“He was talking about you,” said the Duke.
“He had told me that he wanted to see you. What did he say, sir?”
“I suppose you can guess what he said. He wished to know what I thought of the offer you have made to his daughter.” The great subject had come up so easily, so readily, that he was almost aghast when he found himself in the middle of it. And yet he must speak of the matter, and that at once.
“I hope you raised no objection, sir,” he said.
“The objection came mainly from him; and I am bound to say that every word that fell from him was spoken with wisdom.”
“But still he asked you to consent.”
“By no means. He told me his opinion, — and then he asked me a question.”
“I am sure he did not say that we ought not to be married.”
“He did say that he thought you ought not to be married, if — “
“If what, sir?”
“If there were probability that his daughter would not be well received as your wife. Then he asked me what would be my reception of her.” Silverbridge looked up into his father’s face with beseeching imploring eyes as though everything now depended on the next few words that he might utter. “I shall think it an unwise marriage,” continued the Duke. Silverbridge when he heard this at once knew that he had gained his cause. His father had spoken of the marriage as a thing that was to happen. A joyous light dawned in his eyes, and the look of pain went from his brow, all which the Duke was not slow to perceive. “I shall think it an unwise marriage,” he continued, repeating his words; “but I was bound to tell him that were Miss Boncassen to become your wife she would also become my daughter.”
“Oh, sir.”
“I told him why the marriage would be distasteful to me. Whether I may be wrong or right I think it to be for the good of our country, for the good of our order, for the good of our individual families, that we should support each other by marriage. It is not as though we were a narrow class, already too closely bound together by family alliances. The room for choice might be wide enough for you without going across the Atlantic to look for her who is to be the mother of your children. To this Mr. Boncassen replied that he was to look solely to his daughter’s happiness. He meant me to understand that he cared nothing for my feelings. Why should he? That which to me is deep wisdom is to him an empty prejudice. He asked me then how others would receive her.”
“I am sure that everybody would like her,” said Silverbridge.
“I like her. I like her very much.”
“I am so glad.”
“But still all this is a sorrow to me. When however he put that question to me about the world around her, — as to those among whom her lot would be cast, I could not say that I thought she would be rejected.”
“Oh no!” The idea of rejecting Isabel!
“She has a brightness and a grace all her own,” continued the Duke, “which will ensure her acceptance in all societies.”
“Yes, yes; — it is just that, sir.”
“You will be a nine days’ wonder, — the foolish young nobleman who chose to marry an American.”
“I think it will be just the other way up, sir, — among the men.”
“But her place will I think be secure to her. That is what I told Mr. Boncassen.”
“It is all right with him then, — now?”
“If you call it all right. You will understand of course that you are acting in opposition to my advice, — and my wishes.”
“What am I to say, sir?” exclaimed Silverbridge, almost in despair. “When I love the girl better than my life, and when you tell me that she can be mine if I choose to take her; when I have asked her to be my wife, and have got her to say that she likes me; when her father has given way, and all the rest of it, would it be possible that I should say now that I will give her up?”
“My opinion is to go for nothing, — in anything!” The Duke as he said this knew that he was expressing aloud a feeling which should have been restrained within his own bosom. It was natural that there should have been such plaints. The same suffering must be encountered in regard to Tregear and his daughter. In every way he had been thwarted. In every direction he was driven to yield. And yet now he had to undergo rebuke from his own son, because one of those inward plaints would force itself from his lips! Of course this girl was to be taken in among the Pallisers and treated with an idolatrous love, — as perfect as though “all the blood of all the Howards” were running in her veins. What further inch of ground was there for a fight? And if the fight were over, why should he rob his boy of one sparkle from off the joy of his triumph? Silverbridge was now standing before him abashed by that plaint, inwardly sustained no doubt by the conviction of his great success, but subdued by his father’s wailing. “However, — perhaps we had better let that pass,” said the Duke, with a long sigh. Then Silverbridge took his father’s hand, and looked up in his face. “I most sincerely hope that she may make you a good and loving wife,” said the Duke, “and that she may do her duty by you in that not easy sphere of life to which she will be called.”
“I am quite sure she will,” said Silverbridge, whose ideas as to Isabel’s duties were confined at present to a feeling that she would now have to give him kisses without stint.
“What I have seen of her personally recommends her to me,” said the Duke. “Some girls are fools — “
“That’s quite true, sir.”
“Who think that the world is to be nothing but dancing, and going to parties.”
“Many have been doing it for so many years,” said Silverbridge, “that they can’t understand that there should be an end of it.”
“A wife ought to feel the great responsibility of her position. I hope she will.”
“And the sooner she begins the better,” said Silverbridge stoutly.
