When he got out into the street it was dark and there was still standing the faithful cab. But he felt that at the present moment it would be impossible to sit still, and he dismissed the equipage. He walked rapidly along Brook Street into Park Lane, and from thence to the park, hardly knowing whither he went in the enthusiasm of the moment. He walked back to the Marble Arch, and thence round by the drive to the Guard House and the bridge over the Serpentine, by the Knightsbridge Barracks to Hyde Park Corner. Though he should give up everything and go and live in her own country with her, he would marry her. His politics, his hunting, his address to the Queen, his horses, his guns, his father’s wealth, and his own rank, — what were they all to Isabel Boncassen? In meeting her he had met the one human being in all the world who could really be anything to him either in friendship or in love. When she had told him what she would do for him to make his home happy, it had seemed to him that all other delights must fade away from him for ever. How odious were Tifto and his racehorses, how unmeaning the noise of his club, how terrible the tedium of those parliamentary benches! He could not tell his love as she had told hers! He acknowledged to himself that his words could not be as her words, — nor his intellect as hers. But his heart could be as true. She had spoken to him of his name, his rank, and all his outside world around him. He would make her understand at last that they were nothing to him in comparison with her. When he had got round to Hyde Park Corner, he felt that he was almost compelled to go back again to Brook Street. In no other place could there be anything to interest him; — nowhere else could there be light, or warmth, or joy! But what would she think of him? To go back hot, and soiled with mud, in order that he might say one more adieu, — that possibly he might ravish one more kiss, — would hardly be manly. He must postpone all that for the morrow. On the morrow of course he would be there.
But his work was all before him! That prayer had to be made to his father; or rather some wonderful effort of eloquence must be made by which his father might be convinced that this girl was so infinitely superior to anything of feminine creation that had ever hitherto been seen or heard of, that all ideas as to birth, country, rank, or name ought in this instance to count for nothing. He did believe himself that he had found such a pearl, that no question of setting need be taken into consideration. If the Duke would not see it the fault would be in the Duke’s eyes, or perhaps in his own words, — but certainly not in the pearl.
Then he compared her to poor Lady Mabel, and in doing so did arrive at something near the truth in his inward delineation of the two characters. Lady Mabel with all her grace, with all her beauty, with all her talent, was a creature of efforts, or, as it might be called, a manufactured article. She strove to be graceful, to be lovely, to be agreeable and clever. Isabel was all this and infinitely more without any struggle. When he was most fond of Mabel, most anxious to make her his wife, there had always been present to him a feeling that she was old. Though he knew her age to a day, — and knew her to be younger than himself, yet she was old. Something had gone of her native bloom, something had been scratched and chipped from the first fair surface, and this had been repaired by varnish and veneering. Though he had loved her he had never been altogether satisfied with her. But Isabel was as young as Hebe. He knew nothing of her actual years, but he did know that to have seemed younger, or to have seemed older, — to have seemed in any way different from what she was, — would have been to be less perfect.
CHAPTER LXIX
“Pert Poppet!”
On a Sunday morning, — while Lord Silverbridge was alone in a certain apartment in the house in Carlton Terrace which was called his own sitting-room, the name was brought him of a gentleman who was anxious to see him. He had seen his father and had used all the eloquence of which he was master, — but not quite with the effect which he had desired. His father had been very kind, but he, too, had been eloquent; — and had, as is often the case with orators, been apparently more moved by his own words than by those of his adversary. If he had not absolutely declared himself as irrevocably hostile to Miss Boncassen he had not said a word that might be supposed to give token of assent.
Silverbridge, therefore, was moody, contemplative, and desirous of solitude. Nothing that the Duke had said had shaken him. He was still sure of his pearl, and quite determined that he would wear it. Various thoughts were running through his brain. What if he were to abdicate the title and become a republican? He was inclined to think that he could not abdicate, but he was quite sure that no one could prevent him from going to America and calling himself Mr. Palliser. That his father would forgive him and accept the daughter-in-law brought to him, were he in the first place to marry without sanction, he felt quite sure. What was there that his father would not forgive? But then Isabel would not assent to this. He was turning it all in his head and ever and anon trying to relieve his mind by “Clarissa,” which he was reading in conformity with his father’s advice, when the gentleman’s card was put into his hand. “Whatever does he want here?” he said to himself; and then he ordered that the gentleman might be shown up. The gentleman in question was our old friend Dolly Longstaff. Dolly Longstaff and Silverbridge had been intimate as young men are. But they were not friends, nor, as far as Silverbridge knew, had Dolly ever set his foot in that house before. “Well, Dolly,” said he, “what’s the matter now?”
