If he were to find that by persevering in this course he would doom her to death, or perchance to madness, – what then? If it were right, he must still do it. He must still do it, if the weakness incident to his human nature did not rob him of the necessary firmness. If every foolish girl were indulged, all restraint would be lost, and there would be an end to those rules as to birth and position by which he thought his world was kept straight. And then, mixed with all this, was his feeling of the young man's arrogance in looking for such a match. Here was a man without a shilling, whose manifest duty it was to go to work so that he might earn his bread, who instead of doing so, had hoped to raise himself to wealth and position by entrapping the heart of an unwary girl! There was something to the Duke's thinking base in this, and much more base because the unwary girl was his own daughter. That such a man as Tregear should make an attack upon him and select his rank, his wealth, and his child as the stepping-stones by which he intended to rise! What could be so mean as that a man should seek to live by looking out for a wife with money? But what so impudent, so arrogant, so unblushingly disregardful of propriety, as that he should endeavour to select his victim from such a family as that of the Pallisers, and that he should lay his impious hand on the very daughter of the Duke of Omnium?
But together with all this there came upon him moments of ineffable tenderness. He felt as though he longed to take her in his arms and tell her, that if she were unhappy, so would he be unhappy too, – to make her understand that a hard necessity had made this sorrow common to them both. He thought that, if she would only allow it, he could speak of her love as a calamity which had befallen them, as from the hand of fate, and not as a fault. If he could make a partnership in misery with her, so that each might believe that each was acting for the best, then he could endure all that might come. But, as he was well aware, she regarded him as being simply cruel to her. She did not understand that he was performing an imperative duty. She had set her heart upon a certain object, and having taught herself that in that way happiness might be reached, had no conception that there should be something in the world, some idea of personal dignity, more valuable to her than the fruition of her own desires! And yet every word he spoke to her was affectionate. He knew that she was bruised, and if it might be possible he would pour oil into her wounds, – even though she would not recognise the hand which relieved her.
They slept one night in town – where they encountered Silverbridge soon after his retreat from the Beargarden. ‘I cannot quite make up my mind, sir, about that fellow Tifto,’ he said to his father.
‘I hope you have made up your mind that he is no fit companion for yourself.’
‘That's over. Everybody understands that, sir.’
‘Is anything more necessary?’
‘I don't like feeling that he has been ill-used. They have made him resign the club, and I fancy they won't have him at the hunt.’
‘He has lost no money by you!’
‘Oh no.’
‘Then I think you may be indifferent. From all that I hear I think he must have won money, – which will probably be a consolation to him.’
‘I think they have been hard upon him,’ continued Silverbridge. ‘Of course he is not a good man, nor a gentleman, nor possessed of very high feelings. But a man is not to be sacrificed altogether for that. There are so many men who are not gentlemen, and so many gentlemen who are bad fellows.’
‘I have no doubt Mr Lupton knew what he was about,’ replied the Duke.
On the next morning the Duke and Lady Mary went down to Matching, and as they sat together in the carriage after leaving the railway the father endeavoured to make himself pleasant to his daughter. ‘I suppose we shall stay at Matching now till Christmas,’ he said.
‘I hope so.’
‘Whom would you like to have here?’
‘I don't want anyone, papa.’
‘You will be very sad without somebody. Would you like the Finns?’
‘If you please, papa. I like her. He never talks anything but politics.’
‘He is none the worse for that, Mary. I wonder whether Lady Mabel Grex would come.’
‘Lady Mabel Grex!’
‘Do you not like her?’
‘Oh yes, I like her; – but what made you think of her, papa?’
‘Perhaps Silverbridge would come to us then.’
Lady Mary thought that she knew a great deal more about that than her father did. ‘Is he fond of Lady Mabel, papa?’
‘Well, – I don't know. There are secrets which should not be told. I think they are very good friends. I would not have her asked unless it would please you.’
‘I like her very much, papa.’
‘And perhaps we might get the Boncassens to come to us. I did say a word to him about it.’ Now, as Mary felt, difficulty was heaping itself upon difficulty. ‘I have seldom met a man in whose company I could take more pleasure than in that of Mr Boncassen; and the young lady seems to be worthy of her father.’ Mary was silent, feeling the complication of the difficulties. ‘Do you not like her?’ asked the Duke.
‘Very much indeed,’ said Mary.
‘Then let us fix a day and ask them. If you will come to me after dinner with an almanac we will arrange it. Of course you will invite that Miss Cassewary too?’
The complication seemed to be very bad indeed. In the first place was it not clear that she, Lady Mary, ought not to be a party to asking Miss Boncassen to meet her brother at Matching? Would it not be imperative on her part to tell her father the whole story? And yet how could she do that? It had been told her in confidence, and she remembered what her own feelings had been when Mrs Finn had suggested the propriety of telling the story which had been told to her! And how would it be possible to ask Lady Mabel to come to Matching to meet Miss Boncassen in the presence of Silverbridge? If the party could be made up without Silverbridge things might run smoothly.
