“You were staying with him, — at his request. You told me so yourself.”
“I shall never stay with him again. But all that, Mr. Tregear, is of no matter. I do not mean to say a word against him; — not a word. But if you wish to interest any one as being the Duke’s friend, then I can assure you I am the last person in London to whom you should come. I know no one to whom the Duke is likely to entertain feelings so little kind as towards me.” This she said in a peculiarly solemn way that startled Tregear. But before he could answer her a servant entered the room with a letter. She recognised at once the Duke’s handwriting. Here was the answer for which she had been so long waiting in silent expectation! She could not keep it unread till he was gone. “Will you allow me a moment?” she whispered, and then she opened the envelope. As she read the few words her eyes became laden with tears. They quite sufficed to relieve the injured pride which had sat so heavy at her heart. “I believe I did you a wrong, and therefore I ask your pardon!” It was so like what she had believed the man to be! She could not be longer angry with him. And yet the very last words she had spoken were words complaining of his conduct. “This is from the Duke,” she said, putting the letter back into its envelope.
“Oh, indeed.”
“It is odd that it should have come while you were here.”
“Is it, — is it, — about Lady Mary?”
“No; — at least, — not directly. I perhaps spoke more harshly about him than I should have done. The truth is I had expected a line from him, and it had not come. Now it is here; but I do not suppose I shall ever see much of him. My intimacy was with her. But I would not wish you to remember what I said just now, if — if — “
“If what, Mrs. Finn? You mean, perhaps, if I should ever be allowed to call myself his son-in-law. It may seem to you to be arrogant, but it is an honour which I expect to win.”
“Faint heart, — you know, Mr. Tregear.”
“Exactly. One has to tell oneself that very often. You will help me?”
“Certainly not,” she said, as though she were much startled. “How can I help you?”
“By telling me what I should do. I suppose if I were to go down to Richmond I should not be admitted.”
“If you ask me, I think not; — not to see Lady Mary. Lady Cantrip would perhaps see you.”
“She is acting the part of — duenna.”
“As I should do also, if Lady Mary were staying with me. You don’t suppose that if she were here I would let her see you in my house without her father’s leave?”
“I suppose not.”
“Certainly not; and therefore I conceive that Lady Cantrip will not do so either.”
“I wish she were here.”
“It would be of no use. I should be a dragon in guarding her.”
“I wish you would let me feel that you were like a sister to me in this matter.”
“But I am not your sister, nor yet your aunt, nor yet your grandmother. What I mean is that I cannot be on your side.”
“Can you not?”
“No, Mr. Tregear. Think how long I have known these other people.”
“But just now you said that he was your enemy.”
“I did say so; but as I have unsaid it since, you as a gentleman will not remember my words. At any rate I cannot help you in this.”
“I shall write to her.”
“It can be nothing to me. If you write she will show your letter either to her father or to Lady Cantrip.”
“But she will read it first.”
“I cannot tell how that may be. In fact I am the very last person in the world to whom you should come for assistance in this matter. If I gave any assistance to anybody I should be bound to give it to the Duke.”
“I cannot understand that, Mrs. Finn.”
“Nor can I explain it, but it would be so. I shall always be very glad to see you, and I do feel that we ought to be friends, — because I took such a liberty with you. But in this matter I cannot help you.”
When she said this he had to take his leave. It was impossible that he should further press his case upon her, though he would have been very glad to extract from her some kindly word. It is such a help in a difficulty to have somebody who will express even a hope that the difficulty is perhaps not invincible! He had no one to comfort him in this matter. There was one dear friend, — as a friend dearer than any other, — to whom he might go, and who would after some fashion bid him prosper. Mabel would encourage him. She had said that she would do so. But in making that promise she had told him that Romeo would not have spoken of his love for Juliet to Rosaline, whom he had loved before he saw Juliet. No doubt she had gone on to tell him that he might come to her and talk freely of his love for Lady Mary, — but after what had been said before, he felt that he could not do so without leaving a sting behind. When a man’s love goes well with him, — so well as to be in some degree oppressive to him even by its prosperity, — when the young lady has jumped into his arms and the father and mother have been quite willing, then he wants no confidant. He does not care to speak very much of the matter which among his friends is apt to become a subject for raillery. When you call a man Benedick he does not come to you with ecstatic descriptions of the beauty and the wit of his Beatrice. But no one was likely to call him Benedick in reference to Lady Mary.
In spite of his manner, in spite of his apparent self-sufficiency, this man was very soft within. Less than two years back he had been willing to sacrifice all the world for his cousin Mabel, and his cousin Mabel had told him that he was wrong. “It does not pay to sacrifice the world for love.” So cousin Mabel had said, and had added something as to its being necessary that she should marry a rich man, and expedient that he should marry a rich woman. He had thought much about it, and had declared to himself that on no account would he marry a woman for her money. Then he had encountered Lady Mary Palliser. There had been no doubt, no resolution after that, no thinking about it; — but downright love. There was nothing left of real regret for his cousin in his bosom. She had been right. That love had been impossible. But this would be possible, — ah, so deliciously possible, — if only her father and mother would assist! The mother, imprudent in this as in all things, had assented. The reader knows the rest.