“I suppose you are surprised to see me?”
“I didn’t think that you were ever up so early.” It was at this time almost noon.
“Oh, come now, that’s nonsense. I can get up as early as anybody else. I have changed all that for the last four months. I was at breakfast this morning very soon after ten.”
“What a miracle! Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Well yes, — there is. Of course you are surprised to see me?”
“You never were here before; and therefore it is odd.”
“It is odd; I felt that myself. And when I tell you what I have come about you will think it more odd. I know I can trust you with a secret.”
“That depends, Dolly.”
“What I mean is, I know you are good-natured. There are ever so many fellows that are one’s most intimate friends, that would say anything on earth they could that was ill-natured.”
“I hope they are not my friends.”
“Oh yes, they are. Think of Glasslough, or Popplecourt, or Hindes! If they knew anything about you that you didn’t want to have known, — about a young lady or anything of that kind, — don’t you think they’d tell everybody?”
“A man can’t tell anything he doesn’t know.”
“That’s true. I had thought of that myself. But then there’s a particular reason for my telling you this. It is about a young lady! You won’t tell; will you?”
“No, I won’t. But I can’t see why on earth you should come to me. You are ever so many years older than I am.”
“I had thought of that too. But you are just the person I must tell. I want you to help me.”
These last words were said in a whisper, and Dolly as he said them had drawn nearer to his friend. Silverbridge remained in suspense, saying nothing by way of encouragement. Dolly, either in love with his own mystery or doubtful of his own purpose, sat still, looking eagerly at his companion. “What the mischief is it?” asked Silverbridge impatiently.
“I have quite made up my own mind.”
“That’s a good thing at any rate.”
“I am not what you would have called a marrying sort of man.”
“I should have said, — no. But I suppose most men do marry sooner or later.”
“That’s just what I said to myself. It has to be done, you know. There are three different properties coming to me. At least one has come already.”
“You’re a lucky fellow.”
“I’ve made up my mind; and when I say a thing I mean to do it.”
“But what can I do?”
“That’s just what I’m coming to. If a man does
marry I think he ought to be attached to her.” To this, as a broad proposition, Silverbridge was ready to accede. But, regarding Dolly as a middle-aged sort of fellow, one of those men who marry because it is convenient to have a house kept for them, he simply nodded his head. “I am awfully attached to her,” Dolly went on to say.
“That’s all right.”
“Of course there are fellows who marry girls for their money. I’ve known men who have married their grandmothers.”
“Not really!”
“That kind of thing. When a woman is old it does not much matter who she is. But my one! She’s not old!”
“Nor rich?”
“Well; I don’t know about that. But I’m not after her money. Pray understand that. It’s because I’m downright fond of her. She’s an American.”
“A what!” said Silverbridge, startled.
“You know her. That’s the reason I’ve come to you. It’s Miss Boncassen.” A dark frown came across the young man’s face. That all this should be said to him was disgusting. That an owl like that should dare to talk of loving Miss Boncassen was offensive to him.
“It’s because you know her that I’ve come to you. She thinks that you’re after her.” Dolly as he said this lifted himself quickly up in his seat, and nodded his head mysteriously as he looked into his companion’s face. It was as much as though he should say, “I see you are surprised, but so it is.” Then he went on. “She does, the pert poppet!” This was almost too much for Silverbridge; but still he contained himself. “She won’t look at me because she has got it into her head that perhaps some day she may be Duchess of Omnium! That of course is out of the question.”
“Upon my word all this seems to me to be so very — very, — distasteful that I think you had better say nothing more about it.”
“It is distasteful,” said Dolly; “but the truth is I am so downright, — what you may call enamoured — “
“Don’t talk such stuff as that here,” said Silverbridge, jumping up. “I won’t have it.”
