itself wrong, that wrong could not be made right by the fear of such a catastrophe. Was it not often the case that duty required that somebody should die? And yet, as he thought of it, thought that the someone whom his mind had suggested was the one female creature now left belonging to him, he put his hand up to his brow and trembled with agony. If he knew, if in truth he believed that such would be the result of firmness on his part, then he would be infirm, then he must yield. Sooner than that he must welcome this Tragear to his house. But why should he think that she would die? This woman had now asked him whether he would be willing to break his girl's heart. It was a frightful question, but he could see that it had come naturally in the sequence of the conversation which he had forced upon her. Did girls break their hearts in such emergencies? Was it not all romance? Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love. He remembered it all and carried on the argument in his mind, though the pause was but for a minute. There might be suffering, no doubt. The higher the duties, the keener the pangs. But would it become him to be deterred from doing right because she for a time might find that she had made the world bitter to herself? And were there not feminine wiles, tricks by which women learned to have their way in opposition to the judgment of their lords and masters? He did not think that his merry was willfully guilty of any scheme. The suffering he knew was true suffering, but not the less did it become him to be on his guard against the tax of this nature. No, he said at last, I would not have her break her heart. If I understand what such words mean, they are generally, I think, used fantastically. You would not wish to see her overwhelmed by sorrow? Wish it, what a question to ask a father. I must be more plain in my language, Duke. Though such a marriage be distasteful to you, it might perhaps be preferable to seeing her sorrowing always. Why should it? I have to sorrow always. We are told that man is born to sorrow as surely as the sparks fly upward. Then I can say nothing further. You think I am cruel. If I am to say what I really think, I shall offend you. No, not unless you mean offense. I shall never do that to you, Duke. When you talk as you do now, you hardly know yourself. You think you could see her suffering and not be moved by it. But were it to be continued long, you would give way. Though we know that there is an infinity of grief in this life, still we struggle to save those we love from grieving. If she be steadfast enough to cling to her affection for this man, then at last you will have to yield. He looked at her frowning, but did not say a word. Then it will perhaps be a comfort for you to know that the man himself is trustworthy and honest. There was a terrible rebuke in this, but still, as he had called it down upon himself, he would not resent it even in his heart. Thank you, he said, rising from his chair. Perhaps you will see her again this afternoon. Of course, she assented, and as the interview had taken place in his rooms, she took her leave. This which Mrs. Finn had said to him was all to the same effect as that which had come from Lady Cantrip. Only it was said with a higher spirit. Both the women saw the matter in the same light. There must be a fight between him and his girl, but she, if she could hold out for a certain time, would be the conqueror. He might take her away and try what absence would do, or he might have recourse to that specific which had answered so well in reference to his own wife. But if she continued to sorrow during absence, and if she would have nothing to do with the other lover, then he must at last give way. He had declared that he was willing to sacrifice himself, meaning thereby that if a lengthened visit to the cities of China, or a prolonged sojourn in the western states of America would wean her from her love, he would go to China or to the western states. At present, his self-banishment had been carried no farther than Vienna. During their travels hitherto, Trigier's name had not once been mentioned, that you could come away from home resolved not to mention it, and she was minded to keep it in reserve till some seem in catastrophe should justify a declaration of her purpose. But from first to last she had been sad, and laterly she had been ill. When asked as to her complaint, she would simply say that she was not happy. To go on with this through the Chinese cities could hardly be good for either of them. She would not wake herself to any enthusiasm in regard to scenery, costume, pictures, or even discomforts. Wherever she was taken, it was all barren to her. As their plans stood at present, they were to return to England so as to enable her to be at customs by the middle of October. Had he taught himself to hope that any good could be done by prolonged traveling, he would readily have thrown over customs and lured Popplecourt. He could not bring himself to trust much to the Popplecourt scheme. But the same contrivance had answered on that former occasion. When he spoke to her about their plans, she expressed herself quite ready to go back to England. When he suggested those Chinese cities, her face became very long and she was immediately attacked by paroxysms of headaches. I think I should take her to some place on the seashore in England, said Mrs. Finn. Custons is close to the sea, he replied. It is Lord Cantrip's place in Dorseture. It was partly settled that she was to go there. I suppose she likes Lady Cantrip. Why should she not? She has not said a word to me to the contrary. I only fear that she would feel that she was being sent there as to a convent. What ought I to do then? How can I venture to answer that? What she would like best, I think, would be to return to matching with you and to settle down in a quiet way for the winter? The Duke shook his head. That would be worse than travelling. She would still have headaches and still tell him that she was unhappy. Of course I do not know what your plans are and pray believe me that I should not obtrude my advice if you did not ask me. I know it, he said. I know how good you are and how