“And now,” said the Duke, looking at his watch, “we might as well have lunch and go down to the House. I will walk with you if you please. It will be about time for each of us.” Then the son was forced to go down and witness the somewhat faded ceremony of seeing Parliament opened by three Lords sitting in commission before the throne. Whereas but for such stress as his father had laid upon him, he would have disregarded his parliamentary duties and have rushed at once up to Brook Street. As it was he was so handed over from one political pundit to another, was so buttonholed by Sir Timothy, so chaffed as to the address by Phineas Finn, and at last so occupied with the whole matter that he was compelled to sit in his place till he had heard Nidderdale make his speech. This the young Scotch Lord did so well, and received so much praise for the doing of it, and looked so well in his uniform, that Silverbridge almost regretted the opportunity he had lost. At seven the sitting was over, the speeches, though full of interest, having been shorter than usual. They had been full of interest, but nobody understood in the least what was going to happen. “I don’t know anything about the Prime Minister,” said Mr. Lupton as he left the House with our hero and another not very staunch supporter of the Government, “but I’ll back Sir Timothy to be the Leader of the House on the last day of the Session, against all comers. I don’t think it much matters who is Prime Minister nowadays.”
At half-past seven Silverbridge was at the door in Brook Street. Yes; Miss Boncassen was at home. The servant thought that she was upstairs dressing. Then Silverbridge made his way without further invitation into the drawing-room. There he remained alone for ten minutes. At last the door opened, and Mrs. Boncassen entered. “Dear Lord Silverbridge, who ever dreamed of seeing you? I thought all you Parliament gentlemen were going through your ceremonies. Isabel had a ticket and went down, and saw your father.”
“Where is Isabel?”
“She’s gone.”
“Gone! Where on earth has she gone to?” asked Silverbridge, as though fearing lest she had been carried off to the other side of the Atlantic. Then Mrs. Boncassen explained. Within the last three minutes Mrs. Montacute Jones had called an
d carried Isabel off to the play. Mrs. Jones was up in town for a week, and this had been a very old engagement. “I hope you did not want her very particularly,” said Mrs. Boncassen.
“But I did, — most particularly,” said Lord Silverbridge. The door was opened and Mr. Boncassen entered the room. “I beg your pardon for coming at such a time,” said the lover, “but I did so want to see Isabel.”
“I rather think she wants to see you,” said the father.
“I shall go to the theatre after her.”
“That might be awkward, — particularly as I doubt whether anybody knows what theatre they are gone to. Can I receive a message for her, my lord?” This was certainly not what Lord Silverbridge had intended. “You know, perhaps, that I have seen the Duke.”
“Oh yes; — and I have seen him. Everything is settled.”
“That is the only message she will want to hear when she comes home. She is a happy girl and I am proud to think that I should live to call such a grand young Briton as you my son-in-law.” Then the American took the young man’s two hands and shook them cordially, while Mrs. Boncassen bursting into tears insisted on kissing him.
“Indeed she is a happy girl,” said she; “but I hope Isabel won’t be carried away too high and mighty.”
CHAPTER LXXII
Carlton Terrace
Three days after this it was arranged that Isabel should be taken to Carlton Terrace to be accepted there into the full good graces of her future father-in-law, and to go through the pleasant ceremony of seeing the house in which it was to be her destiny to live as mistress. What can be more interesting to a girl than this first visit to her future home? And now Isabel Boncassen was to make her first visit to the house in Carlton Terrace, which the Duke had already declared his purpose of surrendering to the young couple. She was going among very grand things, — so grand that those whose affairs in life are less magnificent may think that her mind should have soared altogether above chairs and tables, and reposed itself among diamonds, gold and silver ornaments, rich necklaces, the old masters, and alabaster statuary. But Dukes and Duchesses must sit upon chairs, — or at any rate on sofas, — as well as their poorer brethren, and probably have the same regard for their comfort. Isabel was not above her future furniture, or the rooms that were to be her rooms, or the stairs which she would have to tread, or the pillow on which her head must rest. She had never yet seen even the outside of the house in which she was to live, and was now prepared to make her visit with as much enthusiasm as though her future abode was to be prepared for her in a small house in a small street beyond Islington.
But the Duke was no doubt more than the house, the father-in-law more than the tables. Isabel, in the ordinary way of society, he had already known almost with intimacy. She, the while, had been well aware that if all things could possibly be made to run smoothly with her, this lordly host, who was so pleasantly courteous to her, would become her father-in-law. But she had known also that he, in his courtesy, had been altogether unaware of any such intention on her part, and that she would now present herself to him in an aspect very different from that in which she had hitherto been regarded. She was well aware that the Duke had not wished to take her into his family, — would not himself have chosen her for his son’s wife. She had seen enough to make her sure that he had even chosen another bride for his heir. She had been too clever not to perceive that Lady Mabel Grex had been not only selected, — but almost accepted as though the thing had been certain. She had learned nearly the whole truth from Silverbridge, who was not good at keeping a secret from one to whom his heart was open. That story had been all but read by her with exactness. “I cannot lose you now,” she had said to him, leaning on his arm; — “I cannot afford to lose you now. But I fear that someone else is losing you.” To this he answered nothing, but simply pressed her closer to his side. “Someone else,” she continued, “who perhaps may have reason to think that you have injured her.” “No,” he said boldly; “no; there is no such person.” For he had never ceased to assure himself that in all that matter with Mabel Grex he had been guilty of no treachery. There had been a moment, indeed, in which she might have taken him; but she had chosen to let it pass from her. All of which, or nearly all of which, — Isabel now saw, and had seen also that the Duke had been a consenting party to that other arrangement. She had reason therefore to doubt the manner of her acceptance.