“But I am. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to get her. Of course it’s a good match for her. I’ve got three separate properties; and when the governor goes off I shall have a clear fifteen thousand a year.”
“Oh, bother!”
“Of course that’s nothing to you, but it is a very tidy income for a commoner. And how is she to do better?”
“I don’t know how she could do much worse,” said Silverbridge in a transport of rage. Then he pulled his moustache in vexation, angry with himself that he should have allowed himself to say even a word on so preposterous a supposition. Isabel Boncassen and Dolly Longstaff! It was Titania and Bottom over again. It was absolutely necessary that he should get rid of this intruder, and he began to be afraid that he could not do this without using language which would be uncivil. “Upon my word,” he said, “I think you had better not talk about it any more. The young lady is one for whom I have a very great respect.”
“I mean to marry her,” said Dolly, thinking thus to vindicate himself.
“You might as well think of marrying one of the stars.”
“One of the stars!”
“Or a royal princess!”
“Well! Perhaps that is your opinion, but I can’t say that I agree with you. I don’t see why she shouldn’t take me. I can give her a position which you may call Al out of the Peerage. I can bring her into society. I can make an English lady of her.”
“You can’t make anything of her, — except to insult her, — and me too by talking of her.”
“I don’t quite understand this,” said the unfortunate lover, getting up from his seat. “Very likely she won’t have me. Perhaps she has told you so.”
“She never mentioned your name to me in her life. I don’t suppose she remembers your existence.”
“But I say that there can be no insult in such a one as me asking such a one as her to be my wife. To say that she doesn’t remember my existence is absurd.”
“Why should I be troubled with all this?”
“Because I think you’re making a fool of her, and because I’m honest. That’s why,” said Dolly with much energy. There was something in this which partly reconciled Silverbridge to his despised rival. There was a touch of truth about the man, though he was so utterly mistaken in his ideas. “I want you to give over in order that I may try again. I don’t think you ought to keep a girl from her promotion, merely for the fun of a flirtation. Perhaps you’re fond of her; — but you won’t marry her. I am fond of her, and I shall.”
After a minute’s pause Silverbridge resolved that he would be magnanimous. “Miss Boncassen is going to be my wife,” he said.
“Your wife!”
“Yes; — my wife. And now I think you will see that nothing further can be said about this matter.”
“Duchess of Omnium!”
“She will be Lady Silverbridge.”
“Oh; of course she’ll be that first. Then I’ve got nothing further to say. I’m not going to enter myself to run against you. Only I shouldn’t have believed it if anybody else had told me.”
“Such is my good fortune.”
“Oh ah, — yes; of course. That is one way of looking at it. Well; Silverbridge, I’ll tell you what I shall do; I shall hook it.”
“No; no, not you.”
“Yes, I shall. I dare say you won’t believe me, but I’ve got such a feeling about me here” — as he said this he laid his hand upon his heart, — “that if I stayed I should go in for hard drinking. I shall take the great Asiatic tour. I know a fellow that wants to go, but he hasn’t got any money. I dare say I shall be off before the end of next month. You don’t know any fellow that would buy half-a-dozen hunters; do you?” Silverbridge shook his head. “Good-bye,” said Dolly in a melancholy tone; “I am sure I am very much obliged to you for telling me. If I’d known you’d meant it, I shouldn’t have meddled, of course. Duchess of Omnium!”
“Look here, Dolly, I have told you what I should not have told any one, but I wanted to screen the young lady’s name.”
“It was so kind of you.”
“Do not repeat it. It is a kind of thing that ladies are particular about. They choose their own time for letting everybody know.” Then Dolly promised to be as mute as a fish, and took his departure.
Silverbridge had felt, towards the end of the interview, that he had been arrogant to the unfortunate man, — particularly in saying that the young lady would not remember the existence of such a suitor, — and had also recognised a certain honesty in the man’s purpose, which had not been the less honest because it was so absurd. Actuated by the consciousness of this, he had swallowed his anger, and had told the whole truth. Nevertheless things had been said which were horrible to him. This buffoon of a man had called his Isabel a — pert poppet! How was he to get over the remembrance of such an offence? And then the wretch had declared that he was — enamoured! There was sacrilege in the term when applied by such a man to Isabel Boncassen. He had thoughts of days to come, when everything would be settled, when he might sit close to her, and call her pretty names, — when he might in sweet familiarity tell her that she was a little Yankee and a fierce republican, and “chaff” her about the stars and stripes; and then, as he pictured the scene to himself in his imagination, she would lean upon him and would give him back his chaff, and would call him an aristocrat and would laugh at his titles. As he thought of all this he would be proud with the feeling that such privileges would be his own. And now this wretched man had called her a pert poppet!