It was in every way possible. “She will have money enough,” the Duchess had said, “if only her father can be brought to give it you.” So Tregear had set his heart upon it, and had said to himself that the thing was to be done. Then his friend the Duchess had died, and the real difficulties had commenced. From that day he had not seen his love, or heard from her. How was he to know whether she would be true to him? And where was he to seek for that sympathy which he felt to be so necessary to him? A wild idea had come into his head that Mrs. Finn would be his friend; — but she had repudiated him.
He went straight home and at once wrote to the girl. The letter was a simple love-letter, and as such need not be given here. In what sweetest language he could find he assured her that even though he should never be allowed to see her or to hear from her, that still he should cling to her. And then he added this passage: “If your love for me be what I think it to be, no one can have a right to keep us apart. Pray be sure that I shall not change. If you change let me know it; — but I shall as soon expect the heavens to fall.”
CHAPTER XXIV
“She Must Be Made to Obey”
Lady Mary Palliser down at The Horns had as much liberty allowed to her as is usually given to young ladies in these very free days. There was indeed no restriction placed upon her at all. Had Tregear gone down to Richmond and asked for the young lady, and had Lady Cantrip at the time been out and the young lady at home, it would have depended altogether upon the young lady whether she would have seen her lover or not. Nevertheless Lady Cantrip kept her eyes open, and when the letter came from Tregear she was aware that the letter had come. But the letter found its way into Lady Mary’s hands and was read in the seclusion of her own bed-room. “I
wonder whether you would mind reading that,” she said very shortly afterwards to Lady Cantrip. “What answer ought I to make?”
“Do you think any answer ought to be made, my dear?”
“Oh yes; I must answer him.”
“Would your papa wish it?”
“I told papa that I would not promise not to write to him. I think I told him that he should see any letters that there were. But if I show them to you, I suppose that will do as well.”
“You had better keep your word to him absolutely.”
“I am not afraid of doing so, if you mean that. I cannot bear to give him pain, but this is a matter in which I mean to have my own way.”
“Mean to have your own way!” said Lady Cantrip, much surprised by the determined tone of the young lady.
“Certainly I do. I want you to understand so much! I suppose papa can keep us from marrying for ever and ever if he pleases, but he never will make me say that I will give up Mr. Tregear. And if he does not yield I shall think him cruel. Why should he wish to make me unhappy all my life?”
“He certainly does not wish that, my dear.”
“But he will do it.”
“I cannot go against your father, Mary.”
“No, I suppose not. I shall write to Mr. Tregear, and then I will show you what I have written. Papa shall see it too if he pleases. I will do nothing secret, but I will never give up Mr. Tregear.”
Lord Cantrip came down to Richmond that evening, and his wife told him that in her opinion it would be best that the Duke should allow the young people to marry, and should give them money enough to live upon. “Is not that a strong order?” asked the Earl. The Countess acknowledged that it was a “strong order,” but suggested that for the happiness of them all it might as well be done at first as at last.
The next morning Lady Mary showed her a copy of the reply which she had already sent to her lover.
Dear Frank,
You may be quite sure that I shall never give you up. I will not write more at present because papa does not wish me to do so. I shall show papa your letter and my answer.
Your own most affectionate
Mary.
“Has it gone?” asked the Countess.
“I put it myself into the pillar letter-box.” Then Lady Cantrip felt that she had to deal with a very self-willed young lady indeed.
That afternoon Lady Cantrip asked Lady Mary whether she might be allowed to take the two letters up to town with the express purpose of showing them to the Duke. “Oh yes,” said Mary, “I think it would be so much the best. Give papa my kindest love, and tell him from me that if he wants to make his poor little girl happy he will forgive her and be kind to her in all this.” Then the Countess made some attempt to argue the matter. There were proprieties! High rank might be a blessing or might be the reverse — as people thought of it; — but all men acknowledged that much was due to it. “Noblesse oblige.” It was often the case in life that women were called upon by circumstances to sacrifice their inclinations! What right had a gentleman to talk of marriage who had no means? These things she said and very many more, but it was to no purpose. The young lady asserted that as the gentleman was a gentleman there need be no question as to rank, and that in regard to money there need be no difficulty if one of them had sufficient. “But you have none but what your father may give you,” said Lady Cantrip. “Papa can give it us without any trouble,” said Lady Mary. This child had a clear idea of what she thought to be her own rights. Being the child of rich parents she had the right to money. Being a woman she had a right to a husband. Having been born free she had a right to choose one for herself. Having had a man’s love given to her she had a right to keep it. “One doesn’t know which she is most like, her father or her mother,” Lady Cantrip said afterwards to her husband. “She has his cool determination, and her hot-headed obstinacy.”