As she was thinking of this in her own room, thinking also how happy she could be if one other name might be added to the list of guests, the Duke had gone alone into his library. There a pile of letters reached him, among which he found one marked ‘Private’, and addressed in a hand which he did not recognise. This he opened suddenly, – with a conviction that it would contain a thorn, – and, turning over the page found the signature to it was ‘Francis Tregear’. The man's name was wormwood to him. He at once felt that he would wish to have his dinner, his fragment of a dinner brought to him in that solitary room, and that he might remain secluded for the rest of the evening. But still he must read the letter; – and he read it.
‘MY DEAR LORD DUKE,
‘If my mode of addressing your Grace be too familiar I hope you will excuse it. It seems to me that if I were to use one more distant, I should myself be detracting something from my right to make the claim which I intend to put forward. You know what my feelings are in reference to your daughter. I do not pretend to suppose that they should have the least weight with you. But you know also what her feelings are for me. A man seems to be vain when he expresses his conviction of a woman's love for himself. But this matter is so important to her as well as to me that I am compelled to lay aside all pretence. If she do not love me as I love her, then the whole thing drops to the ground. Then it will be for me to take myself off from out of your notice, – and from hers, and to keep to myself whatever heart-breaking I may have to undergo. But if she be as steadfast in this matter as I am, – if her happiness be fixed on marrying me as mine is on marrying her, – then, I think, I am entitled to ask you whether you are justified in keeping us apart.
‘I know well what are the discrepancies. Speaking from my own feeling I regard very little those of rank. I believe myself to be as good a gentleman as though my father's forefathers had sat for centuries past in the House of Lords. I believe that you would have thought so also had you and I been brought in contact on any other subject. The discrepancy in regard to money is, I own, a great trouble to me. Having no wea
lth of my own I wish that your daughter were so circumstanced that I could go out into the world and earn bread for her. I know myself so well that I dare say positively that her money, – if it be that she will have money, – had no attractions for me when I first became acquainted with her, and adds nothing now to the persistency with which I claim her hand.
‘But I venture to ask whether you can dare to keep us apart if her happiness depends on her love for me? It is now more than six months since I called upon you in London and explained my wishes. You will understand me when I say that I cannot be contented to sit idle, trusting simply to the assurance which I have of her affection. Did I doubt it, my way would be more clear. I should feel in that case that she would yield to your wishes, and I should then, as I have said before, just take myself out of the way. But if it be not so, then I am bound to do something, – on her behalf as well as my own. What am I to do? Any endeavours to meet her clandestinely is against my instincts, and would certainly be rejected by her. A secret correspondence would be equally distasteful to both of us. Whatever I do in this matter, I wish you to know that I do it.
‘Yours always,
‘Most faithfully, and with the greatest respect,
‘FRANCIS TREGEAR.’
He read the letter very carefully, and at first was simply astonished by what he considered to be the unparalleled arrogance of the young man. In regard to rank this young gentleman thought himself to be as good as anybody else! In regard to money he did acknowledge some inferiority. But that was a misfortune, and could not be helped! Not only was the letter arrogant; – but the fact that he should dare to write any letter on such a subject was proof of most unpardonable arrogance. The Duke walked about the room thinking of it till he was almost in a passion. Then he read the letter again and was gradually pervaded by a feeling of its manliness. Its arrogance remained, but with its arrogance there was a certain boldness which induced respect. Whether I am such a son-in-law as you would like or not, it is your duty to accept me, if by refusing to do so you will render your daughter miserable. That was Mr Tregear's argument. He himself might be prepared to argue in answer that it was his duty to reject such a son-in-law, even though by rejecting him he might make his daughter miserable. He was not shaken; but with his condemnation of the young man there was mingled something of respect.
He continued to digest the letter before the hour of dinner, and when the almanac was brought to him he fixed on certain days. The Boncassens he knew would be free from engagements in ten days’ time. As to Lady Mabel, he seemed to think it almost certain that she would come. ‘I believe she is always going about from one house to another at this time of the year,’ said Mary.
‘I think she will come to us if it be possible,’ said the Duke. ‘And you must write to Silverbridge.’
‘And what about Mr and Mrs Finn?’
‘She promised she would come again, you know. They are at their own place in Surrey. They will come unless they have friends with them. They have no shooting, and nothing brings people together now except shooting. I suppose there are things here to be shot. And be sure you write to Silverbridge.’