reasonable. I know how much you have to forgive. Oh, no. And if I have not said so as I should have done, it has not been from what I'm feeling. I do believe you did what you thought best when Mary told you that story at matching. Why should your grace go back to that? Only that I may acknowledge my indebtedness to you and say to you somewhat fuller that I could do in my letter that I am sorry for the pain which I gave you. All that is over now and shall be forgotten. Then he spoke of his immediate plans. He would go at once back to England by slow stages, by very slow stages, staying a day or two at Salzburg, at Ratisbon, at Nuremberg, at Frankfurt, and so on. In this way he would reach England about the 10th of October and Mary would then be ready to go to customs by the time appointed. In a day or two, Lady Mary was better. It is terrible while at last, she said, speaking to Mrs. Finn of her headache, but when it is gone, then I am quite well. Only, she added after a pause, only I can never be happy again while papa thinks as he does now. Then there was a party made up before they separated for an excursion to the Hintase and the Obase. On this occasion, Lady Mary seemed to enjoy herself as she liked the companionship of Mrs. Finn. Against Lady Cantrip, she said never a word, but Lady Cantrip was always a duana to her whereas Mrs. Finn was a friend. While the Duke and Phineas were discussing politics together, thoroughly enjoying the weakness of Lord Drummond and the iniquity of certimity, which they did with augmented vehemence from their pony's backs, the two women in lower voices talked over their own affairs. I dare say you will be happy at customs, said Mrs. Finn. No, I shall not. There will be people there whom I don't know and I don't want to know. Have you heard anything about him, Mrs. Finn? Mrs. Finn turned round and looked at her for a moment almost angrily. Then her heart relented. Do you mean Mr. Tragear? Yes, Mr. Tragear. I think I heard that he was shooting with Lord Silverbridge. I am glad of that, said Mary. It will be pleasant for both of them. I am very glad that they should be together. While I know that, I feel that we are not altogether separated. I will never give it up, Mrs. Finn, never, never. It is no use taking me to China. In that, Mrs. Finn quite agreed with her. End of chapter 41. Chapter 42 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 Nicholas Clifford. The Duke's Children by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 52, Again at Killen Codlam. Silverbridge remained at Crummy Toddy under the dominion of Reginald Dobbs till the second week in September. Popplecourt, Nittedale, and Gerald Palacher were there also, very obedient, and upon the whole, efficient. Tragear was intractable, occasional, and untrustworthy. He was the cause of much trouble to Mr. Dobbs. He would entertain a most heterodox and injurious idea that as he had come to Crummy Toddy for amusement, he was not bound to do anything that did not amuse him. He would not understand that in sport, as in other matters, there was an ambition driving a man onto excel always and to be ahead of others. In spite of this, Mr. Dobbs had caused for much triumph. It was going to be the greatest thing ever done by six guns in Scotland. As for Gerald, whom he had regarded as a boy and who had offended him by saying that Crummy Toddy was ugly, he was ready to go round the world for him. He had indoctrinated Gerald with all his ideas of a sportsman, even to a contempt for champagne, and a conviction that tobacco should be moderated. The three lords, too, had proved themselves efficient, and the thing was going to be a success. But just when a day was of vital importance, when it was essential that there should be a strong party for a drive, Silverbridge found it absolutely necessary that he should go over to Killan Codlam. She has gone, said Knittedale. Who the? is she? asked Silverbridge almost angrily. Everybody knows who she is, said Popplecourt. It will be a good thing when some she has got hold of you, my boy, so as to keep you in your proper place. If you cannot withstand that sort of attraction, you what not to go in for shooting at all, said Dobbs. I shouldn't wonder it is going, continued Knittedale, if we didn't all know that the American is no longer there. She has gone to Bath, I think they say. I suppose it's Mrs. Jones herself, said Popplecourt. My dear boys, said Silverbridge, you may be quite sure that when I say I am going to Killan Codlam, I mean to go and Killan Codlam, and that no chaff about young ladies, which I think very disgusting, will stop me. I shall be sorry if Dobbs's role of the kill should be lessened by a single hand, seeing that his ambition sets that way. Considering the amount of slaughter we have perpetrated, I really think that we need not be over-anxious. After this, nothing further was said. Tragear, who knew that Mabel Grex was still at Killan Codlam, had not spoken. In truth, Mabel had sent for Lord Silverbridge, and this had been her letter. Dear Lord Silverbridge, Mrs. Montecute Jones has cut to the heart because you have not been over to see her again, and she says that it is lamentable to think that such a man as Reginald Dobbs should have so much power over you. Only 12 miles, she says, and he knows that we are here. I told her that you knew Miss Boncassen was gone. But though Miss Boncassen has left us, we are a very pleasant party, and surely you must be tired of such a place as crummy toddy. If only for the sake of getting a good dinner once in a way, do come over again. I shall be here yet for ten days, as they will not let me go back to Grex. I don't know where I could be more happy. I have been asking to go to Custins, and suppose I shall turn up there sometime in the autumn. And now, shall I tell you what I expect? I do expect that you will come over to see me. I did see her the other day, you will say, and she did not make herself pleasant. I know that. How was I to make myself pleasant when I found myself so completely snuffed out by your American beauty? Now she is away, and Richard will be himself. Do come, because in truth I want to see you. Yours always sincerely, Mabel Grex. On