But she had been accepted. She had made such acceptance by him a stipulation in her acceptance of his son. She was sure of the ground on which she trod and was determined to carry herself, if not with pride, yet with dignity. There might be difficulties before her, but it should not be her fault if she were not as good a Countess, and, — when time would have it so, — as good a Duchess as another.
The visit was made not quite in the fashion in which Silverbridge himself had wished. His idea had been to call for Isabel in his cab and take her down to Carlton Terrace. “Mother must go with me,” she had said. Then he looked blank, — as he could look when he was disappointed, as he had looked when she would not talk to him at the lunch, when she told him that it was not her business to entertain him. “Don’t be selfish,” she added, laughing. “Do you think that mother will not want to have seen the house that I am to live in?”
“She shall come afterwards as often as she likes.”
“What, — paying me morning visits from New York! She must come now, if you please. Love me, love my mother.”
“I am awfully fond of her,” said Silverbridge, who felt that he really had behaved well to the old lady.
“So am I, — and therefore she shall go and see the house now. You are as good as gold, — and do everything just as I tell you. But a good time is coming, when I shall have to do everything that you tell me.” Then it was arranged that Mrs. and Miss Boncassen were to be taken down to the house in their own carriage, and were to be received at the door by Lord Silverbridge.
Another arrangement had also been made. Isabel was to be taken to the Duke immediately upon her arrival and to be left for awhile with him, alone, so that he might express himself as he might find fit to do to this newly-adopted child. It was a matter to him of such importance that nothing remaining to him in his life could equal it. It was not simply that she was to be the wife of his son, — though that in itself was a consideration very sacred. Had it been Gerald who was bringing to him a bride, the occasion would have had less of awe. But this girl, this American girl, was to be the mother and grandmother of future Dukes of Omnium, — the ancestress, it was to be hoped, of all future Dukes of Omnium! By what she might be, by what she might have in her of mental fibre, of high or low quality, of true or untrue womanliness, were to be fashioned those who in days to come might be amongst the strongest and most faithful bulwarks of the constitution. An England without a Duke of Omnium, — or at any rate without any Duke, — what would it be? And yet he knew that with bad Dukes his country would be in worse stress than though she had none at all. An aristocracy; — yes; but an aristocracy that shall be of the very best! He believed himself thoroughly in his order; but if his order, or many of his order, should become as was now Lord Grex, then, he thought, that his order not only must go to the wall but that, in the cause of humanity, it had better do so. With all this daily, hourly, always in his mind, this matter of the choice of a wife for his heir was to him of solemn importance.
When they arrived Silverbridge was there and led them first of all into the dining-room. “My!” said Mrs. Boncassen, as she looked around her. “I thought that our Fifth Avenue parlours whipped everything in the way of city houses.”
“What a nice little room for Darby and Joan to sit down to eat a mutton-chop in,” said Isabel.
“It’s a beastly great barrack,” said Silverbridge; — “but the best of it is that we never use it. We’ll have a cosy little place for Darby and Joan; — you’ll see. Now come to the governor. I’ve got to leave you with him.”
“Oh me! I am in such a fright.�
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“He can’t eat you,” said Mrs. Boncassen.
“And he won’t even bite,” said Silverbridge.
“I should not mind that because I could bite again. But if he looks as though he thought I shouldn’t do, I shall drop.”
“My belief is that he’s almost as much in love with you as I am,” said Silverbridge, as he took her to the door of the Duke’s room. “Here we are, sir.”
“My dear,” said the Duke, rising up and coming to her, “I am very glad to see you. It is good of you to come to me.” Then he took her in both his hands and kissed her forehead and her lips. She, as she put her face up to him, stood quite still in his embrace, but her eyes were bright with pleasure.
“Shall I leave her?” said Silverbridge.
“For a few minutes.”
“Don’t keep her too long, for I want to take her all over the house.”
“A few minutes, — and then I will bring her up to the drawing-room.” Upon this the door was closed, and Isabel was alone with her new father. “And so, my dear, you are to be my child.”
“If you will have me.”
“Come here and sit down by me. Your father has already told you that; — has he not?”
“He has told me that you had consented.”
“And Silverbridge has said as much?”
“I would sooner hear it from you than from either of them.”
“Then hear it from me. You shall be my child. And if you will love me you shall be very dear to me. You shall be my own child, — as dear as my own. I must either love his wife very dearly, or else I must be an unhappy man. And she must love me dearly, or I must be unhappy.”
“I will love you,” she said, pressing his hand.
“And now let me say some few words to you, only let there be no bitterness in them to your young heart. When I say that I take you to my heart, you may be sure that I do so thoroughly. You shall be as dear to me and as near as though you had been all English.”
“Shall I?”
“There shall no difference be made. My boy’s wife shall be my daughter in very deed. But I had not wished it to be so.”
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