CHAPTER 51
The Duke's Guests
‘The Duke of Omnium presents his compliments to Mr Francis Tregear, and begs to acknowledge the receipt of Mr Tregear's letter of——. The Duke has no other communication to make to Mr Tregear, and must beg to decline any further correspondence.’ This was the reply which the Duke wrote to the applicant for his daughter's hand. And he wrote it at once. He had acknowledged to himself that Tregear had shown a certain manliness in his appeal; but not on that account was such a man to have all that he demanded! It seemed to the Duke that there was no alternative between such a note as that given above and a total surrender.
But the post did not go out during the night, and the note lay hidden in the Duke's private drawer till the morning. There was still that ‘locus poenitentiae’1 which should be accorded to all letters written in anger. During the day he thought over it all constantly, not in any spirit of yielding, not descending a single step from that altitude of conviction which made him feel that it might be his duty absolutely to sacrifice his daughter, – but asking himself whether it might not be well that he should explain the whole matter at length to the young man. He thought that he could put the matter strongly. It was not by his own doing that he belonged to an aristocracy which, if all exclusiveness were banished from it, must cease to exist. But being what he was, having been born to such privileges and such limitations, was he not bound in duty to maintain a certain exclusiveness? He would appeal to the young man himself to say whether marriage ought to be free between all classes of the community. And if not between all, who was to maintain the limits but they to whom authority in such matters is given? So much in regard to rank! And then he would ask this young man whether he thought it fitting that a young man whose duty according to all known principles it must be to earn his bread, should avoid that manifest duty by taking a wife who could maintain him. As he roamed about his park alone he felt that he could write such a letter as would make an impression even upon a lover. But when he had come back to his study, other reflections came to his aid. Though he might write the most appropriate letter in the world, would there not certainly be a reply? As to conviction, had he ever known an instance of a man who had been convinced by an adversary? Of course there would be a reply, – and replies. And to such a correspondence there would be no visible end. Words when once written remain, or may remain, in testimony for ever. So at last when the moment came he sent off those three lines, with his uncourteous compliments and his demand that there should be no further correspondence.
At dinner he endeavoured to make up for this harshness by increased tenderness to his daughter, who was altogether ignorant of the correspondence. ‘Have you written your letters, dear?’ She said she had written them.
‘I hope the people will come.’
‘If it will make you comfortable, papa!’
‘It is for your sake I wish them to be here. I think that Lady Mabel and Miss Boncassen are just such girls as you would like.’
‘I do like them; only –’
‘Only what?’
‘Miss Boncassen is an American.’
‘Is that an objection? According to my ideas it is desirable to become acquainted with persons of various nations. I have heard, no doubt, many stories of the awkward manners displayed by American ladies. If you look for them you may probably find American women who are not polished. I do not think I shall calumniate my own country if I say the same of English women. It should be our object to select for our own acquaintances the best we can find of all countries. It seems to me that Miss Boncassen is a young lady with whom any other young lady might be glad to form an acquaintance.’
This was a little sermon which Mary was quite contented to endure in silence. She was, in truth, fond of the young American beauty, and had felt a pleasure in the intimacy which the girl had proposed to her. But she thought it inexpedient that Miss Boncassen, Lady Mabel, and Silverbridge, should be at Matching together. Therefore she made a reply to her father's sermon which hardly seemed to go to the point at issue. ‘She is so beautiful!’ she said.
‘Very beautiful,’ said the Duke. ‘But what has that to do with it? My girl need not be jealous of any girl's beauty.’ Mary laughed and shook her head. ‘What is it then?’
‘Perhaps Silverbridge might admire her.’
‘I have no doubt he would, – or does, for I am aware that they have met. But why should he not admire her?’
‘I don't know,’ said Lady Mary sheepishly.
‘I fancy that there is no danger in that direction. I think Silverbridge understands what is expected from him.’ Had not Silverbridge plainly shown that he understood what was expected from him when he selected Lady Mabel? Nothing could have been more proper, and the Duke had been altogether satisfied. That in such a matter there should have been a change in so short a time did no
t occur to him. Poor Mary was now completely silenced. She had been told that Silverbridge understood what was expected from him; and of course could not fail to carry home to herself an accusation that she failed to understand what was expected from her.
She had written her letters, but had not as yet sent them. Those to Mrs Finn and to the two young ladies had been easy enough. Could Mr and Mrs Finn come to Matching on the 20th of November? ‘Papa says that you promised to return, and thinks this time will perhaps suit you.’ And then to Lady Mabel: ‘Do come if you can; and papa particularly says that he hopes Miss Cassewary will come also.’ To Miss Boncassen she had written a long letter, but that too had been written very easily. ‘I write to you instead of your mamma, because I know you. You must tell her that, and then she will not be angry. I am only papa's messenger, and I am to say how much he hopes that you will come on the 20th. Mr Boncassen is to bring the whole British Museum if he wishes.’ Then there was a little postscript which showed that there was already considerable intimacy between the two young ladies. ‘We won't have either Mr L. or Lord P.’ Not a word was said about Lord Silverbridge. There was not even an initial to indicate his name.
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