receiving this, he had once made up his mind to go to Killen Codlam, but he could not make up his mind why it was that she had asked him. He was sure of two things. Sure, in the first place, that she had intended to let him know that she did not care about him, and then sure that she was aware of his intention in regard to Miss Boncassen. Everybody at Killen Codlam had seen it, to his disgust, but still that it was so had been manifest, and he had consoled himself, feeling that it would matter nothing should he be accepted. She had made an attempt to talk him out of his purpose. Could it be that she thought it possible a second attempt might be successful? If so, she did not know him. She had in truth thought not only that this, but that something further than this might be possible. Of course, the prize loomed larger before her eyes, as the prospects of obtaining it became less. She could not doubt that he had intended to offer her his hand when he had spoken to her of his love in London. Then she had stopped him, had spared him, as she told her friend. Certainly she had then been swayed by some feeling that it would be ungenerous in her to seize greedily the first opportunity he had given her, but he had again made an effort. He surely would not have centered the ring had he not intended her to regard him as her lover. When she received the ring, her heart had beat very high. Then she had sent that little note, saying that she would keep it till she could give it to his wife. When she wrote that, she had intended the ring should be her own, and other things pressed upon her mind. Why had she been asked to the dinner at Richmond? Why was she invited to Custon's? Little hints had reached her of the duke's good will towards her. If on that side the marriage were approved, why should she destroy her own hopes? Then she had seen him with Miss Boncassen, and in her peak had forced the ring back upon him. During that long game on the lawn, her feelings had been very bitter. Of course the girl was the lovelier of the two. All the world was raving of her beauty, and there was no doubt as to the charm of her wit and manner. And then she had no touch of that blasé used up way of life of which Lady Mabel was conscious herself. It was natural that it should be so. And was she, Mabel Grex, the girl to stand in his way and to force herself upon him if he loved another? Certainly not, though there might be a triple ducal coronet to be had. But were there not other considerations? Could it be well that the heir of the house of Omnium should marry an American girl as to whose humble birth whispers were already afloat? As his friend, would it not be right that she should tell him what the world would say? As his friend, therefore, she had given him her counsel. When he was gone, the whole thing weighed heavily upon her mind. Why should she lose the prize if it might still be her own? To be duchess of Omnium, she had read of many of the other sex, and of one or two of her own, who by settled resolution had achieved greatness and opposition to all obstacles. Was this thing beyond her reach? To hunt him and catch him, and marry him to his own injury? That would be impossible to her. She was sure of herself there. But how infinitely better would this be for him? Would she not have all his family with her and all the world of England? In how short a time would he not repent his marriage with Miss Boncassen? Whereas were she his wife, she would so stir herself for his joys, for his good, for his honour, that there should be no possibility of repentance. And he certainly had loved her. Why else had he followed her and spoken such words to her? Of course he had loved her. But then there had come this blaze of beauty and had carried him off, not his heart, but his imagination, because he had yielded to such fascination, were she to desert him, and also to desert herself? From day to day she thought of it, and then she wrote that letter. She hardly knew what she would do, what she might say, but she would trust to the opportunity to do and say something. If you have no room for me, he said to Mrs. Jones, you must scold Lady Mab. She has told me that you told her to invite me. Of course I did. Do you think that I would not sleep in the stables and give you up my own bed if there were no other? It is so good of you to come. So good of you, Mrs. Jones, to ask me. So very kind to come when all the attraction has gone. Then he blushed and stammered, and was just able to say that his only object in life was to pour out his adoration at the feet of Mrs. Montecute Jones herself. There was a certain Lady Fawn, a pretty mincing married woman of about 25, with a husband much older, who liked mild flirtations with mild young men. I am afraid we've lost your great attraction, she whispered to him. Certainly not as long as Lady Fawn is here, he said, seating himself close to her on a garden bench and seizing suddenly hold of her hand. She gave a little scream at a jerk and so relieved herself from him. You see, said he, people do make such mistakes about a man's feeling. Lord Silverbridge, it's quite true, but I'll tell you about it another time, and so he left her. All these little troubles, his experience in the house, the necessity of snubbing Tifto, the choice of a wife, and his battle with Reginald Dobbs were giving him by degrees age and flavor. Lady Mabel had fluttered about him on his first coming and had been very gracious, doing the part of an old friend. There is to be a big shooting tomorrow, she said, in the presence of Mrs. Jones. If it is to come to that, he said, I might as well go back to Dobbynum. You may shoot if you like, said Lady Mabel. I haven't even brought a gun with me. Then we'll have a walk, a whole lot of us, she said. In the evening, about an hour before dinner, Silverbridge and Lady Mabel were seated together on the bank of a little stream which ran on the other side of the road but on a spot not more than a furlong from the hall door. She had brought him there, but she had done so without any definite scheme. She had made no plan of campaign for the evening, having felt relieved when she found herself able to postpone the project of her attack