“But there are grievances,” said the Duke. “Look at monetary denominations. Look at our weights and measures.”
“Well; yes. I will not say that everything has as yet been reduced to divine order. But when we took office three years ago we certainly did not intend to settle those difficulties.”
“No, indeed,” said the Duke, sadly.
“But we did do all that we meant to do. For my own part, there is only one thing in it that I regret, and one only which you should regret also till you have resolved to remedy it.”
“What thing is that?”
“Your own retirement from official life. If the country is to lose your services for the long course of years during which you will probably sit in Parliament, then I shall think that the country has lost more than it has gained by the Coalition.”
The Duke sat for a while silent, looking at the view, and, before answering Mr. Monk, — while arranging his answer, — once or twice in a half-absent way, called his companion’s attention to the scene before him. But during this time he was going through an act of painful repentance. He was condemning himself for a word or two that had been ill-spoken by himself, and which, since the moment of its utterance, he had never ceased to remember with shame. He told himself now, after his own secret fashion, that he must do penance for these words by the humiliation of a direct contradiction of them. He must declare that Cæsar would at some future time be prepared to serve under Pompey. Then he made his answer. “Mr. Monk,” he said, “I should be false if I were to deny that it pleases me to hear you say so. I have thought much of all that for the last two or three months. You may probably have seen that I am not a man endowed with that fortitude which enables many to bear vexations with an easy spirit. I am given to fretting, and I am inclined to think that a popular minister in a free country should be so constituted as to be free from that infirmity. I shall certainly never desire to be at the head of a Government again. For a few years I would prefer to remain out of office. But I will endeavour to look forward to a time when I may again perhaps be of some humble use.”