There was a sanctity about her, — a divinity which made it almost a profanity to have talked about her at all to such a one as Dolly Longstaff. She was his Holy of Holies, at which vulgar eyes should not even be allowed to gaze. It had been a most unfortunate interview. But this was clear; that, as he had announced his engagement to such a one as Dolly Longstaff, the matter now would admit of no delay. He would explain to his father that as tidings of the engagement had got a
broad, honour to the young lady would compel him to come forward openly as her suitor at once. If this argument might serve him, then perhaps this intrusion would not have been altogether a misfortune.
CHAPTER LXX
“Love May Be a Great Misfortune”
Silverbridge when he reached Brook Street that day was surprised to find that a large party was going to lunch there. Isabel had asked him to come, and he had thought her the dearest girl in the world for doing so. But now his gratitude for that favour was considerably abated. He did not care just now for the honour of eating his lunch in the presence of Mr. Gotobed, the American minister, whom he found there already in the drawing-room with Mrs. Gotobed, nor with Ezekiel Sevenkings, the great American poet from the far West, who sat silent and stared at him in an unpleasant way. When Sir Timothy Beeswax was announced, with Lady Beeswax and her daughter, his gratification certainly was not increased. And the last comer, — who did not arrive indeed till they were all seated at the table, — almost made him start from his chair and take his departure suddenly. That last comer was no other than Mr. Adolphus Longstaff. As it happened he was seated next to Dolly, with Lady Beeswax on the other side of him. Whereas his Holy of Holies was on the other side of Dolly! The arrangement made seemed to him to have been monstrous. He had endeavoured to get next to Isabel; but she had so manœuvred that there should be a vacant chair between them. He had not much regarded this because a vacant chair may be pushed on one side. But before he had made all his calculations Dolly Longstaff was sitting there! He almost thought that Dolly winked at him in triumph, — that very Dolly who an hour ago had promised to take himself off upon his Asiatic travels!
Sir Timothy and the minister kept up the conversation very much between them, Sir Timothy flattering everything that was American, and the minister finding fault with very many things that were English. Now and then Mr. Boncassen would put in a word to soften the severe honesty of his countryman, or to correct the euphemistic falsehoods of Sir Timothy. The poet seemed always to be biding his time. Dolly ventured to whisper a word to his neighbour. It was but to say that the frost had broken up. But Silverbridge heard it and looked daggers at everyone. Then Lady Beeswax expressed to him a hope that he was going to do great things in Parliament this Session. “I don’t mean to go near the place,” he said, not at all conveying any purpose to which he had really come, but driven by the stress of the moment to say something that should express his general hatred of everybody. Mr. Lupton was there, on the other side of Isabel, and was soon engaged with her in a pleasant familiar conversation. Then Silverbridge remembered that he had always thought Lupton to be a most conceited prig. Nobody gave himself so many airs, or was so careful as to the dyeing of his whiskers. It was astonishing that Isabel should allow herself to be amused by such an antiquated coxcomb. When they had finished eating they moved about and changed their places, Mr. Boncassen being rather anxious to stop the flood of American eloquence which came from his friend Mr. Gotobed. British viands had become subject to his criticism, and Mr. Gotobed had declared to Mr. Lupton that he didn’t believe that London could produce a dish of squash or tomatoes. He was quite sure you couldn’t have sweet corn. Then there had been a moving of seats in which the minister was shuffled off to Lady Beeswax, and the poet found himself by the side of Isabel. “Do you not regret our mountains and our prairies,” said the poet; “our great waters and our green savannahs?” “I think more perhaps of Fifth Avenue,” said Miss Boncassen. Silverbridge, who at this moment was being interrogated by Sir Timothy, heard every word of it.
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