till tomorrow. Of course, there must be an attack, but how it should be made, she had never had the courage to tell herself. The great women of the world, the Samarameses, the Pocahontas, the Ida Pfeifers, and the Charlotte Cordes had never been wanting to themselves when the moment for action came. Now she was pleased to have this opportunity added to her, this pleasant minute in which some soft, preparatory word might be spoken, but the great effort should be made on the morrow. It's not this nicer than shooting with Mr. Dobbs, she asked, a great deal nicer. Of course, I am bound to say so, but in truth, I want to find out what you really like. Men are so different. You need not pay me any compliment. You know that well enough. I like you better than Dobbs, if you mean that. Even so much as something, but I am fond of shooting. Only a man may have enough of it. Too much if he is subject to Dobbs as Dobbs like them to be. Gerald likes it. Did you think it odd, she said after a pause, that I should ask you to come over again? Was it odd, he replied? That is, as you may take it, there is certainly no other man in the world to whom I could have done it. Not to Tragear? Yes, she said, yes to Tragear. Could I have been as sure of a welcome for him as I am for you? Frank is in all respects the same as a brother to me. That would have seemed odd, I mean to myself. And has this been odd to yourself? Yes, not that anybody else has felt it so. Only I, and perhaps you, you felt it so? Not especially. I thought you were a very good fellow. I have always thought that, except when you made me take back the ring. Does that still fret you? No man likes to take back a thing. It makes him seem to have been awkward and stupid in giving it. It was the value. You should have left me to judge of that. If I have offended you, I will beg your pardon, give me anything else, anything but that, and I will take it. But why not that, said he? Now that you have fitted it for a lady's finger, it should go to your wife. No one else should have it. Upon this he brought the ring once more out of his pocket and again offered it to her. No, anything but that, that your wife must have. Then he put the ring back again. It would have been nicer for you had Miss Boncassen been here. In saying this she followed no plan. It came rather from peak. It was almost as though she had asked him whether Miss Boncassen was to have the ring. What makes you say that? But it would. Yes it would, he replied stoutly, turning round as he lay on the ground and facing her. Has it come to that? Come to what? You ask me a question and I answer you truly. You cannot be happy without her? I did not say so. You ask me whether I should like to have her here and I say yes. What would you think of me if I said no? My being here is not enough. This should not have been said, of course, but the little speech came from the exquisite pain of the moment. She had meant to have said hardly anything. She had intended to be happy with him, just touching lightly on things which might lead to that attack which must be made on the morrow. But words will often lead whither the speaker has not intended. So it was now and in the soreness of her heart she spoke. My being here is not enough. It would be enough, said he, jumping to his feet if you understood all and would be kind to me. I will at any rate be kind to you, she replied, as she sat upon the bank looking at the running water. I have asked Miss Boncassen to be my wife. And has she accepted? No, no, not as yet. She is to take three months to think of it. Of course I love her the best of all. If you will sympathize with me in that, then I will be as happy with you as the day is long. No, said she, I cannot, I will not. Very well. There should be no such marriage. If you have told me in confidence, of course I have told you in confidence. It will go no farther, but there can be no sympathy between us. It is not, then she burst into tears. Mabel. No, sir, no, no, what did you mean? But never mind, I have no questions to ask. Not a word to say, why should I? Only this, that such a marriage will disgrace your family. To me it is no more than to anybody else, but it will disgrace your family. How she got back to the house, she hardly knew, nor did he. That evening they did not again speak to each other. And on the following morning there was no walk in the mountains. Before dinner he drove himself back to crummy toddy, and when he was taking his leave, she shook hands with him with her usual pleasant smile. End of chapter 42. Chapter 43 of the Duke's Children. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were 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 43, What Happened to Don Caster. The legion this year was to be run on the 14th September, and while Lord Silverbridge was abusing himself with a deer, a crummy toddy, and at Killen Codlam with the more easily pursued young ladies, the end of Fatiguel Major was hard at work in the stables. This came a little hard on him. There was the cub hunting to be looked after, which made his presence at Runnymede necessary, and then that pig-headed fellow Silverbridge would not have the horses trained anywhere but at Newmarket. How was he to be in two places at once? Yet he was in two places almost at once, cub hunting in the morning at Egham and Bagchut, and sitting on the same evening at the stable door in Newmarket with his eyes fixed upon Prime Minister. Gradually had he and Captain Green come to understand each other, and though they did at last understand each other, Tifto would talk as though there were no such correct intelligence, when, for instance, he would abuse Lord Silverbridge for being pig-headed. On such occasions, the captain's remark would generally be short. That be blowed, he would say, implying that that state of things between the two partners, in which such complaints might be natural, had now been brought to an end. But on one occasion, about a week before the race, he spoke a little plainer. What's the use of your going on with all that before me? It's settled what you've got to do. I don't know that anything is settled, said the Major. Ain't it? I thought it was. If it ain't, you'll