THE DUKE’S CHILDREN
First published in serial form in All the Year Round
in 1879 and 1880 and in book form in 1880
CONTENTS
I. When the Duchess Was Dead
II. Lady Mary Palliser
III. Francis Oliphant Tregear
IV. Park Lane
V. “It Is Impossible”
VI. Major Tifto
VII. Conservative Convictions
VIII. “He Is a Gentleman”
IX. “In Medias Res”
X. “Why Not Like Romeo If I Feel Like Romeo?”
XI. “Cruel”
XII. At Richmond
XIII. The Duke’s Injustice
XIV. The New Member for Silverbridge
XV. The Duke Receives a Letter, — and Writes One
XVI. “Poor Boy”
XVII. The Derby
XVIII. One of the Results of the Derby
XIX. “No; My Lord, I Do Not”
XX. “Then He Will Come Again”
XXI. Sir Timothy Beeswax
XXII. The Duke in His Study
XXIII. Frank Tregear Wants a Friend
XXIV. “She Must Be Made to Obey”
XXV. A Family Breakfast-Table
XXVI. Dinner at the Beargarden
XXVII. Major Tifto and the Duke
XXVIII. Mrs. Montacute Jones’s Garden-Party
XXIX. The Lovers Meet
XXX. What Came of the Meeting
XXXI. Miss Boncassen’s River-Party. No. 1
XXXII. Miss Boncassen’s River-Party. No. 2
XXXIII. The Langham Hotel
XXXIV. Lord Popplecourt
XXXV. “Don’t You Think — ?”
XXXVI. Tally-Ho Lodge
XXXVII. Grex
XXXVIII. Crummie-Toddie
XXXIX. Killancodlem
XL. “And Then!”
XLI. Ischl
XLII. Again at Killancodlem
XLIII. What Happened at Doncaster
XLIV. How It Was Done
XLV. “There Shall Not Be Another Word About It”
XLVI. Lady Mary’s Dream
XLVII. Miss Boncassen’s Idea of Heaven
XLVIII. The Party at Custins Is Broken Up
XLIX. The Major’s Fate
L. The Duke’s Arguments
LI. The Duke’s Guests
LII. Miss Boncassen Tells the Truth
LIII. “Then I Am As Proud As a Queen”
LIV. “I Don’t Think She Is a Snake”
LV. Polpenno
LVI. The News Is Sent to Matching
LVII. The Meeting at “The Bobtailed Fox”
LVIII. The Major Is Deposed
LIX. No One Can Tell What May Come to Pass
LX. Lord Gerald in Further Trouble
LXI. “Bone of My Bone”
LXII. The Brake Country
LXIII. “I’ve Seen ‘Em Like That Before”
LXIV. “I Believe Him to Be a Worthy Young Man”
LXV. “Do You Ever Think What Money Is?”
LXVI. The Three Attacks
LXVII. “He Is Such a Beast”
LXVIII. Brook Street
LXIX. “Pert Poppet!”
LXX. “Love May Be a Great Misfortune”
LXXI. “What Am I to Say, Sir?”
LXXII. Carlton Terrace
LXXIII. “I Have Never Loved You”
LXXIV. “Let Us Drink a Glass of Wine Together”
LXXV. The Major’s Story
LXXVI. On Deportment
LXXVII. “Mabel, Good-Bye”
LXXVIII. The Duke Returns to Office
LXXIX. The First Wedding
LXXX. The Second Wedding
CHAPTER I
When the Duchess Was Dead
No one, probably, ever felt himself to be more alone in the world than our old friend, the Duke of Omnium, when the Duchess died. When this sad event happened he had ceased to be Prime Minister. During the first nine months after he had left office he and the Duchess remained in England. Then they had gone abroad, taking with them their three children. The eldest, Lord Silverbridge, had been at Oxford, but had had his career there cut short by some more than ordinary youthful folly, which had induced his father to agree with the college authorities that his name had better be taken off the college books, — all which had been cause of very great sorrow to the Duke. The other boy was to go to Cambridge; but his father had thought it well to give him a twelvemonth’s run on the Continent, under his own inspection. Lady Mary, the only daughter, was the youngest of the family, and she also had been with them on the Continent. They remained the full year abroad, travelling with a large accompaniment of tutors, lady’s-maids, couriers, and sometimes friends. I do not know that the Duchess or the Duke had enjoyed it much; but the young people had seen something of foreign courts and much of foreign scenery, and had perhaps perfected their French. The Duke had gone to work at his travels with a full determination to create for himself occupation out of a new kind of life. He had studied Dante, and had striven to arouse himself to ecstatic joy amidst the loveliness of the Italian lakes. But through it all he had been aware that he had failed. The Duchess had made no such resolution, — had hardly, perhaps, made any attempt; but, in truth, they had both sighed to be back among the war-trumpets. They had both suffered much among the trumpets, and yet they longed to return. He told himself from day to day, that though he had been banished from the House of Commons, still, as a peer, he had a seat in Parliament, and that, though he was no longer a minister, still he might be useful as a legislator. She, in her career as a leader of fashion, had no doubt met with some trouble, — with some trouble but with no disgrace; and as she had been carried about among the lakes and mountains, among the pictures and statues, among the counts and countesses, she had often felt that there was no happiness except in that dominion which circumstances had enabled her to a
chieve once, and might enable her to achieve again — in the realms of London society.
Then, in the early spring of 187 — , they came back to England, having persistently carried out their project, at any rate in regard to time. Lord Gerald, the younger son, was at once sent up to Trinity. For the eldest son a seat was to be found in the House of Commons, and the fact that a dissolution of Parliament was expected served to prevent any prolonged sojourn abroad. Lady Mary Palliser was at that time nineteen, and her entrance into the world was to be her mother’s great care and great delight. In March they spent a few days in London, and then went down to Matching Priory. When she left town the Duchess was complaining of cold, sore throat, and debility. A week after their arrival at Matching she was dead.
Had the heavens fallen and mixed themselves with the earth, had the people of London risen in rebellion with French ideas of equality, had the Queen persistently declined to comply with the constitutional advice of her ministers, had a majority in the House of Commons lost its influence in the country, — the utter prostration of the bereft husband could not have been more complete. It was not only that his heart was torn to pieces, but that he did not know how to look out into the world. It was as though a man should be suddenly called upon to live without hands or even arms. He was helpless, and knew himself to be helpless. Hitherto he had never specially acknowledged to himself that his wife was necessary to him as a component part of his life. Though he had loved her dearly, and had in all things consulted her welfare and happiness, he had at times been inclined to think that in the exuberance of her spirits she had been a trouble rather than a support to him. But now it was as though all outside appliances were taken away from him. There was no one of whom he could ask a question.
For it may be said of this man that, though throughout his life he had had many Honourable and Right Honourable friends, and that though he had entertained guests by the score, and though he had achieved for himself the respect of all good men and the thorough admiration of some few who knew him, he had hardly made for himself a single intimate friend — except that one who had now passed away from him. To her he had been able to say what he thought, even though she would occasionally ridicule him while he was declaring his feelings. But there had been no other human soul to whom he could open himself. There were one or two whom he loved, and perhaps liked; but his loving and his liking had been exclusively political. He had so habituated himself to devote his mind and his heart to the service of his country, that he had almost risen above or sunk below humanity. But she, who had been essentially human, had been a link between him and the world.
There were his three children, the youngest of whom was now nearly nineteen, and they surely were links! At the first moment of his bereavement they were felt to be hardly more than burdens. A more loving father there was not in England, but nature had made him so undemonstrative that as yet they had hardly known his love. In all their joys and in all their troubles, in all their desires and all their disappointments, they had ever gone to their mother. She had been conversant with everything about them, from the boys’ bills and the girl’s gloves to the innermost turn in the heart and the disposition of each. She had known with the utmost accuracy the nature of the scrapes into which Lord Silverbridge had precipitated himself, and had known also how probable it was that Lord Gerald would do the same. The results of such scrapes she, of course, deplored; and therefore she would give good counsel, pointing out how imperative it was that such evil-doings should be avoided; but with the spirit that produced the scrapes she fully sympathised. The father disliked the spirit almost worse than the results; and was therefore often irritated and unhappy.
