The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “Had I better send for a doctor from England?” he asked. In answer to this Mrs. Finn 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. Finn could make no reply. She did not doubt but 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 allude. “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 purpose 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 eye may be accepted as a fitting lover. I will not say but that they who are born to such a life may be the happier. They are, I am sure, free from 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 Burgo 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 Burgo Fitzgerald, and being most unwilling to have the difference between Burgo and Frank Tregear 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 with 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 awhile, 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 Tregear? 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 someone 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 Tregear 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 learn to have their way in opposition to the judgment of their lords and masters? He did not think that his Mary was wilfully 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 attacks 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 upwards.”

  “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 offence.”

  “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 referen
ce 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 Tregear’s name had not once been mentioned. The Duke had come away from home resolved not to mention it, — and she was minded to keep it in reserve till some seeming catastrophe should justify a declaration of her purpose. But from first to last she had been sad, and latterly 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 Custins by the middle of October. Had he taught himself to hope that any good could be done by prolonged travelling he would readily have thrown over Custins and Lord 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.

  “Custins is close to the sea,” he replied. “It is Lord Cantrip’s place in Dorsetshire. 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 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 want of 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 than 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 at once go back to England by slow stages, — by very slow stages, — staying a day or two at Salzburg, at Ratisbon, at Nuremberg, at Frankfort, and so on. In this way he would reach England about the 10th of October, and Mary would then be ready to go to Custins by the time appointed.

  In a day or two Lady Mary was better. “It is terrible while it lasts,” she said, speaking to Mrs. Finn of her headache, “but when it has 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 Hintersee and the Obersee. On this occasion Lady Mary seemed to enjoy herself, as she liked the companionship of Mrs. Finn. Against Lady Cantrip she never said a word. But Lady Cantrip was always a duenna 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 Sir Timothy — which they did with augmented vehemence from their ponies’ backs, the two women in lower voices talked over their own affairs. “I dare say you will be happy at Custins,” 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. Tregear?”

  “Yes, Mr. Tregear.”

  “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 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.

  CHAPTER XLII

  Again at Killancodlem

  Silverbridge remained at Crummie-Toddie under the dominion of Reginald Dobbes till the second week in September. Popplecourt, Nidderdale, and Gerald Palliser were there also, very obedient, and upon the whole efficient. Tregear was intractable, occasional, and untrustworthy. He was the cause of much trouble to Mr. Dobbes. He would entertain a most heterodox and injurious idea that, as he had come to Crummie-Toddie 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 on to excel always and be ahead of others. In spite of this Mr. Dobbes had cause 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 Crummie-Toddie 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 Killancodlem.

  “She has gone,” said Nidderdale.

  “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 ought not to go in for shooting at all,” said Dobbes.

  “I shouldn’t wonder at his going,” continued Nidderdale, “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 that I am going to Killancodlem I mean to go to Killancodlem, and that no chaff about young ladies, — which I think very disgusting, — will stop me. I shall be sorry if Dobbes’s roll of the killed 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. Tregear, who knew that Mabel Grex was still at Killancodlem, had not spoken.

  In truth Mabel had sent for Lord Silverbridge, and this had been her letter:

  Dear lord Silverbridge,

  Mrs. Montacute Jones is 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 Dobbes should have so much power over you. “Only twelve 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 Crummie-Toddie. 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 asked to go to Custins, and suppose I shall turn up there some time 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 at once made up his mind to go to Killancodlem, 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 Killancodlem 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 had 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 sent her 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 Custins? Little hints had reached her of the Duke’s goodwill towards her. If on that side the marriage were approved, why should she destroy her own hopes?