find yourself in the wrong box. You've as straight a tip as a man need wish for, but if you back out, you'll come to grief. Your money's all on the other way already. On the Friday before the race, Silverbridge dined with Tifto at the Bear Garden. On the next morning, they went down to Newmarket to see the horse get a gallop, and came back the same evening. During all this time, Tifto was more than ordinarily pleasant to his patron. The horse and the certainty of the horse's success were the only subjects mooted. It isn't what I say, repeated Tifto, but look at the betting. You can't get five to four against him. They tell me that if you want to do anything on the Sunday, the pull will be the other way. I stand to lose over 20,000 pounds already, said Silverbridge, almost frightened by the amount. But how much are you on to win, said Tifto? I suppose you could sell your bets for 5,000 pounds down. I wish I knew how to do it, said Silverbridge. But this was an arrangement which, if made just now, would not suit the Major's views. They went to Newmarket, and there they met Captain Green. Tifto, said the young Lord, I won't have that fellow with us when the horse is galloping. There isn't an honest man, or a man who understands the horse paces better in all England, said Tifto. I won't have him standing alongside of me on the heath, said his Lordship. I don't know how I'm to help it. If he's there, I'll send the horse in, that's all. Then Tifto found it best to say a few words to Captain Green. But the Captain also said a few words to himself. Duh, young fool, he don't know what he's dropping into. Which assertion, if you lay aside the unnecessary expletive, was true to the letter. Lord Silverbridge was a young fool, and did not at all know into what a mess he was being dropped by the united experience, perspicuity, and energy of the man whose company on the heath he had declined. The horse was quite a picture to look at. Mr. Pook, the trainer, assured his Lordship that for health and condition he had never seen anything better. Stout all over, said Mr. Pook, and not an ounce of what you may call flesh, and bright, just feel his coat, my lord, that's elf, that is, not dressing nor yet Macassor. And then there were various evidences produced of his pace, how he had beaten that horse, giving him two pounds, how he had been beaten by that but only on a mile course, the leisure distance was just the thing for the prime minister, how by a lucky chance that marvelous quick rat of a thing that had won the derby had not been entered for the autumn race, how Cole Heaver was known to have had bad feet. He's a stout horse, no doubt, is the Eaver, said Mr. Pook, and that's why the bedding men have stuck to him, but he'll be nowhere on Wednesday. They're beginning to see it now, my lord. I wish they wasn't so sharp-sighted. In the course of the day, however, they met a gentleman who was of a different opinion. He said loudly that he looked on the Heaver as the best three-year-old in England. Of course, as matters stood, he wasn't going to back the Heaver at even money, but he'd take 25 to 30 in hundreds between the two. All this ended in the bet being accepted and duly booked by Lord Silverbridge, and in this way, Silverbridge added 2,400 pounds to his responsibilities. But there was worse than this coming. On the Sunday afternoon, he went down to Doncaster, of course, in company with the Major. He was alive to the necessity of ridding himself of the Major, but it had been acknowledged that that duty could not be performed till after this race had been run. As he sat opposite to his friend on their journey to Doncaster, he thought of this in the train. It should be done immediately on their return to London after the race. But the horse, his prime minister, was by this time so dear to him that he intended it possible to keep possession of the animal. When they reached Doncaster, the racing men were all occupied with prime minister. The horse and Mr. Pooke had arrived that day from Newmarket via Cambridge and Peterborough. First, oh, Silverbridge and Mr. Pooke visited him together three times that afternoon and evening. And the captain also visited the horse, though not in company with Lord Silverbridge. To do Mr. Pooke justice, no one could be more careful. When the captain came round with the Major, Mr. Pooke was there. But Captain Green did not enter the box, had no wish to do so, was of opinion that on such occasions no one whose business did not carry him there should go near a horse. His only object seemed to be to compliment Mr. Pooke as to his care, skill and good fortune. It was on the Tuesday evening that the chief mischief was done. There was a club at which many of the racing men dined and there Lord Silverbridge spent his evening. He was the hero of the hour and everybody flattered him. It must be acknowledged that his head was turned. They dined at eight and much wine was drunk. No one was tipsy, but many were elated and much confidence in their favorite animals was imparted to men who had been sufficiently cautious before dinner. Then cigars and soda and brandy became common and our young friend was not more abstemious than the others. Large sums were named and at last in three successive bets Lord Silverbridge backed his horse for more than 40,000 pounds. As he was making the second bet, Mr. Lupton came across to him and begged him to hold his hand. It will be a nasty sum for you to lose and winning it will be nothing to you, he said. Silverbridge took it good humoredly but said that he knew what he was about. These men will pay, whispered Lupton, but you can't be quite sure what they're at. The young man's brow was covered with perspiration. He was smoking quick and had already smoked more than was good for him. All right, he said, I'll mind what I'm about. Mr. Lupton could do no more and retired. Before the night was over, bets had been booked to the amount stated and the Duke's son who had promised that he would never plunge stood to lose about 70,000 pounds upon the race. While this was going on Tifto sat not far from his patron but completely silent. During the day and early in the evening a few sparks of the glory which