She did show the letters to the Duke, and in answer to a word or two from him explained that she could not take upon herself to debar her guest from the use of the post. “But she will write nothing without letting you know it.”
“She ought to write nothing at all.”
“What she feels is much worse than what she writes.”
“If there were no intercourse she would forget him.”
“Ah; I don’t know,” said the Countess sorrowfully; “I thought so once.”
“All children are determined as long as they are allowed to have their own way.”
“I mean to say that it is the nature of her character to be obstinate. Most girls are prone to yield. They have not character enough to stand against opposition. I am not speaking now only of affairs like this. It would be the same with her in any thing. Have you not always found it so?”
Then he had to acknowledge to himself that he had never found out anything in reference to his daughter’s character. She had been properly educated; — at least he hoped so. He had seen her grow up, pretty, sweet, affectionate, always obedient to him; — the most charming plaything in the world on the few occasions in which he had allowed himself to play. But as to her actual disposition, he had never taken any trouble to inform himself. She had been left to her mother, — as other girls are left. And his sons had been left to their tutors. And now he had no control over any of them. “She must be made to obey like others,” he said at last, speaking through his teeth.
There was something in this which almost frightened Lady Cantrip. She could not bear to hear him say that the girl must be made to yield, with that spirit of despotic power under which women were restrained in years now passed. If she could have spoken her own mind it would have been to this effect: “Let us do what we can to lead her away from this desire of hers; and in order that we may do so, let us tell her that her marriage with Mr. Tregear is out of the question. But if we do not succeed, — say in the course of the next twelve months, — let us give way. Let us make it a matter of joy that the young man himself is so acceptable and well-behaved.” That was her idea, and with that she would have indoctrined the Duke had she been able. But his was different. “She must be made to obey,” he said. And, as he said it, he seemed to be indifferent as to the sorrow which such enforced obedience might bring upon his child. In answer to this she could only shake her head. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you think we ought to yield?”
“Not at once, certainly.”
“But at last?”
“What can you do, Duke? If she be as firm as you, can you bear to see her pine away in her misery?”
“Girls do not do like that,” he said.
“Girls, like men, are very different. They generally will yield to external influences. English girls, though they become the most loving wives in the world, do not generally become so riven by an attachment as to become deep sufferers when it is disallowed. But here, I fear, we have to deal with one who will suffer after this fashion.”
“Why should she not be like others?”
“It may be so. We will try. But you see what she says in her letter to him. She writes as though your authority were to be nothing in that matter of giving up. In all that she says to me there is the same spirit. If she is firm, Duke, you must yield.”
“Never! She shall never marry him with my sanction.”
There was nothing more to be said, and Lady Cantrip went her way. But the Duke, though he could say nothing more, continued to think of it hour after hour. He went down to the House of Lords to listen to a debate in which it was intended to cover the ministers with heavy disgrace. But the Duke could not listen even to his own friends. He could listen to nothing as he thought of the condition of his children.
He had been asked whether he could bear to see his girl suffer, as though he were indifferent to the sufferings of his child. Did he not know of himself that there was no father who would do more for the welfare of his daughter? Was he not sure of the tenderness of his own heart? In all that he was doing was he governed by anything but a sense of duty? Was it personal pride or lov
e of personal aggrandisement? He thought that he could assure himself that he was open to no such charge. Would he not die for her, — or for them, — if he could so serve them? Surely this woman had accused him most wrongfully when she had intimated that he could see his girl suffer without caring for it. In his indignation he determined — for awhile — that he would remove her from the custody of Lady Cantrip. But then, where should he place her? He was aware that his own house would be like a grave to a girl just fit to come out into the world. In this coming autumn she must go somewhere, — with someone. He himself, in his present frame of mind, would be but a sorry travelling companion.
Lady Cantrip had said that the best hope of escape would lie in the prospect of another lover. The prescription was disagreeable, but it had availed in the case of his own wife. Before he had ever seen her as Lady Glencora McCloskie she had been desirous of giving herself and all her wealth to one Burgo Fitzgerald, who had been altogether unworthy. The Duke could remember well how a certain old Lady Midlothian had first hinted to him that Lady Glencora’s property was very large, and had then added that the young lady herself was very beautiful. And he could remember how his uncle, the late Duke, who had seldom taken much trouble in merely human affairs, had said a word or two — “I have heard a whisper about you and Lady Glencora McCloskie; nothing could be better.” The result had been undoubtedly good. His Cora and all her money had been saved from a worthless spendthrift. He had found a wife who he now thought had made him happy. And she had found at any rate a respectable husband. The idea when picked to pieces is not a nice idea. “Let us look out for a husband for this girl, so that we may get her married, — out of the way of her lover.” It is not nice. But it had succeeded in one case, and why should it not succeed in another?
But how was it to be done? Who should do it? Whom should he select to play the part which he had undertaken in that other arrangement? No worse person could be found than himself for managing such an affair. When the idea had first been raised he had thought that Lady Cantrip would do it all; but now he was angry with Lady Cantrip.
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