And the difficulties about the girl were almost worse to bear than those about the boys. She had done nothing wrong. She had given no signs of extravagance or other juvenile misconduct. But she was beautiful and young. How was he to bring her out into the world? How was he to decide whom she should or whom she should not marry? How was he to guide her through the shoals and rocks which lay in the path of such a girl before she can achieve matrimony?
It was the fate of the family that, with a world of acquaintance, they had not many friends. From all close connection with relatives on the side of the Duchess they had been dissevered by old feelings at first, and afterwards by want of any similitude in the habits of life. She had, when young, been repressed by male and female guardians with an iron hand. Such repression had been needed, and had been perhaps salutary, but it had not left behind it much affection. And then her nearest relatives were not sympathetic with the Duke. He could obtain no assistance in the care of his girl from that source. Nor could he even do it from his own cousins’ wives, who were his nearest connections on the side of the Pallisers. They were women to whom he had ever been kind, but to whom he had never opened his heart. When, in the midst of the stunning sorrow of the first week, he tried to think of all this, it seemed to him that there was nobody.
There had been one lady, a very dear ally, staying in the house with them when the Duchess died. This was Mrs. Finn, the wife of Phineas Finn, who had been one of the Duke’s colleagues when in office. How it had come to pass that Mrs. Finn and the Duchess had become singularly bound together has been told elsewhere. But there had been close bonds, — so close that when the Duchess on their return from the Continent had passed through London on her way to Matching, ill at the time and very comfortless, it had been almost a thing of course, that Mrs. Finn should go with her. And as she had sunk, and then despaired, and then died, it was this woman who had always been at her side, who had ministered to her, and had listened to the fears and the wishes and hopes she had expressed respecting the children.
At Matching, amidst the ruins of the old Priory, there is a parish burying-ground, and there, in accordance with her own wish, almost within sight of her own bedroom-window, she was buried. On the day of the funeral a dozen relatives came, Pallisers and M’Closkies, who on such an occasion were bound to show themselves, as members of the family. With them and his two sons the Duke walked across to the graveyard, and then walked back; but even to those who stayed the night at the house he hardly spoke. By noon on the following day they had all left him, and the only stranger in the house was Mrs. Finn.
On the afternoon of the day after the funeral the Duke and his guest met, almost for the first time since the sad event. There had been just a pressure of the hand, just a glance of compassion, just some murmur of deep sorrow, — but there had been no real speech between them. Now he had sent for her, and she went down to him in the room in which he commonly sat at work. He was seated at his table when she entered, but there was no book open before him, and no pen ready to his hand. He was dressed of course in black. That, indeed, was usual with him, but now the tailor by his funereal art had added some deeper dye of blackness to his appearance. When he rose and turned to her she thought that he had at once become an old man. His hair was grey in parts, and he had never accustomed himself to use that skill in managing his outside person by which many men are able to preserve for themselves a look, if not of youth, at any rate of freshness. He was thin, of an adust complexion, and had acquired a habit of stooping which, when he was not excited, gave him an appearance of age. All that was common to him; but now it was so much exaggerated that he who was not yet fifty might have been taken to be over sixty.
He put out his hand to greet her as she came up to him. “Silverbridge,” he said, “tells me that you go back to London to-morrow.”
“I thought it would be best, Duke. My presence here can be of no comfort to you.”
“I will not say that anything can be of comfort. But of course it is right that you should go. I can have no excuse for asking you to remain. While there was yet a hope for her — ” Then he stopped, unable to say a word further in that direction, and yet there was no sign of a tear and no sound of a sob.
“Of course I would stay, Duke, if I could be of any service.”
“Mr. Finn will expect you to
return to him.”
“Perhaps it would be better that I should say that I would stay were it not that I know that I can be of no real service.”
“What do you mean by that, Mrs. Finn?”
“Lady Mary should have with her at such a time some other friend.”
“There was none other whom her mother loved as she loved you — none, none.” This he said almost with energy.
“There was no one lately, Duke, with whom circumstances caused her mother to be so closely intimate. But even that perhaps was unfortunate.”
“I never thought so.”
“That is a great compliment. But as to Lady Mary, will it not be as well that she should have with her, as soon as possible, someone, — perhaps someone of her own kindred if it be possible, or, if not that, at least one of her own kind?”
“Who is there? Whom do you mean?”
“I mean no one. It is hard, Duke, to say what I do mean, but perhaps I had better try. There will be, — probably there have been, — some among your friends who have regretted the great intimacy which chance produced between me and my lost friend. While she was with us no such feeling would have sufficed to drive me from her. She had chosen for herself, and if others disapproved her choice that was nothing to me. But as regards Lady Mary, it will be better, I think, that from the beginning she should be taught to look for friendship and guidance to those — to those who are more naturally connected with her.”
“I was not thinking of any guidance,” said the Duke.
“Of course not. But with one so young, where there is intimacy there will be guidance. There should be somebody with her. It was almost the last thought that occupied her mother’s mind. I could not tell her, Duke, but I can tell you, that I cannot with advantage to your girl be that somebody.”
“Cora wished it.”
“Her wishes, probably, were sudden and hardly fixed.”
“Who should it be, then?” asked the father, after a pause.
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