scintillated from the favorite horse flew in his direction. But he was on this occasion unlike himself and though the horse was to be run in his name had very little to say in the matter. Not a boast came out of his mouth during dinner or after dinner. He was so moody that his partner who was generally anxious to keep him quiet more than once endeavored to encourage him but he was unable to rouse himself. It was still within his power to run straight to be on the square if not with Captain Green at any rate with Lord Silverbridge. But to do so he must make a clean breast with his lordship and confess the intended sin. As he heard all that was being done his conscience troubled him sorely. With pitch of this sort he had never soiled himself before. He was to have 3000 pounds from Green and then there would be the bets he himself had laid against the horse by Green's assistance. It would be the making of him of what use had been all his square work to him and then Silverbridge had behaved so badly to him but still as he sat there during the evening he would have given a hand to have been free from the attempt. He had had no conception before that he could become subject to such misery from such a cause. He would make it straight with Silverbridge this very night but that Silverbridge was ever lighting fresh cigars and ever having his glass refilled. It was clear to him that on this night Silverbridge could not be made to understand anything about it and the deed in which he himself was to be the chief actor was to be done very early on the following morning. At last he slunk away to bed. On the following morning at the morning of the day on which the race was to be run the major tapped at his patron's door about seven o'clock. Of course there was no answer though the knock was repeated. When young men overnight drink as much brandy and water as Silverbridge had done and smoke as many cigars they are not apt to hear knocks at their door made at seven o'clock. Nor was his lordship servant up so the tifto had no means of getting at him except by personal invasion of the sanctity of his bedroom but there was no time not a minute to be lost. Now within this minute that was pressing on him tifto must choose his course. He opened the door and was standing at the young man's head. What does this mean said his lordship angrily as soon as his visitor had succeeded in waking him tifto muttered something about the horse which Silverbridge failed to understand. The young man's condition was by no means pleasant. His mouth was furred by the fumes of tobacco his head was aching he was heavy with sleep and this intrusion seemed him to be a final indignity offered to him by the man whom he now hated. What business have you to come in here? He said leaning on his elbow. I don't care a straw for the horse if you have anything to say said my servant. Get out. Oh, very well said tifto and tifto got out. It was about an hour afterwards that tifto returned and on this occasion a groom from the stables and the young lord's own servant and two or three other men were with him. Tifto had been made to understand that the news now to be communicated must be communicated by himself whether his lordship were angry or not. Indeed, after what had been done his lordship's anger was not a much moment. In his present visit he was only carrying out the pleasant little plan which had been arranged for him by Captain Green. What the mischief is up? said Silverbridge, rising in his bed. Then tifto told his story sullenly, doggedly but still in a perspicuous manner and with words which admitted of no doubt but before he told the story he had excluded all but himself in the groom. He and the groom had taken the horse out of the stable it being the animals nature to eat his corn better after slight exercise and while doing so a nail had been picked up. Is it much asked Silverbridge jumping still higher in his bed? Then he was told that it was very much that the iron had driven itself into the horse's frog and that there was actually no possibility that the horse should run that day. He can't walk my lord, said the groom in that authoritative voice which grooms use when they desire to have their own way and to make their masters understand that they at any rate are not to have theirs. Where is Pook? asked Silverbridge. But Mr. Pook was also still in bed. It was soon known to Lord Silverbridge as a fact that in very truth the horse could not run. Then sick with headache, with the stomach suffering unutterable things he had as he dressed himself to think of his 70,000 pounds. Of course the money would be forthcoming but how would his father look at him? How would it be between him and his father now? After such a misfortune how would he be able to break that other matter to the duke and say that he had changed his mind about his marriage, that he was going to abandon Lady Mabel Grex and give his hand in the future duchess's coronet to an American girl whose grandfather had been a porter? A nail in his foot. Well, he had heard of such things before. He knew that such accidents had happened. What an ass must he have been to risk such a sum on the well-being and safety of an animal who might any day pick up a nail in his foot? Then he thought of the caution which Lupton had given him. What good would the money have done him had he won it? What more could he have than he now enjoyed but to lose such a sum of money? With all his advantages of wealth he felt himself to be as falorn and wretched as though he had nothing left in the world before him. End of chapter 43. Chapter 44 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 44, How It Was Done. The story was soon about the town and was the one matter for discussion in all racing quarters. About the town, it was about England, about all Europe. It had traveled to America and the Indies, to Australia and the Chinese cities before two hours were over. Before the race was run, the accident was discussed and something like the truth surmised in Cairo, Calcutta, Melbourne, and San Francisco. But at Doncaster it was so all-pervading a matter that down to the tradesmen's daughters and the boys at the free school, the town was divided into two parties, one party believing it to have been a plant, the other holding that the cause had been natural. It is hardly necessary to say that the ring as a rule belonged to the former party. The ring always suspects. It did not behoove even those who would win by the transaction to stand up for its honesty. The intention had been to take the horse round a portion of the outside of the course near to which his stable stood. A boy rode him and the groom and Tifto went with him. At a certain spot on their return, Tifto had exclaimed that the horse was going lame in his off forefoot. As to this exclamation, the boy and the two men were agreed. The boy was then made to dismount and run for Mr. Pook and as he started, Tifto commenced to examine the horse's foot. The boy saw him raise the off foreleg. He himself had not found the horse lame under him but had been so hustled and hurried out of the saddle by Tifto and the groom that he had not thought on that matter till he was questioned. So far the story told by Tifto and the groom was corroborated by the boy, except as to the horse's actual lameness. So far the story was believed by all men, except in regard to the actual lameness. And so far it was true. Then, according to Tifto and the groom, the other foot was looked at but nothing was seen. This other foot, the near forefoot, was examined by the groom who declared himself to be so flurried by the lameness of such a horse at such a time that he hardly knew what he saw or what he did not see. At any rate, then in his confusion, he found no cause of lameness. But the horse was led into the stable as lame as a tree. Here Tifto found the nail inserted into the very cleft of the frog of the near forefoot and so inserted that he could not extract it until the farrier came. That the farrier had extracted the nail from the part of the foot indicated was certainly a fact. Then there was the nail. Only those who were most peculiarly privileged were allowed to see the nail. But it was buzzed about the racing quarters at the head of the nail, an old, rusty, straight and well-pointed nail, or on it the mark of a recent hammer. In answer to this, it was alleged that the blacksmith in extracting the nail with his pincers had of course operated on its head, had removed certain particles of rust and might easily have given it the appearance of having been struck. But in answer to this, the farrier, who was a sharp fellow and quite beyond suspicion in the matter, declared that he had very particularly looked at the nail before he extracted it, had looked at it with the feeling on his mind that something base might too probably have been done, and that he was ready to swear that the clear mark on the head of the nail was there before he touched it. And then not in the stable, but lying under the little dung heap away from the stable door, there was found a small piece of broken iron bar, about a foot long, which might have answered for a hammer, a rusty bit of iron, and amidst the rust of this was found such traces as might have been left had it been used in striking such a nail. There were some who declared that neither on the nail nor on the iron could they see anything, and among these was the major. But Mr. Lupton brought a strong magnifying glass to bear, and the world of examiners was satisfied that the marks were there. It seemed however to be agreed that nothing could be done. Silverbridge would not lend himself at all to those who suspected mischief. He was miserable enough, but in this great trouble he would not separate himself from Tifto. I don't believe a word of all that, he said to Mr. Lupton. It ought to be investigated at any rate, said Lupton. Mr. Pook may do as he likes, but I will have nothing to do with it. Then Tifto came to him swaggering. Tifto had to go through a considerable amount of acting for which he was not very well adapted. The captain would have done it better. He would have endeavored to put himself all together in the same boat with his partner, and would have imagined neither suspicion or enmity on his partner's part till suspicion or enmity had been shown. But Tifto, who had not expected that the matter would be allowed to pass over without some inquiry, began by assuming that Silverbridge would think evil of him. Tifto, who at this moment would have given all that he had in the world not to have done the deed, who now hated the instigator of the deed, and felt something almost akin to love for Silverbridge, found himself to be forced by circumstances to defend himself by swaggering. I don't understand all this that's going on, my lord, he said. Neither do I, replied Silverbridge. Any horse is subject to an accident. I am, I suppose, as great a sufferer as you are, an adduced sightless able to bear it. Who has said anything to the contrary? As for bearing it, we must take it as it comes, both of us. You may as well know now as later that I have done with racing forever. What do you tell me that for? You can do as you like, and I can do as I like about that. If I had had my way about the horse, this never would have happened. Taking a horse out at that time in the morning before a race, why, you went with him yourself. Yes, by Pooke's orders, you allowed Pooke to do just as he pleased. I should like to know what money Pooke has got on it, and which way he laid it. This disgusted Silverbridge so much that he turned away and would have no more to say to Tifto. Before one o'clock, at which hour it was stated nominally that the races would commence, general opinion had formed itself, and general opinion had nearly hit the truth. General opinion declared that the nail had been driven in willfully, that it had been done by Tifto himself, and that Tifto had been instigated by Captain Green. Captain Green perhaps overacted his part a little. His intimacy with the Major was well known, and yet in all this turmoil he kept himself apart as though he had no interest in the matter. I have got my little money on, what little I have I lose," he said in answer to inquiries. But everyone knew that he could not but have a great interest in a race, as to which the half-owner of the favorite was a peculiarly intimate friend of his own. Had he come down to the stables and been seen about the place with Tifto, it might have been better. As it was, though he was very quiet, his name was soon mixed up in the matter. There was one man who asserted it as the fact known to himself that Green and Villiers, one Gilbert Villiers, were in partnership together. It was very well known that Gilbert Villiers would win 2,500 pounds from Lord Silverbridge. Then my new investigation was made into the betting of certain individuals. Of course there would be great plunder, and where would the plunder go? Who would get the money which poor Silverbridge would lose? It was said that one at least of the large bets made on that Tuesday evening could be traced to the same Villiers, though not actually made by him. More would be learned when the settling day would come. But there was quite enough already to show that there were many men determined to get to the bottom of it all, if possible. There came upon Silverbridge in his trouble a keen sense of his position and a feeling of the dignity which he ought to support. He clung during a great part of the morning to Mr. Lupton. Mr. Lupton was much his senior and they had never been intimate, but now there was comfort in his society. I am afraid you were hit heavily, said Mr. Lupton. Something over 70,000 pounds. Looking at what will be your property, it is of course nothing, but if, if what? If you go to the Jews for it, then it will become a great deal. I shall certainly not do that. Then you may regard it as a trifle, said Lupton. No, I can't, it is not a trifle. I must tell my father, he'll find the money. There is no doubt about that. He will, but I feel at present that I would rather change places with the poorest gentleman I know than to have to tell him. I have done with races, Lupton. If so, this will have been a happy day for you. A man in your position can hardly make money by it, but he may lose so much. If a man really likes the amusement, as I do, and risks no more than what he has in his pocket, that may be very well. At any rate, I have done with it. Nevertheless, he went to see the race run and everybody seemed to be touched with pity for him. He carried himself well, saying as little as he could of his own horse and taking, or effecting to take, great interest in the race. After the race he managed to see all those to whom he had lost heavy stakes, having to own to himself as he did so that not one of them was a gentleman to whom he should like to give his hand. To them he explained that his father was abroad, that probably his liabilities could not be settled till after his father's return. He, however, would consult his father's agent and would then appear on settling day. They were all full of the blandest courtesies. There was not one of them who had any doubt as to getting his money, unless the whole thing might be disputed on the score of Tifto's villainy. Even then payment could not be disputed unless it was proved that he who demanded the money had been one of the actual conspirators. After having seen his creditors, he went away up alone to London. When in London he went to Carlton Terrace and spent the night in absolute solitude. It had been his plan to join Gerald for some partridge shooting at Matching, and then to go yachting till such time as he should be enabled to renew his suit to Miss Boncassen. Early in November he would again ask her to be his wife. These had been his plans, but now it seemed that everything was changed. Partridge shooting and yachting must be out of the question until this terrible load was taken off his shoulders. Soon after his arrival at the house, two telegrams followed him from Doncaster. One was from Gerald. What is all this about Prime Minister? Is it a cell? I am so unhappy. The other was from Lady Mabel, for among other luxuries Mrs. Montecute Jones had her own telegraph wire at Killen Codlam. Can this be true? We are all so miserable. I do hope it is not much, from which he learned that his misfortune was already known to all his friends. And now what was he to do? He ate his supper, and then without hesitating for a moment, feeling that if he did hesitate the task would not be done on that night, he sat down and wrote the following letter. Carlton Terrace, September 14th, 18 blank. My dear Mr. Morton, I've just come up from Doncaster. You have probably heard what has been Prime Minister's fate. I don't know whether any horse has ever been such a favorite for the leger. Early in the morning he was taken out and picked up a nail. The consequence was that he could not run. Now I must come to the bad part of my story. I have lost 70,000 pounds. It is no use beating about the bush. The sum is something over that. What am I to do? If I tell you that I shall give up racing altogether, I dare say you will not believe me. It is the sort of thing a man always says when he wants money, but I feel now I cannot help saying it. But what shall I do? Perhaps if it would not be too much trouble, you will come up to town and see me. You can send me word by the wires. You may be sure of this. I shall make no attempt to raise the money elsewhere unless I find that my father will not help me. You will understand, of course, that it must be paid. You will understand also what I must feel about telling my father, but I shall do so at once. I only wait till I can hear from you. Yours faithfully, Silverbridge. During the next day two dispatches reached Lord Silverbridge. Both of them coming as he sat down to a solitary dinner. The first consisted of a short but very civil note. Messers Comfort and Criball present their compliments to the Earl of Silverbridge. Messers C and C beg to offer their apologies for interfering, but desire to inform his lordship that should cash be wanting to any amount in consequence of the late races, they will be happy to accommodate his lordship on most reasonable terms at a moment's notice upon his lordship's single bond. Lord Silverbridge may be sure of absolute secrecy. Crasham Court, Crutchard Friars, September 15th, 18 blank. The other dispatch was the telegram from Mr. Morton, saying that he would be in Carleton Terrace by noon on the following day. End of chapter 44.